9.00

They called it the Waning World, the era of decline where magic was somehow less magical and legends were only sort of inspiring. When the world’s greatest foe, the King of Destruction, was a conquering [King] rather than the world-ending horde of Crelers, for instance.

These were the days when Dragons might be around. When Giants were agreed to be the last. The Demon Kingdom still existed, but the world was just that.

Waning.

That was the age of less than ten days ago. The facts had not changed: Dragons were still not something anyone expected to see. The old species were still dead.

However, this world was not the same. Ghosts had appeared in numbers never glimpsed since the oldest days of myth and legend. They had brought Skills and knowledge, dire warnings, and something terrible had occurred.

In Ailendamus, at Talenqual, and upon the Great Plains, the world had changed in dramatic ways. The Archmage of Chandrar was free.

This was now the Journey of the Living, a new era named by the ghost of Archmage Kishkeria, a Gnoll who had split Izril in twain with two other ghosts—then raised new lands.

If you’d been there, you would remember any one of those events forever. The day the truth of Doombearers was revealed. The sight of a thousand ghostly [Kings] taking to the field.

A Fraerling City appearing for the first time in eight thousand years. Well…an intact Fraerling city.

And yes, the price for such moments was beyond high. The world might never know the sacrifice of the dead. However, the bodies of the living could be counted.

Gnolls had died by the tens of thousands. Fraerlings—likewise. The Dyed Lands were overrun, and entire cities had vanished. Despite many officers surviving behind the front, the Drake armies had hurled their soldiers into the fire.

…Those were just numbers. People, people you knew, with an entire future ahead of them, had died. Tribes had been wiped out or shattered.

A terrible cost paid to reveal and bring down a tribe led by a monster hoarding luck. A sacrifice to stop the Walled Cities from wiping out the foes they saw in the Gnolls.

Armies, fighting ghosts, countless people, and even nations working together to bring back one person:

Erin Solstice.

It may not be what the world focused on. It might not ‘matter’ in the grand scheme of things. Yet. But was it worth it?

 

——

 

Nine days after the events at the Great Plains of Izril. Nine days after the end of the Waning World and the event that some [Historians] were already calling the Days of Return—after the ghosts, since calling it ‘the treachery of those Drakes’ or ‘the Gnolls’ new lands’ was already in debate.

Nine days later, the dead were still being put to rest.

The Great Plains were filling with undead. They rose from the ground, the water that had covered them and the mud they’d sunk into now revealing foul, rotted corpses buzzing with acid flies and stinking of battle.

Drakes, Gnolls…but mostly Gnolls. The Walled Cities had recovered many of their dead and disposed of the bodies in ways that would not allow death magic to gather.

However, in the aftermath of the war, the armies that could have put down the dead and dealt with the issues of burial—left.

Khelt and Chandrar’s armies had to fall back or be encircled by hostile Drakes. Likewise—the Drakes had fled the wrath of the Gnolls’ ancestors. Which left the tribes with a battlefield filled with death.

It was not something anyone had considered at the time, obviously. But even when the undead began to spawn, the Drakes didn’t offer any help.

Doubly ironically, the one nation that could have dealt with all these issues and even used the undead that rose—Khelt—was already on Chandrar. So it was amidst the mud and ruined ground caused by the split in Izril as well as Zeres’ First Tide—and the mass-attack spells that had torn up the ground, and the fire that had rained down as Plain’s Eye cast their spells—that the Gnolls of the plains had to behold as they tended to their home.

There might be an undead army if they were left unchecked. So, weary Gnolls loosed arrows while warriors kept back the faster, more dangerous undead like Ghouls. Emerging Crypt Lords and more powerful undead were simply blasted where they stood by adventurers and Gnoll [Shamans].

Or [Mages]. A few Gnolls held staves, wands, and tossed weak [Flame Arrow] spells at the undead. They glimmered with magic reclaimed.

Some Gnolls had brown fur, others black, or red, or…white. A few had white fur. Ironically, most of these were still despised and worked alone, but for different reasons this time.

A filthy, broken piece of land scattered with ruined tents, people scavenging for valuable armor or weapons amidst rotting bodies where the Meeting of Tribes had been just two weeks ago. None would be held here in the future; the death aside, the landscape was ruined. If you stood in the center of it, in the corpse-filled bog, the buzzing flies, groans of undead, and smell of gasses bloating and changing them…

That was a hell. If you had seen the slaughter, senseless, as the Witch of Webs killed with a laugh for mortality, you might ask what the point of even fighting had been. Had you even made a difference?

Still, he smiled. Though he could smell the rot. Though the pain in his back and legs hadn’t stopped, only become a burning haze that sometimes disappeared when he fell unconscious. Though they were dead.

He smiled, for he had done it. He had been there and looked at the sea. The white froth as it surged against the ground, rushing so cool and terrifyingly powerful against his armored legs. A vast world of water without end—and he could not swim.

He saw it still. As he held the warhammer in his four arms, an army of scales, mostly green or blue, coming towards him, the neck-spines protruding behind the angled helmets. Zeres, the City of Waves, surging towards the little white Gnoll he’d heard so much about. And Erin Solstice, the sky herself.

All he heard, then and now, was the roar in his head, louder than the battlefield. Louder than his heart. He felt the thud as the Beriad of the Antinium stomped, singing with pride. It burned in him like nothing had ever before.

Honor and pride. This mattered. That was what Calruz the Minotaur had given him—all of them. A hundred Antinium made their stand in the waters that turned green and red with blood. And a Minotaur had stood with them, holding a green blade of diamonds, and the Beriad had seen The Crimson Soldier and then…

They had felt the other minds and known they were not alone. A Unitasis Network. He had felt the minds of the Queens, bigger than he could have guessed, wearier and more afraid than he had ever known—and more familiar than he expected.

For a glorious few minutes, it had been like that. Then Zeres had overwhelmed their position. But for a minute, perhaps two, the Beriad had held back the City of Waves. That was glory. That was duty, and it was that he clung to in his grave. Even if he had not been killed, only wounded, and his issued healing potion smashed, he couldn’t move, and the undead were rising around him.

But he’d done it. He’d made a difference. So he smiled. Through the pain, through his fear of death and grief. And never once did the Soldier realize that if he had stood in front of Calruz or Venaz or any warrior with a heart, that smile would have been familiar. It would have marked him as something else. The new kind of Antinium that Klbkch and the Free Queen had once dreamed of. The same kind of warrior that had lived and breathed since the world was created.

Nothing would ever be the same again. The Soldier might not have known that, but he had seen the Sky and the white Gnoll, and thus he considered he had been among the most fortunate of Antinium who had ever lived.

He had also heard the Minotaur, and he considered that was the most important person of all. To him. He couldn’t speak for the rest of the Crusade, but the Minotaur had been…

Not kind. Not gentle. In many ways, far more than Klbkch, but what a standard, eh? No, what he had been was certain. He had told the Beriad what honor was. And honor was meaning. He had given them a reason to fight and not fear they had no meaning. For this Soldier, Crusader 221-3, the third replacement, he considered it had all gone far better than he could have hoped.

It just hurt. It hurt, and not even his levels stopped the pain. He had a bunch of nifty Skills…that didn’t help. His legs wouldn’t move. His shell was broken; he felt the pieces digging into his flesh, but he’d stopped bleeding. His arms were pinned, and not even his strength could shift the weight pressing down on him.

He was buried alive, and that he hadn’t suffocated was because the bodies on him were letting some air in. He might drown if it rained.

All these things being equal, Crusader 221-3 was just…waiting. Waiting, and between sleep and pain, reliving that moment of glory. He’d been there. He’d felt their minds. He’d—

“…Down there, I’m certain.”

A voice? The Soldier stirred, but aside from the groans or sounds of undead moving, he hadn’t heard anything aside from the wind or insects. This voice was faint, but it grew louder, and there was another one, with that delightful growl in some words.

“You’re sure, yes? It looks like a pile of bodies. It could be a…a fox?”

“No, it’s far too big. I’m certain. There’s another survivor.”

“Well, if they’re down there, they’ve been trapped for nearly ten days. I need…there are too many zombies, and more might be in that pile. I need thirty, now. Where’s…”

The voices receded a second, and Crusader 221-3 didn’t know what to make of this situation. Was it good or bad? He could detect Gnoll voices, but his understanding was that if it wasn’t a Liscorian army—he was still dead. However, then the first voice came back.

“Hey! We know you’re down there! We’re going to come back, okay? Just hang on a little while longer!

What a friendly voice. Two Gnolls, then. Crusader 221-3 spent the next amount of time guessing what they’d be like. Tall? Short? Um…extra furry?

He was ready for whatever came next. He just hoped that if he was going to die, he could do an honor-duel to the death. Calruz had explained that it wasn’t honorable to kill someone in a duel, unless it was clearly a matter in which death resolved a lack of honor, but the act of honor-duels was, in itself, honorable if honorable. Otherwise, it was stupid, and the King of Minos (who was actually female, but who cared?) had outlawed it.

It was that kind of lesson that the Beriad had spent a lot of cognitive power figuring out. So far, Crusader 221-3 understood that the most honorable way to go out was in battle like he had, holding the line against overwhelming odds to do something important like save lives. Or live a fulfilling life filled with charitable and good acts of intent and die surrounded by your loved ones and children. Given the options, Crusader 221-3 had understood he had one choice.

…The Gnolls came back at some point. The Soldier realized he was somewhat delusional, because he hadn’t noticed them return and start removing bodies and killing undead. His thoughts were…addled.

He hoped they understood that he’d done his best to fight to the end. He didn’t want anyone to tell Calruz…

The Beriad had all fought without running or flinching. He’d just failed to die when the Drake had cut him down and woken up later. He hoped they understood as well.

Nine days was a long time to go without food or water. Some of the First Tide that Zeres had conjured had left muddy runoff that Crusader 221-3 had ingested. But really…he had gotten hungry.

And the dead Drake on top of him still tasted better than paste in the Free Hive. A lot better, actually.

Crusader 221-3 had no direction on the honor of eating the dead, a surprising oversight from Calruz. So when the rescue crew got to him, they were dismayed to find a bit less of the corpse than they’d thought.

Eugh. What happened to—are the undead eating each other?

“Better hope not. I heard that some undead cannibalize each other. Or living people. They’re dangerous. Like…super Ghouls.”

“That’s all we need. If there’s a Drake down here, I swear I’ll—”

“Enough. Shaman Theikha’s declared a peace. Better to get gold anyways.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I think…aah! Oh, it’s just a dead Antinium.”

Daylight. Crusader 221-3 didn’t blink or react much, because he didn’t have a nose or eyelids, but he was still blinded. With daylight came fresh air, a sprinkling of dirt, and…

A furry pair of faces. One male, one female, pulling back the Drake’s corpse with a grimace. Behind them, weary Gnolls were covering the dead bodies with arrows and tossing the rest on what looked like a pyre.

“One of the Ants? Looks like it took down all the Drakes with it.”

Only nine. They had fought together, back-to-back, seeing through each other’s eyes. With the knowledge and Skills of the other Antinium crowding their heads. He had felt his comrades dying. But he had smiled—because not all of them had.

The Soldier decided at this point it was time to prevent the Gnolls from being surprised. So he clicked his mandibles very gently as the two Gnolls hauled the Drake body back.

The effect was actually underwhelming. One of the Gnolls, the male one, blinked.

“Did you see…?”

The female Gnoll glanced around and saw Crusader 221-3 trying to move his head. He could wiggle a bit, but it hurt, so he stopped. He clicked his mandibles and waved one good antenna. She stared down at him.

“Um.”

The two Gnolls looked at each other and slowly, sloooowly, stepped back from the pit. They put the Drake body down. Crusader 221-3 saw them vanish out of sight—then a furry head pop back and stare at him.

Click, click.

“Yep, it’s definitely a living Antinium.”

The Gnoll turned, looked around, and to Crusader 221-3’s vague disappointment, didn’t scream ‘Antinium’. Like Crusader 221-3, the Gnoll had seen too much at this point. What he did do was raise his voice.

[Shaman]! We found your survivor! We’ve got…Antinium! What do we do?

There was a moment’s pause. Then someone irate and clearly wiping at one muddy ear shouted back.

“You have…what did you say?

So this was it. Crusader 221-3 waited for the arrow or spear. He was under no illusions. No Antinium survived a battlefield if they didn’t make it back to their side.

Hectval had taken no prisoners that he knew of. He’d survived a good while. But this wasn’t Liscor. This was Izril, and Antinium, the Black Tide, were the enemies of Drakes, Gnolls, Humans…

That was how it was, and even the young Soldier knew his history and the basic politics well enough to get that. But Crusader 221-3 made one mistake, and it was this:

The world was changing. So, when the Gnolls returned, they did have bows and spears and a [Shaman] with a glowing staff, but they merely trained the weapons on the Soldier while six Gnolls dug down and ended up pulling him out with ropes. Crusader 221-3 felt a lot of pain, and one of them stopped and shouted.

“It’s bleeding—um, green! Are there any healing potions? Looks like the Antinium’s legs are all busted up.”

So they stopped and poured some on him, and he felt great about that. Crusader 221-3 wiggled his limbs and found three out of the six worked, which was pretty good. He stared up as the Gnolls surrounded him and he didn’t die.

Instead, the [Shaman] who wore a mix of dyed paints, a Weatherfur [Shaman], stared into Crusader 221-3’s eyes. He clicked helpfully, and the [Shaman] recoiled. Then the female Gnoll turned.

“This is too much for me. Find Strateg…Chieftain Feshi. Make sure the camp knows no one is to harm the Antinium.”

The Gnolls didn’t even really argue, just debate how best to carry Crusader 221-3 back to their camp. Carry, as if they couldn’t drag him on his shell.

Crusader 221-3 stared up at the blue sky and smelled all the aforementioned rot and destruction. But he also tasted something else on his mandibles.

Perhaps it was regret. Guilt for leaving his comrades behind. But Calruz had told him to continue on. So the Antinium stared up at the sky, then the curious, sad face of a [Strategist] who everyone called ‘Chieftain Feshi’.

“A live Antinium. If it were a few months ago, the Professor would tell us…what? A security risk? You can’t gain anything from Soldiers or Workers—aside from Roshal’s damned bounties. Today?”

Feshi Weatherfur, standing among the Weatherfur tribe and the Gnolls still inhabiting the Great Plains, looked at Crusader 221-3 as he sat, chewing on some honeycomb with his mandibles and clicking now and then. She looked around as his head rose, and though he had no pupils…there was something in that gaze. The Gnoll shivered, but not with fear.

“What orders, Chieftain?”

Feshi almost snapped at the person who asked, but she was the [Strategist] who’d taken command after Chieftain Torishi…died. Somehow, no one had ever relieved her of that duty. She held the hilt of the black diamond dagger of Serept as she thought a second. Crusader 221-3 looked at her, and the Gnoll nodded once.

“Keep a light guard. Find one of the cages we have for the Drake [Soldiers], but give the…this Antinium blankets. Food. But before that, I need a [Message] spell. Send it to Liscor. Send it to—what was it called?”

She snapped her furry fingers a few times before she had it. Crusader 221-3 was waving his hand, but he remembered he didn’t have a voice, and he hadn’t figured out how to ‘speak’ like The Crimson Soldier. He wished he’d spent the last nine days practicing, but he really thought he was going to die.

Well, that was honey on his face. Crusader 221-3 wiped some off and tasted it as Feshi came up with the name.

“Send a message to The Wandering Inn. Tell them we have an Antinium here.”

 

——

 

The city of Liscor didn’t smell like death today. What it did smell like was baking.

Baking soda and rising dough, from a lot of bakeries working overtime. Not just in general; Liscor was full of more people than it had ever been. The army—the civilian army—had returned and dumped a lot of off-duty soldiers as they maneuvered back to the war front.

Also, there were Gnolls, survivors from the Great Plains battles as well as…Silverfangs.

But Silverfang Silverfangs, if that made sense. Not your average Gnoll who kept up with the community but was a City Gnoll with that last name, but the Plains Gnoll who strode about with silver earrings and a hunting bow on her back and would shoot you a hare for eight copper coins in a heartbeat.

They were about as perplexed by Liscor as the citizens were by them. More so, in fact; the Silverfangs had spent a lot of time at the latest attractions. If only to distract themselves.

Plays, ice cream, stall food like hamburgers, and the door. More Gnolls had visited Invrisil in the last nine days than had ever occurred in the history of the city.

Pallass, was, for some reason, not a popular tourist destination for said Gnolls at the moment.

At any rate, it smelled of baking. Bread coming out golden and fluffy from the ovens, not flat like the little Gnoll could still remember eating. Of course, flatbread was wonderful too, and you could really chew it down with a lovely stew and dip your bread in the bowl, and if you were lucky, there was some butter or Sweetberry jam.

But this was good too. The little white Gnoll girl, sitting outside the inn on the hill, could actually smell the almonds baked into one piece of bread. And another was filled with spiced ground meat…

That was the level of Gnoll noses. With every good gust of air, she got happier. If you thought the world was just bread, it was indeed simple.

A younger, less mature girl of a few months ago might have run down into the city with some coins and gotten herself into a scrape like the scamp she was. However, this Gnoll girl knew that if she did leave this hill, she would not only alarm the caretaker watching her with one eye as she cleaned the tables, but get into trouble.

If she wanted to go into the city, she had to request authorization from the overlady, and that red-haired tyrant would make her go into the city with a guardian.

Which could be good, right? Wrong. The guardian might be, in and of themselves, a fun fellow with a guitar or a bird-obsessed maniac—but one you loved—or even a shockingly competent and boring [Head Waiter]. However, that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was…the chores. There would be no easy bread run. There was always, ‘Mrsha, dear, would you get some yogurt?’ or, ‘Mrsha, can you just send this to Krshia while you’re there’?

As if she were made of time. The Gnoll girl huffed to herself as she folded her arms. And while she grumbled, she was…if not happy, content.

Overwhelmingly content that this was something she could grumble about. Because it beat everything else that had been. So she sat and smelled bread and thought—how wonderful it is that I can do this.

It didn’t feel real, and she pinched herself now and then. And glanced up towards a certain window three from the left of where she sat.

That window…well, the occupant wasn’t up yet. But she was there. And that was strange, too. In fact, The Wandering Inn, even nine days later, felt a bit hushed. A bit shocked, as if there was still some uncertainty.

Had these days returned? Was this reality? 

If so, it was the good stuff. And though tragedy still made the little girl cry at times…one good thing had happened. One amazing, unbelievable thing.

Then there it was again. Uncertainty. The girl hesitated and stared at the window. It would be the work of a moment to climb up the stairs and open the door a crack. But, of course, the occupant needed her sleep. Or she could use the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary] and take a peek, but she—and everyone else—had been scolded for doing that, and the owner of this inn got grumpy.

But was she really…? A doubt crept over Mrsha du Marquin once more. Though it had been nine days and probably nine hundred peeks and moments where she reminded herself, she wasn’t certain.

Then something struck her from above. A revelation. It blossomed in her head, words, not just words, but meaning, a kind of certainty that wrote itself in her mind. So neatly that the girl gasped and her eyes went wide. It was more than a thought, and it wasn’t hers. It was…

 

<Basic Quest – A Bucket of Water!>

Limits: Mrsha, 10 Minutes

Dear Mrsha, will you fetch a bucket of water? It’s important because I’m pretty sure we’re out. Please give it to Ishkr or put it in the cauldron! We should really get a pump or something, but I dunno. Thanks!

Posted Reward: Erin Solstice’s huge gratitude, love you, Mrsha! Plus, um, pancake breakfast?

Quest Reward: 2 Copper Coins, experience in <Housekeeping> classes.

 

The little girl’s eyes flickered as the information was presented into her mind, but she took a few seconds to process it. It was there if she wanted to access it, but understanding the quest wasn’t instantaneous.

The moment of wonder and surprise turned to…a hefty sigh as she felt the quest waiting for her to accept or refuse. Ten minutes? A bucket of water and two copper coins.

Now, if this were the Mrsha of nine days ago, if she got a quest, she would flip out, grab her wand, and do whatever was required. But that Mrsha was a fool, a peon with no understanding.

This Mrsha had completed thirty-one quests. Over the latter five days, since the first four had mostly been sleeping, recovering from the fighting, and processing it for everyone.

Thirty-one quests. Clean the Tables! Fetch Me a Cup of Milk! Give Bird a Big Hug!

She was getting sick of it. Especially since the rewards were just trash. Two copper coins? Mrsha might have lost her bag of holding, but if she poked Selys, she could get some allowance that would make up for all the quests she’d done and more.

And yet…and yet…it proved the quest-giver was alive. And awake. And apparently desirous of water. Mrsha folded her arms and grumped for a minute. Then she got up and, sighing, walked over eight feet and stared at a well.

She tossed a bucket into it, waited for the splash, and began to haul on the rope, grumbling to herself. Bucket this. Bucket that. Now, if it were the stream, she’d be fighting for her life against those biting, jumping fish. But this?

She had a bit of fun with it at the end by leaping up and hauling the bucket up by using her own weight to pull the rope down. Then she nearly fell into the well and decided to haul it up responsibly.

Bucket acquired! It wasn’t much water, and it slopped around a bit as Mrsha pulled it up, filled the second bucket, and began to carry it into the inn.

She didn’t actually resent the quest that much. It was just—when you thought about it, it was clearly just a way to have fun. Because Mrsha’s single bucket wouldn’t do much, would it? Now, Ishkr could take like four buckets to the inn. In terms of water-hauling, Mrsha would freely admit she was a poor choice for optimization.

But someone loved posting quests—at least for Mrsha. So the Gnoll was fumbling with the door handle, cursing the tyranny of tall people and doorknobs and wishing she were an Antinium with four arms, when someone opened the door and bowed.

Now, it was important to understand that at this point, Mrsha wasn’t actually that upset. She was more grumbling for the fun of it, and the quests hadn’t lost their allure entirely such that she was upset. She was enjoying being put-upon and rather glad that she’d gotten the quest.

However, the moment the door opened and the shining figure in gold armor bowed, one hand across his chest, the other moving back—she got an actual scowl on her face.

“Lady Mrsha? May I assist you w—”

Sir Sest backed away as she swung the bucket dangerously. Mrsha slapped something on her hand as he reached for the bucket, and a little, dangling stone chirped a sound.

“No.”

She fumbled with it, and another pre-programmed response played.

“I’m busy. Go away.”

Sir Sest ran a finger along the thin, perfectly plucked mustache running across his upper lip. Mrsha thought it looked like a black centipede. His hair was perfectly combed. and his armor gleamed, a vivid gold that was brighter than the actual thing.

The motifs of Calanfer, the Eternal Throne, shone on the Thronebearer’s armor as he bowed.

“I see. It must be a grand quest, Lady Mrsha. Then allow me to humbly assist you upon your task!”

And he proceeded to hold the door open as Mrsha glared at him. Yes, it made her life easier, but the Thronebearer followed her as she walked into the inn on two feet, and then he bowed to the harried [Princess] cleaning tables.

“Mrsha? Oh, is it water? Thank you. It’s a quest, isn’t it?”

Yup. And I’ve got a leech.

Mrsha gave Lyonette du Marquin a glare and jerked a thumb at the Thronebearer. Lyonette sighed, but she didn’t reprimand Ser Sest. If anything, the Thronebearer got what Lyonette probably thought was a covert nod of approval.

Mrsha’s glare intensified. Yes, the inn was back, but things were different. And…

Well. Lyonette was here. Her mother was scrubbing tables, and even if a horrified Ser Lormel was doing likewise with Ishkr to spare her the work—even if Ser Sest was almost always lurking around, or Dame Ushar or Ser Dalimont—

Mrsha would take it over the bad times of before any day. It was just annoying. So, sighing, she walked into the kitchen.

Breakfast isn’t ready. I told you, Palt. Timbor has to w—oh, Mrsha?”

A harried [Chef] with her hair tied back was snapping before she saw Mrsha. Imani pointed Mrsha at the water cauldron, which was running low.

“Thank you, Mrsha! Have you seen Palt?”

Mrsha had not, and Imani was whipping together breakfast anyways. True, she could just reheat some pre-made food, but fresh, hot food was still something good. It looked like today was a sweet yogurt and salads.

So that’s where it went. Well, Mrsha brightened up as she saw a bowl that looked very tasty. Chock full of sweet fruits and even a glowing Sweetberry. Imani noticed the look.

“It’ll be six minutes or less, Mrsha. Can you put the water there? Is Erin…?”

She’s awake. Mrsha nodded, and Imani glanced towards the door.

“I have to finish up and run to the Drunken Gnoll. Just put the water there, please.”

Mrsha was already tipping the bucket into the cauldron. She checked the glowing crystal half-submerged in the clear water just in case; it glowed a pure blue.

No contaminants. It was one of the things Imani had brought to the kitchen. Apparently most [Chefs] invested in such things, especially for water.

The quest was done. Mrsha the Water Fetcher closed her eyes, and even in her rush, Imani slowed a moment.

For here it came. The water being deposited into the cauldron was something only Mrsha, Imani, and Ser Sest saw. It was conceivable that the quest-poster might have sensed the water being poured, just as she had noticed the water running low, but she didn’t need to be actively monitoring the situation.

Something else was watching, and Mrsha felt a vague thrill even for the thirty-second time as she heard that voice in her head announce…

 

<Basic Quest – A Bucket of Water completed!>

 

Nothing other than that, at least in words. But the feeling of completion was instantaneously followed by a small sound and a glow of light. Imani looked up, and Mrsha opened her paws.

Even now, she stared up in awe at something…new. Something unheard of, that everyone was speculating about. The new power of [Innkeepers]—all [Innkeepers] apparently, and even some people working in related professions.

But especially this one. Mrsha saw the glow of gentle light turn from bright white into…two copper coins.

They fell out of the air and into her paws, and she stared at them. Just two copper coins, one slightly notched in the side, worn from use. They had Pallass’ logo on them; they must have been minted in the Walled City, and the Merchant’s Guild had ratified them.

Ordinary copper coins. Which had just appeared the instant she finished her quest.

That was magic. That was…well, frankly unbelievable.

Quests? Were they living in a fairy tale or Numbtongue’s video games? Mrsha flipped a copper coin up and down and felt it. Then she noticed something else.

Hold up. Hold up. Mrsha’s eyes went round, and Ser Sest murmured.

“Eternal Throne.”

Something else floated down from the air. Imani blinked as a third flash of light produced…Mrsha grabbed for the falling object in astonishment. It had happened again! She held up the huge, bright blue feather and heard the voice speaking.

 

<Quest Reward: 2 Copper Coins awarded. Bonus Item: Arctic Corabird Feather awarded.>

 

A bonus item. Mrsha knew that had not been on the quest description. It had not been guaranteed. It was…a bonus.

But where had it come from? Nowhere? Somewhere? Bird’s stash? Mrsha stared at the feather and knew, knew that Bird didn’t have a feather this nice. It was a brilliant cobalt-blue, but it had this wonderful white striation near the base. Faint white lines like snow across the sky.

It was probably worth more than two copper coins. Possibly as much as eight, if you sold it to a [Fletcher]. Then again, a certain feather-maniac would give Mrsha gold coins without a second’s hesitation for this.

Did the voice know that? Or was it just a random reward? Was this bird native to Izril, or was it truly just coincidence that Mrsha got a feather? Then again, she’d also been awarded with a bit of quartz, an extra copper coin, and a tomato in the last ten quests.

Not even a good tomato, and no, she hadn’t been allowed to eat it. Imani didn’t freak out like everyone had the first time it had happened, but she still gasped and stopped working.

“It happened again! A feather this time? Good job, Mrsha!”

She smiled, and Mrsha did too, for the sheer wonder of it. She put the feather behind her ear and turned…and Ser Sest spoiled her mood by applauding loudly.

“Well done, Lady Mrsha! Another feather in your cap, eh? A splendid job!”

Mrsha and Imani gave him a long look, but the Thronebearer had [Total Immunity: Shame], apparently. Mrsha sighed, walked past him, and handed him the copper coins.

“Er, Lady Mrsha…?”

She kept the feather.

 

——

 

This was The Wandering Inn. And if you thought it was quiet, well, that was only because the regulars weren’t allowed in until actual morning. Or you’d have people camping out just to come in.

It was also quiet because a lot of the new guests or people who’d come to Liscor were giving the inn some space. It was quiet because…of her.

The crazy Human. The [Innkeeper]. The girl who lived…then died…then lived again. Not General Sserys, but she had been. The friend of Goblins and Antinium.

Erin Solstice, who had nothing to do with the war in Ailendamus. Or the battle with the Gnolls—or Khelt. Certainly nothing to do with any ghosts. A humble [Innkeeper], and don’t let anyone catch you spying on her or your legs will be broken.

…It was safe to say there were eyes on the inn. But from a distance, because a few inquiring minds had found that you couldn’t spy on the inn that easily. The Thronebearers, for all their glitter, were very good as bodyguards, and there were incredibly powerful [Mages], Gnolls, and other people who would evict anyone causing trouble.

There would be no trouble. Or crossbows. Not again. Never again. Erin Solstice had returned, and as she woke up, she came downstairs via the [Garden of Sanctuary].

The door opened, spilling in light, a garden’s scents, and a female voice, laughing and light, coughing a bit as she spoke. Mrsha whirled, and the few people in the inn looked up. It was time to open. She was awake, and that voice was already calling out.

“Numbtongue, stop it! Go back and play your video games! I’m fine! Come for breakfast! Did Mrsha do her big quest? Good morning, everyone!”

Erin Solstice appeared through the door to the garden as Ser Lormel stepped over and went to hold open the door—not that it was necessary, since it opened by itself. Smiling, the [Innkeeper]’s face appeared as Mrsha’s heart fluttered.

Though it had been nine days, there was still a moment of uncertainty. A thought that Mrsha could be dreaming. But then she saw the hazel eyes, the brown hair. A voice that could be silly or serious as the need arose, and two bright eyes that were only scary when she was angry. More than anything? It was that smile that made Mrsha smile and brighten up and scamper over, but respectfully.

Erin Solstice slowly wheeled the chair through the door, waving to Mrsha. The [Innkeeper] snagged the wheels as she came off the grass, but she pushed and got onto the hardwood floors before Ser Lormel could help her. Mrsha raced up next to Erin, and the [Innkeeper] swatted at the [Knight]’s hands.

“Shall I escort you to a table, Miss Solstice?”

“No! Shoo! I can push myself. Mrsha, you want to do it? Oh—fine. But I don’t want to go racing around, got it?”

Mrsha kicked at Ser Lormel and the Thronebearer retreated. Carefully, she got up and pushed at the two handlebars of the chair and moved Erin gently towards a table. It was not the same as a wheelchair from Earth, incidentally.

Mrsha had seen the mockups Kevin had made, and she understood that there were apparently better ones. This was just a padded chair that Hedault had helped to enchant with some alterations like the wheels. It had been an odd concept and project since these things didn’t really exist in the common mindset.

Palt had brought up floating chairs, which some of the nobility used, and other methods, but Erin wanted to maneuver around herself. Besides—this wouldn’t be forever, so she didn’t want to waste energy on it.

There were still things that needed to be done, so the table that Mrsha pushed Erin to was lower. The [Innkeeper] smiled over her shoulder.

“Didja do my quest, Mrsha? It’s two whole coppers.”

Mrsha gave Erin a polite smile and waved the feather.

“Ooh! Is that a bonus reward? That’s amazing! See? This is why you do quests! Next time we’ll get you washing dishes! All the dishes!”

Dead gods, please no. Mrsha shook her head, but Erin’s eyes were twinkling.

“I bet you I can make a super basic quest. I mean, I haven’t done anything else beyond, um, ‘fetch quests’, Kevin called it? But I’ll figure out some big one and see what kind of reward I can post. It’s too bad I have to pay for it. How about a thousand dishes? And if you break one, you fail! But I bet you’d get, like, [Dishwasher] guaranteed! No? How about doing the trash for…”

Erin was getting excited and speaking faster. Then she began to cough. Mrsha heard the wheezing, deep cough as the young woman had to stop a second. Imani, coming out of the kitchen, paused as Erin panted for air. Coughing.

Mrsha stared at her anxiously, but Erin regained her breath. There was only a slight wheeze as she looked at Mrsha then around.

She was no fool. But she smiled.

“Just…catching my breath. Okay, fine. Maybe not a thousand dishes. Is it time for breakfast? I’m hungry!”

And there it was. Lyonette never missed a beat as she walked over, and Mrsha climbed into a seat. A Hobgoblin poked his head through the garden, and Bird came down the stairs. They were the first, but the rest of the guests seemed to pop up as if by magic.

Or, as if they’d been waiting for her to wake. But they didn’t crowd her. Nor…nor did they bring the same level of drama into the inn, at least not by intention. Erin Solstice noticed it all, but she waved in her wheelchair and called out to people as they came down the stairs. They were cautious of her, that was all.

She was the same young woman that Mrsha remembered. But perhaps older. Something had changed Erin Solstice when she’d been dead. Not just her body, but she seemed…

Well, she hadn’t said much yet. Just asked what had happened to the others. Demanded to see the events that had been captured on scrying orb. Hugged everyone, including Mrsha.

Erin Solstice was back. But she couldn’t walk, and she had trouble breathing sometimes. She had been dead. It was a miracle to see her, and nothing was the same. For now, Mrsha sat next to Erin, close enough to feel the young woman moving as she raised a hand.

This was good enough. More than enough.

 

——

 

The Horns of Hammerad had been watching for the moment Erin appeared. They came down the stairs, trying to look like they hadn’t all been waiting there.

It was a bad act. Not only was Yvlon a poor actor—Pisces was infamous for usually sleeping in. However, they were changed from Chandrar and, well, it didn’t matter.

“Pisces! You’re up early!”

Erin made the same joke she’d made for the last four days straight. The [Necromancer] rolled his eyes, but didn’t sniff.

“Early is a relative term, Erin. I could point out that most inns are up at the crack of d—”

Ceria kicked him in the ankle so hard tears sprang to his eyes. Erin Solstice’s smile slipped only a second.

“Yeah, well, Lyonette’s taking over, and I’m a bit tired for now. So…don’t compete about sleep with me, buddy! Or I’ll give you a quest to wake up at, um, 3 AM! Every day!”

“I believe I would refuse that. Is there not a law…governing trivial quest posting?”

“Nope. I can be as trivial as I want. I’m the ultimate trivial quest-poster. I just made Mrsha fetch water!”

The little white Gnoll sighed loudly at the table as Ceria grinned. Ksmvr waved with all four hands as he stepped towards the table with Yvlon.

“Hello, Miss Erin. Hello, Mrsha. Hello, Princess Lyonette…”

“It’s just Lyonette, Ksmvr.”

The inn wasn’t open for the public, but Lyonette still looked around. Yvlon gave Lyonette a half-bow that only added to the agony on the [Princess]’ face, but she was eying the Thronebearers. Ser Sest himself was carrying over the yogurt breakfast.

“How can you hide it, Lyonette? With…”

Ceria gave a nod to Sest, and Lyonette sighed.

“I’ll…figure something out.”

She said that out of the corner of her mouth as the two Thronebearers politely pretended not to hear anything. Yet there it was. The Thronebearers had found their [Princess].

What might happen next? For that matter…the Horns glanced at each other, and then Ceria finally identified the prickling on the back of her neck. She couldn’t see anything or anyone, but her new magical abilities allowed her to sense relative heat.

Even then, she couldn’t detect the unseen watcher, but her circlet helped her pick out a whiff of magic in the room. Pisces kept glancing around, and Yvlon scowled because she knew that the watcher was there.

The clue was the Thronebearers glancing every now and then towards one of the beams across the ceiling of the tall common room. Erin Solstice was the other clue; she just stared straight up at the Named Adventurer.

“Um. Do you want to come down for breakfast…Tessa?”

There was a muffled sound, and Ceria saw a flicker of movement, then a figure leapt towards the hallway. Tessa, Shriekblade, paused a second with what looked like a looted steak from the kitchen and vanished.

“Huh. You know, I think she gets mad that I can sense her.”

Erin grinned around the table, as if being able to spot a Named Adventurer trying to hide were normal. But that—that was Erin.

Ceria was just sitting down at the table when more guests began to appear. Not all stayed at The Wandering Inn. Few did, in fact. Once they had learned of Erin’s condition, many had voluntarily removed themselves.

There was also the issue of staffing, if not rooms, so the first visitors to win admission past Ser Sest were the friends of the inn.

Friends, not acquaintances. Nor even comrades in arms. They would surely come later—if Lyonette didn’t block them first. Not everyone could make it every day, but one person came like clockwork. And she was tall.

“Mrsha! Is that yogurt I smell? Mrsha, I learned a new spell!”

Gireulashia, the [Paragon] of Ekhtouch, bounded into the inn, and Pisces had a hand on his rapier. The sight of a nine-foot-tall Gnoll entering like a storm of red and brown fur—well, that could scare you.

“Gire, be careful—”

Lyonette heard a warning voice but it was too late. Gire grabbed Mrsha as the Gnoll girl performed a flying leap from her table into her friend’s arms. The [Paragon] swung Mrsha around in a dizzying arc and sat down in a chair next to Mrsha, all in one move.

“Gire! Be careful! Erin’s…”

The admonition faded as someone else hurried into the inn after Gire. A scolding Drake, Selys Shivertail, caught herself and waved a claw as she adjusted her light dress. Erin Solstice frowned—at Selys.

“Selys, it’s okay! Hi, Gire!”

“Hullo, Miss Erin.”

Gire ducked her head abashedly, but Erin just smiled hugely.

“Gire can have all the fun she wants, right, Mrsha? I’m not made of glass!”

She looked around challengingly, and no one exactly met her eyes. Ksmvr replied brightly.

“No, you are not a Golem. Although, I would say that in light of your condition, if you wanted to replace your legs, I have observed that a housecat has benefited very well from…”

Another kick, this time from Pisces and Yvlon each, shut him up. Ksmvr then made it worse by covering his mandibles with all four hands.

Four hands. Not three. His last hand was a bit stumpy since the digits were regrowing, but the Antinium could apparently regrow limbs with their gel. It didn’t work on Goblins or anyone else. They had asked, again, for Erin.

The [Innkeeper] bore it all in stride as they began to eat their colorful breakfast of fruit. Numbtongue hadn’t said much this morning, only patted Mrsha on the head. He looked a bit sleepy, but he never missed breakfast.

No one would. Even Bird had come down. Of course, he and Numbtongue glumly stared at their meatless, birdless dish, but they began to eat up as Imani narrowed her eyes at them.

“I have to run. Erin, I’ll see you later.”

“Oh, thanks, Imani. Um, do we have food for today? I could…”

“You’re all set. No need to cook.”

“Right, right. Gotcha. Thanks for breakfast!”

Imani vanished out the door with a smile. Not the magic door…it wasn’t at the inn. The regular door. Erin dug a spoon into her bowl just in time for a vibrating Bird to break the silence.

“Mrsha. Where did you get that feather? Have you been hunting without me? Is there a blue bird around Liscor? I. Demand. Answers.”

He slapped the table hard enough to make the bowls jump. Gire watched with a look of delighted fascination as Mrsha waved the feather in Bird’s face.

“Bird, do not be crude. It’s Mrsha’s quest reward.”

Lyonette scolded Bird. Instantly, he sat up.

“You can get feathers as rewards for Erin’s useless quests? Then they are not so useless.”

“Hey! They’re great! It’s the random rewards. It’s so amazing. Whaddya mean, useless?”

Erin protested. Everyone coughed or looked away. The [Innkeeper] was hurt.

“I’m putting down good money for easy quests!”

“I am Bird. I do not wash dishes.”

Mrsha, Numbtongue, and Ceria nodded emphatically.

“Guys. Listen. Quest posting isn’t easy. I’m still figuring it out. I can’t post just any quest. Believe me, I tried.”

“Oh, really? Pray, would there be anything to drink with this repast? Ser Knight, I shall have an orange juice, perhaps. Or some other refreshing beverage. Tea, if nothing else.”

Pisces flagged down Ser Sest, who gave him an affronted look. It was Selys and Yvlon’s turn to try and kick Pisces, but he had lifted his feet, so they just kicked Ceria instead. Mrsha and Gire giggled in delight and put in their order for goat’s milk, and since Lyonette asked for tea, Ser Sest obliged them all.

There were not, as yet, the Halfseekers. Or Joseph, Kevin, the [Strategists], Krshia or the other Gnolls, or even Tkrn or Inkar. Or Salkis, Gna, Rags, Badarrow, Snapjaw, Infinitypear…the list went on.

However, the gathering was small today. Actually, that was for the best. The first few days after Erin woke up, everyone was here—which meant nothing got done all day. People just sat there and tried to convince themselves she was alive.

In fact—Erin jumped halfway through her bowl and scowled.

“Numbtongue, stop that!”

He had poked her in the side. The Hobgoblin withdrew a finger. Mrsha prodded Erin’s arm, and the young woman slapped her hands around.

“Stop that! We’re not doing this again!”

She was alive. Just checking. The conversation at the table was light as Erin groused.

“You people think it’s easy posting quests? It’s super hard. I have to figure everything out, and I can’t post it without having the reward in my hands. Plus, I can’t post more than one Basic Quest per hour.”

“And you waste it on hauling water?”

Pisces jerked back from the napkin Erin threw at him so fast his chair went crashing backwards. He was on his feet, and Erin lowered her hand, blinking. Yvlon stared as Pisces caught himself, and his hand was on the hilt of his sword…

He relaxed, but that was—something. Another something which no one said anything about as Pisces sat back down. Erin hesitated, then went on as if nothing had happened.

“I—uh—yeah. Because I can’t do other quests, see? I had this idea to try and post a quest to kill a Rock Crab, right? But then I thought—is that animal cruelty?”

“No.”

Selys instantly replied. Erin waved a hand.

“Yeah, but I felt bad. So then I said—Shield Spiders. There are still some, even if Nathalimoo…Nathalristretoseto…lous…wiped out most of them. So I was gonna post a quest: wipe out a nest!”

“And?”

Ceria was watching Pisces. His breathing was calm after a moment, and his face was blank. But…no, not the time. They hadn’t discussed it, but if you looked, you could see scarred, rough flesh around his neck.

They didn’t talk about it. Nor did anyone see much different with Ceria. She looked like normal: pale blue eyes, blonde hair, a skeletal hand.

And a circlet on her head. But no one saw it. Ceria’s fingers drummed idly as Erin gesticulated.

“I couldn’t post it! I kept trying—I was gonna do a Wyvern, right? No dice. I tried Rock Crabs, Eater Goats, and it didn’t work. But then I figured out the problem. I can’t post a quest if I don’t know the target…thing…exists!”

The table exchanged glances. Bird raised a hand.

“Rock Crabs do not exist? Then…what have I been seeing all this time?

His mandibles opened in horror. Mrsha immediately began giggling with Gire. Erin waved a hand.

“No, I mean—I don’t know there’s a Rock Crab around so it doesn’t work, Bird. Rock Crabs exist.”

“Oh, good.”

“So you need to know they’re present? That’s oddly specific, Miss Erin. Then you can’t post a quest like the Adventurer’s Guild to exterminate a number of pests. It seems odd. Aren’t quests supposed to be what we adventurers do?”

Yvlon frowned, chewing as she thought. Erin corrected her.

“Aha! But I’d be able to post the quest if I knew there was a problem. I’m pretty sure. I just can’t say—I ‘think’ there’s like a bajillion Shield Spiders out there. Go stomp ‘em. In fact, I don’t think I can ask for a bajillion Shield Spiders on my quests.”

“Because that is not a number, correct.”

Pisces saw Erin lift her hand, but she caught herself and waggled a finger at him.

“Listen, buddy. Don’t use facts against me. I’m saying that I can feel it wouldn’t work. I cannot post a Basic Quest to kill more than…a nest or two of Shield Spiders. A thousand is way too much. For now? Huh. But I could post a Rare Quest to destroy a thousand Shield Spiders. However, I…I know I can’t ask you to do it for cheap. I could offer two copper coins to destroy a Shield Spider nest as a Basic Quest. I can’t do the same for a Rare Quest.”

Everyone tried to work that out. Gireulashia had emptied three bowls of yogurt.

“So you’re saying there are minimum requirements per quest.”

“Yes! Hey, that’s a great way of putting it.”

Mrsha patted Gire’s arm proudly. Bird took her feather, and Mrsha snatched for it, but he stopped her with one hand.

“I have the feather. It is mine by right of force and—”

Gire snatched it back so fast Bird was left staring at his hand. He gazed up at the [Paragon], who put it behind Mrsha’s ear.

“Oho. I have been challenged. Is it war?”

“Oh, dead gods. Bird—stop that!”

He raised all four arms and tried to grab for the feather, but Gire slapped the hands down in a blur, still eating with her other hand. Numbtongue looked quite amused…and somewhat intimidated by the fifteen-year-old [Paragon]. He joined Bird, and the blur of hands and Mrsha flailing her fists made Lyonette try to break up the fight.

“Stop that! We are having breakfast! Be civil, you two! This is not some—some backwater court!”

“No, it’s an inn. Shoo, shoo.”

Numbtongue retorted. Lyonette tried to stop them, but all the combatants were having fun. Then Bird picked up a cup.

Aha! Water attack!

He splashed at Gire, and the [Paragon] evaded the attack, rolling with Mrsha up in her arms. Numbtongue was less graceful, and Ceria also went ducking with a curse and smacked her head on the table.

“Whoa! Hold—argh!

Then it happened. The dishes went bumping around, and Pisces and Yvlon rescued their side of the table with Ksmvr. Selys had already backed up from the child fight, but the jostling and dodging people knocked Erin Solstice over. Her chair—not perfectly designed—rotated at the wheels, and she hit the floor.

Instantly, the commotion stopped. Mrsha leapt down as Erin pushed herself up.

“Ow, you guys! Bird, you’re not a Pokemon. Don’t…”

Everyone surrounded Erin, and she looked up into the hush. Slowly, Erin began to push herself up but her arms trembled. Numbtongue instantly lifted Erin, and Pisces bent down on the other side.

“Guys, I’m fine. Guys…”

Erin was back in her wheelchair in a few seconds, but the mood had lost its playfulness. Mrsha hugged Erin, and Bird put the cup behind his back.

“I am sorry, Erin. It was all…Selys’ fault. She made me do it.”

The [Liar] pointed to Selys, and the Drake slapped his shoulder. Erin smiled, but weakly.

“I’m not hurt. It’s lots of fun, right?”

“Right.”

Everyone agreed. Super fun. No one was hurt.

The silence remained. Erin Solstice looked around and blew out her cheeks.

“I’m fine. Really.”

She’d just been dead. The [Innkeeper] stared around at all her loving friends and family and their uncertain looks behind the smiles. She took a huge breath and coughed. And coughed.

Coming back from the dead wasn’t easy. And before anyone could say anything else or get back on track, the first person broke into the inn.

“Excuse me—excuse me, Erin!”

Someone had gotten past Ser Lormel on door-duty. Garia Strongheart jogged into the inn, and everyone turned in relief. Garia was waving a slip of parchment with a [Message] on it.

“I have a missive from Feshi Weatherfur! There’s an Antinium they found in the Great Plains!”

Instantly, everyone became alert. Ceria glanced at Bird and Ksmvr, and both Antinium looked at each other. Numbtongue cursed and closed his eyes, and Gire’s smile flickered. Lyonette turned to Erin, and the [Innkeeper]…hesitated.

“…Who?”

 

——

 

While Crusader 221-3 was in the Great Plains, he learned a few things. One of which was that he would walk again.

It turned out that the wounds he’d taken were bad; he’d shattered the lower back half of his shell, had a hand severed, and been practically hamstrung by the blade that had slashed his abdomen and taken him down, but no wounds had been of the limb-dismembering kind, aside from his hand.

“It is only a surprise the healing potion did not kill him…it. You should not have used it on the wounded.”

The [Healer] admonished the Gnolls who’d found Crusader 221-3. Abashed, they ducked their heads, but Crusader 221-3 would have happily referred them to the Antinium’s very low attrition rate due to infection as a defense. He had been engineered to survive worse.

Now, if that were all, and he was checked up on—they gave him enough pillows and blankets to construct the legendary Fortress of Fluff of which Crusader 221-3 had heard so much about—and given good food, he would have considered himself the luckiest of Antinium.

However, he was in his ‘prison’ all of three hours. That was as long as it took to get a [Message] back from Liscor, and apparently his situation was the cause of concern, so Chieftain Feshi was organizing something.

But Crusader 221-3 was let out of his prison the moment an old Gnoll with grey fur walked over to his cell and demanded he be let out.

“But Shaman—”

Then the old Gnoll glared, and the guards instantly let Crusader 221-3 out. Thus, he met Shaman Theikha of Gaarh Marsh.

Crusader 221-3 had no idea who the old Gnoll was or that she was the oldest, arguably highest-level, and certainly most respected Gnoll [Shaman] living among all Gnolls. Then again—he didn’t need to be told.

He felt it. He saw it. He…heard it.

Whomever Shaman Theikha had been before the Meeting of Tribes was not the Gnoll that Crusader 221-3 met. Oh, the body was the same. He imagined that, before, the Gnoll would have looked smaller. A bit shrunken, which happened to old people—not Antinium—but the Drakes and Gnolls he’d seen in Liscor on patrols. She would have probably had a very kind smile and the manner that made children and adults who acted like children rethink causing trouble.

She would have been fairly nimble, but…faded. A glorious candle with enough energy for one last deed. One last Meeting of Tribes. Before she faded away or burnt out in a blaze.

She had done just that. In the last great battle, Shaman Theikha’s heart had stopped. Then, the Earth Elemental, Khoteizetrough, had given her one last gift. Theikha’s heart continued to beat.

And, oh, Crusader 221-3 heard it.

Thum…Thum…Thum.

It was slow, unhurried, and so audible that he heard it, possibly even felt it through his feet. Shaman Theikha’s heart was now so loud any Gnoll within ten feet of her could hear her when she was calm.

The old [Shaman] was still old. But it seemed like a vitality had sprung up behind her eyes. As if…those ancient brown eyes had a layer of green beneath, as pure and vibrant as spring. As if the withered oak shell of a dying tree had been filled with new growth from within.

Was it all Theikha, or something more? All Crusader 221-3 knew was that the Gnoll who stared down at him as he stood up—he wasn’t shackled—was not so much terrifying as impressive. He didn’t feel endangered by her, but he felt like he had when Erin Solstice met his eyes.

“Do you have a name, Soldier of the Antinium? I am Shaman Theikha. Forgive me if I err. I hope I do not misjudge you either. It is a strange time. A terrible moment for Gnolls. But if we do not learn and grow—then we are fools twice.”

Theikha let Crusader 221-3 out of his cell, and he didn’t know what to say. He nodded…then raised his fingers. He had three hands, so he put them together. Happily, he had digits lower than ‘5’ in his name, so he could show her.

“Two. Another two. A one…and then a three? You are…two two one three? Or are you, ah, eight?”

Theikha’s brows came together, and Crusader 221-3 nodded helpfully. She got it with a bit of help.

“You are 221-3. But the three is separate from 221. I see.”

He nodded. She was clearly the wisest of Gnolls; she’d figured out what Liscor’s [Soldiers] had to be told outright. Theikha regarded Crusader 221-3 for a moment.

“Are you in pain, 221-3? Do you require more food? Anything else?”

He shook his head twice and waved his hands. What else could you want? Besides…honor.

Perhaps Theikha realized that a rich internal life and monologue was going on behind Crusader 221-3’s eyes. She certainly seemed to guess that he had something to say.

“Will you walk with me, 221-3?”

“But [Shaman], Chieftain Feshi is arranging a way for him to go to Liscor and…”

“And he is Antinium? A threat?”

Theikha turned, and the Weatherfur [Guard]—who hadn’t actually lifted the axe he carried—hesitated. He shook his head quickly, adjusting the hide armor he wore.

“Not to you, Shaman. I just—wonder if we cannot do whatever needs to be done?”

The answer pleased Theikha. She smiled briefly.

“There are many things that need to be done, but learning…this is an Antinium in our midst, and I think that if we had time, all Chieftains would be here to talk and learn. The Meeting of Tribes has ended, but this is still vital. Since we are all busy and some are at Liscor—ask when Gireulashia will return. I will accompany 221-3 for now.”

“Yes, Shaman Theikha.”

Thus, the Soldier found himself leaving the cells for prisoners of war, and he saw the new circumstances of the Plains Gnolls. He passed by cages where sullen Drakes sat and flinched from him and Theikha. He walked into a camp much like the Meeting of Tribes.

Only, with less tribes and a lot of soldiers rotating in from killing undead or keeping an eye out for Drakes. They looked—dispirited. They looked like they were grieving. Crusader 221-3 heard some howls, but he mostly just saw exhaustion.

Exhaustion, crossed with hope when they saw Theikha. Strangely, even when they saw him. Great tribes had perished, like Az’muzarre, or were forever broken like Steelfur, which had no more Iraz to give them their famous fur.

However, they had survived, so what propelled every Gnoll on their feet was a kind of exhausted daring. Like someone throwing out their hands and baring their chest and daring the world to throw just one more thing at them.

And it was Theikha who promised them that there would be that future. Her beating heart. No…not just that.

From ash, there would be some new life. All Crusader 221-3 had to do to believe that was to look out and see…

A new land. It ran through the Great Plains, but it stretched into the distance. Like a crack, a splinter driven into Izril, it was not so much a ‘chunk’ as a wedge, and that new land had been yanked from the bottom of the ocean, blanketed in magic. It had changed the landscape, forcing the great river that Khelt had sailed up to pool into a lake caused by the fighting before diverting and rejoining its old course.

The new lands had forced Zeres away, creating a huge divide between Drake cities across the southwest of Izril. And while Crusader 221-3 could not see far into that strange landscape…he saw where it began.

At the Meeting of Tribes, where the grand tent still stood, scorched but a semi-permanent headquarters. It stood next to a fortress of dirt and wood where the Doombearers’ allies had fought. To mark this place would be this battlefield, this great camp of Gnolls.

And the hill that had been Khoteizetrough, blooming with so many flowers that it dazzled the Antinium’s eyes. A small swamp had already formed around it.

“You fought for our side, did you not, 221-3? This is the folly of Gnolls in part. It will not be our end. Even now, my people set foot on Chandrar, and while the tribes have been badly decimated, our kin from cities and elsewhere on Izril make for us here. We have you to thank, yes?”

Crusader 221-3 modestly waved his antennae. He didn’t know about that. One moment he’d been rushing to where Company 3 had vanished, the next Erin Solstice told him to hold the line. So he did.

He was very modest about himself. Not the Beriad. They were the heroes beyond heroes, and each one would never be forgotten. They had died with honor, and he would write their names on the walls of the Painted Antinium if he were allowed. They might not have been Painted Antinium—not all the crusade had been—

But they had been something new. Beyond [Crusader].

And Theikha saw it. She looked at Crusader 221-3 with wisdom and kindness and gratitude, and she spoke.

“I have many questions to ask you, but I realize it is difficult for you to answer, 221-3. If we had but asked…no. We did try, and no Antinium had any answers to give, even your Centenium, only war. Perhaps now is the only time to ask. Will you allow me to do what I think is wise in two ways? I promise, it should not hurt or harm.”

He nodded. Crusader 221-3 had never been asked his opinion on anything, so he felt good about agreeing. Unless he should have refused? However, Calruz did say that an honorable warrior underwent any trials for the benefit of all.

Thus, Shaman Theikha led Crusader 221-3 up towards the biggest tent. On the way, she called for an artifact. When one was found that matched her requirements, she eyed the monocle with great reservation, then put it to her eye.

“There are some magics, you see, 221-3, that do not come to [Shamans]. That will change now that we have regained magic, but slowly. I can do what [Mages] cannot in many ways. But this…ah. So your name was Crusader 221-3! I apologize.”

He froze and nearly fell over in surprise, but Theikha just studied him and murmured.

“Strange. I would imagine you had more classes and a higher level. You are called ‘Crusader 221-3’, yet you bear not that class.”

Odd. Crusader 221-3 realized she was appraising him! Which was wise! Yet it seemed Theikha suffered the same problem as Strategos Olesm; his [Crusader] class and certain Skills didn’t show up.

However, Theikha did see his other class. And that was enough to make her eyebrows lift straight up. She brushed some lichen off her fur—her shaman’s dress looked like it had been grown out of the wild—and murmured.

“[Honorable Immortal].”

[Immortal]. Crusader 221-3 puffed out his chest. He knew it didn’t mean immortal immortal, but it was probably the reason he’d survived nine days after being cut two dozen times.

“You have many powerful Skills. As one who survived such a battle should. Forgive me for peeking, but it is a question among some whether Antinium even have levels. The Soldiers and Workers, at least.”

Crusader 221-3 waved it off. He didn’t care. Among the Skills he’d gained, some were:

[Body: Staunched Bleeding]. Which was probably how he hadn’t bled out despite the huge gashes on his body.

[Greater Endurance]. He was very proud of that—he was a Level 11 [Immortal], and he assumed it was his Level 10 capstone Skill.

[Ironshell]. The voice in his head had wavered between [Ironhide] and [Ironscales] before figuring it out.

And [Honor’s Shield – Single Use]. Which he was completely in the dark about.

Once again, Shaman Theikha seemed to read his mind.

“You may not know what all these Skills do, yes?”

Crusader 221-3 shook his head obediently, and Theikha chuckled.

“A problem for many. Not all Skills make sense. One would have thought there was an instruction manual! I may not know all, and you have secrets, but I am old enough to show you one. Here. Let me show you how your [Honor’s Shield] works. Turn around.”

Obediently, the Crusader did. Several Gnolls watching the Antinium curiously saw Theikha raise her staff. She briskly smacked it over the back of Crusader 221-3’s head.

Shaman!

The horrified shout came from no less than…Rose. The young woman ran forwards as she and a metal Gnoll reached the scene just in time to see the assassination attempt on Crusader 221-3…fail.

Theikha’s staff bounced off a glowing disc of light, rather like a buckler. It disappeared as Crusader 221-3 looked around.

“Hold still.”

He hesitated, but Theikha tapped him on the back of the head, just enough that he felt it. She smiled as Adetr slowed and Rose came to a stop. Adetr, catching up, stared at the first Antinium he’d ever met outside a battle.

“You see? Once. A very handy trick for an honorable person, yes?”

Crusader 221-3 could only agree. He turned, and Rose pointed at him.

“It’s an Antinium Soldier! Not a Painted Antinium after all, like I thought.”

“A live one. What will we do, Shaman? Send it back?”

The metal Gnoll rumbled, and Adetr Steelfur, the only Gnoll to still have a body of metal, looked at Theikha. She nodded as Rose gobbled for words.

“That is for Chieftain Feshi to decide. I am simply…speaking with Crusader 221-3. Thank you for coming, Rose. You know Antinium; I hope you can help.”

“I do! But, um—I only know Pawn. Hello! I’m, uh, Rose. I know Pawn! And Bird! And…Belgrade?”

Rose was actually more nervous than Theikha and hesitated before putting her hand out. Since he couldn’t speak, Crusader 221-3 put his hand out, but his digits were more for making fists or shovel-hands. He shook her grip, and Rose hesitated.

“He’s a Soldier. They don’t speak. I mean…Yellow Splatters does, but. Um. Hi! We’ll get you back to your Hive! I’m Rose!”

“You said that. I am Adetr Steelfur. Chieftain…temporary Chieftain of Steelfur. Antinium, you will cause no harm.”

It wasn’t really a question, but Crusader 221-3 shook his head anyways. Rose was hesitating.

“What will you do? Can you…give him a pencil, Theikha? Translate his words like Mrsha?”

“I do not know [Greater Translation], Rose. Nor do I think Crusader 221-3 could manage to write.”

Nor had he been taught. Crusader 221-3 shook his head helpfully. He couldn’t even read! He did know the Crusade’s sign-language adopted from Mrsha’s paw-signs, but no one here was fluent, at least in their dialect.

However, as he had observed, you didn’t become the Great Shaman of the Tribes without having some really good ideas in your head. Or just…common sense? Possibly both, which made Theikha very rare. Because she continued walking them all up to their destination.

The big tent where the Chieftains had met. Rose was confused for a minute, then she understood. Adetr just gave Theikha a look of wild surprise then a deep bow.

“You are very wise, Shaman. I have…much to learn. I hope Gaarh Marsh will not return to their homes yet. Steelfur—what remains of it—needs you. If we are to continue at all.”

“Hrm. No, I am not. I simply thought about what I could do. Do not think I have something you do not have, Adetr. It is a difficult thing to lead, but not entirely unknown.”

Crusader 221-3 saw the metal Gnoll nod. He was an impressive warrior, not as tall as some Gnolls, but he looked as heavy as two Crusader 221-3’s put together, and his body was metal. Even his eyes had more grey than brown. He could have held still and been mistaken for a statue.

Yet he seemed smaller. Diminished. Worn down by enough loss to extinguish even his desire for battle. As for Rose…she seemed like a nice Human. Well-scrubbed, wearing some bright clothing, and a bit uncertain among all the Gnolls. But it seemed to Crusader 221-3 that if a strong wind blew it wouldn’t touch Theikha, but it would knock Adetr over. Rose was helping prop him up a bit. Although, if he did fall over, he’d squish her.

Now, as to their destination—that did make Adetr look up with that desperate hope Gnolls had. Indeed, the tent had some Gnolls in it already. Not just Chieftains or [Shamans], but regular Gnolls, some of whom looked disbelieving or shocked. They parted for Theikha, and when they saw Crusader 221-3’s destination, they gave her the same looks as Adetr and Rose.

Admiration for a common-sense idea. Which was this: Crusader 221-3 stared down at [The World of You and Me], the bound Skill which swirled in the center of the Chieftain’s Tent.

A simulation of Earth. A gateway to another world. And he…stepped into the barrier after Theikha asked if he was willing to try.

Before she even finished asking. The first Antinium walked into Earth. And nothing was ever the same.

 

——

 

Getting Erin Solstice out of the inn was harder than it used to be. Legs weren’t the only factor here.

Mrsha was going with Erin, of course, to the Mage’s Guild to see about this Antinium who’d been found. However, she was on the periphery of the work.

And it was work, for multiple reasons. Erin Solstice clearly wanted to just roll out the inn through her magic door and into the Mage’s Guild and do something.

Well, her magic door was still in Liscor. It was sending people across the continent, and bringing it back to the inn would have required re-doing the schedule last week. So they hadn’t. Plus, the traffic would have meant less security, and everyone agreed that Erin should be resting.

Everyone but Erin had agreed with that. However, even going into Liscor was harder, because Erin got halfway down the hallway before Lyonette insisted they stop.

“I need Dame Ushar and Ser Dalimont to join us, Erin. And are you sure you’re ready?”

“I don’t have to pee.”

Erin was mildly outraged, but Lyonette was looking her up and down. Numbtongue prodded Erin.

“Rings. Rings!”

“Erin, you forgot your rings!”

“What? Aw…”

Mrsha saw Erin’s face adopt a rather familiar look of annoyance; Mrsha had seen it in the mirror many times. But then Lyonette sent Mrsha herself scampering into Erin’s room to bring back a pair of rings.

“You should have them on all the time. Hedault even got you rings because you didn’t like the amulet.”

“Yeah, but I’m not a ring-person. I already have…had Ilvriss’ ring.”

Erin put them on, grumbling, and then saw two more Thronebearers appear.

“No. We’re gonna go in with them? Come on. Guys?”

No one had her back, not even Bird, who was pushing her. The Horns strolled ahead, but Erin had to have people with her. Lyonette did as a matter of course, but the Thronebearers had Erin under guard too.

“Miss Solstice, we will try to be as unobtrusive as possible.”

Ser Dalimont bowed with a look that said he knew how stupid a statement it was. Erin waggled her hands at them.

“Lyonette…”

“Erin, it’s not that difficult.”

“Not that…they’re like giant lightbulbs. They’re shiny! I don’t want to go around with them. That’s so lame!”

The Thronebearers looked a bit hurt. Erin caught herself.

“Sorry, guys. That’s rude.”

“Not at all, Miss Solstice.”

Dame Ushar bowed. Erin corrected herself with a glint in her eyes.

“You’re just not as useful as Numbtongue would be. Or Bird.”

Got ‘em. She grinned around…but Mrsha just gave her a sad sigh and patted Erin’s arm. She scribbled as Erin’s face fell.

You uncouth fool. The difference between a bodyguard and warrior exceeds the scope of my patience to inform you. Forsooth.

“Whuh…”

She had a lot to learn, and the lessons of old were ingrained in everyone else. Erin was so flabbergasted by Mrsha’s retort that they got down the hill without much fuss. It was a straight shot from the inn to the gates, anyways.

“Hello! Any business today?”

The [Guard] knew Erin, of course, and they seemed relaxed. Lyonette assured one on duty all was well.

“We are simply headed to the, um, Mage’s Guild. Perhaps Liscor’s Council, even? There’s a situation in the Great Plains.”

She was a bit worried because they all sensed it. Mrsha was antsy.

This could be bad. An Antinium? He wasn’t harmed, apparently, but he was an Antinium far from home. Erin looked resolved, but to everyone’s surprise, the [Guard] just nodded.

“Liscor’s Council has already moved on the issue. We had orders to let Miss Solstice know they’re prepared for a brief meeting at her convenience. I believe Strategists Venaz and Wil also visited the guild, and, um, Strategos Olesm had a brief communication with Magus Grimalkin.”

“Huh? Wh…they did?”

The rest of the guard on the gates was watching Erin, but the [Innkeeper] was more surprised than anyone. In fact—as the party moved into the city, to Mrsha’s keen ears, one of the [Guards] could be heard whispering.

Is that the Human? She’s not nearly as scary as everyone said. She’s shorter than I thought, too.

Erin twitched a bit and frowned, but the [Guard] gave them no more trouble. Indeed…although citizens of Liscor noticed Erin, it was almost the procession that attracted more attention.

Four Thronebearers, a Doombearer, Gire the [Paragon], and a Gold-ranked team. All surrounding Erin. And when they reached the Mage’s Guild where Garia had been sent from with a copy of the [Message]…

Well, everything was sorted.

 

——

 

“Wait, what you do mean, sorted?”

“We’ll handle it. We’re requesting transport for the Antinium; the trick will be getting an escort or the Drake cities to hold off…doing anything. It’s very tricky, but I wish to be clear—we do not need Goblins…or Antinium…or anyone else sallying out there. In fact, I was going to ask if the Horns of Hammerad would accept a discounted escort request.”

Councilmember Lism steepled his claws and looked over the table as Erin Solstice stared around Liscor’s Council. Mrsha waved at Krshia and Elirr and got nods from them and Raekea. Erin Solstice opened her mouth, but Ceria got there first.

“Pass. That’s a long way to go there and back.

“Understandable. The Tribes are also willing to discuss the issue. What we don’t need, Miss Solstice, is Antinium…disruption. Senior Guardsman Klbkch was very understanding on the issue. Pallass has also agreed to move their door to allow the Antinium to skip the Bloodfields trip, provided he makes it there. So. We’ll look into the trip back. It may be a matter of funding, but Strategos Olesm has expressed a desire to use any funds for a soldier of Liscor’s 2nd Army. And the Antinium have agreed to also fund any escort…”

It was all very relaxed. Stinky Lism didn’t even sneer, although Mrsha still didn’t like him. They had a plan, and they’d put it into action.

To help the Antinium Soldier get back. Erin hesitated.

“Yeah, but…what if he gets hurt? What if someone goes after him?”

“We will endeavor not to let that happen. Believe me, Miss Solstice, no one wants more bloodshed.”

Councilmember Jeiss replied. And it was true, but still Erin hesitated.

“But if we could be sure…”

“Miss Solstice. The most dangerous thing would be for a…Goblin riding a Wyvern to suddenly appear in the Great Plains. Wouldn’t you agree? We’re aware there’s a risk of kidnapping given the value of—”

Today was the day of kicks. Mrsha noticed these things because she was lower to the ground, so she saw Krshia stomp on Lism’s tail. He shut up, and Erin nodded rapidly.

“So there is a risk! I’ll, um…”

She looked at the Horns and around the room, and the Council rose to their feet.

“Miss Solstice, there’s no need. We will send you daily updates. On the hour, if need be, and I will let you know how the transport is arranged, and…we’ll put one of our [Clerks] on it. But please, I trust you’re recovering well?”

Lism spoke rapidly, and Erin hesitated.

“Um…I just need to do some muscle strengthening. You know, rest up the body. I can’t keep trying to regenerate with a potion. I got stabbed, apparently, and someone dropped me two hundred feet onto the ground. Sort of sucks.”

“Indeed. Well, I hope you will recover very soon. If we can help at all.”

“But about the Antinium—”

“Leave it to us, leave it to us. Best wishes, Miss Solstice, get well soon, and may I personally thank you on behalf of the Council for your valuable time—”

And before they knew it, they were standing in the hallway, and Erin had the most mystified look on her face. She opened her mouth and almost went to wheel herself back into the room, but then she gave up.

“Lyonette. They’re actually competent! What do I do?”

“Maybe…let them do their jobs, Erin? Isn’t it for the best?”

“Yeah, but…”

Erin Solstice looked around. Numbtongue leaned down and whispered to her.

“Don’t worry. If the Council is stupid, the Fellowship will go get him. We’ll take horses. Very smart.”

“I…the Fellowship will?”

“Or Strategist Perorn. The students of the Forgotten Wing Company will also ensure it. Chieftain Feshi is one of them.”

Gireulashia murmured. Erin Solstice hesitated, and Bird nodded importantly.

“They will make sure he gets back even if they must send an army. I will ensure it, Erin, do not worry. I have carried Niers in my hat and beaten him in chess. Therefore, I believe I occupy a rank somewhere under Commander Perorn. I will make the order if no one else does.”

“Um.”

And there it was. Mrsha didn’t even have to write her own note to her friends in the Meeting of Tribes. It was done and dusted. Erin had nothing to worry about. So please, please…Mrsha saw the Council peeking at them from the windows as they left City Hall, and she suspected a few [Guards] and onlookers were observing.

Please don’t do anything silly.

In a sense, the world didn’t need Erin Solstice as much as it used to. More people liked Antinium. More Antinium had voices and power. There were groups that were capable of making reasonable decisions without needing someone to push them. They had organization and competence.

What a frightening change to Liscor. It seemed even Erin realized that her best efforts might not be…helpful.

“I was just going to, like, ask if anyone wanted to escort him to Liscor. Some adventurers.”

“I’m sure that’s the first thing the Council asked, Erin.”

The [Innkeeper] was trying to think.

“Okay…then—then we’d ask for someone nearby that we knew to help. Like—who lives near there?”

“Weatherfur’s tribe? Any Gnoll tribe, Erin. The Forgotten Wing has a Centaur force; the Soldier will be safe along the Great Plains. Past that, he’ll need an escort.”

“So if we asked someone to—”

“Erin, I’m sure Liscor will take care of it.”

Mrsha glanced at Erin as the little Gnoll let Gireulashia carry her and saw Erin’s mystified look. Almost frustrated. Lyonette was cajoling her in that tone that was meant to be motherly and soothing and grated like only mollycoddling could.

“Why don’t we go to the [Healer] instead, Erin? We have to anyways, and we can always go early. Or…should we tour the new part of the city?”

Erin relented with a frown and sigh.

“Let’s go to the [Healer]. Not that everyone has to come with.”

They all did. At least, long enough to see Erin helped out of her chair and stretching her legs, working on her arm and leg muscles.

The issue was not, apparently, that General Sserys had done irreparable harm to Erin’s body when he’d possessed it. He had done a lot of harm and stupid things like getting an arm cut off, but the Potion of Regeneration was as powerful as could be.

The problem was more that he had made Erin’s body do things a Level 50+ [General] was capable of, forcing her to regrow limbs and fight a war after just being unfrozen. Erin was suffering the effects of that now.

She had been dead, so being as weak as a kitten was partly inevitable; her body had suffered from freezing and refreezing on a cellular level. Her muscles were shot, and her lungs were recovering. Part of her rehabilitation the [Healer] had come up with after much consultation with Grimalkin was to make Erin do simple leg lifts—or try.

“Mrsha, stop that!”

Mrsha was doing sit ups next to Erin as the young woman struggled, red-faced, to use a rope to haul herself up and down. Erin half-laughed as Mrsha stopped that and began practicing magic with Gireulashia.

Gnolls practicing magic in the open. Gire had a nose in a book, and the Silverfangs were debating how best to use the spellbook that Teriarch had given them. Speaking of which…

There were other people whom Erin had to meet or reconnect with. She was panting after an hour of exercise, but at last, the [Healer] said they were done for the day.

“I’m bushed!”

Erin let Lyonette push her out of the clinic, and Mrsha, who’d been napping on one of the tables, leapt up and sniffed the air. She raced outside as Erin wiped at her forehead, and then Mrsha pointed.

“Mrsha, don’t run off—oh! Look who it is!”

Lyonette’s warning turned into an exclamation of glad surprise. The two figures approaching were hardly rare sights, in Liscor historically but…Erin sat up in her wheelchair when she saw a duo on patrol. A Drake sauntering forwards next to a graceful Antinium.

A classic duo.

Relc! Klbkch!

A smile burst across Erin’s face as she waved, and the two picked up their pace a moment. Everyone else might be cautious around her, but Mrsha saw Relc bound over and give her a one-armed hug.

“There’s my favorite Human! Wait, is that racist? It’s true, anyways! And here’s my…one, two, eight…ninth favorite Gnoll! Hey, kiddo!”

Mrsha punched his claw, and Relc grinned. She beamed up at him, and the Drake twirled his spear. This—this was familiar, and even Lyonette relaxed as Klbkch approached. The Thronebearers did not and surrounded Lyonette as Klbkch ignored Bird and Ksmvr.

“Erin. I informed Relc that you would be at the [Healer]’s for another hour. You have clearly moved up your schedule and thus I am not an ‘idiot who cannot tell the time’. Kindly inform Relc that rescheduling meetings is a practical and normal thing for people to do.”

“Not in the army! Klbkch is just mad he’s wrong. And that he’s not the only Antinium on duty, so everyone likes the new Antinium better.”

Klbkch paused, and Mrsha admired his new body. It looked…scary. Even Gire was a bit wary of him, but the Horns were at ease, arguing about whether or not Ksmvr needed the skin cream he’d been talked into buying and if they needed to demand a refund.

“Be nice, Relc!”

“Nice? I’m super nice! I’m just saying—Klbkch needs to be friendlier. He’s a decent guard—nothing on a [Trusted Sergeant of the Watch] of course, but his interpersonal skills? Let’s just say those new Workers and Soldiers get more smiles because they have paint and names. They’re adorable. Klbkch?”

The other Antinium folded his arms.

“I am an exemplar of my species—the only member of the Watch for a decade. My reputation is without question, Relc.”

“Yeah. Yeah. And Old Miss Tisheff gave that Antinium Worker her cookies and not you. That’s the real difference.”

“She did not. Did she? A [Guard] should not take presents anyways. But she always offers me…”

Relc patted Klbkch on the back. Mrsha patted him on the leg. The Antinium looked at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] laughed.

For once, she didn’t cough, and Relc and Klbkch smiled as they revealed how popular some of the new Antinium were.

“But Klbkch, I thought you had more duties! Not that I’ve been able to talk with anyone…is it such a big deal?”

Erin teased him. The Antinium Revalantor folded his arms harder and seemed to withdraw into himself.

“It is not at all. Why would you have that impression, Erin? I am a Senior Guardsman, and that is a rank that no Antinium can match.”

“Yet.”

Relc’s huge grin could have been a mirror of Mrsha’s. Klbkch twitched—then he unsheathed one sword and swung it at Relc’s side.

It was so fast Mrsha recoiled only after she saw Relc had casually blocked it. The two [Guardsmen] stood there as Gire froze, an arm raised, and the Thronebearers and Horns whirled. But—Relc and Klbkch were grinning, one with teeth, the other with mandibles raised. Relc twirled his spear as Klbkch sheathed his sword.

“Ancestors, it is not fun practicing with you in the mornings, Klb.”

“It is not? Aside from Jeiss, I believe you are the only partner I can practice with. And vice versa.”

“But I have to work! True…it’s getting me back in shape.”

The [Spearmaster] and [Swordslayer] had a different relationship since both had come back to Liscor. If anything…it seemed better than before. Almost like they’d changed traits.

Relc was a bit more responsible. A bit. And he actually knew the law sometimes. Klbkch? He seemed…well. More ready to smile.

It was good to see, and while it might alarm everyone else not used to the two, Erin Solstice was beaming. A few Humans looked very disconcerted; it wasn’t everyday you saw two true masters of weapons on a Watch patrol.

But then, this was Liscor. And it seemed like they were about to get into it, that familiarity, when it happened again. Mrsha, beaming, heard Erin scolding the two.

“Don’t you two fight when I’m, like, a foot away! You could have cut my head off, Klbkch! And you, Relc! When did you get a spear?”

The pause in the air was interrupted by Relc’s laugh.

“You mean my new spear? It’s the same one, Erin! I gave the other one I took from that [Spearmaster], uh…what’s his name from Manus, to the Antinium. Hey, maybe I could sell it?”

He showed Erin his anti-magic spear, and she blinked at him.

“No. I don’t remember that. You don’t use a spear, Relc! You punch people! What’s this new Relc I’m seeing? Did you learn that at Cellidel too?”

The silence that fell next made Mrsha’s heart sink into her stomach. Everyone turned to Erin.

“Relc’s always had his spear, Erin. From the day we met. Do you mean his magical spear?”

Klbkch looked from Erin to Relc, and the [Innkeeper] shook her head.

“No way. I don’t remember that at all. He’s always used his fists, remember? Like when he fought…Skinner? And Pisces. And when he cut—no. But he probably used a knife or…? But he doesn’t use a spear!”

“He taught Embria how to use a spear.”

Klbkch reminded Erin again, and the [Innkeeper]’s brows drew together.

“He did. But he doesn’t have—wait. That makes no—but I don’t remember. You have a spear, Relc?”

She looked up, and Mrsha saw the most uncertain look on Relc’s face. He covered it with a grin and a laugh.

“Who knows, Erin? I have all kinds of stuff I forget. Like—underwear!”

“Gross.”

Erin laughed, but Mrsha saw it. There was, for a moment, a brief look of fear on Relc’s face. She couldn’t read Klbkch the same way, but Erin looked around and—

There it was again. Erin kept talking.

“I don’t remember it. I really don’t. Not once. A spear? I don’t…”

She put a hand to her head, and Mrsha saw her eyes flicker. Something was gone. It seemed one way to the living, but that memory wasn’t just lost somewhere.

Something had eaten it in the lands of the dead. But Erin looked at Relc, and that strained smile reappeared.

“I guess I forgot a few things. So…you look pretty good with that spear.”

Relc traded a glance with Klbkch and nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.”

 

——

 

She didn’t seem like the person who had been possessed by General Sserys. Nor someone that Khelt held in such high regard that Fetohep of Khelt knew her name. Nor someone whom Wall Lord Ilvriss had bought and sent a Potion of Regeneration for.

That she was damaged by her ordeal was clear, but the…watchers…didn’t see anything to alarm their employers overmuch.

Oh, friendship with the Antinium and Goblins? Maybe, but they were well past that. There were new lands, prophecies from ghosts, and far more to worry upon.

For instance, the Antinium Soldier was a topic of discussion. No matter how Liscor’s Council had downplayed it to Erin, the truth was that the discovery of a survivor had planted a thought in many concerned powers.

It was common knowledge that Antinium did not break under torture or questioning. There was no point. But those were the Antinium of the past with no levels or anything to learn from.

This was one of the ones that General Sserys had apparently called from the front, the ones that had fought Hectval, and this was a Free Antinium. Acquiring one might be worth the effort.

There were other things to do like investigate the new lands, but the world was actually somewhat silent at the moment.

No one was doing much more than preparing. The worst had happened. Now, people checked the walls and counted soldiers and thought of what came next, and everyone was uncertain, but it meant that the Antinium’s fate was a flashpoint.

The Gnolls had him in custody, and he may well be a guest. But there were a lot of miles between there and Pallass, let alone Liscor. Then again, he had no voice. How valuable was he? They debated and left the [Innkeeper] alone. No matter her level now, she was not General Sserys. She had been inhabited by fire and wrath and the spirits of the dead.

Now?

Now she was just some [Innkeeper]. The truly interesting person was the Soldier. Especially because he was changing. The wisdom of Shaman Theikha had done what even an Antinium Queen would struggle to do.

She had given him…a voice.

 

——

 

This was the story of a man named…Edmund.

Edmund worked for a company in a big building where he was Employee #17. Perhaps they didn’t have numbers, but he’d counted.

Employee #17’s job was simple: he sat at his desk in Cubicle 3E and pushed buttons on a keyboard.

Presumably, he would do that all day and follow each order he was given, receiving recompense for it, but Edmund did not do that this day. One day, Edmund sat up at his desk, looked at the computer screen, and freaked out.

The first thing he did was scream. Then realize he had two hands. Then his coworkers came over. Then Edmund realized he had a voice.

Of course, ‘Edmund’ was Crusader 221-3. And he lost his job, mostly because screaming incoherently while fending off half the office with a clipboard was grounds for termination. But that was for the best, because when security threw him out of the building, Edmund was on Earth. And he realized what a beautiful Skill it was.

Perhaps for one species to see another in an unbiased way. Perhaps to show technology or foster relations between worlds.

But for an Antinium? Crusader 221-3 looked around in a world where no one wanted to kill him, no one was angry at him—unless he began to take off his clothes or walk in front of cars—and where he could do things he had always dreamed of.

Like walk up to a person in an apron, hand over a bunch of bills, then insert them into the jar of ‘tips’ and get a huge smile, and eat an éclair and have a coffee. Of course, people looked at him askance for the way he ate it—inserting the entire éclair into his mouth and nearly choking to death—but no one killed him for it.

Then Crusader 221-3 stumbled into the street and stared up at the skyscraper. He chased after pigeons. And he learned what laughing and crying was.

This is the story of Crusader 221-3. And when Satar Silverfang, Adetr, Rose, and Theikha found him—mostly by following the disturbances in the simulation—they found a man on a swing being given the side-eye by some concerned parents, just staring up at the city in the park with a lot of chocolate around his mouth.

And when he did speak, Crusader 221-3 said this:

“I…I would like a name.”

The Gnolls and Human looked at him in shock and awe, and in time he did choose one.

It was not Edmund.

 

——-

 

Erin Solstice dreamt that night. She dreamt of a game of chess against a woman with three faces. She dreamt of a sad [Necromancer], a burning [Lady], and a land of sand and pride. She dreamt of horror and faces, thousands, who whispered to her their stories.

She dreamt of friends and a great cause and a smiling little man. And in that dream, she was helpless but also resolved.

…And then she woke up. Erin Solstice woke in the middle of the night, gasping, crying out, in pain—

Because she’d forgotten to breathe, again. Because her lungs hadn’t been working for months and the soul inside this body had forgotten that you needed to breathe to live.

Choking, gasping for air, Erin tried to stand up, but her body hurt. It felt…as weak as a feather and pulled, like someone had taken elastic and stretched it until it would never recover.

That was one thing. The worst? The worst was that as she caught her breath, she saw a pair of glowing eyes staring at her from a dark garden’s door cracked open against one wall. She looked up and saw two red eyes—terrifying to some, but to her, just Numbtongue, peeking in next to Lyonette. The shirtless Goblin stood next to the anxious [Princess], and when they jerked back and Erin turned her head, she saw Pisces peering at her from her window.

I’m not dead!

Erin shouted at them, and they fled. But could she blame them? Erin felt at her chest and coughed again.

No. Not really. It was just…frustrating. Erin Solstice lay on her back in the inn. And nothing was the same.

She knew how protective everyone was of her. Erin wasn’t stupid…and she had the distinct memory of someone with a pointed hat disagreeing. But the memory was half-there. Half…

“C-Califor?”

Tears sprang to Erin’s eyes, and she rubbed at them weakly. She was as weak as a mouse. Mrsha could beat her in wrestling, and she had—until she looked so uneasy that she backed away and apologized.

With words. She had a speaking…stone thing. She had always been able to write, but now she had speech! And a friend! The giant Gireulashia was Mrsha’s best friend, and Mrsha had been declared a Doombearer.

A luck-Gnoll. Of course, Erin knew that Doombearers were the inheritors of fate and luck. Gnolls who lost their tribes sometimes received a blessing or curse, but the power of Doombearers was traditional among the Gnoll tribes.

Everyone knew that…didn’t they? Or had someone told Erin that?

“Kishkeria?”

That was the Archmage who had appeared amongst the dead and split Izril. Erin Solstice felt like she knew the name very well, but she’d probably heard it when they caught her up on the news. Why did it feel like she knew more than that?

She had been dead, and she had met people there. It was not all clear; she was still processing it, like someone trying to sieve an ocean through a small funnel. It would come, but it was so frustrating.

Her body was…ruined.

“Thanks, Sserys. Couldn’t you have not…gotten my arm cut off or something? Or, like, left me with super-abs? I thought you were a great [General].”

Erin tossed and turned in bed, but even that made her tired. She knew she should try and work out her arms and legs, but it was so much effort. She had never known how hard it was just to…raise one leg.

It was scary. But the scariest part had been that morning when she saw Relc’s face. When she realized she’d…forgotten he had a spear. She was utterly convinced he never had one, but everyone else thought differently.

Reality is not real. Why did that put a chill down her spine? Erin tossed around in her bed until she realized what she was doing.

It took her nearly twelve minutes to get to her wheelchair next to her bed and pull herself over to the table, but she sat at it and moved a glowing piece in the night. It was dark, and she thought she wouldn’t get a response—so she was setting up another board when the piece moved.

Without a second’s hesitation, Erin began to play. Quickly, running through familiar tactics, pressing her opponent hard. He—and it was a he—had tried to write something on the Go board, but Erin just set that up and began to play.

She went after her ‘mysterious opponent’ like a fireball. He wasn’t prepared for the onslaught and gave her a game, but rallied to a draw in the second one. Since he didn’t know Go as well as she did, she took another win there.

Three games became five, then six. Then Erin realized she’d been playing for two hours and called it a night. Her opponent signed off with a ‘gt wll sn.’

She didn’t know what to say back to him. She just wrote ‘tnks’ on the chessboard. That was familiar, but it wasn’t what reassured her.

I lost one game. It was hard. I’m not…trapped.

Erin Solstice breathed out again and was reassured. She vaguely remembered why. She remembered an ominous presence, a conversation…and yes, a name.

But she refused to speak it. The young woman wheeled herself back to her bed and lay down once more.

She forgot nothing. The scope of what she had seen and done might be too much for a mortal mind, but the quests burned in her head. The promises.

The sacrifice.

If she thought of it, she would weep. If she thought of it, she burned to stand up, and—Erin gritted her teeth.

“I promise.”

She tried to get up. She tried to summon a sword or an umbrella and prop herself up. She clung to the memories of glorious ghosts and pushed herself out of her bed.

Stand—

It was Lyonette who found Erin crawling on the floor, trying to push herself up. The [Princess] saw the [Innkeeper] staring up at her.

“Erin? Ushar, Ushar—

They got her back to bed. Erin didn’t explain. She didn’t think she needed to. She knew her frustration had to be on her face. She just wished they weren’t so…hesitant.

All my fault. I never should have gone for a walk.

Erin remembered dying. She remembered the surprise, the fear…she shuddered and remembered their faces.

Never again. But that went double for everything. She had woken up, but she was not the same Erin Solstice who had gone to sleep. She couldn’t…

She couldn’t do this. Not anymore. Erin Solstice lay there.

“I just woke up, and I’m already tired. But I have to…”

She tried to move limbs of lead and growled. The inn groaned uneasily in the night, and Erin Solstice whispered.

“I promised.”

 

——

 

In the morning, it was no better. Oh, Erin had things to distract herself with, but she…

She couldn’t talk to them.

Not Mrsha, nor Lyonette, nor Ceria. Erin hadn’t even tried at first, just hugged them and listened to all that had passed since she had died. She hadn’t even heard the whole story, she knew. Pisces hadn’t told her much, but somehow…

Somehow she knew his story. And a name appeared in her mind.

Cawe. Igheriz.

She knew their faces. Yet nine days had passed, and at first, Erin had slept most of the days, as if she had the sleeping sickness, mono. That was her recovering from fighting a war, and it went double for everyone else. Now…

Well, the poor Soldier who needed to get to Liscor was one thing, and Erin knew it wouldn’t be easy. She wanted to help—but Lyonette was right that Erin wasn’t the most organized.

She was wrong in that Erin could do nothing anyone else could. Erin could now post quests, and she was figuring that out. But she knew something else.

Or did she? Because the [Innkeeper] was doubting it, in part. She felt—well, like the opposite of déjà-vu constantly. As if, when Mrsha told her with Gire and Krshia’s help, the truth of Doombearers and Plains Eye’s treachery—as if she had already known that.

Which was silly. Or was it? Why did Erin know…

The quests. She knew. But she was having trouble convincing anyone else. Erin experienced it that very morning over a quiet breakfast.

Mrsha had gone to eat with Gire at the Drunken Gnoll. That was where Imani was working; she’d come back to help fill The Wandering Inn with food, but she had another job, and Erin didn’t know if she’d come to work here again.

For that matter—Ishkr was handling the light traffic and he’d pulled his sister back to work, but even Silveran wasn’t back yet.

“Where’s Silveran? Is he…okay?”

Erin was afraid of the answer, but Lyonette just gave her a strange look and slapped her forehead.

“He’s running Silveran’s Cleaners. I don’t think he can work, Erin. Nor can we pay him enough.”

“Uh. What?

That was the experience Erin had. Every two seconds, every single person was somewhere else. Changed, doing something. For instance, when she asked about good old Menolit, who surely wouldn’t change, Ishkr told her about Liscor Hunted, the popular tourist trap…literally, if you fell into a Shield Spider nest.

She’d thought he was pulling her leg and refused to believe him until he showed her a t-shirt that said ‘I Survived Liscor Hunted’. And combining that with her Relc spear moment…well, it was that kind of thing that made Erin doubt reality.

And the morning’s incident didn’t help either. Erin was eating with Ceria; she’d woken up late after her nocturnal antics, so the sleepy half-Elf was munching on a plate of fries.

Fries for breakfast. Covered with relish and sour cream.

Some things didn’t change. Well, the food did and it was horrifying, but that was Ceria for you. Erin poked her friend in the arm.

“Is, um, your breakfast good?”

“Yep.”

Erin nodded a few times and took a bite of cereal. She hesitated and glanced at the missive she’d gotten from Liscor’s Council. They had updated her, as promised, and they were going to escort the Soldier back to Liscor.

Crusader 221-3 was his designation according to Strategos Olesm. But Shaman Theikha, through Chieftain Feshi, had listed a different name:

Antherr Twotwentyonethree Herodotus. And that…that was a name. Gnollish, Antinium—because if you could have a middle name, that was 50% more name, and one based on the history of Earth and Persia.

Not that Erin knew that last part. It was a cool name, but she was worried about him. Yet something tugged at her heart, her very mind, and she had to say it. Erin glanced around the inn, still absent of regular visitors, and spoke.

“Ceria. Do you…can we talk about Gerial?”

The half-Elf stopped eating abruptly and looked up. She gazed at Erin with a pained, even afraid expression.

“Gerial? My teammate?”

“Yes, of course. I remember him.”

“I—good. What—what about Gerial? Do you mean his family? Or…?”

“No.”

Erin was regretting bringing it up already, yet something in her was telling her to.

“His last words.”

“I remember them.”

Ceria spoke flatly, but her grip was tight on a fry. She looked at Erin.

“I—what about him?”

“No, not those last words. I mean…I know…what he would have said to you, Ceria. I remember his last words.”

Erin blinked with almost as much astonishment as her friend as they came out. Yet she was certain.

Yet when she looked up, Ceria was shaking her head. Her features were wan, and there was pain in her gaze as she pushed her plate back.

“Erin, you weren’t there. He died in the crypt, remember? I was there. I heard him. He talked to you at the inn.”

“No, Ceria, I talked to him. He had a message for you and Calruz.”

The half-Elf hesitated. She stood up.

“He—I’m sure he did. But you weren’t there when he died, Erin. Sorry, can we discuss this later? I actually do have to go and…”

“I—yes. But it’s not that, Ceria. I met him.”

The half-Elf was already backing away. Erin had seen Ceria unruffled in far more trying circumstances, but she seemed pained and nervous. Afraid Erin was forgetting what happened. What mattered. Erin tried to push herself up.

“Ceria—”

“I know what you think, Erin. But just give me a moment. I’ll hear you out later.”

Ceria. I saw him in the lands of the dead.

The half-Elf froze on her way towards the door. She looked back at Erin, and the young woman sagged on the table, panting just trying to keep herself upright. Ishkr froze as he swept behind a table, and a [Knight], Ser Dalimont, paused on his walk around the inn. All three looked at Erin, but Ceria just hesitated. Her pale eyes lingered on Erin’s face and looked her up and down.

She had known Erin the longest among all of the [Innkeeper]’s friends. And yet—even the half-Elf hesitated. Was she afraid of it being true or…?

“I’m…not doubting you, Erin. But can you prove that? Because if you can’t—no offense, but I don’t—I don’t want to hear it. Sorry.”

She backed up and almost ran from the inn. Erin collapsed into her chair, panting. And there it was.

She believed. But like the most vivid of dreams, like Relc’s spear…how could she prove it? Erin clenched a fist and wanted to run after Ceria and apologize.

It had slipped out. A terrible compulsion. Like how she wanted to shout and find a—a—

“Nanette? And—and—find—a map…”

The needs and things she had to do pressed on her again. Erin put her hands to her head. But how could she prove…?

“Miss Solstice, is everything well?”

Ser Dalimont approached with a cool glass of water. Erin looked up at a man…whom she had never really met. One of Lyonette’s [Knights]. And he was going to be a problem, but no one wanted to talk with Erin about it.

Lyonette would ‘deal with it’. Erin needed to rest. They had it covered.

But that was the last thing the [Innkeeper] wanted. Erin squinted at Ser Dalimont as she sipped the water.

“Sorry. I—that was the wrong way to do it.”

“Perhaps, Miss Solstice.”

This particular Thronebearer was refreshing in that he didn’t lie. Erin blinked, but then smiled a bit. She invited Dalimont to sit.

“I—I’m not sure what’s real. You heard that?”

“Yes, Miss Solstice. Did the dead speak to you?”

She squinted at him, but the man didn’t smile or smirk.

“Do you believe that?”

Ser Dalimont rubbed at his chin.

“Shall we say, Miss Solstice, that I don’t doubt the dead can do anything? I have seen ghosts.”

“Everyone has, apparently.”

“Mm. Before the incident at the Great Plains as well.”

“Wh—really?

Erin was fascinated, and Ser Dalimont hesitated longer.

“It is not my tale to tell, but I may say that it concerns Calanfer, another [Princess], and the Kingdom of Shade, Noelictus. That ghosts can walk amongst the living is a fact. If you were dead and they spoke to you—that does not beggar belief.”

“No. But Ceria’s right. If I can’t prove it…”

“Can you prove it, Miss Solstice?”

Ser Dalimont was watching her. The [Innkeeper] sat there, thinking for a moment. And her eyes flickered. When she looked up, the [Knight] was surprised not by the doubt, but the uncertainty. Instead of questioning herself, Erin looked at Dalimont and scared him greatly.

“If I can prove it, Ser Dalimont…should I?

She didn’t wait for a response. Erin Solstice wheeled herself back from the table. She looked at Dalimont and then around at the inn.

“They won’t believe me, otherwise. And I didn’t come back to sit around.”

She began to roll towards the [Garden of Sanctuary] that opened for her. Dalimont didn’t know what to say, but the generic Gnoll sweeping behind a table called out anxiously.

Ishkr. He met Erin’s gaze, stolid, unnoticed at times, an ordinary [Head Server] in the craziest inn. Which made him unordinary in the extreme.

“Just for two weeks, Miss Solstice? It’s only been ten days.”

[Thought-Provoking Statement]. A Skill for a [Hero] of common sense. For a reply, Erin just turned. She smiled at Ishkr and looked around the inn.

“…It’s so quiet. And no one will tell me what they really went through. They treat me like glass, and I gotta admit I’m in a wheelchair. But I need to hear them. And they need to listen to me. It’s been how long, Ishkr?”

“Around four months, Miss Solstice.”

The Gnoll calmly swabbed a table with a dustrag as Dalimont looked from Ishkr to Erin. Dalimont had a prickling feeling, as if he were listening to a [General] addressing a veteran officer in the moments before the battle joined.

“Four months.”

Erin sighed. She looked at herself and at the quiet inn. Then she stuck out her tongue.

“Bleh. Was it boring?”

Ishkr looked up, and Erin Solstice looked at him. And the Gnoll…bared his teeth slightly.

“Exceedingly, Miss Erin.”

She nodded and smiled ruefully.

“That’s what I get for being dead. Better check the pantries for plates and food and stuff, Ishkr. Oh…and don’t tell Lyonette I’m going outside.”

“Miss Solstice—”

Dalimont strode forwards, but Erin was already zooming through the Garden of Sanctuary’s door, and he lost her for that crucial second. Dalimont turned and heard a laugh from the hallway where the front door was. He looked back as Ishkr chuckled, and he saw the Gnoll smiling.

Lyonette du Marquin had briefed Dalimont on Erin and what they might expect as he was the most sensible [Knight] in the inn. But even she hadn’t expected this. They thought Erin Solstice would come back from the grave a changed woman, and certainly she was. But what they failed to realize was that she’d had four months of inactivity. Of being a guest to terrible and great deeds.

Four months of rest. She had no time, no time at all to waste.

Prove it? Erin thoughtfully wheeled out the door as Ser Dalimont ran after her. She closed it, and he slammed into the door. Despite her not locking it, he was unable to open the door.

“Miss Solstice—”

“[Innkeepers] can control their inn. I think that Drevish, the Architect, told me that. But what do I know? I guess we’ll find out in a sec. Don’t worry. I’ve got the stupid rings on. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He was lost for words. Erin Solstice slowly wheeled herself across the grass, cursing the increased friction. But she didn’t have to go far, and she sighed as she stared at the city of Liscor.

Prove it. Everything that happened after this would depend on that, wouldn’t it? Because she had something to ask of them. More than any one person should. Ceria wasn’t wrong.

Prove. It.

Slowly, Erin Solstice pushed herself to the lip of the hill, where the incline began. She hesitated—and then wheeled herself down the hill. Slowly, the wheelchair began to speed up, and Erin realized she’d made a mistake.

“Uh oh. Someone always helped me d—waitasecondI’mgoingtoofast! Argh!”

She couldn’t grab the spinning wheels. That was how the Watch saw a screaming [Innkeeper] going down the hill towards the eastern gates. Bird stared down from his tower at Erin as she blurred down the hill and then hit a bump.

“Ooh. Ah. Ouch.”

He looked down at the sprawled figure on the grass as a [Guard] ran over to her. But Bird felt it. Slowly, carefully, he inserted an egg between his mandibles and crunched on it.

“Erin is back. Yay, yay. I wonder what will explode first?”

 

——

 

The [Guardsman] on duty was a Drake on the force, five years experience, no Senior Guardsman, but he’d seen all the big action.

His name was Vamolt, and he knew.

They all knew. The eastern wall had seen the [Innkeeper] leaving her inn, unattended. True, she could have been going for a little roll, but everyone was super protective of her. That she then went down the hill and wiped out?

They knew. But like men and women staring down at the pebbles of dirt careening down the slope, they thought it might not be an avalanche.

The little clod of dirt spun and bounced. The [Innkeeper] was swearing as she levered herself up.

“Miss Solstice? Can I help…?”

That was scary! Who does that for fun? Actually…I could do that again. But not if I crash! Hey, thanks, who are you?”

“Guardsman Vamolt, Miss Solstice. Can I help you back to your inn?”

Vamolt saw Erin Solstice smile as he helped her into her chair and brushed grass and dirt off her arms. She shook her head.

“Nah, I’m just…going into the city for a bit. The Adventurer’s Guild. I’ll pop in and out, don’t worry.”

She gave him a quick grin, and he gave her a sickly salute and smile. She wheeled past him, muttering about getting a wheelchair with brakes. And he knew.

“Vamolt. Vamolt.

The [Guards] on the eastern wall had watched her wheel past. They waved him over, and he almost ran towards his coworkers. A Gnoll hissed at him. A pair of Humans were staring at Erin, looking amused and uncomprehending. New hires. Oh, they were from Celum and a village respectively, but they didn’t know.

“Did you see that smile? Your Ancestors, it’s happening.”

“I know. Did the Watch Sergeant see?”

One of the two Humans looked at the Gnoll and Drake whispering.

“Uh, Vamolt, Senior Guardsman Derra, what’s wrong? That’s the [Innkeeper], right? She didn’t cause trouble yesterday.”

“Yeah. But she’s smiling. Watch Sergeant—”

The Watch Sergeant on the walls came hurrying down.

“I saw it. I’ve sent a [Message] to Watch Captain Zevara already. Are you two sure? I’m sure.

The two Humans looked from the Drakes and Gnolls with growing apprehension. Vamolt shuddered.

“It’s the smile. No chance yesterday with the [Princess] and the escort.”

“The [Princess]?

“Shush, newbies. Catch up on common knowledge. This is crucial. We’re all in agreement, then?”

The [Guards] nodded. The Watch Sergeant closed her eyes and then nodded.

“Alright. I’m confirming with Zevara, and I’ll send a copy of the [Message] to the Council. The betting pool wins—ten days! Did she say where she was going?”

“Um…Adventurer’s Guild. A ‘little errand’.”

“Dead gods have mercy on them.”

 

——

 

Erin Solstice didn’t really notice the quiet movement in the streets as she wheeled around. She was worriedly looking for Lyonette or another snitch, so she missed the actual people stalking her.

Patrol 1 is in place, Watch Captain. Solstice Contingency active.

Watch Captain Zevara didn’t see Erin, but she was already striding to the location.

“She’s on track to the Adventurer’s Guild?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Advise them to clear out now. Anyone who wants to stay—can. Where are Guardsmen Klbkch and Relc?”

“Relc’s asleep. We’re getting him out of his apartment, and Guardsman Klbkch said that he’ll be on the surface in five.”

“Good, good. [Message] to Lyonette du Marquin?”

“She’s on her way.”

Watch Captain Zevara nodded to herself. You could play this multiple ways. Lyonette du Marquin might be able to defuse the situation, but in Zevara’s experience, Lyonette couldn’t always trump Erin.

There had been some discussion internally about the issue, and Jeiss had suggested they do something stupid like try and stop the next event. Which was foolish; it was like trying to cover a bursting dam. If you stopped her in one spot, she just caused havoc somewhere else. You contained the event.

Now, any other Watch Captain would have probably laughed their tail off at Zevara or called this some kind of satire. They would keep laughing until they realized that Zevara was not exaggerating. She was taking the relaxed approach, trusting Erin.

That was the mistake [Spies] made. They said ‘yes, she is probably a Level 40+ [Innkeeper]. She is almost definitely responsible for many of the tales coming out of Liscor, and General Sserys may have possessed her. It stands to reason that half the rumors about her are true’.

And that was their error. They thought it was half. Now, Zevara knew that Erin Solstice could not always work miracles. She had seen Erin die, after all, and knew she was not infallible.

However…Erin Solstice had come back from the dead. She had somehow, somehow been part of the greatest events in world history, and now she was heading into Liscor with all the hallmarks of a Solstice Event™. Even in Zevara’s most optimistic opinion—

She didn’t think this was going to be small at all. And to be honest? The Watch Captain was all here for it, although she would deny that to her dying day.

But what would this one be? The Watch had bets, and that was the thing. They knew she could do it. Not what…but Erin Solstice had come back from the lands of the dead.

It was interesting. So interesting that Watch Captain Zevara had to intercede herself before Erin got to the Adventurer’s Guild.

“Miss Solstice. Good morning.”

I didn’t do anything y—oh, hi, Watch Captain Zevara.”

The young woman jumped guiltily in her wheelchair and looked back at Zevara with a terrible fake smile. Or was she as cunning as Mister Soot had been?

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Miss Solstice. I just wanted to greet you. I hope you’re feeling better after…everything?”

Zevara met Erin’s eyes and looked the young woman up and down. She did see the wheelchair, with two of Solar Cycles’ wheels, and the way Erin was already tired from this trip. She looked frailer, but she smiled as she drew in some air, coughed, and nodded.

“I’m—good. I mean, I was dead. But I’m gonna get better with time. I’m just…going to the Adventurer’s Guild to put up a q—a notice.

“Of course. Good day to you.”

Zevara gave Erin a crisp salute and saw those hazel eyes glance at her. Erin Solstice turned to go, and Zevara was sure.

What a strange thing. Lyonette had come to her office just the other day for their get-togethers, which had resumed once the [Princess] came back to the city, and she’d talked Zevara’s earholes off about how difficult it was and how frail Erin looked.

Which was true. Zevara had seen [Guards] laid up after wounds that had Erin’s pallor. But those eyes.

She’d brought something back from the lands of the dead after all. Zevara hadn’t missed the rolls of parchment Erin was trying to hide on her lap. And Erin?

She glanced back mischievously, and the Watch Captain realized she might have lost that exchange. Because the [Innkeeper] winked as she rolled away.

“Innocent until I do something bad, right?”

Uh oh. Zevara kept her polite smile, and her claw waved urgently at the [Guard] patrol with her. This might be bigger than she thought.

 

——

 

Watch Captain Zevara was sure. Everyone else was less so.

In fact, Timbor Parithad, the owner of The Drunken Gnoll, a new inn in Liscor that did some really fine business with the Human and Gnoll populations now overturning the huge Drake majority—he was certain that Erin Solstice was made of glass.

At least, that was how the people in his inn talked about her. The Wandering Inn was, as mentioned, empty. Even Erin’s friends treated it like a sanctuary for the wounded [Innkeeper].

Which meant they came to his inn while they kept away. It was inevitable; Imani was working here, so Palt and his acquaintances would prefer it over another inn. Timbor liked to think he ran a nice inn, with fast food on your table and always a clean seat, even in the rush hours. But the truth was that Imani was now a huge lure because she was an excellent [Chef].

He was worried he’d lose her, because she was from The Wandering Inn, and Timbor was making his peace with that and planning for the future. However, in the interim, he had the dubious pleasure of hosting Erin’s regulars.

And they were weird.

For instance, not only did Timbor have Goblins in his inn, he had a number of adventurers and even celebrities like Joseph who wandered in and out. In fact, they spent an inordinate amount of time here.

Staying away from Erin. Timbor happened to overhear them as he put some baked potatoes down as snacks.

“…Did she fall out of bed as well as stop breathing?”

“No, that was something else. I don’t know, man. She’s going to get better, right?”

Kevin and Joseph barely looked up as the [Innkeeper] surreptitiously cleaned a table. They did go for the food, mainly because if they didn’t it would soon vanish. They lost a loaded baked potato anyways—a shadowy hand grabbed it, and two red eyes glowed beneath a canopy of darkness.

Gothica sat with Kevin, Joseph, and a somewhat perplexed Inkar at the table. The [Goth] had a parasol that seemed to make everything under it darker. Combined with charcoal eyeliner and a black dress, she was turning heads whenever someone unfamiliar with her walked into the room.

Goblins. Timbor had no sign that said ‘No Killing Goblins’. They weren’t allowed in the city…but there were a number of Goblins that came and went. Unlike Erin, he had a method, which was that a [Server] at the door would grab anyone about to scream for the Watch and give them the rundown. Then about sixty percent of the customers would sit down and stare at the Goblin, and that was free business.

Timbor had calculated that the optimal ratio of non-Goblins to Goblins was about 9:1. Any more Goblins or Hobs and people were more likely to back away.

At any rate, this was an encounter of people who knew Erin, if only by name, but weren’t at The Wandering Inn. Why? Well…

Joseph hesitated as he dug a fork into his potato.

“We could go up and check.”

Kevin hesitated.

“I dunno. Lyonette gave me a death-glare last time I was talking about Solar Cycles. I have a, um…well, I want to talk with her about a lot. Rags is still around, or maybe she’s going back from here to G…to her place. But yeah. There’s so much I want to say, but that’s a lot to put on her.”

“Like what?”

Kevin shrugged self-consciously. He lowered his voice, but Timbor had ears like a hawk when it came to gossip.

“Well, there’s this thing with the Goblins after they kidnapped the Healer of Tenbault. And, uh, now we’re a bike shop, everything’s great, but I had Grimalkin walk in two weeks ago with a list telling me there would be five hundred and fifty-six deaths in Pallass each year unless I stopped selling skateboards. Because of the ramps and people hitting each other. So I was just going to ask what Erin thought of that. What do you think, Joseph?”

The [World-Renowned Coach] of Pallass and Liscor’s soccer teams, who was embroiled in an inter-city rivalry himself and trying to weigh the ethics and challenges of establishing a soccer league without too much bias…hesitated.

“Fuck, I don’t know.”

Timbor slipped on his table. What did Kevin just say? They were the ones who…? Kevin nodded and looked around.

“What about you, Inkar?”

The young woman jumped and looked for Tkrn, but he’d gone to the lavatory and hadn’t come back. She spoke nervously.

“I haven’t truly met Erin. I would like to. I…don’t know about football. Or Goblins.”

And that was a perfectly reasonable response. When most people, Timbor included, were asked what their opinions were on the ethics of skateboarding, they might give their opinion, but not if they were going to be held responsible for anything that came next, thank-you-very-much. That was a terrifying thing.

As for Kevin’s other issue, it was also a rare person who made a habit of looking up at Sinew Magus Grimalkin and telling six feet and hundreds of pounds of pure muscle ‘no’ as a hobby.

Gothica kept eating as she listened to the Humans talk. She hadn’t met Erin either—not as Gothica. And she wanted to. But it was hard to get time with Erin, and these were not easy things to talk about.

Like the Horns of Hammerad, who’d decided to base themselves in Timbor’s inn. Ceria had found Pisces, Ksmvr, and Yvlon having a sedate conversation about the new lands of Izril.

“So, some people are suggesting as much as a third of Izril has been added. But in a wedge, so it’s shifted Zeres here. If we’re redrawing the maps based on what the [Cartographers] think…”

Yvlon was trying to work out what had happened to the world with Pisces and Ksmvr. The [Necromancer] objected instantly.

“Yvlon. Yvlon, surely that also implies the northern section swung up?”

“What, the entire continent? Don’t be ridiculous, Pisces. The crack is here, and there’s this landmass here…”

Yvlon was doodling on a piece of parchment with some charcoal, trying to figure out what the continent might look like. Pisces tried to redraw the north.

“Why not? The ghosts split a continent—they might have well shifted everything up or even changed Izril’s angle. We can agree that there is land roughly here and here.”

He made two ovals demarcating where people were assuming the furthest reaches of the ‘new lands’ were. Images were actually scarce, but people had seen the cliffs of this new part of Izril from sea and Chandrar. Yvlon growled at him as he erased her markings. Ksmvr stared down at the map.

“The new part of Izril looks much like a buttocks.”

Ceria’s drink came out her nose as she broke her silence. Pisces and Yvlon stared down at the map, and Pisces erased the outlines.

“Surely not.”

“How would you know, Comrade Pisces? A buttocks is a reasonable image of comparison. It is a natural image. I observe you have one, and Yvlon, and Captain Ceria.”

The [Silversteel Armsmistress] pinched the bridge of her nose.

“…Izril does not have a buttocks now, Ksmvr. I refuse to…my continent does not—it’s a sketch. But we do know that Zeres is off from its original location. Silver and steel, there’s so much to explore!”

Pisces sniffed.

“Only a bit of a continent.”

Yvlon looked outraged. She stabbed a metal finger into the table, and Timbor winced as he saw her gouge a divot out of the wood. The Horns instantly tried to play it cool, and he pretended not to see.

He’d add it to their tab. Yvlon went on irately.

Only a bit of a continent? That’s thousands of miles! New land never seen! And also—the Dyed Lands are completely changed. They’ve overwhelmed their old area, and they’re expanding. I can’t even imagine what the adventurers in the area are doing.”

“Forget them. Armies are forming a containment zone.”

Ceria pointed out—the Dyed Lands were a Baleros problem, but they were as captivating as everything else. A piece of Baleros had sped up centuries, and unfortunately, it had been the most magically charged area. Yvlon shook her head again.

“Ah, but it’ll be adventurers who go in, Ceria. It…I wonder how much that’s worth? Some people said they found a dungeon from the people who lived there, but it’s mostly just the Dyed Lands itself. Is that worth risking your life for?”

She glanced at Ceria, and the half-Elf chewed over the thought.

“Depends on the reagents. I remember when I was a child, I heard something about a rare alchemical reagent being found and adventurers hunting the animal for its hair. Some kind of elk? There has to be at least one valuable monster or thing in the Dyed Lands. You can make a fortune if you bring back the next Sage’s Grass.”

The adventurers nodded. It wasn’t a relic-class item, but that was another kind of way you became a legendary success. Ksmvr clicked his mandibles, making notes of all this, and then looked up brightly.

“So, are we to go to the new lands of Izril or the Dyed Lands? It seems this would be the moment to go as everyone else is in the same horrible boat on water to use an expression. This is a competition to explore.”

The Horn’s light chat cut off. Pisces shifted, and his eyes, fixed on the map, suddenly rose, troubled. Ceria chewed on a bit of potato, scratching at her head, but she was mainly looking at…

Pisces. And Yvlon herself looked troubled. Ksmvr gazed at Izril’s map and then further down at the tip of Chandrar outlined there.

What the Horns did talk about was what most people were talking about in Timbor’s inn. The new world, the events of the Gnoll tribes. What they didn’t say was so heavy that Timbor sometimes walked into it, like a cloud.

They too were waiting for a word. And if anyone deserved a word with Erin Solstice, it was surely them. But they were letting her rest. Timbor went back to work, but he felt a tingling on the back of his neck. He felt like something was up today, but he couldn’t say why. Not yet.

 

——

 

They were all being considerate of her. Which Erin Solstice respected. They thought she was tired, and they were all probably exhausted by what they’d done for her.

She bore that in mind. She’d been thinking hard. About this Crusader 221-3 or…Antherr Twotwentyonethree Herodotus. She wanted to meet him.

But what could she, Erin, do? She didn’t know any adventurers in the Great Plains personally, and people were going to arrange transport and protection.

Lyonette made a good point that Erin was not herself more organized or capable of helping than Liscor’s Council, the Gnolls, or the Forgotten Wing company.

She had been the [Innkeeper] like that. The [Innkeeper] with friends, and her reach was her friends, some of whom were very important. But that was all. Erin had thought that was all she needed.

“Well, I guess I’m wrong. That’s egg on my face and crossbow bolts in my chest, right?”

The young woman wheeled into the Adventurer’s Guild clutching a few rolls of parchment in one hand. Was she nervous? Yes…especially if this didn’t work. Because she’d look silly.

But she was pretty certain it would work. Was she concerned about the…the consequences? Of course.

Did it have to be done? Erin took a few breaths and looked around Liscor’s guild for comfort.

It was the same slightly-homey place that she remembered. Oh, it had been expanded to make room for actual Gold-rank teams coming for the dungeon and actually physically relocated, but this was the same place she had once walked into. Nostalgic. They’d pulled the counters, worn tables filled with nicks and stains, and even most of the walls so someone could build a newer building in the old spot. So it was the same guild to Erin, down to the floorboards. Why, this was where she’d met Selys back in the day.

And…well, where a few things had happened.

“Hello, Miss! Do you need a hand getting to the [Receptionist]’s desk?”

At first, Erin thought she was being teased, but the adventurer looked genuinely interested in her chair and seemed to want to do that thing where people pushed you around. Erin had not been in a wheelchair long, but she already resented someone pushing her without asking.

“No, thanks. I’m just…going to look around. Hello!”

“Hello, yourself, Miss! Are you making a request of the guild? The [Receptionist]’s desk is over there.”

The speaker was a friendly woman, in fact, a Gold-rank adventurer. Jewel of Glitterblade, a small team, was new to Liscor. She had been here a few times and even participated in some of the incidents, but four months and a dead [Innkeeper] had been obscured by everything else that had happened. The quiet girl in the wheelchair was not the same girl who had led the Antinium into Invrisil.

She thusly didn’t recognize Erin. Nor had she taken the [Guardsman] seriously when he advised those within the guild to perhaps leave.

She was being friendly to the clearly injured young woman, but she let go of the wheelchair’s handlebars as Erin looked around for Selys. She didn’t see Selys or the grumpy Tekshia, and she didn’t recognize any receptionists by name.

“Um…excuse me? Sorry, I’m Erin.”

What a familiar name. Jewel thought she knew it, but where had she…? She put on a big smile as she nodded.

“Adventurer Jewel, Miss. What are you looking for, exactly?”

“Where’s your, uh, job board? That place where you put up requests?”

Jewel instantly pointed to a cork board at one side of the guild where a few adventurers were perusing the assignments on display. Kill a certain monster in the dungeon and harvest its parts, eradicate pests or dangers to the villages—those were stock standard. Some people put bounties on pests in their homes or something more interesting, but Jewel was used to not actually accepting many requests.

Frankly, killing monsters and getting their bounties in the dungeon was more profitable, or hoping you found a treasure room. Not that she’d been doing either; her team had come back from a semi-profitable Wyvern hunting expedition for that huge bounty. Two Wyverns was four thousand gold pieces. Not bad for a week of jumping at every shadow in the High Passes and waiting for a Wyvern to take the bait.

Yes, the bounty was still being claimed because there was still money in the Adventurer’s Guild vaults. Until it ran out…well, Liscor was the place to be in Jewel’s mind. It had access to two major cities, and she’d heard so much about it.

Not enough, apparently, to recognize Erin’s name. The young woman thanked her and began wheeling over to the board. She had two pieces of parchment, and she’d even brought her own hammer and a nail.

“Oh—excuse me, Miss Erin. You can’t do that.”

Jewel intercepted the young woman and saved her from making a mistake. Erin frowned at Jewel.

“What? Why? I’m just going to put this up…”

“I’m afraid only registered requests can go up there. You’ll need to run it by a [Receptionist]. Just over there, see?”

Plus, who hammered nails into a cork board? Erin Solstice opened her mouth and hesitated.

“But I have an, uh, an actual quest type thing. I know Selys, one of the [Receptionists]. I’ll just…”

She tried to wheel around Jewel, but the Gold-rank adventurer was insistent.

“You can’t do that, Miss. That’s a board for Gold-rank requests, anyways.”

Erin was trying to get to a sparsely-occupied board. It wasn’t the backrooms of Invrisil’s Adventurer’s Guild with its pecking order, but there were still a few Gold-rank teams in Liscor, and Jewel blocked Erin. She was treated to a kindly, if exasperated smile.

“I know, excuse me. I’ll talk to the Guildmistress or anyone. I’m just going to…”

“Let me just get a [Receptionist] for you, Miss. Gold-rank requests are very expensive, and you have to put down gold first to prove you can back it. I’m sure it’s vital—excuse me! Can we get a [Receptionist] for…?”

And then Jewel turned Erin around in her chair and began rolling her towards the counter. It was all very well-intentioned, if pushy, but it was a continuation of Erin’s treatment for the last ten days.

By a stranger. Now, at this point the real question was: what would come next? Also, why had no one stopped Jewel?

Surely someone in the guild knew her. Of course they did. But half the [Receptionists] had already slipped out the back doors and were staring through the windows. As for the other Gold-rank teams or veterans?

“Hey. Hey. Anith. Look what that Gold-adventurer’s doing.”

Insill whispered in horror as he watched the entire event unfold. Anith looked up from his book as Vuliel Drae watched Jewel first meet Erin. Anith hesitated.

“We should stop her.”

He knew Erin Solstice, but before the Jackal Beastkin could move, someone else grabbed his arm.

“No. Don’t.”

A deep voice echoed from where Seborn was sitting, taking his ease. He hadn’t greeted Erin. Anith stared at the Drowned Man’s serious gaze. Like the other Halfseekers, Seborn had ‘given Erin her space’ after returning to Liscor. Or rather, he’d followed Jelaqua’s lead.

“Why not, Seborn?”

He was treated to a serious look from the [Rogue]-[Faith Seeker]. Seborn’s face was grave as he whispered back.

“Because it will be the funniest thing I’ve seen in months.”

And like that, Jewel was left alone to her fate by the other adventurers. She pushed the protesting Erin forwards until the young woman stopped her with her feet.

“Miss Erin…”

“Let go of my chair, please. I’m going to do my thing. Get a [Receptionist] if you want, but they know me at this guild.”

Erin looked annoyed at this point, and Jewel hesitated. At this point, she thought she should just let this young woman be admonished.

Incidentally, she was younger than Erin, but as a Gold-rank adventurer, Jewel was trying to be the responsible party. She watched Erin wheel up to the Gold-rank request board and then realized the same thing Erin did.

…The [Innkeeper] was too short to reach the board properly in her chair. Erin tried to get up twice, then gave up. She scowled at the bottom of the request-board.

“You think this makes you better than me? I don’t need you anyways!”

She waved a hammer at the board, and Jewel began wondering if Erin were actually just crazy. She got her answer a second later as Erin, grumbling, unrolled one piece of parchment and put a nail in place.

She was going to hammer it into the wall!

“Miss! Miss—”

Jewel hurried over. Erin ignored her until she felt herself being pulled back again. This time—Erin turned her head once.

“Let. Go.”

Jewel’s hands leapt from the wheelchair’s handlebars, and she jerked back. It was like a shock, as if the handlebars had been charged.

An aura? She stared at Erin in surprise. But then she reached for Erin.

“I can’t let you—”

Erin calmly let Jewel grab one arm—it was a gentle grip, if strong. So it was a gentle flame that covered Jewel’s arm.

Aaah! What the—

The Gold-rank [Swashbuckler] leapt back, waving away a bright orange flame. Even Seborn stirred at this point, because he had never seen that before. The grumpy flame of irritation covered Jewel’s hands, scorching her lightly before she could remove it. She had to stomp on it; it refused to go out.

“Huh. New fire. And it’s lame.”

Erin peered at the ground then shrugged. Jewel looked at Erin and then around the room. Now…as her other two teammates half-rose and gazed at their captain, Jewel realized she was being watched.

Situational awareness. A real veteran would have noted they were walking into a trap already, but Jewel was new to her rank. She hesitated and looked at Erin.

Was this some kind of advanced hazing prank? She could walk off, but she had embarrassed herself already. She was in too deep.

But what was the move? The young woman was clearly high-level in something, so Jewel was wrong in that she had no right to do whatever she was doing. Pulling her away would cause a scene, and she was ignoring Jewel.

So, the right thing to do that the [Swashbuckler] came up with was to approach, somewhat humbly, rubbing her burnt hand and smiling. Erin glanced over with resignation.

“You came back. Are you really going to do this a third time? Because it’s gonna be bad.”

Jewel hesitated. She could hear some titters in the background from the peanut gallery, but she put the best smile on her face and swept Erin a slight bow.

“Miss Erin. I, um—I’m sorry for bothering you. Let me make it up to you. I’m Jewel, Captain of Glitterblade. A Gold-rank team. As an apology, I’d be happy to accept any request you’re putting up.”

That was her way out. A bit of the old Moribus Oblige—adventurer’s responsibility in the old language. It might have even worked on someone else.

Erin Solstice stopped with the hammer raised. Jewel noticed that the cheap parchment that the young woman was writing on had…glittering lettering. Some fancy [Alchemist]’s ink? Erin gave Jewel a long look that made the [Swashbuckler] feel as if she were looking straight through her. Then Erin smiled.

“Yeah. That’s a kind offer. But I don’t think it’ll really work. Your team might be under-level for this one. No offense.”

The sheer audacity of that statement left Jewel at a loss for words. The laugher that ran around the room made Jewel flush. So she grabbed the request.

 

——

 

“She’s killing herself. I’m going in!”

Insill stood up, but half a dozen hands from other adventurers pulled him back. They were watching all of it like a wagon heading towards an adamantium wall. Jewel was making a lot of mistakes, but again, to be fair—she was something of a prodigy.

A Gold-rank adventurer at her age? She had over 30 levels in [Swashbuckler], and her team had killed fearsome monsters, if not Adult Crelers. Being told she was underleveled for Erin’s request had to sting—and Erin was in her antagonistic mode.

Grabbing the parchment was still the wrong move, though. Erin’s eyes flashed as Jewel snapped to everyone present.

“I’ll be the judge of that, Miss. My team will do it free if it’s—”

And then someone came to spoil this wonderful moment. Lyonette du Marquin charged into the guild with all four Thronebearers behind her. She spotted Erin and pointed.

No! Selys—get in here!

Here came the cavalry. Selys Shivertail ran into the guild followed by a second group. No less than Todi’s Elites and Todi himself. All of them, [Knights], adventurers, [Princess], and [Heiress] ran at Erin.

“No, you don’t, Erin! What are you doing?”

Lyonette advanced on the [Innkeeper] as Erin groaned. Erin put her hands up.

“Lyonette, I have to—”

“You’ve just recovered! Do you have to make a scene?”

“It’s really important. No one believes me. Dalimont, tell her! I was dead! And I had this—”

“You didn’t tell me. What are you doing? Give me that, Miss.”

Lyonette grabbed for the parchment, and Jewel held on, staring at Todi. Selys was looking around.

“Todi, grab that. Erin, do you have your rings on?”

“Stop babying me! And if one of you Thronebearers puts a hand on my wheelchair, I’ll set you on fire! Back, back!”

Erin produced a knife, and because it was Pelt’s, everyone backed up as she waved it around. Lyonette was sweating, and Selys saw the parchment in Jewel’s hand. Both [Princess] and adventurer were fighting for it, and the funny thing was—

They thought they could stop this. Seborn was chortling so loudly that Todi noticed him. The Gold-rank veteran hesitated, but Selys snapped.

“Todi, get the parchment.”

Todi? What are you—let go! I’m going to accept—who is this?”

“Give me that, Jewel. What are you, a Bronze-rank rookie?”

Todi snapped and tried to grab the parchment, but Jewel was hanging onto it like the last shreds of sanity. The piece of parchment stretched between all three hands as they fought for it, and then Lyonette, Jewel, and Todi realized something.

Erin had used foolscap parchment, cheap, frayed, and practically tearing itself to write down her little request. It already had a few breaks, but despite all three practically leaning on it, it wasn’t so much as fraying.

And then they noticed that lettering…shining. Selys Shivertail looked at the words, and one stood out to her. Slowly, she looked at Erin, who was watching the altercation with exasperation and amusement.

“Erin. What is that?”

Everyone turned to the [Innkeeper] as Jewel finally let go, and Lyonette and Todi went stumbling. Erin smiled. It was that wide, too-innocent smile of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

“Todi, right? Give me that.”

He had it in his hands. Selys and Lyonette held out their hands, but Erin beckoned.

“Give. I can always make a new one, I think.”

“I, er…”

Give.

The Gold-rank Captain looked from the [Princess] of Calanfer to Selys, his employer and [Heiress] and owner of the Heartflame Breastplate. Then at Erin Solstice. He performed a quick calculation and handed the parchment over.

“Todi!”

Selys and Lyonette began to argue, but Erin was already turning back to the wall. Todi stepped back, checked his wand and sword, and elbowed Jewel hard. She jumped and looked at him.

“That’s how a Gold-rank adventurer does it, amateur.”

Never let it be said that Todi couldn’t read the room. He watched Selys and Lyonette trying to dissuade Erin Solstice. Jewel stared at Erin, and so did Todi. Because they, like Selys, had seen something of what that parchment said. Erin raised the hammer and nail as Tekshia Shivertail woke up from her nap in her office upstairs and wondered what all the damn shouting was about.

 

——

 

On the topic of Quests. The announcement that had rung through the ears of every [Innkeeper] in the world ten days ago was one of the many things that had happened.

To inquiring minds, it was very significant. As much as new lands rising? Well…in some ways, yes.

For instance, Timbor Parithad had heard the announcement in his head like this:

 

<Class: Innkeeper> [Quests unlocked.]

[Post: Basic Quest obtained!]

[Post: Rare Quest obtained!]

 

Very respectable for a Level 30+ [Innkeeper] like him. He, like every other [Innkeeper], had panicked a bit, made sure everyone else had heard it, and done some experimentation.

The benefits were already becoming apparent—if figures of authority even knew this had happened.

Chaldion of Pallass, for instance, knew. Because he was Chaldion, and the owner of The Noble’s Fancy, the fanciest inn in Pallass, had let him know what was going on via way of Rufelt.

That had incidentally gotten one of the junior [Strategists] assigned to sifting through reports reprimanded severely, because she hadn’t forwarded the information to Chaldion, considering it not worth his time given all that was going on.

Right now, he was standing with the Drake in the aristocratic halls of the inn, which was more like a mansion and catered to the richest clients. If you wanted to feel like Terandrian royalty—this was the place.

“So you can post [Rare Quests], but nothing more?”

“No, Grand Strategist.”

“What is your level at this moment, Innkeeper Adalton?”

The Drake hesitated. He was wearing a suit rather reminiscent of a butler, but he’d added some flared inner cloth that shone bright yellow with Pallass’ colors when he moved to the somber exterior. He had a lot of respect for Chaldion, but he was still a private person.

“Er…”

“Let me rephrase that. Are you over Level 40?”

Rufelt coughed, because he knew the answer to this one. The Drake hemmed and hawed, and Chaldion sighed.

“No, then. I could assume Level 40 is the cutoff for…whatever comes next. Hrm. If that’s the case…”

He had one fake, gemstone eye that stared ahead, this one glowing bright blue, but his real one flickered to the doors. Rufelt had the same thought that Chaldion did.

“I may confirm it later. Although my source is—recovering. This can’t be a coincidence. Ten days ago exactly?

“Yes, Grand Strategist. And I might add—I can post a [Basic Quest] on the hour.”

“Killing rats, hauling grain. And the rewards are sometimes…random?”

Extra rewards, yes, Grand Strategist. Why, I had my neighbor’s son clean the gutters—a huge project for a lad like him, but I promised him thirteen silvers for it. When he got the silver it was the instant he finished cleaning up—and he did a better job than regular for the quest to finish! Then he got the silvers…and a football. One of the good ones.”

“A football.”

Chaldion’s voice was flat. The [Innkeeper] nodded rapidly.

Exactly the same as the one on display he’d been saving up for. Only, I did think it might have been taken or something, and the [Shopkeeper] swore his inventory was still there, but he thought it was a replica! Oh, and the boy got the [Cleaner] class after sleeping. He’s less happy about that.”

“That’s…”

Chaldion didn’t say impossible because that was an objectively stupid thing to say when presented with fact. However, he might have said ‘concerning’. Or more.

As a [Strategist], the news set the Drake’s mind racing. For instance—if you could get more value than what a Quest posted was worth…what kind of rewards could you get if you could get a football?

What would a [Rare Quest] look like? Did you really advance a class from doing a quest? And how in the name of Dragons had this occurred?

Well, he suspected many of his answers lay in another inn. Respite or not, he would have them. Chaldion also knew that this matter would be surfacing across the world, and he was determined to have an edge on the competition.

No matter what it took. He was thanking Adalton absently and pressing him for any more salient details while trying to plan out his attack.

He’d have to use [Path to Victory], but his opponent had beaten it before. Chaldion needed to assemble his forces carefully. Grimalkin was good, but sometimes a negative impact. He’d have to call in…Saliss too, but he might be sabotaged from within. Rufelt and Lasica, definitely.

Someone had to run interference with the [Princess]—and did they need a bribe? Chaldion could almost envision the battle ahead, and it would be a tough one to drag anything helpful out of the jaws of the [Innkeeper] of The Wandering Inn, but he had a Walled City’s resources to call upon. It might just work.

Chaldion was just about to muster the troops to sally forth when it happened. Adalton was about to speculate on a [Rare Quest] if Chaldion would help him figure out how to get the conditions right, and they were a bit tricky.

In Liscor, Lyonette was reaching for Erin’s shoulder, and a much more sensible Selys was fetching a broomstick to prod Erin with. The stubborn [Innkeeper], watched through the windows by the adventurers and Zevara and her Watch, raised the hammer and placed the nail on the piece of parchment.

She brought the hammer down and struck the nail slightly, tapping it into the wood of the Adventurer’s Guild wall.

Toc.

“What was that, Grand Strategist?”

Adalton turned as Chaldion began to walk away. The Grand Strategist looked back.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, my mistake.”

Toc. Toc.

The Drake looked around, frowning. The [Innkeeper] glanced around The Noble’s Fancy, wondering if one of the brats of his…esteemed guests had found a hammer.

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Rufelt, Chaldion, and his escort looked back. Adalton rubbed at one earhole.

“Nothing. But I could swear—huh?

TOC. This time the sound was louder. And the Drake felt it in his scales, like a vibration. He flinched, and Chaldion’s magical eye fixed on him.

“What?”

“That sound! Can you hear—hey! Who’s—it’s not in my inn. My head!”

Adalton grabbed his head and looked around. The sound changed. The sound of a hammer hitting a nail had grown louder, but it couldn’t be called that now.

Thum. It echoed. Adalton gazed around wildly, then his head turned and fixed in a strange direction.

What in the name of flying squirrels is that?

Chaldion held up a claw, and one of the [Soldiers] escorting him hesitated, a claw on his sword. The [Strategist] eyed Adalton’s head and looked at the wall.

“What direction is that?”

“Grand Strategist? Er…”

“North?”

“North.”

Rufelt confirmed quietly. Both Chaldion and the [Barkeeper] looked at each other and knew at once. Chaldion wavered between here and the door. He decided to stay and watch, but turned to one of his escort.

“Get me Grimalkin. Send him into Liscor now. Signal Manus, and tell them to find an [Innkeeper]. High priority.”

Adalton flinched again. The sound was growing louder. And his inn—Chaldion looked up as, finally, the other people heard it and saw it.

The walls vibrated. And if they were moving here—the sound in Adalton’s head grew louder. He clapped his claws over his earholes.

And in Liscor?

 

——

 

What is going on in my Guild?

Tekshia Shivertail came down the stairs with spear in hand, screaming. When she saw Erin Solstice, she stopped.

“You!”

She would have gone for Erin, but then it happened again. The [Innkeeper] raised that hammer in slow motion…everything felt like it was slow. The [Spearmaster] wondered if it were a time dilation Skill. She started forwards, and then the [Innkeeper] struck the nail again, hammering the piece of parchment into the wall.

Toc.

The entire Adventurer’s Guild shook. Tekshia raised her spear, but what was she going to do? Instead, she looked around.

“Get—get out of the guild! Now!

No one needed to be told twice. Todi was already running Selys out. Lyonette hesitated.

“Erin!”

The [Innkeeper] didn’t seem to hear her, she was so focused. Lyonette looked around.

“Stay with her!”

She ordered the Thronebearers forwards and ran for it. Tekshia hesitated, but this was more than just worry about the sound. Erin brought the hammer down one more time, and Tekshia saw and felt her guild—

Crack. A splinter cracked the old, sturdy masonry on one wall. Tekshia stared at it in horror; it was like the earthquakes she’d seen! The crack ran up to the ceiling in a flash. Then part of the ceiling collapsed.

“My guild!”

The [Spearmaster] howled. And then that hammer drew back again, and she saw the words glowing on the parchment. Tekshia froze.

The hammer fell once more. Outside, the audience saw a wall fall down and the guild begin to collapse. Watch Captain Zevara had her head in her hands.

She had not expected this.

 

——

 

Timbor Parithad was shouting. Everyone in his inn was staring as the [Innkeeper] stumbled around.

“What’s going on, Timbor?”

Imani came out of her kitchen, and Timbor stumbled past her. The Horns were on their feet. They had the same thought as most.

“The Wandering Inn. Get to—”

They ran, but in the wrong direction. Meanwhile, Timbor found something. He grabbed a piece of paper he used for noting orders and a quill.

The sound in his head was so loud, but there was something else that seized his mind. He did not have to—but he wanted to write it down. Just to show them. To prove he wasn’t mad.

The same sound, the same words, surely—they must echo in the [Innkeepers]’ minds in Celum, from Agnes to Ulia, and even as far away as Pallass.

How far could they hear this?

The answer was simple. Every [Innkeeper] in Izril heard it. Even ones on Terandria’s southern shores or Chandrar’s northeast. Ones further still felt…something. The highest-level even heard words.

The second-highest level [Innkeeper] on the continent hammered the nail into the wood and sat back. As she did, Timbor wrote, transcribing the words she’d scrawled on that simple piece of parchment down verbatim. He could have slept and done anything else and he would remember it. It was in his head, waiting for him to speak it.

It was…a Quest.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice rolled back from the wall a bit and exhaled. Only then did her intense focus slacken enough for her to look around. She felt drained, but she had done it.

Then she jumped and nearly fell out of her chair.

What the—where’d the guild go?

Erin Solstice looked left and saw not the tables and chairs and walls of the guild. She looked past a dusty, wide-eyed Ser Dalimont with a shield raised overhead at the bright, shining sun and collapsed…rubble…

And the crowd, staring at what remained of Liscor’s Adventurer’s Guild. Erin Solstice goggled at them and saw Watch Captain Zevara, Relc, standing on his tiptoes and laughing next to Seborn, who was almost doubled-over, the other staring adventurers…

Then she looked around and realized there was no guild. Not behind her, certainly not above…in fact, the only thing that remained of the guild was the wall she’d been hammering into.

It was still there. Sort of. It had broken to pieces around the piece of parchment now fluttering in the breeze. Erin slowly wheeled past it and gulped. Behind the wall, she saw Tekshia Shivertail standing there and staring at the four-foot high piece of wood and stone that was all that remained of her guild.

“Oh. H-hi, Tekshia. Fancy meeting you here.”

The Guildmistress had a spear in her hand, but she was at a loss for words. Erin looked around, and the only person in this moment with anything beyond shock, awe, fear, or curiosity was Jewel.

Who felt a bit of schadenfreude that she had been right after all. But what was the quest? Before Tekshia began screaming and trying to stab Erin, before the commotion and shouting, everyone had to read what it said.

It burned across the continent in a moment. [Messages] lit up from city to city, asking whether this was a hoax. Was this real? Erin Solstice held up her hands and refused to explain anything, even when Tekshia shook her.

She knew what she was doing. And what she was doing was a trick Erin had learned long ago. When a poor Antinium Soldier was in danger of being kidnapped by interested powers, what was the right move? Arrange proper transport, responsible guards, and take logical countermeasures? Sure, sure.

Or you could set fire to the High Passes and distract everyone with that. Erin Solstice’s quest, and it was Erin Solstice’s quest, appeared in every inn and guild in the world within a day. It read thusly:

 

<Mythical Quest – Find the Lost City of Stars!>

Limits: No armies, max of twenty adventurers per group for reasons. Big reasons.

The City of Stars is called Mershi! It’s one of those lost Walled Cities, but it’s totally out there. Find it. Search for the Blades of Mershi, and the keys will lead you home.

The Walled City is waiting, but there’s a lot of danger. Like, Named-rank+ danger.*** To get to it, you need more than just the keys. You need to find the ways back, and all the ones in regular Izril are shattered. 

Does the City of Stars need to come back? Maybe not. They did a lot of bad things, but they were still a Walled City, and their legacy is lost. No one deserves to go out the way they did. The world might need what they have in the days to come, and it’s all there. 

The Crossroads of Izril (Isssryssil?) are your first key. Please see the Heroic Quest or come to The Wandering Inn to inquire for details. Free lunch to whomever finds the City of Stars.

Posted Reward: Free lunch at The Wandering Inn. Lots of glory? I’ll shake your hand.

Quest Reward: Renowned legend class of <Drakes>, the key to the Armory of Stars.

*** (Too hard for Jewel or her team!)

 

There were also two more quests that Erin Solstice posted…lower down on the piece of broken wall. One was attached to that first quest.

 

<Heroic Quest – Connect the Crossroads of Izril!>

Limits: None.

The Crossroads of Izril are totally a thing that exists. It’s like this…crossroads…that people went on. But it was a cool place that let you travel to other places that were more magical!

I don’t know how to get there aside from waystones. And it’s apparently not a fun place anymore. But it’s pretty darn important, and the old Walled Cities might have a way in or something. Oh, and you can get to other places from there.

They were never meant to be closed off. Find a way to open at least one gate that everyone can use, and everyone will benefit. But, um, make sure to lock the door before someone gets security around it. There might be things there.

Posted Reward: None, see Quest Rewards. And 10 gold pieces. (Imlerith was the City of Crossroads, btw. You need the passphrase to go to all the cool places).

Quest Reward: The Passphrase of Imlerith, experience in <Explorer> classes. Access to the [Crossroads of Izril] Skill.

 

Two quests beyond the scope of most [Innkeepers] to even contemplate posting. They hadn’t even known they existed.

The real question was how she could do it. As every [Innkeeper] would come to realize—as Erin Solstice herself had, the quests were not an Adventurer’s Guild’s fare.

They shouldn’t even have been posted in an Adventurer’s Guild. They belonged to inns. Because you could not post a quest without knowing the truth.

Without guaranteeing the Quest Reward. And she could. The [Innkeeper] wheeled herself back from posting the second quest, panting a bit. She looked at Lyonette, and the [Princess]’ eyes were wide.

“How, Erin?”

“Just something I picked up. I guess I’ll leave it at that. Oh—well, there’s this one, but I don’t have enough wall.”

Erin decided to hammer it into the side of the broken wall instead. This one didn’t echo in anyone’s minds but the [Innkeepers] of Liscor. Yet it was the last one which also mattered.

 

<Rare Quest – Bring Him Home!>

Limits: Not a jerk to Antinium. Has a vehicle or something.

His name is Antherr Twotwentyonethree Herodotus or Crusader 221-3. He’s a Soldier, and he’s in the Great Plains of Izril, camp of Weatherfur. Please see Chieftain Feshi Weatherfur for exact location.

Transport him safely back to Liscor! If he dies or is hurt, the quest is off. Keep him safe from bad people like Walled Cities or [Bounty Hunters]. Oh, and keep him fed and happy.

Posted Reward: Free food for a week! Within reason.

Quest Reward: 80 gold pieces, experience in <Escort>, <Guard> classes.

 

Erin Solstice smiled and looked around as she regarded her three posted quests. Then she stretched and turned to her audience.

By now, they were all there. The Horns, Mrsha, Goblins, citizens of Liscor, and even Apista, buzzing on top of Rasktooth’s head. Erin Solstice inhaled—then began hacking because there was dust everywhere.

She caught her breath and looked at everyone. Erin rubbed at her face and smiled.

“I’m back, guys. And I brought something with me. I have…messages for some of you.”

She looked at Ceria Springwalker, and the half-Elf flinched slightly, but she was caught by Erin. The [Innkeeper] swept her gaze over them, and they realized what she meant. She had brought something back.

From the lands of the dead. For them. Erin Solstice stared at Octavia, then a naked Drake jogging up. And the secrets of alchemy whispered in her mind, waiting to be posted as quests. She looked at Numbtongue, and the Hobgoblin felt an electric thrill run up his spine as Erin fixed her gaze on his sword.

What she said was this. With a smile, with weariness, but also, leaning forwards on her wheelchair, speaking earnestly.

“I’m a bit tired. I know you’ve all done so much, and I have to do things differently. We all do. But I’m back, and I won’t be still forever. I want to talk to you. So talk to me. And…and I think we need to do more good things.”

She looked around.

“I want to have more fun. I want to experience great moments with you all and help you with anything you want to do. And fall in…”

She trailed off. Erin Solstice looked back and met their gazes. Then she coughed again.

“Sorry about the guild. I guess I’ll post the other quests later. Party at The Wandering Inn!”

Slowly, she pushed herself forwards, and one of the Thronebearers helped her over the rocky ground. Erin rolled forwards until the silence became voices. Then cheering as Numbtongue and Jelaqua and the others lifted her chair overhead. She left behind a broken Adventurer’s Guild and chaos.

And The Wandering Inn? It was back in business. The first Mythical Quest was posted again on the walls later that day. It would not be the last.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: …And we’re back. Volume 9 has begun and I’m tired. Time for another break!

I’m kidding. Or am I? In truth, I think I actually spent the first fourteen days of rest just recovering. Only after that period did I feel like a person, and I ran into some severe exhaustion, but I think a lot of it’s cleared up.

I definitely needed the month off and, as promised, I’m back. But also as promised—I’m trying to take it easy.

With a 28,000 word chapter to bring us into Volume 9. It could be 38,000. It could be 48,000. It’ll be a work in progress, filled with false promises I’m sure, but we’re going to try and take it easy.

And work on Volume 1’s rewrite! And maybe other stuff! I will keep you posted and no, the schedule I showed Patreons will not be the set plan. I’m going to play it by ear this month and get back into writing. Also, no side story poll! Sorry, but for the first few chapters it’d be weird if you voted on the first few chapters.

Hopefully you liked our first chapter back. I feel rusty, ironically, but I think I’ll get back into the best flow soon enough. Thanks for reading and tell your friends! Tell your enemies! Tell the bees—The Wandering Inn is back.

And so is Erin Solstice.

 

 

Waking Up and Let’s Go Mrsha by BoboPlushie!

 

Ceria by laavente, commissioned by Finn_Ryan!

Twitter: https://twitter.com/laaventer

 

Erin by slaetus!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.01

Now you believe. Of course, when the evidence is irrefutable, like a voice in your head, a destroyed Adventurer’s Guild, and a quest felt across a continent, most people tend to believe.

Most of these reasonable people would then say, ‘yes, you have my attention. What can we do (within reason and convenience for me at little personal risk) in this situation?’ And they thus demonstrate why they will never be called upon.

Because if you well and truly believed before that it had to be proven concretely, you were already there. If it mattered, you had been there. What came next was not for you either, probably. No matter how much you wanted it.

All this to say that when Erin Solstice tried to return to her inn, everyone wanted to talk to her. Especially Guildmistress Tekshia, but even she was willing to waive her considerable grievances for a few hints. Maybe a quest or two. Or just a few answers to the thousands of burning questions in their minds.

The [Innkeeper] refused to answer anything. For once, she let the four Thronebearers surround her, and you had to say this for them: they might not be the greatest combatants on a battlefield, but they knew how to keep the onlookers back.

“Back, good people! [By Appointment Only]!

Ser Lormel checked a Drake trying to get to Erin with a plated arm, and Erin realized that Calanfer’s [Knights] were probably masterclasses in keeping their wards from interacting with the public.

As for Erin—well, she shouted a lot of things, but very little of it made sense.

“Sorry about the guild, Tekshia! I’ll, um…I have to go to my inn! I didn’t know it would do that, honest! Good thing I didn’t do a bigger one, huh? I can’t talk about it right now! Watch Captain, please don’t arrest me—where’s Mrsha?”

The press of bodies and shouting made it hard for onlookers to see what happened next, but there was a moment of panic where the [Princess] whirled—and then a giant Gnoll picked up a little white Gnoll girl and put her on her shoulders. Mrsha thusly secured, the Hobgoblin, Antinium, and the adventurers cleared a path towards the inn.

By the time Erin Solstice got to her inn, people were trying to climb through windows, but they found them all locked, and the inn was a fortress. The front door was a lovely chokepoint for Dame Ushar to block off, and, ironically, the lack of the magic door was the most beneficial of all.

For, oh, you knew who was coming next. It was all the old hits, and that too was nostalgic.

Magus Grimalkin, storming up the hill, followed by Chaldion of Pallass, Saliss, and even a number of [Senators] and some of the military officers in the city. This was a Level 11 Erin Solstice event, even for her.

However, they had to tangle with the Thronebearers at the entrance to the inn, rather than getting to Erin the regular way. That was new. Indeed, Sir Relz, Noass, and Drassi all came with a camera crew moments after Chaldion.

They got even less than the onlookers did; Wistram News Network had really dropped the soccer ball here. Even if the [Spies], [Informants], and [Watchers] couldn’t get into the inn, the smart ones had a recording of most of what had gone down, starting with Erin Solstice rolling into the Adventurer’s Guild.

The really perspicacious ones had seen her emerge from The Wandering Inn. It was thusly safe to say that every [Spy] who’d decided Erin Solstice wasn’t that interesting was fired within the hour.

The same for any [Spymasters] who’d pulled surveillance early. All in all, Erin Solstice’s stunt destroyed Liscor’s Adventurer’s Guild and also cost over thirty-eight jobs, but you couldn’t blame her for the latter part.

 

——

 

Fetohep of Khelt, for his part, had seen it all. He did not brook incompetence, and a professional [Observer] did not shirk their duty for lack of interest. He watched Erin Solstice disappear into the inn and marked all who followed after.

Some he recognized based on first-hand encounters or pen pal correspondence. Others, by virtue of their names.

The Horns of Hammerad, Mrsha, Gireulashia, Krshia Silverfang, Bird the Hunter, Klbkch the Slayer, naturally. The Thronebearers were a known entity, Lyonette du Marquin of Calanfer was known to him on a political level—but even he hadn’t been entirely aware of the Goblin component of the inn.

“She mentioned that one. Numbtongue, I believe. Flag the Goblin’s face and details for the file.”

Fetohep spoke briefly, and one of Khelt’s servants hurried to note down the moment in the video. The ruler’s fingers drummed on the armrest of his throne. He turned his head slightly, and one of the servants paused the recording as Fetohep gestured.

“Who is the Drowned Man?”

“Seborn Sailwinds.”

“Sailwinds…a relation to Therrium Sailwinds? The Drowned Captain [Pirate]?”

“Y-yes, Your Majesty. A member of the Halfseekers.”

“Ah.”

It was one of those coincidences that entangled Erin Solstice further with events far from Liscor. Was it coincidence? Only if you lacked a sense for the grand scheme of things.

Fetohep calmly noted who was allowed into the inn, but he didn’t direct the [Observer] to try to gain entry. Shriekblade and the Thronebearers were among the inn’s defenses, and they would deter almost any covert infiltration until the inn opened.

Besides—he’d seen enough. The King of Khelt was one of the most sedate and laid back personalities watching the events in Liscor unfold. Because, of course, he understood.

Not all of it. He had been as surprised as everyone else by the quests, but he knew from whence they came. Nor did Fetohep send a [Message] to Erin Solstice.

Not yet. He was now sure she remembered. How much was still up for debate. But it was enough.

“I weary of the recording. Leave me. Inform me only if a significant development occurs. I am not to be disturbed.”

The King of Khelt lifted a hand, and the servants bowed and hurried out of the throne room. They left him alone, glancing back over their shoulders in wonder.

There sat Fetohep, who, two weeks ago, had been the center of the world’s attention. The Revenant who had blazed across Chandrar, humbled a Walled City, and single-handedly held off five Walled Cities before rescuing the Gnolls and reshaping Izril by summoning the ghosts of ancient Gnolls.

Oh, and he’d fought an army of Seamwalkers and possibly averted the end of the world when no one was watching.

That was how his people described the events, anyways. It was also fairly notable that despite all the fallout of the war in the Great Plains, few people had contested that interpretation of things.

Indeed, Fetohep’s return to Chandrar had been amazingly smooth. After whisking the King of Destruction and some Gnoll tribes away, Fetohep had returned home. The Drakes had declined to give pursuit or attempt to block his progress, and the same went for Medain, the Claiven Earth, or any nation between him and Khelt.

He had ridden Sand at Sea back with magical tailwinds across the sea and taken a slower, if constant ride back at speeds only undead could sustain on land. Fetohep had also done a lot of dropping people off.

The half-Elves, including the Herald of the Forests, Ierwyn, in the Claiven Earth.

King Raelt and Jecaina in Jecrass.

Orthenon, the King of Destruction, Gazi, and Amerys in Reim. Trey Atwood as well, and some of the Earthers. A few had come to Khelt when the offer had been made.

The Quarass to Germina, the Hero of Zethe, Doubte, to a spot a good thirty miles from his home for anonymity reasons—a horse had been provided.

Frieke of Khelt, Alked Fellbow, and Herdmistress Geraeri had returned to the capital, and Fetohep had let the Gnoll tribes disembark where they pleased. Many had indeed gone to Reim to join their kin; others had asked to be dropped in the north or along the Zeikhal, and he had obligingly tasked Sand at Sea with placing tribes who wanted to be away from it all where they wanted.

Interestingly, Fetohep had actually offered three entire Gnoll tribes citizenship of Khelt. All three had accepted. Such an influx would normally stun Khelt and be the topic of huge interest, but his nation was still processing everything else. When Fetohep had returned to his palace, the procession had provoked such silence they’d only begun cheering twenty minutes in.

…They were still cheering. Fetohep had not but sat down when news came about the quest being posted in Liscor.

So, now he was back and alone. The Revenant considered the frozen recording, and a few thoughts occurred to him. He was far from the only one to make the same observations Chaldion had about the potential of Quests.

The undead ruler murmured, though his mouth never moved. His glowing eyes flickered behind a worn body turned to dried flesh hanging off yellow bone only visible in places. He still wore the armor of battered gold, stained with salt and blood from another continent, over his royal robes writ with countless names.

In time, he would remove the armor, order his robes repaired of the slightest damage, and ensure any damage to his body in combat was repaired as best it could be. A ruler had to be impeccable at all times, after all.

In time, Fetohep knew, he would do a painstaking overview of his entire kingdom. From the undead buried in Khelt to their dispositions abroad and any damage caused by the Jaws of Zeikhal rising and so on. It might take a thousand hours, but he would not rest, so he would ensure every aspect of Khelt was returned to where it should be.

He would also make such appearances to reassure his people and communicate with his allies. Then, perhaps chase down Vizir Hecrelunn’s location, although Fetohep doubted his ability to control Hecrelunn now. Now that…

Khelt’s rulers were dead.

Fetohep paused and considered that. Oh. Yes, that. Once he got back to normal, everything would return to how it had been.

Except that no ghosts would ever speak to him again. Except that the lands of the dead lay empty. Except that glorious Khelta, Xierca, his Queen, Heroes, His-Xe, Serept…

Except that they were all gone. Yes. That.

“[Innkeepers].”

Fetohep returned to his other projects. He would have to dismantle the ritual they’d used to let ghosts inhabit the bodies of undead as Revenants. It was now a liability, but his [Mages] might learn much from the process, and even he would not lightly discard the materials that had been spent.

“…Settle the Gnolls temporarily. It may be simplest to construct multiple settlements. A city, perhaps, bordering one of the wider flatlands? One city, a township, and two villages. I may also issue a permit for them to form a number of nomadic camps as the People of Zair do.”

Yes, all those sounded like the most pressing projects. Take a look at his [Innkeepers], ensure the Gnolls were adapting to Khelt well, and wait for the living to pester him as they surely would. In many ways, Fetohep’s existence was simpler than many monarchs across the world. His role was maintenance; his ambitions were only for his people, and he worried little about the opinion of a court or treachery or his death.

Then again…Fetohep’s golden flames flickered. When he died, he would not guide his successor. When he died, only oblivion or worse awaited.

Khelta was gone.

The mundanity of his work could only keep the truth away for so long. Fetohep had felt it on the journey back, but that had not been the time, with enemies and allies watching him.

However…the Revenant was all practicality. He had been doing what needed to be done. Only now, as he sat on the throne, did he fidget. An uncharacteristic tightening of ancient muscle. He stared down at a fist on his throne.

It trembled. He had no need to move, but he did. Fetohep stood. He did not ask for Khelta, to check if she was there.

He knew. And so the King of Khelt looked around. At his empty throne room; that had never bothered him.

“Gone. So Khelt is—

His voice rose, and there was a sound in it, a warble of emotion. Fetohep broke off instantly and turned.

“Your Majesty summoned us?”

A servant appeared at the doorway. Fetohep’s golden gaze pinned the scared young man, but he was doing his job. The job many citizens of Khelt volunteered for.

“…No.”

The Revenant saw the servant hurriedly bow and withdraw, murmuring deepest apologies. He was forgiven; despite Fetohep’s injunction not to be disturbed, when a monarch spoke, someone had to attend.

He was reminded that the few servants working this week were still in the palace. They did not expect Fetohep to speak unless he had an audience or was conducting business.

There was no door to close to the throne room; what need had a Revenant for privacy in death? So Fetohep stood, silent. Then he sat down and stared at his hands on his armrest.

He sat perfectly straight, and you could have used his back to measure one of Drevish’s walls. He put both arms on his armrest and was thus the model of a king, staring ahead, chin elevated the barest hint, not like Terandrians to stare down so openly, just as a king should.

…After two and a half minutes of perfect posing, Fetohep leaned on his left side, adjusted his legs to be crossed, and touched the tip of his chin with two skeletal fingers. The ruler in contemplation; the repose of a monarch passing judgment or thinking long upon empire and state.

Then he performed the Nerrhavian Recline, which was to scoot forwards to the edge of the throne, gripping the armrests, and lean back, as if bored of it all, looking down with the sheer contempt of tyrants.

The posing did not help. Fetohep considered calling for Trey Atwood or Teresa. But he had not demanded either accompany him to Khelt. Unlike before, the issue was not boredom or the desire for their company.

Fetohep knew what the issue was. He stared down at his hands as he returned to his first pose. He could begin inspecting Khelt. Or summon the first [Innkeeper]. Or so many things that could be done.

But first? He looked down at his shaking hands and stood slowly. Then he left his throne room.

The servants in the palace mostly cleaned up dust or checked on matters of state, people requesting an audience, [Messages] for Fetohep, etc. They were largely preoccupied with denying requests for a conversation from anyone not on Fetohep’s list, and since that was a very short one, they were occupied.

None noticed Fetohep leaving the palace. He was far more knowledgeable of its passages than they were, and it was a vast, empty place.

Emptier, perhaps, than it had ever felt before, but the servants put that down to the activity and drama of earlier. If there was something that perplexed them, it was…well, not even Khelt could control the earth completely.

Still, it seemed like the earthquake had run through the palace for almost thirty minutes now. A trembling in the very foundations. They were quite relieved when it stopped abruptly. But then—if there were anything to fear, Fetohep would have surely told them.

 

——

 

Erin felt a lot better after posting her quest.

The babble of voices shut off as Lyonette slammed the inner door to the common room. Panting, the [Princess] gave orders like a [Sergeant].

“I want everyone to double-check that all the windows are locked. Second floor, too. Ishkr! Drinks, food for our guests. Ser Sest, help Ushar. No one comes in unless I say so or Erin does.”

The Thronebearers were already securing the windows. Ser Dalimont closed the shutters on a staring Gnoll with his face pressed against the glass. Erin saw him shouting something, but then she turned.

“I hope the guild isn’t, um, too expensive to replace. Maybe I should see about—”

“I’m sure the Council will quote us a bill. Tekshia will definitely do that—but I’ll talk to Pawn or someone later about getting the Antinium to rebuild. We can have it done cheaply with Hexel helping, and it’s reasonable to point out that having a Mythical Quest in Liscor will make it more popular. Besides, they owe you for four months of using your door, so we might not even get that bill, just a reduction in how much we’re paid. You just sit there and think of what you’re going to say!”

Lyonette pointed at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] felt it again. Competence. A disturbing authority coming from Lyonette.

How things had changed. Lyonette had begun being the manager, but she had the inn scurrying around before Erin could give an order. That wasn’t the most significant shift in personality, but then Erin saw some of the people who’d come into the inn with her helping out.

Watch Sergeant Relc! Back it up—back it up! No pushing or you’ll crush some poor idiots out there! I’m off-duty, but I’ll make you stand back if I have to!”

“Was…was that Relc doing something responsible?”

Erin rubbed at one ear. Then she saw something else terrifying.

Mrsha. The little Gnoll had raced down with the others upon hearing Erin had begun to post the quest. Now, the little rascal, always at the heart of trouble, was looking at Erin Solstice after seeing a Mythical Quest being posted about the lost City of Stars.

And she was currently writing something down in a little book next to Gireulashia, without racing around like a maniac or badgering Erin to tell her everything. She looked up as Erin stared at her, and the [Innkeeper] saw Mrsha heave a huge sigh. The little Gnoll shook her head at Erin and busily dipped her quill into an inkpot, writing with a frown as she dealt with Erin’s outbursts of chaos.

Erin had to roll over, and she saw what Mrsha was writing. She was working on a note:

 

Suxhel, please convey my strongest urgings to Lehra that she should take her team and visit The Wandering Inn to entreat my [Innkeeper] about this issue, as I believe she can well agree. I can only regret the impromptu and frankly irresponsible timing, but it is sadly irreversible. Please also copy the contents of this update to one Feshi Weatherfur, Shaman Theikha, and other interested parties…

 

And the next note, which was not a [Message] but a little card.

 

Dear Visma,

Please accept my most heartfelt condolences, as I fear we must postpone our tea date to another time at your best convenience. I have been embroiled in something of a ‘to-do’ as I am sure will be apparent once you receive this missive.

I can only apologize once again, as needs must when The Wandering Inn comes to chaos. Rest assured, I will attempt to find time in my schedule perhaps tomorrow to catch you up with all the hullabaloo and nonsense…

 

The writing was the same. The attitude? Erin gazed down at Mrsha as Gire giggled and greedily scarfed down a pawful of fries that Ishkr was already passing around.

And Seborn was still laughing. The Drowned Man chortled as he sat at a table, and Erin turned, glad to see something hadn’t changed!

“Seborn, Jelaqua! Hi! Look, before anyone says anything, I didn’t know the guild was going to fall down. It’s not my fault! It probably had termites. I, um…”

She looked around, and the stares were familiar. Exasperation, surprise, confusion, and mirth. This was The Wandering Inn’s classic.

“Erin, you’ve been back from the dead ten days, and this is the first thing you do? C’mere! I thought you were too fragile to hug, but I’m going to do it again!”

Jelaqua bounded over and, wearing the body of a Gnoll woman, rubbed her cheek against Erin’s. It was rather like being embraced by a dead, hairy fish, but Erin grinned and protested.

“Jelaqua! Aw, come on. Save that for Maughin.”

That just made the Selphid laugh. Seborn stopped chuckling at last as the Gold-rank Captain looked around and grinned.

“Maughin himself might come here if only to be part of the moment! Unless he’s working on his mistress, that is.”

“His what?

Jelaqua blinked as Erin wondered if a lot had changed. The Selphid laughed.

“Oh—I meant his stupid Adamantium ingot. Sorry. That’s what I call it.”

“Thank goodness. Also, I’m glad you two are here! And that you found all that hilarious, Seborn.”

“Immensely. I have had enough of gloom these last months. Maybe Moore will start smiling again. If he can make it through that lot. You are feeling better?”

Seborn walked over, and Erin grinned weakly.

“Good enough to knock down a guild, at least. I’m, um…I’m back. So I don’t want anyone coddling me anymore!”

Jelaqua saluted with a glint in her eyes.

“Perish the thought. We just held back because we thought you needed time. But if you’re feeling up for it, we’ll start taking meals here again. That’s wonderful. And we do have a lot to catch up on.”

The faint orange glint behind the dead body’s pupils found Erin, and the [Innkeeper] sombered for a moment. That was completely true. Erin looked around and saw her Quest had worked; everyone else was seeing her in a different light.

“Well, Erin. I should have known you wouldn’t give us a month before causing a mess. Grandmother is going to kill you. As for me?”

Selys put her claws on her hips, but she couldn’t hide the faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“…I’m just glad you’re still surprising us all. What is that new power? A Mythical Quest?

“Exactly! How did you do it, Erin?”

Lyonette was back from checking the windows, and she turned to Erin as the Horns came over. Ceria was giving Erin a long look, and Pisces was rubbing at his hair, as astonished as Yvlon. Ksmvr? Ksmvr was hiding behind Yvlon as Klbkch stared at him, and Relc came stomping back into the common room.

“Um…it’s complicated. But when I say…things…I mean them. I just—I need to prove it.”

Erin spoke to the group, but Ceria in particular. The half-Elf gazed at Erin and looked away, but everyone goggled at Erin with a mix of confusion and awe.

“But I thought quests could only be posted if you had the reward and you knew…do you have the key to the Armory of Stars or whatever that was?”

Yvlon was bewildered. Klbkch just studied Erin from head to toe. Jelaqua shook her head instantly.

“There is no way Erin just had that in her back pocket all this time. Is there?”

“Wanna bet?”

Erin waved her hands.

“No, I don’t have it! I just—I knew the City of Stars existed. And I sort of knew I could post the Quest because, um, well, if you got to the city wherever it is, the key’s not too hard to find, right? I didn’t add that to the quest rewards, but I guess it qualified? That’s my theory. All I offered was the location. And the free lunch, but that’s posted rewards, so I don’t have to honor it.”

Pisces’ eyes flickered as he opened his mouth. Lyonette put a hand over her head, looking ready to swoon in exasperation. Klbkch slowly lifted a finger.

“Interpreting that statement, Erin. Can I assume then that you know details about a lost Walled City, know the location of the key to their armory of what sounds like artifacts and powerful weapons—all of which are legends which I have understood have no basis in any kind of fact outside of Wall Lord Dragial’s infamous search, which many considered lunacy—and that you may not feed the finder lunch?”

Erin hesitated.

“N—y—well, I just said I don’t have to feed them lunch. That’s the difference between posted rewards and quest rewards. One’s guaranteed. I’d totally make lunch! Great lunch! Amazing lunch! The best lunch you’d ever see in your life for someone who found Mershi!”

She looked around indignantly. Let no one say Erin Solstice didn’t provide free lunch for people who found Walled Cities! Klbkch just looked at Relc. The Drake raised a claw.

“So you know where a lost Walled City is.”

“Yes.”

Selys gaped at her. Pisces lifted a finger.

“And the Crossroads of Izril, a place I have never heard of in modern parlance.”

“Eh, maybe they forgot? It was totally something people knew about. I mean…it was. Yeah, totally. I bet you a [Historian] would know about it.”

Erin couldn’t believe that part. How did you forget about a crossroads? She scratched at her head, but Ksmvr waved a hand urgently.

“And you are also capable of posting Mythical-rank quests?”

“That’s about right. Legendary t—”

Erin Solstice’s mouth ran ahead of her mind, and she bit back the words too late. Erin saw and heard Gire begin choking on her fries at the table. Selys’ jaw dropped, and Lyonette covered her eyes as Pisces’ eyes bulged with the implications. Yvlon just fainted.

The thud of Yvlon going over made everyone gather around her, but Relc scratched at his head slightly.

“Wait, is that really impressive? I get it looked cool, but what’s ‘Mythical Quest’ even mean?”

Selys was exasperated as she bent over Yvlon. Ksmvr helpfully dumped a pitcher of water over the [Armsmistress]’ face.

“Relc! I was told Peslas, a Level 30+ [Innkeeper], can only post Rare Quests. I know there are Heroic Quests and Mythical only because a Level 55 [Innkeeper] confirmed they could post them! And they’re a former Named Adventurer! Now think what Legendary means.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Ancestors! Erin can—and she just—

Relc threw up his claws, and Erin heard more laughter. Not from Seborn; he was grabbing Jelaqua in shock as Yvlon stirred. Erin looked around, and Bird and Numbtongue were laughing now, leaning on each other.

“See? She is as silly as she was before. Erin is better now. This is very good. I am happy. And I am Bird, and I know silly.”

Bird clacked his mandibles as Numbtongue grinned at Erin. Flushed a bit, she waved back and did a little bow in her wheelchair. Klbkch glanced at Bird, then turned to Selys.

“A Level 55 [Innkeeper] is capable of posting Mythical Quests? Intriguing; I have heard one on Baleros cannot post Mythical quests, and they are also above Level 50.”

“That is interesting. So maybe there’s other requirements. Which means…”

Both turned to Erin, and the young woman lifted her hands.

“Listen. I know you have questions. All I can say is—Mrsha, don’t eat Gire!

Everyone whirled except for Seborn and Klbkch. Erin Solstice wheeled rapidly towards the Garden of Sanctuary.

Gotcha, suckers! I’m back! Chaos! Classic me! You’ll never get answers, only confusion!”

She was enjoying herself, and yes, playing it up a bit. However, she’d miscalculated how hard it was to make a getaway on wheels. Erin saw Klbkch walk forwards to grab her wheelchair as she gunned it for the door.

The open Garden of Sanctuary was filled with green, sunlight—and the shouting from outside, echoing distantly through the hole in the roof. Erin raced towards it, shouting with glee.

Then she slammed into the shins of the female Hobgoblin wandering out the door. Ulvama screamed. Erin screamed.

Ulvama screamed louder, holding her legs as Erin jerked to a stop. She rolled around as Erin stared down at the—

Who the heck is—

“Ulvama? You okay?”

Numbtongue stopped laughing long enough to check on the cursing [Shaman]. Ulvama glared up and saw the [Innkeeper] staring down at her.

“What? You—look where you’re going! Stupid!

She got up, kicked Erin’s wheelchair, which provoked a gasp of outrage, and hobbled over to a chair to cradle at her shins. Erin stared, mouth open wide as she looked at the female Hobgoblin.

She was pretty sure she had never met Ulvama in her life. Heck, Erin couldn’t even remember many female Hobgoblins that she’d talked to aside from the brief time the Redfang tribe had come to her inn!

“Who is—who is this? Numbtongue? A friend of yours?”

Numbtongue turned, and a dumbfounded expression crossed his face. Then he recalled with everyone else.

“Ulvama? You’d never have met…oh.”

Lyonette gasped. She herself only had a passing acquaintance with Ulvama, having left to go to Oteslia, but she had at least known Ulvama existed. But Erin?

“When did we get another Goblin? And why haven’t I seen her in the last ten days?”

Erin demanded, bewildered. Ulvama just snorted as she eyed Erin up and down. She winced, rubbed at her shins, and produced a healing potion and applied it liberally. Then she poked Numbtongue, who was searching for words.

“This icy girl? Looks better than corpse. What happen? Everyone started shouting. Ruined my nap.”

She pointed to the Garden of Sanctuary. Which she could apparently enter and leave at will. Erin waggled her hands at Numbtongue, demanding an answer. He tried to start from the beginning.

“Erin, this is Ulvama. She helped bring you back. Sort of. She was…the Mountain City tribe’s [Shaman]. Now she’s…some [Shaman]. She came from somewhere else and helped us find Mrsha. She can cast good magic. And she knows Pebblesnatch! Pebblesnatch is okay.”

“Sh—what? Pebblesnatch? What? WHAT?

Erin’s scream of delight made Ulvama clap her hands over her ears. She threw a cup at Erin, and Klbkch smacked it out of the air.

“Shut up! I already liked you better as dead girl! I was with Rags. Stupid Rags.”

She folded her arms huffily. Erin recalled that Rags had retreated after their first two days of meetings—possibly out of self-preservation for the Goblins as Chaldion and a number of people who didn’t know or respect the score had been occupying the inn. Rags had promised to come back when it was quieter and Erin was better.

That explained where Ulvama had been, and if her scowl were any indication, Numbtongue guessed she hadn’t been able to secure a spot in Goblinhome.

Or perhaps she had come back for the free food. Erin was at a loss for words.

It was strange and a little rude to have someone just walk out of your inner sanctum and treat your inn like her home. Ulvama was already ordering food from Ishkr, and she went over and poked Mrsha after a moment and got a swat from a paw. The Hobgoblin stared at Gire as the [Paragon] stared back.

“Ooh. You tall. Good girl.”

She had to hop up on a chair to pat Gire on the head. Then she sat down and began to chomp on fries.

Okay. Okay, so apparently there was a somewhat rude [Shaman] at the inn now. Erin decided that was okay. She thought she remembered an Ulvama helping Mrsha, and if she was a friend of Rags, she was a friend of Erin’s!

Erin was already getting some things wrong about Ulvama, but then more people were arriving, and she had to deal with the effects of her quest. She was, at least, prepared for that.

“Lyonette, unleash the hordes! But only the, um, ones I know, I guess. I’ll take them here? Form a line!

Her guests sighed but filed into a line as Grimalkin came bursting through the doors. He’d almost strong-armed his way past the Thronebearers, their Skills or not, but he had less luck here.

Erin Solstice. I need a w—

Grimalkin halted, because it was that or run into Klbkch’s sword, one of Seborn’s daggers, and a cupcake held by Bird. The Sinew Magus saw the line of eight glaring at him.

“Back of the line, Sinew Magus. We all want a word with Erin.”

Jelaqua cheerfully jerked a thumb over her shoulder. Grimalkin growled.

“Pallass is—”

“—content to wait. Sinew Magus, don’t make a scene. Hold our place. Miss Solstice, I’m glad to see you well.”

“Chaldion!”

Erin beamed past Klbkch as the Grand Strategist walked in with a bodyguard of five Drakes, who stared at Erin like she had antennae growing out of her head. Then a naked Drake walked in.

“Erin, please. If you love me, don’t let Chaldion have a word all day. If you hate me…do it for the hilarity. I saw your work at the guild. Beautiful.

Saliss blew a kiss from his claws, and Erin laughed. Her eyes lit up, and she waved at Saliss. He winked around the room, saw Klbkch, and grinned with all his teeth.

“Looks like the inn’s back in business. Do you mind letting Rufelt and Lasica in? They want to come through, but the shiny pots won’t budge. And I am on my best behavior, so I didn’t turn them invisible.”

“Oh! Rufelt and Lasica—I forgot to add them to the list. Erin, I need to be at the door. Who am I letting in besides people we know?”

Lyonette cursed and hurried forwards. Erin hesitated.

“Is Ilvriss in Pallass or something?”

“Nope.”

Lyonette chorused with a few others. Erin hesitated as Lyonette wavered by the door.

“Then—just people we know! I guess Lism if he wants. And, uh—Antinium, obviously! Any of them. And Goblins! And…”

“Wistram News Network?”

“No! Well, maybe Drassi.”

Chaldion calmly added from his seat.

“In a non-reporter role.”

Lyonette waited for Erin’s nod before hurrying into the hallway. Erin was smiling as she looked at Klbkch. And this was familiar too.

“So. Erin. I am pleased you seem recovered enough to post quests. May I ask how you gained this ability?”

Klbkch glanced over his shoulder, and everyone in line pretended not to be listening intently, except for Bird and Grimalkin. Erin smiled. She felt a flutter in her heart, but…she had known from the start.

“I guess I have to explain. I don’t know—”

She hesitated and wished for a moment she’d talked to…to Fetohep?

Yes, Fetohep! Erin’s eyes widened. How could she forget? Fetohep and—

Khelta. Califor. Her face fell, and Klbkch watched as the [Innkeeper] went from surprised to melancholy, then determined, angry, and wary in a heartbeat. In anyone else, he would have been wondering about insanity. In Erin…she took a deep breath.

“I…was dead.”

“No kidding? Dead? Ancestors preserve me, I thought you were asleep!”

Saliss clutched at his chest from a table. Chaldion threw a fork at him, and Ulvama laughed in delight. Erin glanced over.

“Hey! Quiet in the peanut gallery! I was dead, and I got, um, some special powers. Some information. But it’s sort of hazy, and I, uh, just know a few things. Because I may have talked to ghosts?”

She looked around with an uncertain smile on her face. That was what she’d decided to say. It would be common knowledge anyways. She just didn’t add who she’d talked to.

Erin was prepared for disbelief, shock, incredulity, and mockery. However, the guests just looked at each other. Grimalkin muttered one name that pretty much summed it up:

“Khelt. The pieces fit.”

She wasn’t prepared for the lack of incredulity. However, to say there was no reaction was wrong. Jelaqua stopped grinning and focused on Erin. Pisces’ eyebrows were melding with his hair, and again, Ceria…

Ceria met Erin’s eyes and nodded slightly. Erin gulped.

“I have some things to tell you all. There’s a lot to catch up on. I want to hear it all. For now, just know that I have a few more quests I can post. Not all as cool as finding a lost city, but—well, that’s for later.”

Klbkch studied Erin.

“I see. I assume you will not furnish us with information about Mershi?”

“Are you…taking the quest?”

The Antinium considered the question.

“Let us say I am. The Antinium would not be averse to finding the City of Stars.”

Chaldion’s head rose slightly, and Saliss stopped chortling. Grimalkin’s eyes bored into the back of Klbkch’s head, and the Antinium looked around.

He just said it. Everyone was thinking it, and he just said it. That’s my partner! Stupid as a rock!”

Relc beamed as he sat at a table. Klbkch visibly hesitated in front of Erin, then he turned and gave Relc a thumbs-up. Erin, Relc, and Klbkch stared at the gesture, and Klbkch lowered the hand. He turned back to Erin as if nothing had happened.

“I am…readjusting to Liscor. I may not be able to stay, Erin, but I hope I can call on you in quieter times? With less observation.”

He stared right at Chaldion as he said that. Erin nodded.

“Sure. Um…I can’t tell you about Mershi, Klbkch. I mean, I can totally tell you about it and stuff, but I don’t know where it is.”

“Ah, hence the quest.”

“Yep. Especially because all the ghosts of Mershi who were actually there got got.”

“Got got?”

Klbkch blanked at the slang. Erin elaborated.

“They got, uh, poofed. Not by the s—I mean, no one ever saw their ghosts when Mershi vanished. So no one knows exactly what happened, but I do know where all the searches ended up. The Crossroads of Izril. Which is why I posted that quest. If you want to know about Mershi, I know tons of stuff. Tons of stuff. You know, they have Starpuffs? That’s this cool filled pastry. But yeah. Not about where it is.”

“You know this from conversations with dead people.”

“Y-yes?”

Klbkch stared at Erin. She met his gaze honestly, eyes round and wide. Klbkch nodded. He lifted a finger as someone burst through the doors.

TELL ME EVERYTHING!

Fierre shouted, then was shushed and pointed at the line. She joined it, fishing out a notepad. Garia entered more sedately, but flushed with excitement. Klbkch went on after a meaningful pause.

“One last question, Erin. In your time amongst the dead. Did you speak to any Antinium?”

If there had been a pause at his first question about searching for Mershi, this one provoked the kind of silence that you could serve for lunch. Erin met his gaze and shook her head slowly.

“No…but if they died on Rhir, I wouldn’t have met them anyways.”

Chaldion’s head swung from Klbkch to Erin as he nodded grimly.

“That is what I would assume upon thought. Thank you. I will be back shortly. I will have a bowl of spaghetti with blue fruit juice.”

He stood up and walked out of the common room. Erin heard Selys let out a breath and then gasp for air.

And that was her first guest in line.

 

——

 

By the time Lyonette came back, the crowds outside the inn had been removed from pressing at the windows. They were, in fact, reluctantly gathered around the base of the hill. No one was allowed higher unless they passed one of the Thronebearers.

Not that four [Knights] alone were holding off the mob of people who absolutely had something they wanted from Erin Solstice or just wanted to get inside the inn and eat some pizza. The Watch had been mobilized along with Pallass’ soldiers.

Yes, their soldiers. Chaldion had ordered twenty through the door to keep a cordon around the inn, having anticipated their need.

It was causing a bit of friction, especially since Pallass’ army was not Liscor’s Watch. They did not react well to a bunch of heavily armed Antinium marching towards the inn.

“Halt!”

One of the Drakes put up a claw and hesitated. He reached for a speaking stone to talk to Chaldion.

The Antinium did not halt. Pallass’ [Soldiers] bristled and then did a headcount. There were twenty Watch [Guards] who were watching the Antinium marching forwards without reaching for their weapons. Twenty of Pallass’ finest, a Walled City’s standing forces, finest of the fine!

…And the Antinium were Pawn and Belgrade, Yellow Splatters and Painted Antinium. And the ones who had fought against Hectval and pushed back Manus’ strike force.

[Crusaders].

Pawn had, in fact, stopped when asked, but a squad of ten kept walking, as did a group of nearly twenty Soldiers, each one holding a big, big weapon. In fact, one of the smaller Antinium, a Worker with a giant two-handed sword, a zweihander, stomped straight at the [Lieutenant].

“Halt! Grand Strategist, there are at least sixty Antinium—”

The [Lieutenant] jumped backwards as Chaldion gave the order to let them pass just in time. He swore, moved out of the way of Crusader 57, and nearly got kicked in the shins as the Worker lashed out with an armored boot.

“Move, idiot.”

Squad 5 of Battalion 1 marched past the Pallassian [Soldiers], much to the chagrin of Drakes and even the other Antinium. Crusader 57, a known quantity within his Hive, the Aberration, the Worker, the rude Antinium, didn’t leave it there either.

As the outraged Drakes watched, he kept one hand on the zweihander to keep it balanced on his shoulder. He devoted the other three hands to giving them middle fingers as he turned and passed.

“…Is that—a new type of Antinium?”

One of the [Soldiers] whispered as they watched Crusader 57 stomp up the hill. The soldiers watched as Pawn hurried after them and they entered the inn. Then they saw more hopefuls trying to enter.

“Ah, if the Antinium are entering—one side! Wistram News Network is on the—hey!”

Noass tried to push forwards as Drassi was finally admitted past the Thronebearers, without any scrying devices. The [Soldiers] blocked him, and the Drake frowned. He looked at Sir Relz, and the other [Commentator] gave him an encouraging nod. Noass squared his shoulders, kicked the [Lieutenant] in the shins, and raised a middle finger.

“Move, fool—”

 

——

 

“Did anyone hear that?”

Erin Solstice’s second person in line was Seborn. He actually got up to look through a window and started laughing again.

“What’s going on?”

The young woman craned her neck as everyone went to a window. Grimalkin just shook his head; Ulvama began cackling, and Numbtongue guffawed. The two Hobgoblins doubled over as Seborn relayed what was going on.

“The Drake, Noass, is getting shock spelled. This is what I came here for.”

He went back and sat down, and Erin eyed that smile.

“You seem different, Seborn. Did you fall in love or something?”

The Drowned Man took a huge gulp of water.

“Not me, or I’d be carving poems into a clamshell or something inane like Jelaqua.”

“Hey!”

He looked at Erin and calmed down a bit, but the smile still lingered. One eye in Seborn’s face glowed slightly, and half his body was a lobster, but it was amazing how…well, how normal that was. How much Erin had missed it.

“I’m just tired. Like I said. Tired of not having this. It’s good you’re back.”

“I—thank you.”

The Drowned Man nodded as Erin searched for something to say to that. He looked at her.

“So, you know where a bunch of treasure is. Stories of ghosts. Got any sunken treasure chests for me to dig up? I could give you half.”

“Um. No…no, I wouldn’t know anything about that. Plus, they probably moved with the currents.”

The Drowned [Rogue]’s smile grew wider. Grimalkin made a footnote in his journal, and Selys sat up slightly.

“Sure.”

Erin was sweating slightly as she floundered.

“I’m, uh, it’s a lot, and I have to think—”

“I get it. I’m not an idiot like that lot. I’d rather open oysters with my bare fingers than try to get something out of you right now.”

Jerking a thumb at the people in line, Seborn sat back. The smile still played around his lips, but he looked at Erin.

“Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

Seborn glanced towards the door.

“…When you get a chance, talk to Moore? He needs it, I think. The rest can wait. The tide’s flowing backwards and it’s all sweetwater and that’s fine. But give him a day.”

“Of course.”

And with that, the Drowned Man got up and nodded to Erin.

“Good to have you back. If there is any buried treasure or something to do with the sea, you owe me a chance.”

“Sure. Good to see you, Seborn! I, um—next?”

Erin had the briefest moment of hesitation there. She didn’t have anything for Seborn specifically, but she wondered if he were up-to-date on how to catch invisible squid.

There was so much to do. But it occurred to Erin that Seborn was right. This was not the time. Even if she decided to embark on the highest priority things like finding a dungeon—Erin glanced at Grimalkin and Chaldion.

“…Nah.”

She was beckoning for the third person, who was in fact Pisces, when the doors opened and Antinium marched in. Erin turned, and her mouth opened.

“Whoa.”

A crusade entered the inn, and Pisces looked at the heavily armed, heavily armored Antinium who marched through the doors, formed into ranks, stopped, and stared.

At Erin. She stared back, eyes wide, and what did they see?

She saw Antinium she only vaguely, vaguely remembered from when she’d woken up, part of the hullabaloo. Antinium with no colors, but not regular, faceless Antinium either. Soldiers.

They?

They saw a Human woman, riding across the battlefield as they were thrown into war. They saw General Sserys of Liscor.

They saw a frozen bier and the cause that had led them to fight Hectval in the war. They saw the sky of the Free Antinium and the person who had begun it all.

Crusader 57 spoke into that silence as Crusader 53 touched the Dragonbone mace at his side, looking at her in awe, and Crusader 55 shook like a leaf.

“Where’s our food? I was promised food.”

Erin blinked, and the spell wore off before it had even finished casting. Four Antinium nudged Crusader 57, but in a resigned way. Erin tried to rise, realized she couldn’t, and turned.

“Pisces, sorry—who are these Antinium? I mean—welcome! That Worker has a giant sword!

She pointed at Crusader 57’s weapon. Pisces stepped back as Erin wheeled forwards, smiling.

“Hello! Welcome! I’m—I’m Erin Solstice.”

How they twitched at that. Their antennae, poking through the holes in their helmets, twitched, and Erin saw them lock onto her. Even the Worker with the giant sword.

She wanted to stand, take their hands, or hug them, but more Antinium were coming through. Erin looked around and gestured to the tables.

“Sit, come in! Food’ll be here in a second—Ishkr, Lyonette! Who…I’m Erin. I said that. We have to talk. Just sit down for now and, um, maybe put your weapons at the door? Do we have a weapon rack or something? At least the sword.”

The zweihander and the big weapons that another group of Antinium with horns on their helmets were carrying were going to be hazards, even if they leaned them against the table. Forget tripping over an umbrella or bag; you’d cut yourself if you ran into that big blade.

Erin pointed vaguely to a corner, and Crusader 57 glanced at it. His response was instantaneous and, unfortunately, predictable.

“fUcK yoU. No one takes my sword.”

Erin’s mouth unlatched itself once more. Mrsha turned in her chair like the student meeting the wise master of profanity. Lyonette clapped a hand over her mouth and then tried to cover Mrsha’s ears, and Seborn began clutching at his sides again.

Instantly, all of Squad 5 slapped Crusader 57 on the shoulder and back, and he slapped back. Erin Solstice looked at him, at a loss for words.

“Um. Who are you?”

The question had an odd effect on the group, because they came to attention, and even the amazing Worker responded.

“Crusader 57, Squad 5, Battalion 1 under Commander Dekass. Liscor’s Army. Acid Jar Battalion.”

He offered her a sarcastic salute, and Erin Solstice stared at him.

What battalion?”

The question threw Squad 5 harder than appearing in the middle of the Great Plains in a war. They looked at Erin and saw the lack of knowledge behind her eyes. They beheld the sky…and the sky had no idea who they were.

Erin knew there had been a war against Hectval, but no one had told her everything. She looked at the [Crusaders], then the Beriad as they formed a line. Then Pawn and the other Antinium coming in and around the room.

Lyonette might have known, but she wasn’t at Liscor. Same for the Horns, and even if they had been in the area, like Grimalkin or Selys, this hadn’t been their war. It was something Erin had to be told; not her fault for not knowing.

She’d been dead. But as Erin looked at Squad 5, she felt a tremor in her heart. A deep uncertainty which only grew as the door opened and a grinning Cave Goblin clinging to an Antinium Worker’s back came in.

Rasktooth and Infinitypear. Erin didn’t know either one, but she realized the piggybacking Goblin wasn’t doing it just for fun as the Worker helped put him into a chair. She glanced around as Squad 5 introduced themselves.

“Crusader Toni. Crusader 52-3. Crusader 53, the original. Crusader 54-6, Crusader 55. Crusader 56-2. Crusader 57-7 is me, but I’m just Crusader 57 because it’s my name. Crusader 58-4, Crusader 59-2, and Crusader 60.”

What a strange kind of name. They had no formal names, just that number.

Just like…Antherr had. Erin listened to the way they said it, and something came together in her mind.

“What does—what does the number after the first one mean? Crusader 57…7?”

The Worker looked at Erin blankly and then explained slowly.

“It means six Crusader 57’s died before me. You didn’t know that either.”

Erin looked at him and then around the inn. Chaldion peered at the [Crusaders], his gemstone eye flashing. Relc just sighed and raised a mug for Squad 5, who waved at him. They seemed cheery, gazing around wonderingly, except for Crusader 57.

He might have got it first. Erin sat there and decided it was time to ask.

“I know there was a…war with Hectval. Didn’t Pawn say—what’s this about a crusade?”

She looked up as the [Priest] himself entered the inn and stopped. Pawn’s smile found Erin’s disturbed face, and his mandibles closed a bit and drooped. Pisces exhaled and decided to find a seat.

The ghosts of the dead were all gone. All gone, and there was nothing in the afterlife anymore. But still, somehow, they entered the inn. Erin had known there was a cost. She saw it unspoken behind some eyes, but Gire went still at her table, and Mrsha gazed sadly at the Antinium. Erin tried to count as she was offered a dozen explanations, but the number was too high.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice had already been grieving ten days, in part. She knew Khelta was gone and all the others. She was aware that good people had died to bring her back.

She remembered how she had felt after the Siege of Liscor and how it had crushed her for weeks.

This was not the same. The dead probably deserved it, but Erin was ashamed that she wasn’t catatonic with grief. She’d had too long to process it. She was…too grateful to be alive.

Even now, it was hard to believe it.

“The Antinium went to war to…for revenge.”

She looked around at the Antinium sitting with her, and Yellow Splatters nodded.

“For you.”

Pawn quickly interjected, looking at Yellow Splatters and then the other Antinium in the room.

“Not just for you, Erin. It was necessary. Hectval had to be stopped. Each [Crusader] volunteered. Ah, not [Crusaders]…special soldiers.”

They were glancing at the Drakes listening into the conversation, but that word had been dropped enough times for Grimalkin’s quill to not even bother noting it down. Erin gulped.

“And how many…?”

“I believe an exact count would not be productive.”

To Erin’s surprise, it was Belgrade who said that. The Worker seemed—different. For one thing, he’d brought some of the only non-Antinium guests that weren’t friends of Erin’s into the inn. He nodded at the wide-eyed Drakes and Gnolls currently begging autographs from some of the Gold-rank adventurers or looking around the inn.

“All of Liscor fought, Erin. My command squad is here as well, and I believe they would like to meet you. It was not just the Antinium.”

“So Drakes, Gnolls, Humans, and Antinium died.”

“They had to. It was a war. Hectval continued to launch attacks on Liscor. We are still at a state of war, but I believe it has been limited to skirmishes. At least, Yolden has joined us, and the alliance has fallen back to around their cities.”

The other Antinium nodded, and Belgrade clacked his mandibles.

“Commander Olesm is in the field, but I hope I can relieve him so he may return.”

“Commander Olesm. What’s Yolden? Another city?”

Selys broke in.

“I told you about it, Erin. Remember?”

“Yeah, but—”

Belgrade politely raised a finger and interrupted Selys.

“Actually, I believe [Strategos] Olesm is the more appropriate term, but we say ‘Commander’ as a catchall.”

“Huh? Huh? Huh?”

It was definitely too much to take in, but what Erin got from the introductions were…well, the important parts to her. She knew, despite Pawn’s attempts to downplay. Especially when she met the Beriad, who had fought against Zeres.

Antherr’s company, which had been a group of a hundred Antinium.

There were seventeen of them here, and many had limbs still in the process of being regrown. Or simply scars. Then Erin noticed the Goblins.

Ulvama was here, and she acted like she’d always been here and Erin was the new guest. Which was one thing. But Erin sensed there were more…Goblins in the inn than just that.

“Rasktooth?”

The Goblin waved as Erin came to his table. Infinitypear looked at the other Antinium, but oddly—he was not as familiar with them, and they nodded at him much like a stranger. Awkwardly.

Which was an interesting dynamic, and Erin recalled that he must have been part of the Mrsha-rescue alliance. Rasktooth cackled as he took Erin’s hand.

“Frozen [Innkeeper] all better. Good! Little bee, too.”

Apista crawled off his head and onto the table. Erin had never seen Apista so friendly, but Rasktooth and she were instantly given a cup of sweet blue juice. Rasktooth looked around his chair, but didn’t get up. There was a big scar on his stomach and back, and Erin gazed at him and then looked for Numbtongue and Bird. The Hobgoblin [Bard] met Erin’s gaze calmly and nodded. Numbtongue’s gaze was sad. And proud.

Not all of the Fellowship of the Inn had made it. But most had, and Erin hesitated as she gazed around, at the ceiling, at a wall…

“…Is there a Goblin in my basement?”

Everyone glanced at the floorboards, and when Ishkr went to check, he came back as a Goblin dressed all in black with eyeliner, a sharp umbrella, and even lipstick appeared. Gothica the [Goth] grinned at Rasktooth and waved at Erin as the [Innkeeper] silently pointed.

“Um.”

“Don’t ask me. I didn’t do it. But yeah, she’s a [Goth]. Not even a Visigoth. You think that’s weird? Wait until you meet Fightipilota.”

Kevin muttered as he scanned around for Goblins he knew. Gothica, for her part, stared at Erin with interest, but she’d been having fun in the basement.

There were tons of dead bodies down there for the Selphids, and she’d been pretending to be one then scaring the daylights out of Ishkr at random. She’d been doing it the last week as a hobby. And levelling.

It was all far, far too much for Erin to figure out. She turned back to Squad 5 and decided to do the only thing she could do.

“You’re super-welcome to my inn, everyone. Help yourself to anything on the menu and whatever you want to drink. I have people I need to talk to, but I’m gonna talk to you all. That’s a promise. I hope you enjoy The Wandering Inn!”

Squad 5 did cheer up at that, and they all nodded eagerly. They were reading the menu, which had its own Antinium-section for foods they could eat. Erin was almost breathing out when Crusader 57 spoke up again.

Crusader 57, the myth, the legend. It was safe to say most of the Free Antinium had heard of him already, although he hadn’t returned to the Hive more than twice since becoming a [Crusader]. However, word spread about the not-Aberration Worker with a foul mouth who’d told Klbkch to go perform intercourse on himself and was part of the famous Squad 5.

Not all of what was rumored about him was good. He was as famous as Silveran, but he occupied the negative space in public opinion, which made him a rarity. Only the horrible Furfur could compete, or Klbkch himself. He was rude, mean, and he hurt people’s feelings.

In this case, he didn’t even say anything that negative; he just spoke up where most Antinium were silent.

“So this is the inn that’s so special. Everyone talks about how wonderful it is. We’ll see.”

If ever there were a comment to make Erin sweat…she focused on Squad 5, who had hurled themselves into war for her, and turned.

“Um—I-Ishkr? Let’s start with some blue fruit juice and acid flies. For appetizers! Then they can order what they want.”

A bowl of acid flies for each [Crusader], and because Ishkr had been harvesting them for four months with few customers, he had enough for all the Antinium guests to fill their bowls and then some. Nevertheless, it was accompanied by blue fruit squeezed fresh into a glass, and Imani had arrived with Palt to reinforce the inn’s culinary staff. Lasica had already begun making backup dishes.

Erin watched Squad 5 eat with relish as they crunched down the big, black flies, which had the faintest taste of, yes, acid. It was not a sight for the faint-of-heart, and new guests to the inn, like Gire, seemed nauseous as they glimpsed a few innards gushing from cracked flies. The Antinium also experienced the joys of sugar as the blue fruit drinks were served.

This is good.

One of the Beriad signaled with the Antinium’s developing language. He was carefully, painstakingly weighing his options between a Cheesicore Omelette—an omelette filled with cheese, Corusdeer venison or other meat, and local veggies, or the Antinium-version of a Grainbite Trout, which meant instead of crumbs and spices stuffed inside, it was acid flies and spices.

It was possibly the hardest choice he would ever make in his life, and if Antinium could sweat, he would have. One of his comrades came to his aid in this dire hour to suggest he get the trout, which meant they could split the dish.

That was the kind of tactical thinking you got from being a [Soldier] in Calruz’s squad. It didn’t occur to the Beriad that they could order more than one dish apiece.

In a way, the Antinium lacked for some of the inn’s wonderfulness because they didn’t realize ordering a dish and having it appear literally less than five minutes later, steaming hot, was a luxury. However, they certainly appreciated actual food, seats and utensils designed for them, and the ambiance of the inn.

There was the sky herself, and even if she didn’t create a manifestation of Heaven just by being near them, some people were climbing onto the stage, the Hobgoblin was tuning his guitar, and the inn felt…cosy. Even if Klbkch had returned, the inn was inviting to them like no place they had ever been, except the Painted Antinium’s barracks. And there was the little fluffy white Gnoll they’d heard about!

Like [Tourists], they looked from thing to thing they’d heard about in the stories. The [Innkeeper] looked relieved that they were pleased, and even Crusader 57 could readily admit that the food was good and the inn was nice.

But that was just it. He leaned forwards as Erin wheeled over to the table.

“How’s that, guys? Squad 5? Enjoying yourselves?”

All of Squad 5 tried to cover Crusader 57’s mouth, but he just bit at their fingers.

“The food is good. It’s a nice inn. Not worth dying for. You’re okay too.”

Pawn and Belgrade froze at their table and stared at Crusader 57’s back. Bird calmly tossed a Garry-gluten roll at Crusader 57’s head. It bounced off his helmet, and Erin shook her fist.

“Bird! I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were fighting. I would have said…”

Crusader 57 stared at Erin blankly.

“It’s not your fault. We were going to die in the Hive anyways. Fighting Hectval is better. And easier, even with Manus. It’s just not worth it for the inn.”

He glanced around defiantly as the other Antinium glared at him. Crusader 57 was rapidly plummeting to the depths only Klbkch, Furfur, and Ksmvr had ever enjoyed in the Antinium popularity poll.

But the thing was…Erin studied him. She could recognize an Aberration’s voice, and he didn’t have that shaking dissonance in his words. But he was still a very angry Worker. And he wasn’t wrong. Slowly, Crusader 57 got up.

“They talk about the statues too. Can we see them? That would be good.”

The statues. Pawn, Numbtongue…everyone looked up. Erin instantly nodded, but then she had another thought. Her face fell.

“Oh no. I mean—yes, obviously. But—”

But when they went up that hill, into the mists where the statues waited for all those who knew them, Squad 5 halted. For they saw nothing but a bench and the statues of other people. Antinium, Goblins, Humans, Drakes, Gnolls, yes. People who mattered.

Yet Crusader 51 was not there. Yet none of the others were there because Erin Solstice didn’t know them. She had never met them and never would. Crusader 57 nodded slowly.

“Yep. I knew it was just okay.”

He turned, and Erin flinched slightly, but the Worker walked calmly past her and went back to eat more food. Because he hadn’t expected anything. That was worse. It sank into Erin as she looked at Squad 5, at the Beriad, who watched as Pawn, Belgrade, and Bird stood in their circle.

They were dead, and she hadn’t known them. But then Erin gazed around her [Garden of Sanctuary] and realized…there was no Califor. No Khelta.

It sank over her again, just like all the other times. Then Erin looked up and wondered where Krshia was. Surely she’d be here, or the Silverfangs.

The answer was that they might, but probably not today. After all—the tribes were still in mourning.

 

——

 

They were still burning the dead in the Great Plains, but it was also true that a species was in mourning. Not just the Gnolls, of course; there were reasons to mourn across the world.

The city of Paeth had appeared in Talenqual, but so many Fraerlings had died they had to weigh that with the sheer need to protect their vulnerable city.

The Forgotten Wing company had won a terribly bloody battle at their capital. But they were [Soldiers]. Mercenaries who kept moving.

Ailendamus and the Dawn Concordat had fallen back to count their losses, but the war was still going on. They were still mourning Great General Dionamella, but the immortals of Ailendamus also counted Fithea, the last Dryad, amongst their losses.

However, the greatest death toll had come from the Great Plains and the Gnoll people. So yes, ten days was not enough time to mourn. Ten days was enough for the shock to wear off, to actually try and begin honoring the dead.

Silverfang was not in the mood to join the inn or even pay attention to the Mythical Quest. So how did a species mourn? Someone watched. He gazed through eyes of magic, not as a voyeur, but someone who cared.

Who had woken up. Who was counting the costs of his slumber. He knew mourning. Teriarch, the last Dragonlord of Flame, observed the Silverfang tribe among many others.

Each city or tribe was different. Of course. But species figured out different ways to process grief through their long existence and history. For instance, in Pallass, Salazsar, and Oteslia, but most of all in Fissival, Zeres, and Manus, where they had taken the most casualties, the Drakes mourned in private ceremonies. They buried the dead who had been retrieved, but the public mourning was the military parades.

They were going on in all six Walled Cities. Lines of armored [Soldiers] marched down the widest streets as civilians cheered them. To the sensibilities of other species, the Dragon understood how it could look.

See, we have tried to slaughter a people and now we celebrate. They were throwing these parades in honor of the fallen, the courage of combat, and the cheering filled the air. The Walled Cities were perhaps lucky Erin Solstice had chosen today to post her quest; otherwise, this might have been the coverage of the day.

That was one read on what the Drakes were doing. The Dragon heard and saw something else. The cheering of the Drakes in the crowds was a roar of exuberant voices. Raw. His eyes could pick out some people wearing white for death screaming their lungs out, tears in their eyes.

It mattered. The parade meant that the dead soldiers had been heroes. They had to be heroes. If they weren’t…the celebration had a desperate tinge to it in parts. Cheering so loud it drowned out tears a moment. Then, the Dragon knew, the living would attend the funerals for the deceased, often cremation. Richer or more important Drakes would occupy the very contested graveyards, but a memorial would be put up.

After the burial, sometimes literally minutes afterwards, the families and loved ones would attend the wills being read out and possessions of the dead being divided up. It was customary.

 

——

 

“What? They’re fighting over inheritance minutes after they bury their own?”

Erin heard an indignant voice as she returned from the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She found Maughin had arrived at the inn, but he was late.

He had been attending a funeral, and apparently, he had been named as a beneficiary of one of the Pallassian [Soldiers] who had perished in the Meeting of Tribes. It was a topic of outrage from Lyonette, who had bristled at learning Pallass was throwing a huge parade—that all the Walled Cities were.

Erin slowly wheeled forward as the [Smith] awkwardly took off his head and bowed to her, then let Jelaqua sit his head next to her. He replied gravely.

“It is customary, I understand, Pr—Miss Lyonette. Dullahans are more reserved, but each people to their own.”

“Yes, I understand, but a will minutes after…?”

“It’s customary.”

Selys didn’t quite meet Lyonette’s gaze, but the angry young woman was rarely undiplomatic. She glared around.

“That should be at least—at least a day removed. Why do it that way?”

Because, Lyonette, it means they cared.”

“Excuse me?”

If Selys was unwilling to get into Drake customs in light of recent events, Lasica was more than willing, and she emerged from the kitchen with a deep frown for the [Princess]. The [Chef] spoke sharply.

“It means they cared. Almost all Drakes have a will when they’re sixteen or older. Nothing fancy, but [Soldiers] especially list things out. You often don’t get much if you’re not close, close family, but even distant friends get a trinket.”

She nodded at Maughin, who had received a fine whetstone. Lasica went on, not taking her eyes from Lyonette, who had begun to look a bit uneasy.

“It means they were thinking about you, and you have something to remember them by. I don’t know how Humans do it, but it matters to us. With that said, I don’t expect the Gnolls to be sympathetic, but I will thank you not to insult the Drakes who fought for the tribes.”

It was a Drake idea; a very material way to let someone know you mattered, like how Selys had gotten Zel’s Heartflame Breastplate by accident. Or, alternatively, one last way to tell someone they were getting nothing from you and you always hated their guts.

It sort of made sense to Erin. She turned to Gireulashia and Mrsha, the only two Plains Gnolls in the inn thus far.

“What…what about Silverfang, Gire? What’s happening with the tribes?”

Gire started guiltily and responded slowly.

“If it’s Silverfang, they might do something else…but I think they’re probably—feeding the animals.”

“Hm? What does that mean?”

 

——

 

Gnoll tribes had vast flocks of animals. It was a matter of practicality to them that even in the depths of grief, you could not abandon them.

So, instead, one of the days of mourning was devoted to sitting down with flocks of sheep, dogs, or other livestock, and giving them as much as you could to eat. A rare treat, assuming the situation wasn’t dire. Then combing them, pampering the sheepdogs, as a community.

Gnolls would stop moving and eat and drink foods devoted to these hours, but the main thing they did was…tell stories.

For each person you knew had passed, you told a story. One day, you told a silly story about them. The next, you told those listening a tale you might never have shared in life, that had made you angry. A tale of failure. The third day, you told their triumphs or how they died.

Krshia Silverfang had been telling stories in between the mandatory meetings with the Council from sunup to sundown.

There were too many Gnolls she knew who had died. Too many, and even in her immediate family—

Shaman Cetrule was dead. In the Great Plains, apparently Satar Silverfang was going around, writing down every story she could, and many came to the young [Historian] such that she was constantly working. It was for the best, Krshia thought. It helped her to have something to do.

When she had talked with her sister in the scrying orb, she had seen the difference in Cers. He, by contrast, just clung to Akrisa’s paw as she went from place to place. Silent as a ghost.

Krshia should have stayed there. None of the Silverfangs who had come to Liscor had gone to the inn.

Silverfangs did something else unique to their tribe. Many Gnoll tribes would be honoring their dead, and when they met, Silverfang would surely honor Ekhtouch, Weatherfur, Gaarh Marsh, even Steelfur’s warriors in their way and tell more stories.

But Silverfangs were making something, carefully pouring wax into molds, and delicately, delicately writing or even drawing on the candles with silver paint.

They would make a candle in honor of those they knew and light it on the final day. When it burnt low, they would return to work.

There was not enough wax in Liscor for everyone. So, yes. Krshia did not begrudge Erin returning to excitement. She was glad for Erin and even the distraction the Mythical Quest had caused for a moment. But she still had to mourn. And how were you supposed to do it? Krshia’s paws faltered as she wrote Cetrule’s name on a candle. She gazed at a line of candles she had already made, not with the stories and even words from everyone on each candle, such that they were a temporary work of art.

Twenty-eight candles sat there. It was too much, even for their customs. How was she supposed to mourn…?

 

——

 

How and where? The scope was beyond imagining—at least in this age. The Dragon had seen worse. There was no comparison in his mind, but he had seen worse.

Even so, he didn’t know himself, so he watched them for answers. Teriarch let the scrying spells lapse to silence. He closed his eyes, but forced himself to watch one last person.

He could not sleep. Not anymore. So, with all the delicacy in the world, he focused the spells on a final person, despite the considerable wards and privacy that was surely deserved. But Teriarch needed to know. So he searched for Fetohep of Khelt.

 

——

 

It was not the palace of Khelt, nor the great city of Koirezune, the capital, where the undead stood. He had left his glorious palace of countless floors and wonders silently, and his servants never noticed his passage.

It was not far from the capital that you could find empty land, if you took a steed that feared neither exhaustion nor injury. Here, the sands were scattered with bits of ivory and rock, often blown in from distant lands. For Khelt did border Zeikhal, and was still very much a desert in places.

Only water, time, and the ceaseless work of undead kept it from becoming a wasteland once more. That was why Khelta the First had founded her nation here; no one would want this land.

Here, oblivion stretched from the bright sand onwards to the horizon, where the Great Desert lay. The wind blew lightly, and the sun still shone down and made everything painfully bright.

There, a man stood. No, a corpse. Both? He looked like he had died here, arms outstretched, the wind blowing at his robes and dirty armor hanging off a withered frame. His dark brown skin, almost calcified with age and rot, was paper-thin, but the mummified corpse held himself there.

His head was turned up to the sky, bright blue, and two golden flames burned in the eye sockets. In that way you knew he was alive and a powerful undead, but the figure did not move.

He had not moved for a few hours. He could have been a scarecrow, albeit the most richly decorated scarecrow in the world. The one thing that was unlike Fetohep, that would have struck anyone who saw him thusly, was this:

The yellowed teeth of his jaw shone faintly under the light. His mouth was open, exposing long-decayed insides to the world. A jaw fully agape, open, and that was something…Fetohep did not eat. He did not move his jaw, even to speak, for he had no lungs nor need of a tongue.

Yet the mouth was open, and if you looked down at him, what did you see?

An undead soul screaming to the heavens. That open mouth, howling in silence. Like the winds blowing across Zeikhal, agony frozen in a single expression even a corpse could convey.

Yet not a word, not a sound could be heard save for the winds. For even far, far from his capital, even with no chance of anyone overhearing—

A ruler did not scream. A king could wail and gnash his teeth. But they would not find him here, screaming to the skies. So the undead figure stood there as the sun burned across the sky. That voiceless howl went on and on.

Khelt had died.

That they were ghosts hadn’t mattered. Khelt had died, and the last person besides Erin Solstice who could mourn them stood there and knew how empty these lands were.

 

——

 

Teriarch watched Fetohep of Khelt as long as he was able. Which was not long. He closed the scrying spell and lay there in his cave.

No young Dragoness was present, nor the [Maid]. They had both returned to their homes—for now. Like Fetohep, like Erin Solstice, the Dragon knew he had deeds before him.

But first—he had a question. And it was this:

How did you mourn a people?

He did not know. And he had watched each species as if hoping to find a clue, but he hadn’t been able to find his answer. Fetohep of Khelt’s expression had been too close. For if he knew every great ruler and ghost of Khelt was gone…

Every Dragon had also gone as well. They had already been dead, but that was the thing. He had made his peace with each one.

He had not thought to see them and see them all perish at once. To know there would never be a reunion. Worse, worse…he had not expected to be given his charge.

Worst of all, Teriarch had not looked for the glory he saw. The Dragonlords fighting an impossible foe. Burning across the skies with pride and defiance.

“What am I supposed to do?”

He had no idea. The Brass Dragon knew every manner of burial and mourning. He had attended more funerals than any other being in existence that he knew of.

Dragons had mourned their kind in many different ways over the ages. At first, they had created memorials for the greatest of their kind—and watched the mortals tear them down or their edifices break and wear, even the most beautiful.

So then they had decided another thing, which was to take an item they loved out of their hoards—and Dragons were greedy and possessive, by and large—and gift it. To mortals who had known the Dragons, to others of their kind. That was the origin of Drake wills, if he remembered right. The gift mattered as a way of remembrance.

“…There are none left who remember half the Dragons who died, even the greatest. I would empty my hoard. To whom?”

He laughed at the idea and looked around blankly at things he only half-remembered acquiring. There was little here that…mattered. No. Some things greatly, but not that either.

“In the last ages of our kind, when a Dragon passed, we would reveal ourselves to the nearest mortals and speak to them of who had died. Impart a brief, fleeting memory for a single lifetime, no matter how short. Let their names be heard once more before silence.”

He toyed with the idea of that, appearing before one of the adventuring teams in the High Passes, or a [Shepherd], and telling them of the arrogance of Muzarre, the Dragonlord of Earth. Or perhaps the contradictory nature of the last Knight-Dragon, Yderigrisel, full of honor and bravado at times. Better than most Dragons for the causes he championed, and damned in Teriarch’s eyes for the victory he claimed at the end.

But he had no time for all the stories, and it would not be fair to tell just one. Perhaps that inn would be suitable.

And yet—Teriarch shuddered. He did not remember that young woman, Erin Solstice. He did not know her. But they had met. And that knowledge, the contradiction of certainty and a gap in his self, was most terrifying of all.

All too tempting to curl up and sleep until the moment was long behind him. With every instinct, Teriarch had to fight that urge.

“Not again. Nevermore.”

Slowly, he slunk from his cave. Or waddled. His body felt leaden. His wings flapped, ungainly, and he peered around, blinking irritably in the sunlight.

“Why me? Why not the first Dragonlord of Gems, Saracandre, or haughty Xarkouth. Why not…why not a Djinni, damn it? I may be one of the oldest, but…”

It had all been planned out. He understood that. They had waited for him, scolded him and laughed at him, and sent him back with an impossible mission like he was a copper-a-dozen [Hero] trying to take down a Kraken with a shiny rock.

Perhaps it was simply who had resurrected him. As the Dragonlords died, the spell might have well failed on them, and it was too great a risk to take. Teriarch wondered if it were also that only one name would have really mattered to the person they had to convince.

“Why me? Who are you? What were you, to me?”

All he knew was a name. And though he could guess, there was nothing there. No flicker of emotion, no spark of even the faintest memory.

“Ryoka Griffin. Magnolia Reinhart…”

Nothing. The Dragon shook his head. Then he spread his wings and flew. He did not have the words to mourn so many, nor the time. He had not the elegance—not anymore, nor even did his vast wealth suit the occasion.

What were you supposed to do in these times? When you grieved, but you had grieved before? When even a garden would not showcase your loss? The Dragonlord climbed higher, searching.

And an [Innkeeper] looked around.

 

——

 

Erin had let Crusader 57 down. She knew it. Him and others. The Wandering Inn had food coming out of the kitchens, but contrary to Mrsha-belief, food did not equate to everything.

Her garden didn’t have the statues. And she herself was…well. Erin wanted to hug Crusader 57, stand up, and…

What could she do? That was the question. Erin thought about it, and this was still only an hour after she’d just posted a Mythical Quest.

Everyone still wanted to talk about that.

“Miss Solstice. As I was saying, Pallass is willing to offer…”

“Yeah, yeah, Grimalkin. Shush. Did you actually think I’d go for it?”

“At first offer? No. But I am prepared to offer you—”

Erin looked up at the Drake and frowned.

“Are you going to threaten me if bribing me doesn’t work?”

The [Sinew Magus] closed his mouth, and Erin folded her arms. He slowly glanced over his shoulder, and Erin traced his gaze back to Chaldion.

“…I am representing Pallass, Erin. You understand it’s my—duty—to do all I can in that regard.”

Something was odd about the way he said ‘duty’. Erin studied Grimalkin, and her distraction turned to a moment of curiosity.

Even he seemed different. But she couldn’t chase down that momentary flicker. It was not the time.

“…Can we skip the threats? Let’s say you try again…in two days?”

Grimalkin eyed Erin, then made a note on his pad.

“Very well. It would appear that’s for the best. Especially since I gather you are distracted…I will not waste our time. Thank you, Erin.”

Erin blinked, but he rose and left the table without a word. Chaldion glared, and the two began arguing as he sat back down. He was right, though. Erin kept staring at the [Crusaders]. And Rasktooth. And Gothica.

She had no way to thank them, and she couldn’t tell the others about Khelta and…not with what it would do.

But she had to do…something, right?

Perhaps, though, everyone else felt it too, because Grimalkin was not the only person who decided to leave things for later. Pisces had abandoned what he was going to say when he saw the Antinium come in, and even Seborn and Klbkch had all known the score.

This was the hour of the Solstice Effect™ after all. What would come next? The [Innkeeper] seemed frustrated as she wheeled around in her chair, so, after a moment’s hesitation, someone stood up and sidled over.

“Psst. Erin. Do you need…this?”

The young woman glanced around and saw…Kevin. He had something he was shielding with his back. It was…his laptop.

“Huh? Kevin? What for?”

The [Mechanic] gave her a huge wink. He had a program open on the computer.

“I’ve got a bunch of songs loaded up. Not all your style, but maybe take a look and find something you want? Or the movies! I bet Palt could put one up on the big screen.”

“For what?”

The young man scratched at his head as Mrsha sat up in her chair, interested.

“For…something? Party? Movie-night? I’m just saying—give the word.”

“The word. For the laptop. Okay.”

Erin’s brows scrunched together. She saw what Kevin was getting at. He was expecting something. So was Ishkr.

He had already, with the help of his sister, Liska, begun pulling up kegs from the basement and was counting mugs. He had a wand to start little flames, a bunch of coins for spare change, and some Faerie Flowers, pre-dried, lying in his work kit.

Erin stared at Ishkr, then at Lyonette as she came over.

“Erin, I’d like a heads-up whenever anything begins.”

“When what begins, Lyonette? I’m not—”

The [Princess] held up an overly patient hand and gave Erin a smile as Ser Sest stood behind her.

“I’m sure you’re not. But when—if it begins, I’d just like to know what it’s going to be. Let me handle pricing, and I think we can agree that maybe it should be outside? Or at least Mrsha and the Goblins and Antinium should be separated from the huge crowds. For safety.”

“Absolutely. But what am I doing?”

Lyonette du Marquin gave Erin a long look.

“You tell me.”

The inn was so ready you could feel it. Mrsha was writing down a brief explanation to Gire about what was going on, and even Seborn was drinking very lightly so he didn’t miss anything happening next. Relc rubbed his claws together as Klbkch returned—with Embria in tow.

“Did I miss anything, Relc?”

“Nah, just those Antinium coming through. And Noass getting electrified.”

“Pity.”

Embria nodded. She glanced at Squad 5, then sat down.

“Dad.”

“Hey, kid! Did you see Vok or any of the Gnolls from Cellidel in the crowd? They might not be able to come up. Maybe I’ll get them—oh! Oh, wait, she’s moving!”

Everyone stared at Erin as she slowly wheeled across the inn. She glanced around, and they pretended not to be watching. Erin scratched at her arm.

I’m going to the bathroom, okay?

They watched her leave the inn, and Jelaqua immediately put money down against Saliss on whether or not Erin was actually going to the bathroom.

 

——

 

Erin went to the bathroom, but she mainly did it to think. This was her fault. She’d done this too many times. She’d even told them there was a party at the inn! And she could see where Kevin was coming from.

It wasn’t hard. Wave your hands around twice, boot up Shrek, and you had the makings of something already. Or you did something like, uh…getting a stick, a few flat rocks, and having Ceria freeze over the baseball field and invent hockey.

“Actually, what about Hedault? I haven’t seen him in a while, but I bet he still likes skateboarding. And Kevin has got to have, like, eight skateboards. Could Ceria or Grimalkin and Moore make, like, a skate park? Can you skateboard on ice?”

Erin could just imagine Gireulashia doing some kind of ridiculous backwards wavefront triple-axel spin-kick somersault on a skateboard. Yep, and then you’d have a competition and—

Oh! Skateboarding? That means—I, um, uh—”

Erin nearly jumped out of the outhouse as a loud voice in the stall next to hers rang out. Someone quickly burst out the door and fled. Erin shouted back.

I know that was you, Drassi!

Everyone wanted a party, and if Erin didn’t act fast, it was going to start without her. In fact, she thought it made sense. After all that had happened, a Wandering Inn classic was just what you needed for a palette cleanser, right? It wouldn’t solve the world’s ills, but—that was something she could eminently do, and so she owed it to people.

Right?

Just do it. Wait, wait…do I invent a shoe company? Nah. But give them what they want, right? Skateboarding…movie…quest? Do those things work together? 

The thing was, Erin didn’t think it was the right thing to do. It was the easy thing to do, and it had worked every single time before, more or less. Maybe a party would make Crusader 57 say this inn had something cool. But Erin thought she’d let him down.

Back when the Antinium had nothing, a plate of spaghetti meant the world to them. These days, Crusader 57 got camp food, and that was sometimes better than what Erin could cook. She had been very useful to Goblins and Antinium at the start with very little, but that was because they had had nothing at all.

These days, if she offered Bird a fried egg, he’d ask her to put salt on it first and would it kill her to add some ketchup in the form of a bird on top? Erin was afraid that if she did her party, it would be what they wanted, and it wouldn’t be worth it at all.

I had no time to really talk to Klbkch. He has something he wants to talk to me about. And so does Seborn. Moore? Even Grimalkin the Pushy, Grimalkin, left me alone.

Because…they knew they weren’t going to get anything out of Erin today. She just caused a scene, vamoosed, and then she’d do something cool and they’d hear what mattered in five days. Even Tekshia and Zevara had let her go.

And Erin couldn’t tell them about the ghosts. At least not the way she wanted. The Gnolls were dead.

So Erin pushed open the door to the outhouse and spent five minutes getting into her wheelchair. And she knew that it wasn’t the same as she slowly began to wheel back to the inn.

However, the people gathered below the inn all pointed to her, and someone actually shouted up.

“Hey! When is it starting? Do something already! I have the night shift in five hours!”

Erin sighed louder. She wheeled back to the inn, glumly thinking about just posting a Legendary Quest. Then at least she’d buy time rebuilding the inn.

She had her hand on the door and was thinking how to start it off. She wanted to answer their needs, she really did. Then, later, maybe she’d find a way to securely talk to Fetohep. And say…sorry. And talk to Krshia, though that wasn’t her fault. And ask Crusader 57 to tell her everything.

Erin realized she was still pressing on the door and stared at it.

“It opens outwards? When did that happen?”

The world was topsy-turvy. Erin rolled back a bit and realized the issue with wheelchairs and doors that opened into said wheelchairs. She rolled back a bit more, extended her arm to reach out, and gave up. She looked over her shoulder at the crowd and then at the inn. Then Erin Solstice slowly wheeled her chair forwards, past the door, and came to a stop after a minute.

She was still sitting there when Ishkr found her. He opened the door with the intuition of someone realizing that Erin might be having trouble getting into her wheelchair or into the inn, but saw that the outhouses were open. So he studied the crowd and saw them all staring ‘behind’ the inn.

The Gnoll found Erin Solstice sitting on the edge of the grass hill, under the sun. It was fall, but some days were warm enough, and she was gazing down at the Floodplains.

“Look at all those colors, Ishkr. Did you know that the grass changed to orange and red and yellow like this?”

Purple too. Erin was seeing the Floodplains change color for the winter. Ishkr hesitated.

“I’ve lived here for most of my life, Erin. Yes.”

“Gotcha, gotcha.”

The [Head Server] waited, but Erin didn’t say anything else. She glanced up after a moment and added.

“I mean, I saw it last year, but I guess I forgot. Anyways, it looks cool.”

“Indeed?”

It was pretty, but Ishkr was more worried about Erin’s face. She didn’t seem like a woman with a plan, nor did she have the too-bland look she got when she was actually about to unleash havoc. She was just…staring out across the Floodplains. Most of the crowd was on the other side, watching the front of the inn, although some were sidling around to stare at her. Some had scrying orbs, others had Grimalkin-style notepads.

Erin ignored them all.

“I wish we had the magic door. Then I could slip out somewhere else. I guess that’s on the list of things to do.”

“I am sure Miss Lyonette has it on her list. Can I wheel you inside, Erin? Or do you need anything?”

If she had said, ‘Ishkr, get me two mops, a jar of magicore, and a banana peel’, he would have done so at once. But the [Innkeeper] just sat there.

“I don’t think so, Ishkr. They’re all ready for a party, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Erin.”

“Okay.”

She didn’t move. Ishkr was even sure that if Erin really wanted to, she could have used the [Garden of Sanctuary] to get into the inn. Yet she didn’t go anywhere, and after a minute of him standing there uncomfortably, she glanced up.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Ishkr? I’d offer you mine, but this thing doesn’t have brakes. Sort of a design flaw. I might go rolling down and kill someone.”

A few Gnolls at the base of the hill decided not to stand right below her. Erin smiled a bit, and Ishkr awkwardly sat down.

“Can I get you anything, Miss Erin?”

“Erin’s okay. You’ve been here super long. As long as Lyonette, that was when we hired you. Man, that was a weird time. Remember that?”

“Vividly.”

Awkwardly, the Gnoll adjusted his apron and sat cross-legged. He didn’t know what kind of devious plan this was…but the grass was quite lovely, and they’d cleared the damn bear traps someone had left here once. He’d been terrified of walking around here for ages. Erin noticed his hesitation.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ah—nothing. It’s just that there were bear traps around here at one point. Not any longer—”

What.

Ishkr explained briefly, and Erin looked around.

“Whoa, that’s bad. I did that? Those Raskghar got in my head. Don’t worry—I can sort of tell what’s around my inn. We’re safe. And you still decided to work at my inn?”

“The pay is good.”

That said nothing, and both of them knew it. Erin laughed.

“Why did you work here? To begin with?”

Ishkr pondered the question and shifted, embarrassed.

“Honestly, Erin? Krshia told me to. She wanted someone to let her know what was going on now and then and make sure you had good help.”

“That Krshia! Well—why did you stay?

Ishkr smiled.

“Because it was interesting. Besides which, there are worse jobs for a [Server]. You do not shout at me, even when I make mistakes, and you do pay better than some places. The plays helped, and I liked it here.”

“Wow. But you survived, like, Creler attacks and Raskghar. And the moths. And you kept the inn running when I was dead, and I guess you survived this Stitch Witch? And…are we paying you enough?”

Erin was counting on her fingers, and she turned to Ishkr. He politely folded his hands in his apron and saw the people pointing up at him and Erin. It was a bit disconcerting, so he focused on the [Innkeeper].

“You could pay me more.”

She grinned.

“Let’s do that. How—how was it when I was, y’know, dead?”

Ishkr didn’t know why she was asking all this, but he could only answer honestly.

“Quiet. Very quiet. Aside from the beginning when the [Witch] came and the Titan was in the inn…it was quiet. Nothing happened some days. The others could tell you about the, ah, exciting moments.”

“No, go on. Tell me what happened when things weren’t blowing up.”

He shrugged awkwardly. This was the longest they’d talked that he could remember. She’d ask him how his day was, but always in a busy inn. This?

“I—would sweep up, make sure there was food for the guests, and then I’d have days when no one came in. Sometimes I’d poke my head into the garden to make sure everything was the same, but it was quiet. I…just read books.”

“Really?”

“A few. But I think I just took naps or sat there. Thinking. I just kept the inn from getting dusty. It was hardly as heroic as anything anyone else did.”

Erin nodded.

“But someone had to. I appreciate it. I really do. And your sister’s working here now, so I guess this really is sort of like home, right? Your parents…”

She coughed, and Ishkr made a face.

“My sister is, ah, a good worker. Sometimes. She gets into trouble with the Watch, but they’re reasonable about it. Most of the time.”

“Really? Why?”

“She picks fights with them. Her and her…nevermind. It is complicated. And my parents haven’t been able to talk to her. So she comes to me with her problems.”

“That’s a problem. What’s—”

Erin coughed again, and there was a wheeze in her voice. Ishkr saw her face go red, and he stood up.

“Do you need a drink?”

Erin nodded. She saw Ishkr half-rise, then a smile crossed his face. He looked at her.

“Do you have an order?”

Her throat was super-dry, or there was pollen or something. Erin wheezed.

“Anything. Just a drink—”

She coughed, and when she raised her head, Ishkr had a clear cup of deep violet juice. Erin blinked, but took the cup and tasted sour juice. Yet with a dash of sweet; even so, she puckered her lips and took a gulp and felt the urge to cough vanish.

“Waitasecond. Is this the watermelon juice from Wailant’s spitting watermelons?”

“Yes, Miss Solstice.”

“How’d you—do you just have watermelon juice in a bag of holding?”

Erin looked, but Ishkr didn’t even have a bag of holding. He smiled, pleased with himself.

“[Menu: Instantaneous Order]. I believe I gained it after the Titan visited the inn.”

“That’s so cool! Thanks, Ishkr!”

Erin sipped from the cup in relief. She’d all but forgotten they served the juice. Ishkr sat back down, and Erin sighed. She saw him watching her, and after a second, Ishkr spoke.

“…There isn’t a party you had in mind, is there, Erin?”

“Nope. I mean, I could do it like that.”

Erin snapped her fingers and looked at the inn.

“Just crack a window open and I shout ‘movie night’ and we’re good. But I can’t. I…can’t. Listen, it’s okay. I’ll take the heat. Can you get an order for yourself?”

“Not for another…twenty minutes.”

“Whoa, that’s a fast cooldown, isn’t it?”

“Not when it’s rush hour, but it is a helpful thing. If you would like, I can get a straw or ice. It would only take me six seconds.”

“Ooh! You can do the [Garden of Sanctuary] trick too?”

The most adept inn-goers had learned they could maneuver around the inn by entering the garden and moving the door to where they wanted at amazing speed. But their conversation broke off when someone shouted from below.

Hey! Stop drinking juice! I have a bet on the party!

It was the same Drake from before. Erin grimaced, and Ishkr half-rose, but Erin waved him down.

“Nah, nah. I have something for this. Lyonette made me take all kinds of artifacts. Here’s the one for not getting shot again…here’s the anti-scrying one Saliss gave me, and the appraisal—aha!

She slapped a little bit of gemstone on the third ring, and Ishkr’s ears popped as a bubble of silence enveloped them. Erin winked at him.

“Eavesdropping measures. But it probably won’t work on Grimalkin or even Saliss. Or Pisces—he reads lips. So I couldn’t talk about the big stuff.”

So there was big stuff. But then, Ishkr and even Mrsha knew that. He waited for Erin to suggest they go in, but she kept sipping drinks.

“I know they want us, Ishkr. But let’s keep sitting. Is it okay if I ask about Liska? She seems sort of, um, Ryoka-ish? Does she just go around punching people and that’s why she’s in trouble? You don’t have to tell me.”

Indeed, Ishkr did not, and he had never, ever brought it up. Because it might mean trouble, and Ishkr didn’t invite that sort of thing, despite working at The Wandering Inn. So he hesitated.

But it was also Erin Solstice, and she had a habit of defending Goblins, Antinium, and Doombringers. So he leaned over and whispered.

“She…has a female companion. Which is not as much of a problem as it would be in some cities, but it is still Liscor. She does not like people trying to stop her either, so she starts fights.”

“A female c—oh. I get it. A girlfriend.”

“Yes.”

Erin blinked a few times.

“Huh. Thanks for telling me. I mean, I won’t tell anyone. But I thought she did something really bad like breaking windows.”

Ishkr heaved a heavy sigh.

“She does that too, sometimes. Do you know Sellme?”

“Mrsha’s friend?”

“What? No, the [Magical Painter]…the one who causes trouble. They’re an influence on Liska and…”

Ishkr hesitated, because he had a sudden suspicion. So did Erin, and she leaned on her chin.

“Huh. Well, I guess we’re gonna have to watch our windows if Mrsha’s friends come over. Then again—ours are pretty tough to break. But that’s hard, being the older brother. Do you, like, need anything?”

The Gnoll [Server] shook his head instantly.

“Actually, since the Watch comes to the inn, it has helped more. Senior Guardsman Beilmark, Councilmember Jeiss, and Senior Guardsman Relc have all stepped in rather than arresting her.”

“That’s good. But let me know if you need help, okay? And I guess we’ll hire Liska. Keeps her out of trouble, and we need the crew back. Even if Silveran can’t come.”

“…Thank you.”

Ishkr looked up, and Erin smiled. Then her stomach growled, and she poked it.

“You traitor. I was just having a good time! Wait, I never had lunch, and it’s…”

She stared out, and it was definitely getting into the first hours of evening. The sun was still warm, but Ishkr rose. Instead of asking if she wanted to go inside, he gestured at a door at the back of the inn.

“Could I get you anything?”

“Um…I need our menus. I’m not in the mood for fries, y’know? Can you get…”

Erin didn’t really want a snacky food like onion rings, and something more filling like a full steak was also not really a ‘sit outside’ meal.

“I can check for anything?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just a fruit or vegetable thing. Maybe some bread?”

Ishkr vanished, and Erin sat there a moment, kicking her legs. Because of the bubble of silence, she felt the wind blowing on her, the sun warming her chair, but she didn’t hear anything until someone walked through the magical barrier and spoke.

“—rin! Whoa, was that a spell? What’s going on? Everyone’s wondering if you have stomach problems or if you’re getting something really big ready. They’re sort of antsy.”

Kevin came through the bubble of silence, and Erin jumped.

“Kevin?”

A few people had gone to check on Erin, but it was Kevin who’d peeked around the back of the inn first. He focused on the drink and how relaxed Erin was and hesitated.

“I, uh, got the laptop ready. Mrsha wants to show Gire a movie.”

“She hasn’t already?”

“No, I think they were all too busy. Do I boot it up or do you have plans for something else?”

He waited, and Erin considered the question. She took another sip from her drink.

“…I’m not doing a party. I don’t want to, Kevin.”

“Oh.”

Well, what did that mean? Kevin hesitated and then saw a door open. Ishkr had returned with a basket of different foods and a harried look.

“They’re asking where you are, Erin. Should I…? Oh. Mister Kevin.”

“Hey, Ishkr. I was just telling Kevin the party’s off. I guess we should let them know. Kevin, did you know Ishkr can do an instant order?”

“Cool.”

Kevin gave Ishkr a vague thumbs-up, and the Gnoll nodded. They both stood there for a second, then Ishkr sat down, so Kevin copied him.

Okay, so today was going to be one of those sad days. Get the tissues and keep Joseph out of the drinks. That was Kevin’s other take on the day’s progress—until he saw Erin’s face.

She didn’t seem depressed or blank. She just seemed tired, but she perked up as she investigated Ishkr’s haul.

“What is this stuff, Ishkr?”

“Lasica and Imani were interrogating me in their kitchen. I apologize—”

Ishkr had a mismatch of bread, fruits, and what he’d thought was a baguette. It turned out he’d grabbed a block of wood for the ovens in his haste. Erin tapped it against the wall of her inn, amused.

“Unless one of the Fortress Beavers gets here, I don’t think anyone’s eating this. What else is there? Tomatoes, ooh, corn! Is that a squash? Where did we get all this?”

“Oteslia sent a huge basket for Miss Lyonette.”

“Aha. Say, where are the beavers? Are they…?”

Erin’s face fell, and Kevin broke in, hurrying to reassure her.

“They’re at Selys’, Erin. I think they’re sort of her guard…beavers.”

“What?”

Erin turned from Ishkr to Kevin as if they were pulling her leg, but both nodded.

“Some thief broke in, and apparently they broke his legs and sat on him. Selys decided to build them a pool and everything.”

“Beavers. They are big…but beavers? Guard-beavers? I mean, okay. Kevin, what would you eat? A raw tomato?”

She waved it at him vaguely. It was at this point Kevin realized that Erin didn’t want to go back into her inn. He didn’t exactly blame her. Cross-legged, Kevin vaguely inspected a squash.

“I bet you’d have to cut that up and…roast it.”

“I have my super-knife, but I don’t do well with cutting boards, and I’m not slicing off my hands. Corn?”

“Corn’s edible raw.”

And it was still fresh from whenever it had been brought into the inn thanks to the power of the inn’s [Field of Preservation]. Erin knew you could eat corn raw, but she gave Kevin a disturbed look.

“You want me to eat cold corn? Not hot? You boil corn, Kevin. Then you put salt and butter on it…Ishkr, you might have to fight past Lasica and Imani again.”

He groaned, but Kevin protested mildly.

“That’s not the old kind of corn, Erin. You can also grill it.”

“Grilled corn? I’ve sort of heard of that…but what kind of monster grills corn?”

Erin turned to Ishkr, then caught the most offended look she’d ever seen coming from Kevin, no less.

“You’ve never had grilled corn?”

“Nope. Boiled is how you eat corn. What, do you just stick it in a fire or on a grill?”

“Yep. You can do more like add parmesan cheese or other toppings, but…”

Erin made a gagging sound, and Kevin twitched. He was deeply offended, especially as someone who had been a connoisseur of street-vendor grilled corn, which came in many delightful flavors.

“Get me a fire and I’ll make you one right now. I’ll do it in the fireplace!”

“Pssh. Who needs a fireplace? I’m Erin, the crazy Human with fire, remember? Watch this!”

Erin put out her hand and frowned at it. Then she looked up.

“Hey Ishkr, say something annoying. I think I need hot fire, so I need irritation.”

“Lyonette wants to go over the inn’s finances again?”

“Ooh, good shot! No, it’s not working.”

The idea of grilling corn with magical irritation-fire seemed like a recipe for disaster to Kevin. Exasperated, he stood up.

“I’ll just get a coal from the fireplace. Give me one minute—”

“There you are.”

A shadow crossed the world. Everyone fell into darkness, and Erin peered up at the tower of muscle that was Grimalkin. He had found them, and Erin sighed gustily.

“Look who’s here. The fun police got us, Ishkr, Kevin. We’re going away for a long time. I guess everyone wants us back?”

The Drake crossed his arms.

“Strategist Chaldion is wondering. I simply want to investigate. What are you doing?”

“We were making a fire. A regular one, but if you want to go back to talking about Pallass…”

Erin pulled a face. Grimalkin looked at her and then pointed at the block of wood she’d tossed down. It burst into flames, and Kevin blinked as the Sinew Magus sat down in one movement.

“…That was part of my job as Magus of Pallass. I didn’t expect you to reply. Nor will Chaldion push today. But you know they will not let up. This isn’t even knowing information about the Antinium, Erin. You have been marked a person of interest by all the Walled Cities.”

Erin eyed Grimalkin. That was unusually…no, he was always honest, but there was a difference to how he sat and stared at the block of burning wood. Ishkr uneasily eyed the grass, but Kevin grabbed the husk of corn. Erin and Grimalkin stared at it as he searched around for something to attach it to.

“There’s not much of a fire here. Just a block of wood. I need…kindling. Dried wood.”

“There is firewood around back. Let me get some.”

Ishkr trotted off and came back with a pair of logs. Grimalkin saw Kevin try to place the burning block of wood in between the other two in some logical way to create embers. The art of building a proper fire…

Grimalkin got up, came back with five more logs, and arranged them with Ishkr. Then he pointed down and poked a finger through the largest one.

Erin felt a rush of heat, and when Grimalkin withdrew his claw, the wood was already a smoking ember from within, and flames began to rise across the rest of it. He waved his finger, and Kevin gave him a look of respect.

“That’s cool magic.”

“Physical augmentations. My specialty, after all. What is this for?”

For answer, Kevin chose his spot carefully and laid the husk of the corn between two logs. Then he frowned.

“I don’t want it to touch the fire. I need a poker or something.”

“I can find one.”

Ishkr left, and Grimalkin raised one eyebrow. Erin folded her arms.

“Roasted corn. Or grilled or whatever. Can you believe this guy? I mean, I guess it’s a new food, so everyone’ll be excited.”

Grimalkin eyed Erin.

“…Roasting corn is not a new invention, culinarily speaking, Erin Solstice. I have eaten roasted corn hundreds of times before.”

“Oh. Well, I haven’t.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

Kevin joked, and Grimalkin’s lips actually twitched. He glanced at Erin, then down at the crowd blanketed by the silence spell. People were pointing up at Erin in confusion and craning their necks.

“Are you not going to do something…interesting, Miss Solstice?”

“I don’t think I can. Not what people want. I just wanted a snack—oh, thanks, Ishkr. Okay, Kevin. Show me this so-called vaunted grilled corn of yours.”

“All I need is a bit of butter…”

“Why’s it in the husk? Don’t you peel it first?”

Grimalkin looked at Kevin, and the Earther decided just to keep at browning the corn. Who had [Basic Cooking] here again? Well, no one needed it, and it wasn’t going to be the best thing ever. But there was already a faintly pleasant smell in the air, and the fire might be warming, but a faint chill of fall was making the heat enjoyable.

“Grimalkin, did you have to get me or something?”

The Sinew Magus was like a boulder as he sat next to Kevin. He replied slowly. Almost…bitterly?

“My duties to Pallass mean I must do quite a lot, Erin. Not this. Contrary to what you may believe, I am not wholly Pallass’ instrument. Pallass and I do not align on all matters. I realized that recently.”

Erin saw Kevin glance up and then go back to his roasting. Ishkr decided to get some butter, and Erin turned to Grimalkin.

“…You mean Ferkr?”

She knew what had happened at the Meeting of Tribes. Grimalkin didn’t answer. Which was an answer in itself, because he was normally very talkative about all matters. He prodded Kevin.

“The corn appears to be roasted.”

“You sure? Gah!

Kevin snatched his fingers back from the steaming corn, which had indeed begun to smoke very heavily. Grimalkin was about to rescue Kevin from the frailties of skin when a gnarled hand reached out and a voice snorted.

“Weak as a Human. Can’t handle a hot plant? You’ll never forge Adamantium. There. Eugh. What’s this?”

Pelt the [Master Smith] husked the corn and stared at the crisped kernels with some lovely browning. Erin blinked.

“Pelt! When did you get here?”

“When I heard some idiot had posted a quest to the City of Stars. I expected to find the inn burning and all the Drakes dancing naked in the streets. It’s quiet. You going to eat this?”

“Yep. Hey!

The ‘hey’ was because Pelt instantly snapped the corn in half. He put half on a plate that Ishkr had brought and grabbed the bowl of soft butter. He dipped the other half of the roasted corn into it and took a huge bite, then did another dip.

“Good. You can share. What’s this thing? Too crunchy on the inside, but the yellow things are good. I’m hungry. Haven’t taken a break from smithing all day.”

He had eaten the corn and the cob in one huge bite. Which, yes, was technically edible, but…Erin protested as she put some butter on her portion.

“Pelt! That’s my corn! Don’t you know what corn is?”

“This is corn? You’re joking. This isn’t corn.”

Pelt nearly dropped the piece of corn. He pointed at it, aghast.

“Corn’s dark. It looks the same, but it has black leaves, and it’s pale as snow.”

“No…what kind of corn do you eat?”

Grimalkin snapped his claws.

“Snowcorn, from Noelictus, the Kingdom of Shade. They are Terandria’s breadbasket—they provide most crops. Deríthal-Vel would import it.”

“Right. Are you telling me corn’s not white and black? Damnit. Those undead-kissing freaks. It’s the same as bread all over again.”

Grumbling, Pelt sat down, and Kevin’s stomach rumbled. He looked at Ishkr.

“Do you, um, have more corn, Ishkr? We could fry more. Or—how about bread? Hey, we’ve got some.”

“I’ll check.”

As he did, Kevin simply tore some of the fresh loaf of bread and began trying to roast that over the fire.

He set fire to the bread. Erin laughed as Kevin blew frantically, then she gingerly picked up the grilled corn and inspected it. It certainly smelled good, and she was hungry. She frowned as she took a few bites.

“Now that you mention it—maybe I have eaten this before? At fairs and stuff. Weird. Is this how people eat corn elsewhere?”

“They do it in Michigan too.”

“Nah, nah. Boiling is how it’s supposed to be. This is like an alternative way.”

“Erin, you’re making me mad. I’ll push your chair down this hill.”

Pelt’s loud crunching interrupted the squabble. He’d just eaten the entire corn cob. He licked his fingers—which were sooty—and nodded.

“That’s not bad.”

“Pelt! You don’t eat the entire cob!”

Pelt and Grimalkin challenged Erin instantly.

“Why not?”

“Indeed, it is far more beneficial to consume the entire product. Baby corn is edible in its entirety; I observe [Farmers] feeding the cob to goats.”

“Yeah, and they’re goats. I’m a person.”

Pelt snorted.

“Do you peel your apples first and not eat all of it? Humans.

“Hey! What, you eat the core too? And the seeds? That can kill you!”

“What? That’s stupid. Is a [Druid] going to make them explode in my stomach? You hear this, Sinew Magus? I bet she cuts the crusts off bread too. Like an infant.”

The squabble was interrupted by a loud crunch. Everyone turned and saw Kevin biting into toasted…toast. He winced at a shell of charcoal on his failed first attempt, but then brightened up.

“Ishkr, you’re a genius.”

The Gnoll had come back with all the corn he could liberate, a chunk of parmesan, a grater, a bowl, and another jar of honey. Kevin slathered some honey over his bread, but when he announced he would now create roasted corn with parmesan, that was the step too far.

“There is no way that will taste appetizing.”

Grimalkin refused to hear of it. Pelt was all for it and tossed the corn husks on the fire without fear of flame. Erin just smirked at him.

“You started us down this dark road, Grimalkin. You’re gonna eat it! I’ll have a bite too. Pelt, what’s up?”

“You mean, besides you coming back to life? The Gnolls nearly getting wiped out by the damn Drakes? Izril cracking like a bad egg?”

Erin hesitated.

“Um…yeah?”

“Nothing. Aside from someone ‘inventing’ Demas Metal. Gah, I suppose he has a right to it. If he’s even alive after the damned Drakes tried to send Gnolls the way of Halflings and Harpies.”

He looked up from arranging the corn expertly—of course a [Smith] knew how to grill anything to the heat he wanted. He met Grimalkin’s eyes.

“Sorry, I guess.”

Erin, Kevin, and Ishkr turned to the Sinew Magus, but Grimalkin just sat there a moment before glancing up.

“…You haven’t said anything that a reasonable observer couldn’t claim. I don’t believe this is the moment to defend the Walled Cities. Nor was it defense that motivated five Walled Cities to bear arms against the Gnolls. Excuse me—three. As Oteslia and Salazsar were clearly acting in defense of the tribes.”

Erin bit her lip, and Kevin exhaled slowly. This was the kind of thing that she hadn’t talked about. Erin had gotten several accounts of the Meeting of Tribes, and she had even been there, albeit as Sserys. But they’d talked about it in the manner of recalling it. Normally, they’d drop it there, but…Erin looked around and realized there was no need.

She wasn’t going back into the inn, and the corn was grilling once more. Ishkr reached and pulled out a butterspice tea for Grimalkin and a mead of some kind for Kevin and Pelt.

“…Grimalkin. I bet you don’t know or you can’t say, but you trained in Fissival, right? Is it true that the Drakes were stealing magic from the Gnolls?”

“Yes.”

Everyone stirred. Grimalkin looked up. His face was shrouded despite all the light.

“I cannot prove it. And before you ask, no, I didn’t know about it. But the facts line up. To what end is a mystery, but they did.”

“So the Drakes stole Gnollish magic to weaken them. Then—when the tribes found out, they marched into the Meeting of Tribes to…kill them?”

Pelt spat sideways off the hill.

“Classic.”

Erin shook her head.

“Why?”

“The Walled Cities occupy a certain mindset. They regard any foe as an inevitable clash—it only matters when. They thought, clearly, that they could win an advantage by striking first. It almost succeeded, but for Khelt, one could argue.”

Grimalkin’s voice was flat. Erin watched him, and Kevin spoke up.

“It seemed like hell, Grimalkin, man. I know Pallass didn’t fight the Gnolls, but I was watching it happen. I don’t know if I could ever look at Manus, Zeres, or Fissival the same way.”

The [Sinew Magus] sat there. He didn’t meet Kevin’s eyes, and Erin held her breath.

“No. I don’t believe many people could, Kevin.”

Kevin hesitated, then spoke quickly, raising one hand as Pelt flipped a piece of corn.

“But it isn’t your fault. You were far from the Meeting of Tribes, and I know you’re….I’m just saying the other Walled Cities.”

Grimalkin didn’t say anything at first, and Erin replied slowly for him.

“…But he could have been. He didn’t do anything, but the Walled Cities still did this, and Pallass didn’t really stop them. And Ferkr was there. Is she okay?”

The Sinew Magus glanced up.

“Ferkr? She is my finest apprentice, though I barely trained her as much as some of the others. She is well. Nothing you’ve said today is wrong. I have been reflecting on much the same.”

There it was. Erin Solstice raised her cup to sip, and it was empty. She handed the cup to Ishkr with a pleading look.

“Can I get another? With a straw?”

“Of course.”

Erin turned back to Grimalkin.

“What could you do, though, Grimalkin? I mean…I get it. If I was—alive—when it happened—”

Everyone smiled a bit, and Erin went on.

“—I’d have tried to do something. But you…what could you do? I mean, it’s done. So what?”

“…Quit Pallass.”

Kevin’s mouth fell open, and Pelt sat up. He flipped husks of corn onto a plate as Erin looked sharply at Grimalkin.

“You don’t mean that, do you?”

His eyes were very calm as he met her gaze.

“My options are simple, Erin. At their very core—there is a binary. Everything I do falls within those two outcomes. I consider everything. And as I learned, it is not impossible to quit a Walled City.”

He looked pointedly at Pelt, and the Dwarf grunted. He unwrapped one piece of roasted corn and began to lather it up with butter as Kevin did likewise. The Dwarf slapped away the bowl of parmesan.

“Pallass is just another city to me, Drake. I left my real home. No, I was exiled. There was nothing for me anywhere. Now…with my pride, I chose Esthelm, but think carefully. You can never go back again.”

He met Grimalkin’s gaze, and the Drake wavered. Erin held her breath. Then she took a piece of corn with cheese on it and stared dubiously at the concoction.

You got the powdered cheese to hold onto the corn with butter. Or mayonnaise, which sounded even more heinous. Erin took a bite and then chewed thoughtfully.

“Hey, this is pretty good! It sounds disgusting, but…Grimalkin, have one. You too, Pelt!”

“No.”

“Put that in my face, Kevin, and I will feed you a coal.”

Ishkr! Come and have—

The Gnoll reluctantly put down his tray of drinks, but when he took a bite of the corn and instantly spat it back out, that made Pelt ironically try it. The Dwarf found he enjoyed it, as did Grimalkin. Ishkr growled.

“I hate cheese. Sorry.”

“What? You hate cheese? All cheese?

“Yes. It’s not even that I hate it—I get very sick. I even get puffy. And er—other things.”

“Wait, like bad poo? How long have you—I don’t really recall you hating pizza.”

Ishkr shook his head.

“I’ve had a slice or two and it was good, but I just—cannot have cheese. Butter is fine, actually. But no milk, no cheese.”

“Wait a second. That’s lactose intolerance.”

Kevin spoke up, and Grimalkin looked at him. Ishkr hesitated as Pelt decided to toast some bread.

“What does that mean?”

Erin wavered, then shrugged helplessly.

“…He’s allergic to milk. Intolerant? One of the two.”

That bombshell of information—fizzled out on the ground as Ishkr growled thoughtfully and then nodded along with Grimalkin and Pelt.

“That—makes sense. I guess I just never said it like that. You can be allergic to milk?

“Sure, Antinium are allergic to wheat and stuff. Gluten. Wait a second…didn’t they fix that?”

Grimalkin raised a claw.

“They did. My reports indicate that Antinium are non-lethally and non-significantly intolerant to wheat-based products, or, as you say, ‘gluten’. I had to research the matter because some idiotic [Tactician] in the Walled Cities considered dumping flour on them in battle. I also found that at least a few members like their Centenium were resistant.”

And Ksmvr eats the stuff. All the time. Because of his amulet of food poisoning or something—waitasecond.

Erin snapped her fingers excitedly and looked at Kevin.

“Kevin, no way. Do you think instead of a food poisoning amulet it’s an—”

“Anti-allergy amulet? No way.”

Kevin looked from Grimalkin to Pelt. The Dwarf held up his hands.

“Get Hedault. I’m no [Enchanter]. Maybe it’s the same thing.”

Grimalkin instantly shook his head.

“It isn’t. But perhaps that enchantment is more sophisticated than we thought. Where did it come from?”

“Uh. Albez? Maaaaybe…”

The Drake tapped one claw on the ground meaningfully as Ishkr took a big bite of regular roasted corn and happily chewed.

“Are you saying that you think those adventurers found a regular anti-food poisoning amulet from Albez in, if I recall correctly, Warmage Thresk’s personal stash?”

Erin and Kevin opened their mouths. Erin replied weakly.

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds stupid. No way. Anti-allergy…”

Kevin leapt to his feet, shouting.

Shrimp! Damn shrimp!

Everyone peered at him. Kevin slapped his chest.

“I’m allergic to shrimp! Nothing else—but do you know how tough that makes eating seafood in—in where I live? I need that amulet!”

“Let me try it too!”

“Just get the spell.”

Grimalkin called after Kevin. And Erin felt a tingling on the back of her neck. She gaped at Grimalkin.

“Did…did we just solve allergies?”

He snorted.

“Hardly. Spells like this surely exist already. If you had enough coin, I imagine an [Alchemist] could create a nullifier for you. Even if we isolate this enchantment, unless it is mass-producible—and even if it is—it will end up being a widespread allergy cure for the middle class at most in twenty years’ time.”

“That sounds pretty good.”

“It would be. But it isn’t a cure. It would only save lives at a [Healer]’s if they had a charm like that to prevent such deaths and end up as a net positive for society. I’ll look into it.”

And there it was. Erin looked at Pelt, and he snorted.

“I’m not allergic to anything. Hey, are we going to eat this corn all day or do we go inside the inn?”

“D’you want to?”

The Dwarf considered this as he brushed kernels out of his beard. He scratched at his chin and glanced around. The sun was still high in the sky, the grass was soft, and the act of grilling food was fun enough that Erin wanted to do a sausage or two.

“…Nah.”

Erin smiled and focused back at the fire. She glanced up after a minute and brought up something she had wanted to ask.

“Are the Walled Cities going to attack the tribes, do you think, Grimalkin?”

He was about to answer, but was cut off. Kevin was hurrying back with Ksmvr and Yvlon, and the two stopped when they saw the fire.

“Erin! This is where you were? Everyone’s expecting you to summon a Frostmarrow Behemoth or something! They’re getting imp—are you grilling corn?”

Yvlon walked over, and Erin motioned them down as Grimalkin replied.

“Candidly, Erin? I think the answer is ‘no’. But you would have to ask Chaldion. I could support my reasoning with facts, but he knows the answer.”

Erin frowned. She turned to Ishkr, and the tingling grew into a certainty.

“Ishkr? Can you get him? Oh, and bring back some sausages. No one’s invented marshmallows yet—can you toast sugarcubes?”

 

——

 

By the time Grand Strategist Chaldion appeared through the [Garden of Sanctuary], Ksmvr, Yvlon, Grimalkin, Pelt, and Kevin were all passing around food that Ishkr had snuck out of the kitchen.

“What is this?”

“We’re just sitting around. Chaldion, are the Walled Cities gonna attack the Gnoll tribes after this? If you’re not going to answer, I’ll make you go sit in the inn.”

Erin waved at him, and the Drake—hesitated. But the [Innkeeper]’s eyes were gleaming, and she was sitting up a bit.

But no, she wasn’t running around, and this was not the legendary party. The excited Erin that the naive guests of the inn were still expecting to come bursting through the door—or a wall—wasn’t there.

Yet neither was the depression and magical flame. This was just…a regular fire. However, it was exactly for that reason that Erin was smiling.

“I could discuss that with you later along with your quests—”

“How about now, with everyone?”

The old Drake hesitated. And there it was. Erin had no time in the inn. At least, not with everyone in a line. Here, though? She’d just heard something from Grimalkin that had clearly been bubbling within him. There was no time in a party to ask the long questions.

But they had a lot of time while corn roasted. Well…long enough. Especially because the fire was only large enough to do a few husks at a time, and so Kevin was already making more for Yvlon and Ksmvr.

“The Walled Cities have no interest in fighting the tribes. I believe most are safe from any attacks until the scope of the new lands are explored. The Walled Cities do not want to make greater enemies than they have. They took losses fighting at the Great Plains. They are wary of the Antinium and other forces that may seek Izril.”

Chaldion sat down in the end. Erin frowned at him.

“Are they worried the tribes’ll fight back? Get revenge?”

“Possibly. But I believe that is not a concern, the tribes sieging a Walled City. Not in their current state.”

“…Which implies that the other cities that aren’t Walled Cities may suffer as a result.”

Grimalkin spoke, and Chaldion glanced at him. The Drake nodded once. He turned to Erin and was rewarded with a huge smile.

“Well, we’ll see what happens. I just asked, Chaldion, because if they try that again while I’m awake, I’ll nail my next quest to Pallass’ walls.”

The Grand Strategist actually hesitated a moment before nodding blandly.

“Your point is well taken. Many mistakes were made during those events. In hindsight…”

He trailed off, and everyone looked at him. Because no one interrupted him, Chaldion finished his thought.

“…in hindsight, I believe I would have had that idiot, Dragial, buried in an unmarked grave. Fissival expelled him because they had to, but they never abandoned him. He would be attacking your inn within the month if he were alive and heard you post that quest.”

“Huh. What did he do? Wait—he was the one who led Fissival’s army, right? Who killed him?”

“Us. I knew it. I knew she was up to something.”

Jelaqua Ivirith strode around the corner of the inn and pointed accusatorily at Erin. And then Seborn, Maughin, and Jelaqua joined the group.

“Aren’t we going inside? Where’s the excitement, Erin?”

“There’s no excitement, Jelaqua. We’re grilling corn. And Kevin puts cheese on his. Pull up a seat, and Ishkr can get drinks. Actually, he should take a break. Maybe someone can help…?”

The Gnoll stood up.

“I’m fine, Erin. It’s just drinks.”

“Wh—no party?”

The Selphid seemed crestfallen, but Seborn had already sat down. Erin smiled.

“No party. Just…a picnic. Or is it a campfire cookout?”

Jelaqua didn’t seem to get the difference until she sat down and felt it. It was the tempo. The amount of guests could vary, but the atmosphere was relaxed. Erin had a moment, and in that moment, she had to ask.

“So…you killed Dragial?”

“He was going after Lehra and her team—that’s the Stargnoll. She owns the Blade of Mershi.”

Erin nearly sprayed her watermelon juice over Maughin.

W—someone found one already? Well then, I guess that quest’s like a quarter done! I thought that would be the hard part! Hey, does it speak to her? I mean, uh…nevermind.”

“Speak to her? I don’t know, but that Wall Lord wanted her dead. He hired her to find it; it’s a famous tale. I guess you never knew it because you were in Liscor, but Lehra’s been famous for, what, two years? There was a huge argument because Dragial always said she stole the artifact. I thought she was sort of a thief—until I met her.”

Chaldion lifted a finger.

“Technically, as he was employing the Ruinstrider tribe when the relic was found, it was his. However, when he saw the relic in her possession, my understanding is he tried to put the Stargnoll and her people to death, forfeiting his claim. He argued otherwise, but his pursuit of Lehra endangered countless lives and ruined cities.”

“And you killed him?”

Jelaqua sat there as Maughin stared at his lover, and her eyes were steady.

“We did. Lehra’s team is new, but that Drake brought an army to try and end her. We learned our lesson with Garen. And we knew it even before that. We might not be welcome in Fissival, but I hope it’s not a problem here?”

She glanced around, and Chaldion and Grimalkin shook their heads. Grimalkin picked up a sausage and frowned at it.

“…Pork. No, Wall Lord Dragial was a talented [Mage], but even when I was in Fissival, he was single-minded. You acceded to his will or he ruined your career or reputation.”

Chaldion merely nodded.

“No objections here, either. Would you like a medal on behalf of Pallass? I can arrange that.”

“Are you…actually serious?”

“Entirely. It would be political and send a message. Salazsar is already formally at war with Fissival, and the mood is against the City of Magic. Moreover, for the Gnolls…yes. Would Beithday work? I could convene a ceremony in the late afternoon.”

“Wait, what was that about a war between the Walled Cities?”

Erin urgently waved a hand as Maughin and Jelaqua whispered. Everyone gave her that look that said it was common news she didn’t know. Since it was clear Jelaqua was getting a medal so Maughin could brag, Erin turned to Ksmvr and Yvlon.

“How are you two doing?”

“Good.”

That was the bland-salad answer, so Erin rolled over and lifted an experimental, melty, half-browned sugarcube up from the metal tray. She offered it on a spoon to Yvlon.

The look the [Armsmistress] gave her was an answer, but Ksmvr tried it.

“Ooh. Hot! But sweet! Hot! Hot!

He delicately inserted another piece of what was essentially burnt sugar and ash into his mouth, and that was too much. Imani and Lasica came stalking around the corner of the inn.

“I knew it. So that’s where you’ve been taking all the food. Ishkr!”

Imani pointed at the Gnoll, and he jumped guiltily. Erin groaned with the others; it had become sort of a game trying to hide what was happening from the people in the inn. Lasica, on the other hand, just took one look at Erin’s ‘sugar-mellows’ and rounded on the [Innkeeper].

“You are a menace to the world of cooking, Erin. I cannot understand how you ever achieved [Advanced Cooking].”

“Hey! Caramelized sugar is a thing! Pull up a seat, Imani. We’re doing a fire-thing. Grilling corn and stuff.”

“Without a grill?”

The [Chefs] didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, Palt and Rufelt joined them and were sent to get a pan, a metal grille, and more cookery ingredients. Soon, Lasica was telling Erin that, yes, grilled corn was a thing, and real enjoyers put pepper flakes on them instead of cheese.

“Mild, but hot enough that you feel like you’re really getting a mouthful. Look at the colors.”

She sprinkled expertly and handed Erin a piece of corn to sample. The [Innkeeper] blew on it appreciatively and took a bite.

“Yum. Hey, now I feel bad about leaving everyone in the inn. Do you think we should tell them there’s no party?”

Rufelt was grumbling as he put down a host of spices he’d taken from the kitchen, but the [Bartender] still found time to produce a mug with a perfect head of foam. He handed it to Lasica, who took a long gulp, before nodding over his shoulder.

“Frankly, Erin, I think you don’t have to worry about that.”

 

——

 

The occupants of The Wandering Inn were getting restless, waiting for Erin to come back. At first, they didn’t notice the slowly diminishing headcount of guests and mostly just asked anyone who came back in whether Erin was ‘up to something’.

“What? Oh—definitely. She’s scheming. Er, she’s just, ah, getting Grimalkin and Kevin to help her with something.”

“They’re making sure she isn’t too crazy, right?”

Lyonette interrogated Jelaqua as the Selphid came back in. The adventurer nodded, biting her lips hard. She winked at some of the Antinium, and they looked puzzled, but Lyonette didn’t notice.

“Hey. Where’s Erin?”

Numbtongue stopped Ishkr next and got a different response.

“Er, the outhouse, still.”

“Oh. Bad poo? Orange? Red?”

“I—did not inquire.”

It was a game, and the longer you stayed in the common room of the inn, the more you lost. Now, some people who might have picked up on the commotion outside were hampered by the inn’s thick walls and closed windows, which let in no sound nor sight of the picnic outside.

They were also getting false information, but mostly, they were expecting Erin to come back inside like a storm. A few went out to see if she needed help and mostly figured it out, but the ones not in the know waited with growing impatience and anticipation.

The Gnolls figured it out very quickly. Mrsha and Gire began sniffing the air and nudging each other. Gire whispered to Mrsha.

“Are you sure? I can smell it…but why corn? Popcorn? I smell cheese, too. Should we…?”

They slipped out via the garden and never came back. Next was Relc and Klbkch. Relc was putting his feet up on a chair, and he turned his head slightly.

“Klbkch, my guy. I’m not super good at the Watch stuff where we interrogate people. I just do the hitting part. But it seems to me that those stories don’t match up. Erin’s in the outhouse, working with Grimalkin, and Kevin ‘didn’t see her’.”

Klbkch raised one finger as he whispered back.

“In fact, all statements have been false.”

“You knew that?”

“Yes, of course. Shall we investigate?”

“Damn right. Embria, let’s go take a look.”

Their departure meant that a number of Antinium relaxed when Klbkch was gone, but Pawn, anxiously waiting for Erin’s return, realized something was up soon after that.

“Yellow Splatters, let us all go and take a look outside. I believe we are, to use an expression, being punked upon.”

“How do you know that?”

The Antinium regarded Pawn, and the Worker pointed. A smirking little white face disappeared, but it was too late.

“Mrsha gloats. And she does not like me.”

The Antinium began to get up, and even Lyonette couldn’t miss that.

“Don’t go! I’m sure Erin will be right back—Ser Sest, go find her. Let me get you another round.”

She was so busy trying to placate the Antinium she never noticed Pisces and Ceria looking up from their table and following the drift of the inn.

“Hey, Pisces, Yvlon and Ksmvr never came back from searching for Erin.”

“Indeed, Ceria? I note a certain diminishing of the inn’s population.”

The two [Mages] exchanged a glance, and their finely honed Wistram instincts from their days as students told them something.

“Something interesting is going on, and we’re being pranked. Let’s move. Watch out for buckets of dust overhead or something.”

“Erin wouldn’t do that.”

“Good point. Watch out for jars of acid, I guess.”

By now, it was just embarrassing for whomever was left. Numbtongue stopped tuning his guitar as a sly claw poked him. Gothica jerked one claw towards the door, and the Hob narrowed his eyes as she whispered to him.

“Lots of shadows where? Hrm.”

He reached over, poked Ulvama, and the poking went round to Rasktooth and then Bird. All of them filed out of the inn, and at last, Lyonette looked around, bewildered.

“Where’s everyone going?”

Saliss of Lights had been napping in a chair. He sprang up, looked around, and groaned.

“Oh no—no—I’ve been Xifed! No!

He dashed out of the inn, and Lyonette followed with the remainder of the guests. They charged out of the front door, just in time to see Numbtongue disappear around the side of the inn. The crowd outside was mostly gone, and all the sound and noise was coming from—

Saliss is one of the last ones? Who bet on that?

Laughter and voices and the smell of frying food greeted the guests, and Saliss threw up his claws.

I was asleep! You—you—”

He pointed a finger at Erin as Lyonette put her hands on her hips. The [Innkeeper] just waved a piece of corn on a stick at Saliss.

“Hey, Saliss, grab one of Kevin’s disgusting pieces of corn. It’s really tasty!”

“Erin, this is your big plan?”

Lyonette demanded, flushing at the merry laughter coming her way. Erin’s smile didn’t dance or sparkle or twinkle like usual. She just leaned back in her chair and shook her head.

“Nope. We’re just sitting here. No party, no host of guests, and no money, sorry. But we could use some ice cubes and maybe some more firewood.”

Lyonette began to puff up like an exploding mushroom, but then she saw what was going on and deflated. Without a word, she flopped into the grass, provoking a scandalized look from Dame Ushar, but Mrsha hopped in her lap, and then?

And then the conversations continued. They were far, far richer than the loud chaos. Because although there were private subtopics and whispers and, yes, some confusion when someone raised their voice or someone accidentally put their tail into the fire, they could hear each other speak.

This is what they said:

 

——

 

“So Erin…what was it like, being dead? You talked to…ghosts?”

The question at the top of everyone’s mind fell out as Ceria tried her hand at cooking something on the fire. She watched the pieces of popcorn she’d attached to a metal poker slowly ignite one by one. Pisces rolled his eyes as he tried to toast a banana, and Yvlon gave both [Mages] the look of someone regretting being associated with them.

“Yes.”

Erin was sipping from a beer. She made a face and handed it off to her left.

“Too bitter.”

“You have bad taste.”

Numbtongue grumbled as he took it and sipped appreciatively. He took Ishkr’s tray and passed it to Octavia and Garia. Salkis wasn’t here, nor were a number of other people who could have claimed a seat.

No Gna, for instance, or Zevara, Olesm, Krshia and the Gnolls…or Moore. Erin was counting the people she knew and were absent, but there was still a crowd of crowds.

Everyone was looking at her. The sun was coming down in the sky, but it was still plenty bright, and the crowd outside the inn had realized there would be no party.

So they’d decided to copy Erin and make their own fires. Erin stared at the way the flames played across the embers, that hypnotizing dance you could stare at forever.

The world of the dead had nothing so beautiful or real. It had no heat, and it was made of memories. Even the most glorious ones tarnished and grew old.

“Yes, I saw them. I talked to some.”

“What happened?”

The [Innkeeper] saw Mrsha was leaning back against Lyonette, who had her arms folded around the Gnoll. A Thronebearer, Dalimont, was watching Bird aim a bow at a distant sparrow with distinct wariness. The Antinium were all gathering around a second fire being built, clearly relishing the challenge of starting it without magical help.

“Blow, blow! You don’t have enough kindling! Double it!”

Relc was hopping from one foot to another as a tiny ember tried to ignite kindling. The sight of a bunch of Antinium trying to blow on the fire was very funny, but they eventually got a spark to catch and began shaking each other’s hands instantly.

Then they turned back to Erin as she went on.

“It was a war.”

Gireulashia stopped greedily pretending to ‘toast’ a slice of cake she and Mrsha were going to ‘share’. She looked up, and Chaldion stared at Erin. Everyone did.

“A war? What kind of war?”

The [Innkeeper] gazed into the fire with that half-smile no one had ever really seen on her face. A complete mystery raised her eyes and regarded everyone.

“…It doesn’t matter. I don’t remember all of it. All I can say is that it was a big war. A terrible one. Just like every one.”

She looked to her right, and Relc nodded. So did Chaldion, Grimalkin, the [Crusaders]…too many people knew exactly what Erin meant. Garia raised one hand, tentatively licking her lips.

“Did we win? No—who was we? Were there sides?”

“Just one. Everyone was on one side and…I don’t know.”

“That’s how you know it was a war.”

Saliss commented, eyes darting to Erin’s face. He saw a trio of pokers tied together move past him, holding a single piece of corn on one end. The entire contraption threatened to break at any moment as the pokers were joined by a piece of twine, but it was the only way for a sulking Fierre and Gothica to roast anything from their seats in the shadows of the inn’s roof.

They believed her. That was the amazing thing to Erin. But the living had seen too much to deny it. And yet, they hung on her every word because she had been there. What did they imagine?

Seamwalkers? They would have been right, that was the thing, but then Pawn raised one trembling hand.

“Erin. Then you were amidst ghosts. Tell me. Were they there? Did you see—Heaven?”

The [Innkeeper] looked up and met the [Priest]’s eyes. He was aglow with faith, but some of the Antinium seemed terrified of the answer. Yellow Splatters clenched his fists as the [Innkeeper] gazed at Pawn, and the [Priest]’s ardor faded.

“No, Pawn. I never saw a single Antinium. Or Goblin.”

She glanced at Ulvama, and the Hob didn’t seem surprised. Numbtongue stopped chewing on his corn, but Ulvama just laughed.

“Dead lands don’t let Goblins in either. Same, same.”

Klbkch said nothing, but Relc nudged him and offered him one of the sausage links. The Antinium gazed at it and took it without a word as Embria glanced at her father and his partner. Perhaps only she saw the way Klbkch’s fingers trembled.

“I—I see. They weren’t there?”

Pawn’s voice shook a bit, but Erin’s distant look returned to normal in a second. She turned as an entire people’s faith wavered suddenly in a cold breeze. The dying fire grew as Grimalkin inserted another log of split wood into it, and she smiled.

“No, that’s a good thing, Pawn.”

“Why, Erin?”

The young woman watched him.

“—Because wherever I was, whatever it was supposed to be or had been—it wasn’t heaven.”

The [Priest]’s mandibles opened slightly, and his antennae went still. The Antinium gazed at him, and Pawn spoke one word.

“Oh.”

These casual words were shaking Chaldion’s clawed hand more than any party. He reached for a cup of tea and nearly knocked it over.

A slender hand grabbed the cup, and Saliss actually caught the liquid about to spray outwards with a flick of his claw. He put it down—on Chaldion’s snout, and the Grand Strategist almost snarled, but then he took a sip of tea.

“You should try that coffee stuff that Lyonette brought back, old man. That’s better.”

“What? You found coffee?”

Erin was distracted a moment, and Lyonette spluttered at the non-sequitur.

“Yes, but—go back to the other part!”

“Nah, nah. Coffee? That’s great! I was going to post a quest for someone to find some, but I guess I won’t. First chocolate, now coffee. That’s the real quality stuff. What else has ‘c’ in the name that we need?”

“Cotton candy?”

Joseph spoke up, and Selys jabbed him in the shoulder with a glare. Completely unabashed, Kevin raised a hand.

“Corn. Grilled corn.”

Kevin!

Erin shook a fist at him, but she smiled and looked around before growing serious.

“It’s all over, now. There’s…nothing left. So that’s what happened. There was a war, and a lot of people died again. They told me a few important things, and I—I wish I’d been able to help. But I have some things I need to tell you.”

She regarded Ceria again, and every head turned to the half-Elf. But then Erin glanced at Pisces, and he turned white.

In that moment, suddenly—everyone was terrified of Erin’s gaze. Numbtongue, Chaldion, Saliss—Mrsha switched from Lyonette to her bigger protector, and hid her head in Gire’s arms, but the big Gnoll girl looked away from Erin too.

That was terrifying. Not a single one of them…Erin felt guilty.

“I’m sorry. I’ll wait until you ask. I shouldn’t have tried to spring it on anyone.”

“But that means there is a life after death. It means the [Witches] are right. I mean, ghosts…but there’s organization. There’s something. Right? Will there be more crossovers of the dead and living?”

Fierre spoke up, trying to make sense of it all. She looked at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] saw right through her. The Vampire felt a prick of fear as Erin spoke.

“No. Not anymore.”

And like that, they all learned the greatest, most frightening truth that Erin Solstice had carried back into the lands of the living. Mrsha just closed her eyes as she leaned against Gire, but Chaldion’s claws tightened around his cup until Saliss began tapping him on his opposite shoulder and pretending it was Maughin who was doing it.

Each to their own reaction. Erin saw what effect her words were having, so she shook her head.

“Let’s talk about something else. Something…all these bad things have happened. We did our best. All of us.”

She looked about and got countless nods. Grimalkin couldn’t meet her eyes, but Erin whispered as the conversations halted and then began again, around her words.

“There has to have been a point to all of it, right? It meant something. But what?”

 

——

 

The answer was surely obvious. He knew it. He had always known it. Each ruler of Khelt had said it from the day they accepted their heavy burdens.

They would lay their lives across the bridge of time and wear themselves thin, so thin even their souls ached and their bodies fell to pieces, that a kingdom might be radiant, even glorious. But most of all—that it would be safe and the people happy.

That was the point. And if that were the point, then the rulers of Khelt had done just that. It was not the bright bloody glory of battle, but the legacy that led countless statues and tributes to bear their names. It was the richness of culture and children who feared no monsters nor the darkness of night.

But still, even though Fetohep knew it, he grieved. He feared the coming days and years as he had feared no foe.

When he returned to his palace, he found his servants in a mild panic.

“Your Majesty! We know you were not to be disturbed, but—”

“Be at peace. What is the issue?”

Fetohep felt the aegis of duty fall back upon his shoulders and was almost glad of it. To work, then. Who would be first?

“The Quarass of Germina requests your presence along the border of Khelt and Ger, sire.”

“The Quarass?”

That was interesting. She had scarce returned as well, but she would naturally want explanations. Fetohep had been sparse with explanations, but if anyone deserved answers, it was surely her.

“I shall grace her with my presence. Need she transport to Khelt?”

The servant hesitated, for here was the tricky part.

“The Quarass of Ger, with all due deference, has humbly requested Your Majesty visit her location. She has endeavored to make it as close as possible.”

It was only a four hour ride to the edge of Germina with the right Skills and undead horses. Fetohep sighed.

“Prepare me a horse.”

“And an escort?”

Fetohep hesitated. The odds were remote the Quarass would try to assassinate him, and—

“…No. I shall go alone.”

Thusly, he spent the next four hours riding across Khelt, wondering what the Quarass wanted. It took closer to five hours as he did slow to reassure his people he was not embarking on another world-ending tour, and because many towns emptied themselves to cheer his passing.

There were things for Fetohep to do whilst riding, like rebury some of the undead and send out [Messages] telling various officials to report to him in person in the coming weeks. He also received a notice that Erin Solstice was apparently eating corn while sitting outside of her inn.

“Aptly like her.”

By the time he reached the location the Quarass was to meet him in, Fetohep was curious. She was a savvy diplomat, the world’s finest, if cruel, mind. Some Quarasses had an excess of pride or their current form influenced their genius, but this one seemed cunning and relatively honorable.

Fetohep didn’t really consider murdering an Archmage and infiltrating Wistram that dishonorable. He knew the Quarass had killed Archmage Nailihuaile; she had the Serkonian Lance after all, and only she would have been that capable, or Gazi or Amerys.

The Quarasses had done far, far worse in the name of protecting Ger. That this one kept her word was fairly good. But he was curious, then, why she summoned him. He was infamously touchy about protocol most times, and why this location?

It turned out to be a somewhat salutary building on the border of Ger, one of those waystations by the looks of it—albeit surrounded by what was probably the Quarass’ escort. Too many horses for the stables and a decent contingent of travellers besides.

Some of them were people seeking entry to Khelt. Fetohep remembered many in times of war near Khelt, but he was surprised by how many looked up and pointed at him and screamed, sometimes in awe.

Interesting. Khelt’s reputation had certainly changed. But why this place? Security? If that were so, Khelt’s palace was nigh-impossible to eavesdrop upon. Perhaps the Quarass felt associating with Khelt was dangerous? This didn’t feel that covert with people pointing to him.

An assassination after all? Khelt’s power might alarm the Quarass, but she had to know his replacement would seek vengeance. Perhaps she had convened a ceremony to name Khelt a Shield Kingdom.

That would be just like her. There were duties Shield Kingdoms had to each other, and while Khelt had petitioned for the honor before—Fetohep would have to refuse her if that were the case.

Fetohep wondered if he should have brought Alked Fellbow and Frieke just in case. Too late now—and he was tired. Bone-weary, so he was perhaps too reckless as he strode towards the doors of the waystation.

“Your Majesty, the Quarass is—”

A shadowy figure materialized. One of the top bodyguards, no doubt. Fetohep did not turn his head.

“—expecting me. I am here.”

To their credit, the bodyguards he sensed visibly or invisibly did not try to stop him. The door swung open, and Fetohep of Khelt strode through, ready for anything. He saw a somewhat full room of travellers, a few stunned citizens of Ger, including bodyguards, and there was a short girl dressed in the rich thread of her office, young, her brown skin and black hair unremarkable in a sea of children.

Only the eyes showed an age beyond ages, and the way she held herself as she turned with…a pair of tankards in hand…and beamed at him.

Welcome! We’ll be with you in one one moment. Please have a seat. A drink for His Majesty.

“What.”

The Quarass of Germina put two mugs of Yellat Ale down on a table and beamed at a hooded [Assassin] of Ger.

“Can I get you anything else, Miss?”

“No, your—no—I—this—”

The trained killer was stuttering as she stared at the mug. The Quarass’ wide smile never wavered as she nodded.

“Please, don’t be shy to order more. I recommend you try our lamb kebap—we don’t have any Sariant, which the original calls for, but it is very good. A Jecrassian special, I promise. Don’t forget to save room for dessert!”

Then she swung back towards a terrified [Server] and accepted another plate and drink and whisked it to a second table. Fetohep stared at the Quarass. Then he saw someone gesturing him to a table.

An undead Revenant sat down at a table in the makeshift inn, and he felt like the normal one in some surreal dream. The Quarass had a big smile on her face as she bent over to ask a boy practically her age what he’d like to eat.

The guests were giving the Quarass much the same look as Fetohep. It seemed the waystation was occupied by half her personal guard and people of Ger, the other half travellers.

“Quarass of Germina. What are you doing?”

“Give me six minutes, Fetohep. Would you care for a non-magical drink?”

“No. I have holes in my stomach.”

Literal holes in his body, which meant that going to an inn was an entirely pointless endeavor unless it served the undead-only concoctions. But once again, the Quarass surprised him.

“We do have a Deathbeil Draught on tap. One for His Majesty!”

“You have a Deathbeil Draught on tap. In an enchanted keg with a pewter-bone cup.”

One appeared as a black keg glowing with preservative runes was wheeled out and a cup was poured by the world’s most terrified [Barmaid]. The Quarass winked at Fetohep.

“I anticipated my guest. Have as many as you want. Excuse me—do you need the outhouse? It’s just—”

He knew what she was doing by the time the Quarass sat back down. Fetohep of Khelt lowered his cup.

“An [Innkeeper]? Truly?”

For answer, the Quarass of Ger lost her ‘work-smile’, which was in its way scarier than Fetohep’s corpse grin, and gave him a cold-eyed look of exasperation.

“The Quarass of Ger takes whatever class she must, Fetohep. I will admit—not once in my entire existence have I sought out the [Innkeeper] class if I did not already have it. But I have been an [Innkeeper] before. Twice.”

“Of course you have. Is it purely for Quests?”

The Quarass seemed amused.

“You say that as if you do not know the potential. Finding the City of Stars is a quest. If these quests are unlocked by knowledge alone—I will benefit. I simply must continue this for a day in earnest. Which means I have a few hours before my night shift. Do you wish anything else?”

“I have been sufficiently amused, thank you. Why else did you summon me?”

Fetohep had to admit that the sight of the Quarass waiting tables had made him feel like Erin Solstice were still dead. But that gloom settled over him once more.

For a reply, the Quarass signaled, and someone brought her a mug. She glared at the [Barmaid], who fled into the kitchen. She peered into the mug darkly and eyed her bodyguards, who decided to leave a vast tip and leave the inn.

“Lemon water.”

“Wine would surely not be appropriate for your age.”

“Nor will it be for a decade. Bah. You there. Claiven Wine, one of the tree vintages. I will have it in a clean cup or vessel. It need not be a large cup, but I will drink it with the King of Khelt. Now. Or the next drink you imbibe will be more memorable still.”

The little girl turned in her seat, and a [Server] froze. Fetohep raised one brow, and the Quarass turned as the drink she wanted appeared in front of her within seconds.

“A drastic threat.”

“Betimes one masks them. For every idle boast and claim I make, for all the wisdom I have sometimes doled out, I have in every lifetime backed my words with steel and magic. They forget so quickly. Sometimes examples are made.”

“So speaketh the tyrant of Ger or the wise woman?”

The Quarass didn’t rise to the bait as Fetohep lifted his pewter goblet.

“Both would tell you that proof is necessary. Or have you learned to trade and rule on naught but words? If I recall correctly, Khelt’s words were toothless in Medain and the Claiven Earth until you marched an army north.”

In other times, the ruler of Khelt quite enjoyed a proper dialogue with someone like the Quarass. Now, he had no mood for it and simply nodded.

“Your point is well made, Quarass. Why have you requested my presence?”

For answer, she swished the wine around in her cup. It was not made to hold one of the tree-vintages of a half-Elven nation, which might have been stored in casks hollowed out of a living tree, the wine made of grapes flowering upon vines centuries old at the least.

A rich vintage, for an important moment, just like the Deathbeil Draught. Nevermind the arguably poor [Innkeeper] experience; Fetohep was sure his presence alone would help qualify her for at least one level in the class.

No, the Quarass lost the slightest edge of amusement all of this had put in her voice. She took a small sip of the wine and sighed. Despite her words, she was fairly cautious about her lifespan and body. But she lifted the cup and admired the way the light played across the faintest yellow tint of the wine as she glanced out the window towards the setting sun.

“Would you believe, Fetohep of Khelt, that not twenty feet from where we sit, I first met Khelta when she staked this land out for a kingdom?”

Fetohep’s hand froze with the mug raised. He focused on the Quarass, and she splayed one hand across the table and got a splinter. Frowning, she glared at it and went on.

“I believe I mocked her, at the time. You must understand, I was a rather jaded man, I think. Too tired of watching Shield Kingdoms forget their calling within my lifetime to believe a Necrocracy would ever stand. I was far humbler the second time, but I think no less than six of my incarnations met Khelta. She lived long, and though her corpse never ruled—I learned to respect her will. We all did, the rulers of her age. In the first days, we thought Khelt was something to be pushed around, an expendable army of undead led by a single powerful [Necromancer]. Then she won the admiration of countless nations, until even marauding Giants knew better than to tread across her lands lest a giant of bone rise and do battle.”

Fetohep didn’t say anything at first. He saw the brown eyes flit up a second, focus on him, as if she could read even a corpse’s face, and then the Quarass flicked the splinter away.

She knew. But all the Quarass did was take another sip.

“She was rather impertinent, though. If you were her enemy or put yourself against her, she would remember it and spend no little time humiliating you in the years to come. I have often thought Khelt’s rulers modeled themselves after that in some ways.”

“She—she was imperious. But not among the most strident of—Khelt’s rulers.”

The Quarass smiled. She closed her eyes and thought, and Fetohep understood now. He gazed around the emptying room, save for the two of them—for who else could be part of this but the two oldest? Those who knew. And he was a mayfly to her years.

“No, that would be Queen Emrist and her Scourgeriders. Or His-Xe. Or—and I say this not lightly at all—Hecrelunn, who was practically a ruler in his own right. Intriguing, is it not, that the most passionate of Khelt’s rulers left Revenants?”

“You knew them all, then?”

Of course she did. The Quarass nodded. She looked at Fetohep, and he gazed around the simple waystation. A poor place for either one to be in, but the palace wouldn’t have suited after all, would it?

After all—this was a wake. So Fetohep lifted his cup.

“Tell me of them, then. I knew only their ghosts, and only recently. If I thought of them before, they were beneficial presences. If I remembered…Xierca. She was my Queen.”

“Yes. And a good one, in her way. But too fond of strange plants.”

Fetohep almost jumped.

“The—those damned orchids? You recall them, the garden?”

The Quarass snorted.

“The most heinous of arrangements? Xierca always styled herself as something of a visionary when it came to horticulture.”

“I had to—regrettably—destroy many of them and relocate the rest these last months.”

She actually laughed at that. Then the Quarass began a story about Xierca’s youthful follies, both as a living woman and as the dead ruler. And Fetohep listened. The keg of ghostly liquor and mundane wine emptied a bit as the Quarass and Fetohep sat there. Talking about the dead. And he took heart, when he looked at her.

For when he was gone—even if he couldn’t watch over Khelt—she would remember him too. And then Fetohep knew that she was the most lonely of all. That great, tyrannical, cunning, kind, aged ruler of Germina.

An undead king and a ruler made of a thousand lifetimes drank deep into that night, celebrating the dead, and a Dragon flew. He alone, that Lord of Flame, had no one else to mourn with that knew their names. Not even the Quarass. But though the night was long, he followed his heart.

Despite what might come next, despite not knowing whom he was flying to, despite the wrongs he had committed, he flew, bearing a few things, to meet someone he knew only by name. And he was a Dragon, so he flew fast, but the journey was far. Nevertheless, Teriarch went onwards.

To what would be in this world, at least, perhaps the last true gathering of Dragon and Wyrm.

 

——

 

They hadn’t moved from the hill outside The Wandering Inn, although the sky was growing dark. In contrast, the fire glowed brighter, and it was like a magnet. Though people got up to stretch their legs or go to the bathroom, they returned and sat back down.

And talked. Not all of it was as dramatic as Erin’s words. In fact, it got entirely silly at times. However, these were conversations that you might never hear the people here speaking about, held over a bit of corn or sausage or a roasted banana.

“It’s happiness, isn’t it? Isn’t that the point of it all? To be happy? I mean, there’s other stuff in life when you boil it down to the roots. When I was a little squirming Selphie, I thought I’d be a grand adventurer and then make some new Selphids and tell stories in my later years. What else is there to do?”

Jelaqua was speaking next to Maughin, going after Erin’s question from earlier. So—so it was a philosophical discussion.

What was the meaning of life? Or, alternatively, what was happiness? It was like the fire setting dragged the question out of those present.

“Is happiness the meaning of life? Are you sure?”

The question came from Garia, whose head rose, frowning from a handful of yeasted popcorn with butter she was eating with Numbtongue. The question stumped Jelaqua.

“Isn’t it? Don’t you want to be happy in life? I mean, you earn a job and coins to buy things you want like food, a roof over your head—but if you had all the gold in the world, you might not work. So what else do you do but things that make you happy? Kids, adventuring, leveling—it’s all for happiness, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. It just—seems kind of basic.”

You’re basic.”

At this, Maughin nudged Jelaqua and murmured.

“Dear.”

“Sorry, Garia.”

The City Runner lifted a hand, and the Selphid relaxed slightly. Garia looked around, a bit embarrassed.

“What do you all think?”

The people sitting around the fire with Erin looked at each other. Erin was dozing a bit, but she saw Grimalkin lift a claw and begin to pontificate.

“I believe the question is inherently misleading, with all due respect to Adventurer Jelaqua. You see, happiness is conflated with purpose. One cannot be happy without fulfillment of some kind. [Mages] used to run emotional detection spells in Walled Cities to understand various policies, the effects of classes, distribution, etc. and they found excessive wealth did not indicate higher levels of happiness. The opposite, usually. The most happy individuals had a certain degree of wealth and levels and purpose.”

The brief lecture made Relc yawn.

“[Mages]. But you need money.”

“I said certain degrees of wealth. Happiness is linked to fulfillment. That is my answer in brief.”

Grimalkin folded his arms. He was instantly countered by Selys, who disagreed in a major way.

“I don’t think you need to work to be happy, though, Grimalkin. Not once have I said at my jobs, ‘gee, I wish I could keep doing this for the rest of my life’. Retired folks are plenty happy not to do anything, some of them.”

“Anecdotal, Miss Shivertail. A completely aimless life is often a void into which vices are piled without restraint.”

Grimalkin shot back, and Rufelt raised a paw next to Lasica.

“I can attest to that. Drowning in your cups is not a good way to go.”

“But I’m not saying that—I’m just saying you don’t need a job. Someone back me up.”

Selys looked about, and the gray-furred paw that raised belonged to Elirr. He and Hexel were sitting together, and he had brought some pets, having arrived late to the gathering. Hexel was scratching a purring tomcat’s stomach much like he couldn’t do for Elirr with everyone watching.

“I will take Selys’ side. My cats do nothing but eat, play, and sleep, and I have often envied them.”

His aforementioned cats gave the crowd a smug look, and those present considered the happiness and point of life vis-à-vis the cat theory. However, Seborn decided to weigh in.

“That’s all very well, but I’d die of boredom. If I wasn’t an adventurer, I’d drink myself into oblivion. Even if it means risking my life, I want to do this.”

“The Drowned bastard’s right. I may have quit the life of sea, but I didn’t enjoy peace and quiet until I went through some misery. Besides, there’s always going to be a monster or day when something bad happens. Happiness isn’t the point of living because you’re not always happy.”

Wailant added with a big nod. Selys protested.

“You…could be. Couldn’t you have a great house, do your favorite things all the time, assuming you didn’t get bored and found something new to do regularly, visited friends, pet cats—or dogs—or beavers—”

The former [Pirate] snorted.

“Issat a euphemism? I agree! Got to pet beavers and whatnot. Don’t throw things at me! But no week’s guaranteed happiness. Let me tell you—all you have to do is step on a rake and there goes your happy day.”

He was just lucky his comment passed over the little Gnoll’s head. Mrsha was napping a bit as Gire kept eating, but she woke up a bit to this interesting debate. She began scribbling and tugged at Lyonette’s arm and made her read her response.

“Mrsha says—I’m reading it, dear. Mrsha says, ‘being happy isn’t one day. It’s a long, loooong time. Even if you have days where you step in poop.’ Mrsha! Language!”

The Gnoll gave Lyonette a long, narrow-eyed look as she was scolded for her writing. She took the card back, crossed out poop, and wrote ‘shit’ instead. Pisces chortled alongside Ceria, but people took Mrsha seriously.

“She is correct. Lives can be cut short in moments. You may not agree with the practices of all Walled Cities, but the lifespans of citizens within are longer than average than those outside. Happiness…grief…better to have both than have it all cut short.”

Chaldion spoke quietly, staring into the fire. He’d removed his gemstone eye, and he seemed almost as ready to sleep as Mrsha.

“Then what’s happiness, Grand Strategist? Living a long time?”

Jelaqua challenged Chaldion, frowning, and got another nervous nudge from Maughin, but the leader of Pallass’ military just took his time sipping from the drink named after him before replying. His voice was hoarse when he did speak, and each word seemed dragged out of him.

“Happiness? Happiness is—ignorance. It is not for everyone. Happiness for a city or a people is something the few sacrifice so the many may achieve. It is the luxury of safety. Of victory. It has a high cost.”

“Spoken like a tyrant.”

Saliss snapped back, sitting up from where he’d been lying on his back. Chaldion said nothing; he didn’t even turn to Saliss. Lyonette closed her mouth—she had been nodding slightly. Gireulashia cut off another Saliss-Chaldion argument.

“That sounds like something Xherw would have said. Or Ulcreziek.”

That was a conversation-killer. Right up until Bird raised a hand.

“No, silly, big Gnoll whose name I do not know. That sounds like Niers.”

Everyone studied him. Bird hesitated.

“Niers…Nierseffson…Jealnet. Nierseffson Jealnet, whom I do not know. And is not the Titan of Baleros.”

He folded his arms and smiled. Lie achieved. Pisces looked at Bird and choked a bit, but Saliss bit back what he was going to say and turned to Bird.

“What’s happiness to an Antinium, then?”

That was an objectively fascinating question, and Bird took his time responding. Numbtongue muttered to Wailant.

“Five gold he says ‘happiness is a bird’.”

The [Pirate] began choking with laughter, and Viceria covered her mouth. Bird looked over at Numbtongue and opened his mandibles wide.

“Happiness? I am not that much happier when I shoot a bird, Numbtongue, or eat one.”

What?

Everyone chorused. Erin sat up just in time to hear Bird correct himself.

“I mean, I am not much happier because I am a happy Bird. That was not a lie. Yet. I know I should be dead. I was a Worker, and I never saw the sky. I was meant to die fighting something horrible and never eat acid flies. I should be dead, and I am not. Every day I am not dead and know this. If I forgot, I would be a very silly Bird. So happiness is me winning over death itself.”

He folded his hands together over his belly and rocked back, satisfied. Since the ground they were sitting on was the hill and his back-shell was rounded, Bird went over in a somersault. In silence, everyone watched him tumble down the hill like a pillbug.

“Uh oh. Ouch. Watch out below. Whee—”

That was so entertaining that Mrsha and Gire rolled out of the conversation. Wailant put out his hand, and Numbtongue spat into it. It was Joseph who decided to break the silence.

“Antinium are depressing.”

Drassi raised both brows.

“That’s news? I’m not reporting it.”

The laughter went around the people sitting there, but the question lingered. So, Ksmvr turned and brightly looked at his mentor.

“Yvlon, what is happiness to you?”

The [Armsmistress] stuttered and turned red as everyone glanced at her.

“I, uh—happiness? Well, I—it’s—I think it’s not—uh—”

She was lost, and like a friend, Pisces lifted his hand.

“I believe happiness, or the point of existence, is more than just emotion, as Magus Grimalkin says. There are spells that provoke happiness and insanity. If you cast such spells on yourself, are you happy? My answer is no, so it follows that happiness is a lasting accomplishment or…deed that provides it.”

“What, does everyone have to go on a quest to be happy, then?”

Selys shot back instantly, but Pisces just sniffed at her.

“Hardly. That’s a simplistic read on my statement, Miss Shivertail. Happiness can be a child, as Jelaqua indicated, or yes, fame and glory, or a home. I just maintain it has to be linked to something.”

“I can buy that.”

The Drake [Heiress] admitted grudgingly. Pelt tossed another stick into the fire with a snort.

“Spoken like a Human and Drake. Everything has to be something you can touch.”

“Says the master-smith.”

Palt raised his brows, and Imani squeaked as Pelt tossed a bit of ash at them. The Centaur blew it away with a spell, and Pelt glowered back.

“Everything breaks. Even the greatest metals. Craft is invisible, and you may never hold what you make. The deed doesn’t have to be there.”

“Is that happiness, Pelt?”

Erin wanted to know. The Dwarf looked up at her and then away.

“…How should I know? I’ll tell you if I ever find it. You don’t need it to live.”

They were teetering on the edge of other conversations, but Yvlon had apparently found her answer. She stood up as if she were giving a speech, and her voice was slightly tremulous.

“I, um, have my answer. Happiness is a lack of something. In other words, I mean—it’s not being in pain. It’s not being hungry or wanting for anything. If you have nothing holding you back, you’ll probably be happy. You should be.”

Fierre tilted her head left and right. She was sitting as far away from the silver-armed woman as possible. She whispered to Octavia, with her brows raised.

“Isn’t that backwards?”

No. It was just a revealing answer. And for a moment, Erin wished that she had been able to meet Ysara and this Qwera. But then Ksmvr was nodding.

“That is not my answer, but I will write this down in case the question comes up again, Yvlon. I have a good answer. I have it here.”

He rose, and everyone saw what he was holding. The black cat went meow in Ksmvr’s hands. He supported it, stroking its fur gently.

“Happiness is a cat.”

He showed it around, and the purring animal let him scratch behind its ears. Everyone waited for Ksmvr to say something else, but he just sat back down happily.

 

——

 

“Gottem.”

Kevin grinned from where he’d gotten up to refill his drink. The conversation was resuming, and it looked like it was Viceria who was giving her take on the nature of happiness. Ksmvr stepped back, still holding his cat, and Kevin heard another group of people that were listening into the central conversation talking.

“They are discussing happiness. And we’re eating roasted foods around a fire. This feels like when we are on campaign. It’s not very exciting. I was told she sometimes made the inn explode.”

Kevin looked around, and there was Crusader 57. He did seem like he enjoyed complaining, because the rest of Squad 5 elbowed him and, despite his comments, the Worker had eaten eight pieces of corn.

Some of the Fellowship of the Inn and soldiers were sharing another fire, and before Kevin could Kevin his way in—which was a surprisingly familiar thing given that Kevin2 and Kevin3…and Kevin were all parts of the army—someone else spoke up.

“Excitement, sir? That’s not always the best.”

“No?”

Crusader 57 challenged the fellow with a cap on his head. Normen gave a cautious tug of the cap as he, Alcaz, and Pivr all toasted pieces of bread to dip in a bowl of honey. A little bee indignantly stared at them plundering all this honey with their flesh-proboscises as she lay in the little sling Lyonette had fashioned for her across the [Princess]’ front.

Normen shook his head. He had a rather splendid cigar that the Centaur had given him, and he was taking delicate puffs and enjoying himself. He elucidated his point for the [Crusaders] very simply.

“The thing about excitement, sir, is that sometimes, all you remember is the excitement. Which is good enough. But this? You’ll remember this in detail on a cold night and think back to just how it tasted.”

He tapped the slice of bread, which he’d added a bit of cheese and honey to. The [Crusaders] nodded slowly. Kevin sat down.

“Exactly. I mean, it’s great for me too. Hi, I’m Kevin.”

“Oh, another one.”

Crusader 57 twitched his antennae as Kevin gave him a blank look. But the young man was smiling. He looked down, and his face went slack for a moment, then he laughed ruefully.

“What is so funny? Inform me, strange Human whom I vaguely recall. Then we shall be chummy. Friend.”

Pivr fanned his wings gently. Kevin tried to explain what was so ironic.

“A cold one on a porch—or the back of the inn, I guess, around a fire with a snack? It’s just—I’m turning into my dad.

He glanced down ruefully, and no one got the joke except maybe Normen and Alcaz, who smiled briefly. Kevin took a sip from his mug and changed his tune.

“…I guess he had a point.”

A few more people drifted away from the central fire, mostly because someone had passed really, really bad gas. Ksmvr walked away, chasing a cat who’d fled the stink bomb, and realized Pivr was here when the cat hissed at the Flying Antinium.

“Oh, Pivr. You are here. Many Antinium are here, I note.”

The Flying Antinium nodded cautiously. There were Antinium from the army, from the Free Hive, and the Fellowship. In fact, Klbkch was returning from washing his hands to where Relc was laughing with Embria and some of the Watch and [Soldiers]. He stopped.

“Ksmvr.”

Ksmvr jumped, and all the Antinium fell silent.

“Oh. K-Kblkch. Hello. Good to see you.”

The two faced each other, former Prognugator and Revalantor. Klbkch stared at Ksmvr’s regrown hand.

“You and I have not spoken since your return from Chandrar. I note that Xrn authorized the regrowth of your hand.”

“Yes…and I am thankful for your well-wishes. My team is doing very well. Is the Hive well? Our formalities are concluded, goodbye—”

Ksmvr edged back, but Klbkch folded his arms. He looked Ksmvr up and down.

“I am also pleased to note your new sword school. My sword school. My Skills.”

“Oh. I, um. I’m very grateful for their usage?”

The [Skirmisher] would be sweating if he could. Klbkch was rapidly advancing his [Loomer] class, and his voice was amazingly flat.

“I note you did not inquire as to my preference when inheriting my Skills and abilities that I worked for.”

Ksmvr could have run, but the cat suddenly decided it wanted more petting, so he picked it up. He looked defiantly at Klbkch and spoke.

“I noticed you were not using them, so I decided someone should, Klbkch.”

Oh snap. Kevin’s mouth moved slowly as Klbkch’s antennae went still. Ksmvr wasn’t taking everything lying down—and it was probably a combination of Pisces, Ceria, and Yvlon that was adding to his retorts.

Before anything else could happen, though, another shape came bounding forwards, and there was a gentle woof. A little puppy ran towards the [Crusaders], who all stared at it. Then, before it could beg for treats, a hand reached out and picked it up.

The little dog whined, and there he was. All the Antinium turned as a figure appeared with a dustpan. The dread Antinium. The most hated being in the Free Hives.

Furfur. The animal caretaker was helping shepherd some of the Free Antinium’s pets and Elirr’s cats, and he stopped as he noticed the gathering. What might have happened next was anyone’s guess, but then one last figure appeared.

“What is this? What is this? So many familiar faces. There is Pivr. Where have you gone? We could have used you during the war. We still can.”

Prognugator Dekass walked forwards, carrying an entire lasagna tray in two arms and a pair of drinks—both for him—with his other two. He still had his armor on, the repaired damage from battle shining on his breastplate, and he had a slight limp, but he seemed as happy as could be.

And then—the [Crusaders], the Free Antinium, they realized they were all here. The six legends. The myths of the Free Hive.

Furfur, Klbkch, Ksmvr, Dekass, Pivr, and Crusader 57. The six most hated Antinium in one spot for various reasons.

Ksmvr, who had once nearly gotten Liscor overrun in his brief tenure as Prognugator and who had hurt Pawn.

Dekass, who had been completely objectionable for most of his stay at the inn.

Pivr, doubly objectionable.

Klbkch the Slayer, executioner of Antinium, feared for his cold attitude towards others.

Crusader 57, who could be mean and hurt people’s feelings.

And Furfur, who made animals go take naps.

Clearly, this was a vortex of evil Antinium, and the only question in each Antinium’s mind was—who was in the top five? Did they have to update the rankings?

Of course, even the Antinium knew that it wasn’t that serious of a ranking. It was mostly just…fun. But it seemed at least one of the Antinium was self-aware, because Ksmvr turned to Furfur.

“They call you Furfur. Your name is known to me as a dread Antinium of ill repute.”

The [Pet Trainer] stopped in confusion as the dog barked quietly. Ksmvr met his gaze, and if sparks could fly…slowly, he lifted the cat in his hands as Klbkch stared at him in confusion.

“Furfur, I respect your class and abilities. But I fear—my time in Chandrar has given me insights you cannot dream of. I have been friends with the Empress of Beasts, and she has taught me many things. So—observe the forbidden technique. [Fourfold Petting].”

With that, he began demonstrating a 100% increase in the techniques of ear scratching, tummy-rubbing, and cat-pampering. The cat practically writhed with delight in Ksmvr’s hands as Klbkch stared at him.

“Unbelievable.”

He stalked past Ksmvr, and Dekass wandered away since he had been told the cats were not part of the food being served. Furfur watched in silence as Ksmvr amazed the onlookers with his talents. The little dog stared at the cat as Furfur put him down, and he raced over to get a scrap from Crusader 53.

What would be his response? Furfur was very still as he fished in a belt pouch. Then…he produced a short-toothed comb and brush.

Instantly, the cat abandoned Ksmvr and leapt into Furfur’s hands. He began to comb and brush the cat’s fur as Ksmvr’s mandibles fell open. Furfur nodded to Ksmvr and picked up the dog; it was getting late, and they needed to sleep.

 

——

 

“Ksmvr, where did you go?”

The Antinium came back to the central fire as Ceria, Pisces, and Yvlon showed him the cake slice they’d safeguarded for him. The Antinium didn’t touch it. He sat there and looked at his comrades.

“My team, I have been bested, humiliated, and defeated. It is a strange feeling, to be so roundly thrashed. I may never recover. And yet—I must train harder.”

He clenched one fist. Yvlon turned to Ceria, uncertain whether or not they should get up and avenge Ksmvr or not.

And the night went on.

 

——

 

In the end, there were a lot of theories about happiness and the meaning of life, if you’d even thought about it in a grand sense.

“The meaning of life? Uh—”

Joseph completely blanked when he was asked. He glanced around and stuttered.

“Well, they say lots of things, right? Like, um, to ‘crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and hear the lamentations of their women.’”

Kevin began choking on his drink with laughter as Erin’s head swiveled, and she gave Joseph an outraged look. But the people sitting around Joseph took him at face value. Numbtongue gave Joseph a long, long look and a frown.

“…And then what?”

“Huh?”

“What do you do after that?”

The Hobgoblin gave Joseph a very distrustful look, and Seborn broke in.

“Pillage and plunder, obviously. And worse. That’s your meaning of life?”

He gave Joseph a deeply disturbed look, and the young man raised his hands hurriedly. Imani was horrified. She might have been from Earth, but she had no idea what he’d been quoting.

That’s what you want to do, Joseph?”

“No!”

“It’s clearly what he meant from the context. What are you, some kind of Bloodtear Pirate or those insane raiders?”

A Drake twitched at her spot around the fire, but Joseph was the one trying to defend himself.

“It’s not me—it’s just a quote, guys. It’s just one theory, right? I mean, no one knows the answer—”

Pawn raised one hand politely. He had been creating some bread for extra food, and he turned to Joseph.

“I have seen my enemy driven before me many times. I have also crushed their heads with a mace. It is not best in life to me, but I respect your attitude towards the game of football. No wonder you are a [Coach].”

It was getting dark, and the laughter from the fire where Joseph’s name was being dragged through the mud almost woke a sleepy little Gnoll in Lyonette’s arms as she carried Mrsha to their rooms. But most people were sitting around the glowing embers in the darkness.

When they rose, they’d have to go home or beg a room for the night and face consequences like how much they’d just eaten or the work they had tomorrow or just—life.

But this night had been quiet and enjoyable. Not mind-blowingly fun or crazy. Just—good. In fact, that was why even the Silverfangs had arrived near sunset.

They did not feast, exactly, but they had eaten and listened and talked. They would not have come for a great party, but this—this was close enough to their ceremonies.

Krshia Silverfang sat with a cup in her paw as she spoke, a nigh-invisible shadow with a glinting necklace of silver in the darkness.

“This talk of happiness, of life—I wish I had but an answer.”

She looked around, and Erin Solstice heard her growl in the darkness.

“We cried all our tears a while back, but it wasn’t enough. I should have stayed to bury the dead but I couldn’t face it. Cetrule…Torishi…Silverfangs left one dead Gnoll for every six that lived. I cannot smile for new lands or a glorious age. It comes at too high a cost.”

There it was again, and no one ran from it. The distant laughter faded, as if they heard, but someone did reply to Krshia.

It was Kevin. He spoke, thoughtfully, into the silence.

“In another world, there really wouldn’t be any point.”

Everyone looked at him, Grimalkin, Pisces, Erin, Krshia, Selys, Saliss, and Numbtongue—those were the people in the central spot. Kevin surely knew he was being listened to, but he didn’t care. He went on.

“At least we level up, here. At least that’s not forgotten. Sometimes I see things that have no meaning, and I…I don’t get why it happened. At least here I can say—maybe I’ll be able to do something in time. I couldn’t, even if I tried, even if I was there. Before. That’s something, right?”

Erin felt like he was looking at her. She knew he was speaking to her. It was something she’d said, and Ryoka.

So that was where he was. They were all changing, and Kevin’s words hung in the air. Until Erin interrupted him.

This night, this evening with the fire, was good. She pushed herself up with her elbows in her chair and shook her head.

“No. Even if it were a place without levels or rewards or quests or magic…”

The others focused on her, and she sensed each one here, though they were a bunch of people as still as statues, shadows in the night. But she knew their faces and…Erin inhaled, and the air was smoky, making her cough. Oh, but it was real. So she had to tell them—tell Kevin he was a bit wrong.

“We are bound together by the things we lose and the things we’ve done. I’ll never forget that. I never did, even when I died.”

Pisces looked at Erin, but it was something only she could say. Erin turned to Krshia, and the Gnoll [Shopkeeper] studied the Human. They had met when Erin first visited Liscor, and Krshia was one of Erin’s first friends.

“I know what the Gnolls did, Krshia. They helped Mrsha. They did many things.”

“Some selfish. If it is a debt…”

“It’s not just a debt, Krshia. I know what they did. What they went through. I won’t forget what happened, and I wasn’t even there. I didn’t see it all, but I don’t think Lyonette will ever forget. Or anyone else. I’ve said this before. For Goblins. But today and every day afterwards—no Gnoll of the Plains will ever go away hungry if they come here or have to sleep on the ground. Or Antinium. They’ll always be friends. Hopefully, if there’s one thing we can keep, it’s that.”

It wasn’t much, but it was all they had left. Erin looked around and felt Krshia’s grief. She felt the contentment of some, Grimalkin’s conflict of duty and purpose. Chaldion’s bone-weary despair and fear.

Hidden emotions in some, words still left to say. Ceria was staring at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] felt something bubbling in her chest. It was something you could feel and maybe even forget, but Erin had learned many times that these moments mattered.

She jumped as a claw touched her side. Saliss poked Erin with one huge eye open.

“Free food and shelter? How about Drakes?”

“Pass.”

Erin swatted his claw down, and Numbtongue lifted a hand.

“Goblins?”

“I think the Goblins generally feed themselves.”

Erin stared pointedly at Ulvama, eating half a cake, and Numbtongue laughed. Her gaze roamed the gathering of people, and she heard little conversations. People she didn’t know, speaking.

 

——

 

Like that Cave Goblin, Rasktooth. He’d been merry enough, eating and drinking and chattering to the Worker, but he could not walk.

And unlike Erin, no [Healer] had told him he would again. He looked around and smiled hugely.

“Good night. Good day. If I die, I am happy.”

He looked at the Worker sitting next to him, and Infinitypear seemed shocked.

“Why will Rasktooth die?”

The Cave Goblin tapped his legs with an expression like it were obvious.

“Useless Goblins die. So I die.”

To his surprise, Infinitypear shook his head vehemently. The Worker picked up the Cave Goblin and put him on his shoulders.

“No. I am your legs.”

“Not always. Don’t be silly.”

Rasktooth poked him in the head. In response, Infinitypear poked him back.

“I will never put you down. You will not die. Not without me.”

It was such a stupid…it was such a thing to say that the Cave Goblin laughed. He raised a hand to punch the Antinium, but then patted him on his head. And all he said was this as he rubbed at his eyes.

“Brother, brother.”

Infinitypear smiled as he carried Rasktooth away from the fire. He agreed.

“Brother. And friend.”

 

——

 

Erin had heard all of it. She needed something to blow her nose with, so she used the hem of Pisces’ robe.

Erin.

But he didn’t stop her, just grimaced. Erin wiped her face.

“Sorry. But that’s what they need to say. We need time. It’s too much. We have to say it slowly. Even though…”

They also had so much to do. Pisces looked at her as the people began rising, breaking up for sleep. But that moment…his eyes fixed on her.

“I—do have something to say to you, Erin. But I—I cannot—now is—”

He glanced around the fire, and Ceria, Ksmvr, and Yvlon were there. But Pisces couldn’t say it. Not with people. Maybe not even alone. He looked at Erin’s shadow, and he didn’t see how her eyes fixed sadly on him. But Erin didn’t say the things that would ruin this moment. She just patted his hand.

“We have time. I’ll get it out of you when you’re ready.”

The [Necromancer]’s head bowed.

“…Time? It’s been ten days. More. I left…”

He was about to shout it, say it, but Erin just tightened her hand on his.

“For another day, rest. Just one day.”

He nodded, and Erin wheeled herself away from the fire. She had something to do too, and she heard the quiet voices speaking in the night.

 

——

 

They were not all good conversations. There were fights and even stupid questions. Like…

“Was it worth it? Do you regret anything?”

It might have been a random guest who asked that, or even a friend of the inn. It was a stupid question, whether it was Rasktooth or anyone else who was asked.

Of course you regretted not dodging. Of course it hurt, and of course you regretted the pain and what might never come back.

How could you ask a person that? Let alone a tribe, even, especially in hindsight? It was the kind of question that deserved a stinger in the eye on general principle.

The little bee fanned one wing as Lyonette put her on the windowsill. She had a bowl of honey water waiting for her, but she’d been stuck in the sling all night. She would have loved to fly…but she wouldn’t. Never again.

She would have crawled around on the ground outside, but it was too dangerous for her, and she understood that. She could not fly, and Apista regretted that.

She had no answer, but the little white girl was sleeping in bed and the [Princess] smiled so much she almost cried. Apista felt it. As Lyonette went to sleep, Apista limped to the slightly open window and lit a bit of one of Palt’s cigars with some flame she produced.

A drink and a smoke on a moonlit night. Worth it…she fanned her stub of a wing and dragged herself forwards with her good legs. She didn’t know about worth. But this?

Yeah. That felt nice.

 

——

 

It was dark now, and the last moments of this gathering were breaking up. But all it had meant, all the powerful feelings that had been shed here, even in part, still lingered. What was it? Could you name it?

The [Innkeeper] didn’t know, but she went around, wheeling her chair into shins, apologizing, and bidding people goodnight. But she had a problem.

“Excuse me. Do you know where Alcaz and Normen went? Pivr? I saw he had…they’re already in Liscor? Darn. Hey. Um. Do you have a hat? Ceria? Yvlon? Helmet? Grimalkin? Relc, buddy?”

“A hat?”

The sleepy people looked at Erin, and she realized none of them had a hat. This was a hatless crowd. Aside from the Brothers—they were anti-hat.

“What’s with you guys? Not one of yous has a hat? Not you, Ser Sest? Give your helmet! …Where’s your helmet?”

“Why do you need a hat, Erin? You don’t wear hats!”

An exasperated Selys snapped back. Erin rolled around with increasing urgency.

“Lasica! You’re a [Chef]. Poofy hat? Bah, what kind of [Chef] are you? Pebblesnatch would have my back. Did Garry…? Argh!”

She rolled forward, and the door to the Garden of Sanctuary appeared. Erin rolled through room after room, disrupting the occupants, but she had no hat. At last, in desperation, she rolled into the kitchen.

“This…okay…”

Her guests followed her. Bemused, but that air of happy charm, of…something, lingered. In fact, it more than lingered.

It was here. The pleasant conclusion of the evening. Fading, but lingering around…

“Erin?”

Selys stared at Erin, and a sleepy Lyonette came downstairs because she’d felt it too. Not an aura, but something…close.

Her friends saw Erin Solstice pull something from a cupboard, inspect it, and bite her lip.

“I hope this’ll do. It’s not how I was taught, but—I’m an [Innkeeper]. Okay, here goes.”

With that, she raised a pot and put it over her head, the handle facing backwards because that was cool.

Erin stared at her friends with a pot on her head. Pisces began laughing, a slow laugh, and Ceria snorted, and Yvlon rubbed at her eyes.

“Erin, what…?”

“Just wait. Okay, I tip it like that and…gotcha!

Her shout was triumphant, and then Erin snatched the pot from her head. She glanced around, decided she was not wearing that all day and night, and slammed a lid over it. She stared at the covered pot along with everyone else.

“Erin—what did you just do?”

The [Innkeeper] winked at her friends, and they gave her looks of great suspicion. For there it was. The crazy Human of Liscor, Erin Solstice, the [Innkeeper], the girl whom Nereshal called the Goblinfriend in times to come…she was many things they knew.

And something they didn’t. Pisces’ eyes widened, and Ceria gasped as the circlet helped her mind jump to a conclusion. Grimalkin just checked off a box and went to bed, smiling, without telling the weary Chaldion.

And Erin? The [Witch] winked at her guests.

“I’ll show you later. Have a good night, everyone. Just…ask yourselves one thing when you go to bed, and for the future.”

They focused on her, and Erin took a breath. She put the pot on her lap and folded her hands together.

“Do you have…a wish?”

“A wish?”

Lyonette blinked at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] smiled.

“Yes. Ask yourselves that. A wish. Something you’ve always wanted, deep down. Or something you realized you wanted.”

She looked around, and the little pot vibrated with something.

“Not a dream or something you really want. A wish. It might not be possible, but maybe it is. Something you want to do. In the days to come—I want to see what we can do. I want…I think we should get a pet. Make this inn worth even more than it is. Is Crusader 57 here?”

“Yep.”

Joseph jumped as one of the figures raised a hand. Erin laughed in the darkness.

“I hope this inn was okay, at least. But not perfect. You wanted more, didn’t you?”

The Worker considered the question for a long time. All the guests of the inn waited, and Squad 5 poked him vigorously, but he would say his piece no matter what, and when he replied…

It was with a shrug, and even perhaps, a slight raising of the mandibles.

“No. But you helped the Free Antinium do everything that came afterwards. So it’s good enough. You’re good enough.”

He looked around in the silence and scowled.

“What? That’s what I meant.

Erin laughed. Then she wheeled forwards and took one of his hands.

“Next time, Crusader 57—okay, maybe not next time if it’s tomorrow. But next time you come here—there will be something for you. I promise. And for everyone else, something great. Something that matters.”

Someone sighed into the darkness. Not because they denied it, but because they believed her. Ser Dalimont. He looked past Erin, as if he had seen just that.

“A triumph of a lifetime. What comes next? Do we just live the rest of our lives satisfied or give up?”

She shook her head.

“No, you continue on, and everything’s even better thereafter. Have a good night.”

So, the [Innkeeper] closed a door as she bid the last guests farewell and put the pot full of promises next to her bed. She took a while to go to sleep, but when she did—perhaps the world was a bit better.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: Before you say anything, in the comments, some chapters are inevitable. We all need time to process things and that’s what I think some stories lack or don’t show enough of.

Sometimes…we need to sit around a fire and isn’t it strange how Erin has never done this before? At least in this way.

With that said, I may not come back to you on Saturday with a chapter in Volume 9. I need to write Volume 1, The Last Tide Pt. 2, and so I’m devoting writing days to that. I will be up-front if it’s something in secret; if not I’ll post whatever I write and link you to it.

However, this is our pace. Not the slowest, hopefully, for slice-of-life shouldn’t be nothing at all, in my opinion. But neither is it Volume 8’s straight run.

PS: I was going to write this but again, I have trouble with lyrics since I don’t think in rhythm or verse. But it was going to be a Roald Dahl nod. Just a little moment when people are figuring out what’s happening outside. Since it’ll never be used, here it is:

 

——

 

Inside The Wandering Inn, there were three people. Lyonette, Bird, and Numbtongue.

 

Lyonette, Bird, and Numbtongue. 

Lyonette, Bird, and Numbtongue. 

One royal, one silly, one green.

This trio of friends, sat in the inn

Waiting for Erin to come back again.

 

They were mostly good people. But they were somewhat silly too. Lyonette was so busy ordering the Thronebearers around that she never noticed the inn’s occupants sneaking out the garden’s door or going to the bathroom and not coming back.

 

——

 

That’s all from me. See you later. Roast some bananas for me.

 

[Anchoring Stab] and Successor by Brack!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

Healing Slime by Vescar!

 

Erin by Sedeto for AxelTerizaki’s Birthday!

Sedeto: https://sedeto.carrd.co/

AxelTerizaki: https://twitter.com/AxelTerizaki

 


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9.02

It said a lot that her first friend was Mrsha.

Not about Gireulashia’s judgment of character or Mrsha herself. Rather, that it took her fifteen years to make a friend, and that her first friend was half her age and less than half her height. Less than a third if Mrsha ran around on all fours.

It was hard to make friends in Ekhtouch. It…had been hard for Gire. Because she was the best. When two Gnoll cubs of around equal talent in one field grew up, they were often partnered together to compete. No one could beat Gire except adults, so she made all her friends amongst the older Gnolls. And those weren’t friendships, more like mentorships.

Mrsha would have been instantly disqualified in other times because she would drag Gire down by association; she was not superlatively gifted in any one attribute—except for her ability to cast magic and get into trouble—even her nose was weaker than Ekhtouch children who were set to be [Trackers] or [Hunters].

And yet, Mrsha made Gire smile. Mrsha had done things, seen things that even the best of Ekhtouch couldn’t say they’d done.

She had amazing friends. And so, when Gire woke up in the temporary housing that Ekhtouch’s Gnolls had been given by Liscor’s Council for a month, gratis, she thought of Mrsha.

Gire had terrible dreams. They persisted when she woke. Even with dawn’s light breaking on the horizon, the High Passes left Liscor dark longer than other cities. In the faintest light, Gire looked around the spartan room, and her eyes could pick out rough imperfections on the ‘smooth’ wall left by a less-than-perfect trowel. Most people wouldn’t be able to see them; Gire could.

She could smell the two Gnolls outside her room, sitting there, smell what they’d eaten for breakfast—slightly stale jam tarts, probably from a [Baker] yesterday, since it was far too early to buy them fresh.

She could hear them breathing, though her door was closed. Hear the light snores of a Gnoll next door and the buzzing of a fly passing her window and every sound in a thousand feet—but she had learned to filter the sensory overload.

The dark room with creeping shadows did not bother her in and of itself; her night-vision was amazing. Yet it seemed, to Gire, there was the faintest tinge of orange or red, despite this being impossible. She looked around the room and saw, for a second, Firrelle’s head, staring at her from the center of her bed. A bloody stump where Gire had cut it from the Chieftain’s shoulders, a slightly surprised, melancholy look on her face.

Gire fled the illusion. She did not stay in her room. She did not like being by herself.

The [Paragon]’s exit from her room was fast. She was out the door and vaulting the third-story railing of the apartment complex so fast the two Ekhtouch Gnolls were still rising as she leapt. One called out.

“Chieftain—”

He turned and saw Gire land and speed across the courtyard. She was so fast that she was three dozen feet away before the Gnolls could put one leg over the railing to copy her jump.

They’d never catch her, and they knew it. So they gave up; they knew where she was going, anyways.

Gireulashia ran, and she left a trail of wind in her wake. She blew past the young Gnoll girl practicing a spear routine with eleven others, and Hickery stared after Gire, mouth agape. Vok had sneezed and missed the [Paragon].

The apartment complex was actually fairly similar to Cellidel’s, and since it was in the new quarter, it smelled of fresh bricks and mortar, paint and stone dust from all the construction. Soon, the [Builder] teams would be hard at work laying more streets; if you walked past the temporary walls, you’d see a new area in progress.

Hexel was a trained Balerosian [Architect]. He didn’t ‘finish’ a district without putting some kind of wall up, and the Watch was diligent in making sure this weak spot in Liscor’s defenses was patrolled.

They did have a heavier presence in the new district, the western part of the city, but as any Cellidel Gnoll would tell you, it was a pleasant change to have Gnolls who’d greet you and smile rather than suspicious Drakes who only came to arrest someone.

It was strange to Gire, and she knew she alarmed the Watch when she ran full-tilt, so she slowed a bit. Even so, a [Guardswoman] on patrol, a Drake with a nasty scar across her forearms, still whirled before she realized it was Gire.

“—it’s that giant Gnoll girl—”

Gire was sure they had a file on her. She had always been told Drake cities were like that; no one could be private. Everyone was watched, and if you stepped out of line, you were removed, unlike a tribe where everyone was supposed to be together.

Or was that something else that she’d been lied to about, like Xherw and Doombringers? The [Paragon]’s brow furrowed.

Nothing is the same. Firrelle is dead, the old ways are suspect…and magic is back.

She pushed away the words the other Ekhtouch Gnolls had spoken to her. She didn’t want to think of it. Instead, Gire hesitated and then broke off her beeline to The Wandering Inn.

She could get there in five minutes at a run, even without alarming the Watch unduly, but she instead slowed and came to the main Watch barracks and heard the sound of voices and even the clack-clack of wood hitting wood in the morning.

Recruits, I want to see those practice weapons moving! Anyone who cannot keep up will not make [Guard] within the month! You think a [Thug] will give you an opening before she puts a blade between your ribs? Will a Raskghar? Push yourselves and level!

That sounded like Senior Guardswoman Beilmark, who had returned to duty. Sure enough, Gire peeked over the wall of the practice courts and saw a Gnoll shouting at Gnolls and Humans and Drakes; new candidates for the Watch.

They needed to expand, but Zevara demanded a level of efficiency, and Gire saw a double-line of trainees battering at each other.

Interesting. A lot were using batons, not spears or swords. The Watch might know how to kill monsters, but they didn’t use that on civilians.

At least, not in this city. Chieftain Werri of Woven Bladegrass had stories…but Gire wasn’t interested in the trainees so much as a duo sparring in the furthest court.

“Oh. That’s…Sir Relz? No. Relc?”

They had too-similar names, so even Gire’s memory took a second. But she saw the brawny Drake whirling his spear into a lancing series of thrusts and a swift parry to a silver blade, and stopped—

For she recognized masters when she saw them. Like everything, Ekhtouch aspired to create experts in any weapon, but even so—it was rare to see a [Spearmaster] and [Swordmaster] sparring, let alone in the Watch.

Perhaps those weren’t their exact classes. Gire wondered what the Antinium gliding into attacks with his silver blades had as his class. Something unique to his kind? There was a mesmerizing pattern to the blades, and the Drake was cursing loudly.

Stop shining light into my eyes, Klb!

“It is a valid tactic. Stop being distracted.”

“Oh yeah? Stop—[Tail Attack]!

The Drake broke off his display of spear mastery and whirled around and tried to hit the Antinium with a slap from his tail. In response, Klbkch raised one blade.

“[Tail Stab].”

Argh! You bastard!

Gire giggled as she peeked over the wall. That Relc was just as funny as Mrsha said! He punched and kicked, but the Antinium was very good.

Relc was less so. He was tough and fast, but the other one…Klbkch the Slayer was more refined. There was what her Ekhtouch sword-trainer, Yeith, would have called a roughness to Relc’s style.

It befitted Relc in battle, and Gire knew he’d beaten no less than Lulv the Battle Wolf, one of Manus’ [Spearmasters]. Anyways, Gire had observed that battles were quite different from duels or sparring.

Time was passing, though, so Gire glanced across the practice yard. She could go through the front of the Watch house, of course, but that defeated the purpose. The side door was right there, but there were so many eyes…she needed just three seconds.

She got it when Relc launched himself into a [Relc Kick], and even the trainees turned to stare as Klbkch dodged away. Beilmark glanced over, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t emulate those two! When you get your mastery, you can be idiots. Back to training! Swap attack and defense!

She looked over and frowned. Had someone left the back door ajar?

Three seconds. Gire’s [Perfect Basic Action: Stealth Roll] carried her into the Watch House unnoticed. Of course, that was one of her favorite tricks.

She had more, now. For instance, when Gire slipped in and realized that there were a number of eyes of casual [Guards] looking around the Watch House, she clapped two paws together.

Ancestors!

A [Guard] whirled at the thunderclap of sound. Everyone turned, and Gire zoomed left, around the turning Drake, and did a second [Stealth Roll] past the other guards and people in the barracks.

She could do two in a row, now. Passing Level 20 as a [Paragon] seemed to have done it. But even a stealth Skill wouldn’t save a nine-foot tall Gnoll girl rolling around from a room full of decent [Guards].

[Unnoticed by One, Invisible to All]. Gire poked her head up as she crouched by the day-sergeant’s file cabinet, staring at folders. Until one person really saw her, she benefited from being passed over, like a [Thief] or [Rogue].

She’d gotten that from her battle against the Drakes with Tkrn. The rest of her Skills—well. Gireulashia had leveled up vastly during the final battle at the Meeting of Tribes.

Everyone had. Gire could not think of one person who wouldn’t have leveled up in some way. One of her new Skills, for instance, was [Lesser Speed].

She was already fast. Now, as a [Paragon]—she was even faster. Gire knew she had bare seconds before people looked around, so she was scanning the drawer for a file on Ekhtouch or her or…

E? Ekirra, Eldavin, Elirr, Eqour…are they criminal records or just notes? She knew Ekirra was Mrsha’s friend, so perhaps the Watch had him on file.

Erin’s was huge, but Ekhtouch had none. G? No Gireulashia…frowning, the Ekhtouch Gnoll plucked a file and stood up.

“What was that sound?”

Beilmark opened the door, and Gireulashia casually re-entered the Watch House, glancing around as if she was coming in for the first time. Someone looked up as the [Paragon] pretended to close the front door, paging through the folder and reading quickly, but everyone was trying to find the origin of the loud sound. Gire seemed like she’d just come in and read while smiling to herself.

Mrsha had a file. Lacking one on her—which sort of proved she wasn’t on their watch list, or if she was, it was something only the Watch Captain had—Gire had elected to see what they thought of her friend.

Which was nothing, really. They had notes about her Doombringer status, a hefty number of references to ‘Erin Solstice’ or the ‘Solstice files’ or ‘Solstice contingencies’, but aside from a few misdemeanors like poisoning another child with super-hot peppers, it was mostly about the things she’d survived.

Gire was contemplating a break-in to Zevara’s office once she replaced the files with another distraction. It was funny, really.

Everyone thought that a giant Gnoll was easy to spot sneaking around, but it was all about sightlines. If you weren’t looking in her direction, and she took into account peripheral vision, Gire was invisible. Manipulating a room full of people to stare where you wanted and exploiting that with basic [Rogue] Skills was easy. After all, Gire was a [Paragon]. She was…

“Ahem. Young lady, what are you doing in my Watch House?”

The claw that went to pinch Gire’s ear missed because the Gnoll dodged, but Zevara’s [Freeze, Criminal] Skill made Gire’s flight impossible. And the glare the Drake gave her was followed by an amused Relc and Klbkch in the doorway.

“I told you I saw something.”

Klbkch nudged Relc. The Drake just grinned.

“I had my back turned. Isn’t that, um, Gireumlashina?”

“Gireulashia of Ekhtouch. Who has apparently stolen a file in the middle of a Watch House without anyone noticing except you two.”

Zevara plucked the file from Gire’s paws as the [Paragon] stared at the Watch Captain and Senior Guard duo. Zevara gave her a long look as Gire wilted.

 

——

 

Okay, it turned out a Watch Captain who’d survived Raskghar and every menace that had been thrown at Liscor was good enough to detect Gire in her own building.

Gire didn’t receive a fine, just a fifteen minute scolding and a warning. The Watch Sergeant got chewed out far more. Gire slunk out with her head hung low.

Embarrassing. She hadn’t really thought she’d find super-valuable information on her here; that would have been in City Hall or Zevara’s office, after all. But she’d done this because she thought she could without anyone catching her.

The surprises. That was why she liked Mrsha. That was why she liked The Wandering Inn. Well, at any rate…if she didn’t have a file before, Zevara had given her a happy smile and told Gire she had a file now.

 

——

 

“Gire! My friend! Good morning! I am happy!”

Mrsha’s voice was a series of pre-programmed lines she triggered via runes. They were, funnily enough, in Gire’s own voice, but Gire had made it higher-pitched to sound like Mrsha.

The Gnoll girl leapt off her table, and Gire caught her and swung her around.

“Settle down, you two. Hello…Gire. Would you like breakfast? Erin is coming down in a bit. Today is pancakes. Ser Sest? The Archmage’s Well breakfast special, I think.”

Lyonette’s greeting was more reserved, and she eyed the giant Gnoll like she had the last ten days, but she’d learned enough about Gire’s incredible appetite to order the super-breakfast, including the stack of pancakes hollowed out so a well of syrup and butter could be poured in.

“The Archmage’s Well?”

Gire looked delighted and confused and Mrsha rolled her eyes. She wrote the answer back.

“Duh. From the Archmage of Syrup! The greatest Archmage to ever live!”

That was a crime against food, but not to Gire. Mrsha sat next to her on a high seat, wagging her tail as she banged her fork and knife on the table.

“Mrsha! Have you forgotten your manners while I’ve been away?”

Lyonette scolded, but gently. Mrsha couldn’t help but tap another rune.

“Yes!”

She and Gire giggled over Lyonette’s long sigh—despite only being three years older than Gire, she was the adult. Gire was a child.

She wanted to be a child. Children didn’t have to be Chieftains. A child didn’t kill her Chieftain.

 

——

 

Dark thoughts. They were running from things they’d done, some of them. Everyone was back—well, many people—but they’d changed. Gireulashia was not the only person who woke up with nightmares.

You just didn’t hear Pisces shouting because he was smart enough to [Silence] his rooms. She would have noticed anyways, but she didn’t have to.

A [Witch] could tell. Vaguely—but she was an [Innkeeper] too, and the classes were linked across some talents. Erin Solstice slowed as she wheeled through the [Garden of Sanctuary].

It was like a dark cloud over Gire—but it passed like the sun blooming as Mrsha offered her a bite of the decorative fruits on top of the Archmage of Syrup’s damned creation. That was good. They really did like each other.

Still, after the wonderful campfire and talks, Erin felt like today was a day for something. She brought the pot she’d filled last night and put it on the breakfast table. Mrsha reached for the top, and Erin stopped her.

“Not so fast, Mrsha. You’ll let it out!”

“Your…magic? I have breakfast, unless you want something else, Erin?”

Lyonette carefully reappeared, holding a more normal-sized pancake and egg and bacon breakfast.

“The good old American stuff is fine with me, Lyonette! Just like Mom used to make. Well, aside from the lack of blueberries. And, actually, it was my dad who made this breakfast. So exactly not like my mom used to make.”

Lyonette blinked at the references, but Erin just smiled, and she very deliberately thought—Shauna Solstice. Gregori Solstice.

She remembered them, and not just the fake memories of waking up. It was…hard to focus on them, like a name you kept forgetting. But because she knew why it was hard, Erin could pull the names and the memories out.

“Is this what you ate every day, Erin? No wonder you cook like, um…”

“If anyone brings up roasted corn today, I’m gonna shove this piece of bacon up…an ear.”

Erin waved a fork around dangerously. Gire and Mrsha were nudging each other, clearly daring one another to do it, and Ser Sest reappeared with a drink.

“Miss Solstice.”

“Thanks, Sest.”

The inn was weird. Thronebearers, all four of them, practically helped Lyonette into her seat and provided her with a more elegant meal of crepes. Which Mrsha instantly stole half of. And then the Horns came down to their table—well, all but Ceria. She was still snoring apparently.

The inn began to fill up with a few more guests. No Relc nor Klbkch, and Kevin had apparently gone back to Solar Cycles and never returned.

“Joseph?”

“Already out the door. He has to train Pallass’ football team.”

“I-Imani?”

“Timbor’s.”

“Uh—Hexel?”

“I think he didn’t sleep here. Maybe he was working late after he left the fire?”

Mrsha rolled her eyes as Lyonette answered Erin’s questions. But neither young woman noticed it. Erin gazed around the fairly empty inn just in time for Numbtongue to appear.

He was carrying a dead body. No—wait. It was just Octavia. The [Alchemist] only stirred from her zombie-like state when Numbtongue waved a bowl of porridge in front of her face.

“Numbtongue! And Bird! What are you doing with Octavia, Numbtongue?”

The Antinium wandered down in pursuit of breakfast as Numbtongue nodded at Erin. The [Bard] shrugged.

“Found her in her shop. She forgets to eat.

“I do not! I just…delay my meals sometimes.”

“For days.”

The Hobgoblin eyed Gireulashia’s huge breakfast with respect and rubbed his claws together as another standard plate was put in front of him. He reached for a fork, and Ulvama snatched the plate.

“Yum.”

She walked off, and Numbtongue began to rise.

“Another plate for Numbtongue. Miss Ulvama! You can’t do that!”

Lyonette rose with a huge frown, but the [Shaman] turned. Archly, Ulvama stared at the [Princess].

“My food, now.”

“Yes, but that was his—”

The [Shaman] put a thumb on her chest then pointed at Mrsha.

“I save silly little girl.”

“Yes, but—”

“Good, good. Goodbye.”

And with that, the Hobgoblin walked off and went to the lounge to watch the scrying mirror over breakfast. Lyonette and Erin looked at each other. Erin leaned over to Mrsha.

“Is that normal?”

Numbtongue, scowling, was torn between going after Ulvama and starting a fight and decided to sit as another plate came out of the kitchen. Mrsha sighed and wrote on a notecard.

“That’s Ulvama. Very rude. And has big butt.”

Erin stared at the hallway and decided not to ask for elaboration. Lyonette puffed out her cheeks.

“Well—the nerve of her! We’ll put a stop to that once the inn opens. And speaking of which—I think today’s the day, don’t you, Erin?”

“Hm? Absolutely! I mean, uh, I’m still a bit slow with the wheelchair, but—”

Lyonette smiled at Erin and began to tie her hair back.

“Don’t you worry, Erin, I have it covered. You just…add in anything that’s helpful. But The Wandering Inn is back in business! We have to be, since we didn’t charge anyone for last night.”

“Ah. But it wasn’t much more than corn, and it was friends of the inn…”

The [Princess] sighed.

“Yes, yes, I know, Erin. But that’s why we need regulars. So! I’m going to make sure we’re all stocked up, and let’s say—open at lunch?”

“Yep, that’ll work. I’ll help. Mrsha, what are you going to do today?”

“Mrsha and I were hoping we could play in the [Garden of Sanctuary] again? And she’s going to show me some magic. Then, after that, we’re visiting Selys.”

“I—suppose that’s all very good. Just so long as you stay in the inn! And we’ll let Selys pick you up and send Dame Ushar with you.”

Lyonette approved the plans, and the two Gnoll girls ran off at once. Erin blinked at the Archmage’s We—

“Where did it go? She ate that?”

“Amazing.”

Numbtongue agreed, staring at the plate where only syrup remained. Lyonette closed her eyes a moment.

“…We have to open the inn soon.”

 

——

 

Money was not an issue for The Wandering Inn, but it was going to be. Not just because Gire ate like eight Mrshas—because she ate like that and didn’t pay for what she ate.

No one currently visiting The Wandering Inn did. Some, like the Horns, were long-standing guests, and it just hadn’t been brought up because it had been part of their tabs, which they repaid weekly.

Other guests? They didn’t have money.

Gothica, for instance, who’d come in this morning from who-knew-where, was happily eating a load of black eggs. Not Noelictus-eggs—she’d just asked for someone to add a bit of charcoal or something to make them look dark.

The same for Infinitypear, Ulvama, and even the Thronebearers. Lyonette knew it was tough, but she had to bring it up.

“Um. Erin. We have to charge them for their food.”

“What?”

Erin broke off from staring at the pot and frowned at Lyonette. The [Princess] frowned back.

“Not immediately and not for everything so far! But I am saying—we have to charge them for food. Or how long do you intend to keep feeding them?”

“It’s only a few meals each day.”

“Across how many people? All of the Fellowship? The [Crusaders]? That’s over a hundred Antinium each day at—”

“Okay, okay! Fine! But I’m not charging them today. Or tomorrow. Or…”

Lyonette was prepared for this. She had done some thinking and gave Erin an easy alternative. In fact, she even volunteered to make the announcement as Squad 5 filed in for breakfast—they were still on leave.

“Excuse me, everyone! I have something a tiny bit difficult to say. I must tell you all that The Wandering Inn will begin charging you for food and rooms!”

Gothica looked up, concerned, as Rasktooth and Infinitypear stopped chowing down and glanced at each other worriedly. Squad 5 didn’t look worried, but they had money.

“Charge us for food? I saved—”

Ulvama appeared in the hallway, and Lyonette glared at her. She spoke over the Hobgoblin.

“For one month, everything is free. That means twenty—nineteen more days, to be exact. After that, we will regretfully begin charging you for food and accommodations. We hope you can understand.”

The request didn’t go over as well as the [Princess] had hoped. Pisces Jealnet frowned at her and then rose to his feet with a sniff.

“Excuse me, Miss Lyonette. But I must point out that, despite the braggadocious nature of the statements, we did abandon our causes and fight for our very lives in a war for the inn or the people within. Surely there is some…egregious nature to charging us for simple food and drink after a mere thirty days? I hope you can see how odd that sounds.”

Yvlon glared at him, but Lyonette took a huge breath.

“I understand, but Pisces—we cannot afford to do more than a month. Frankly, we may serve up to a hundred guests free of charge. Not every day, hopefully, but…there is not enough gold in our coffers, understand?”

She flushed a bit, and Pisces hesitated. His supercilious expression faded, and he coughed.

“Well, I, ah—I understand fiscally this all makes sense. And I, personally, have to say that the Horns could and always intended to pay for our food, without needing for a month’s reprieve. We are Gold-rank adventurers after all.”

He backpedaled so fast that he was sitting down and applauding her choices as Lyonette sighed. Erin waved a hand urgently.

“I know it’s tough, but I’ll make it up to everyone in other ways. Lyonette’s just pointing out that we can’t give away food forever, and one month is sorta fair? The Wandering Inn isn’t that poor! We’ve got money! I think.”

Laughter from the tables, and everyone relaxed. Lyonette was relieved the message went over well, although she knew she’d have to repeat it for other guests. But most, she thought privately, would pay anyways.

Saliss, Grimalkin, and a number of guests did not exactly hurt for coin. It was harder on the Goblins and Antinium, but Gothica looked very pleased at learning she had nineteen more days of guaranteed food and ordered a bloody piece of pork to go along with said eggs.

“We can even afford the quest bounties that Erin put out without asking me quite easily. So don’t worry—we’ll manage a month once the inn opens. Which is today! I just need to make sure we’re good on food and we have the Players. Oh, and the staff!”

Lyonette was joking in relief with everyone else. An aged voice spoke up as Tekshia Shivertail cleared her throat.

“Wonderful news. Then I suppose you won’t mind me leaving this bill here? I’ll take payment in full by the end of the day.”

Uh oh. Erin Solstice froze as Tekshia walked forwards. The old [Spearmaster] was smiling, and the Guildmistress of the Adventurer’s Guild had a piece of paper in her claw.

“Uh—Tekshia! I’m so glad you’re here! I—please don’t stab anyone.”

Tekshia didn’t have her spear, but with bags of holding, you never knew. However, the old Drake just sighed as Erin rolled forwards.

“I’m not going to hurt you. So put your Hobgoblin away.”

She nodded at Numbtongue, who sat down with a grin. He liked old, tough people of any species. Tekshia handed Erin the slip of paper with a long stare.

“I am glad you seem well enough to cause trouble again. And in light of everything, I’m even willing to give you a pass for destroying my old Guild. It was in need of repairs anyways; the damned city was willing to move it around, but not give it a redesign, which it needed.”

She glanced around Erin’s inn.

“…Is this all Antinium work? I think I’ll be quite happy if Liscor’s Council advances some gold like they promised. Cheap building, and that [Architect] knows what a proper Guild should look like. Three or four floors, twice as large—completely redone. So just pay what the old one cost and I will happily let you in again. Destroy the second one and I’ll stab you.”

Erin smiled weakly, but all things considered, this was the most reasonable response, and from Tekshia, no less!

“I can do that, Tekshia. And believe me—I didn’t know it’d knock down the guild. So, um, how much is—yikes!

Lyonette du Marquin did not like the sound of that. She peeked over Erin’s shoulder and blanched.

Two thousand gold pieces?

At Pisces’ table, all three Horns winced. For a Gold-rank adventurer, it wasn’t the worst price tag. You’d pay that for an expendable Wand of [Fireballs]. But then again…that was the cost of a wand that shot explosive balls of fire.

A Silver-rank team would scream at such a price. And an inn?

“That’s so much! Are you sure this is right?”

Erin was protesting to Tekshia, but the Drake just gave her a long look.

“It’s the price I came to for rebuilding a guild. Not a house. The average house in Liscor can cost a hundred gold coins, Erin.”

“A hundred? That’s so much!”

Erin understood that the average person could earn around a gold coin a week in Liscor. Tekshia shrugged.

“Once again, that is to build from the ground up. I imagine that Hexel can do it for a fraction, and it would cost more depending on where it is. Wood, for instance, is far too expensive here. But that is a house. My guild is in pieces. You caused it.”

“But doesn’t Liscor have, um, insurance? And the Council is going to help, right?”

Tekshia stared at Erin.

“What’s insurance? You mean rebuilding spells? No, we do not have that, and yes, Liscor’s Council has assigned me funds for rebuilding. Which I will use along with the money you owe me. If anything, I am not charging you as much as I could ask. Can you pay it now? If not, I will give you time…and add another thousand gold.”

She waited, eyes glinting. Erin was shaking her head, but Lyonette grabbed her arm.

“One second, Miss Tekshia?”

The Drake nodded, and Lyonette dragged Erin back to whisper to her.

“Erin.”

“I’m sorry, Lyonette! What are we—”

“Erin, we can pay that.”

The [Innkeeper] stopped.

“…We can?”

Lyonette was grimacing. But she glanced towards the [Garden of Sanctuary] where Mrsha and Gire were playing in blissful oblivion of adult fiscal responsibility.

“We have money in our safe. Exactly three thousand one hundred and twenty-four gold coins. Ninety-six silver, and four hundred and two copper coins, unless Ishkr took some out for use.”

She knew exactly how much money they had in the vaults. Erin blinked at her.

“How do you—do you count the money?”

“Erin. Why would I not know how much money is in our coffers?”

“Um…”

They could pay the hefty price tag for Erin’s quest, but it punched a hole in their reserves, and Lyonette knew a thousand gold coins was a ‘lot’ for non-adventurers and non-nobility, and they’d eat into it replenishing their food supplies, rehiring everyone…but they’d begin making it back.

Grimacing, the two came back to Tekshia and agreed to pay her up front rather than take a year’s extension at a thousand coin addition. Tekshia did have to wait while they filled up her bag of holding from the safe—but she was generous enough not to count.

“I’m sure you’re as good as your words. I’ll take this to the Merchant’s Guild now. I’m very pleased we can settle this. I didn’t even have to fetch my spear. Feel free to visit any time. Liscor’s new Adventurer’s Guild should be constructed within the week. Hexel has made it a priority.”

She smiled, got two painful faces of bared teeth in reply, and was gone. Erin didn’t meet Lyonette’s gaze as she rolled back to the table.

“So, um…let’s open tonight. I think we can really—really make a profit if we get coffee sales in. And the Minotaur’s Punch sells well at good margins, you said?”

Lyonette kept a straight face.

“Absolutely. I’ll get the Players to stop in. Imani for cooking, Ishkr’s agreed to rehire, and the Players for entertainment. Would you like to help me? That would take a load off my shoulders.”

Erin took a huge breath and sighed.

“Yes.”

 

——

 

Complications arose.

The story of Lyonette’s life, really. The first people she went to talk to were obviously the Players of Liscor and the Players of Celum. Imani was already the [Chef], and the staff were important, but the Players had to set up.

“…so we’d be exceptionally pleased if you could see about letting the Players of Liscor or Players of Celum perform, Temile. I know it’s an imposition to ask, and I don’t expect the Players of Celum to do so! But…”

Lyonette felt odd, finding Temile. Because he was no longer the former [Actor] from the startup troupe who performed out of an inn, but the [Producer] of the Players of Liscor. And yes, they were not the continent-famous Players of Celum still going north and apparently performing at noble estates, but the Players of Celum had a theatre in Invrisil, multiple teams, and they did not leave their cousin-groups out to dry.

Temile wore bright, eye-catching clothing like he were an [Actor] himself, a cascade of yellow and blue tastefully put over a black surcoat that made him look like a cross between some [Lord] and, well, a [Troubadour], but bridged the gap into maintaining both dignity and entertainment.

No less than a Level 40 [Seamstress] had worked on it, Invrisil’s finest, and the Players of Liscor were no longer in need of housing at The Wandering Inn.

They had received funding from the Players of Celum—indeed, to help the Players of Pallass start up as well—and there was a certain largesse that Lyonette noticed in the back rooms. Far more complicated makeup, magical artifacts to aid in their illusions or getting ready, and even the chairs were plush, costing no little amount of gold per embroidered seat.

And yet, despite all this, Temile instantly nodded.

“We’ll have a group playing in your inn tonight, Lyonette! You have my word. Maybe not our best team because they are booked for the theater here, but I’ll arrange it so our best group from the Players of Liscor performs, with maybe the Players of Celum performing every month at least once?”

“That is so generous. Thank you, Temile!”

Lyonette exhaled and then took a look around.

“But what about your theatre here?”

They were standing in a new building in the developing western district of Liscor. Temile waved it off.

“We can fill it. But The Wandering Inn is where we began—well, the Frenzied Hare, but you know what I mean—and The Wandering Inn is where we’ll perform. Until the next time it shuts down. Er, do let us know if the monsters are going to attack.”

He laughed, and Lyonette noticed his missing thumb and laughed too, but weakly. Still—the Players of Liscor were exceptionally generous.

“I will let you know, Temile. We need to make sure the staff can accommodate a crowd—can I send a runner to confirm?”

“Absolutely. We’d like to set up in…two hours at the latest?”

“I will let you know by then, thank you.”

Lyonette hurried away from the guild, resolved to make sure she had staff. But that was when she ran into the complications, because when she went to see how Ishkr was doing, she found Erin Solstice talking with Imani in front of Timbor’s inn.

The [Innkeeper] was there too, and Erin waved Lyonette over.

“I, um, really appreciate it, Imani. But are you sure it’s okay?”

Oh no. Erin’s generous nature was getting the better of her. Lyonette cursed as she hurried forwards, Dalimont and Lormel behind her. And a shadowy Drake too, but Lyonette couldn’t even deal with that.

“Absolutely, Erin. Timbor has agreed to let me change jobs, and—it’s the least I can do.”

Imani was smiling, but both turned to look at Timbor. He had a long history with Erin, but the man mustered a smile. He didn’t look…happy, but who would want to let go of a star [Chef] like Imani?

“It’s quite all right, Miss Erin. Miss Imani started in your inn, and I—I would have hoped for her to leave my inn a month ago.”

“That’s very kind. But you’re sure, Imani?”

“Erin, is there a problem with Imani cooking at The Wandering Inn?”

Lyonette hadn’t heard the beginning of this conversation, but she understood the moment Imani’s gaze slid sideways.

“It’s…not too great an issue, Lyonette. I just need to discuss my hours. I can try to work ahead of time, but your guests eat a lot of food. I think Palt will just have to manage the kitchen here by himself until I work out a way to divide my time.”

“What kitchen? Oh—”

And then Lyonette realized she’d been out-of-touch with Liscor almost as much as Erin, because she turned and there it was.

Barehoof Kitchens, [Chef] Imani and [Illusionist] Palt.

The sign hung over the building next to Timbor’s Drunken Gnoll with an odd logo—that of a hoof upon a dinner plate. It was certainly something. The artwork was very well-done, and Lyonette knew it had to be Palt who’d done all of it, including the painted lettering.

“You…have a kitchen, Imani?”

The [Chef] tried to appear modest, but it was clear she’d been dying to tell Erin all about it.

“It began with my cooking classes. You remember that, Erin? Well, I was leasing kitchens but at such prices that Palt began grumbling how it would be easier to buy a new building since they were going up. We looked into it, and it cost a bit more than that, but we’ve more than made up for it with the classes. In fact…we provide for more than Timbor’s inn. The classes are just part of what we do. I come up with new recipes from home…”

She looked meaningfully at Erin.

“…or my take on it. And I’m creating new dishes, of course!”

Erin groaned.

“Good luck. They’ll steal your recipes instantly, those jerks!”

“Not if they pay Imani to teach them how to make it. That’s a Wistram sales-model. Coin for knowledge. Coin for secrets. My unshod darling, are we going to rescue The Wandering Inn’s dire cuisine once more?”

Palt trotted forwards, and Imani took his hand as he smiled at Erin. The young woman eyed the growing beard on the Centaur’s face.

“Yuck.”

“Yuck? Imani didn’t protest!”

Palt looked wounded as he covered his beard. Imani sighed.

“I didn’t not protest. He can always hide it with illusion spells. Palt, I need to work at The Wandering Inn. You get to run the kitchen.”

“I—suppose that works. We can hire some of our assistants full-time, I think, and devote one to the inn?”

“No, no, I’ll work there for the day. Let’s ask if Meritss can work full-time. If not…”

The two began conferring, and Lyonette glanced at Erin, who was standing with Ser Sest and a bored Numbtongue, who was placated eating Imani’s attempt at a spicy fried bean tofu and rating it on a placard Palt had designed.

She felt it too, no matter how hard she wanted to ignore it.

Could they do this? Lyonette smiled weakly.

“Er—how good is business, Imani?”

“Booming! There are so many new places opening up with all the Gnolls and Humans—and I’m getting people from Invrisil, Pallass, and beyond! The Wandering Inn will be good advertisement, I guess. Especially if the Players are performing. They are, aren’t they?”

“Temile promised his best group would perform regularly.”

Timbor whistled with envy.

“That will fill the inn alone. I offered him to keep every ticket sale and a margin on what I make from the common room, but he had his theatre, and I can’t compete with that.”

Lyonette and Erin exchanged a glance. Imani was taking an apron when Erin cleared her throat as Lyonette sighed and gave her a slow nod.

“Imani…maybe we can find someone else after all. Um. How good are your assistant chefs?”

 

——

 

It was not fair. Yes, the Players of Celum owed everything to Erin Solstice, and they had not forgotten it.

However, Lyonette heard an echo of the argument she’d used on Erin to justify only offering a month of food for people fighting in a literal war for the inn.

Could they ask Temile and Imani to give up their business for The Wandering Inn? Well, obviously, yes. But was that fair?

It was fairer to…ask Barehoofs to send some of their food to The Wandering Inn, not demand their [Chef]. It was fairer to tell Temile that his second-team could perform at The Wandering Inn and cut him at least a portion of the profits.

It just wasn’t easy. Erin and Lyonette went back to the inn, discussing the problem.

“Okay, so Temile will send his junior [Actors] some nights. That’s great! We don’t have to always have chaos. We just need a new [Cook].”

“[Chef]. Erin, competition is going to be more difficult. We need a [Chef].”

“Bah, I can cook a bit. Just let me get out of my wheelchair and…”

The [Princess] halted Erin with a look. Ser Sest kept pushing her despite that.

“Erin, you have never liked cooking as much as you need to. Besides…you might have [Advanced Cooking], but that’s the only Skill you have. And that’s not as great as it was anymore.”

Erin puffed out her cheeks indignantly.

“What? I’ll have you know that Ilvriss was super surprised I had it! It’s not common in Liscor—”

“It wasn’t common earlier. Now? Erin, I think most [Chefs]—and they are [Chefs]—have that and a dozen Skills you don’t. Imani has [Expert Cooking].”

The [Innkeeper] hesitated and gulped. There it was. Erin Solstice had, despite herself, raised the bar with cookies, ice cream, and, yes, actually interesting ideas that Liscor hadn’t tried. So now she was looking up at the bar. And she was in a wheelchair.

“Fine. [Chef]. We still have our magical foods.”

“No one’s eating your blue paste.”

“It’s magical. I’ll make something good! I have tons of new ideas. For the food, for the inn—and my pot! Let’s just open up today and play it by ear.”

The two entered the inn, nodding to each other, and found Ishkr reporting for duty with Liska and a whole lot of empty space next to him. The [Head Server] gave Erin an embarrassed look as the [Princess] and [Innkeeper] came to a stop. Lyonette groaned.

“Oh no.”

 

——

 

Ishkr had tried. He really had. He went around to every former employee except for Silveran, and they had all refused to work at The Wandering Inn.

“Why not Silveran?”

“Because he runs a company that can pull in more money in one day than we can pay him in a month, Erin.”

“Oh. Right. Continue.”

Ishkr looked embarrassed as he played with his apron pockets.

“I, er…asked the other former employees, Erin. Cisca? She already had good, steady work. Thoss joined the army. And the rest either had jobs that paid as much as we did or they didn’t want to come here.”

“Why not? Because they were working?”

Ishkr coughed into one paw.

“That and—”

And they really didn’t want to die. The Wandering Inn was famous for being attacked. It had been overrun by Crelers, stalked by Raskghar, and blown up three times. So when Ishkr had gone to headhunt individuals, over half had heard The Wandering Inn and refused flat out.

“The other problem is that I did go to many, many pubs, inns, and taverns. Even Invrisil!”

He’d spent six hours today rushing around, and yesterday too. Lyonette looked at him.

“Not one employee volunteered?”

“No. I had as many as sixty I interviewed. Not one was suitable.”

And here it got interesting. Erin peered at Ishkr, and Lyonette frowned.

“We could have interviewed them, Ishkr. What do you mean, not suitable?”

The Gnoll began ticking off points on his fingers.

“I do have a Skill or two, Miss Lyonette, Miss Erin. As [Head Waiter], yes? I could tell some were simply criminals. Petty [Thieves], untrustworthy. Those were easy to sort out. However, I took the liberty of—testing them.”

“By…?”

“Asking if they’d serve a Goblin or Antinium food. And then, if they did, I would ask them to take a fried bee out to Bird. Then pour acid in the outhouses to clean them. Finally, I asked them to throw a seed core at a Rock Crab.”

It was a basic litmus test, and Lyonette gave Ishkr an approving look. Frankly—it wasn’t even the most onerous stuff a staff member might be expected to do. However, the results?

Bird had gone hungry. Most people hadn’t even gotten to the Rock Crab before deciding they could get just as good pay somewhere else. And that was fair.

Erin Solstice was already sitting down, but Lyonette had to find a seat. The trio looked at each other as Liska poured herself a drink behind the bar.

“Wait a second, Erin. Wait…Ishkr? How many employees—ever—has The Wandering Inn retained?”

“Including you, Miss Lyonette?”

“Not including me.”

Ishkr hesitated. He glanced at his sister.

“Long-term? One.”

And that was him. Now, many establishments like an inn had low employee-retention rates. That was just a reality in the service industry in any world. But The Wandering Inn might have had the worst retention-rate of any inn in Liscor or a thousand miles.

To be fair, it wasn’t even that the inn was so bad they all quit! Look at Drassi! Look at Imani, for that matter! They had quit because they had found something even more successful. Even Kevin and Joseph had upgraded.

It didn’t solve the problem, but it made Lyonette and Erin feel a bit better when Ser Dalimont pointed this out. Then the [Princess]’ face fell.

“…But that means it may be even harder to hold onto any good employees we do get. They’ll leave because Erin turns them into a [Sword Fire Slaying Saint Rockstar] or something.”

“Hey! I wouldn’t do that! Unless I could, because that sounds sort of cool.”

Numbtongue nodded vigorously from one table. Lyonette stared at her hands.

“I think the problem is that we need…workers who are capable. Trustworthy, who can serve Goblins and Antinium well. Who are good at combat or can at least survive a dangerous situation.”

She began ticking off points on her hands, and Ishkr and Erin nodded. Lyonette looked around.

“We need a [Bartender], a [Chef], servers, security—”

She glanced at the Thronebearers, but they wouldn’t be here forever, hopefully, and they weren’t hers.

“—and even a stable handler, cleaners, and so on.”

“A stable? Aw. Wait—don’t we have one?‘

Erin peered out the window vaguely. Lyonette nodded.

“Yes, we do. And Erin, if someone wants to have their horse staying here overnight—can you make sure it’s bedded down and fed? Do you know how to undo a saddle?”

Erin squinted suspiciously at Lyonette.

“I bet there are belts and buckles and stuff. I could figure it out.”

Lyonette ignored that. She was drumming her fingers on the table, trying to figure out where you got people like that. And once again, Ser Dalimont spoke up with a slight smile.

“You have aptly described a group of employees, Pr—Miss Lyonette. I fear they may refuse your offers, but they do exist.”

“I have? Who?”

The Thronebearer bowed slightly.

“Lady Magnolia’s staff meets all such descriptions to a tee.”

The face Erin made said her opinion on hiring Magnolia’s staff. Lyonette shook her head. She sat there.

“Aside from the fact that we cannot hire them, Ser Dalimont—no. I think we have to make do. I’ll tell Temile we can open. You four will simply have to serve the tables.”

She glanced at the Thronebearers. Erin brightened up. That wasn’t a bad idea! They were certainly elegant, and the Thronebearers knew their way around all manner of tasks including cooking.

That was why it was so disappointing when all four Thronebearers instantly refused.

“I fear we cannot, Miss Lyonette. Despite any orders you may make—we will serve you and those with you without hesitation, but to work a busy inn would compromise our duty as bodyguards.”

“Not even…? Well, then—we have to hire someone else! Ulvama, Numbtongue! That’s it—Gothica and the Fellowship!”

Erin snapped her fingers and came to a realization. Of course! The Fellowship of the Inn!

They had nowhere to go with the exception of Sergeant Gna and Salkis. But this would solve that! She turned to them, and Gothica raised one finger.

“No one makes me work.”

Erin’s face fell. Numbtongue glanced up with a huge frown.

“I don’t want to work either.”

“Nope.”

Ulvama had just wandered in to get a bowl of ice cream. She walked away so fast Erin was left spluttering.

“But Numbtongue—we’d pay you!”

The [Bard] gave Erin a long look. Slowly, he reached into one belt pouch and produced an uncut emerald. He put that on the table.

“Oh, your hobby. But th—”

He put a nugget of gold there next, then silver, then a citrine. Erin waved her hands, scowling.

“Gothica?”

“Nope.”

The [Goth] did not want to wait tables. Which was fair. Erin put her head down, and Lyonette realized they might not be able to actually open the inn today after all.

“I guess we have to reconsider our options. Maybe if we raised prices…but the cost is already…Ishkr, we need to calculate how much we can raise the pay to. Do you remember…? Erin? Where are you going?”

She turned, and the [Innkeeper] looked around guiltily as she wheeled towards an inviting door in the wall.

“Um—lunch break! Let’s think about it later.”

 

——

 

Gireulashia didn’t want to ever stop playing with Mrsha. It wasn’t always fun.

In fact, it wasn’t often fun after ten days. It was hard for the two to play a lot of games together. Tag? Gire won. Hide-and-seek? Gire won. Triumphs? Gire won so badly Mrsha sulked for ten minutes.

They were different in ages; Mrsha still didn’t like walking on two legs. Gire could do a triple backflip from a standing position.

And yet, they managed. For one thing, practicing magic was something where Mrsha was ahead, and Gire’s look of wonder hadn’t faded from just casting [Light].

“Mrsha, you’re so smart.”

“I know, I know.”

Mrsha modestly tucked Pisces’ wand into its holster as she produced a patch of grass. She peered at Gire as the [Grow Grass] spell failed for Gire again.

“All I can do is a single blade of grass. I’m going to keep practicing! I’ve already figured out how to cast [Flame Arrow], but it’s so weak. I’ll cast a hundred—a thousand times per day of [Grow Grass] as well.”

Mrsha hesitated. She scribbled on her notepad.

Hold up, you cast that spell how many times?

Gire scratched her head.

“I can’t do a thousand. But I did a hundred mini [Flame Arrows]. With mana potions. I stopped when I felt like I was getting one of those giant headaches or mana burn, but I won’t learn unless I practice, right? How much do you cast your spells?”

Mrsha hesitated.

All the time. Every day. Every hour, really. I can’t not think when I don’t practice.

“Mhm. Me too. I’ll catch up soon!”

Ekhtouch had a different attitude towards training. However, play was more important. And Mrsha was the master of play. Also, because they had shared all secrets, Gire was someone whom Mrsha could share everything with.

“Mrsha, what is this? Is this…a super-phone?”

Gire’s eyes went round as Mrsha presented Kevin’s laptop. The two sat down and began playing Numbtongue’s favorite video game. Mrsha showed Gire how it worked as she proudly erased Numbtongue’s save files.

“How does it work? You—aah!

Gire jumped as Mrsha demonstrated her amazing [Gamer] skills on the easiest difficulty. She had to use the touchpad, and it was hard using Gnollish finger pads. Bam, bam! Look how good I am!

“Amazing! Mrsha, I want to try! And you do—look out!”

Boom. Mrsha sighed. Another death. But she, Mrsha the Space Warrior, could show Gire a new level of combat! She graciously handed the laptop to Gire and hopped into the [Paragon]’s lap to watch her fumble around.

…Yes, even Apista could tell what was going to happen next. Gire finished the first level without dying once. She might have done so on a harder difficulty, but Mrsha snatched the computer back and set it to the hardest mode instantly.

Legendary. Gire played for six minutes without dying as Mrsha’s mouth opened wider in outrage.

She was good at the game! But she did die at last because she didn’t know where the enemies were coming from and the game was genuinely hard; Gire could only move as fast as the character in the game. Mrsha sighed—then looked up at Gire’s face.

It was shining with excitement.

“Mrsha, I lost! It’s hard! Did you see? Let me try again!”

Mrsha blinked up at Gire and saw not a trace of the smug, stupid Hobgoblin’s grin and the condescending pat on the head that Numbtongue gave her. Gire…was having fun.

So Mrsha sat up and began guiding Gire on advanced tactics, like knowing where the enemy was coming from. They were just high-fiving a victory that had ended with Gire dying spectacularly when Erin’s voice came from behind them.

Damn you gravity! I’ll fight you!”

Both Gnolls turned around and saw a young woman trying to get up the hill with her wheelchair. It was not going well. Gire stood up, and she and Mrsha pushed Erin up the hill.

“Thanks, guys. Whatcha doing? Oh! Video games! What are you playing, Minesweeper? Oh, Halo.

Erin pshed, much to the indignation of Mrsha and Gire.

“Oh yeah? Oh yeah? You think you’re great? How good are you, huh, huh?”

Erin pushed Mrsha’s face out of hers.

“Mrsha, it’s just not fun on a touchpad. You really need a mouse. I’ve played that game! You need a multiplayer thing. So both of you can play.”

Mrsha and Gire locked onto Erin’s words. Mrsha instantly sat on Erin’s lap and gave her a sweet smile.

Tell me more, wise and generous person.

Erin laughed and looked at Gire. The [Paragon] ducked her head.

“Hello, Miss Erin. Thank you for letting Mrsha play with me. I have lots of fun with her.”

“You’re here every day, right? Does your tribe want you? I mean, I’m glad you can come. Come every day! I’m just curious.”

Erin saw Gire hesitate and her face close off.

“I—they want me to go back. Most of them are still at the Meeting of Tribes, but Chieftain Feshi is there, and we’re…we’re reduced. I don’t know if Ekhtouch can rebuild. Fir—our Chieftain is gone. It’s too much to do. We should probably join Gaarh Marsh or Weatherfur or Wild Wastes. Plain’s Eye is gone, and a lot of tribes will probably ally or join together.”

Mrsha looked at Gire, and the big girl twiddled her thumbs.

“My tribe wants me to help, but I’m too young. I can’t—I just want to learn magic. I’m too young. Like Mrsha.”

She picked up Mrsha and put her on one shoulder. Erin stared up at the giant Gnoll.

“Well, yeah. That’s true. You’re really young, right? Even though you’re so tall.”

Had Gire ever told Erin that? The [Paragon] looked delighted that Erin had noticed.

“How can you tell?”

Erin laughed.

“Easy! Mrsha isn’t friends with old people. Even Relc—she doesn’t play with them like you.”

Mrsha nodded proudly from Gire’s shoulder. Old people got tired too fast!

Gireulashia was relieved that Erin wasn’t pressing her, however gently like Krshia or the others did. She sat down and began trying to figure out if they could play together on the same computer. Meanwhile, Erin watched, glancing towards where Lyonette and Ishkr were planning.

“I totally get it. I’m not good at planning for the future. It’s too much work. What can I do? It’s…that’s how I’ve felt.”

Gire nodded rapidly. Her paws danced over the keyboard, and she focused on it, but talked absently. The words slipped out of her mouth.

“It’s too much—what if I got things wrong?”

Erin scowled in agreement. She still had the pot from last night, but she looked at it and gave voice to a feeling she’d had. A familiar one.

“Yeah! Why do we have to get only one chance? Only one…and then it’s gone forever. Even if you can try again, it’s not the same. If you screw up…”

She looked at the pot and shook her head, troubled.

“It’s a lot of work. The world’s okay in some parts. I mean, it’s not okay, but Krshia’s smart, and the inn’s okay. If it continues, that’s good, right?”

Mrsha and Gire nodded. Gire liked this game. Even though it was about killing, she looked at it like a dream. When you died, everything was back to the way it was. There were no consequences, aside from Mrsha deleting Numbtongue’s save data.

This…was fine, wasn’t it?

 

——

 

Erin Solstice heard an echo of her words from the Mrsha-Gire childhood alliance. This was how she’d felt. It was good to hear them agreeing with her, getting it.

Except that one was an actual child, and the other was a giant [Paragon] pretending to be Mrsha’s age.

Except…Erin felt at her chest. She shook her head, troubled. Then she eyed the unearthed safe now depleted of much of its gold.

“Drat. I guess we do have to make money, but we made money anyways. I’ll just…Mrsha, help me bury this again?”

One second! Gire, left, left!

Mrsha grabbed Gire’s arm, and the [Paragon] yelped.

“I can’t hear you, Mrsha. Don’t—blue exploding thing!

Both Gnolls dove off the hill away from the laptop. They got up, giggling, and Mrsha began to roll towards Erin and then slowed.

She realized Erin was staring down into the safe. Erin had found something. She had it in her hand, and Mrsha saw a beautiful flash, beyond silver, like what you imagined starlight smithed would be.

A little round coin, too big for any modern coinage. The Gnoll slowed, not because that was unusual.

It was the look on Erin’s face.

Perhaps the coin had been in Erin’s room, but it was entirely conceivable in the chaos that Ishkr had found it and put it into the safe. Certainly, if Erin had seen it before that—

She held the mithril coin with Tamaroth’s name on it up to the light. Gire stared at Erin, perplexed.

“What a strange coin? What word is that missing?”

She couldn’t think of it, and the [Paragon]’s brow wrinkled up. Erin just stared at that coin. And if ever there were a reminder—she looked around slowly. Something’s words echoed to her, in another world.

“Headscratcher says goodbye.”

“Erin?”

Mrsha tapped the rune stone, but the [Innkeeper] didn’t turn. She just held the coin up, and her eyes were suddenly distant. She looked it over, playing with it in her hands, and it almost looked like she might smile.

But she never did, and the coin gleamed as if a second brightness fell upon it. Was it growing…more beautiful? Mrsha began to walk forwards, but Gire stopped her. The [Paragon] squinted at Erin’s hand. Then she pulled Mrsha back.

“Don’t touch. Miss Erin?”

The [Innkeeper] didn’t respond. She held up the coin to the light, and it looked…odd. A bit squatter than it had before. Mrsha blinked at it. The faint writing, the engravings, did they look—

Melted?

Was the coin drooping in Erin’s hand? Yes—yes it was. That pure glow of hard mithril had changed, and it looked…luminescent.

Wet. Then Mrsha realized the metal was melting. Mithril was—

“Her hand. Mrsha, what is that fire?”

Gire pointed, and Mrsha stared at Erin’s hand. She only saw the empty air or a faint shimmer of…every hair stood up on her body.

Invisible fire. The [Innkeeper]’s flame of hatred did not engulf her, but it burned that coin. Burnt and burned—until she noticed the Gnolls looking at her.

The coin stopped melting. It began cooling, and Erin hurriedly tossed it from her hand.

“Uh oh—it’s probably—”

She aimed it at the pond, and it was very, very lucky that no fish or Fortress Beavers lived there anymore.

Because the explosion of steam and water blasted into the ceiling of the dome. Lyonette ran in with the Thronebearers.

“Erin! What did you do?

“Um. Sorry.”

It was raining in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Erin rolled over to the edge of the pond and stared down as Lyonette waved her arms. She saw a little glimmer down there.

“I’ll grab it, Miss Erin.”

“Don’t touch it.”

Erin stopped Gireulashia from diving in. Mrsha backed up too—her fur had gone up on end as she reached into the very depleted pond for it. Erin demanded a long-handled scooper and had to fumble for five minutes to pick it up herself, but she let no one else handle it.

It was a mangled, melted bit of mithril, dirty and nowhere near as fine as the coin. Just a lump of twisted metal. Lyonette stared at it as Erin made Mrsha promise never to touch it.

“Why not? Is it still hot?”

“Nope. Just warm. It’s just cursed. Or you could use it in a curse.”

The [Witch] said it so lightly. She put the bit of twisted metal away in one pocket as Lyonette threw up her hands, and Mrsha looked uncertainly at Erin. But the [Innkeeper] suddenly looked tired, and she gazed at Gire. Then into her reflection in the pond.

“…Yeah. I think I need a video game too. Mrsha, grab the laptop before the rain destroys it. Gire? Do you want to play a game of chess?”

Mrsha’s head turned, and Lyonette blinked as the [Paragon] innocently put her paws behind her back.

“Chess? I’m not very good at it.”

She lied to Erin’s face, and the [Innkeeper] smiled.

“That’s okay.”

 

——

 

Erin didn’t explain to the others what the explosion had been about, and it was a sign of The Wandering Inn’s state that no one who was a regular even really asked.

It did mean the four prospective candidates from Liscor who’d come in instantly told Ishkr they didn’t see themselves working out here, but at this point, Lyonette was already in happy despair.

As for Gireulashia, she was thinking.

She knew Erin was very, very good. So Mrsha had said, and if what Mrsha had implied was to be believed…

But Gire had also beaten Venaz in around half their games of chess. If anything, Gireulashia’s attitude towards the game was unlike Eldavin, Venaz, or Niers.

She was excited to lose. She only hoped Erin could deliver. The [Paragon] bounced in her seat as Erin brought out one of the many cheap chessboards, and they began to play.

“I think it’s lunch. Can I get a…food?”

Erin waved vaguely at the kitchen, and Lyonette sighed, but obliged her. The [Innkeeper] played Gire, and the [Paragon] began a calculated game, trying to feel Erin out.

She hadn’t made a habit of studying chess moves, but as Venaz had learned, Gire simply was able to think ahead and see obvious weaknesses. She was, as ever, the [Paragon] of Ekhtouch.

And she lost that first game soundly. Mrsha proudly sat up next to Erin as Gire smiled.

“Good game! Do you want to play again?”

“Yes, please!”

The second game was quicker than the first. Erin played with one eye on the board, but she was eating, and her limbs were prone to getting tired with even that simple task. And she was reviewing their finances with Ishkr.

“No…I dunno how much we earn per night. We had a hundred and twenty guests back in the day, and if you sell them all a blue juice drink—”

“But Erin, we have our overhead. Food prices—you cannot offer them the same prices you offered Safry and Marian.”

“I know that. Let me think on who we could ask for [Chefs]. Um…how about Esthelm?”

“We tried. Ishkr’s interviewing them now, but we need many people on staff. If it’s anything like Celum and Invrisil—”

“But they know Antinium and Goblins.”

“So do Liscor’s citizens. And how many of them are working here?”

Gire could multitask too, but she was concentrating on the game. Erin was…good. It came out in the way she placed her pieces. Sometimes she thought, but she would place a piece for reasons Gire couldn’t understand until four moves proved how it really had been the best play.

Experience. Both Erin and Gire were playing fast, and that made it enjoyable for Mrsha, who hated the games where both players sat with serious faces and got really mad if Mrsha made a loud sound behind them. The [Paragon] played her absolute best and was very interested.

[Superiority Made Manifest] wasn’t working. Perhaps Erin wasn’t using any Skills? Gire was only too happy to make this a battle of wits and even happier that Erin was pressing her so hard. Then she took the second game.

“Hey, a win and a loss! That’s great! Normally you draw at a higher level.”

Erin smiled. Gire looked up, and Erin frowned.

“Guess I’ve got to try harder. Another game or are you bored?”

“It just took eight minutes. Mrsha, I’ll play with you later, okay?”

Mrsha sighed, but Numbtongue’s outraged voice rose.

Who deleted my—

Gottago! Mrsha ran off. The third game between Erin and Gire was fast; the [Innkeeper] upped her tempo to Gire’s fast play, without growing visibly upset or worried. It was a draw, and Gire smiled…and felt an odd sensation.

Hm? What’s this?

“Another game? Sorry, I won’t stop playing unless I have something to do. It’s fun for me.”

“Sure. Is everything okay, Miss Erin?”

“Oh, you know…I have to think about the future. What do I want The Wandering Inn to be? Can I hire people? I mean, that’s what we’re doing now, but I’ve thought about it. What do I want to do? I kept the inn running like normal because that’s all I wanted to do. All I could do back when he was first here. Those were crazy days. Back then, you had five naked Hobgoblins creeping around at night.”

Numbtongue slowed as Erin jerked a thumb at him. She grinned and kept playing as Gire felt the odd sensation again.

“So—is that a problem, Miss Erin?”

“Keeping the inn running? Check? Nope. Aw, you got me. I forfeit. Another game?”

The [Innkeeper] saw she’d made a critical misplay and scowled. Gire blinked at her, but reset the board. She was doing worse than against Venaz statistically, but what was that odd sensation she was feeling? It took her another two rapid games to figure out, and Erin was speaking the entire while.

“It’s a tricky thing. If you can do something, I mean. If you can’t, you just do your best. But if you have all the freedom in the world—what would The Wandering Inn do? Assuming you could make a difference.”

She glanced up, and Gireulashia remembered the sound the [Innkeeper] had made when she hammered a Mythical Quest into the walls of the guild. It was at odds with the casual player sitting here in front of her.

Casual? Yes, that was it. Erin was playing lightly, relaxed, chatting to Gire with one hand holding a fork. She was getting distracted, telling Numbtongue not to hold Mrsha upside-down and threaten to dunk her head in the pond. Erin Solstice stared at the board as they drew—and Gire had been fighting for that draw—and smiled.

“Another game?”

Now Gire was sure. The [Paragon] stared at Erin as the [Innkeeper] played. Erin mused out loud.

“What would you do if you had all the power in the world to change something? What should it all look like? What’s realistic to do? I get it. I did nothing. And look what happened. Something crept up on me. But you’re fifteen. Is it…difficult?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know, Miss Erin.”

Gire avoided the question, but she couldn’t avoid the board game. She looked up as Erin won a second game. She was very good, but Erin was complimenting Gire.

“You play so well. Bird should play you, or Belgrade if he isn’t in the army again. The army. I don’t know. Anyways, another?”

“I…no.”

Gire pushed the board back. She looked at Erin, and that odd feeling became a reality. She stared at Erin with a deep frown.

“Miss Erin. Are you—not playing your hardest?”

The [Innkeeper] looked up at Gire and blinked once. Those innocent hazel eyes fixed on Gire’s face, and Erin shrugged.

“No. You said you weren’t good at chess. That’s okay. If you want, I can spot you a piece. Have you ever played a game like that?”

Gire’s mouth opened, and it hit her. Erin Solstice was…patronizing her! Taking it easy on her!

She, Gire, had never had anyone take anything easy on her. She was the best in any game, even if she was defeated. But someone deliberately playing worse?

She didn’t like that. She didn’t like that at all. With a huge frown, the giant Ekhtouch girl sat forwards just in time for two of her people to win past Ser Sest after a long, long argument.

“I would like you to play me at your utmost, Erin Solstice.”

The two Ekhtouch Gnolls entered the common room of the inn as Pisces got his bucket of popcorn ready. He looked around vaguely for the rest of the chessheads and wondered if it behooved him to call for Belgrade, Chaldion, and so on. Ceria had just woken up—it was possibly 1 PM.

Yvlon, exasperated, was reading a book with one eye on Erin as Pisces crunched and shared his popcorn with Ksmvr. Mrsha had reappeared with the vengeance of a wet Gnoll just in time for everyone to hear Erin speak to Gire.

“Play you at my best, you mean?”

“That’s right. I’m a [Paragon] of Ekhtouch. I can beat you in chess. We could bet on it.”

The [Innkeeper] chewed on the proposal. She looked Gire in the eye and shook her head.

“You can’t play me at my best.”

Mrsha slowed, and the Ekhtouch Gnolls, Gire included, looked at Erin at a loss for words. The [Innkeeper]’s eyes were sharp as she stared at her chessboard, the two Gnolls, and Gire.

“I can. Try me.”

“I know you can’t. I can only play at my best if I have someone to play against. And you’re not there yet. Sorry. I’m sounding mean. I try not to ever say that because that’s what people told me when I was playing. Mostly when they were worse than me. But I can tell. I’ve played this game every day of my life for years. I’ve played actual Grandmasters back home and here, I think. You’re a talented amateur. But you don’t know this game.”

“Then play me as hard as you can.”

Gire challenged Erin. The [Innkeeper] sighed.

“If you want me to. I’ll try.”

The next game was far slower as Gire played as best she could, thinking over every move. Erin still beat her. Annoyed, Gire decided to speed up and press Erin by moving a piece within five seconds of it being her turn.

“There’s no timer. But okay, I’ll pretend it’s speed chess.”

Erin failed to take the first lightning-round of chess, but she drew. Then she drew the next game. Then she drew a third game. Then she won. Then she drew the game. Then she drew…then she won again. The entire time, she watched Gire’s increasingly frustrated face. Because, while the [Paragon] could tell Erin was concentrating, the [Innkeeper] bore her words out in the games.

Gire couldn’t match her. It was like playing a brick wall. Sometimes Gire drew—sometimes the brick wall reached out and punched her.

“What’s it like succeeding at everything?”

Erin wanted to know. Gire snapped back as the two Ekhtouch Gnolls watched them play.

“I’m not the best at everything. I can tell. You can tell.”

“No, I mean…being good at everything? You’ve probably never practiced chess except lightly. Almost no one can just…sit down and do this. I saw you playing that game with Mrsha. You’ve never played it before, but you did it as good as Numbtongue, and he has no life when he gets obsessed.”

“Hey.”

Gire glanced up at Erin. She shrugged self-consciously and retorted.

“I only know what it’s like to be me. It’s as confusing for me to look at everyone else who can’t…just do things.”

Erin nodded. Her eyes were locked on the chess board, but every now and then she looked at the pot, sitting there.

“Yeah. That’s fair. And you’re not the best at everything. I can imagine it would be really scary if some weirdos were chasing you around and asking you to be a [Chieftain] or something. It’s a lot of pressure for someone. I wouldn’t want to do it and I’m old.”

So said the twenty-one year old girl, and the Ekhtouch Gnolls stirred. Gireulashia didn’t know what to say to that, so Erin went on.

“It’s fair. My answer isn’t yours because you’re a kid. Don’t expect to beat me or play me at my best, because you and I have years of difference in this game.”

“But I’m not a child.”

Gire’s voice sounded sulky, and she heard it. Erin glanced up at her.

“Kids get to be silly. Adults get to face consequences. No…both do. But it’s only the fault of the old ones. I thought everything was fine when it wasn’t. Then, one day, I ran into a bunch of people with crossbows.”

Her friends were looking at her and listening to her words more than the game. Gire was listening too, despite herself. Erin sighed. She looked at Gire, then at Numbtongue.

“I think I stopped deciding to change because everything was good enough. But that’s not how it worked. A while ago, I did a lot of big things because I thought these five strange guys needed help. And it caused a lot of trouble. But it was for the best. Before I died, I think I didn’t want to rock the boat because it was good enough. Even though so many things were going wrong. That’s the difference.”

She looked up, and Gire’s paws trembled as she placed the chess pieces, refusing to meet Erin’s eyes. The [Innkeeper] shook her head.

“It’s…not easy. And it’s not fair. But if you want something different, I guess the saying’s true. Do it yourself. And there are things I want to do, but I can’t. There’s someone I need to find. Her name is—Nanette. But I don’t know where she is right now. She could have moved.”

Lyonette frowned at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] looked up sharply. A Hobgoblin had just begun choking on her food, but Erin put it down to Ulvama trying to eat a double-strawberry cake in one bite.

“But could I protect her here? And that’s just one thing I need to do. I have more quests to post.”

Everyone listening stirred at that, and someone called out.

“Post ‘em already! I’ll take at least one! Just let me find the City of Stars, first!”

Jelaqua Ivirith had arrived with the entire team of Halfseekers. Moore, Ulinde, Seborn, and Jelaqua. Mrsha ran over in delight, but slowed. The half-Giant raised a hand, and she didn’t leap into his lap. His face looked shadowed.

Erin half-rose, but she had a game, and…Jelaqua’s broad smile flickered as Erin looked her up and down.

Searchingly. The Selphid had the Demas Metal flail she’d found in the fighting. Ulinde was still appraising the gear they’d…found…off Wall Lord Dragial’s corpse.

Moore looked scarier than ever, and Seborn had the light of faith in his eyes. They had leveled from their experiences. And yet Erin just smiled, took a gulp of water, and replied clearly into the silence.

“You’re not ready yet.”

The Halfseekers sat up. The Gold-rank team looked at Erin, and her gaze circled the inn. Ceria blinked as Erin gazed at her team.

“No one I know is. Not even Saliss. I can’t post something if it can’t be done. There are things I want to do, not just quests. Things I want to make. They can’t be made. So I guess I’ll wait. But not for long. Not forever. If I want it done, I need to do something first, right? And this inn…it isn’t even functional.”

She waved at Ishkr, hurrying around with Lyonette and the Thronebearers. Erin Solstice looked around the inn and asked the real question.

“What’s The Wandering Inn going to look like? What comes next for us? Good, happy things. If you want, Gire, you can stay here forever.”

She patted the big girl’s paw, but then Erin turned. She gazed into the empty kitchen, at the tables so few were willing to wait, and nodded.

Calmly, Erin checkmated Gire’s king and stood up. She managed to stand long enough to stretch, then collapsed into her chair with a sigh. The Gnoll looked down at the least fun game she’d ever played, then at Erin as the [Innkeeper] rolled her shoulders.

“Man, I’m stiff. You know what I want? A bathtub.”

“We have one, Erin.”

“Well, I want a bigger one. A real hot tub. No, no. A hot springs. With a slide and…a rubber duckie.”

She was speaking madness. The [Innkeeper] looked around the inn.

“And that jerk was right, there are things we could add. We have all the space in the world, but you know what? It’s not super safe. Someday…no. We really do need better security. And my door. But the staff should be nervous. So yeah, Bird’s no good in his tower by himself.”

“Gasp. I am hurt. Am I out of a job?”

Bird raised his head, and Erin waved a hand at him.

“No, silly. We just need to get you support. Why not…yeah. Why not a ballista?”

Lyonette nearly slipped carrying a tray out.

“Erin, you cannot be serious.”

She looked up, and Erin gave her a long, exasperated look.

“Why not? Has Bird ever hit anyone, anyone, with an arrow that he didn’t want to? What is he going to do besides shoot a Wyvern that would probably eat us anyways?”

Bird was nodding so fast he was vibrating.

“These facts are shaking me to my core. I am shook. Mrsha, stop shaking me. We will all have a turn with the promised ballista.”

“Are you actually serious about putting a ballista on the inn, Miss Solstice?”

Dame Ushar spoke slowly, as if trying to drip reason back into Erin’s head. The [Innkeeper] looked at her.

“Yes. That isn’t crazy. Crazy is some of the stuff I want to do. Anyways, I guess I figured it out. Lyonette, send a [Message].”

“To whom? I’m not going to if it’s insane.”

The [Princess] balled up her hands in her apron with anxiety. Erin gave her a blank look and shrugged.

“We can talk it over, but I just figured it out. It’s past time. I’ve solved our worker crisis. Send a [Message] to…Rags.”

Numbtongue’s mouth opened wide in delight, and Erin glanced sideways.

“And Silveran or Pawn. But Rags first. Ask her if we can have that cool guy with all the pepper. Calescent. And if she has Goblins who want to work at the inn. I’ll hire as many Workers and Soldiers as I need to if the Goblins won’t come.”

Waxworks. The Thronebearers were horrified to the point where at least one had stopped breathing. Lyonette gasped. She looked at Ulvama and Numbtongue.

“More—but they’re welcome—but as workers?”

“They’re already welcome in the inn. Who knows how to fight and doesn’t get worried when they see Goblins or Antinium? See, this is where you use your brain.”

Erin Solstice smiled. She tapped her head and heard that word echoing again. She frowned, because it was a dangerous one. But surely it had started like this, even if it had taken her longer the other time.

The Goblinfriend of Izril looked out her window to Liscor and then around.

“They’ll be here and never leave. Not so long as I’m here. And why not? Are…Normen and Alcaz here? The two hat guys?”

The Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings looked up and raised their caps from where they’d been drinking with Pivr. Erin turned to them.

“I know you have your organization to get back to.”

“Soon, Miss Solstice. We were…considered replaced already, as it were. Without rancor; we’ll be welcome back, but our fellows were entirely understanding about the entire incident. Complimentary, in fact.”

Normen spoke carefully. Erin smiled at him.

“Well, and this is just an offer, but would you like to work here as security?”

“After last time, Miss?”

Alcaz sat up in his seat. Erin flapped a hand at him.

“I believe…in second chances.”

Why she laughed like that, no one knew, but they understood. Erin looked at Normen and Alcaz, then meaningfully at the Thronebearers.

“This time, we’ll get you proper training and equipment. As my employees, not someone else’s. I don’t know if you can quit your jobs, but we have a steady wage. We might need to fill the roster, but we could pay the rest of you. I know you don’t want to wait tables, but what about it?”

She looked at Gothica, Ulvama, Infinitypear, Rasktooth, Dirtmouth, and more. Some of the Goblins grinned. The Antinium looked at each other and then at Bird, the luckiest Antinium in the world.

Not all would stay, but Erin’s mind was made up. The Wandering Inn wouldn’t reopen today, but when it did—the staffing would be different. And if they grew and leveled, well, that was fine for them. Erin had a feeling there might always be more.

Mrsha clapped her hands as Gireulashia watched the young woman make up her mind. Then the [Paragon] looked at the Ekhtouch Gnolls waiting for her.

“Isn’t there anyone else?”

She whined, but softly. One of the [Warriors] looked at Gire strangely.

“There are many, Chieftain. But you claimed Firrelle’s role. If you refuse it, we will find someone else. But we are waiting.”

Maybe that was why…Gire looked at her little friend, Mrsha, and sighed. She kicked at the ground and muttered.

“…If I do become Chieftain, we’ll move north. Past Liscor. But near the door.”

Wham. That was the sound of Chaldion walking into the common room’s door on his way to see a [Paragon] playing chess. Erin sighed. Then she looked at the Horns and the other teams.

“Well, that’s what I’m doing today. What’s happening next?”

It was time to change, it seemed. Ceria began to wake up slightly, and the Halfseekers looked at each other, considering that question. Then all eyes went to the map that Lyonette had bought from the Mage’s Guild, a rough sketch of Izril and a tentative new spot. Ksmvr tilted his head.

“It still looks like a buttocks after all. I cannot unsee it.”

 

——

 

It was the small things that made the difference. The little things that pushed the envelope until you wondered why you were tumbling down a cliff.

It was not that Erin Solstice had Goblins in her inn that people were talking about in Liscor, it was that she might have an all-Antinium and Goblin staff. Which—wasn’t a problem with the Antinium. Although, was the food going to be clean and bug-free?

And like that, they never noticed that the issue had shifted away from having a Goblin, singular, in the inn. Which meant that, in some way, at least here, Erin had won. But rather than wait there, as any good [Strategist] could tell you, that just meant you pressed the attack.

In the same way, you had to consider the ramifications of one of the [Innkeeper]’s requests: transport an Antinium to Liscor.

Yes, it had been done before, in the early days of the war, often in secrecy by military convoys to interrogate and learn from the Antinium. But this wasn’t a prisoner of war. Erin was asking someone to escort an Antinium like a person.

It would be done. That was the crazy thing. Already, the Gnolls had guaranteed the escort.

“It’s, um…the Pride of Kelia. Silver-ranks, good with bows. They’ve got horses and a buncha Silverfangs and even some ‘Ekhtouch’ are going to Liscor. So we’re riding with an escort of around 10-30. It’s not clear, but they’ll keep up, and it’s heavy security.

“For anything except a full attack. Every city will take a swing at that Ant.”

“Not against Gnolls…well, not now, surely? And even Pallass and Salazsar have already put out the word that it’d be really, really bad to kill an Ant.”

“Would it be war?”

Soft chuckles at that. But the room of people discussing the issue didn’t laugh too loudly. They were a bit—nervous. Mostly because at the end of this banter, someone would be on the hook.

You see, there was one more group beside the Drake cities, Gnoll tribes, and Antinium that had a real stake in this undertaking. Yes, the Gnolls were providing a lot of the muscle, but they couldn’t spare that many, and they were probably only taking the Antinium for the…quest.

A quest. Eighty gold coins. That wouldn’t go far split up, although a two-gold coin bounty for a long ride was not something you turned your nose up at.

Yet they had been called upon because they were needed. They were always needed. This group was, arguably, the most important guild in all of Izril. The Assassin’s Guild? Forget about it. The Merchant’s Guild was nothing without them, nor even the [Alchemists] or other professions. Even the Runner’s Guild knew that, for all their ‘fast deliveries’—it was the Driver’s Guild of Izril that took the real products where you wanted to go.

“Looks like they’re asking for speed Skills and an option on secrecy. The Gnolls, that is. So…who wants to go?”

The [Wagon Drivers], [Carters], [Caravan Leaders], and plain [Riders] who made up the Driver’s Guild in one of the larger waystation cities had all gathered for a conference on the issue. They were mostly Drakes and Gnolls since this was south of Izril, but here you’d find more Humans than almost anywhere else, even a Mage’s Guild.

A [Wagon Driver] could go anywhere, after all, and while it was rare for someone to go past the Bloodfields, if someone did go through in the winter, a lucrative if nerve-wracking trip, they were stuck till next year.

Why did you need a Guild for drivers as opposed to the Merchant’s Guild? Well, because [Merchants] were the rich bastards who weren’t looking out for you. Because you needed a way for all the people on the road to let each other know about Bloodfeast Raiders, wars, monster nests, and so on.

There was a lot of respect between the races here. The motto was, ‘you left your tail and fur on the ground’. Which was how non-Humans said it.

However, there was still a pecking order, and north-vs-south relations meant that a lot of the Humans were currently jocular and not leading the conversation. Well, the same went for the Drakes not bringing up any unpleasantness in the Gnoll Plains. But one of the veteran [Drivers] raised a claw.

“It might be best if a non-Drake wagon were to take the lead. Seems like they could use one or two big wagons. Someone with fast Skills. We’ll sit this one out.”

All the Drakes nodded instantly and got glares from everyone else. It was obvious what they were doing. The other [Drivers] instantly began objecting.

“Well, I can’t do it. I don’t have anything nearly big enough for an Antinium.”

“Psh. You’ve got a Farmer-class wagon.”

Barely. It’s not rated for a lot of weight. And they’ll have gear, supplies—I just can’t do it. What about you, Eithe? You were a Plains Gnoll.”

Eithe instantly demurred.

“I’m not quick enough. This—look, we all know it’s going to get attacked. I’m not doing it.”

She just went out and said it. The [Drivers] looked at each other, but the men and women in travelling vests, often with caps or cloaks, just…didn’t want this assignment.

It was a bad one. But the Driver’s Guild had to accept. It looked really bad if they didn’t; this was a Quest, and everyone wanted to know if it would succeed. The Gnoll tribes almost certainly lacked for specialists in the art of driving a wagon.

And it was an art. You could have a fancy [Rider] who could blaze a hundred miles on a horse, but could said [Rider] also haul two thousand pounds of weight without a bag of holding? Wagons carried a lot of cargo.

It might have gotten ugly at this point where one unlucky, younger [Driver] was cajoled and bullied into the job, but then one of the Drakes perked up.

“Hold on. Hold on—I’m checking our maps, and I’ve got our driver. He’s nearby.”

The rest of the Guild looked up. The way the Drake said it was an indication already. There was a certain cadence, like when you said ‘Named Adventurer’.

“Who?”

The Drake had found a name on a ledger of one [Driver] that surely everyone knew about. Marked with a star, no less. He tapped it proudly.

“Let’s call for him. Termin the Omnipresent.

Everyone looked at each other and instantly agreed. Of course. Termin.

There could be no other option.

 

——

 

The man on the wagon rolled into the city of Illuice later that day, grumbling as he had to stop for one of the Drake [Guards] searching his wagon.

Admittedly, they did it fast and accepted his passport, because the Driver’s Guild was a known quantity, but he was in a bad mood. So much so that he snapped at everyone, except for Erma and Fox, his two ponies.

Termin’s old wagon rolled through the streets, a slow progress to let foot-traffic pass, but he knew the route to the Driver’s Guild by heart; it was usually close to the gates. Now, he didn’t drive a Farmer-class wagon, which referred to the extra-wide, reinforced wagons that could carry the most produce aside from a Caravan-class vehicle.

He had a Traveller-class wagon, which meant it could only haul, unaided by magic or Skills, a bunch of people, not an entire mine’s worth of ore, for instance. Without Skills, that was.

With Skills, Termin could and did run trips for some farms, but he didn’t make it his line of work. Some drivers were completely supply-run types, but that was boring. Nor was Termin a driver that always chose somewhat dangerous routes. He did, sometimes, but he didn’t roll around with a bow in the driver’s seat. Nor did he have two braying stallions; Erma and Fox were somewhat elderly ponies who often slowed as Termin nagged them.

And yet, as the two wagons parked in Illuice’s Driver’s Guild and a young [Stablehand] went to unload the goods for local pickup—and tend to the ponies—Termin’s presence was not only expected but slightly noteworthy.

“Are you Termin the…”

“Shh! And yes, I am. Are they expecting me?”

The glare from the man made the Drake boy quail, but he got an instant claw pointing him to the humble guild. Termin jumped off his wagon and stomped around to put feeling into his legs.

He had a long travelling cloak, plain brown pants, and a somewhat dirty frock coat of the same color, although he hadn’t pulled out a scarf yet.

It was becoming fall, and felt the chill far more than young man he had been, who had ridden through rainstorms without getting a cold. And again, he was in a bad mood, so he snapped at the boy.

“I’ve got a bunch of Prelons. Have them ready for a [Merchant] Gwe or whatever her name is—carefully. Don’t even unload them; I’ve seen idiots bruise dozens.”

“Yes, Mister Termin. What about the ponies?”

“Leave ‘em. He’ll rub them down.”

Termin jerked a thumb, and the Drake boy turned. He blinked as a second figure swung down from a second wagon. He had assumed that this was another [Driver] coming in and a second stablehand had been coming out, but it appeared they were together.

“Who’s that?”

“My apprentice.”

And then Termin stomped into the guild, and the two stablehands took the measure of the newcomer.

“Termin the Omnipresent doesn’t have an apprentice, does he?”

One of the Drakes looked blankly at the young man offering a snack to Erma and Fox, then the pair of donkeys who were pulling his wagon. He heard them and turned.

He was a Human, and like Termin, he had a long traveller’s coat and hat on to beat the sun, but he hadn’t gone for the cloak. He blinked around the Driver’s Guild in a way that told the [Stablehands] he was new to the driving game; most [Drivers] had been to every city. Illuice was clearly new to this fellow.

His skin was black, which was interesting, because the two Drakes mostly saw pale-skinned Humans unless they came from other continents. He also looked up when they mentioned Termin’s nickname.

“What did you call him? Termin the…what?

He smiled, but the two Drake [Stablehands]’ serious expressions made him blink.

“You don’t know? Everyone knows Termin. Termin the Omnipresent. He’s a famous [Driver]. Word is they’re making him do the Antinium-delivery. Are you going with him? You might be in danger.”

The young man fetched a brush out and unhitched the ponies as the stablehands gave him some help. The two ponies slobbered over his treats, and Fox tried to eat his hat, but the Human seemed to have their affection, if not respect.

“There is no way that’s Termin’s nickname. He’s never said it to me.”

“Well…what’s your name? Are you actually his apprentice?”

“Yes…I have been for three months now. I’m a [Wagon Driver]. Level…above Level 10. Rhaldon.”

He held out a hand and thus acquainted himself with the stablehands and younger [Drivers] who came out to meet the famous Termin’s protégé. And all throughout, there was the faintest smile of disbelief on Rhaldon’s face.

Termin was famous?

 

——

 

He got proof of that sooner than he expected, because after about twenty minutes of talking outside, the guild doors opened and Termin walked out. He was not stomping—but only because he was talking genially with a few [Drivers].

However, from the way Erma relieved herself right then and there, it was clear Termin was not happy and his animals sensed it. He was smiling in a way that suggested he’d just kicked a post with his big toe and was trying to walk it off without shouting.

“I’ll get on the road, then. I appreciate you giving me the opportunity.”

“Termin, Termin—don’t be like that. We’ll all buy you a round when you get back. But you know that only you can roll there fast enough.”

“…Don’t you have [Racer’s Wheels] on your wagon, Ummlt?”

“—But I don’t have your abilities, Termin! And you have two wagons now that you have an apprentice; plenty of room for supplies!”

The hearty laugh from the other man was accompanied by a slap on the back. Termin’s returning glare was interrupted by the others approaching Rhaldon.

“Who’s this?”

“Rhaldon. He’s working with me. Sensible—doesn’t get the wagon into jams, and we’ve been doing bigger deliveries together. He got started in the business three months ago. First just managing the seat, then I got him a wagon. He shot past ten levels in three months. If that’s not talent…”

Now that was interesting. The first ten levels were quick, but that was very fast. So the young man got a second look from all present.

He was rather silent, which you could take as respect, but it was more of a personality thing since he wasn’t bursting to say something. But he did seem to be taking in everything. He was armed with a cheap shortsword at his hip, but that was practically standard. Termin himself had a long club in his seat.

“Really? You just took on an apprentice like that, Termin? Not even a junior [Driver]?”

One of the Gnolls hmmed, and Termin hesitated, but context was needed, so he leaned over.

“Actually, it was purely coincidence. I found him lying by the road, bleeding to death. A big hole in his shoulder. Rhaldon had no idea where he was—bit of the forgetfulness. Probably hit by [Bandits], right, Rhaldon?”

“That’s right, Mister Termin. He saved my life. Rhaldon. Pleased to meet you all.”

And the young assistant was quite charming once he smiled and his reserve vanished for a moment. The other [Drivers] instantly began talking about Bloodfeast Raiders, damned [Bandits] and lazy Watches up north, and wasn’t it a good thing that Rhaldon had met Termin?

“Well, we don’t want to keep you. It’s already been a day and a half, and you’ll want to get to the Meeting of Tribes or wherever they meet you. Best of luck, Termin!”

“Thank you. I’ll hold you to that drink.”

Termin was still annoyed as he got in the wagon, and the two ponies protested having to get on the road again, but Termin bought them off with feed bags and oats sweetened with sugar. It took twenty minutes to leave the city, mostly because of the exit check at the gates and the slow progress of getting through the streets.

But once you were out of the city, you just got on the road, and aside from rude City Runners or some idiot, you just kept on the right side of the road and drove forwards. Naturally, you had an eye on traffic, for bumps or things that could injure your wagon or animals, and threats, but there was a lot, a lot of time most drivers spent sitting there.

You could read a book, talk, admire the sights—it was a personality that dictated the [Driver] class.

Or a lack of any other option. However, Rhaldon was silent until they were a good six minutes from the city. Only then did he begin speaking up, and his reserve turned into a quite chatty discussion with Termin.

“Termin the Omnipresent?”

The man was eating one of the bruised Prelons they’d gotten from the Drake city of Cellidel, which had not been doing too well. Two cities and both times he couldn’t even stay for the night. He was grumpy, but not at his assistant, so he moderated his tone.

“That’s just their stupid nickname. Everyone who’s someone gets it in the Driver’s Guild. You know, Named Adventurer names? We just do it like that. It’s fun to exaggerate.”

“But you are high-level compared to them.”

It wasn’t a question. Termin jerked a thumb over his shoulder and snorted. Fox passed gas rudely, and Rhaldon was glad he wasn’t behind Termin.

“That lot? Highest-level is Level 30, and that’s only Ummlt, the Drake with the scar on his lip. Don’t let him fool you. He’s got a fast [Wagon], but that’s about it. And he got that scar opening a bottle of wine with a knife. Slashed his lip right open.”

The young man snorted. Rhaldon glanced sideways at Termin, and the [Wagon Driver] looked back.

“Not as nervous around the Watch this time? We could have stayed in the city except for this stupid job.”

Rhaldon rolled his shoulders.

“…No. Cellidel was different.”

Termin had already produced a pipe; he’d gotten some very nice Dreamleaf from the Strongheart farm, and it lasted him months. He normally put only a bit in the pipe, but he was in a bad mood, so he filled it up.

“Yes, it was. I chewed your ear off, but you were right. Turns out they had riots; that was on me wanting a rest. You’ve got good instincts. It’ll take you far. Especially if you keep leveling up like you’re fighting Crelers.”

“Thanks.”

The two wagons rolling side-by-side were overtaken by one of the fancy carriages running down the middle of the trade roads—Izril’s Wonders. The [Driver] in charge might have been in the Driver’s Guild, but he was probably a freelancer who thought himself too good for the low-down wagon drivers like Termin and Rhaldon.

His superior look certainly indicated that as the Drake passed by. Termin frowned at him and then waved at a few Drake children who were pointing at the Humans. Rhaldon eyed him again.

“So about Termin the Omnipresent…”

“Shut it. It’s just a few Skills. I’m not that high-level.”

But he was, in a way. Embarrassed though he might be, Rhaldon had figured that much out from the first week of Termin saving his life. Yes, his wagon was plain and he didn’t have any magical gear.

Then again, that was probably why most [Bandits] didn’t look twice at Termin. He was literally not worth robbing unless it seemed like he really had something valuable. And if they tried, well—

It was hard to catch Termin. He had a knack.

Termin had been to the Strongheart’s farm. He had also been to Reizmelt, First Landing, and as far south as Zeres. He got around.

In fact, going from where he’d found Rhaldon to the west of Invrisil along the Vail Forest, down to here in Illuice, around the western edge of the Gnoll Plains, was no small feat in three months, let alone because the Bloodfields were active, and Termin was doing deliveries the entire way.

How did he do it? Well…Rhaldon saw very little changing as he and Termin chatted, mostly about the other [Drivers]; the road rolled onwards, and the Drakes had done a good job paving it, unlike some of the muddy, untended roads you could find in the unsettled parts of the north.

They had time to call out to other drivers, exchange words with the friendlier travellers, and Termin even talked with a jogging City Runner coming their way who was only too happy to ride with them for twenty minutes and jaw about gossip.

The life of a [Wagon Driver] didn’t have to be fast-moving action. It almost never was. And yet, despite the sedate pace of Erma and Fox—including them actually veering off the road to relieve themselves again, despite Termin cursing them—it seemed to Rhaldon that they were making good time.

It was subtle clues, like the distance markers that the trade roads had. And…at one point, a fancy carriage with a brilliant trim of blue across the grey sides raced past that said Izril’s Wonders. The Drake [Driver] who was very familiar scoffed at the two wagon-drivers…then he stared at Termin and Rhaldon’s faces and nearly crashed the coach.

“I’m pretty sure that was just being petty, Termin.”

Rhaldon commented as Termin cackled at the rearing horses and swearing oncoming traffic berating the Drake. The old man winked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rhaldon. Say—you don’t mind the Antinium, do you?”

“Never met them. Bugs?”

“The Black Tide, aye. You must be from Baleros or Terandria or Chandrar if you hadn’t met Gnolls or Drakes. Anything jogging your memory?”

Not at all for someone from a world with only Humans. But of course, Rhaldon didn’t say that. He just shook his head and demurred.

And he was sure Termin knew he was lying. But he didn’t press Rhaldon, and as the young man had observed—Termin had secrets of his own.

Rhaldon had surreptitiously fished out the book he’d bought with his first payday, but he kept talking to Termin, trying to get more out of him. There were interesting facts about Termin. Again, he did not have magical artifacts. Rhaldon had seen him surrender his cargo to the [Bandits] who’d held them up, and he and Termin had let the Watch know and not done anything as stupid as trying to fight.

And yet, here was an interesting fact for you: Rhaldon had learned that Erma and Fox, the too-intelligent ponies who could pull the quite heavy wagon along, were old friends of Termin’s. They had little discipline, could be fussy, but were quite affectionate and fairly hard-working despite their clear age—both were grey like the way Termin’s hair was going, despite him buying hair dyes from [Alchemists].

They were also both forty-six years old. Termin had bought them when he started his career, and he had never changed animals.

Horses lived for about thirty years on average. Ponies had a longer lifespan by about a decade. Rhaldon was not actually a huge expert on livestock, but he’d read that fact one time, and it had stuck out to him.

Of course, since magical animals existed, he’d struck up a conversation with a [Hostler] at the next town and been assured that was not normal for two ponies in a [Wagon Driver]’s care, especially ones that weren’t magical breeds.

Every fact Rhaldon knew was suspect, so he made a habit of cross-referencing them with this world’s facts. Sometimes what he was told was suspect, but—anyways.

The second thing was that Termin went places. But again—he didn’t zoom about. He just…appeared.

He was very cagey about his Skill, and Rhaldon was still new to the idea, but he had three months, and this time he knew the nickname Termin had never uttered once around him. At last, the exasperated [Driver] let it slip as they took a lunch break.

“All right, all right! Yes, it is a Skill. Happy? I can’t make Erma and Fox cross a hundred miles in a day. That makes you stand out.”

And standing out got you killed because aforementioned [Bandits] thought you had something important. Rhaldon nodded, chewing on some soft jerky. Fox still tried for a bite.

“Right, so how does it work?”

Termin glanced around.

“I…tend to meet people. Sometimes I think—‘I should go down this road’. And then I run across a familiar face or someone I want to meet. Does that make sense? It’s sometimes hairy. Remember the story I told you about running into those damn screaming frogs?”

“I remember. Is it profitable?”

Termin smiled.

“Sometimes. I’ve met some pretty important people in my time. Very interesting stories. Come to that—most of my Skills are for avoiding trouble. That stupid nickname is just jealous idiots.”

Termin the Omnipresent. It certainly fit his Skills. And Termin’s glance at Rhaldon…well. No one could be more grateful than Rhaldon. He wasn’t a medical…expert, but he was pretty sure he’d been shot through an artery when the [Wagon Driver] had poured a potion on him and saved his life.

“How’d you get so many levels, then, Termin?”

If Rhaldon was right, Termin was a Level 40+ [Wagon Driver], which made him one of the best on the continent. The man grumbled, but looked pleased at telling stories. He had seemed bored, which might have been why Rhaldon had made it as his assistant.

“I kept getting into scrapes. That’s the trick. Reasonably risking my life now and then. Not in a big way. I never tried bashing an Adult Creler’s head in, but I’ve carried folk away from a Creler infestation. I’m ashamed to say I’ve seen some terrible things happen and couldn’t do a thing. But I’ve transported adventurers, [Ladies] and [Lords], even [Knights] and whatnot in this wagon. Even saw the Goblin Lord’s army or part of it. Damndest thing. I leveled up from that—although it might have been me meeting Grand Magus Eldavin before he revealed himself.”

He looked proud about that. And that was probably why all the [Drivers] gave him that nickname; when it came to telling stories, you couldn’t beat Termin.

“So who’re the other famous drivers? There has to be at least one with a name like that.”

Rhaldon teased Termin, and the man sighed.

“Let’s get ‘em moving. I can feel the road calling. We might skip all the way into the Great Plains, but I don’t know…maybe it’s a new meeting. Be very respectful; that’s the ticket. You never know who’ll become famous.”

Rhaldon scrambled to stomp out the fire and get things moving. He did stuff like that, like unloading or arranging the night’s rooms as the apprentice. Termin looked glad not to, and only when they were on the road again did he speak.

“…Nicknames. Nicknames? Ah, got one. You haven’t met her, and you’d better be on your best behavior around her. No weird questions. Not around Karsy.”

“Karsy?”

Termin nodded.

“Her nickname’s…Karsaeu the Unmarked. She rolls the Unmarked Coach, and you don’t ever trouble her or her passengers. Who else has a stupid name? Oh—Chaoisa, the Contempt of Man.”

Rhaldon snorted, but Termin gave him a serious look.

“That’s the actual nicknames we get given. So ‘Termin the Omnipresent’ is better than some.”

Rhaldon supposed that when you were a bored [Wagon Driver], nicknaming yourselves in the most grandiose way possible was a way of coping. He badgered Termin for six more names, then, as usual, they fell into a peaceful silence. Termin hummed as they left the road, following a trail only he knew, and they rolled onto the grasslands. It was hard for Rhaldon, and the donkeys had to struggle despite his smaller wagon; Termin’s rolled across the grass as if it were perfectly maintained stone.

“Watch for soft spots. I don’t want you stuck. Follow me exactly; I’ll maneuver us.”

Even then, Rhaldon could still steer very easily since the donkeys could follow the wagon in front of them. He spent his time reading.

Baleros, Chandrar, adventurers and wars. And we’re going to the spot where the Gnolls were nearly all murdered by Drakes. This is history—and none of this is for me. I can’t do much unless…

Rhaldon pulled out his money pouch and stared at the singular gold coin and silver he had. He had spent most of his earnings, and Termin had bought the donkeys and wagon, so it was quite fair how much Rhaldon got, or so he understood.

Not nearly enough to make any purchases, and since Plain’s Eye is gone, I don’t think Gaarh Marsh will be selling anyways.

Maybe after they did this trip. Termin glanced over his shoulder.

“You still looking to buy some fancy glassware and such?”

“And other things.”

“Wait ‘till Liscor, then. They’ve got this fancy magic door that connects to Pallass and Invrisil. You’ll do all your shopping then, and by the sounds of it, we’ll both get at least a few gold.”

That did seem good. Rhaldon relaxed and nodded. Termin was smiling again.

“Did I say that I know the [Innkeeper]? Even transported her magic door with those Gold-rank adventurers.”

“Yes, Termin. You’ve mentioned it.”

“She came back from the dead, even. ‘Course, that’s how it is for me. I told you about that [Farmer] that I took from his farm, right? Eldertuin the Fortress?”

“Him too. And the Wind Runner. And the Horns, yes. And Griffon Hunt, and the Halfseekers…”

“I once had Elia Arcsinger herself in here, you know. Just a ride to Dwarfhalls Rest, since her team was tired.”

Rhaldon sighed. The one problem with Termin was—

He did like to brag. But Rhaldon was quite grateful. He just—

He was not going to be a [Wagon Driver] all his life. Hopefully. That was not what he was good at. And yet, how else were you going to make enough money to get all the things he needed? Adventuring? No shot. He had no experience with any weapons, and even if he had a gun, he’d heard Termin talking about Crelers.

Acting as a [Merchant]—maybe. Rhaldon had a very good head for numbers, but starting that required capital. He had really toyed with the idea of apprenticing himself in his chosen profession, but he might have years of a regular apprenticeship, and all his expertise would not jive well with this world’s understanding of his field.

Better, far better to work with Termin, especially because it paid far more than regular [Wagon Drivers] earned. Once he had a few gold coins, maybe Rhaldon would see about his first foray into the world he knew.

But then again—from all he’d heard, alchemy was an explosive, mad-science approach to creating potions and whatnot. He had worked in chemical labs where an explosion never occurred.

Rhaldon hummed with Termin as they slowly came over a hill and saw a ruined battlefield and a bunch of Gnollish huts. Termin’s eyes focused on a single Antinium Soldier drawing pictures on the ground, surrounded by Gnolls as they spotted the two wagons. The Earther gazed at the foreign bug-man that the world hated so much.

It certainly wasn’t ever boring with Termin.

 

——

 

Unfortunately, Termin was a boring fellow. At least on first blush. So while Chieftain Feshi herself met with him to make sure he understood his task, she left the escorting duty to Nailren of Kelia’s Pride, the Silverfangs, and the Ekhtouch warriors.

Termin was not famous enough to warrant Rose meeting him. And even if she had—no. But Antherr would be going to Liscor, possibly a bit faster than usual.

Erin Solstice was happy to learn that Antherr had a ride, though, and she did a double-take at the name listed.

Termin? Wow, he gets around, doesn’t he? Why’s he down south?”

“I don’t know. Is he that [Wagon Driver] that’s helped you out, Erin?”

Lyonette vaguely remembered the name, but Erin nodded with a huge smile.

“That guy’s cool. I mean—I’ve met him a few times, and so has Ryoka. Weird. He gets around.”

That was all she thought about Termin the Omnipresent. It would take him a while to arrive, and Erin was simply glad of the news.

However, there was a bit of unhappiness in today’s employment decisions. And that person came by the inn to protest in person.

“I am sad.”

A Worker with silver antennae announced his grief. He poured a cup of water over his head.

Erin stared at him. Water dripped off the Antinium’s head. He drooped.

“Have I failed? I have levelled up. Is my cleaning no good?”

“Silveran? Wh—what’s wrong? Why are you sad?”

“You do not want me.”

“What? Silveran!”

Erin had to make him bend down so she could hug him. She didn’t get why the [Cleaner] was so upset until he sat down.

“You wish to hire [Cleaners] from me. And the Free Hive. But not me. I am no longer needed? I cleaned my best, but Ishkr said the inn was closed. Did I clean the wrong stores? I will stop now.”

He was trembling, he was so upset. And as Erin looked at the water dripping from his mandibles, she realized he had learned to cry.

“Silveran, that’s the exact opposite reason! You’re…too good at cleaning!”

The Worker stopped crying and stared at Erin. Too good at cleaning? Was such a thing possible? He opened and closed his mandibles.

“But I was told I could not be employed at The Wandering Inn any longer.”

“By who?”

For answer, Silveran pointed an indignant Erin to the culprit.

Lyonette?

“That’s not what I said! I would never—I said Silveran is too successful!”

The Antinium did not understand the difference. Lyonette hurried over, flushing, and defended herself as Erin realized the miscommunication.

“Silveran runs Silveran’s Cleaners, Erin. He employs dozens of Antinium! I told you we couldn’t match his prices.”

“I will work for free. I earn enough money so I will work for free, please. Or I can pay you…”

Silveran was calculating his income, and Erin started chuckling. She put a hand on Silveran’s.

“I get it. Silveran—Lyonette is saying you’re doing so well it would be wrong of us to make you work here for a fraction of the pay. It’s not fair.”

“But I wish to work here.”

The Worker was still upset. Had he cleaned his way out of his dream job? He succeeded into failure! Erin urgently patted his hands and called for a bracing bowl of acid flies.

“Silveran, that’s not it. Now you can send us some of your good Workers and even Soldiers if they can clean stuff. Listen—I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s better if you keep Silveran’s Cleaners running. Doesn’t it really help?”

It did, and many [Shopkeepers] told Silveran his prices and quality couldn’t be beat. It also meant Workers got to have a paying job and far better conditions than the Hive.

And yet…Silveran closed his mandibles sharply.

“I do not want to help. I want to work here.”

He knew that was wrong, but it seemed to him that by helping everyone, he had thusly made himself less happy. He wanted to be…here.

He looked around The Wandering Inn, and the [Innkeeper] hesitated. Then a big smile crossed her face, and she poked one of his ‘cheeks’ since there was nothing to pinch.

“You silly Silveran, you! Don’t you get it? You might not be able to work here as a [Cleaner] all day—but that just means you can come here whenever you want. And hang out with me!”

“I can?”

The Antinium gave Erin a blank look. She rubbed his head.

“Yes, you can. And you don’t have to clean, so you and I can hang out and play chess.”

“I do not enjoy chess. But this sounds enjoyable.”

“…Huh?”

The betrayal. The drama. But Silveran looked at Erin, and his overwhelming distress faded into…well, he still wanted to work here. But maybe he could pay to sweep the floors? And if he was a paying customer, could he not, in fact, eat all the acid flies he had ever wanted but been too afraid to ask for?

“Erin. If I can pay for food—may I ask for two bowls of acid flies?”

The gluttony. Erin looked at Silveran and began laughing. Then she personally brought him a bowl, and Silveran began to appreciate money in ways he had never thought of before.

“Do you and the Workers actually spend money, Silveran?”

Fascinated, Erin rested her chin on her hands as she sat with him. Silveran replied absently, gobbling acid flies.

“We pay for food. And pillows.”

“And…?”

“And paint? Garry has a bakery which offers food for coins. We often spend money there.”

“Nothing else, Silveran?”

The Worker hesitated. Now that he was a [Cleaning Manager], he did understand money. He had kept trying to offer some services for free, but he got paid, and so he had divided much of his profits to his Workers—but he had needed to keep money for supplies and such.

He understood the myriad things that people spent money on, but he, as a Worker…Silveran glanced at Erin, and in many ways, he was as much of a stranger to Antinium as Yellow Splatters, Pawn, or even Crusader 57.

It was just that Silveran was to economics what Pawn was to faith. He had brought pets to the Free Antinium. Now, he had the most devious of thoughts.

“…I do not spend coins, Erin. But I could. Could I pay you for a…room in your inn?”

Erin blinked at Silveran and glanced at Lyonette.

“Absolutely! Why, we’d let you stay for—Lyonette! Lyonette!

The [Princess] had devised a new method for dealing with Erin while she was wheelchair-bound. Which was to roll Erin away from Silveran and sit down. Silveran put down a payment on a room and then was told he could move in now.

He walked upstairs, peered into his room of choice, and decided that he didn’t want Bird for a neighbor, so he took one down the hall that he liked. It wasn’t that Bird was noisy—he just left rotting birds around his room, and Silveran objected to his lifestyle.

The inn had its first new (paying) guest. Despite her being slightly annoyed at Lyonette, Erin was glad of it and smiled.

“Now we just need Workers and Goblins. Hey—I guess we might need more rooms, Lyonette. Especially if we’re putting them all up here.”

“In that case, we need to talk to Hexel. But let’s talk to Rags first.”

Erin nodded instantly and frowned.

“Speaking of which—she’s at Goblinhome, right? Maybe I can go there. I’d like to see it.”

Erin wistfully looked around. The person she owed speaking to most was arguably Rags. There were others, of course, like Fetohep and such—but Rags?

Yet it seemed like the little Chieftain had left and not come back, and Erin didn’t know why. The only people who would know how to get to her would be Numbtongue and Ulvama.

And Kevin, for some reason. Erin found Numbtongue first. He was playing cards with Gothica, Octavia, and Liska over lunch.

“Psst, Numbtongue.”

“I’m working! I just sat down because they asked!”

Liska abandoned the table in a flurry, and Lyonette frowned after her as Numbtongue blinked at Erin.

“What?”

“We’re going to hire Rags’ Goblins if any want to work here. I think they will, right?”

Numbtongue stared at Erin’s face and around the famous inn and at what might be the only [Natural Ally] of Goblins.

“…Yes.”

“Great, great! Well, I haven’t seen her either, and I bet Goblinhome is hard to get to. Especially for, y’know.”

Erin gestured at her wheelchair. She leaned forwards.

“So I was thinking—why don’t we ask if Rags can put a teleportation stone in Goblinhome? Once we get the magic door back, obviously.”

Numbtongue heard a snort from Gothica. He himself kept a blank face as he took Liska’s cards and reshuffled them into the deck.

“Nope.”

“Huh? Why not? I don’t really want to ride a Wyvern or something. It looks really uncomfortable even if I could get up there.”

The [Bard] gave Erin a long ‘are-you-serious’ look, and when she didn’t blink, he sighed.

“Think about it.”

The [Innkeeper] frowned at him, but it took her only a minute before she sighed.

Oh. Not a good idea?”

Nope. Lots of people hate Goblins.”

“Okay, then we’ll just send a [Message]. Can you tell me who to send it to? Lyonette needs to know.”

“Nope.”

Numbtongue scowled as Gothica took the hand. He pushed two coins forwards, and Ulvama sauntered over to the table. She was dealt in as Erin waited.

“…Why not?”

“What she want to do, send [Message] to Rags?”

Numbtongue rolled his eyes and nodded. Ulvama laughed.

“Nope!”

Erin looked from Goblin to Goblin and then folded her arms.

“I get it, I get it. It’ll reveal them. Fine. Then we’ll send a messenger or something. Er—how do we do that? Maybe we have to hire someone to hike up there?”

“Into the High Passes?”

Octavia had to interject at this point, and Erin scowled as she heard what she sounded like.

“Well—how are we supposed to talk to Rags? Wait until she comes down?”

“She might not come down. Tenbault’s [Healer] is making a huge fuss. If she comes down by Wyvern, they follow the Wyvern back.”

“Or shoot it for bounty.”

Ulvama agreed. Erin looked from Ulvama to Numbtongue with an increasing frown.

“Then—if she goes on foot or with those wolves? And disguises her trail?”

Both Hobgoblins considered the idea as Gothica tried to peer at Octavia’s cards surreptitiously and got a glare from the [Alchemist]. Someone whispered in Erin’s ear.

Can’t do that. They’re watching the inn.”

Erin jumped. She turned, and a Drake with scars all over her face stared at her with huge, piercing eyes.

“Who—Tessa?”

Numbtongue and Ulvama nearly shot out of their seats with Octavia, but the Named Adventurer just stared at them and then pointed out the window.

“They’re watching the Goblins. And you. And the [Princess].”

Erin rolled over to the window and stared blankly out at the grasslands. She didn’t see much, just a lovely orange sheen on some of the grass. She could see the Blue Fruit grove from here, a Dinobird flying well out of Bird’s range, and one of the new villages under construction.

“Who’s watching? Or is that a general thing?”

The Named Adventurer pointed. Erin squinted.

“…Nope. I don’t see anything.”

“One second.”

Shriekblade popped the window open and clambered out. Erin saw her race across the ground and draw two daggers in her claws as she ran low, eyes fixed on—

“Aaaaaah!”

Erin jumped as someone wearing a camouflaging cloak that looked just like the grass leapt up and ran screaming. She caught sight of a spyglass, a terrified face—and then Tessa was walking back. She crawled through the window.

“Want me to stab everyone I see? I could kill them or just…stab them.”

“No. Thanks.”

Erin turned back to Ulvama and Numbtongue and saw both nodding appreciatively. She frowned; she hadn’t sensed the people outside, but they were well away from her inn. She turned back to the others.

“Wait a second, is that why Rags left so fast? She was afraid of being tailed?”

“Probably. You said she was smart.”

Ulvama poked Numbtongue, and he grouchily poked her back. Erin looked out the window at the High Passes looming beyond.

“But hold on—how will she come back? How will I speak to her?”

No one had an answer for that, and Erin looked around. The mission changed from being…recruit Goblins to something else.

Find a safe way to Goblinhome. Erin rubbed at her head.

“Why is everything so hard? I just want to send Rags one message without it being difficult. Numbtongue, could you get there if you were, like, invisible and we made sure no one was tailing you?”

The [Bard] considered this.

“Yes…but I don’t want to climb the High Passes alone. Sounds like a good way to get Eaten-Death.”

Erin’s face fell. She looked at Ulvama, and the [Shaman] stared back. Does it look like I’m going to go hiking, ever?

Erin gazed around, and someone waved a claw in her face.

“Me? I could go. No one finds me.”

Tessa stood to attention, and Erin blinked at the strange Named Adventurer. She hadn’t really said much more than she was here to guard Lyonette. Had Ilvriss sent her or…?

“You’d do that, Tessa? We can’t really pay—are we paying you?”

“Nope. But I’ll work for free. Just keep giving me Faerie Flowers. I can go now. It’ll only take two days if it’s not too high up.”

Erin looked back at Numbtongue. He eyed Tessa. Send a Named Adventurer to Goblinhome? Erin sighed.

“Yeah, don’t give me that look. I get it, I get it. Bad idea. Darn. Damn, even.”

Erin was rolling around in frustration, trying to come up with a good way of doing things. Goblinhome…that was another problem for the future, and unfortunately, even the wisest ghosts hadn’t had much input on Goblins.

Except for Zineryr. Well—Erin wasn’t out of options yet. She rolled back to the table with the pot, and Ulvama looked up from her card game as Erin tapped the pot.

Did it vibrate slightly? Even Tessa stared at the pot; it was faintly magical, but this was not spellcraft like most understood.

“I could try to send something to Rags. I don’t know how to do, um, sendings. Or—what would it be? Not a hex, but maybe a physical vessel? I might have to do one of those messenger spells, but I don’t know how.”

Or rather, she needed a teacher and practice. Erin thought to herself.

“What if…I made like a flying soufflé that homes in on Rags? I probably have enough power here to do that.”

Octavia looked at Gothica, and the Cave Goblin shook her head. Clearly insane, fold. Ulvama spoke up as Erin frowned at her pot.

“Waste of power. Don’t waste that, stupid.”

She pointed indignantly at the valuable well of power. Erin jumped.

“It’s just a thought! Hey, you’re a [Shaman], right?”

“Maybe.”

Ulvama gave Erin a suspicious look. Erin waved her hands.

“Can’t you—tell Rags something secretly?”

Ulvama, the [Shaman] of the Flooded Waters tribe, thought about it.

“Yes.”

Numbtongue put down his cards and glared at her. Erin lowered her hands.

“Wh—you can? Then what am I doing asking for help? Can you send something to Rags, please?”

“Hm. Fine.

Ulvama yawned, looking very reluctant to bestir herself over this trivial issue. She snapped her fingers and looked around.

“Give. Give.”

“What? This?”

They were keeping score on a piece of parchment. Octavia handed Ulvama a quill and a scrap to write on. Ulvama lazily scrawled on it then folded it up, flicked open her claw twice over it in a vaguely magical way, and handed it to Erin solemnly.

“Here. Use to contact Rags.”

The [Innkeeper] hesitated, because…she could tell Ulvama had not cast any magic. But perhaps it was some kind of trick. She opened the piece of folded parchment and read what Ulvama had written.

Go talk to Kevin.

The [Shaman] smirked as Erin lowered the parchment and gave her a narrow-eyed look.

 

——

 

“Talk to Rags? Sure! I’ve got the private speaking stone right here. It’s not live, so you send a message and she gets it. Do you want me to leave her something? Erin? Erin?”

Kevin looked around for the rogue-type speaking stone that Rags had been given by her ‘contacts’ in the underworld, and Erin kept smacking her head into his desk.

“Ulvama didn’t tell me—she just let me—”

“She’s sort of like that. I think she’s testing you. Okay, let me record a message. ‘Hey, Rags, it’s me, Kevin. Erin wants to know when you can meet secretly because of all the watchers. And, uh, she’d like to hire Calescent to cook in her inn, and other Goblins. Peace. Let’s hang soon. Kevin out.’ Sound good?”

It was the most Kevin message ever, which Erin supposed was a type of cipher in itself. She thanked Kevin and rolled back to the inn with Numbtongue pushing her.

She glared at Ulvama, and the [Shaman] looked up from her game of cards.

“Shamanic wisdom. Pay me later.”

Erin’s eyes narrowed, but she missed the way Lyonette glanced sharply at Ulvama. The Hobgoblin was a guest with everyone else for helping save Mrsha and bring Erin back. But there might be a reckoning sooner rather than later. Oh, yes…

But perhaps it was simply time to have those conversations being put off. Erin’s heart thumped hard at the idea of speaking to Rags. She’d heard some of what the Goblin had done.

Kidnapping a [Healer]? Attacking a city? That wasn’t good—and yet she had come to Liscor leading a tribe of Goblins.

How had she changed? What would Erin say? And…the [Innkeeper] slowed as Numbtongue came to a stop and looked towards the card table.

“Erin, you want to go anywhere now?”

She hesitated, but someone spoke up.

“I could push her, Numbtongue. If she wants to go anywhere. Erin. Do you want to speak now?”

The [Innkeeper] looked to her left, and Ceria Springwalker walked forwards. Erin’s expression changed slightly as Numbtongue stepped back.

“Ah. Ceria. I…is now a good time?”

Ceria had her hands in her pockets. She looked at Erin apprehensively, but nodded slowly.

“Now’s as good a time as any. Should we go for a walk in the [Garden of Sanctuary] or…?”

Mrsha was playing with Gire inside, and they had ears like a hawk. Or ears like a hawk had eyes. Erin glanced out the window.

“Why don’t we go outside? Assuming there are no spies everywhere.”

“I can keep them away.”

Tessa offered. Lyonette looked up in alarm.

“Why don’t I send, uh, Ser Dalimont and—”

“No. I’ll take Erin. We’ll be safe together. Does that sound good, Erin?”

The [Innkeeper] looked at Ceria as Lyonette began to protest. But the [Cryomancer] just took Erin’s chair as the [Innkeeper] nodded, and the two headed outside.

Erin didn’t see any obvious watchers as Ceria wheeled her into the sun, but she thought she felt some eyes on her. Ceria looked around and pointed the way Erin had seen before.

“Most of the Shield Spider nests are gone, I hear. What if we did a big loop around there? It’s mostly flat. All we have to do is get down the hill without you crashing. And without anyone watching us via spell.”

“I should have anti-spying gear thanks to Saliss.”

The half-Elf nodded. Ceria gestured, and Erin dug her feet into the ground, ready to help slow the descent down the fairly steep hill. But to her surprise, she felt herself sliding—

“Oh no! Ceria—whoooooaa!”

That was because instead of going down the hill and wiping out again, Erin felt herself rolling down a slick ramp of ice. It wasn’t nearly as steep as the hill, and she looked back as she flailed and saw Ceria skating behind her.

“Ceria! That’s amazing! It’s a rollercoaster!”

The half-Elf laughed.

“I have no idea what that is. Here we go.”

She came to a stop and began pushing Erin across flatter ground. The ice ramp melted behind her, and Erin looked at Ceria. It was so—effortless. She had seen Ceria learning to cast [Ice Wall], but this?

“That’s amazing, Ceria. Is this all magic you learned in Chandrar or the Village of the Dead raid? I never said…thank you properly for everything. I’m sorry for jumping you with the stuff about Gerial yesterday. It’s just—”

“One second, Erin. We’re out of magical surveillance, but I think we should be in private, don’t you? No watchers?”

Ceria looked to one side, and Erin hesitated. The half-Elf’s pale gaze was focused, and her voice was cold as she stared at a patch of air.

Something rippled as another watcher fled. Ceria kept staring as Erin blinked at her.

“No watchers. And no second warnings, understood?”

Erin blinked at Ceria and looked around. Nothing seemed to move that she could see, and she wondered how many invisible or unseen observers there could be. Ceria pushed Erin onward four steps. Then she pointed a finger.

“[Ice Pillar].”

Erin heard a short scream. Then she saw a pillar of ice punch a hitherto invisible figure up into the air. Erin’s head tracked the figure going up and landing. It did not sound like a good landing.

“We—we could go back to the inn, Ceria. It’s private, and the garden’s secure. I could ask Mrsha and Gire—”

“You have to warn them at some point, Erin. Looks like they’re clearing out.”

Indeed, it looked like one of the observers was even tending to the one who’d gotten their ribs broken. Erin looked at Ceria, and one of the masked watchers raised two hands and backed up. The half-Elf nodded, and they recovered the wounded person.

She’s changed. That didn’t seem like a Ceria-move. Insulting poor beavers with foul language? Yes. This? Maybe Ksmvr’s talk about displaying dominance was rubbing off on Ceria.

Yet, when the half-Elf looked down, her rueful smile was completely familiar.

“Dead gods, Erin. You just can’t come back from the dead quietly, can you? The world will never be the same. Yvlon nearly swallowed a chair when she saw the Quest.”

“I, uh—well. I did it to help Antherr. And it’s not like anyone didn’t want to find the City of Stars.”

Erin spluttered, but she smiled in relief. Ceria shook her head.

“If it exists, you mean. Now we know it exists and—you came back from the dead, and I thought surviving the Village of the Dead and teleporting to Chandrar was going to be the big story. Now I’ll be lucky if anyone buys me a drink.”

“Hey! That’s huge! I can’t believe you did that.”

“Neither can I. We went—sort of crazy. When you died, I mean. In hindsight, that was a really, really stupid thing to do. Attack a death-zone with Gold-ranks and two Named-ranks? We should have died, but we got bailed out by a real adventurer. Do you know what happened?”

“I—only the clips.”

“Clips?”

Erin tried to explain.

“The video recordings of the scrying orb.”

“Oh, I see. Clips. That’s another word from your home, right?”

Ceria glanced at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] nodded. It was amazing how many secrets lay between them. Yet…Ceria just moved on, and Erin stared down at the lovely orange grass they were moving on.

“—You did that for me. People died. Seborn nearly got killed, I heard. And some people. There were deaths.”

The half-Elf nodded. Her voice was level. But not emotionless. She took a deep breath and spoke in a sigh, looking sad.

“There always are, Erin. Don’t blame yourself. Do you think all the teams that went there went for you? They went because we told them there was a shot. Adventurers go in and go out. You remember how we went into Liscor’s crypt. We knew we might be underlevelled, but we prepared as much as we could. We do risky things. The Village of the Dead was stupid.”

“Not stupid. Not that I—”

Ceria stopped Erin.

“It was stupid. It was a calculated risk, but going into a death-zone? Going into a dungeon even with all the precautions in the world? That’s what adventuring is. Whatever you want to call it—if I could go back in time knowing what I do, Erin? I’d try the raid again. Only, I’d get more Named-rank adventurers, prepare a bit longer.”

“Really? Even knowing what happened with that crazy sword-guy?”

Erin looked at Ceria, and the half-Elf smiled crookedly.

“He wasn’t the worst thing there. But believe me, Erin. What we got from that raid was more than worth what we, the Horns, put in. I can’t speak for everyone. And what happened in Chandrar doesn’t count. Myself? I’d take it all, but I’m not—Pisces.”

Erin looked up and nodded slowly. Her smile faded, and she bowed her head.

“No. I need to talk to him. Do you know what…?”

“No. He won’t talk to me, Yvlon, or even Ksmvr about the specifics. We left some of his friends behind.”

“For me. Again. Ceria—”

The half-Elf waited as Erin struggled for words. The [Innkeeper] burst out at last.

“If you’d died, I’d never have forgiven myself. I’m glad you made it—but I wish you hadn’t done that! What would have happened if you died?”

Ceria thought about it. She was walking at a sedate pace. After a moment, she flicked Erin’s forehead gently with a finger.

“I think you would act just like we did after you died, Erin. We weren’t thinking straight.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know a bunch of Drakes were lying outside the inn with crossbows. Erin. I’m not blaming you for anything we did. The Horns of Hammerad are big boys and girls, except for Ksmvr. We went into everything with eyes open, just like Halrac and Jelaqua’s teams, and everyone else. We will settle our dues. Tree rot, they still have that Helm of Fire, and they’ve been negotiating for it for months.

Ceria sighed, and Erin stirred.

“Oh, the artifacts? Wait, they still haven’t distributed the loot?”

Ceria shrugged.

“Adventurers and the biggest raid in decades? Nope. We complicated it too, by being alive instead of dead. Personally, I think the teams are waiting to see what we have before claiming some of it. That’s going to be—a problem.”

She scratched at her head.

“…They’re not getting our stuff. I think we’ll have to sort it out, but that’s our problem.”

Erin didn’t envy Ceria that, but this wasn’t the core of what they needed to say. They were circling.

“How was Savere, Ceria? It sounds like a really nasty place.”

The half-Elf shrugged.

“It isn’t so bad. There are some truly unpleasant characters, like this half-Elf I met, but I got through it by being cool-headed.”

She winked, and Erin groaned at the pun. Ceria went on after a moment of thought.

“…It’s very different from Izril or Terandria in many ways. Chandrar, that is. But the people were still people. I bet you can understand that.”

“Yep. So—Fetohep of Khelt really helped you out? Or did he take you away from what you needed to do?”

Erin squirmed in her chair. Ceria chewed that over.

“He helped me. I didn’t lose too much. Yvlon, Ksmvr, Pisces, they all had things to do. But me? I made one huge change in Chandrar, and all my challenges were simpler on my side, I think. I feel like coming back to Izril is where things will…matter.”

She was speaking very casually about everything. There was something off about Ceria that Erin couldn’t explain, but then she heard the half-Elf curse.

“Tree rot, I’m going to explode if I don’t bring it up. Erin! Tell me what Gerial said.”

She slowed, and Erin saw Ceria walk around to face her. Then she saw the half-Elf’s face and the barely suppressed nervousness in Ceria’s eyes.

The fear.

It was there, and Erin relaxed because that was the half-Elf she knew. Ceria raked at her hair.

“I ran away when you brought it up. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry, Ceria. I shouldn’t have said it like that. And I had no proof. But…”

Erin’s mouth had gone dry. She spread her hands.

“…Believe me. I met ghosts. I…believe me?”

Ceria sat down cross-legged. She picked up some grass, put it into her mouth, and spat it out.

“I believe you. I believed you the moment you said that.”

“Wh—you did? Then why did you…?”

Why’d you run off when you were about to hear the words of your dead friend? Numbtongue was right. Erin did have stupid ideas.

Ceria was scratching at one cheek, and she kept glancing at Erin. Her face was trying to smile, but she was rubbing her fingers together on her skeletal hand and making a faint rasping sound.

“I…I think I’m ready, now, Erin? What was he like? What was it—no. You go ahead. I’ll just listen. I’ll shut up. I’m…ready.”

She fell silent, and Erin’s own heart beat painfully in her chest. The [Innkeeper] opened her mouth, croaked, felt a lump, swallowed it, and felt her eyes stinging.

“He…Gerial was great. Just like he was. You know? They all were. It wasn’t bad. He—he saved me before I came back to life, you know. He was the bravest.”

“Gerial? He got to be a hero?”

Ceria’s look of apprehension faded, and she smiled slightly. Erin nodded, and Ceria exhaled.

“Good for him. He always wanted to be in the storybook.”

That one line was all it took. Erin began blinking hard. Ceria waved at her.

“Don’t you dare! Or I’ll start crying! Don’t you—what did he say?”

The two laughed, and Erin pinched herself.

“I’m trying. He…we talked for a while. But you know—you know—you know? He said the words right before I left.”

Tears spilled from Erin’s eyes. She sniffed, and Ceria looked at Erin blankly. Then she rose; Ceria couldn’t help herself.

“He said it? Death before dishonor? That…twice?

The way she said it—Erin had started crying, but then she started giggling and put her hands over her mouth. Ceria looked torn between a laugh and a sob.

“He couldn’t think of something better?

Then that was it. They began laughing. Erin tried not to fall out of her chair, and Ceria’s eyes were wet with tears. It was the meanest thing she could have said. And it proved how much she had cared for him.

When the laughter faded enough for her to speak, Erin was able to talk again.

“He had a message for you and Calruz too, Ceria. Well…part of it is private. He said—he said he had no regrets. He wanted to be a hero, but he was just glad you survived.”

Ceria had stopped laughing and smiling, but it returned as Erin spoke. This time, though, it wasn’t wild humor, but the smile of someone like Ceria. Like Erin, in a way.

It was sixty years old, and it had seen friends go. It was old, but she looked like she had when she sat with the Horns, the originals, as Erin told her what Gerial had said. Then she whispered in Ceria’s ears, and the half-Elf laughed sadly.

“Yeah. That sounds like Gerial. As much of an idiot as Calruz in his way. He only pretended to be sensible.”

That last part was only for the half-Elf. Ceria wiped at her face, then she grabbed a handful of grass and blew her nose with it.

“Ew, Ceria!”

The half-Elf looked rattled. She took several deep breaths in and out, then brushed some grass from her nose. She wiped her face and then looked at Erin. The [Innkeeper] had a handkerchief. Another deep breath, and Ceria set herself. Erin blinked at her as the half-Elf squared her shoulders.

“Okay. Okay. That one hurt. But I…I’m really glad you told me. I’m glad—”

She trailed off, then closed her eyes. Ceria took a few more breaths, faster now, and opened her eyes and clenched her jaw.

“I’m ready. Who’s next?”

“Huh?”

Erin looked at Ceria, and the half-Elf frowned at her.

“Who’s next? Hunt? Marian—my—just let me know.”

Then Erin understood why Ceria was so afraid. There was a look of fear in the half-Elf’s eyes, circlet or not. The kind of knowledge that had come from not only believing Erin, but thinking.

Only, she was wrong. She was waiting to hear their words. Just like Gerial.

All of them. Everyone she had ever known, and she was a half-Elf. Even if she wasn’t old…Erin understood why Ceria had run away. She raised her hands.

“I don’t…I don’t have anyone else, Ceria. I didn’t meet them all. There was fighting—it was only Gerial.”

“Oh.”

It was like Ceria was waiting for a blow, but she untensed and then Erin hit her. Because there were no words. None from her…

None from her grandmother. None from her teammates. None from Calvaron or…she blinked and passed a hand over her face.

“Oh. I see. Silly me.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you thought—”

“No. I mean, yes. I’m relieved? I’m…”

The half-Elf looked at Erin.

“Just Gerial?”

“Just Gerial. There were millions, but I met so few of them. And there were terrible things there.”

Erin bowed her head. Ceria looked at her.

“Will we have to fight these things?”

The [Innkeeper] stared down at the grass and a little ladybug or something similar wending its way forwards. She looked up once and scared the half-Elf again.

“Someday. Yes.”

Ceria looked at Erin and then stood up. She wiped at her face again, but her tears were dry.

“I’ll have to…I’m going to have a lot of drinks tonight. But thank you, Erin. Thank you. Gerial did it, didn’t he?”

“I’m only here because he bought me time.”

Erin answered truthfully. Ceria turned.

“Good. You need to tell Calruz. I…thanks. We’ll sort out the rest as it comes. But I did hear you back in the inn this morning. Did you mean what you said about us not being able to do it?”

Erin squirmed in her chair, but Ceria just waited, and Erin nodded.

“Yep. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re being honest. I think I get why. I was at the Great Plains, and I saw those ghosts crack Izril. And they still lost. So. When the time comes, hopefully we’ll be ready.”

Ceria turned, and for a second, Erin thought she saw—but then the half-Elf smiled at her. She scratched at her head.

“I guess it’s time to get back to work. New lands await. Let me know if you find those Crossroads of Izril or get your magic door to go four thousand miles instead of four hundred. It’d be nice not to waste time travelling.”

Erin flapped her hands at Ceria.

“I’m not part of the new lands, Ceria. I have my hands full here.”

An exasperated look filled Ceria’s gaze. She rolled her eyes.

“Sure, whatever you say, Erin.”

“I mean it! I have nothing to do with the new lands! I don’t even know how you’d get there aside from that quest. Even the Gnolls I don’t have much to do with.”

“Mhm. And it’s a quiet inn life for you now as well?”

Erin flapped a hand at Ceria.

“Don’t be mean. I’m serious.

“Yep. Say, look over there, Erin?”

Erin turned her head, and the Human and half-Elf stared at a quartet of people who’d begun walking their way from the city. They had either missed Ceria’s warning or didn’t care. Ceria raised one eyebrow as Erin hesitated.

“C—no.”

It was a Minotaur, but not Calruz. He had two arms and a greatsword made of green diamond on his back. The second was a [Lord], peering at Erin and Ceria. The third, a Dwarf with a hammer on his shoulder and gesturing at a Garuda flying overhead to come down and be polite. Ceria glanced at Erin.

“What about him?

She didn’t mean any of the three male [Strategists] here. Erin Solstice bit her lip.

“…I’m working on it. I don’t know what to say, really. But—he’s not as crazy as they say, right? Mrsha exaggerates a lot of stuff, and Bird told me he’s a [Liar].”

For answer, the half-Elf just looked at her friend and started guffawing until a ladybug flew into her mouth. Then she swallowed it.

The four [Strategists] walked forwards hesitantly. They were supposed to be a group of six. But Feshi would never go back to the academy. The adventure they’d gone on—

It had led them here. And whilst they’d seen a lot of what happened, they were newcomers to a strange story.

But every piece had their role to play. However unwillingly. Venaz the Minotaur looked more apprehensive than he ever had in his life.

Partly because there was an Antinium aiming a bow at him. And at least two Hobs glaring at him out the window. The Minotaur ignored the [Knights], but the [Strategists] got the same message the spies did.

Back off.

However, they had—orders. And an overwhelming desire to meet her. Wil hesitated. The [Innkeeper] was talking with the Gold-rank adventurer and waving them over.

“Does this mean we don’t get shot if we walk over? I think we do—Peki, stop that.

She was embarrassing her friends. The [Martial Artists] kept flying through the air, rotating left, dipping down, and Merrik was hissing at her to behave.

“We’re all nervous, Peki, but this is not helping! Remember your diplomacy class!”

She’d nearly failed that. However, the Garuda wasn’t doing it on purpose. She squawked back.

“I can’t…dodge…it.”

Venaz looked at Wil and then focused on the Antinium in the tower. Peki looked uncomfortable. Merrik squinted up at the figure.

“He’s got a bead on you? He can see you.”

“He’ll hit me. There.”

Peki landed in the only safe spot she could find. Behind Venaz. Then she began fidgeting again.

“Here, too? I’ll catch the arrow. Let’s go.”

It was already off to a bad start. No, this plan of engagement was fundamentally flawed to begin with. Wil hadn’t understood his lessons on why sometimes even great [Strategists] and [Generals] lost wars. He knew sometimes you got bad orders, but he’d always argued that, no, when it came down to the wire, he’d stand up and say ‘absolutely not’.

And yet here he was. Walking into a bloodbath. And he wasn’t even the [Marked Target]. They’d gone five rounds of Lizcards, and Venaz had lost.

“Merrik, break my legs. I can’t do it.”

The Minotaur whispered to the other three as they marched forwards to the half-Elf and [Innkeeper]. The Dwarf retorted.

“Not on your life. Just get it over with.”

There she was, the young woman who employed a [Princess]. Or were they working together? The girl who came back from the dead and who had been possessed by the ghost of the greatest [General] of the Drakes in a hundred years.

Erin Solstice. And oh, if only Wil could have come at any other time. But she was smiling warily as they approached.

“Hello! You’re the, um, [Strategist]-students, aren’t you? The ones with the shiny swords?”

That was one way to put it. The four stopped as Ceria raised a hand. She glanced at Venaz’s greatsword and Wil’s shortsword. Most people did, but there wasn’t the starstruck effect that sometimes came over people.

That was to be expected. The young woman stared at Venaz the most, then Merrik. The [Strategists] tried to feel out the [Innkeeper] as they introduced themselves.

“Wil Kallinad, Innkeeper Solstice. House Kallinad of Pheislant, but I am a student of the Forgotten Wing company in Baleros. Honored to make your acquaintance.”

She didn’t hold out a hand, but she did smile. She blinked at Merrik and visibly hesitated as he introduced himself.

“Merrik Hostone, of Deríthal-Vel, Miss Solstice. Nominally from Deríthal—I’ve done mercenary work across the nations thereabouts. [Stoneshorn War Leader].”

Everyone looked at Merrik at that. He’d actually used his real, full class? He was trying to make a real impression. Erin blinked and then smiled.

“Wow! Another Dwarf from the same place! I guess that’s really the home of all Dwarves, eh?”

“Most of us, Miss. Although—no, most.”

Merrik blushed as he stumbled over his words. Erin smiled and then hesitated. She looked sideways at Ceria, and the half-Elf nudged her.

“Erin…”

“Oh, come on. Merrik, do you know, um, Dawil of the Silver Swords? Or Pelt?”

Ceria sighed, Merrik blinked.

“Er—yes. A Gold-rank adventurer and Master Smith Pelt? Former…yes, I do.”

“See, it’s just them.

“It’s still weird, Erin. It’s like asking if he knows…”

“Calruz of Hammerad?”

Venaz interrupted the whisperers, and Ceria jumped. He gave Erin a brisk clasp of a fist across one shoulder. Erin’s head snapped up.

“I am Venaz, likewise of Hammerad. A [Strategist] in training in the Forgotten Wing Company. I hail from the House of Minos. I hope to speak with you on the judgment of Calruz of the Beriad, Innkeeper Solstice, and you, Captain Ceria, as acquaintances of his.”

He kept his face very formal, and he definitely had their attention. Ceria nodded, and Wil felt a prickle as she focused on Venaz. She had a disconcerting aura—the [Lord] felt cold looking at her.

A Gold-rank adventurer indeed. It was all going well, and even Peki offered Erin a clasped fist.

“Peki of Pomle. [Drop Strike Lieutenant].”

“Ooh. Pomle! That’s…hm. Why do I know that? I think someone’ll want to talk to you, right, Ceria?”

“Absolutely. It’s a pleasure to meet you all. I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Ceria, Captain of the Horns of Hammerad. [Cryomancer].”

Wil saw Ceria nudge Erin, and the [Innkeeper] blinked and smiled.

“And I’m Erin! But you knew that, I think. The crazy Human of Liscor! Er—[Innkeeper]. Pleased to meet you!”

Swimmingly, swimmingly. Wil would have thought this was a splendid, if somewhat awkward meeting, because the [Strategists] were gazing at Erin like—like—

Like the only chess player who could best Niers Astoragon. No, that wasn’t right. Even Cameral had taken a game off Niers in the game of Go. But—this was someone who beat him more than she lost.

This was his mysterious opponent. Oh, Wil had a thousand questions, but he felt sweat sliding down the back of his neck.

They had to do it. They had to, but Wil would have rather not. He tasted defeat, but they had orders.

I should have stayed with Feshi and Yerra. All three of the students were looking at Venaz. He was biting his tongue, but he slowly looked at Erin as the [Innkeeper] was motioning to the inn.

“Let’s go inside. I think that’s best for this, and I owe you some drinks. You helped save my friends—aren’t you a long way from home? I saw you guys on those ships. Ceria, I might need some help with that hill.”

The Minotaur fished in his belt pouch.

“Before that, Miss Solstice. I have an…I have an obligation…you must know our teacher, the Professor, as we call him. That is to say, the Titan of Baleros.”

Erin Solstice slowed her roll. She looked over her shoulder, and Merrik, Peki, and Wil jockeyed to hide behind Venaz. The Minotaur saw Erin turn.

“Yes…he’s an interesting guy, or so I’ve heard. He was here, wasn’t he? Likes to play chess? Sorta…short?”

She looked as wary as Venaz, suddenly. Ceria glanced at the Minotaur’s tight fist, and suddenly she was all smiles. She stepped back and watched as Venaz nodded like a puppet.

“Absolutely, yes. In substance, Miss Solstice. The Titan of Baleros was here, and I believe he missed you due to your—”

“Me being dead?”

“Yes. And you may know he quite enjoys games of chess. Therefore he has sent—”

—Via very expensive magical transmission and a letter that brooked no argument. Wil squeezed his eyes shut.

The thing about the Titan of Baleros was that he was an amazing [Strategist]. He adapted, he could be ruthless, but he remembered why morality existed. He had his flaws, like overconfidence.

He was arguably—bad—at romance. And in his debriefing of what had gone down in Izril, he had identified the weakness of hesitation. He had missed his opportunity, thanks in part to the Witch of Webs. So he was determined not to make the same mistake.

But as he’d once told Wil, making another mistake to cover your old one didn’t make it better. Hence, Venaz’s stilted language. He slowly opened his palm, and Ceria crammed a fist into her mouth to stifle the sounds.

They really should have done this inside. Because far as it was, there were still eyes on them. But they had wanted to get it over with. And—and it was not as bad as the now-famous story of Tyrion Veltras.

But a continent away, Lord Pellmia Quellae could feel a terrible tingling in the back of his mind. For the Minotaur proffered a little…figurine to Erin.

It was a six-inch tall man, carved of stone and painted to exact likeness. He stood on a little dais, and he was part of a matching set in the chessboard that Merrik lifted. Foliana was the Queen, incidentally.

Erin stared at the Niers chess-piece as Venaz forced the next words out through the war-wound of embarrassment.

“The Titan of Baleros apologizes for missing you, Miss Erin. He hopes you will continue your regular games and offers you this as a gift. There is also a letter.”

He produced a stamped letter with the crest of the Forgotten Wing company and offered the entire set to Erin Solstice. The [Innkeeper] stared down at the chess set in Venaz’s hands.

It was the piece. The Professor was standing there with one foot on a little rock, holding his ludicrous hat with the feather in one hand, smiling jauntily up at Erin. Wil glanced at Peki and saw she had put both wing-hands over her face.

“Is it done yet?”

The [Innkeeper] had developed a smile much like the one Venaz and Wil were wearing. Ceria was lying on the ground, dying from lack of air. The young woman reached for the chessboard, and Wil thought at least they could get over this and talk the Professor up, and then it happened.

The instant Erin’s hands touched the chessboard, there was a slight flash of magic. Ceria sat up, and Venaz jerked, but it was too late. It was just a simple spell probably hardwired to some element of Erin touching it, but Niers’ voice emerged.

“—and may I congratulate you, Miss Solstice, on your fine recovery and victory. I hope to speak with you soon. Venaz has a [Message] scroll keyed to me for discussion on chess and whatnot. Please give my best to Bird and Mrsha and the rest.”

And he did it. He did it. Wil closed his eyes and wondered if Lord Tyrion Veltras could have topped that.

The chess board was superfluous after the first one, which was okay—everyone liked a unique chess board, even one so pointed.

The life-sized figurine was bad. The hand-delivered missive was another thing. Niers had overcorrected from doing nothing.

They could even survive the automated message. But—Erin stared at the tiny figurine of Niers. It had only shifted a bit with the magical spell. Yet instead of holding his hat, the little Niers had—

A rose.

Erin Solstice slowly looked up at Venaz. The Minotaur was sweating as he gazed back. The pain in his eyes…everyone waited.

Message received. Totally, completely, you cannot ignore this. Earl Altestiel of Desonis was surely taking notes on how to be more explicit in his advances. Pellmia could feel a dark power calling him back home.

As for Erin? She stared at the chessboard and, without a word, slowly turned her wheelchair around and began maneuvering it back towards the inn. The four students saw her receding back as Erin rolled away. Then—very faintly—Wil heard her begin to chuckle.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: You may hate it. Some people said, ‘we will surely never achieve more cringe than Lord Tyrion Veltras’. And you were wrong.

You may deny it. But tell me you don’t believe that Niers Astoragon would do this. With Foliana watching, encouraging, egging him on. This. This is what happens when you lose your Perorn.

Anyways. With that said, I feel like I’ve lost my Perorn. In a vague sense.

It’s always the same when I take my week off. You wouldn’t think it, but I feel like I lose a tiny bit of my focus and I have to work to get it back. In the same way, these three chapters are fine, fine…

But the ending of Volume 8 had me at my most intense. So I’m trying to regain that but I need to outline, plan, and I think I’m still recovering a bit. But I want to improve and write more amazing chapters.

Including the opening to Volume 1. I told you I’d be devoting at least one update per month to it—I plan to take the next update to rewriting. I’ll definitely show you what I’ve got, but I’m nervous.

Writing is hard, sometimes. Rewriting is harder. Can I do it? We’ll find out. It might not be new—but I hope you’ll like it. See you next update at the very start.

 

9.02 Sketch, Shopping, Breezy, and Honored Berr by Artsynada!

 

Pebblesnatch by amartamon!

 

Goblin by tobinkusuma!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Interlude – Singing Ships

(I am on break until the 28th for Patrons! I’ll post one more chapter of Volume 9 then, and the side story poll. Don’t let me forget the poll.)

 

Lamont was not a superstitious man. He was Scottish, but he was not Christian, though he’d been to church quite a lot growing up. He was ‘old’ and ‘experienced’ in that he’d not only reached the age of twenty-three, but managed to find work on fishing vessels as a deckhand.

That was the kind of tough work that ranged from delightful days to ones where you worked twenty-four hours without sleep before passing out in a bunk as the waves rocked the boat up and down and sent everything not tied down flying. A young person’s job, and Lamont had been doing it since he was sixteen, albeit not always deckhand work.

He knew the sea, which was probably why he’d become a [Sailor] and actually gained sixteen levels before Wistram found him. Although, Lamont would happily compare his experience on this world’s ships to modern vessels all day. Not always drawbacks!

Oh, the mundane ones sucked. They were smaller, far slower, and, given this world’s dodgy relationship with the sciences, sometimes lacked for hygiene or basic nutrition. The [Captains] sometimes knew about scurvy or good diets—sometimes they had a Skill. That was why it was so inconsistent, and Lamont had learned after a short voyage on a rat and lice-infested ship to check out the captain and crew.

His first five months in this world before being found had been a wild, fun ride, as terrifying and desperate as some moments had been, like realizing he had no way back. The magic had made up for it. His first ride in a real, magical ship where the food was preserved—the [Cook] could make a dish that tasted like your favorite food from home, and he got to see a Treant—those were the best times in Lamont’s life.

Wistram—had not been as fun. At first it had been a magical experience, but Lamont had realized they were trapped sooner than most. He had fallen into boredom until he took to reading, practicing magic, and sailing around Wistram’s bubble of calm.

Thus, he fit into the ‘old’, ‘experienced’, ‘high-level’, and ‘non-religious’ camps of Wistram’s Earthers. If you had to give him a label, those were some of his. And, oh, Wistram loved sorting the Earthers. Lamont at 23 was older than average for most Earthers, and he’d gained more than ten levels in a single class.

That was something of an anomaly. A lot of Earthers had been grabbed very quick, so the ‘first wave’, which Lamont may have been part of, or the second one, had either leveled up or…died. The point was, he had been considered a valuable asset, and some of his time in Wistram had been just talking ships and modern nautical experiences with the [Mages].

Few had spent a lot of time with Lamont. Most wanted to know more about grander technology. Some of the smart ones in Lamont’s opinion were keenly interested in the advances of shipbuilding and sea exploration, but most wanted to either work on Saif’s gun, build an airplane or the internet, or see if they could create crème brûlée. They got really disappointed when they figured out it was just burnt custard.

That was why Lamont was glad he’d escaped Wistram. They’d lost a lot of Earthers, yes, and he was shaken by Troy being the King of Destruction’s servant. Not that he knew the guy, but Troy had been from London, and he’d seemed quite nice—they’d swapped a few hours of talk.

However, despite it all, Lamont was now on a seafaring vessel, Sorecue, and Shadeward Doroumata, one of the most respected Drowned Folk [Mages], was their new guardian. The other Earthers were apprehensive—Lamont was as well, but he felt free.

He felt that tingle in his fingers and the shiver in his spine as he stood on the deck of Sorecue. That alone earned him approving looks from the crew. A lot of Earthers didn’t dare do it, even three weeks into their voyage. In fact, they had been so noisy—by Drowned Folk standards—that Doroumata had ordered them to sail just below the surface of the waves, like ‘landfolk’ vessels.

Drowned Folk law. Lamont hadn’t crewed with them before going to Wistram, and few of their own went to the Academy of [Mages], but he knew more than most. They only took their own kind on board their vessels. Not just because they were discriminating—they sailed in the depths, below the water, with magical shields, and visited Drowned Folk settlements. Even Storm Sailors might not see one in their lifetime.

Drowned Folk vessels sailed for Drowned Folk. Some were [Pirates], but they protected their own. The landfolk could be enemies or friends, but they were different.

In the deep, the Drowned Vessels belonged only to those who had taken the Gift of the Sea—trading half their body to become part fish. If the magical barriers surrounding Sorecue failed, the water barely a dozen feet from Lamont’s face, pressing against the pale green barrier, would implode, and Lamont was fairly certain he’d be dead if Doroumata didn’t do something.

Only a Drowned Person could survive that. Although…Lamont had heard that when Drowned Ship shields imploded deep underwater, the survival ratio was virtually nil either way.

Anyways. That was where he was. But what…Lamont looked around. What did he see? And why did he clasp his hands together, like his father had shown him how to do, and the old words of a prayer spring to his lips?

If they could have prayed, perhaps the [Depth Sailors] might have too. They stood on the deck, looking out into a light green world. Far below, the waters turned dark and murky.

Everywhere Lamont looked, back, forwards, the waters surrounded him. A terror—even for an experienced [Sailor] like him—seized a part of Lamont’s heart.

The water had no end. He could see perfectly through it until the world just turned…black. They sailed through the sea, and so the ‘ceiling’ was the watery sky, which separated them from the air, the real sky. But the deep abyss below them had no end to it that Lamont could see.

Down, down, down…when they had first escaped Wistram, they had dove so deep that the light of the water began to vanish. Then—they had been sailing through an absolute black world pierced only by faint movement, strange witch-light, and the illumination spells Doroumata cast.

They’d had to surface when Sidney and a number of the Earther guests had begun freaking out. Like every Drowned Ship, Sorecue operated in almost complete silence. It was their laws:

 

Make no sound about the watch. 

Maintain the bubble.

Listen not to the whispers.

Douse every light.

 

…Among others. The crew was used to it, but the Earthers couldn’t handle it. Swimming through a sea of blackness without light or speaking?

Depth Magus Doroumata had cloaked their vessel in silence spells, so the danger was less about talking than the Earthers’ health. She’d ordered the [Captain], the silent Toriegh, to rise until they could see the surface.

That helped. Now, Lamont could admire the wonderland of the ocean around him. He’d see schools of fish swimming around the ship, sometimes caught in drifting nets put out for supplies, or seaweed, but the real sights were when it was a storm and he saw water lashing around the magical bubble. Or when the light from the sky turned the water orange or yellow, or when some creatures passed by—a trio of sharks with algae for teeth or seahorses curiously trying to probe the magical barrier.

All of it was beautiful, and Lamont had quite enjoyed gaining the Drowned Crew’s grudging respect and friendship. They were bored out of their minds from months of sitting and waiting for Doroumata to conclude their business at Wistram, so they were talkative off-duty. Still, Lamont had begun to chafe, and the other Earthers had long since passed into impatience by this point.

Until the day when Fetohep of Khelt stormed across Chandrar and took Izril by storm. Until the days when every great nation called the alarm, and Sorecue, the Earthers, Doroumata, and the crew bore witness to strange happenings in the deep.

[Messages] from every Drowned city, raising the alarm. Doroumata had begun to steer them into the deeps, but then waited—waited and prepared the crew for battle with Seamwalkers, the horrors that [Sailors] whispered of—or worse.

She had waited for armageddon, and it had never come. But other things…had.

Ghost ships passing through the waters. A Drowned Woman’s ghost stepping onto the ship as Doroumata hesitated, then knelt. Lamont’s blood chilled with delight and terror at the memories.

“Revelation.”

A Drowned Boy [Deckhand], swabbing the decks with an actual mop, glanced up at Lamont. He had no context for Lamont’s use of the word. Religion was…not something this world really had.

It felt like that to Lamont. Revelation. The end of everything. Ghosts coming back, the great war between Drakes and Gnolls? He’d seen it on the scrying orb. But the greatest event—

Ah. Lamont recalled the moment when the water had split. Just a hairline fracture across the water itself, then a shockwave. Then the earthquake that perhaps had been felt as far as Baleros and Chandrar.

The greatest ghosts of Gnolls had split Izril. Split Izril—then, as Lamont felt and saw the earth torn in twain, raised new lands. Lamont had borne witness to the earth rising, undersea mountains breaking the surf and rising in the distance.

Izril had grown. The south of the continent had changed, and an entirely new land had been created. If that were not the stuff of fantasy and legend—Lamont had no words for the rest.

Wonders. Horrors. Premonitions. This world had changed, and Lamont knew it would never be the same. So he stood on the deck with the Drowned Crew and watched. It was [Depth Captain] Toriegh who broke the silence at last. In the bright emerald waters that had cleared of silt and dust at last, they looked…into the changed world.

“Dead gods. Kraken’s Pass is gone.”

The Drowned Folk looked at each other uneasily. Lamont shivered as he looked down into one of the death areas of the sea—where Krakens infested the huge valley that ships had to cross or skirt for hundreds upon hundreds of miles. It ran from Izril’s south across much of the ocean.

Now—it had collapsed. No—the stone and rock had shifted such that the ‘pass’ was no longer a single, connected cut in the earth. It had closed, the wound in the ground sealed in this place.

“The sea is changed forever. Kraken’s Pass has been closed. Across the world, other ships report the same. They…the Gnolls have altered the currents. Igawiz’s Jet is confirmed to have vanished or changed where it was. Tides are altered.”

Depth Magus Doroumata was, as ever, shrouded in veils of darkness. The old half-starfish woman sat surrounded by her identical daughters, each with the same face, all as pale as the moonlight. All surrounded by darkness magic, which protected the Drowned Folk in the deeps.

Her hand was shriveled, but her eyes gleamed deep violet with power as she spoke. Captain Toriegh started and looked away to bow briefly.

“As they would be, aye. A new land changes all. But the Krakens have lost their home. I beg leave to keep moving, Depth Magus. They’ve surely stirred, and Sorecue could not handle even a new spawn.”

The [Depth Magus] nodded slowly, and one of her daughters whispered as the crew shuddered.

“Fear not, Sorecue’s own. Even Krakens cannot see us so easily. We had to see. Each ship in two thousand miles is in danger. The Krakens might abandon their home or fight. Surely they wake and move.”

Toriegh spat. Not onto his deck, but off the prow of the ship. It passed through the magical bubble and vanished into the water. Lamont watched with fascination as the [Captain] looked around.

“Direr and direr still, aye. [First Mate], take us forwards as the Shadeward bid. On her course—slowly. All eyes, watchful.”

The crew dispersed, but many stayed on the railings, looking about and peering into the darkness. Lamont saw one of Doroumata’s daughters conferring with the [First Mate], a half-eel Drowned Man.

It was Doroumata who Lamont watched, though. She seemed…concerned. As one might after the end of the world had not happened—or might have, and they had all survived. Fetohep of Khelt had gone home and told everyone that the Seamwalker threat was reduced. That Khelt had managed to hold back the end, but he had refused to elaborate.

He was in consultation with many, many powers, and five days after the events at Izril had ended and everyone had gone home, people were figuring out what to do next. What did it mean? What had they been told?

As for Lamont, it seemed the question was now this: what would happen to the Earthers in the Drowned Folk’s care? He saw Doroumata slowly swing around to him as she turned, and her eyes seemed to glitter from beneath a face in darkness.

He shuddered. If only she didn’t look so creepy, he could believe this was purely a good thing. But did it beat Wistram? For now—for him—yes.

It was better than the Drakes, of whom Lamont had a low opinion. It beat Wistram now that Eldavin was dead. It probably beat sailing off with the King of Destruction and going to Chandrar, especially if the horror stories he’d heard from Sidney applied to everywhere there. But not all Earthers felt that way.

 

——

 

“Lamont! What did they say?”

Belowdecks of the Sorecue was completely different from above. The decks of a Drowned Folk vessel were dark. They had a lot of similarities to landfolk ships—deck, railings, even masts and sails for when they needed to sail above the waters.

However, Drowned Folk decks were austere; you only went above to keep the watch, fight for your ship, or disembark. They were thus dark most of the time, since they wanted to attract no notice when diving amidst monsters, and as silent as the grave.

Belowdecks, Drowned Folk had more vibrant, if hushed, lives. All the padding and finery was here, and each ship had some rooms devoted to entertainment along with the regular ones for rest and necessary business and so on.

The Earthers had been granted access to one such area just for them to gather and speak in. Sorecue was vast enough that it had several, and the crew were a bit unhappy to cede one, but it was for the best.

Especially because the Earthers had played havoc in the gardens. Drowned Folk apparently loved bonsai and other such plants, so each crewmember had a berth where they could grow anything they wanted. Plucking fruits off the delicate masterpieces and removing a few leaves had been…bad.

The card lounge was likewise too important for the crew’s happiness to give up; although, they had turned over two magical card decks.

Which was why the Earthers relaxing in their scrying orb lounge and pub were also playing cards. It was fairly funny to see Sidney, a fourteen year-old girl, playing serious cards with a stack of silver and bronze coins against Haley. Three weeks had made cardsharps out of everyone.

Lamont sat down and was dealt into a variant of poker of this world. Someone offered him a glass of scented water, and he took it.

“They were still checking out Kraken’s Pass. Amazing stuff—the entire landscape’s been pressed in, like someone just pushed the earth together. Apparently there’s all kinds of geological changes, right? So we’re moving on now, and I guess we’re sticking to the plan. Whatever it is. You should go up and take a look. It’s absolutely amazing.”

“Um. No. No…I don’t think so.”

Haley looked up from her cards and turned slightly green at the suggestion. She was one of the Earthers who’d had a violently claustrophobic reaction to being trapped in a giant bubble surrounded by water. The [Squire] put down her cards as Sidney pushed six silver coins into the center.

“Six silver. Double decks?”

“Pass.”

“Pass.”

“Hell no.”

Malia glared at one of the players, who rolled their eyes. Sidney wasn’t affected by the foul language. Lamont glanced around the room and saw most of the Earthers were present.

Of the Earthers who’d been ‘rescued’ from Wistram, the most notable were possibly Sidney; the young girl who’d lost her family; Malia, the [Thought Healer] who’d stuck with her; Sang-min, the Terandrian [Mercenary] who’d actually had a successful career; Lamont, the [Sailor]; Caroline, the [Romance Writer]; and Haley, the [Squire].

There were a lot more Earthers, but many didn’t stand out in a huge way. Especially not like Troy Atwood did in hindsight, or Flynn or Elena. On the whole, though? It was certainly a huge victory for the Drowned Folk by certain metrics. They had gone from zero Earthers to three dozen. All accounts said that the Drakes had gotten away with similar numbers.

Whether or not that mattered was up for debate. The Earthers’ knowledge of their world was varied but inconsistent, and it wasn’t always helpful. Then again, the Drowned Folk might have completely different perspectives than Wistram had on what mattered.

“Are we going to go to a Drowned City? Or just keep sailing around until we grow gills? Are they going to make us Drowned Folk?”

The Earther who’d sworn was Caroline, and she was noticeably stressed. She had already had a rough go of it, like Sidney, and Lamont understood she was from Baleros. She’d survived a battlefield, kidnapping, and later rescue by Wistram. But all the Earthers nodded as they frowned at Lamont, as if he were defending the Drowned Folk.

Which he was, a bit. Lamont sighed gustily as he placed a magic card down. Instantly, it switched with one of Sidney’s, and he brightened up. Oho, three-of-a-kind.

Lamooont!

She complained and tossed her cards down. Lamont tossed in two more silver coins, smiling. Magical cards were a lot more fun than regular ones.

“Listen, we were on course to get to Shadeward Doroumata’s vessel, the, um, Nombernaught, right? It stands to reason that we got distracted by the disasters around the world. We’re close. I can’t say how much, but we don’t want to sail into a Kraken with the world jumbled up.”

“Fair, but what are we going to do there? End up as prisoners a second time? I don’t want to trade Wistram for…underwater life.”

Haley complained, fidgeting with the sword she’d kept from Terandria. She would have been, like Elena, Lamont, and a few others, the ‘restless’ group who had not wanted to be stuck in Wistram at all. She had been training as a [Knight] until Wistram had found and yanked her.

Lamont shrugged as he showed his cards then collected the silver.

“Can’t say. But Doroumata hasn’t said we’re going to be prisoners, has she? She said we’d be freer.”

One of the Earthers not playing cards looked up from reading a book. He put a finger between the pages and spoke with a slightly accented tone.

“Said. Hasn’t proven. And Wistram said a lot of things too.”

Everyone turned to Sang-min, the [Mercenary]. He looked at Lamont, and the [Sailor] put up his hands.

“Got me there, Sang-min. You’re right. But I’m saying…we are out of Wistram, right? Just like Elena wanted?”

“Sure. And where’s she? I think this was all that bastard Troy’s plan.”

Another Earther drawled with his feet up on a table. He raised a mug grumpily.

“We got out, but I think we’re just split up. At least Wistram had magic and more space than a ship. So we get to see the sea. Hurrah. Here’s to the new captors. Same as the old ones. How d’you say that in Latin? I think that’s an expression.”

The room fell silent again, and Lamont saw Sidney’s face fall as she shuffled the deck. He saw a few Earthers look up from the scrying orb and then down again.

“Come on, now.”

That was all he could say. Sidney’s lip was trembling dangerously, and she looked around the generous lounge…that they’d been stuck in for three weeks. No windows—no light that could travel to the outside. A box in the sea. Lamont hoped she wouldn’t start crying. Not for him, but because someone might snap back at her, and then he’d have to slap a head or two.

Thankfully, no one did, and the mood in the room returned to the strained amiability Lamont was used to.

In truth, he got it. The others didn’t know what was happening. But what was more worrisome was that Doroumata, who had gone toe-to-toe with Eldavin and was clearly some kind of super-mage from the Drowned Folk—even she didn’t know what was going on.

The crew was nervous. This wasn’t a no-name ship. Sorecue had been poised to surface and go to Khelt’s aid if they’d needed it. They’d been preparing to fight what Lamont understood were giant, horrific monsters if they appeared near a Drowned city.

Yet here they were. Here the world was. The worst had happened, and they were here. An…ending had come, and they had missed it. A great war was over, and Lamont thought that he had only seen part of it at Ailendamus and the Great Plains.

What happened next?

 

——

 

The answer was, in part, the question.

What had happened to Izril? From the Walled Cities to the remaining Gnoll tribes to other nations, everyone had seen the ghosts appear. Maybe they hadn’t witnessed all of it, but they’d seen Izril crack then increase in size. So…exactly how much land had just appeared?

The answer was unexpectedly hard to get. For one thing—scrying spells could show a vast amount of land, especially if you anchored them high.

“It turns out we cannot—cannot anchor them high enough. And our coordinate-based system seems to, ah, have completely failed in this case, Sir Relz. So this is a very exciting time.”

The broadcast that Lamont and the Earthers were half-watching was going over the events in the Gnoll Plains for the umpteenth time. What was more interesting was that Sir Relz was right now interviewing a Drake [Mage] patiently explaining the problem.

“I’m hearing you right, Tobeis? Can’t you just, ah, shift the [Scrying] spell left a bit?”

“Um…no, Sir Relz.”

The Drake gave Sir Relz the same kind of look and tone as a [Farmer] might when asked if he could just move his field left slightly. He clarified after a second.

“That’s theoretically possible, Sir Relz, but it requires a rather complete understanding of the—the geography and, er, world itself. Part of coordinate-based divination is that we can’t just throw scrying spells into the earth. If that were so, we’d just locate every dungeon below us in a straight line and do that—it’s not practical.”

“I see. I see. So you’re, er, more like tossing a dart at random. You need to know what you’re aiming at.”

The Drake seemed gratified by the explanation.

“Exactly! And let me tell you, there’s a lot more places that don’t exist than there are that exist. We’re surrounded by nothingness—coordinate-wise.”

“Um. We are?”

The existential dread of being a single mote in a void of oblivion was glossed over with a wave of the Drake’s claw.

“So, um, the point is we can anchor the scrying spells fairly high up, but it’s just not an option.”

“So what are we doing to explore this new land?”

For answer, the Drake just pointed, and the scrying orb switched to show a Drake Oldblood flying high above.

“We are mapping this new area with eyes in the sky. It seems to be—amazingly vast. That we cannot even guess as to how much land has arisen suggests the Great Plains may have…doubled. Or tripled in size.”

Sir Relz leaned forwards slowly.

Did you just say ‘tripled’ the Great Plains?

“Only speculation, Sir Relz.”

“Ah, but I like it. You heard it here first, people! The Great Plains have tripled in size! Now, I see a ship’s deck behind you. What’s this about?”

The [Mage], Tobeis, seemed to be regretting his words. He tried to choose them more carefully.

“…In accordance with the need for fliers, we need [Cartographers] and, well, everything. But the Walled Cities have sent scouting fleets around the exterior of this landmass, as that is the most practical way to do so quickly. I understand land-based expeditions are being prepared, but we believe it may be safest to maneuver via the coast for now.”

“Safest? How dangerous are you suggesting this new land might be?”

Tobeis hesitated.

“There could be anything, Sir Relz. These were underwater lands, so we are cautiously suggesting this may be the sunken sixth continent in part. Unearthed dungeons? It could be anything, so I’m not saying—

“The Sixth Continent? You heard it here first, people. If you’re just tuning in, it might not be the 6th Continent—what was it called? But it could be—

At this point, Sang-min tossed a coaster at the scrying orb, and it bounced off the enchanted glass.

“What a fool. He is lying.”

Sidney had flinched at the sudden movement, and Sang-min gave her a concerned look as Malia patted the girl’s hand. Haley rolled her eyes and nodded, glaring at the Drakes.

“No journalism…standards. You know? They’re not even saying the obvious; I bet they want to claim the land first. Drakes.”

She said that without having met more than a portion at Wistram—but everyone was beginning to get what that meant. Lamont nodded, but thoughtfully.

“I just bet there are other nations doing the same, though. Not just Izril. I mean…it’s new land. Wouldn’t everyone want that?”

He scowled around the table, and Depth Magus Doroumata nodded.

Yes. Chandrar is mobilizing fleets too. Terandria, Baleros—every nation will be interested. Who arrives is different. This is a game of time. But tell me…why does that Drake upset you? What is ‘journalism’? Not writing in a journal?”

Lamont stared into a face full of less wrinkles than he thought, and half of her gaze was rough and her flesh turned to more like spikes—a starfish’s ridged exterior. He leapt out of his seat, tripped, and Sidney screamed.

Doroumata saved Lamont from slamming into the wooden floor with a finger that halted his fall. He got up, and Sidney’s shriek turned to a whisper as the [Depth Mage] captured the sound.

A teardrop of quivering liquid hung on her finger, eating the oaths and exclamations from around the room. She let it fall, and then the room went silent.

“I apologize, children.”

“How did you—? I didn’t see you—!”

Caroline nearly fell out of her seat. Doroumata simply smiled.

“I move around my ship where I please. It is a valuable Skill for old bones. I intended to speak with you all. What is ‘journalism’?”

Lamont got up shakily as Haley took her hand off her sword. Then, and only then, did two of Doroumata’s daughters walk into the room along with the [Captain]. They stopped, nodded around, and offered refreshments—the fish cake snacks that Drowned Folk made to preserve catches.

No one wanted any, and so Lamont found himself sitting as Sidney, Haley, Caroline, and Sang-min joined him at the table. Sidney’s fairly justified fear of many things actually dissipated a bit around Doroumata. The old woman made the girl sit next to her, and despite Malia’s worries, Sidney looked reassured.

“You sleep better, child? I told you—no creatures of the deep, even Krakens, will find me. Rats are banished aboard Sorecue.”

“Yes, Shadeward.”

Doroumata smiled. She patted Sidney’s hand, and in that sense, she looked like Lamont’s own grandmother.

His hypothetical grandmother who could blow a hole in an aircraft carrier if he made her angry. If he’d had Doroumata as a grandmother, Lamont bet he’d have gotten into fewer scraps as a boy.

At any rate, Doroumata was curious, so the Earthers found themselves doing what they had gotten used to—explaining Earth things. The old Drowned Woman frowned at Sir Relz, muted on the scrying orb.

“So he lacks for a principle of…ethics.”

Caroline nodded vigorously.

“A code. A standard. I mean, he’s just over exaggerating, but it’s—that?”

She was chewing on some dried seaweed, much to Sang-min’s amusement. Only Caroline had developed a taste for dried seaweed.

“One doesn’t need another world to know that Drake’s as crooked as two [Harbormasters] on the take.”

Captain Toriegh opined. Doroumata just tapped one lip.

“These are things I wish to know. I and countless Drowned Folk. If only I had taken one of the…documents I knew Wistram was making, it would simplify things. We must begin again, it seems. I hope you will speak long. It will help the Drowned People greatly.”

She and the other Drowned People watched the Earthers. A few months ago, Lamont thought everyone would have shown cautious willingness, but now they traded uncertain looks.

Elena had always been one of the most vocal against sharing Earth tech. Lamont had seen why, but he’d thought that Wistram had a point that they had magic—sharing some of Earth’s knowledge wouldn’t help.

Then Eldavin went and made super flying soldiers with magic armor. It might have been something he could do, but everyone knew they were Aaron’s designs.

Moreover…they were just tired of doing this. It was Haley who raised a wary hand.

“Er, Depth Magus? Can we ask what will happen to us? Are we going to be…guests of the Drowned Folk forever?”

Captain Toriegh exchanged a quick glance with one of the daughters, but Doroumata just sat back, eyes steady.

“No. We are not Wistram. That we need your knowledge is certain. But I have spoken to the late Grand Magus Eldavin. I have seen Wistram’s faults and strengths. I am one leader among many, and I am simply Shadeward of Nombernaught. Yet I will speak that you will have freedom. I require aid and knowledge for my people. You desire freedom and choice. These ideas do not necessarily fight each other.”

From the way Lamont saw Toriegh react, he didn’t think Doroumata was ‘simply’ anything. The woman’s words certainly made him and the others excited.

“Hold on—how would that work? Don’t you need us?”

Doroumata paused and gestured as she swallowed. Instantly, a drink was placed into her hand, and she took a sip of some dark, dark, dark tea. Her daughter spoke for her in that uncanny way—picking up her exact words like they were…the same person.

“Surely so, Earther Obi. Yet we will do what is fair on the sea or under it. Coin for deed. We will…pay you to tell us what you know. You will be free to seek your own path within a week, and we may arrange transport to any port in the world. But we will reward information fairly.”

Ah. Lamont got it at the same time as the rest. So they’d be free…but being paid for their knowledge was much more of an incentive than Wistram. And by the same token…

Lamont wondered if Obi, or most of the others, knew how hard it was to make a living outside of Wistram. How dangerous it could be. Himself, he would take any gold Doroumata wanted to give out.

They had well and truly left Wistram, so it began to sink in for the other Earthers. They might be free, but now they were, um, free. And their safety net had vanished. Did they miss Wistram?

Well, it was too late. Unless they went back. They were free to do whatever, but it would be very nice to have their new start in this world with a pocket full of gold.

Doroumata watched their expressions. Her offer was certainly taken fairly well, but after some prodding, Haley expressed what the others were feeling.

“It’s just that—I don’t know if we can live on a Drowned Ship, or even multiple Drowned Ships, Shadeward. We’re not used to being quiet or…being so far underwater. No offense, but it’s been hard for three weeks, even surfacing to get some air.”

The old woman’s eyes glinted, and she raised her other hand. It was, Lamont realized, a long starfish’s ‘arm’. It was wrapped around a staff, and she used it to lever herself out of her chair. Two of her daughters instantly supported her, and the [Depth Mage] nodded slowly.

“Understandable. We have taken this into account.”

Haley waited for elaboration, but Doroumata just turned.

“Oh, good. Um…so what are we going to do?”

“We will reach Nombernaught by nightfall. You shall see then. Captain Toriegh. Send a [Message] to Nombernaught. Tell them to weigh Nom’s Anchor. It is time.”

Lamont watched the Drowned Captain shoot to his feet, do a double-take, then hurry around Doroumata, whispering frantically. He looked at the other Earthers.

What did that mean? Well, they would find out by nightfall. Lamont saw one of Doroumata’s daughters turn back. They were all ages, from their forties down to younger than twenty. One winked at him.

“Lamont, I think she likes you.”

Caroline whispered in Lamont’s ear with delight as the Drowned Folk left the Earthers alone. Lamont rolled his eyes. The world’s first and hopefully only shipper grinned at the [Sailor] who had no respect for her version of ‘ships’.

“What ever gave you that idea, Caroline?”

“The wink? The look? Although she might be the same person…so that’s weird. I’m just saying—

Lamont politely pushed his glass of water back, muffling a sigh.

“That’s not flirting. That’s a wink.”

“It could be.”

“No, it’s not. Asking if I want to go for a drink after her shift, is. Suggesting she’s got an empty bunk that night is definitely flirting. Asking if I want to walk a round of watch belowdecks is flirting.”

“Right…”

Caroline looked put out as Lamont got up. She frowned at him.

“Where are you going?”

With a straight face, the [Sailor] adjusted his clothing.

“To go fishing with her. You should try it. You get to see them thinking about going for the bait, and Drowned Folk use little fish.”

He stood up with a wink at Sidney. Caroline nearly fell out of her seat.

“Wait—details!

Lamont rolled his eyes. Of all the Earthers to escape with…he was just glad it wasn’t Leon. Or George. George. He hated both of them.

Anyways, Lamont whistled a sailor’s tune from Earth as he went above decks. Caroline made everything dramatic. Sometimes you were just fascinated. Fascinated by a different world. And at least one of Doroumata’s daughter-apprentices was curious too.

“Tell me what song you’re singing.”

She smiled at him behind a veil, and Lamont looked into the beautiful sea. He smiled and took a fishing rod and a little fish.

“Only if you teach me one of your songs in return. Fair’s fair.”

Curiously, for a response, Dorace only laughed, a quiet laugh like a whisper as the ship journeyed on.

“You’ll hear one tonight. Stay up late, landman, Scotsman. It will be a night to make you love us if any does.”

 

——

 

And as light faded from the deck of Sorecue, the green water turned orange and then faded to a deep blue as one of the two moons in the night’s sky shone bright and full. The deep waters revealed something else on the horizon.

The shores of Izril. But new shores, on a tip of a peninsula never seen. Instead of the slow gradient of land—vast cliffs of earth rose upwards, ending abruptly at a lip of stone quickly turning into a beach.

Archmage Kishkeria had sent a wave of green magic, turning much of the soil to blooming grass, but the plant-life in the deep ocean had merged with the memory of plants that had once grown in this soil.

A wild world awaited, and not all flat. Mountains had risen, and in the distance, a broken city was visible on the horizon.

And that—that was only what could be seen whenever Sorecue surfaced. Yellow grass sprouting amid what might become a beach in decades to come if this entire cliff face didn’t slide into the sea. Strange ruins, a mountain colored blue, not yet frosted at the tip.

The corpse of a giant shellfish with too many legs, rotting in the distance. It had been killed as it rose into the unforgiving sun, and strange birds were already descending upon it.

Rot, that broken city—and beyond both, a horizon never seen in this age. Only the High Passes far, far away were even recognizable.

Up, across that shoreline Sorecue sailed, not yet surfacing again. Not yet.

For there were other vessels in the water. In fact…the very same Drake expeditionary fleet was navigating south around the continent from Zeres, using wind and water spells to boost their voyage.

This was a race to see what could be seen, especially anything valuable. The other nations knew it well. However, most vessels had been at port due to Fetohep’s warnings. Many Drowned Folk ships had been too, but where they docked was…closer than other continents to Izril.

Thus, more than one Drowned Ship was currently hovering around the new Izril. One, in particular, was close enough to spot Sorecue. The vessel had dropped its cloaking, and if you knew what to look at or had the right Skills, another submerged ship was as obvious as a beacon.

“Drowned Ship bearing 136 degrees.”

“One thirty-six, confirmed. No hostile colors. Captain, orders?”

A Drowned Captain aboard his own ship was using a telescope to see through the dark waters. He grunted.

“Signal them. Lantern speak.”

“Lantern speak, aye.” 

The crew got to work. They took lanterns and opened and closed the colored shutters. Ships above and below the seas used this as communications, although Drowned Folk had a few more. If they were in the deeps and wary of using light to attract…something…they’d get closer. But if they were both still wary, they’d send messages by literally shooting them into each other’s bubbles.

In this case, the [Captain] was almost certain the other ship was friendly, and that was confirmed a moment later.

“It’s…Sorecue. Crewed by no less than Shadeward Doroumata herself!”

The Drowned Folk crew all looked up. They might have heard she was at Wistram, but even so. The [Captain] tugged at his beard with a rubbery ‘hand’. He was part eel, a fairly common merging in Drowned Folk, but he had a beard despite being split across fish and man.

It took a bit of work on his eel side with its rubbery skin, but added to the cap he wore; when he was annoyed or just for the show of it, one eye would spark with lightning. It was an effect he was most certainly aware of, and the cut of his clothing also contrived to make him look like he was a drowned [Lord] of Terandria. Old, thick brass on worn velvet.

Drowned Folk fashion sometimes consisted of making them look like they’d just been blown out of a story. This Drowned Man was suited to the clash of swords and daring battles at sea. Quite appropriately—he was one of the most famous Drowned Captains in the world. He murmured as he scratched at his beard.

“Now there’s a strange encounter any other day. How many years has it been since she’s left Nombernaught?”

He paced down the deck as he watched the other ship slow and the exchange continue via lanterns. His own ship was actually quite a bit larger than Sorecue, which had a reputation as a bodyguard, slightly squat and barrel-chested, but filled with a quite decent spread of amenities and a shield-focused ward that had stopped blows from Krakens.

By contrast, his craft was a long, sleek hunter, specialized in running down enemy vessels and delivering devastating broadsides before boarding for the kill and hauling away as much loot as possible. The decks were stained dark blue and gold, adding to the camouflage effect and also that sense of faded style the [Captain] liked.

Sorecue’s own reaction to learning this ship’s name was to give an immediate hail and cautiously turn so it faced the vessel. Neither were going to kill each other today, but facing head on, neither ship had a good shot at the other’s side.

Such was the reputation of this vessel that it put a smile on the Drowned Man’s face.

The Passing Shadow. And there stood none other than the famous [Depth Captain] himself, Therrium Sailwinds. As feared as any famous [Pirate]. He had notably been involved in the battles at sea with the Titan’s students and the fighting for the Diamond Swords of Serept, but he’d failed to acquire the treasure.

It still rankled Therrium, but that was the life of someone in his position. You won and you lost, and if you kept losing…well, then your crew might have something to say about it. But he had never had that problem.

“Raise the sails and rise. We’re breaking waters. Ask Sorecue if the esteemed Shadeward will join our ship. And their [Captain] and company if they so please.”

He doubted it. They didn’t have time, but there was always later. As for now…Therrium grinned as water ran from the top of their magical barriers.

He was going to enjoy this, at least.

 

——

 

The Passing Shadow breached the waves like a whale rising, shedding water in a magnificent display as its hull appeared suddenly in the night. It scared the hell out of the Drakes approaching from the east.

Drowned Ship rising! To arms! Alert the [Admiral]!

The Passing Shadow! Sighting confirmed—Grade 8 threat! Orders?”

A babble of voices broke out from around the [Admiral] crewing the expeditionary force. His blood chilled at the sight of the famous pirates, but he hailed from Zeres, and there were eighteen ships in his fleet. Nevermind that most were still clustered around Zeres in case Khelt came back…and trying to pull out that giant halberd from one of the towers. The [Admiral] roared, coming to an instant decision.

“We have an armada! All about and battle stations! Alert the Admiralty we are preparing to engage! Get me mage targets for full long-range bombardments! I want barrier spells now and—”

If he were calmer, the Drake might have noticed some oddities. The Passing Shadow had come up far, far out of range of the Drake vessels. Nor had it raised any colors for battle.

 

——

 

On his ship, Therrium rolled his eyes as the Drakes prepared for combat. If he’d wanted them dead he’d have shredded one of their galleons from below before they saw him and surfaced in their midst. He spat to one of his officers.

“Drakes. They just fought the Gnolls and saw a continent split in twain and they’re already raring to spill more blood? Even the Bloodtear Pirates would get sick of so much fighting.”

“They must want to claim all this land. Want me to loose a few arrows? Bet I could poison a [Captain].”

A Drowned Woman with a quillfish’s spines on one shoulder and a bow grinned. Therrium waved her down.

“Not now. We have orders. No one open fire, even if they loose a few spells.”

It was rare for Therrium to take marching orders from anyone, but the crew nodded. They watched the Drakes turning, spreading out to flank The Passing Shadow.

They had to realize something was off, so they approached slowly. But it seemed the Drakes wouldn’t turn down an enemy like Therrium, no matter what. The Drowned Man yawned as he idly watched Sorecue rising out of the waters to his left.

He grinned as the Drakes reacted to the second vessel appearing. Then his grin slipped a bit as the dark night brightened and another craft shed its camouflage.

Kraken’s tits! Submerged ship was hiding—it’s her! That maniac!

There was only one person the crow’s nest could mean. Therrium swung around, and the Drake armada began breaking up in alarm as that by now world-famous glow, like a lighthouse in its own right, shone from the decks of the smaller ship whose translucent, glowing hull was as bright as the eye of its captain.

The Illuminary shot upwards as the Drake fleet retreated back in alarm. Now, three Drowned Ships were facing eighteen. But again, neither was on an attack heading. The fastest [Pirate] in the world joined Therrium, and she had the gall to wave from the railing as they passed close enough for Therrium to throw his spyglass like a hatchet.

Rasea Zecrew caught it and tossed it back with a laugh.

“Therrium! Why so hostile? No hard feelings?”

“Rasea Zecrew. Your ship is everywhere, it seems. Cause trouble here and I’ll personally gut you this time. What are you doing here?”

He pointed at her, and the [Pirate Captain] held up her hands in mocking surrender.

“My ship was repairing from the fight at the Great Plains and checking out the new land. I heard what was up, and I claim the right to bear witness by this.”

She tapped the anglerfish part of her body and then sombered.

“I wouldn’t miss this for all the gold in Khelt. We’ll pull back if we’re not welcome, but we thought we’d give the Drakes a show.”

“Hmph. Fine.”

The Illuminary had landfolk and Drowned Folk in equal measure, but Rasea did have a claim. Therrium didn’t have it in his heart to chase her off.

Not today. If anything, he wished he had a scrying orb and Wistram’s eyes on him, but perhaps…perhaps this moment was too good to be sullied as cheap entertainment.

You had to be here. This was the kind of thing [Sailors], whether they be [Storm Sailors], [Depth Sailors], or [Pirates], would brag about for years to come.

In the distance, the Drakes were clearly weighing the odds of taking on three vessels of fame with their fleet. And it seemed the others had grown tired of the charade or wanted to make it clear that…this was not the Drakes’ finest hour.

“More craft surfacing, Captain.”

Both Rasea and Therrium looked around. Sorecue was flickering welcomes at the others, but the two piratical vessels stayed together as more ships began rising. They broke the waters, and Therrium and Rasea named each one.

“Tom’s Wake. Fortiseid. Shell Bazaar?”

One had been a Terandrian freighter before it was converted into a Drowned Folk supership, nearly doubling it in size, but they’d left the standard galleon design. Fortiseid was a massive ship that was never designed for open sea maneuvering; like the Krakenbane Destroyers of the Iron Vanguard, it was circular and moved as fast as a snail unless it kept to currents, but had half again the mass of The Passing Shadow and the Illuminary combined.

Shell Bazaar, that colorful train of ships, was not just one vessel, but many chained together in a flotilla and pulled by the giant lobster, Renny, himself. It was considered ill luck not to contribute something to his snack. Not to mention you’d get no deals from the wonders and countless vendors who purchased berths for its constant voyages. The flotilla was as colorful as Fortiseid was not.

Those were the first three. Then came Geib’s Foot, Vixadem, The Ourth Hour, and those were just the famous vessels.

Smaller crafts, barely more than skippers, were surfacing or rising in the distance. Therrium guessed every ship within two hundred miles had been making for this place for the last five days.

It made sense there were so many. Rasea caught her breath from laughing as the Drake ‘fleet’ turned tail and ran, all sails to the wind.

“Ah, now here’s a sight! Why’s Shell Bazaar here, though? Not that I’d begrudge anyone a chance to see.”

“Drowned Folk [Captain].”

“Right, new management. Who got the last [Captain]? Wasn’t us. I liked her.”

The light conversation was taking place as the Drowned Folk gathered. Therrium was noting enemies and friends or just famous names, and he noticed a group of Humans on the decks of Sorecue.

Humans? Well—if Doroumata wanted them there, she had the most right of anyone to invite landfolk. And still…Therrium saw the Drowned Folk rising.

The Drake scouting fleet was in the distance already, fleeing back to their City of Waves. However, even if Zeres disgorged its entire armada, they would hesitate to sail into this storm. For it was not dozens, but nearly a hundred and forty ships gathered here.

A hundred and forty. And these were the ships who had been able to attend. It was something Therrium knew existed below, but he had never seen so many Drowned Folk on land.

They were a sparse people, closer to Selphids or half-Elves in population density. They had to be; they could not live in the water unaided, even with their gifts. Their homes were few in number, but now…

Now they walked from water to see.

Drowned Folk. They emerged from the water, heads breaking through the waves, water running off their clothing, eyes gleaming under the moonlight. Therrium saw the glowing, yellow-red eye of a half-shark Drowned Man breach the water, a fin running along his back.

He was a poorer fellow, for he wore no grand uniform, but he walked next to a mage of the sea, her body semi-translucent, running with magic blood as she clenched a book in one delicate hand, her skin showing her organs beneath.

They rose out of the waves side-by side, the saltwater dripping off them. But these were not a horde of monsters, like an army of sea-zombies wandering onto land after walking the ocean’s floor. These were proud people, the light of intelligence in their eyes. They stepped onto the new land of Izril like that.

Walking out of the surf. Rising from the waves, striding seemingly across the top of the water onto land. It was just a trick. They stood on submerged vessels that slowly rose around them, but they were stepping onto the ground by…the thousands.

“Captain, do we take ourselves to shore?”

The crew looked longingly at that sight, and Therrium ached in his bones to join them. But he shook his head.

“Some ships must stay just in case of attack. We do not have the right. We are pirates and raiders of the sea. Let them go first.”

He had killed men and women ever since he was six and old enough to lift the hand-crossbows at his side. This was not his time, nor Rasea’s, nor the other Drowned Folk who watched at the edges.

Even so, Therrium’s eyes stung. He raised one hand, and his Human hand touched his cheek. The wind was blowing salt along the night’s waves, but that didn’t explain the line of water running from one eye.

“Ah. Why am I crying? What a disgrace.”

Therrium was embarrassed to weep in front of his crew. But then he heard a loud hiccup. The [Depth Captain] turned and saw snot and tears running from both Rasea’s eyes and her nose.

“Zecrew?”

She was wiping at her face with a handkerchief, in full waterworks.

I said I wasn’t gonna cry until it happened, but then you started crying and I started—

The two [Captains] looked at each other. Therrium noticed the Humans on board Doroumata’s ship were watching the gathering with awe, but clearly had no idea what was going on. That they did…

“Ahoy.”

Another vessel drew alongside theirs, heading for shore. A Drowned Woman raised her hat, saluting the two famous [Captains] and their crew. Then she hesitated.

“…Are you two crying?”

Both Rasea and Therrium chorused at once.

No.

 

——

 

The Drowned People lined their railings. Light flashed from some eyes, and they stood, crossed between sea and land. Fish-people. No…that was the wrong folk, for they were not merfolk. They were half and half, but they were split vertically rather than horizontally.

Why did they weep? Lamont didn’t know. All he did know—the thing the Earthers felt as they gathered in hushed awe—was that the strange happenings and miracles that had begun the day Fetohep rode from his palace had not ended.

Perhaps they would never end. Perhaps this was the way the world was.

For there stood Doroumata, and the old [Depth Mage] and her daughters looked into the waters as the Drowned Folk stood on Izril’s new shores. They turned to face her, and Lamont felt that chill on his skin intensify.

The Shadeward looked across the gathering and straightened her back. She looked as emotional as the rest, but she said not a word. She was simply…there.

Waiting. Waiting for something that was coming.

Lamont could not have said who broke that silence. It was hardly quiet; the creaking of countless ships, the sound of his own breath in his lungs, the wind blowing was all noise. But it was background, the sounds you heard at all times on the sea.

When he did hear a voice…it was a quiet man’s voice. Some tenor, sung from a young sailor among the Drowned. Then more joined in. Each Drowned Person aboard their ship, Drowned Men and Women, the youngest deckhands, added their voice to a song that was a thousand strong in an instant.

They began to sing.

 

“I slipped off the deck, and there I drowned

Now I will never leave her

We left land to be born at sea

And we’ll never truly leave her.”

 

It was such…a melancholy song. Or was there a note in triumph there? He thought there was. It was one of those old songs that anyone could pick up. But this…

This was a Drowned Folk song.

 

I gave one eye into the deep

And I will never leave her

I breathe water in my sleep

So I will never leave her.

 

Smiles divided in half as they sang, poorly or beautifully—the people who’d taken the gift of the sea. They could look like monsters to some, people afflicted by a curse. But every [Sailor] that Lamont had ever met had talked about the gift like a second chance. Drowning at sea was a terrible thing, but if you were lucky…you’d live again.

Yet there was a price. As the song went on, they came to a verse where the massed voices suddenly went quiet. Bare hundreds amidst the thousand sang on, standing out from the rest of their kin.

 

“My family wept upon the land

I wish that I could leave her

I left half my heart on sand

Yet I will never leave her.”

 

People who had become Drowned Folk, not been born to it. That was who they had to be. Gnolls, fur dripping wet with water, Garuda who might never fly again. Even Stitch-folk and, rarest of all—a Centaur, standing upon two hooves and a pair of stilted claws on her other side.

This verse was only for them, and it could not capture a fraction of the loss and regret some had. Others simply sang the words with a smile. They had chosen to live.

It was not a long song, but it had a thousand verses, as such songs did. Yet the song had a completely different cadence from a drinking song in this moment. There were so many people.

The swell of voices filled the night sky, the greatest chorus that Lamont had ever witnessed. Echoing voices, the rush of the tide, and the creaking ships all the background of a true song of the sea.

He looked around and saw Sidney with eyes wide, holding Malia’s hand. Sang-min was leaning over the railing, quietly studying the gathering. Haley was trying to record it all with a phone. And Lamont?

He was wondering what they were all looking towards. Doroumata, singing quietly with her daughters, the Drowned Folk—they’d turned from her and looked out from the land they’d come to…what? Settle? Claim?

They were looking out to the sea; Lamont couldn’t understand why. This was a goodbye song, a farewell song like [Sailors] would sing when they left a ship for good. But he saw no signs of tools or supplies to settle this land.

What were they looking at? The dark sea? A final ship? Then Lamont traced the angle of their gazes and realized what they were waiting for. As the song ran on, which Drowned Folk called Land’s Farewell, something curious happened. The milling voices lowered in volume, but the song still felt as loud as ever. If anything…louder.

The [Sailor] heard…a reverberation. A haunting thrum, as if the ocean itself were taking part in this song. Then, as Lamont looked around wildly, he saw the Drowned Folk looking down. Down, into the waters of the distance. And Lamont realized what was happening.

It was not his imagination, nor was it some Skill or trick of magic. The waters were singing. But it was not the water itself that sang…it was the people far underwater singing so loudly that it reached the surface.

Look down. There, you’ll see them. Lights, in the distant sea, as if the dawn were rising a second time. So far down they hadn’t been visible. They hadn’t ever moved. But it had taken them nearly a day to rise, even buoyed up as fast as they could go.

There they were. Illuminated by distant, tiny little lights. Standing and looking up at the sky, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. Lamont looked upon Doroumata’s ship at last.

Nombernaught. And he realized why it mattered—for it was no ship that the Shadeward crewed. The other vessels floating on the water were toys on the sand compared to this. They were houses, vessels for a single crew.

There…there was a Drowned Folk City.

Nombernaught, the Port of Eellen, rose out of the darkness. The oldest relic that had kept them in the deeps, Nom’s Anchor, had been removed. That was why the vessels had come. For this. For the decision of the Shadeward, who had told all that there would be no more protection of the deep.

The Drowned People sang as a city rose, floating up from the depths of the ocean. One final verse lingered as Lamont looked down at the home intended for the Earthers.

 

“My soul never shall surface from below

I shall never leave her.

As I walk on land, half sinks below

And I shall never leave her.”

 

Pale spires of worn pearl. Roads not made of heavy stone like granite, but far lighter materials. Wood and bright colors that looked too vivid to be natural, but they were. Bright coral, without hard edges, entire trees of pink and towers of magenta red.

Coral? Had they grown entire, living parts of the city? Yes, they had. And while some parts had died and been melded with stone and metal, others grew free. The base of Nombernaught swam with fish, hatcheries growing up in the protective bubble of the city. As it became larger and larger, and the water it displaced began to move the ships back, Lamont saw more and more details.

Little shapes scurrying along, ignoring the Drowned Folk, or tied to leashes. Pets of the deep. Crabs trained to clean up the streets. And the streets were not all stone!

Was that an…elevator of water? No, a loop which carried those fearless of drowning around the city. A river that moved vertically as well as horizontally; free transportation.

Like Venice, that city on the waters. But Nombernaught was surrounded by the waters, and like Drowned Folk, the exterior was bleak, a camouflaged heart that grew more vibrant the further in you entered. Protected by a magical shield to rival any Walled City’s protections.

And the people—oh, the people. Lamont laid his first eyes on young Drowned Folk. Scared Drowned children staring with huge eyes up at the terrifying, alien sky and Sidney herself as the girl peered down at them. The citizens looked resolved and worried, gazing upwards, but it was done.

At last, as the strains of voices died down, Lamont watched the city rising from the ocean. Pale spires shooting upwards and upwards until his neck was craning back, floors of people rising over even the tallest ships.

Nombernaught kept rising. A city drifting towards land. It was only then that Doroumata spoke. She raised her voice and magnified it as the citizens and ships that voyaged here and away turned to her.

“Two thousand years Nombernaught has sat in the depths above the Cauzn Strait. No longer. The ocean changes, and there is danger in the deep. In any other time, we would batten the sails and watch for foes. But the world…is different. A new land has appeared, and the dead speak. So I call for Nombernaught to rise. Once more, a Drowned City shall rest between sky and sea. We lay claim to this land, and we shall trade and war and love the land as much as sea. Izril will be our home.”

The Drowned Folk did not cheer, but they did sigh, like the wind and waves themselves. With regret, with apprehension—with understanding. The currents were disrupted. Krakens and other creatures stirred.

Most importantly…they looked at land unclaimed and saw what Doroumata surely did. A chance for something more.

Would it break them or change them from who they were? No one could answer, but before anyone could cheer or do something as silly as applaud, Doroumata held up one hand.

Her head turned, and her eyes fixed on something at sea. The Drowned Folk stirred, and many pointed. Even the citizens of Nombernaught, some breathing air for the first time, or looking to step onto land with shaky legs—looked around.

“There.”

Lamont turned and saw something else upon the waves. He gasped, and Haley choked.

“Half-Elves?”

Ships grown out of wood, with sails of leaves, looking more as if they had grown into being then been carved, slowed, caught in the gazes of an entire city of people. They had not expected this any more than the Drakes.

From whence did they hail? Chandrar? Terandria? Not all the ships were alike, but the pointed ears of the passengers and their half-immortal strain was obvious.

They sailed across the waters, silently meeting the gazes of the Drowned Folk and Drakes. Only a handful; a dozen ships at most, a paltry amount compared to this great gathering of the Drowned. Yet they were armed and bore settlers.

“A first wave. Settlers of their kind.”

Someone whispered next to Lamont. He nodded slowly, and one of the half-Elves leading the ships bowed slightly. Doroumata lifted a hand. Then she turned, and Nombernaught finished rising. Then—yes, then, Lamont saw the city anchor itself at the coast. The Drowned Folk sighed, for they had their first city on maps that all folk would know.

But their eyes followed the half-Elves, and their cheering, when it came, was subdued. The Drowned Folk looked at this strange new home uncertainly, and the Earthers, and realized something along with much of the world.

As the Drakes had realized as they fled back to their homes. As the Gnolls stirred from their mourning and loss to realize how many people were setting foot on lands meant for them. Each species, each nation, and each part of the world had been visited by ghosts. They had been warned in vaguery or harsh certainties what would come, what might come, and what must be done.

The end had been averted, and the world was changed. This was their hour, now.

But that was the thing about such days.

Every species thought it was their hour and age to shine.

 

——

 

The Drowned Folk’s city rising surprised the half-Elves almost as much as their ships surprised the seafolk. It almost caused several ships to turn right back around and head home.

“They have settled an entire region in one fell swoop. This was surely folly; it will take decades for the first forests to begin growing. By that time, the Drakes will be founding their cities too fast for us to keep up. I do not relish fighting from behind saplings, brothers and sisters.”

Only a half-Elf could refer to Drakes building cities as ‘fast’. It spoke to a certain attitude, of a species that thought they had forever.

And no, it did not fly for all those present. The venerable [Lady of the Woods], a class that was quasi-noble, and unique to forest-dwellers, came from no less than Gaiil-Drome’s representatives.

Trust even the non-Humans of Terandria to have noble-sounding classes. But she had a point in that the Drowned Folk had just stolen a march on every species. However, a number of other representatives around the grown-wood table in their largest colony ship, in and of itself a relic, talked the agitated Terandrians out of heading home.

“We have made our choice, sister. To turn back before we even see the possibilities is surely as rash as walking Zeikhal barefoot.”

The veiled half-Elf’s soothing platitude passed over the [Lady of the Wood]’s head, and she gave the Claiven Earth’s leader a blank look then an ingenuous smile.

“I’m sure we would not want that. I take your point, but I must insist we re-reroute our landing. North of the Drowned Folk. They are a brigand’s lot, so I have understood from my learnings of the world.”

“But they might be staunch allies. If we were to make an entreaty—”

“I shall not move on this, brother. We must insist. Safety is paramount, especially if our kin follow.”

And that was that. Much to the disbelief of Kanid’s Leaf’s [Jungle Warden], he found the entire fleet turning north, because, after eight hours, the [Lady of the Woods] and her group did not back down.

“Eight hours of arguing. They really are timeless in Terandria. How did they ever make it to the rally point so swiftly?”

The Balerosian half-Elf had to admit, he had been a tiny bit prejudiced toward his cousins from Terandria. They were always, always the superior lot. They lived in villages that had not changed for tens of thousands of years and were the originals.

Not like, say, a half-Elven colony that had founded itself in previous ages and claimed their place among other species, winning respect by the weight of their deeds until they created entire forests and became nations in their own right.

Oh, no, that didn’t count. You were always second-best to the smallest village, where eating bugs was a part of life and which had grass older than most royal bloodlines.

It was one of the lizard-Elves who talked the surly [Warden] down—mostly by offering him a nali-stick and letting him vent.

Lizard-Elves, not in that they were more Elf than the other half-Elves, but because they had grown up in Lizardfolk villages. That was why Kanid’s Leaf had boomed in population, in part; the prolific and friendly Lizardfolk that had welcomed and clashed with their kind over the centuries always bore half-Elf children no matter the parents.

It also meant that some of their children took on distinctly…Lizardfolk attributes. Like a propensity to chatter and, this was funny, the ability to actually swing around a forest like some Humans thought half-Elves could do.

The [Lady of the Woods] had been astonishingly offended to learn that Iturtexi, one of the half-Elves who’d grown up among Lizardfolk, could actually swing from vines like the monkeys and apes she’d befriended. Then, of course, do a double back-flip and shoot an arrow through a venomous snake’s head.

She was not typical of the half-Elven representatives, but the [Warden], who was named Jespeire, thanks to the Dullahan roots in his family line, was sure that she was one of the half-Elves who was needed for this new world.

And it would be a new world, if a half-Elven colony were founded. Young half-Elves crewed many of the ancient colony-ships he saw, or the more modern vessels purchased with pooled gold for this expedition.

In truth, for all his grumblings, he was humbled at how many folk from home had come when the call had gone out. Terandrians, Chandrarians, Balerosians, and, yes, even a small, small group from Rhir had all mustered together to create a new land.

Whether or not they would succeed depended on their enemies or allies, and it just seemed like the Drowned Folk would make good neighbors. But then—Baleros and Chandrar dealt more with Drowned Folk.

“I suppose some separation is wise. But we have no idea what threats may emerge.”

Iturtexi rolled her eyes as she hung on the railings of the ship…backwards, so she was hanging upside-down over the side.

“We’ve got food for ages, Jespeire. So many chests of holding. As long as we’re not fighting, we’re okay, and there are high-level half-Elves everywhere.”

Also true. Although neither the Herald of Forests nor the Mage of Rivers were present. They would have been welcome allies, but Jespeire supposed they were bound to the Claiven Earth. Besides, with Khelt ascendant, they might well be needed.

He had mixed feelings on the politics of the other nations as well. Gaiil-Drome’s half-Elves were mixed in with some who had come from Ailendamus, and tensions had already necessitated both moving to separate ships. He wondered if some of his people might be working for other powers?

Almost definitely. So Jespeire’s mind was awhirl with risks, as well as a surge of elation.

Another great forest. A land not filled with leeches. A place to make a name for myself. 

For all these reasons and more, he had volunteered to come, and short of true calamity, he would not return home. However, Jespeire was not ignorant of the dangers, either.

“Warden Jespeire. I admire your restraint in the discussions. It takes a true brother of the trees, no matter which forest, to listen instead of making rash decisions.”

…And here was the [Lady of the Woods] again, to spoil his mood. Jespeire’s fiery red hair turned, and Iturtexi elected to drop into the water by ‘accident’ and swim to another ship rather than join the discussion.

He glared at the traitor as he bowed.

“Lady Ruveden, I was simply glad we could come to an agreement. We are all in this together.”

“Yes, indeed.”

She carried herself like how people told stories of half-Elves, as if you were supposed to glide across the ground and walk through forest pathways of leaves without disturbing a single one. They were all timeless half-immortals, but she wore that and the knowledge of her ancestry like a shawl to be flaunted.

Then again, Jespeire supposed she deserved some of that air of superiority. After all—her feet didn’t touch the ground of the ship’s deck. She drifted along as they spoke.

“Forgive me if I am direct, but your hair…”

It was not natural to see a half-Elf with red hair or more than faint orange, given their common ancestry, but Jespeire only indicated his tanned skin.

“I believe it was a fluke, Lady Ruveden.”

“Oh, of course. I trust it did not make you stand out too much? Forgive me, I was simply—intrigued.”

Absolutely no offense was taken, he assured her. Especially because that was a bald-faced lie, and Jespeire had dyed his hair and never looked back.

But he wasn’t going to be lectured by her and risk snapping back. So Lady Ruveden moved on rather quickly.

“This expedition…I hope you do not take my words as bald-faced cowardice, treebrother.”

Jespeire nearly tripped off the ship as he heard that. Treebrother? Nagas preserve them, this was going to take some doing not laughing at the names they used. He nodded, composing his face still further.

“Not at all. I’m well aware of the dangers, and despite my comrades’…my tree-people’s frivolity, they are fine warriors and explorers.”

Tree-people? He saw Ruveden mouth the word, then smile politely, and for a second, both half-Elves realized they were trying to humor the other.

Then they laughed, and that was genuine. Jespeire relaxed, and Ruveden looked to Izril. Her smile faded.

“You saw that Drake fleet? I believe they might be our truer enemies. The Drakes will not take kindly to anyone settling ‘their’ land.”

“And what do the Gnolls think?”

She sighed.

“In my experience, Drakes would not ask, but I am glad we have approached the tribes for the possibility of alliance. What does hearten me is that we may not be alone. Even if this new part of Izril is wilderness—do you know when our kin on Izril will meet us?”

Jespeire frowned, trying to recall the messages.

“Soon. They will be slower than us since most are headed by land, but a few are sailing around the High Passes. Apparently, the old currents have died, making their headway slow.”

“I see, I see. Who is leading that group at sea? Forgive me—our scrying and [Message] artifacts were damaged in the—unpleasantness with our cousins from the north. And I am obviously no academical [Mage].”

That Ailendamus squabble must have been even bigger than he’d heard. And not an academic mage? Well, they would have plenty of time to learn more, so Jespeire turned with Ruveden to inquire.

“Excuse me. But is there any [Mage] who can recall our communications with the Izrilian half-Elves…?”

The Balerosian half-Elves were sharing space with another Terandrian group who had provided this colony ship, one of three in the fleet along with one from the Claiven Earth and another from Terandria. A [Mage] bowed to Ruveden and Jespeire.

“I am from the Village of the Spring. It is my pleasure to meet…”

“Gaiil-Drome. Welcome, treebrother.”

“Kanid’s Leaf. Greetings as well.”

Even small villages had sent a number of people, although this half-Elf looked practically windswept and overwhelmed. He had to be from one of the timeless villages. Jespeire hoped he’d do well. But he had magic and so pulled the requested information for them.

“…It appears that they are mostly half-Elves of the cities. Some from Vail Forest, but I understand there are few villages remaining on Izril. Almost none in the south; what few will meet us independently. A Zedalien marshals them.”

“What a strange name. Didn’t he…have ties to the House of El?”

“Formerly, I believe.”

Even distant members of their people were making the journey. Ruveden nodded in relief.

“We shall call upon every brother and sister on Izril. I know there are not many, but I have asked a Falene Skystrall to join us if possible. She may even bring her Gold-rank team to bear; she and I hail from the same nation, and we know each other, you see.”

“That would be welcome. Are there any other half-Elven adventurers of note on Izril?”

“Ah, there is. Elia Arcsinger herself is in the north. She would be a boon.”

The Village of the Spring [Mage] perked up at that famous Named Adventurer, but it was surprisingly Ruveden’s turn to hesitate.

“Yes…yes indeed. Someone should reach out to her. Or not. Soon, all will know that we are planting roots here. Now, with that said, will you not join us, Warden Jespeire, magus of the Village of the Spring? Forgive me, I do not know your name. I have in mind a lengthy repast for fine conversation this evening…”

Jespeire groaned internally as he smiled and accepted, but only one more day—or two—and he’d get a chance to get on land. He was just glad they’d survived the sea voyage with the colony ship’s magic. The seas were unpredictable and dangerous. The only other peoples who had made it from continent to continent were Couriers charting the new waters, the bravest of [Captains] and [Merchants], the Drowned Folk—

And, for some reason, the Dwarves. But they’d headed for the north.

He wondered why.

 

——

 

It was an uncertain thing, finding a landing point on the new lands that didn’t look incredibly dangerous. No one had any idea about soil composition, what might lie beneath the ground, proximity to monsters, dangerous magic, animals—or angry sea-life still alive, and whatnot.

Heck, you might even pitch camp on solid ground that turned out to be a sinkhole. There was no telling. But every nation and species saw opportunity in those new lands.

Which was why it was so curious as to why a Dwarven ship made landfall not in the south, but by sailing into First Landing’s harbor.

It caused a stir among the noble families and the largest Human city on Izril. Dwarves were not unheard of in Izril, obviously, their trade-goods famous across the world for quality.

But an entire ship of Dwarves? Well, that was enough to even get young Terlands and Wellfars jockeying with El and the rare Reinhart or Veltras scions for a good look.

Mostly children. The nobility concealed their unseemly curiosity behind a flurry of invitations or casually-parked carriages or balcony parties as the Dwarven ship unloaded.

And what a sight it was.

If the half-Elves had ancient vessels that looked like someone had grown parts of the sails and hull to create sleek, seamless ships that cut the water with incredible speed—they also looked like they’d snap if you sneezed on them.

Drowned Ships, by contrast, were often unusually tall, eschewing the aerodynamics of ships that sailed on top of the waves for something that could maneuver in three dimensions. Their magical shields meant you often saw them without sails, and they even had designs that allowed them to prepare for aquatic events like fighting foes beneath or straight above them.

The Dwarven ships, by contrast to each, were new, heavy in the water, and squat. They had three huge masts on this vessel, but since wind and sea currents were all locked up, they’d made it to Izril by sheer Dwarven grit.

Namely, oars and what even resembled water wheels—only they helped push the ship through the water rather than harnessing the power of the waves. Nothing had stopped Graniteoath on her voyage here either; the prow was armed in the famed Dwarfsteel, and she had solved the issue of an angry sea serpent by ramming into the monster until it fled.

She was disembarking now, and the tough ship had a lot of cargo. Chests of holding were disgorging fortunes in metal, but unlike usual, the cargo of the ship wasn’t goods, but people.

Dwarves, to be precise. They marched off their ship and immediately began hugging the ground, much to the amusement of the onlookers.

Dead gods and grandfathers, I’ll never get on a boat again! The damned thing bumped up and down like we were being shaken all day and night!

One of the deep, booming voices from the Dwarves raised in complaint. The Wellfars, the ship-nobles, winced as they understood.

The turbulence from the new part of Izril rising must have turned the seas choppy. Unlike a high-prowed vessel, Graniteoath must have bobbed up and down hard.

“What a silly design. Mother, why’d anyone build a ship like that?”

A Wellfar girl whispered up to her mother. The [Lady] and her family were out for a day in First Landing, and she had one of those trendy hats that Magnolia Reinhart had started—with the new style from Baleros. Namely a peacock-sized feather in the brim, after that Titan of Baleros.

A rakish look all over a more sea-themed coloration than the eye-searing pink of Magnolia. The noble lady could then fit in with trend-settings in any part of Izril. Except for, and this was a small alteration to the dress, a cutoff on her left shoulder exposing a rather interesting tattoo that ran down her arm. She also had anchor earrings.

Noble sailors. She watched the complaining Dwarves while answering out of the corner of her mouth.

“Do not point; it’s unseemly. Dwarven ships toss and turn, but their cargo is meant to be metal and goods, not people. Warships will crack before that one so much as groans.”

However, it seemed like the Dwarves were still not happy with their voyage, and so they were disembarking fast. From the chaos came order, with astonishing speed to the Humans. It only took a few minutes before an entire column of Dwarves was marching down the ramps.

And oh, but they were a sight.

Dwarves! Taller than you thought, some as tall as five-foot-five, others shorter, but squatter, tougher than most Humans. And, yes—they had beards.

Some had chosen to shave, but it turned out the first Dwarf complaining about the ride had been female. She was wiping salt out of her beard as she began strapping armor and a pack onto her shoulders.

Armor, yes. And what were probably enchanted packs of holding. The Dwarves—and surely they hailed from Deríthal-Vel, the one home of Dwarves—tended towards heavy armor. Chainmail at the lightest, and many had plate.

Not all; some just wore work-clothes, but they had come prepared for some trouble. There were even ones with magical items, students of magic. [Runecrafters].

“‘Tis a veritable army of Dwarves. Why now?”

One watcher wondered aloud, and the people of First Landing eyed what had to be at least two thousand Dwarves coming off one of their principle trade ships. Well, it was a sight to gossip about, and it was only two thousand.

More might be alarming, and well the Dwarves knew that. So one of the [Stoneguard] assigned to this trip was quietly checking in for the leader of the expedition.

“…Looks like the other ships made it. Fifteen, all confirmed in their ports of origin. They’re heading back for the rest.”

“Tell them to wait for a break in the storms.”

The slightly-green expedition commander advised. There was no sign of the other Dwarves, obviously. They had indeed disembarked far to the south and west and even along the more rarely-used eastern ports. You could not see them, but they were there. That was Dwarf-tactics for you. They could be organized without needing line-of-sight.

Of course, the smart ones saw the ships as one unit, and so in both the north and south, various leaders sat up and took notice. But the Dwarves did not come into First Landing as raiders.

If anything, they put on a bit of a show as they marched through the streets. Not all might have armor, but all of them had steel-toed boots, and they marched in good order.

Hello! Look at all the Dwarves!

The beaming Wellfar [Lady] called out, and the Dwarves looked up and saw civilians, nobles, merchants, and more watching them pass.

Unlike the half-Elves, who sailed in silence and grace, and the Drowned Folk’s nightly gathering, the Dwarves glanced at each other, and the leader developed a twinkle in his eye. He called out down the line.

“Hoi there! Boys and girls of Deríthal, march in proper step! Let’s give the folk of First Landing a memory for the day, eh? This street’s full of good, enchanted stone. We’re not going to break anything. One, two, three, four—”

And then, to the delight of the Humans and onlookers, the Dwarves broke into song. They slowed down a fraction, and their boots came down as one.

Thum. Thum. Thum. The sound of metal and weight coming down as one was brisk and not solemn or the beat of war. The Dwarves divided up into two columns, male and female, and they came marching with tools on one shoulder, winking at the children.

Their voices rose as one, and they sang.

 

“We marched from Deríthal to where hammers call

On the anvil or ‘gainst our foes, swinging as we laugh

The tall folk only want one thing: Dwarven steel and craft!”

 

Half the contingent raised gleaming crossbows and axes, faces full of mirth. The male side of the Dwarven group winked at the awestruck children.

 

We’ll humor them with quartz and mithril spall

For I know not pyrite’s shine from Grasgil’s pall!

Still I’ll march and laugh for all my days

But when Grandfather calls I’ll march once more

And go back home to stone forevermore.

 

It was a marching song, one with a hundred verses. Right on cue, a chorus of female voices took up their part with a laugh. Their heads looked back at Graniteoath, and they might not see it again. So there was a note of farewell there, even sadness. But they had said their goodbyes; like the half-Elves, like the others, they had come for the opportunity.

And this was a song that their people had sung when leaving home for as long as anyone could remember.

 

My grandfather forged a shawl for me to wear

It was made of gems and sixteen span

Ne’er a uglier sight on sea nor land!

 

Laughter from their counterparts and people who knew this story. The female Dwarves sung on.

 

It would not break and it would not tear

I gave it to a traveller for them to bear.

Two centuries later I saw it one last time

A Human [Queen] wore it as a shawl

And I laughed all the way out her halls!

 

They marched through First Landing, singing their way through the Humans’ good graces. None of the ones disembarking had any time to go to a noble’s party; they had a schedule to keep.

A long way to go. It was an [Expedition Leader] who led the way, following one of the trade routes south. He intended to be one of the first to his destination, but how he wished for a magic door!

Well, time would tell what he got to see. And if the plan went off according to how everyone hoped, he’d be changing his class upwards.

Apparently, all that could be given to him was [Expedition Leader], but his success—and the others’—would allow for proper classes of governance like back home.

That was the promise, and Deríthal-Vel had their backs. Supplies, personnel, all within reason were theirs so long as they could turn a profit within two years. It wasn’t unreasonable to expect gold to begin coming in within three months, in which case they’d be ready to pay off their debts to home.

For the first time in an age, like half-Elves, the Dwarves were going to create a new city. But—and here was where they differed from the idealistic half-Elves—the Dwarves had adopted a far more concrete plan.

They already had a place waiting for them. And they knew it would work for their kind and be spacious and have everything they needed.

With a bit of cleaning to get the Goblin blood out of it. But the Humans had already cleared Dwarfhalls Rest, and that old mountain had forges—or should.

“From Dwarfhalls Rest will flow Dwarfsteel and more. There’s even that Adamantium vein those greedy Drakes in Salazsar found. Demas Metal, Adamantium, and a new frontier—we could pay off the loans in the first year.”

That was what kept their spirits high, and after they had done a few verses of song, the Dwarves adopted a faster pace and stopped stamping and singing for the Humans.

They could actually crack the cobblestones of poorer cities if they did that trick there, but there was nothing like a jolly singing Dwarf to smooth the way. They talked with good humor; silent marching was for Drakes.

The [Expedition Leader] refused to be drawn into hypotheticals about all the coin they’d make. He just scratched at his short beard and nodded to one of the [Stoneguard].

“Just make sure our first [Scouts] confirm there’s no Goblins there. Or monsters. Or undead. Once we get set up, we can begin seeing where the markets lie. Trade with Salazsar’ll be tricky—but less so if Reinhart builds her new route or that magic door lets us ship to the south. Worst comes to worst, we just send caravans past the Bloodfields.”

Yes, now was the time to think of trade. And more. Whether it was arms or material, the Dwarves had decided they had to come to Izril.

Not just for the opportunity. The [Expedition Leader] fell silent, and one of the [Veteran Stoneguard] glanced at him.

“Strange days lie behind us. I’ve only heard the hammers of Deríthal fall silent like that once before. And that was—”

“Hushen up that talk and put some lead in your boots.”

The [Expedition Leader] snapped back, glancing around. That was not a topic you wanted to jinx this project with. The [Veteran] fell silent, but her glare said that he should remember it too; they were both over eighty years old.

Dwarves were between Humans and half-Elves for longevity, which didn’t mean much. In practice—eighty years was a lot of time, no matter which species, if you were in the living world. So they were definitely among the oldest that would be joining the expedition, but both had held jobs in forging and fighting for a long time, and their expertise was invaluable.

They were also old enough to remember the other time Deríthal had gone silent. After a moment, the [Expedition Leader] grunted into his beard and motioned his best warrior over.

“Aye, that’s on the list of things to do, but keep it quiet. There’s no guarantee he’ll work for us or that he’s still at Esthelm. If we run into comrades like Dawil the [Axemaster], he’ll know more. Always good to know a Gold-ranker in the area. But not a word of it until Master Pelt agrees to join us in Dwarfhalls and it’s all settled.”

The female Dwarf nodded seriously.

“‘Course we know that. Not a word. But he won’t join. He was told never to lift a hammer in Dwarfhome again—”

“Ah, but it’s not Dwarfhome, is it?”

That was the reasoning, but whether or not one of the greatest [Smiths] to ever leave Deríthal-Vel agreed—well. They could but ask.

Either way, Dwarves would be coming to Izril in numbers not seen since they had left. And that had been when the Walled City of Shields was shattered and their last allies in the north fell. So long ago only a few would even know the events.

And yet…it was time. Even now, the Dwarves could all remember that day when Khelt had, apparently, saved the world.

When the dead had risen. The [Stoneguard] chewed on her beard, as most Dwarves did as a bad habit.

“Would that I’d seen some of what they said happened in other kingdoms with the Humans. I heard a ghost strode into Cenidau’s Frost Courts and nigh on melted the place with wrath. Put half the warriors down before it vanished.”

The [Expedition Leader], Afnild, had heard much the same, but he listened with the keen interest, even the obsessive fascination of someone who knew such tales might be real.

After all—ghosts had come to Deríthal-Vel too. Only a few, but they had shaken Dwarfhome. And gone away empty-handed. What they sought had been…not there.

Or sleeping? It was a thought that the [Expedition Leader] didn’t dare voice even with the leaders back home. The only person he’d consider talking to about it would be someone who knew. And that was part—a small part, but part—of the reason why he had come to Izril.

To speak to what might be three, five? Or only one Dwarf left who could even speculate, since you’d have an easier time grinding down diamonds back home. The only Dwarves who could get those answers, wake anything up or knew the truth, would be—

The [Hammer of a Hundred Metals], Master Pelt himself.

Or Taxus, who might well be dead, who no one had seen since he was cast out.

The only two Dwarves to ever be acclaimed as true smiths of Deríthal-Vel in the last seven hundred years.

So, the Dwarves put their burdens on their shoulders and marched forwards, looking for that promised mountain. They hummed and sang and waited, filling Izril once more with more species than there had been in a long, long time.

 

——

 

And so it went. Three species touched down on Izril within a day of each other. They were but the first, and their advent would captivate the peoples who already belonged to the continent. And a certain [Innkeeper] who knew all the stories and almost all the secrets.

A new land upon Izril meant the unexpected. It meant strife, but it also meant no one knew what would come of all the things unearthed. Not just there; the High Passes, the sea and lands had shaken. Everything was just…different.

[Cartographers] found their services in highest demand as they rewrote the world, from the land that people could see to the very currents and ocean’s bed itself. Adventurers looked uncertainly to untested grounds.

But it was the old classes who stirred themselves, and it was the first of them who heard that voice in their head, telling them who they were.

[Adventurers]. [Explorers]. They set forth by land and sea and air to explore, abandoning their homes for something truly new. In either world, Earth or this one—they had never thought this day would come. There were pockets and places that had seen so few people, but this was something different. And that was how the first maps were drawn.

First, they marked upon that map the first of Izril’s new cities: Nombernaught, the first trading port of the Drowned Folk in an age. The rest? It was waiting to be filled in.

A new land waited to be explored, filled with mysteries long lost, treasures unearthed, and the rest of Izril awoke as dungeons and old buried secrets were uncovered. Look up and seek the secrets in the sky. Look down and search for the Kingdom of Gnolls.

Look to the broken gateways, the Skills being recovered, and the lands even further still. And smile, for this was the promise of a new era:

Adventure awaits.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Notes: I’m a bit tired. Which makes me think this Volume 8 month-long break could have been longer. However, I have my week off coming up and I’ll use that and this update to finish The Last Tide Pt. 2.

This is, as Patrons may notice, my teaser for Volume 9 that I wrote early with about 5k added on with Dwarves and half-Elves respectively. It’s shorter…and honestly, if it wasn’t because I’m working on another project, I would not in good conscience post this.

So odd. In good conscience I can’t post 15,000 words. Yes, I heard myself. There was a time I could barely do 8,000. But I think it’s about form—I write a chapter knowing I have possibly 30,000 words so if I write like normal, a chapter half the length will feel incomplete. In some senses, the shorter chapter is harder because of the detail you need to cram into every paragraph.

Either way, though, it takes a lot of energy and I’ve noticed I ran out a bit even during this short beginning. I blame rewriting Volume 1; it’s mentally taxing to edit. I’ve put it at about 2-3 times more energy than writing for the same amount of words.

Also, I had a stealth chipmunk invade my house and I got little sleep in the two days it was running about before I found it and tossed it out. Between that and resuming physical therapy, I think I’m just below full strength. So, let’s see how about 5 days off improves me. Being a writer is about monitoring your writing condition…and probably health. Don’t push too hard, don’t take a decade to write a book. It’s not impossible to do either.

Anyways, that’s all from me. I will be back on the 28th with the secret chapter written for the comic which will take a while to produce especially since Rebecca Brewer will help edit it. But I’ll have one more Volume 9 chapter before the month ends and the side story poll! We’ll get to the other secret projects later.

Sigh. I need clones.

 

Ryoka, Erin, Lyonette, and Mrsha by jamcubi!

 

Chaos by Brack!

 

Pisces by Curry, commissioned by pop [#1 Pisces Simp] (and yes, that’s their name on Discord.)

 


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9.03

(What could this mean? Click here to learn about a free sweepstakes!)

 

 

 

 

It was time to get back to work. Vacations were never long enough, even, apparently, if you were dead. You just got more homework from ghosts.

In Erin’s case, she equated ‘work’ with stressful activities. The not-a-party had arguably been that, but dodging a bunch of [Strategists]’ pointed questions while staring at a chess board and a life-sized miniature of the Titan of Baleros?

That was work.

However, Erin was arguably the master of the blank stare, the uncomprehending ‘huh’, and the irreverent shrug. Ignorance was a weapon to be used like a club on Pisces-type characters. Erin didn’t think it would be hard to play some chess games, thank the [Strategists] for their help in the Meeting of Tribes war, and figure out the Niers situation later.

That was why she was so surprised when Mrsha took her aside with a big scowl and handed her a note. For multiple reasons, really.

Her poofy little Gnoll girl was sometimes a rascal, other times a mascot or, arguably, a helper, and when it mattered, she could be very sensitive and kind. Right now, Mrsha was extra-furry, most likely due to the fall creeping on—or a lack of combing her own fur.

…But was she bigger than Erin remembered? Yes, it felt like it. Mrsha had been a child you could carry around, hug, and even toss up. At…one point. Now? Erin felt like she might be more prone to hurting her back.

And when had Mrsha gotten so good at walking? In fact, she had put on that patterned kilt today and had, to Erin’s disbelief, clogs. That was to say, a laceless slip-on shoe made of leather. Generously adapted for Gnoll feet.

“Mrsha, what has gotten into you? Hold on—you want a word?”

Mrsha nodded emphatically and since Erin was already sitting, Mrsha joined her in her lap so Erin could read over her shoulder. She began writing, and Erin found herself reading in real-time.

“Good morning, Erin. I hope you are doing well today. I wanted to touch thrones with you vis-à-vis the [Strategist] situation. Before I get ahead of myself, I think breakfast was very good. Although I notice Lyonette has been cutting down on my syrup rations of late. I would like this rectified.”

“Wh…okay?”

Mrsha raised an eyebrow and scribbled harder.

Okay? Is that a yes or a no?

“Uh—yes?”

Instantly, Mrsha’s quill accelerated.

Then you won’t mind if you sign this affidavit that ‘I, Erin Solstice, agree to a 50% increase in syrup for Mrsha each day, this cannot be revoked ever’? Sign here, ______.

Erin stared at Mrsha. Then she delicately crossed out the proposed agreement.

“Nope. Nice try.”

“Rats.”

It struck the [Innkeeper] then, that, aside from the somewhat crinkled bit of parchment Mrsha was using and the rapid skritch-skritch of her quill, Erin was talking to Mrsha.

“Mrsha! You write so fast!”

The Gnoll girl sniffed in a Pisces-approximation.

“I leveled up! Everyone leveled from the Meeting of Tribes! I. Am. A. [Scribbler]!”

She slapped her chest proudly and then added another note.

“I write fast now. Also, I think I deserve a special cake for my new class.”

It turned out Mrsha had gained that class from her friendship with Satar Silverfang more than the actual battle, but her statement went for all the people who had been there. Erin realized she had more catching up to do.

“I’m so glad you can write, Mrsha! C’mere, you! Now we can talk, and you can tell me everything—”

She cuddled Mrsha until the girl squirmed out of her grip.

“I have to go to my dignified house-visit with Visma. Gire is coming too. We are having tea and discussing scandals. Let me go, [Ruffian]!”

Okay, so there was a bit of adultness to her writing-voice, and she had a lot of Lyonette-ism. Yet Mrsha had a message for Erin today.

“Erin, you should be nice to the [Strategists]. You bullied them all yesterday, and that was bad. We should not be mean to other people. Like rats. Or cute Doombearers.”

“Wh—I didn’t bully them per se!”

Mrsha gave Erin a long look and didn’t even bother writing a reply—she just slapped one of the speaking stones, and a pre-programmed voice spoke.

“Yeah, right.”

That was, apparently, one of the sound bites that Mrsha thought she would be using on a day-to-day basis. Which was fair, because it was Mrsha. The girl pointed at the chess tables.

“You beat them in chess all night then fed them a Faerie Flower drink. You are a meanie. Be sad about yourself. I have to go now. Take care. Think about what I said, especially the cake.”

And then she left. Erin sat there, speechless, as Lyonette took Mrsha into the city on her play-date. Mrsha the Morally Upstanding was lecturing her on bullying and being nice to people?

What a way to start the day. However, Mrsha then decided to come back for a second; Lyonette was having the Thronebearers check for danger, and that was apparently a five-minute process.

Things changed. The girl grumped for a moment, and Erin leaned over.

“I’ll think about it, Mrsha. But you know I’m trying not to let on the you-know-what’s about Earth and stuff? The Titan’s like—the Titan. And even if most people know…”

She was keeping her voice down, because while the inn was still banning visitors in the mornings, there were people who didn’t know everything. Like Ishkr and Liska, the Gnolls—who probably heard a lot from Kevin and the others back when they’d been here. Or the Antinium, some of whom were interviewing for a job! Who probably didn’t care, and Ryoka had told Klbkch and Xrn, the most important two. Or—the Goblins like Ulvama and Gothica. Who—

The point was that the [Strategists] and Niers knowing was dangerous. As bad as Chaldion. Erin said as much to Mrsha, and the Gnoll girl nodded understandingly.

“You make a lot of saline points, Erin.”

“Um, I think you meant ‘salient’.”

Mrsha glared and crossed out that word. She looked around the inn, took a breath, and then gazed at Erin seriously.

Niers might know about everything.

Erin didn’t have a glass of water to choke on, so she settled for her own saliva. Mrsha wrote hurriedly.

Even if he didn’t! You should be nice to the [Strategists] even if they don’t know.

“Wh—why?”

Mrsha stared at Erin. Then the [Innkeeper] saw Lyonette sneaking glances at her as she waited at the door. A Goblin with a guitar poked his head out of the kitchen where he was gathering breakfast, and a Bird peered at Erin down the stairs then jerked back. The [Innkeeper] realized she might have been set up.

And guess who’d lost the game of cards and had to break the news? Mrsha the Bad Card Player wrote a note and slid it over the table. Everyone knew Erin could bluff and evade even Grimalkin, and obfuscation worked. It did. However, there was a point to telling someone the truth, and it was this:

“They might find out eventually. Niers is really scary. He also has lots of armies. It would be nice not to get shot or sieged or eaten by monsters.”

Erin’s mouth opened, and Mrsha slipped out of her seat. She pointedly plucked at her white fur and then moved her paw in a circle around the inn.

Just saying.

Then she left. Erin stared at Mrsha’s back and called out as Numbtongue ducked back into the kitchen and Bird pretended he didn’t exist.

I see you doing this! I know! Don’t you think I know? I was dead! I…”

She caught herself as Lyonette led Mrsha out the door, telling her what a wonderful job she’d done. Calanfer’s [Princesses] did approve of a delicate touch and occasional hammer to the fingers, conversationally speaking.

Erin pushed her chair back from the table.

“I’ve been thinking about it. Really, I have. It’s just scary.”

Numbtongue decided to pull in with Bird as the second wave, just as planned. They flanked Erin at the table, and Numbtongue sat down with a huge slice of pizza.

“What’s harder? Telling people and making allies or getting shot? What is so hard?”

He looked challengingly at Erin as she blew out her cheeks. She inhaled, exhaled, sighed, and glanced at the door where she was sure the [Strategists] would soon be coming in. Time to get back to work indeed. And yes, they were right. Yes, she wanted to do it. She had promised.

Even so, she fixed the slightly grinning Hobgoblin with a stare that made his teeth click as he took a bite of pizza. And she revealed she had been thinking of the issue already.

“Time paradoxes.”

Bird scratched at his antennae. He stood back up, patted Numbtongue and Erin on the shoulders, and nodded.

“That is difficult. I withdraw my objections. Goodbye.”

Numbtongue looked at Erin with his mouth open slightly. Kevin raised his head from a table and stared at Erin over breakfast.

Wht trr fkk. We’re going there?”

He swallowed hard. Erin nodded.

“Oh yeah. We’re already in one.”

The [Mechanic] rubbed at his hair. He pinched himself and looked around.

“Dude. You’d think we’d notice.”

 

——

 

Erin wasn’t a dummy. She might have been foolish, idiotic, and stupid at times, but she could remember.

And what she remembered was the future. Or at least—a few words from it. Which made her wonder about the consequences of her actions.

As she’d laid it out, it was simple, and she took Kevin and Numbtongue into the secret Earther rooms in her inn to show them.

The rooms had gone sort of unused during her death since the original group from Magnolia’s place didn’t need them as a repository of knowledge anymore. Numbtongue practiced music there alone, but Erin had repurposed one of the blackboards.

“I have it on good authority that it’s not a big time problem or we’d all be dead or breathing out our fingernails or something. I think.”

“Did you meet yourself?”

“Um…no. And I can’t tell you what happened because it’s probably really super-dangerous and—”

“That’s cool. I don’t really want more secrets or anyone else important breathing down my neck.”

“Me either.”

Kevin and Numbtongue fist-bumped, and Erin realized the two most laid-back members of the inn were the right call to introduce time paradoxes to. She took a breath.

“Okay. Here’s the thing. I might know about my future. Slightly! I did something, and I think I know what I did.”

Goblinfriend of Izril. Kevin nodded.

“Because it was obvious? Or the consequences came back, Terminator-style?”

“What’s that?”

Numbtongue poked Kevin. The young man grinned.

“Awesome movie. Movies. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Ooh. Nice.”

Guys.

Erin waved her hands and showed them her project. She had ‘I become GF’ written on the chalkboard on one side and ‘I am Here’ on the other. Then she’d drawn a line and added a bunch of notes.

“Here’s the big event. It’s in the future, but not so far that I’m not too old.”

Or how else would he recognize her? Erin had written up to ten years, tops. She pointed to the end result.

“I didn’t learn…exactly what did it, and I think it was a lot of things that made me become this. So the question is—should I do it again? Because, uh, it sounded like not everything went well last time.”

“Oh. Man, that’s the time traveller’s paradox. So you’re saying that what you did has huge consequences. Like you killed a kingdom?”

Kevin looked worried, but Erin waved her hands.

“No, no! Actually—I don’t think I did much wrong.”

“Wait, what?”

Unlike most time-traveller stories, Erin didn’t actually think Nereshal’s warning applied to her. It applied to, well, him. And the actions of one of the most powerful kingdoms in the world.

Hence her dilemma. Erin pointed at the board.

“I didn’t hear anything that I’d done wrong. I mean—I’m sure a lot of people don’t like what I did, but he—er—the person didn’t tell me I made huge mistakes. And I was alive. So why not do what I did, right?”

Kevin pointed at Erin.

“But you don’t know what you did.”

Numbtongue was rubbing his forehead. His brain already hurt, but Pyrite and Reiss were arguing about the implications. Erin double-pointed at Kevin with finger guns.

“Aha! But I can guess. Because what other-Erin did was something I’d probably do, right? And I actually know what might have gotten me that nickname. Er…”

The Goblinfriend of Izril. Logically, it was something Erin would think of. So she should be able to think of it. Yet Kevin pointed out another problem.

“But you don’t want to do the same thing. You want to…what, warn something? Avert something?”

“Yeah, I can do that. In fact, I’m told I’ll get my chance. However, Kevin. Here’s the thing—since I have that warning, the future will change anyways.”

So there’s no point and this is stupid!

Numbtongue threw up his hands. He went to erase everything, yet Erin stopped him.

“Not quite. If I know the future is uncertain after I change time, I know one thing for sure: what I did worked. And if what I did worked…and if the future is changed, I don’t need to worry about this ever again.”

That’s where she’d been headed after her third straight night of migraines worrying about this. Kevin and Numbtongue exchanged a look.

“…So what’s your point?”

Erin took a breath. She tapped the chalkboard and then drew a second line from her future as the Goblinfriend of Izril to now. Only—this time, she made a little line-break in the center.

“My point is that if I know what I did worked—I’ll do it twice as fast. I’ll do it now. And I’ll think about what I would have done and be where I was faster than the alternate me. Because I was told my future, I’ll figure out what I did faster.

That was how you used a time paradox, right? Erin looked from Kevin to Numbtongue. The young man gave her the gesture of his mind exploding with accompanying sound effects. Numbtongue just stared at the chalkboard.

“You could have just done that without making my head hurt.”

Erin sighed.

“Yeah, try living with that, Numbtongue. I guess…you were right. Mrsha was right.”

He looked up and blinked at her. How did this relate to Mrsha…? Erin wheeled over to the chalkboard and dusted off the formula of confusion. She turned to Kevin and Numbtongue before biting her lip.

“There are…things I don’t want to think about. Or, y’know, do. I made a lot of promises, but some things—aren’t just hard, but listen, guys. Maybe I’m wrong. I mean—I’m just an [Innkeeper]. I don’t want to do something, um, like what Ryoka says she does. Rock the boat. But time travel and allies. So—what do you think?”

Surely if Ryoka Griffin were here, she’d understand Erin’s reluctance to make mistakes. In fact, Erin felt a lot more sympathy for Ryoka’s point of view.

Kevin and Numbtongue exchanged a long glance that Erin didn’t miss. The [Bard] frowned at Erin.

“You just said all that about time travel. Now you don’t want to do…what?”

She raised her hands defensively.

“Listen, Numbtongue. I don’t appreciate the attitude. What I’ve got is big stuff. Like that quest? I don’t want to make more trouble, especially now! After I just un-deaded myself! It’s like—let sleeping lions lie, you know? Let old potatoes…stay in the ground? There’s some kind of phrase, I’m sure!”

They had left the Earther rooms by now and were headed across the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Bird poked his head up from gathering blue fruits to help Ishkr.

“Do you mean…‘let buried Crelers lie’? I have heard this expression before.”

Numbtongue grunted.

“Stupid idea.”

“That’s not what I—Kevin, back me up!”

He shook his head, grinning. Bird walked over, concerned.

“Where are the Crelers, Erin? Why would you let them stay buried? Are there Adult Crelers?”

They rolled back into the common room of the inn, and Bird’s comment made a few figures tense at their table.

“What was that, Bird? Did you just say Adult Crelers?

Yvlon cautiously put down her fork. Ceria sat up sharply, and Ksmvr reached for his swords as Pisces groaned. Erin waved her hands, but Bird answered calmly.

“Erin is letting Crelers stay buried. We are attempting to dissuade her from doing so. Even Jexishe the Friendly Creler should not be buried.”

Pisces’ lips moved soundlessly as he blinked at Bird. The worst part was that he wasn’t even lying yet. Erin threw up her hands.

There are no Crelers! I’m just debating doing something. It might mean people get hurt and—and it’d be my fault! Plus, I don’t know if it’s a problem. We’ve had so much stuff happen…”

Numbtongue poked Erin in the side. She swatted at his finger. But then Bird poked her on the other side. The Goblin-gesture was even copied by Kevin. The Horns looked at each other, and all of them except for Yvlon got up and began poking Erin.

Fine. I get it. Stop it! I’ll bite you!

Red-faced and trying not to laugh, Erin glared around the table. She sighed. Work.

Here was the thing. She didn’t know what other-Erin had done. And the less Erin thought about her alternate-universe selves the better. But there was…well, just as Erin had said, knowing she needed to move meant that there were intelligent conclusions she could come to.

Things to do. And while Erin knew she wasn’t able to do a lot, there was a bit she could logic out. So—reluctantly—she asked for a favor.

“Kevin? I know you have, like, a lot of [Message] scrolls.”

“We can get Bezale to do one for you, Erin. Or me and Pisces can send a public one, just not private.”

Ceria assured Erin, but the [Innkeeper] shook her head. Kevin frowned.

“Yeah, I get a lot of contacts. Why?”

“Do you have…a speaking stone for, um, powerful nations?”

The owner of Solar Cycles scratched at his chin.

“Lots. Khelt, Ailendamus, two Great Companies, uh, Rhir has a funny one, and I’ve forgotten all their passwords—”

“All those nations?”

Pisces’ eyes bulged, but Kevin shook his head.

“Most are just flunkies. I only speak to a few. Like—Fetohep?”

He looked at Erin, and the young woman bit her lip.

“Not yet. W-well, I guess I should [Message] him too. But first? Um. Can you get me one to Nerrhavia’s Fallen?”

Yvlon Byres’ head slowly turned, and she put a hand to her side as Kevin exchanged a glance with Numbtongue. The Goblin began gobbling his pizza, then went to poke Ulvama and Gothica and everyone else to watch more Erin madness.

 

——

 

My Fondest Friend Yvlon Byres…

That was how Yisame’s first missive to Yvlon had begun, incidentally. The first of six since Yvlon had returned to Izril. So that was one every two days.

They were largely conversational, if a bit too personal with what Yvlon thought might be state secrets. She had written a reply to each one and gotten another letter—which was at least five pages long, hand-delivered by a City Runner, and vouchsafed as top-security in the Mage’s Guild by the by—within a day, each time.

That had nothing to do with Erin Solstice, of course. Not at all, and Yvlon decided not to mention this association. For now.

Erin’s conversation with the Nerrhavian representative went about as well as could be expected. She was wheeling back and forth with one hand, speaking into the stone in a too-loud voice.

Solstice. No, not the [Knight] order. What [Knight] order? I’m calling from The Wandering Inn—I know this is Kevin’s stone. Kevin, from Solar Cycles. He lives in my inn. Well, I don’t know how to get in contact with—I have an important message for someone in Nerrhavia, and you want to hear it! Hello?”

“Erin, maybe you should, uh, mention your inn posted the quest?”

Erin glanced up as Ceria whispered to her.

“That’s right. I posted a big <Mythical Quest> the other day! That’s me. From the inn. And I’ve got, um, Gold-rank adventurers in my inn. So—hello?”

Yvlon watched as, possibly for the first time in the modern era, someone was put onto hold. Then hung up on. The [Silversteel Armsmistress] bit her lip as Erin cursed and tried to call back, then Kevin.

“Oh, silver and steel.”

“Yv?”

Ceria turned as Yvlon stomped out of the inn. It only took her twenty minutes at a jog to get down to Liscor, to her destination, and back up to the inn. She even beat the speaking stone that Erin had been glaring at suddenly lighting up.

“Hey! Listen, Chaldion of Pallass is a guest at my inn, and I know that’s not much, but—oh. The [Chancellor of Foreign Affairs]? Um. H-hi. Why are you…that’s me.”

Yvlon pretended to blend in with the back of the room, but she didn’t miss the sardonic look her team threw her way. Well, Pisces and Ceria. Ksmvr just looked intrigued by all this.

The conversation had been elevated fast, and no less than a [Chancellor] from the Court of Silk was speaking to Erin. With a certain Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen listening in the back.

On a hunch, and not just because the [Queen] had ordered it. Erin took a breath.

She was really not going to enjoy this. She was certain, positive, that another Erin would not have done this. Not now. Oh, the other Erin might have had the thought in the back of her head—but this one?

There were clues Erin had remembered. Not just from the quests. Not just from her knowledge of [Witches] or the Gnomes’ will. There were clues in the levels she’d gained—and not. So she took a few breaths in the [Chancellor]’s ear.

“Sorry—sorry. It’s just—I’d like to ask a big question. Um. You know Nerrhavia? Nerrhavia as in…the Immortal Tyrant? The person who sorta did horrible things until she was killed?”

You mean, the basis for Chandrar’s largest empire, whose name was so hated her enemies formed a nation after her death? Yvlon could just imagine the response. Erin turned red.

“Well I—okay. So, uh…Nerrhavia’s buried under your kingdom, right? Like, her actual bones?”

Yvlon knew that was a fact. Under the royal palace itself, in fact, Tyrant’s Rest. ‘Step on the grave of tyrants’ wasn’t just an expression in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Erin was nodding.

“Right. I know it’s a Named-rank dungeon. Or used to be, because there are traps and stuff. But you’ve got her bones, and your capital was founded on top. Tyrant’s Rest actually has eighteen levels underneath the ‘basement’ that have the palace and your secret v—no, nevermind! What? You must have misheard me!”

She was sweating. So was whomever was on the other line, probably. Yvlon was listening worriedly, her metal hands clenched together. Next to her, Pisces and Ceria were trying not to suffocate laughing.

“Uh huh. Uh huh. Nooooo. That was just a guess—no one told me. Nope.”

Erin was looking around for her lifeline, and no one was stepping in. By now, the regulars had gathered, and Chaldion would be spitting fire that he had missed this. But hey—his colorful range of expressions was more than made up for by Venaz’s slack jaw and Wil silently screaming with Merrik and Peki.

Now they got to it. Erin glanced around and exhaled. She went for it in one go.

“I’m just calling because, uh, what if, hypothetically speaking here, or, um, not hypothetically—Nerrhavia wasn’t entirely dead?”

Instantly, the stone broke into shouting so loud everyone could hear it. Erin held the stone away from her face and shouted back.

I’m not saying I kn—no, I’m not sugg—I didn’t bring her back! Not that I’d know if she was back or—”

The mad girl. The audacity. An undead rat on a window ledge was having trouble keeping the telepathic link despite the mastery of one of the greatest [Necromancers] to ever exist—mostly because of the screaming voice on its end.

That would be bad enough, oh yes. Even the suggestion. Even the warning. But Erin Solstice wasn’t done. She licked her lips and spoke as whomever was on the other side was elbowed out of the way by a Fox [Sage].

“Listen to me. I don’t know. I really don’t. I have no proof that I could show you…but let’s just say the worst came to pass. You don’t want it. I don’t want it. She sounded like a horrible person, and she’d have all the levels and power she had in life. Worst-case scenario.”

In the worst case, they would be ready. They would make a war on the Immortal Tyrant that would make the Blighted Kingdom’s battle against Demons look like a playground spat. It would unite Chandrar, possibly the world.

And you know, the thing about being even two hundred years old, a Necromancer, say, who’d experienced that happening to him on a smaller scale, was that you knew that might happen.

So if Nerrhavia were to hypothetically still be there, it behooved anyone with sense not to recreate her body and disguise her. And learn to control her first. And do something about the attitude and actually hurtful insults.

Perhaps the [Innkeeper] realized this too, because she went for the kill in a way that the Immortal Tyrant would have respected. If she were still ‘alive’, of course. Erin Solstice looked up and met Yvlon’s eyes for a second, purely by chance. Her eyes flickered with a knowledge that made Yvlon’s skin crawl with excitement and dread as she spoke.

“I have something to tell you. Nerrhavia might have the contracts. She might have her levels or—I dunno what. She wasn’t a [Mage] or a [Warrior], and apparently she didn’t even get dressed by herself. Who does that? But if she ever came back, her power isn’t just in her class. You built a palace on her tomb and reclaimed her city after the war. But I think you might know—her real palace isn’t…on Chandrar. Well, it is, but it isn’t. And it’s still around. No one ever managed to get back to it. So, um. You might wanna get on it. Just in case.”

Erin Solstice listened to the quiet, intense voice on the other end of the stone.

“There’re ways to get to it. Do you have a piece of paper and a quill? You’re going to need armies. I can tell you all I know. But…would you like me to post a quest?”

 

——

 

“That wretched [Innkeeper]. What has she done now?”

There was something wrong with the noble lady’s head, but the Drake was having tea with a cortège of her closest confidants. She jerked a bit, glancing towards the window where the [Butler] had brought in the news.

“Perhaps we should have returned anon to the inn, Wall Lady Seele?”

Another Gnoll noble-woman ventured, who had married into the Walled Family in the way of things. Of course, it had been due to the pressures of the Hectvallian war.

Indeed, Wall Lady Seele…of Liscor…was currently gossiping about the affairs of the city. And she pish-poshed the suggestion.

“We have plenty of time, Egrhe. Business does not wait. We must buy, um, fifteen—thousand—pounds of Dwarfsteel. And sell it in Pallass for twice as much!”

This was met by applause from the small tea circle. One of the other Drake noblewomen looked like she was having trouble with the concept, but Egrhe applauded.

“And we’ll make a fortune. Let’s put the money in today! We shall be three times as rich, but we’ll have to beat the greedy [Merchants]. And Chaldion!”

There were some serious nods from around the table. At last, the newcomer had to raise her claw.

“Er…noblewomen. How are we buying the Dwarfsteel?”

“From…abroad. From the Dwarves.”

Seele frowned at this logistical question. The newcomer hesitated. She turned her head delicately.

“Er—and how are we transporting fifteen thousand pounds of Dwarfsteel?

“By bags of holding, obviously!”

“But no bag of holding could do that much. How much is transport and security, and if we brought that much to Pallass, no [Smith] could work it except maybe Maughin. Are we talking about pre-made goods? We’ll crash the market, and we need to store it and—”

At this point, Lady Seele’s offended huffing turned into a claw poking the hand holding Lady Egrhe in the side. Visma whispered to Mrsha.

“Gire’s not good at this, Mrsha.”

Both turned and stared up at Gire as the tea-party of Liscor’s nobility halted for a second. Visma’s doll collection was being shared among six girls of various ages. Mostly around Visma’s age.

Plus Gire.

The giant [Paragon] was larger than all six other girls combined, and Visma’s mother kept staring every time she left snacks out. She was, indeed, bad at playing with dolls.

She kept adding logic in. Visma made Seele snap open a little fan dramatically.

Lady Eisna, we have the matter well in hand! We will be rich! Do not concern yourself with [Merchant] affairs.”

“I’m so sorry, Lady Seele.”

Gire muttered as Mrsha elbowed her. She manipulated her doll quite well. Visma glanced at the ‘door’ in her little courtroom she’d made out of pillows and bits of painted wood. The other girls stared too.

Seele was not a nice Wall Lady. She was rich and had contributed largely to the Hectvallian war, but she had a dark past. A sordid love affair with ten of the other dolls who made up the doll-society the other girls had.

And…Mrsha glanced towards the door as someone knocked three times. The other ladies fell silent, and Seele rose to her feet.

“Who dares to disturb our most noble, fancy party? We are the only ladies of Liscor!”

The door swung open, and a familiar doll-person appeared. Seele gasped.

“You?”

The last doll was worn and a bit ragged, despite the mostly contained environment she had been in for months. The frozen temperature had not helped, and yet…the most precious doll, the little Gnoll, might not have had Seele’s dress, and she was frayed from much love over the years.

But Lady Herna Vissi of Liscor was back. Seele fell back against the cushions, pale-faced.

“You! I thought you were—”

Dead?

The other ladies backed against the walls as the other girls in Visma’s friend-circle watched. Visma put on the best sessions, and she had promised them the event of the year.

Herna stalked into the room as Visma brought her forwards. Gire watched, glancing at Mrsha’s enraptured expression as she nibbled nervously on a snack.

Gire…didn’t get it. She had expected gossip like talking about cute boys or something city-Drakes and Gnolls would do. She did not expect the dagger in Herna’s hand as she pointed at Seele.

“That’s right, Seele. You had me shot with crossbows and buried in the snow. But guess what?”

You lived?

Seele’s voice was trembling. The girls turned to Herna, and the Gnoll noblewoman laughed.

“I didn’t. I died…and I became undead. Now you will join me!

Then she rushed forwards and began stabbing Seele in the heart. Visma was careful not to damage her dolls too badly, but she inserted the dagger in Seele’s heart and put Herna on the seat, facing the other dolls.

“Now, I believe it’s my turn to bring order to Liscor. What’s this about a war? And step carefully, ladies. Or you might be next.”

“You’ll never get away with this, Herna! You monster! Die!”

Another Drake girl, Yesne, broke in excitedly at this point. Visma scowled and whispered.

“Yesne! That’s not supposed to happen!”

“Lady Meera would never let undead live. Her father fought the Necromancer! Die!”

She grabbed the sharp little sewing needle, and Visma pulled her doll away.

“No, you can’t hurt her! She’s too strong!”

“Yes, I can!”

Instantly, the owners of the dolls began arguing over what should happen next as Visma protected her doll from Yesne, who jabbed angrily. Mrsha, who had borrowed one of Visma’s dolls and was debating getting one of her own, took Visma’s side.

Gire, quite overwhelmed, tried to stop the aggressive poking with two paws.

“Hey, maybe someone should call the Watch instead?”

All of the other girls gave her such a look that Gire wavered. However, then, caught up in the moment, Yesne lunged. Visma protected the head of Herna—and the sewing needle jabbed her hard in the center of her clawed hand.

Mother!

Visma wailed and ran as Yesne hid behind the others. She was bleeding from her claw! The needle was in fairly deep, and Mrsha and Gire tried to calm Visma down.

“It’s okay, Visma! It’s not in deep—just let me pull it out—”

Gire had the bloody needle as Visma’s mother rushed in and saw it.

Visma! Did you take one of my sewing needles? What is this?”

The Drake girl sniffed as the appalled mother stared at the needle and took it away.

“It’s my dagger! No, give it back!”

Visma was in tears as Yesne apologized. Visma’s mother Selena, who was normally painting, scolded Visma as the girl held her claw up, showing her the wound.

“Why were you even playing with this? Your doll is murdering Seele? With a knife? Because she’s undead?

Selena gave Gire a look that said that this was normal…and disturbed her as much as the [Paragon]. Which went to show that adults had poor memories of when they were children.

“Visma, I’m sorry.

Yesne was in tears, and Mrsha patted her on the back with the others as she went to apologize. Visma sniffed.

“I forgive you, Yesne—but not Meera! She’s got to be put to death!”

The other children agreed. They looked to Gire, and the [Paragon] thought she had a handle on this situation now. She put herself into character and nodded, lifting her doll up. She cast one claw down.

“I, Lady Eisna, also move for summary execution. Meera will be, uh, strangled with silken cord at dawn.”

She felt like that was fairly reasonable; none of the children wanted to cut off their dolls’ heads even for the best roleplay. But Visma, Yesne, and Mrsha all looked up at Gire and then whispered amongst each other before shaking their heads.

“That’s so evil. Maybe Herna would forgive Meera after all, Visma.”

“I think so. Lady Eisna is too cruel.”

Too…? But she was trying to…Herna had just stabbed Seele to death! Gire looked at Mrsha, and the little girl sighed. Gire was way too into this. She made things too real.

Before they continued the tea party, though, Visma felt at her claw.

Mother! I need a healing potion! I’m hurt!”

There were no bandages nor anything else needed in a regular household. Just a healing potion. However, Visma’s mother hesitated.

“Oh—Visma. It’s just a little poke in your scales.”

Mommy!

Visma looked outraged, but Selena just sighed.

“Healing potions are twice as expensive as they were a month ago, Visma, and the [Alchemist] told me they might get more costly. No is no. Maybe you’ll learn not to play with needles.”

“Mrsha, lend me your healing potion!”

The Gnoll girl obliged Visma with a drop in secret, but Gire’s ears prickled a bit. Potions were getting more expensive in Liscor? She wondered if the fall of the Plain’s Eye tribe and damage to the other tribes had contributed to that. They didn’t have many [Alchemists], but their people were both [Traders] and supplied herbs.

Then again, to Gire’s knowledge, healing potions were easy to manufacture. But perhaps it was also the demand of adventurers or the new businesses like Liscor Hunted. Or the army gobbling up supplies. And yes, the tea party went back to discussing Liscorian politics and voting in their new member. For Liscor was changing even in the world of dollhouses.

“You want to admit an Antinium and a Goblin into our circle? Are you mad?”

One of the girls parroted one of her dolls. Mrsha wrote furiously, and Visma read out loud.

“They’re both noblewomen! They’ll be—ooh! A female Prognugator who’s Xrn’s distantly-related half-cousin’s sister? And a Goblin Lady?”

“I’m not playing with Goblins!”

A Gnoll girl broke character and folded her arms. Mrsha glared. She was going to buy a Goblin doll—well, she’d have to get it custom-made—and an Antinium one too!

“Bina…”

Visma looked at the Gnoll girl, but the black-furred girl pointed at Mrsha.

“You can’t have a Goblin! Even if you have one in your inn—they’re bad!”

Mrsha bridled, but Visma had an idea.

“Bina, Bina! What if you got a Human doll? And then Mrsha could get her dolls? We’ll let more people in.”

The girls thought about this. One of them, who was fiddling with her worn Drake doll, raised a timid claw.

“C-could I get a new doll too? My birthday is coming up. But I don’t want a Human or Goblin or Antinium. I want…a Garuda.

“Do they even sell Garuda dolls in Liscor?”

Visma was agog with the notion. Surely not! But the girl whispered confidentially to the others.

“They sell them in Pallass. I’ve got a reservation for tomorrow, and I’m going to get one made with real feathers! There’s one of Bevussa.”

“Oh, get one, get one! And I’ll get a Dullahan!”

“No fair! I want one!”

Visma stamped her foot and clapped her claws together loudly. She rallied the group as they turned to her.

“We’ll share! But we need to figure out what their names will be, and what their stories are—and who’s marrying whom! We need more dolls! Who has more?”

“Einne, the daughter of the Carpenter’s Guildmaster, has two dozen.”

“I hate Einne.”

“Let’s invite her. Come on, Yesne. We should get a Garuda, a Dullahan—and they can be the nobles from Pallass. Then they’ll come here, and the Goblin, um…falls in love with a Pallassian [General]!

Everyone oohed at this stroke of brilliance. Another Visma classic. Gire rubbed at her head. She felt—instinctively—that maybe it was time to find Ekhtouch again. Mrsha was a great and wonderful friend. But…Gire decided first she’d finally talk to them and tell them to get a price count in other cities and tribes for healing potions. Then they needed to gather, but they should be establishing ties with other tribes, so she’d send a [Message] to Feshi first…

It wasn’t fun, but it beat playing with damn dolls.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice had a hammer, a nail, and a sheet of parchment.

Tekshia Shivertail had a spear.

“Stay away from my guild.”

It was being rebuilt, and Antinium were already working on the foundation—more advanced [Builders] under Hexel himself would finish once a framework was up. That was one of the newer systems in Liscor that allowed work for both groups.

“Aw, come on, Tekshia. I’ll just—I’m not gonna break it twice, and if I do, what’s left to break? Okay—okay! Don’t stab me. How about…the Watch House?”

“How about your inn?”

Erin ignored that. But she never made it to the Watch House, Liscor’s City Hall, or even the Mage’s Guild. A wall of [Guardsmen] blocked her, and a desperate [Mage] threw up a [Forcewall].

“You guys! Aw, man. Do I have to do my inn? I really don’t want to knock down my own walls.”

Even she was apprehensive as she wheeled back to her inn. Lyonette hesitated.

“Erin—if you think it’ll do any damage—don’t post that quest.”

“Fine, fine. I think I can stop it. Geeze, you make one guild fall down and everyone thinks you’ll do it again.”

A crowd followed Erin up the hill. She hadn’t said she was posting another <Quest>, but everyone could tell.

However, did they know what she’d said to Nerrhavia’s Fallen? No. Only the people in the inn knew, and while most were reporting to their friends or allies, you could argue people were still in denial.

As in, they said things like ‘yes, she posted a <Mythical Quest>, but so what? Other [Innkeepers] can do that. She’s an important [Innkeeper], but that’s all.’

The irrefutable proof was when Erin Solstice got a gift from the Titan of Baleros. When you began to add up the events she was involved in, or the rumors about her. Indeed—in the courts of Nerrhavia’s Fallen and to Yisame herself, the question was rapidly becoming not ‘who is Erin Solstice and why do I care?’, but ‘how can I talk to Erin Solstice?’

For she had something they wanted.

Erin Solstice took a breath, put the piece of parchment up, and watched as Ishkr bailed out a window. He landed in the grass, and Apista crawled out after him.

“Oh, come on, guys—”

Aah! Wait! I must run! I do not want to fall to my death!

Bird panicked in the tower, and Erin blew out her cheeks. She raised the hammer and concentrated. Everyone flinched as the hammer came up, and Erin struck the nail.

Tep.

The sound was so small only the Gnolls heard it, and Erin bent the nail sideways. She tried to recorrect, blinking, and hit her thumb.

Argh! My thumb! Hey! What’s going on?”

Erin took a few more swings at the piece of paper and hammered the parchment into the wall a bit. Then she stared at the parchment. She tugged at it and it tore right off the nail. Erin poked at the ink and then looked up at her guests.

“…Uh oh.”

 

——

 

She didn’t post the quest. In fact, Erin was pretty sure she couldn’t post the quest. Which raised an interesting conundrum.

“What do you mean, you can’t post it?”

“I just can’t, Lyonette. It doesn’t feel like it’ll work. And you saw it. I can’t make it…click. Like, you know, I know all the requirements are there and it’ll work? Just like the <Basic Quests>. But this time, I feel like I could post it. It’s just not time yet.”

Lyonette looked helplessly at Kevin, and the young man scratched at his head.

“…The <Mythical Quest> is on cooldown. She probably can’t post one the day after the last one. That’s how things work in games.”

Oh. But Erin could post a <Basic Quest> every hour!”

Erin was nodding. She sat at the table as the other guests tried not to listen in too obviously.

“Yeah, but that’s <Basic Quest>. I never tried <Rare Quest>, but I bet it’s at least a day. And then there’s <Heroic Quest> and then <Mythical Quest>. So…if that’s the case, how long do I have to wait?”

She felt a sudden sinking sensation in her chest. Because she’d just had a thought.

I have a lot of quests I want to post. She didn’t know if it was wise to post them all at once, and she’d been worried about that. Now, it occurred to Erin that the problem might not be if it was wise to hand out too many secrets or goals—maybe she wouldn’t be able to post them at all.

“How long do you think it would take for the <Mythical Quest> to…recharge?”

Lyonette looked at Kevin, and he had no answers. At this point, Venaz lifted his head up from his notebook.

“Let’s confirm a few details, Miss Solstice. There’s a ranking order, and I have it as Basic-Rare-Heroic-Mythical; is that the highest? Are there deviations within these ranks? How do you know about this palace of the Immortal Tyrant to post a quest for it or did Nerrhavia grant you that ability?”

Erin Solstice’s shoulders hunched, and she turned her head slowly. She’d almost forgotten about them.

Wil Kallinad, Peki of Pomle, Merrik Stoneshield, and Venaz of Hammerad.

“Oh, hey, guys. I didn’t see you come in.”

“Miss Solstice. I hope we’re not disturbing you?”

Wil gave her his most polite smile and bow from his seat. Venaz just stared until Merrik elbowed him.

“Ah—good morning, Miss Solstice. I was hoping to have a rematch of chess and then get your take on historical events of the last year. From your perspective. About these quests? I would be happy to explore any nuances of the phenomenon. I am—that is, we are the Titan’s finest students.”

The Minotaur gave Erin his winning smile, and Erin stared at it.

“…Nah. I’m good. Why don’t we continue this discussion in, um, the garden, guys?”

She looked at Lyonette, and Venaz stood up instantly, distressed.

“Miss Solstice! We are accredited [Strategists] and students of the Titan! He instructed us to help you in any way possible.”

“Great. It’s just—you guys give me real Chaldion vibes. So, um. Thanks, but I’ll let you know.”

“Is that a compliment?”

Peki whispered to Merrik. He rolled his eyes.

“What do you think?”

“No…?”

Erin wanted to roll away, but Lyonette hissed in her ear.

“Erin, that’s Wil Kallinad of House Kallinad of Pheislant! Remember what we said this morning?”

The [Innkeeper] groaned. Before she could make a determination on whether or not she cut the [Strategists] into her learning about <Quests>, the door opened.

The bouncers at the door were still the Thronebearers, but they had been at least augmented by the two former Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, Normen and Alcaz. They were letting in guests and the general public, because Lyonette had decided it was time to start earning money.

There wasn’t the same…rush that Normen vaguely remembered. Oh, there were a lot of lookie-loos who wanted to see what Erin was doing, but they bought snacks and drinks. Which saved Ishkr since the staff wasn’t there, true.

It was actually amazing that the [Head Server] was covering all the tables with Liska and Lyonette’s occasional help plus a few Antinium trainees. Still, that was because the guests were simpler in their desires.

Lyonette was wavering between helping Ishkr and persuading Erin not to flee. The [Strategists] weren’t making it any better—Venaz had pulled over Niers’ chess board and the [Message] scroll.

“The Titan of Baleros is available to talk, Miss Solstice.”

“Mm…okay. But am I?”

The Players of Celum might not be performing, but that was a good floor show, watching Venaz’s reactions. Lyonette found herself serving a Human whom she had never met before.

“Hello! I’m sorry about the slight delay—we’ve just reopened. But I can get your order to you right away. Are you new to Liscor?”

“I just came through that magical door from Invrisil. On holiday. I—oh, interesting. I think I’ll have a ‘blue fruit’ to start with, please. Everyone said that was the unique drink to get. Because it’s poisonous.”

“We make sure it’s not here, sir. And to eat?”

The man looked blankly at the menu.

“Pizza, hamburgers, ice cream, oh, even cake and…”

Lyonette smiled as he ran down the list of new foods—and those weren’t even the complex ones! Yet the finger went down the list of fine foods as well, and he frowned.

“—I think I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Huh?”

Lyonette did a double-take and wondered if she was looking at…an Earther? Another one? But this man was in his forties, and he looked very comfortable in his [Trader]’s vest and attire. He leaned back and patted his stomach and decided, no, he wasn’t hungry.

“Maybe some of your ‘Fireflake Fries’, then. I’ve eaten most of the new foods at other restaurants.”

“Y-you have?”

The [Princess] gave the Human man an uncomprehending stare, and he offered her a cheery smile.

“There’s pizza on option in almost every restaurant. Some of the dishes aren’t on your menu—wonderful spread. But I was just at The Drunken Gnoll, which is one of the eateries.”

Lyonette realized the problem instantly. Imani cooked for Timbor. And she, since The Wandering Inn was closed, had developed a name for herself as the food provider in the much more accessible, safe inn.

Worse? All of Erin’s foods had long since been stolen. The man saw Lyonette’s expression and hastened to reassure her—or try to.

“I had to come to The Wandering Inn and see where all the foods started. The Players of Celum, the foods—it’s a fine establishment. Entertaining. Vintage. Classic.”

That last word sounded like the doom of establishments to Lyonette. She bit her lip, but then put on a big smile and got the food. And then the significant guest walked into the inn.

Venaz was trying to get Erin to play a game of chess in vain—she was giving him a smile about as genuine as his when someone interrupted them.

“Erin Solstice. Might I trouble you for some time?”

Erin glanced up and then blinked.

“Oh! Kiish!

And there she was. [Strategist] Kiish of Desonis, the right-hand of Earl Altestiel, glanced at the students of the Titan of Baleros as they turned and sized her up. Venaz blinked.

“Strategist Kiish?”

He met her gaze, and the woman fiddled with her glasses.

“What a surprise to meet the famous students of the Titan of Baleros. It’s lovely to see new faces in our class. Erin, do you have time?”

She ignored the students as Erin turned.

“Of course, Kiish! I thought you were leaving…?”

“Presently. My work is done, but the Earl wondered if you might spare some time to talk? I have a speaking stone, and I believe he’s free this afternoon.”

Erin blinked. Time for the [Earl] who’d helped bring her back to life? She didn’t see Wil groan and Venaz writing a note to the Titan.

“Of course. Hey, would you like a game of chess?”

Kiish smiled.

“I believe the Earl would like one first if possible.”

“Hey, let’s pull up a board!”

Kiish nodded and then glanced around. She met Merrik’s eye for a moment and then seemed to spot the chess board coincidentally placed on a nearby table. She pulled a speaking stone from her pouch and cued it up as she began setting the board. She picked up the Titan of Baleros and put his chess piece in the ‘king’ spot.

“Earl Altestiel, Miss Solstice is here. Would you like to play a game?”

Her eyes glittered. Erin missed it as she greeted Altestiel, but Venaz had stopped writing abruptly. The Minotaur suddenly wondered if The Wandering Inn was scrying-proof. Probably not. And if it were—he was fairly sure informants and other methods could give you a clear view into the inn.

Peki was the one who summed it up best. She looked from Niers’ gift to Erin having its inaugural game with the Earl of Rains, to Kiish, to Erin, and whispered to Merrik.

“Ooh. Nice cross-counter.”

 

——

 

“So…how’re things, Altestiel?”

“Desonis is technically at war, Erin. Although our forces have not advanced on Ailendamus. We’re watching the borders.”

“Oh, right. The Ailendamus stuff. It looked pretty tough the…last time I heard about it. You know, I really have to thank you.”

“There’s no need, Erin. I only hope that you can visit Desonis sometime. I would offer to travel, but I doubt that will happen so long as the possibility of war remains.”

“I—don’t know if that’s likely.”

Erin Solstice fiddled with a pawn, then moved it forwards two spaces. Oh, it felt like last time they’d met. Dancing on uncertainty.

However, the Earl was entirely understanding. Lyonette was less so. She pinched Erin’s arm and leaned over.

“Earl Altestiel, I pray that you will allow me to visit your estates someday soon. Once I return to Terandria, I will surely call on you if that is acceptable.”

“I would gladly accept, Miss Lyonette.”

Erin looked up, and Lyonette’s face was sad. But she glanced at the Thronebearers and then at Erin. They didn’t have forever.

The young woman sighed. She put her head on the table and stared at the board where her game with Altestiel had begun. Then she saw Kiish, playing a ‘casual’ game with Wil as Venaz watched.

“—Lord of the Dance is also exceptionally glad you made a recovery, Erin. And as I said, if you need any help, Kiish is present to effect it until she leaves.”

“Hm? Oh—I don’t need—Lyonette, pinch me one more time and I will do something.

Erin snapped and heard a laugh from Altestiel. She blushed, then looked down at the pieces they were playing with. She stared at the Earl’s speaking stone.

“Alright, alright. I get it. Lyonette? Grab something for me. One second, Altestiel?”

“Of course. Let me just ponder my move…”

He didn’t know what was going on, so the clacking sounds didn’t make sense to him, nor the scritch or muttering as Erin made Lyonette set the table up. Altestiel had to confer with Kiish, who looked over her shoulder and wrote a very fast reply.

A second chess board had appeared, and the magical pieces looked very familiar. Also—Erin was writing in a [Message] scroll.

 

Hey, is this thing working?

 

Oh snap. The dolls-playdate with Visma and her friends had ended at The Wandering Inn—so Mrsha could contribute some snacks and money to the new doll fund. Visma looked up from sipping from her cup of blue juice and stared at something far more fascinating than the life and times of the Wall Ladies of Liscor.

“Ah, Erin?”

“Oh, don’t mind me, Altestiel. Still your move.”

Erin pushed forwards a knight and wondered if she wouldn’t get a response. But then a piece moved against it, and she grinned. A line appeared on the [Message] scroll.

 

Hello, Erin. 

 

She froze only for a moment as Kiish glanced at the speaking stone and then at Erin’s quill.

 

Is this my mysterious chess opponent?

None other.

Erin: It’s me, I guess you knew that. Are you Niers Astoragon, the Titan of Baleros? Your students said you were, but I’m just checking.

Niers: That would be me, yes.

 

Erin’s only reaction was a slight outtake of breath. Then she moved a piece against Altestiel.

“Sorry, Altestiel. I’m just playing a second game here. What were you saying about the Lord of the Dance?”

“Who? I—oh, well—he’s an old friend. Famous, in his way. As I said, Desonis is doing quite well. I heard about your <Mythical Quests>. Is that new?”

“Yep. I’m trying to figure it out myself. I’ve got a lot of people who want to know everything, but guess what?”

“Er, what?”

“Turns out <Mythical Quests> have cooldowns, can you believe that? I’m worried it might be weeks or months before I can post another one. But hey—”

Erin reached for a cup of water, took a sip, and then looked around the inn. She stared at Venaz as he went to take a long drink and waited until the mug was halfway up.

“—I’ve got <Heroic Quests> for some stuff. And <Legendary Quests>.”

He began drowning on land. Erin winked at Lyonette. Is this what you wanted? Then she went back to writing.

 

Niers: I hope you didn’t find my gift too troublesome. I was at your inn, actually. I wanted to drop by unannounced, but I ran into some troubles of my own making.

Erin: I heard. Wars and, uh, a coup? No, wait, just a war because it was another Great Company, right?

Niers: A former one. It’s not resolved, but the crisis is over. I believe I have your people to thank, actually. I levelled up in the nick of time to gain an advantage. As for the rest—I’m sorry I wasn’t there when it mattered.

Erin: You did a lot. Really, I can’t believe it. Thank you. Is everything resolved?

Niers: There are a lot of dead bodies, and my commander, Foliana, is wounded. Perorn’s in Izril, but she’s resourceful, and I hope you’ll call on her if you need any help. But I’m pulling on threads, and I’ll have it under control soon.

Erin: Foliana…is she Three-Color Stalker? The giant Squirrel-woman?

Niers: Haha, yes. She’s hurt.

Erin: Badly?

Niers: No, she’ll live. Just completely laid up. Hazards of work; she’s been cursed. But she’ll heal naturally, and it’s just a few cuts.

 

At this point, a huge finger poked the Fraerling in the back as a magical eye glared out of a body with a ‘few cuts’ that included a chunk that was missing from her side. But Erin couldn’t know that.

 

Niers: I’m just sorry we couldn’t meet. I hope Mrsha and Numbtongue and Bird are well, along with Gna and the Fellowship of the Inn?

Erin: Did they really call themselves that?

Niers: I heard it once or twice. Say, are we playing chess? You really are the most difficult opponent I’ve found.

Erin: Thanks.

 

She was, in fact, moving chess pieces across Altestiel’s board as well as Niers’, and so she had almost constant time to be moving one piece or another on her side of the board. Altestiel was trying to keep up with the conversation on his end.

“—tribes that left with the King of Destruction might face a hard time on Chandrar.”

“I don’t know about Chandrar, Altestiel, but I hope that they’ll be safe. Didn’t Fetohep take some in? They’ll be safe in Khelt if anywhere’s safe.”

“Ah, yes. Khelt. I heard a few strange rumors from there when you were—incapacitated, Erin. Do you know Fetohep of Khelt, by any chance?”

Erin stared up at the ceiling for a moment, and her lips moved.

“We’ve talked. But never met face-to-face. I mean, maybe my dead body, but that doesn’t count, right?”

“I see. About these <Quests>. I suppose I should tell you my [Queen] and the leading [Strategist] of Desonis would also want to know about them, so I’d need to report—we can do <Heroic Quests>, you know.”

“Really? Get out! What’s the quest?”

“Er—it is to slay a nest of Hydras that we know has cropped up in some aquatic ruins. Highly dangerous; Gold-ranks would need to go in at least. The crown put gold into the [Innkeeper]’s hands to effect the quest, and multiple teams are going to try and complete it. I’ll say one thing about <Quests>—for now, the incentive is there. If only we could keep that enthusiasm going for quests to kill sewer rats.”

“Ew. I guess you’ll get a few takers, but I’m interested to know what the extra rewards are for the <Heroic Quest>. Will you let me know?”

“Absolutely. And you’re sure there will be extra rewards? As in—ones not promised? I noted in your <Heroic Quest> you offered a Skill. Our [Innkeeper] couldn’t, but he did add ‘experience in <Combat> classes or <Beast Management> professions’. As if those were categories. Do you know anything about that?

“Mm. Only guesses. It’s sort of like instinct, Altestiel. I didn’t know I could do that until I was posting it—it’s sort of like the extra rewards. I wish I could say for certain.”

“I really should have stayed in Liscor a few more months. There’s no chance that magic door has been upgraded anywhere near First Landing, is there? The seas are still completely upset, but perhaps Kiish could help you with any issues? Desonis does have the resources as well, and aside from this war nonsense, it’s quite free for time. The ‘Bedtime Queen’ proves that.”

Erin moved a piece across Niers’ board and took a bishop. She was writing and speaking, albeit slower on both ends.

She’s playing them against each other.

Venaz whispered loudly in Wil’s ear as he took a game off Kiish. She might be a higher-level and more senior [Strategist], but there was no fiercer competition than in the academy. Wil grimaced.

“You think she’s pulling the same trick the Professor did?”

“Why not? It’s a cunning move.”

It would be, wouldn’t it? Erin turned her head and stuck out her tongue at Venaz.

“Rude! Hey, you, Minotaur guy.”

Altestiel and Niers replied at once.

“Minotaur? You mean Calruz?”

The Earl of Rains was a bit too innocent. As for Niers…

 

Niers: What is that idiot doing this time? 

Erin: I don’t recall writing anything about Venaz.

Niers: I may have an ear or two around.

Erin: You and everyone else.

Niers: I don’t make a habit of spying on my chess opponents. This is a rare case. The Earl of Rains is someone I’m acquainted with, actually. I hope I haven’t offended you.

Erin: Nah.

 

Venaz looked at Erin as she pointed a finger at him.

“Listen, Venaz. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. You’re some big student from the Titan’s academy, right?”

“I am a [Strategist] of Minos studying in Elvallian, so you’re broadly correct. I trust I’m not offending you, Miss Solstice. I can be—abrasive, or so I’m told. I’m simply stating my mind. Feel free to correct me; mistakes are the foundation of learning.”

Venaz folded his arms cautiously. Erin gave him a blank look as she twisted in her seat.

“What am I, a teacher? I’m not your mom, either. I’m not playing either Altestiel or Niers against each other. Why would I do that?”

“Because you’d be certain of drawing or winning against at least one? It’s a clever move that some [Strategists] have even used in war.”

The Minotaur had an instant response ready. Erin just blinked at him.

“Yeah. But why would I do that? It doesn’t sound like fun. It’s just to make people look silly or teach them a lesson. Come over here if you want to watch, and you can see. I’m playing no one against each other. I’m beating both of them.”

She cracked her fingers as Venaz strode over. Both Altestiel and Niers were silent for a moment. Erin twisted her neck and winced as it popped.

“Whoo. Nothing like a good game of chess to get your mind moving. Check, Altestiel. Your move, Niers.”

The thing was that if she were writing and speaking at the same time—her opponents were arguably more distracted than she. And they had forgotten that when it came to chess, Erin was better than both of them.

The silence followed by the clacking of pieces was broken presently by Erin herself. She sighed.

“Yeah. I do owe you a big favor.”

Who was she addressing? All eyes swung to the stone and [Message] scroll as Erin covered her writing. She wrote something to Niers and spoke something completely different to Altestiel out loud.

“Altestiel, does Desonis need anything right now?”

He paused.

“Aside from more arable land, protection from monsters large and small, a talented generation, and three dozen enchanted, self-repairing fortresses? We have done fairly well as nations go, Erin. I’m not up-to-date on the minutiae, but we have no glaring issues at this time.”

Erin heard some chuckles from around the room at his response. She smiled and stared down at what she’d written:

 

Erin: I’ll definitely find a way to repay you.

Niers: There’s no need. As I said, I’m only sorry we couldn’t meet and that I didn’t do more. I hope we will be able to speak in person.

Erin: Sure thing. I’d like that too, but I have just one question I was hoping you could answer.

Niers: Go ahead. If you have any questions, incidentally, or would like to test any <Quest> theories, let me know. I have some resources in Baleros, and the answers are worth most effort in and of themselves.

Erin: Thanks. How do you feel about Goblins? I was told you teleported a Goblin tribe to Baleros. What’s going to happen to them?

Niers: Give me a second to think about my answer.

 

Back to Nereshal’s warning and clues from the future. It was conceivable that Erin could have been known just as that [Innkeeper] who kept Goblins safe and treated them well. However…would some important [Mage]—no, arguably the most important [Mage] in all of the Blighted Kingdom know her at first sight from just that?

Erin thought she knew what she’d do. So she spoke out loud to Altestiel.

“Hey, Earl Altestiel. How cool is your [Queen]?”

Now there was a loaded question. The Earl hesitated.

“She can be completely asinine, which is not an expression of disloyalty, just personal preference. And she keeps entirely too many pets ar—hydras!

It sounded like someone had just tossed a pet at him from the clatter and swearing. Then—Lyonette began sweating because it occurred to her that two major powers were probably listening into the casual chess games. She’d told Erin to make allies, make friends.

But even so—the [Innkeeper]’s eyes glinted as she stared out the window at the High Passes. It was a busy day today. Liscor was changing. And somewhere up in those mountains was Goblinhome. A place that at least Chaldion knew about, and which had kidnapped the Healer of Tenbault.

“So she’s sorta cool. Do you think she’d ever consider signing a petition or agreement around…well, I’m getting ahead of myself. I owe you a big debt for Kiish helping me. She’s great.”

Erin smiled at Kiish, and the [Strategist] looked gratified and surprised as she dipped her head. Erin turned back to the speaking stone.

“You said Desonis doesn’t lack for anything except for, like, a dozen magical fortresses. And stuff. I dunno about a dozen. But what about one? Might be sorta wet, though.”

“…What?”

“A magical fortress.”

“You mean the palace of—er—no, a magical fortress?

“Yup. Not belonging to any [Tyrants]. Completely unrelated. I think. Would you like to have one?”

The [Innkeeper] was watching a very long paragraph being written on the scroll when Lyonette seized her arm. Venaz was waving a clear blue truth stone in the others’ faces and shouting in whispers.

Erin!”

“Aw, come on, Lyonette. I’m doing what you wanted!”

Erin gave Lyonette a rare, genuine scowl. But the [Princess] drew her back, whispering urgently.

“Erin! You don’t give fortresses to [Earls]! It’s—historically—very dangerous!”

The young woman gave Lyonette a blank look.

“Okay, then I’ll tell Kiish. She can report to her [Queen] first, and Desonis can use it. But it’d be a load off my mind. And who else do I know in Terandria who needs, like, an entire fortress?”

The [Princess] hesitated and retorted.

“C-Calanfer?”

“Psh, you’re not going back to Calanfer.”

Erin waved that off. The Thronebearers in the room looked at Lyonette, and before she could respond, Visma broke in. The little Drake ran up.

“Miss Erin, do you know where a fortress is?”

Everyone waited on the response. Erin Solstice picked up Niers’ scroll and read what he’d written.

 

Niers: Chieftain Shaik of the Ghostly Hand tribe and most of her people are well. That was a strategic move, and as I think Numbtongue could tell you, I have a different perspective on Goblins. I’m aware they are intelligent, loyal, resourceful, and more. 

My company used to employ them in numbers, and I knew Velan the Kind. So if you’re asking if I’ll trust or harbor them—I cannot. Not again, and not without proof what happened then won’t repeat itself.

Of the many mistakes I’ve ever made, the level of death and carnage he caused is perhaps the greatest. With that said, I’m willing to listen to what you might have to say. Do you know why Goblin Kings rampage against the world?

 

To that, she wrote a simple reply as he held his breath.

 

Erin: Not yet.

 

She looked up when Venaz burst out.

“Miss Solstice, are you actually implying you are intending to give away a fortress? Or that you know the location of one?”

The [Innkeeper] frowned at him.

“I’m just doing my thing, Venaz. I sorta get why Niers has this exasperated vibe with you. You know what your problem is? You’re not adaptable. You need to take lessons from him. Go with the flow more.”

She pointed at Kevin, and Venaz’s head cricked around. Erin clarified.

“I can’t just…give stuff away. But I wonder what kind of <Quest> it is. I don’t think it’s <Mythical>. So yes, I know things. Some of the stuff I know is out there sounds really cool, but we’re fine here, right guys?”

Erin looked around for agreement. Mrsha the Explorer of Fortresses looked up at Erin Solstice with the pain of someone too young to be responsibly allowed to explore for hidden treasure. As for Erin, she nodded to Lyonette.

“There’s not that many hidden fortresses in the ocean or whatever. And I agree, we need to be careful. But a thank-you?”

Her eyes twinkled as she turned back to the speaking stone.

“I’ll send you a letter via Courier, Altestiel. If you want one.”

“I—er—yes? That would be fairly—where?”

“Lemme write it down. Actually, I need a Courier, damn—”

“I know there’s Hawk in the city! I’ll get him.”

“No, me!”

Every guest in the inn was suddenly a Street Runner. Erin turned from the hesitating Altestiel to Kiish. She pointed to the [Garden of Sanctuary] and winked.

I’ll tell you later. Erin mouthed, and the [Strategist] blinked at the sly wink. Erin hoped Hawk might refuse this one. She didn’t think he wanted to be the one carrying a blank letter and dodging everyone across the continent.

Erin Solstice had two edges on the competition right now that no one else knew she had. The first? Her new class, which she had not explored but she knew.

[Witch]. Erin’s eyes flickered as she glanced at Mrsha, and the little Gnoll’s eyes went round. She realized what Erin was going to do.

Cooldown or not—you could make a <Quest> personal. You didn’t have to nail it to an inn at all. You only did that if you wanted attention. Erin winked at the Gnoll girl. Then she spoke to the inn.

“Alright, good chess games. I need some privacy to write that letter. Kiish, maybe you can tell me how I address it? In the garden. As for after that, no more chess, I’m afraid. I’ve got to do some cooking.”

“Cooking, you?”

Lyonette had to sit down as Erin rolled on past with a suddenly very helpful Mrsha pushing the chair. Erin nodded.

“I might, um, be out of gifts in a <Quest> sense. So I’ll send Niers some baked goods. I feel like that’s a nice gesture. Although…darn, I guess I can’t send it unless it’s by Courier, and that’ll take—”

I’m fairly certain he’ll pay to have it teleported from Invrisil.

Wil interrupted, and Erin blinked at him.

“That’s a lot of money. You sure?”

“I think—he’ll take it.”

Kiish stared at Erin, and between Altestiel and Niers, she couldn’t tell who’d won. Then she amended that thought.

Almost definitely—Erin Solstice.

 

——

 

It was rare to see a line of people in a place like this. A shadow slipped out of the crowd and stood, almost identical to the next passing man or woman.

You couldn’t have said, upon reflection, how tall this person was, if they were male, female, or what they were wearing aside from a trench-coat and pants.

They moved through the world as an observer, neither combatant nor defender, sympathizer nor antagonist.

They were here to watch and report. And they were…

“Excuse me. Is this the right spot?”

The next person to walk out of the crowd was a Drake—right up until she pulled the mask off and revealed a slightly sweaty Human woman’s face beneath. The first observer nearly leapt out of his skin.

“What? I’m not anyone you know. I must have taken the wrong—”

“Yep, you’re in line. [Informant]? [Spy]? [Observer]?”

The formerly-masked woman got into line as the generic watcher hesitated.

“[Infiltrator], actually. Not my specialty.”

“Oh, nice. Do you make your own masks?”

“Yep. Want to try this one on? It adjusts to your face.”

Lovely.

The door opened. The group of waiting people heard a voice as a figure flitted out, as quiet as a shadow under moonlight.

“Next?”

For a moment, the [Clandestine Observer] saw the enchanted steel door reveal a big shape. A Golem—steel.

“That’s big security for a new-timer.”

The [Infiltrator] muttered. The person ahead of the two who’d just arrived replied absently.

“She’s already nearly been killed once, apparently. And if she’s got the premium on information—she’ll have a target on her back.”

The [Clandestine Observer] felt at this point like the mystique and subterfuge of his class was being spoiled by standing in line and waiting for the door to open. He cleared his throat.

“I…was told this was the most reliable source. Do you know how long we must wait? I have clients demanding answers—now.”

“Don’t worry, the door’s opening every five to ten minutes at most. What’s your class?”

“I prefer not to say.”

The [Spy] or whomever it was ahead of the [Observer] rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

“Suit yourself. But you know, the blank-man routine gets you killed where I’m from. It stands out.”

Chuckles up and down the line as the [Observer] turned red. The others looked at him with transplanted magical eyes, artifacts, and in one case, a sniff that revealed everything a glance wouldn’t. A Dullahan woman with scars around a glowing bright, blue eye eyed the [Observer]. Her gaze saw everything.

“Red silk underpants? Classy.

 

——

 

Fierre wondered what the laughter was about. But she didn’t have time to waste.

The [Chameleon Agent] who’d entered her shop didn’t like the Golem or being in line, and he was already blending in a bit with her floorboards as he stared at the desk.

It was covered with paper, and Fierre was sorting through it—a mountain of notes, missives slipped under her door, and correspondences. Even if she’d only been away a few months, she’d been sorting for nearly a week.

“Excuse me. Are you—”

“Opener, information broker—I don’t do fence work. I assume you’re here for the same thing as the rest?”

One eyebrow rose—Fierre tried not to roll her eyes.

Spooks like the people waiting for her help were all the same. Runners were pretentious sometimes, often in a hurry and impatient with it, but the covert groups who wanted information loved the cloak-and-dagger mystique.

“And what are the others here to learn about, if that’s free information?”

Fierre grabbed for a toppling stack of papers and glared at the person standing before her.

“The [Innkeeper]. And if you want information on her, you can get a copy in an hour when someone shares what I’ve got. But I bet you’re in a hurry, and so am I, so if you’ll drop the word-games, we can both get back to work.”

“Oh. Sorry. I—what do you have?”

An embarrassed cough sounded, and Fierre mollified her tone.

“Sorry—it’s been a long day. Here are the facts—yes, that was the Titan of Baleros and Altestiel, the Earl of Rains. Yes, she just talked with someone in Nerrhavia’s Fallen.”

“You have confirmation? Are you certain—

The [Agent] was excited but cautious, and understandably so, because a false report would be his reputation on the line. Fierre grabbed something on her desk. A big folder of paper, even illustrations.

“Third page, all reports from people who saw the Earl of Rains here. Watch Captain’s report from Liscor and other cities of his presence. The [Strategists] are the Titan’s students, as you know. I have Mage’s Guild testimonies on the Nerrhavia’s Fallen one from both sides—only Erin Solstice calling in, then a redirect to Tyrant’s Rest. If you’re not comfortable putting that on your authority, I recommend just reporting those facts.”

The [Agent] spent a few seconds paging through the files and reading quickly. Fierre went on, filing more reports away.

“No, she can’t spit blood. Yes, someone stole her body. Note the table of contents and each rumor around her. There’s a ‘true’, ‘false’, or ‘complicated’ and page numbers. Oh—and I’ve included the recent reports on <Quests>. Legendary exists. There’s a cooldown and a hierarchy.”

“This is—exceptionally well done. I can practically send it on as it is.”

The [Agent] was muttering in relief. Fierre smiled and wiped at her arm. It had been worth the bad sunburn and the gold to rush the packet to a [Scribe] for copying. The [Agent] glanced up.

“How much for the entire thing?”

“Six gold. If you don’t like that—”

Six gold pieces appeared on the table, and Fierre swept them into a drawer that jangled happily. Oh yes, she was making a killing.

Information brokering was the Vampire girl’s specialty, even if she’d taken a road-trip across southern Izril and fought in a war. It felt like a bit of a dream to Fierre, but this was reality.

Profitable reality. The trick with hot information that everyone would know was this: unlike a super-secret, which you might sell once and at cost, speed was key to flipping something like Erin’s secrets.

The contents of her information was probably already being disseminated and reprinted right now. However, the other information brokers in Liscor, Pallass, Invrisil, or anywhere else were wasting minutes if not an hour having to re-check and re-print the folders Fierre had.

That meant that in the precious time they had nothing—she had everything. And there were so many high-level agents that needed to answer to their employers now that handing them a folder like this was making her literal gold on coppers.

It did something else for Fierre too, and that was the appreciative look the [Agent] gave her. He hadn’t looked twice around the room, only to check for weapons and eye the Golem. Now, he took a moment.

“What’s the name of this…place?”

He didn’t ask hers, so Fierre gave it anyways.

“I’m Fierre. No name but the ‘steel door’, but I’m going to use the alias of Bloody Secrets. You can find me via the right channels.”

The man nodded and tucked the folder under one arm.

“I’ll remember it and reference you if I need anything. Much appreciated, Miss.”

He left, and Fierre called the next client in. She was running down the same spiel when a letter addressed to her caught her eye.

She hadn’t been in contact aside from [Message] spells, and those were costly, so all this information that she’d had in her office was probably out-of-date and/or only good for someone who wanted all the past information.

But this—this was just addressed to her, so Fierre cracked it open with one finger and cursed. The nervous [Spy] jumped, but Fierre waved a hand.

“I’m sorry—personal information. Oh no. I’m going to be in trouble.”

“Bad news? Something that I should be concerned about?”

The worried Gnoll sniffed, but Fierre shook her head.

“Worse. Family.

She checked the sun outside, but if it wasn’t too late—there was no way in heck she was turning down this much gold! She groaned and decided she’d make it up to them with something good to eat. Or fresh blood or something.

After all. It wouldn’t be hard to visit anymore.

 

——

 

Bird sat in his tower, humming. He was back to the basics. Shoot birds, eat birds, and probably poo birds at a later date, but even he didn’t see the resemblance anymore.

“I am Bird. And my life is back to normal now. There is nothing to be worried about. Cow.”

He sang, and the [Liar] realized he had truly advanced his class.

Because now he was lying to himself. Bird the Hunter aimed his bow at some dino-birds out of range and looked around the Floodplains.

“There are a lot of wagons. Much more than before. And less spiders. And I am so happy.”

“Bird.”

“The wind, it is so nice on my shell.”

Bird, come down here.

“I cannot hear anything but the sunshine on grass.”

Someone threw a rock at him. Bird ducked and peered out of his tower. He stared down at Klbkch, and the Slayer pointed.

“You are summoned to the Free Hive. The Queen is waiting. Xrn is waiting. I am waiting.

Bird, who could form a Unitasis Network, the foundation of True Antinium, stared down at Klbkch. The Centenium could have leapt up there and grabbed Bird. Or hustled him down through the secret tunnels.

However, Bird had screamed the last time he’d done it, and Klbkch was wary of the wrath of Erin Solstice.

And all the spies watching him. Bird looked down at Klbkch.

“The Free Queen said if I ever returned I would be killed.”

“She has rescinded that order. Come down, Bird.”

“I have quit the Free Antinium. I am a free bird. You do not rule me.”

Klbkch twitched an antennae irritably.

“You cannot quit the Antinium, Bird.”

“Ksmvr did.”

“Ksmvr was exiled. There is a distinction.”

“Then I exile myself. La, la, I am Bird. I am going to play in the grass. And if you don’t like it, Miss Erin will be mean. Therefore, Klbkch, as Kevin says—”

Bird turned around and awkwardly bent forwards.

“Kiss my ass.”

He waited, then looked over his shoulder and dove down the stairs just before Klbkch threw a rock and cracked part of his tower. Bird popped back up and shot an arrow, but Klbkch could now catch them.

This is why I need a ballista!

 

——

 

The two Antinium fighting was a sight to see, even by the standards of Liscor. For outsiders? It was like a nightmare turning into a sock-puppet performance. Simultaneously hilarious, confusing, and terrifying.

“Mother. Am I sick or are those two Antinium throwing rocks at each other?”

Perhaps it was a touch of the vapors. It was entirely conceivable, especially because the entire family was garbed from head-to-toe in thick black wool, despite the daylight, and multiple layers at that.

However, the pale-skinned woman who stared at the distant inn felt at her son’s forehead, and the icy chill made her sure he had no fever.

Colfa val Lischelle-Drakle looked around for Fierre for the umpteenth time, but even after seventeen letters, she had not deigned to respond once, nor meet them at the end of their long journey.

Longer still, because there was no way to use the portal door to teleport the six loaded wagons, each pulled by a pair of horses or donkeys, and the herd of sheep and all the other animals heading over another of the Floodplains.

A curse behind her made Colfa look back.

Colfa, the wagon’s stuck again. We need a hand.”

Bamer was glaring at the wheels dug into the grass from all the weight in the wagon. They were off the road, which would have prevented this kind of thing, but almost at their destination. Colfa sighed, but walked downhill.

“You’re getting old, Bamer.”

“It’s heavy. One, two—”

The woman reached down with one hand and Bamer with both of his. The horses, who’d decided to take a break, stared as the wagon, thousands of pounds, lifted slightly and cleared the rut. The two Vampires looked at each other and lowered the wagon to the ground.

“We’ll have to be more careful near a city.”

“No one was watching.”

Rivel, the youngest of the four, assured the rest. He slid down the hill, and the other five wagons caught up. The driver of one of them raised his head and adjusted the thick scarf around his neck.

“Colfa, what did you see?”

“Antinium. Fighting. We could keep going, Himilt.”

“And head to fully Drake lands, past the Bloodfields? No, I don’t think vagrant Humans would be any more welcome than Gnolls were. Here, at least, the land is guaranteed. Or it will be. Bamer, the contracts?”

The old man rubbed at his back, but it was more pretense than anything. He produced a sheaf of magically-stamped documents with a resigned air.

“As good as the last hundred times you checked, Himilt. And this…is it.”

They stared around, and the other riders on the wagons slipped off and gathered on the hilltop. One produced an umbrella; another stooped under the shade of the wagons.

They all had red eyes, pale skin, and elongated canines. Well, pale for whatever skin they’d had originally; one did have dark brown skin, but she appeared to be permanently paler, as if the blood had rushed from her body.

“This is the spot?”

“Look, there’s even a marker.”

All of them gathered around a little sign posted into the ground. It was written in the Drake script, but there was a Human version beneath.

 

Village Founding Site #14, Property of Liscor.

Now claimed by ‘val Lischelle-Drakle’. Welcome to Liscor! Please visit our city at your earliest convenience for help settling in.

—Councilmember Lism, Liscor’s Council.

 

And that was all. If Himilt looked around and stood on the top of his wagon, he could just about see other sites that had been recently colonized—or had a sign indicating a lot.

All of them were the highest hills above the flooding mark, and he’d done his research on the spring rains. Apparently, there had been more structures in the past, but the Antinium Wars had destroyed them.

Now…[Farmers] were coming back. Especially because the Shield Spiders were dead—they saw the grasslands, and for all their slopes and valleys, they saw fertile land. Still, it was a commitment to try and set up new roots here.

But for a Vampire, all Himilt cared about was that Liscor was no Human city. He nodded to the others.

Not just the four members of his family minus Fierre. There were others of his kind who’d joined this long journey. And what a journey it had been.

They had set out from their ancestral estates, and it had sold a month into their trip. Four months of heading south across Izril was a fast pace if you weren’t a Courier. Of course, they hadn’t worried about [Bandits] and monsters as much.

They had sold their home. Sold the home Himilt’s great grand-parents had lived in, and they had been Vampires, so the place was old.

But it was poisoned, and for all every [Farmer], [Herder], and [Shepherd] within a hundred miles had said it was a tragedy and tried to talk them out of it—they had no idea the real reason the Lischelle-Drakle family had left.

The wells were bad. The water was bad. If they stayed—they died.

Here, in Liscor, was the first place Vampires were even considering moving to. And it might be they’d have to go further than that, maybe even leave the continent.

“…But here, there’s a chance. Let’s set up. Someone might notice us and come to greet everyone, so be normal. Bamer, you and I will go to Liscor and check on things.”

The others looked up as Himilt gave orders. He glanced at Colfa and felt a tightness in his stomach.

“…Don’t unpack too much.”

Bamer came with Himilt as they left the hilltop and headed back down to the road and to Liscor. They walked fast, but ‘normally’, and kept their conversation light.

Even so, both were worried. Not just because heading to Liscor would be an answer to whether they stayed.

“I’m told Fierre’s been seen in Invrisil. I think she just forgot to write you, Himilt. It turns out she hadn’t even been there, but in the south.”

“South? We’ll ask after her as soon as night falls. I’m not worried.”

Himilt lied. Bamer shook his head and coughed into his sleeve. It was a bad cough, too deep and loud by far, and he wiped at his mouth. His eyes glinted, and he looked up at Himilt.

“Don’t be. She’s true and free. More than anyone will ever be.”

That was all that could be safely said in the open. But it made them quicken their steps and head to Liscor’s gates. They avoided the inn, for now. The Antinium made Himilt’s skin prickle.

They were as foreign to Izril as Vampires had once been. Yet—he knew some of his people had marched south under Reinhart’s banner despite the risks. If they had come north, the Black Tide would have run into fang and claw and shadows in the night.

He wondered what they tasted like. But there was little desire to act on it there. That was just a habit.

His people had fought the Goblin King, too. When Terandrians made war on Izril, during the battle at the Bloodfields, sometimes, they fought.

They were part of Izril too, even if Izril had long since forgotten they remained. But the north was poisoned to them.

All because of one family. One house. Centuries, thousands of years of work turning Izril into a final trap, an execution by generations.

House Byres.

Himilt forced the emotions down as he walked and waited at the gates. A younger man…a younger Vampire would have had a different reaction to that news. A younger Himilt had far less to lose. Right now, he only craved getting his people out of a place where they’d continue to add poison into their veins.

Liscor…might be that place.

Himilt and Bamer were surprised by the efficiency of the [Guards] at the gates. He was worried for a second they’d ask him to remove his clothes, but they only asked for him and Bamer to remove their caps and scarfs, and unlike Fierre, they wouldn’t burn in the few seconds the Drake took to scan their faces against wanted lists.

“Are you already feeling the chill? Sick? I’d hope you go to a [Healer]’s rather than pass it around.”

“We just dress like this, sir. We’re [Farmers] from far north. About Reizmelt—we’ve come to Liscor to settle.”

That did get the Drake’s attention. He signaled to a Gnoll, who trotted off, and Himilt felt a warning prickle on his spine. But he kept his face smooth as the Drake nodded.

“More [Farmers]? That’s excellent. Well, you are free to enter. We do have rules about goods coming in and out, but the Merchant’s Guild has a list. Do you need directions anywhere?”

“Is there no Farmer’s Guild?”

Bamer frowned, and the Drake almost laughed, then caught himself.

“There hasn’t been enough [Farmers] in Liscor for a guild in ages. There are [Farmers], but they go through the Merchant’s Guild. They’ll have a list. It’s right past Shivertail’s Plaza. Head down this street, and you won’t miss the signs.”

“Thank you, sir. One more question—is the Adventurer’s Guild that way too?”

“Absolutely. Have you seen monsters…? Our Watch can take care of Rock Crabs and mark Shield Spider nests for destruction.”

“Not yet, sir. We find it’s best to know where the adventurers are.”

Bamer reassured the Drake, and the two headed into the city. All things considered, Himilt thought the Watch looked sharper than average. Gnolls and Drakes…

“I feel like I stick out even more here, Himilt.”

“Think of it like this, Bamer. Humans look more alike to non-Humans.”

“True. Ah…”

The slight exclamation was of surprise, because one of the first things the Vampires saw were a trio of huge Gnolls.

Gnolls were already tall, and Himilt was tall for a Human, so he was roughly equal to their height at six-foot-something. But these Gnolls were glossy-furred and giants among their own kind.

Even the other Gnolls turned to stare at the female Gnoll talking to the other two.

“…prices are that high in Zeres? Why?”

“We don’t know, Chieftain.”

“Don’t call me—then buy, um, two hundred.”

Two hundred?

“As much as you can afford with our people. Per city, and don’t go above three gold pieces per bottle.”

“Chieftain, the cost—”

“Do it. I’m your Chieftain—if prices are rising, we’ll bet they rise higher and add to the demand. If not? We’ll hold onto the potions and make a profit either way.”

“How?”

“The new frontier needs potions. Armies need potions. Just—buy them and stop arguing!”

Gireulashia snapped as Bamer and Himilt listened with their enhanced ears, which were almost as good as a Gnoll’s. Bamer nudged Himilt.

“I told you they looked higher. But we don’t need them as much…I wonder why? Mana potions were the same.”

“Probably a shipping shortage at sea. Step left. The strong metal.”

Both instantly moved across the street as a group of Gnolls passed by. They were polite and wouldn’t have crowded the two men, but even the proximity made Himilt’s skin crawl and Bamer sneeze.

“Damn. They were wearing pure silver. Are you sure this is wise?”

Himilt just shook his head. He was getting more and more reservations, but they had one sure check.

“Excuse me. Is this the Adventurer’s…Guild?”

For some reason, the entire guild was a bunch of rubble swarming with Antinium clearing it out and laying a foundation. A Drake behind a counter in the building next to them waved both over.

“Hello! My name is Maviss, how can I help you today? I’m sorry about the mess—our guild is being reconstructed. Do you have an urgent issue?”

“No, Miss. We were actually…wondering if we could inquire after a famous team? A Gold-rank one.”

The Drake sighed, but quietly, and looked around at the copious notes that had been salvaged from the last guild office.

“We can help you. Is this a complaint or…?”

“We were hoping to hire them. If they’re in the area.”

Bamer lied. That was the best way to inquire, they’d found. The Drake brightened slightly; hiring a team by name was always a bit of coin in the guild coffers.

“Which one? We actually have a number of Gold-rank teams in the city…”

“The Silver Swords.”

“The Silver…oh, they’re not here. I’m sorry, they left ages ago.”

“Is that so?”

Himilt and Bamer knew that, of course. You kept track of your enemies, and that lot had gone to Wistram a while back. Bamer looked disappointed and cleared his throat.

“Do you know—if they’ll be back any time soon? We have a long-term contract. A kind of—finding our ancestors’ homes and searching for treasure. Do they often come to Liscor?”

He was wording himself very carefully, because truth spells existed. Nothing he said implied that he was going to hire the Silver Swords, and they did in fact know where older generations of Vampires might have buried something.

The [Receptionist] fussed with her notes, then snapped her claws.

“Why am I looking for that? I can just tell you—the first time the Silver Swords came to Liscor was earlier this year. They’re not common around here, although I know they’re more famous in the north.”

Himilt’s heart didn’t know whether to rise or sink at this. So they weren’t here regularly, which meant the wells might be clean. But if they’d been here once—

Well, they could rely on the groundwater and the rivers. Given the Floodplains’ yearly flooding, it was probably far safer. But Liscor’s wells would inform a lot of their animals and food, even healing potions.

“Do you know if they…”

Bamer began, but Himilt stopped him. They couldn’t just ask about well seeding. The [Receptionist] waited, quill raised.

“Can I send them a [Message] you’re here and might be interested in a request, gentlemen? It’s a small fee, but we lump such messages together for Gold-rank teams, and while they might not see it…”

“No, thank you, Miss. It’s—if they’re only here once, would they be likely to return?”

“Maybe. I think they have ties to the inn. I’m sorry, The Wandering Inn. But aside from that or the dungeon, I don’t know how likely it is. Between you and me—they didn’t exactly come at a good time. They were trapped in the city for a siege, and I heard their Captain got arrested once.”

Maviss whispered confidentially. Himilt blinked. The upstanding [Knight] got arrested?

“For doing what? Starting fights with the Antinium?”

That was Bamer’s guess. Maviss wrinkled her snout.

“I…don’t know. Maybe someone else does. Hey. Selys! Why did that Ylawes Byres get arrested that one time, remember?”

A female Drake speaking to an older Drake, possibly the Guildmistress. The way she held the spear made Himilt’s back prickle with wariness. Selys sighed and came over.

“Hello! Ylawes? He didn’t get arrested, Maviss. You’re exaggerating. He was only put in a cell for about fifteen minutes so Zevara could prove she was serious.”

“Why?”

Selys scratched her tail idly and stared at the makeshift temporary Guild. A few adventurers were watching the two [Farmers] idly—‘ancestors’ and ‘treasure’ had a way of doing that to an adventurer. However, no one came forward to ask if they could take on the request.

Especially not the day-drunk [Swashbuckler] with her head on the table. Jewel looked at Himilt and Bamer and stayed put. She’d learned her lesson.

“Ylawes? Oh—he and the snooty half-Elf, Falene, got arrested for trying to dump alchemical stuff in the wells. Actually, he asked me how many wells Liscor had and started grumbling about not having enough for some weird Human tradition. Watch Captain Zevara told him not to do it.”

Himilt and Bamer listened with bated breath. Did that mean…?

Drakes were very peculiar about public security, and from the sounds of it—the two thanked the pair of Drakes and declined to leave a [Message].

“None or little of the bright stuff in the wells. Flooding—and I’ll be tanning in the summer if I didn’t see some beautiful grass that made the sheep perk up. They’re not huge on herds or farms either, Himilt. We might make some money here.”

The Vampire agreed quietly. He was almost ready to give Liscor a chance. Everything was uncertain, but he was tired of the road, and this was as good a place as any aside from the new world, and there was no telling what dangers waited there.

Vampires could die to monsters just like anyone else. They were tougher, stronger—a lot stronger—but they had no levels. Apart from Fierre, they were not true Vampires.

But one thing was bothering him. And it was the feeling he was being watched. It was the worry that they had given up one threat in the north for another.

Some people still hated their kind, and there were intelligent members of every species. The Antinium were here, and so Himilt sensed the people headed their way before Bamer did.

“Bamer…”

Himilt glanced around, but the street was crowded, and then—they were right on top of the Vampires.

“Hello, is this Himilt val Lischelle—er—[Farmer] Himilt? I heard you were in the city, and I was dying to meet you. Councilmember Lism and Councilmember Raekea.”

Himilt turned around, and a Drake with purple scales accosted him. Himilt blinked as Lism seized his gloved hand and shook it once, and a Gnoll nodded.

“Hello?”

Councilmember Lism of Liscor had appeared himself to greet Himilt—and meet the newest [Farmers] to hopefully supply Liscor with produce. Nothing would do but for him to take them to the nearest restaurant for a meal on the city and tell them about the wonderful opportunities they would have here.

Himilt glanced at Bamer out of the corner of his eye as he was offered a…pizza slice. Bamer tried to drink the tomato sauce and found to his disappointment it was just sauce, but the Vampires didn’t mind free food.

It was certainly a friendly enough city. Even if the Councilmember was pushy. Himilt was just on the fence as Lism gave them a quick tour of the things that no other city had, from the Players of Liscor to the Players of Liscor and mostly the Players of Liscor, because Liscor was not that amazing, when his head turned and he pointed to an odd building next to one of the [Healer]’s.

“What is that?”

Lism glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, a ‘blood bank’. Damndest idea. It’s sort of an add-on to our [Healers], but we don’t have much use for it right now. Potions still beat it, but some adventurers pay for stale blood to use as bait in traps, so at least it has a point there. Pay it no mind.”

 

——

 

An old age thought long lost was coming again. Or was it a new age?

Both, perhaps. The bones of the old world had never truly been lost, but it had taken the sacrifice of thousands to reach this point.

The Waning World ends, and The Wandering Inn changes, leaving memories that become legend and flame. Flame fades, and even memory is old and dust when the next age rekindles the spark.

Erin Solstice was cooking again. Numbtongue sat like an old man next to the kitchen door. He had no beard, but he stroked Mrsha’s head as she rubbed her furry chin and told the others of the bygone era when Erin Solstice would actually put in effort and do her job.

Shut up, you guys!

Vexed, Erin threw a muffin out the kitchen, and it bounced off the dark contempt for the world that was Gothica’s aura. The [Innkeeper] turned her back and took a few more deep breaths.

“Okay. Thank-you gift. I can do this. It’s gotta be magical, and I’m ready.”

Her eyes narrowed, and then it occurred to Erin—she had no idea what she was going to make. Mrsha slapped her face, and Ulvama, watching with the rest of the audience, poked Numbtongue.

“Why this matter?”

“She makes good food. Sometimes. Magic food.”

“Heh.”

The [Shaman] gave Numbtongue a look of frank disbelief and walked off. However, the rest of the new guests to the inn, the ordinaries, were watching eagerly, like the [Trader], and Lyonette was calling for more snacks. This was the specialty of the inn, and she hoped Erin would live up to expectations.

The problem was, as Numbtongue hurried over to give Erin a pep-talk—Erin was poking a muffin she’d pulled out as inspiration.

“All I know is that Niers and Foliana like muffins. Or maybe she does? He’s, um, small.”

“A Fraerling.”

“Right, so should I make super-small…?

Wil interrupted.

“The Titan can eat more than he weighs in food, Miss Erin. Tailor whatever you want to a normal person.”

Erin jumped and nodded. Kiish spoke loudly as well, elbowing Wil out of the way. She tried it on Peki and got a side-chop to the liver. Amazingly, Kiish still got the words out while holding her side.

“I’m sure…Earl Altestiel…wouldn’t mind anything you were going to make, Erin.”

The [Innkeeper] sighed. As if she didn’t have enough pressure on her back.

“Erin. Just put in effort.”

Numbtongue’s advice got the [Bard] a genuinely irritated glare, and he decided to tag in Imani instead. The [Chef] had hurried up to the inn the moment she’d heard, and Palt was trotting in with Bezale.

“Is it happening? We just galloped up here and…oh, hello. The [Strategists]. Cigar? I have some very fine stuff if you’re partial to…”

More watchers. And for once, Imani wasn’t the person Erin wanted to see. The [Chef] briskly looked around.

“Alright, Erin. Are you making more magical food? Let’s not make sludge. Do you actually know what you’re going to make?”

“I’m fine, Imani. I’ll just…feel it out.”

“That’s what you never do, Erin. You always have an idea of what you’re going to make, or a recipe.”

Exasperated, Imani looked at Erin, and she eyed the muffins.

“Let’s make some muffins. You can think of how to add your magic in. We’ll just start with…”

“Nope. Imani, I know you’re a great [Chef]. But I need backup, not, uh, direction. Because I’ve been doing training. While I was dead. And what I’ve learned is that my cooking style does work.”

Imani stopped and traded a glance of unease with Numbtongue, the [Strategists], who began to fear for their leader’s life, and Mrsha, who was now trying to take herself off the taste-tester list. Imani blew out her cheeks with exasperation and threw up her hands.

“Erin—who cooks blindly and just tosses things into a recipe—”

[Witches], Imani. Haven’t you seen their cauldrons?”

And there it was. Imani stopped, and Ulvama, napping as she balanced a drink and a straw on her chest while leaning back in a chair, cracked one eye open. Erin pulled something out and showed it to Imani.

This is what I’m putting into what I’m making. I don’t know what it is—the form matters, but I know what’s going into it. This.

It was her pot filled with emotions after the outside barbecue. Imani eyed it, because the lid was…vibrating slightly. She gulped.

“How do you cook with magic?”

Erin’s eyes twinkled.

“Don’t worry. I’ve had lessons from the best. You just help me figure out how to make something appetizing—I’ll handle the magic.”

She was rolling up her sleeves when it vaguely occurred to her that not once had the greatest coven of [Witches] in the world ever, remotely, in their timeless lessons of how to practice a [Witch]’s craft…ever suggested that what they made was tasty.

 

——

 

Magical cooking was still fascinating to the guests, so much so that Palt was mildly amplifying Erin’s voice as Lyonette and Ishkr struggled to keep up with demand.

Those two, because the few Workers had to be shown the ropes and Liska was…well, about Safry or Maran-level. However, everyone, even Lyonette, had a keen ear trained to Erin’s kitchen.

Before, she had used [Wondrous Fare] to make food, but it was clear Erin had no idea how it worked and was, rather like a mad scientist, tossing in magical foods and creating, with much trial and error, something that had a beneficial effect.

This time? She sounded like she knew what she was doing, and everyone was curious how you actually put magic into food. Even Octavia drooped into the inn, looking like she hadn’t slept in days.

“We’re making thank-you gifts, Imani. That’s important to keep in mind. Nothing for Altestiel, which I feel sorta bad about, but you can’t split targets.”

“Why not? Just make twice as much if it works…”

“No, no. That’s logical with food. Think magic. See this pot?”

Erin waved around the covered pot.

This is in limited supply, and it’s like, um, Wyvern steak. We can’t waste it. Also, that’s why it’s a thank-you gift. Because this fits the theme.”

The pot was filled with all the emotions from that gathering. Imani was struggling to make sense of it, but she was taking mental notes, and Palt was pulling a Grimalkin as well. Both had the thought that maybe Erin was teaching them where their class might go if they continued levelling.

And if so, they were going to do a better job when it was their turn. So Imani nodded.

“Thank-you gift. It fits with…the emotion? Do you have to do that?”

Erin thought about the question and shook her head.

“I could turn it into something else. Something nasty, even. But that’d be a waste.”

“Why?”

Ulvama had come back, and the [Shaman] stared challengingly at Erin. The [Innkeeper] frowned at the Hob she didn’t really know and replied slowly.

“Because it’s contentment. Happiness. Relief…well, it’s not all nice. Some of it’s bitter or—it’s like a soup stock. It wants to be one thing. And I could turn it into something completely opposite like wrath because it is power, but I’d lose like…two-thirds since I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Oh. The [Mages] got it. Bezale murmured to Palt.

“Sounds like elemental magicore.”

The Centaur shuddered.

“Dead gods, I hope not. She’d kill all of us if it’s anywhere near that toxic.”

Ulvama, on the other hand, just gave Erin a nod, as if she’d passed some basic test. Erin was trying to put it into simpler terms for Mrsha.

“Okay, let’s say you have vegetable soup stock. You could make something super meaty out of it like you would with beef broth, but why would you when it clearly goes well as vegetable soup stock? It takes more effort, and in this case, you’ll get less soup.”

Numbtongue raised a hand.

“Is soup like magic?”

“It is for [Witches]. Doesn’t it make sense?”

It seemed a bit too simple, so Imani pushed Erin slightly.

“Okay, Erin. What are we making?”

“Um…something that can be made in a pan. Like this. I could transfer it, but I don’t really want to try. What’s nice to eat? Any ideas?”

The [Bard] lifted one eyebrow.

“Soup?”

He was kicked out of the kitchen. A thank-you gift was not soup, and soup was very hard to magically transport. Mrsha leapt around excitedly and held up a card.

Sugar! Sweet things!

“Ooh, good idea, Mrsha! Imani, now it’s your turn. What sugary things do you make in a pot?”

The [Chef] was having some novel cogitation here, because Erin was demanding something that was adjacent to cooking—but not quite. It was like playing a game of Scrabble rather than writing an essay; Imani had to run down a list of pot-based sweets.

“Er…melted sugar? As in, sugar glass? I was going to do some of that. Or a sauce or jam, but—”

Erin waved excitedly at Imani.

“Oh! Oh! That’s a great idea! Candy, or a lollipop! But I hate those, so maybe just a candy. Like…gemstones, yeah. Only edible. And I could fill them up with something tasty. You know what I’m talking about?”

All the Earthers had an image of the quintessential candy treat. Numbtongue just imagined eating sweet gemstones and hoped his teeth could handle it.

“Well, I can help you with that. Let’s get the ingredients out.”

Relieved at some direction, Imani began the basics for sugar glass. She didn’t know how to make the exact candies Erin wanted, but she’d done sugar glass for fun before. It was actually very simple, although they had no corn syrup or cream of tartar. Happily, Imani had a few Skills to make up for that.

“[Ingredients Stabilization]. Once we get it into liquid form, that will stop the sugar from becoming crystals. But it won’t have much beyond sugar, water, and whatever flavoring you want—Erin!

They were making a bowl of sugar, water, and what Imani thought could substitute for cream of tartar—lemon juice. Erin had the pot heating on the stove under a mild flame, but she refused to open it to let ‘the good stuff’ out until they were ready to dump the ingredients in.

However, she had already begun to deviate from normal as she chopped up a piece of Sage’s Grass. Innocently, Erin sprinkled it in along with some sweet blue juice.

“What? Come on, Imani. This won’t hurt it.”

“Just—warn me before you throw something in! Once we make the sugar glass, what’s the plan?”

“A…muffin.”

Imani raised the spoon she was using to stir the mixture with dangerously. Erin waved her hands.

“No, listen! A sugar glass muffin! And then we fill it with batter or something nice. Doesn’t that sound cool?”

“It sounds like you’ll cut your mouth to pieces eating a hard shell and then a weird, underbaked interior.”

“Okay. Maybe lollipops or just regular candies. This is why you’re here, Imani.”

“I don’t want credit for this. Literally, don’t reference me in any part of the finished product.”

Erin sighed, but she opened the lid of the pot and quickly dumped in the sugary water. She closed the lid as the pot began to warm the sugar glass mixture, and Imani objected again.

“Erin! It’ll boil way too fast with the lid on! You’ll burn it—you need to be stirring and watching the sugar glass constantly!”

The [Innkeeper] cursed.

“Darn, you sure? The good stuff needs to be in there! It’ll get out! Stay, stay—

She spoke to the pot like it was a dog or something was inside and opened it to stir rapidly, then closed the lid. Imani closed her eyes.

“I—guess you could keep the lid closed, but keep checking! It needs to not heat up fast or it will caramelize. But it does need to get to—I don’t know the temperature. [Burn Protection]!

She pointed at the pot, and Erin raised a hand.

“Alright! [Chef] and [Innkeeper] powers combined!”

She never got an answering high-five. Imani grabbed the spoon.

“Keep stirring. Are you going to taste-test it?”

“You have all these great ideas, Imani. Although…it’s a [Witch]’s brew.”

“So they don’t taste-test what they make?”

“Eh…it’s sorta risky. But hey, that’s what we have volunteers for, right, Numbtongue? Numbtongue?”

 

——

 

It was still fun to watch. Lyonette kept dashing into the kitchen to pull out plates because the guests had flipped on having a dinner.

“I’m so sorry we’re delayed, sir—”

Even with pre-made food, she was having trouble, but the [Trader] waved it off. He looked at Ishkr, balancing eight plates and scolding Liska as he took half the room. Lyonette was the one falling behind. She, like Erin, had no Skills in the field.

“Not at all. Is that a [Preservation] that makes the food so fresh?”

“Yes, exactly! A Wandering Inn specialty! We—I’m sorry, I have to go!”

The man watched as Lyonette sped off. There was no one at the bar, which meant people were waiting for drinks. A Drake leaned on the counter.

“I’ll have a Frost Dragon shot, no bones.”

“A…I’m sorry, one second. A what?”

Drassi was supposed to be the [Bartender], but she’d moved on to bigger and better things. Lyonette, flustered, began to call Ser Sest over, but the Thronebearers and Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings were occupied.

 

——

 

“Excuse me, Miss Erin.”

Ser Sest appeared at the kitchen window and nearly scared Imani and Erin to death. They were watching the sugar, which had come to a boil, cool. It was a very simple thing, making sugar glass.

Erin just made it so darn complicated. Imani leapt and grabbed for Erin—but the apologetic [Knight] simply grabbed a piece of air and began towing it away.

“You may wish to close the shutters.”

The air was yelping and turned into a shadowy figure with a mask on. Erin stared at Ser Sest.

“Wow, those Thronebearers are good.”

Wil Kallinad nodded appreciatively. There was a thump and a brief scream as Normen kicked someone trying to come through the second-story window. The rest of the clandestines decided infiltration was a bad idea.

And they couldn’t come through the front door, either, because Dame Ushar had some kind of ability that meant that the people waiting to get in she mostly admitted—except for every covert operative whom she would politely direct away.

The [Lord] of Pheislant murmured to the others.

“Never challenge a Thronebearer in court. Find him on the battlefield and beat him to death. I think that’s a saying I heard growing up from the Order of Seasons.”

Erin chortled and went back to checking her glass. It looked like it was cooling, but Imani was right.

“Let’s get a taste-test. We can cool down a little spoonful—it should just taste like sugar. Any volunteers?”

She inserted a spoon quickly and removed some syrupy liquid that was deep, clear blue. Apprehensively, everyone drew back, and a little girl writhed in pain.

Even Visma was afraid, but Mrsha looked at the spoon and saw free sugar. Free magic sugar. She weighed this against a burnt tongue or eating something bad and raised a paw. She closed her eyes as Erin let Palt blow cold air over the spoon, then Erin popped it into her mouth.

“Mrsha?”

 

——

 

In a moment like this, everyone stared at the little Gnoll, or the [Innkeeper], or the pot. Which was why, in Shriekblade’s experience, that was when you should drop from the ceiling and behead everyone.

Since that wasn’t what she wanted to do, she looked for anyone about to do that. The Named-rank Adventurer heard a commotion below her, but she was looking out for…well.

The people not even the Thronebearers or the Brothers could find. They were good bodyguards, and Tessa was no specialist. She was a [Rogue], but even the specialized Thronebearers could run into someone much higher-level than them.

If there was someone like that in the inn, that was whom Tessa hunted and killed.

She didn’t think there was, at least, not anyone she’d not already marked. Anyone around her level knew she was in the inn since she wasn’t trying to hide her presence that much. If they tried coming through the second floor window like an idiot, they knew they were risking their lives.

Still, she was trying to prove how valuable she was to the [Princess], so when Lyonette, panting, drew Ser Dalimont aside for a checkup on security, Tessa joined them.

“Only spies, Dalimont? No one high-level?”

“Not that we could find.”

“Me either.”

The Thronebearer nearly drew his sword, and Lyonette muffled a scream as Tessa appeared. As if they’d forgotten her. Well, she hadn’t moved for two days from her hiding spot. Just enjoyed being free of that nagging cloud in her head.

“Tessa! Adventurer Tessa—you’ve been watching? No one’s…come in?”

Lyonette had an eye on Ishkr and the bar. People were waiting for drinks, and Liska was messing them all up. She groaned, and Tessa shook her head.

“High-levels are easy for me to spot.”

“But if they have concealment—”

“I’m high-level. It’s easy for me. Saliss is obvious. He moves too well.”

Dalimont politely nodded, still watching Tessa. She shook her head.

“There’s a lot of Level 30’s in this inn. But I’m certain only three people are above Level 40, including me.”

“That’s a relief.”

Lyonette sighed and then frowned as she had a thought.

“Over Level 40? Is Saliss here?”

“No.”

“Chaldion? Grimalkin, Pelt?”

“Nope.”

“Then who…”

Erin Solstice was one. So was Tessa herself. Lyonette’s first thought was that one of the Horns or another adventurer had reached that lofty goal, or Kiish or the [Strategists], but Tessa thought that they were hovering below that capstone. There were other members of the inn’s family that were pushing Level 30.

She eyed Ser Dalimont.

“He’s sitting in the common room. He’s not hostile. You let him in.”

Dalimont paled.

“That’s impossible. Ushar would notice a [Spy], even Level 50, if they walked up to her—”

“Well. He’s not a spy.”

Lyonette spun towards the common room just in time to see someone stand up and move across the room. Tessa’s claw pointed out the [Trader] as he stepped over to the bar where the angry queue was haranguing Liska.

“No, a Frost Dragon shot. No bones! That means—”

Liska was about to snap back and tell the Human with his worn vest he couldn’t be behind the bar when he removed his vest in one go. It vanished into a bag of holding, and she blinked at the long, white sleeves, deep maroon overcoat, and oddly trim look to his attire. He took the bottle she was trying to measure into a shot, and his hands blurred.

Tessa could stab a man eighteen times before he blinked. She saw the newcomer’s hands move about as fast—only his result wasn’t a dead body but a shot glass, which slid into the angry Drake’s claw.

“Frost Dragon shot. Firebreath Whiskey, one half, Cenidau Frostsip. No bones; no ice. Apologies for the wait. Here is your drink, your drink, your drink—and there appears to be no bourbon in stock.”

Three orders appeared, and the man moved past the bar as the startled customers paid up or sipped at the drinks. Lyonette started across the room.

“Who is that—

She heard an exclamation and then saw him reappear with two dozen orders. This time, the rest of the guests had noticed him, and Numbtongue put a hand on his sword. He stared at the stranger as a floating plate zoomed across the room onto a table.

The ‘[Trader]’ winked at Lyonette and then stepped back as Ser Dalimont charged at him. He side-stepped the [Knight], and as Ser Dalimont turned, a table moved of its own volition and blocked the [Knight]. Ser Dalimont slammed into it, and the newcomer raised his hands.

“Forgive me if I’m disturbing things. I just saw the inn was understaffed and decided to lend a hand. I’ll remove myself if I’m unwanted, but at least let me see what she’s going to make.”

His eyes twinkled, and he stood taller as Lyonette pointed at him. Tessa was still relaxed. Lyonette grabbed her arm, and Shriekblade nearly stabbed her.

“Who is that?

Tessa removed Lyonette’s arm fast and shrugged.

“I thought you knew? He’s not dangerous. The Gold-ranks are more threatening. He’d be annoying to fight since this is an inn, but he’s just an [Innkeeper]. Definitely over Level 40.”

Lyonette looked up and saw eyes like twinkling stars. As if the pupils had a shine. That innocuous man turned, and he had the air like one of the Players of Celum. A pause about him, and then she saw his uniform and that wink. He strode forwards with another wink as the table and chairs moved out of Ser Dalimont’s path.

“Do you need a hand, Miss? The innkeeper’s floor is a battleground, but a [Princess] is outmatched in our territory.”

“Are you…?”

There was one stop along her journey south that the [Princess] Lyonette had wanted to make, but she had been wary of being spotted. Yet it was a famous inn, the most famous in the continent. She looked at the [Innkeeper] and realized—

The competition had come to scope out Erin Solstice.

 

——

 

Erin didn’t notice the commotion at first. She was staring at the pot as it cooled. She was a bit disappointed.

It wasn’t as magical as she was hoping. Oh, it was made well, but she glanced sideways at Imani and felt a bit…annoyed.

Imani was making the cooking good. But good was not magic. It was like a tug-of-war, and Erin felt like she’d lost something.

It’d still do something. And judging from Mrsha’s reaction, it was the best darn sugar glass she’d ever had. She was rolling around, waving her paws at the others.

“Is it good or did she burn her tongue?”

Mrsha was smiling hugely, but she leapt about, doing jump-kicks. She was feeling amazing! It was like a happy rush had filled her from toes to her ears. No, not happy—she felt like she had at the barbecue, but concentrated.

“It’s not one thing yet. See, it’s all kinds of emotions, so I think Mrsha’s getting it unfiltered. I’ll need to change it up.”

Erin sighed as she stared at the pot. It was still trying to remove the lid, and the steam was making it rattle slightly. Imani frowned at the pot and then at Mrsha.

“Is it—are we just making magical drugs, Erin?”

“I’ll try the next—”

Palt backed off as Imani glared at him. Erin shook her head.

“No, that’s not how it works. Think back to the picnic, Imani. How did you feel? It was a relief, wasn’t it? A bit healing? That’s what I’m trying to put into the glass.”

“Oh. Well…I suppose that’s better. So Mrsha’s just getting that?”

The little Gnoll’s antics were beginning to concern the audience. She had gone from grinning excitedly and a sugar-high to suddenly running about and rolling on the inn’s floor. She squirmed, and Erin frowned.

“Hm. Maybe there’s not enough sugar?”

Not enough—

“I mean…that’s a small pot. I needed a cauldron, and it’s not much sugar glass. Maybe it’s too concentrated.”

That was a lot of emotion packed into a little amount of liquid. Mrsha was rolling about, panting. Erin glanced at the pot and hesitated.

Was it vibrating? The heat was off, and the sugar glass should have mostly been solid. But the lid was rattling. Erin put one hand on it to keep it shut…and then she developed a worried look on her face.

“Wait a second. Can you be too full of contentment and happiness?”

The others looked blankly at Erin. She elaborated, feeling something building in the pot. Erin gazed at Mrsha, hugging Ulvama’s leg and kicking at the ground, as if trying to subdue the feeling bursting in her, out of control. Pinch me! I’m too happy!

“Like you want to roll around and cry because you’re so happy and everything is so nice? Like you could burst with…?”

One spoonful had done that to Mrsha. And an entire pot of it was sitting on the stove. Erin felt the pressure rising, and Imani’s eyes slowly drifted down to the very small pot, now trying to contain…she looked at the [Innkeeper] and realized her mistake.

She shouldn’t have been here. She and Palt shouldn’t have come to the inn. Imani had been trying to avert another culinary disaster. Instead?

She was standing right next to ground-zero. Erin lifted the pot, and her eyes went wide. She grabbed it to her chest with both hands and squeezed the lid shut.

There was no steam to release, or gases like from baking soda or carbonation, but the lid was shaking, and the pot was making ominous sounds. Erin looked around and then shouted.

“Oh no! Run for it! It’s gonna explode!”

The observers around the doorway broke apart, leaping for safety as Erin Solstice charged out of the inn. The strange [Innkeeper], Lyonette, the guests, saw Erin rolling forwards, holding the lid shut.

Out of the way! It’s gonna go boom! Push me outside, someone! Hurry!

One brave soul—Venaz—grabbed Erin’s wheelchair and ran her past the guests as everyone leapt from their tables. Erin was halfway out the door when she saw the people waiting to come in, the Thronebearers, and saw her mistake.

 

——

 

Consider the psychology of some [Spies] or operatives ordered to watch the inn. You were already jumpy because Shriekblade was on the prowl, and there were a lot of people in your line of work, and you’d been blocked from entering the inn, which already made you feel outclassed.

Then the [Innkeeper] you were supposed to watch came rolling out the door, holding a pot. She held it up and screamed.

No, take me back in! It’ll kill everyone out here! The [Garden]! Get me to—

A stampede began outside as the door slammed shut. The [Guards] on the wall watched, called in the alarm, and took bets on whether this would escalate. Most veterans didn’t even flinch, to the rookies’ amazement.

This wasn’t even noteworthy unless the top of the inn blew off. Then they’d pay attention.

 

——

 

There was only one place devoid of people that Erin could get to. She made Venaz turn, and the door to the [Garden] opened. Erin prayed that Bird wasn’t in there and threw the pot. It had begun to jerk, and she swore she felt the metal deforming as the pressure reached a critical point.

Too late she realized something. Her concoction of not-quite-finished magical cooking?

She’d just hurled it into the most magically charged room in the inn. Straight at the hill filled with Sage’s Grass. The door slammed shut, and Erin turned her head and screamed.

Take c—

 

——

 

Numbtongue hadn’t really expected much from the pot. It might blow its lid in, what, a cloud of deadly happiness? But he thought Erin was overexaggerating as she tossed the pot.

Then the inn shook. A rumble went through the walls and his feet. He almost staggered, and the guests cried out in alarm. The Hobgoblin decided to draw his sword again.

“What was that? What was—Himilt, a Goblin—

A man was ducked under the table next to another one. Both had faintly red eyes, and Numbtongue thought they were fairly handsome. Nice teeth. They stared at him with a bunch of red jars on the table as the Hobgoblin rushed forwards with everyone else. Erin Solstice had her hand on the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She opened it with a trembling hand as the mysterious [Innkeeper] and the other guests crowded around.

Erin looked into the garden and gasped. Mrsha, recovered from her contentment-overload via the application of mortal terror, peeked around Erin’s wheelchair and gasped as well.

The garden was not a shredded wasteland from the pot exploding. The top of the pot had blown off as the contents were released, free from Erin’s grip at last.

The pot’s lid was still in the air. Bird had seen it shoot out of the roof of the inn and was staring up at it as it soared into the distance.

Pot birds? Why did no one tell me—

But the contents of the pot hadn’t gotten that far. They’d showered up, and now—

They were drifting down. Erin looked up at the failed sugar glass, which had always been too sensible by half. The nearly-cooled mixture hadn’t been able to take that much emotion after all. It had exploded upwards like shrapnel. And that—that was what was drifting down, defying the laws of gravity.

It looked like splinters of glass, some light blue, others flecked with brilliant flakes of currant or rose-red. Shards of semi-transparent sugar, warped like a fragment of wood from the incredible stresses only an explosion could create.

“Sugar daggers.”

Shriekblade gazed up as the magical pieces of glass spun as they fell to earth. Venaz reached out and almost took one, but hesitated. Erin caught one in her hand, and the edges were sharp and nearly cut her skin.

“Wow. Now that’s something.”

“Erin…”

Lyonette was lost for words. Even the foreign [Innkeeper] looked startled as Erin held up her odd creation to the light. What were you supposed to do with this? There was no making regular confections out of this.

Erin had a feeling that the explosion had changed the sugar glass in other ways, too. But she held the piece of deadly, beautiful sugar up to the light, and that was when her instincts twinged.

[Wondrous Fare]. She hadn’t had a plan other than ‘thank-you’ going into this. And as Imani said, that was always a bad idea. Now? Something she’d been told mixed with an idea in her head.

“I know how to salvage this. Hey—grab the pieces of glass! And don’t nibble it! It’s not done!”

Her guests looked at her and then scrambled into the garden to grab the rest before they fell. Pisces pointed and whisked the pieces out of the air around him.

Erin rolled past Imani, back to the kitchen.

“Sorry, Imani. I’m gonna ask you to sit this one out, okay? I’ll ask if I need help with how to make something. Is that okay?”

“Perfectly.”

The [Chef] answered faintly. Erin was looking around, frowning.

“We’ve got strawberries and raspberries, and I guess that’s what jam is. Tomatoes…nah. But what about those glowing red things?”

“Sweetberries? I have some in our kitchen.”

Palt started. Erin pointed at him.

“Get them! I need red! But not just red. It’s—darn. You can’t squeeze a steak. That’s gross, and it’s not good enough. Unless there’s, like, a super-rare on—what’s that?”

She stopped on her way across the inn and peered at something. A pair of men stared back.

“Hello. Do I know you?”

“No, Miss [Innkeeper]. That is—we’re new to Liscor, and we just stopped by—”

Fierre had the worst recommendations. Himilt tensed as Erin pointed to the jars they’d bought.

“What’s that?”

“Er—just—”

Bamer was sweating, but Erin peered at the jars.

“They’re blood. Hey, this is from the blood bank!”

“We’re using it as pest deterrents. To bait monsters and—”

“Can I have a jar? I’ll pay you back.”

The two Vampires, tensed and wary, looked at each other. Imani covered her mouth.

Erin! You can’t be—

Erin plucked a jar of blood up and gazed at it. Her eyes flickered, and she lifted a finger to her mouth.

“Imani, I appreciate it, but we’re not cooking in your world anymore. We’re doing witchcraft.”

Her eyes began to sparkle. She dipped the shard of glass in the jar of blood, and then it really did look like a dagger made of crystal, stained crimson. Say what you will—half the inn was horrified.

The other half? Gothica, Numbtongue, the Vampires, Shriekblade, and certain people with a predilection for the macabre?

They loved the aesthetic.

You should definitely make sure your blood wasn’t nasty. Bring it to a light boil, and yes, it probably ruined the blood-qualities for transfusion, especially if you mixed it with glowing sweetberries and a raspberry paste.

But that wasn’t the point. Erin added some purified water next and let the mixture boil down. Then she had to think.

A pile of super-sharp pieces of magical sugar glass was resting in a bowl. Her sweet blood sauce was closer to savory, but even if she packaged both, something was missing.

You’d bleed for a bite of this. If the sharp sugar didn’t get you, dipping it in the sauce meant blood would be spilled either way. But that wasn’t the theme of this dish. Pain was not. Erin had called upon all the power of that night outside, and it was still there.

What was it? Past the sharp bite of pain, unleashed in the explosion of magic…Erin smiled as she found it.

Some of the pieces of blown glass were hollow. They’d expanded in the explosion and had trapped air inside.

“I need a needle. Or something very fine.”

Apista offered her stinger. Numbtongue offered his sword. Erin decided not to use Pelt’s kitchen knife.

In the end, Erin put on a glove and used an ordinary, super-hot needle to poke a hole in the glass. Then she filled it up with a funnel and dropper from Stitchworks and sealed the hole by melting the glass together.

“Erin—it’s not even my best work—it’s probably stale!”

Octavia wrung her hands anxiously, but Erin insisted. The amount of healing potion was minute, anyways.

“That doesn’t matter, Octavia. The point is that the healing potion was used. And it saved your life, didn’t it, Numbtongue?”

“Got stabbed right here. Good stuff.”

He had given her the half-opened bottle he’d kept from the Meeting of Tribes. Erin barely used more than half of the remaining liquid, and then she looked at what she’d made.

The final thing was a two-fold package. Delicately wrapped splinters of exploded glass, light blue, sometimes so faint it was only visible as you held it up to the mirror, flecked with bits of ruby Sage’s Grass. Some were filled with glowing liquid, light orange or yellow speckled with bits of violet. Healing potion.

But you dipped and drizzled it with a crimson sauce that added to the glow, because it was slightly luminescent. A blood-sauce.

And all of it was sugary, it tasted good, but it was a confusing gift. Nevertheless, Erin sent it off with Wil, and the impatient Titan of Baleros had set it up so that he got it within twenty minutes from Erin finishing the product.

All the [Lord] had to do was get to the Mage’s Guild and let them teleport it. The [Mages] had been ready for the last half-hour; as he’d said, money was no object.

 

——

 

Numbtongue would have paid a lot to see Niers’ face when he received this thank-you present, as would all of his students.

Foliana didn’t have to pay as she saw the basket and jar of sauce, neatly tied together with a ribbon and a card, delivered into the Titan’s room. Niers blinked at the basket and then grabbed for the note.

“What’s…I, ah, it’s very interesting.”

Niers tried not to act like he knew what it was. He had tried not to peek, but he already knew what Erin had sent him. Even so—up close, he stared at a shard of glass as long as he was, and his lips moved when he read the instructions.

“…blood sauce? Does she think we eat people in Baleros?”

“Mm. Maybe it’s because you’re a warlord.”

“Shut it, Foliana. It’s—well, it’s unique. And I can’t say I’ve ever had anything like it before. Yes—extraordinary. And made with magic. I’ll need to cut pieces off. I don’t think I can actually eat it unless I want a mouthful of this sugar glass each time. But I’ll, um…”

The Fraerling paced around the basket, still reading from the card. He was trying to talk it up, Foliana could tell.

She was enjoying this, despite the hole in her stomach. The bandages were bloody again, and she was just glad she wasn’t stuck in the casket. She thought it was a stupid gift if it was intended to be romantic or even much of a thank-you gift.

That was, until she saw the Titan freeze, mid-step, and glance her way. Foliana’s nose twitched.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Give me the card.”

Niers tried to shield it, but Foliana reached over, felt some of her healing wounds tear, grimaced—and snatched the card. It was worth the pain. She stared at the writing, and then the most evil, diabolical smile appeared as she lowered it.

“It’s for me.

Suddenly, it made sense. Niers blustered as Foliana reached for the gift.

“I’m sure Erin got it confused. She probably thought that since you’re technically my superior—Foliana, don’t you dare. It was addressed to—Foliana!

She picked up the first bit of sugar and felt a prickle on her fingers. It cut into her fur even holding it gently. She dipped it into the blood.

“Mm. I eat blood sometimes. Favorite foods. You don’t.”

“I’ve bathed in the blood of my enemies. I’ll eat raw meat if I have to. Give me one.”

Foliana ignored him. She tasted the blood sauce and found it was savory. Then she nibbled at the piece of sugar glass. Then—took a big bite.

For all his bluster, even Niers winced at the first bite Three-Color Stalker took. Because even if she was a Named Adventurer and had been a [Gourmand]—she sliced up her mouth on the glass.

It hurt. But it was only faint cuts, not a sharp pain. Foliana chewed with a faint grimace, then felt something else tingling on her tongue.

The potion inside. It soothed the cuts, and the pain she’d braced herself for faded. It didn’t make the experience of chewing glass any less painful, but the entire treat was symbolic.

The pain was no fun, but it was what came after that made Foliana’s eyes widen and stop. Niers had a moment of panic, because he’d never seen that expression on Foliana’s face.

The gift had been watched from the moment it left Erin’s inn to now. There was no way it was poison or dangerous—unless Erin wanted them dead. But she wouldn’t…

Complacency. He had fallen for a trap, because he’d been blind once before. Niers croaked.

[Healer]. [H—

A paw gently shot out and stopped him from calling for help. The Titan breathed again as Foliana blinked. Then she swallowed.

“What was that? Foliana? What did it taste like?”

For answer, she showed him the card. At the bottom, Erin Solstice had written the name of her new treat. Her invention.

It wasn’t something she’d make much of. It was a very special, accidental bit of magical cooking. Frankly, not even sugar-loving Mrsha would enjoy hurting herself to complete the experience.

But what was the sensation you had when the potion kicked in? What…could Erin distill from that long picnic?

The emotions around her death, the quiet contemplation of all that had been done and sacrificed? She could have drawn many emotions from there. Contentment. Happiness. Grief, even uncertainty or satisfaction.

But what she’d pulled out of the explosion, what she’d decided to make for the wounded commander of the Forgotten Wing Company was something simple. It was written right there in the name:

 

Shards of Relief, from The Wandering Inn.

PS. Get well soon, Foliana! I’ve never met you, but you seem nice.

 

The Squirrel Beastkin reached for another piece of the snack and dipped it in the sauce before taking a bite. Niers stared up at her and, despite himself, couldn’t feel petty about that. He watched Foliana grimace as she ate the sharp treat.

“I know you like weird food, Foliana, but maybe save it for later? There’s no healing potion while you’re cursed.”

He saw her eyes flicker down to him. Foliana stuck out her tongue at Niers.

“Bleh. You can’t have one.”

“I wasn’t saying—just one would—hm?”

Foliana’s tongue was red. Probably from the sauce. But Niers frowned as he saw a distinct lack of the microcuts he was sure were in her mouth. And then his eyes narrowed as she tore open a second crystal and sipped from the nectar inside. Foliana sighed—and then her eyes sharpened. She stuck her tongue out another time, and he saw no cuts.

“Wait a second. Foliana…you’re cursed.”

She’d left a lot of blood, and the [Assassin] she’d failed to kill had kept her from healing from her wounds with curse magic. There was no way a healing potion, especially a low-grade one, would bypass those Skills or the hexes.

Yet Foliana stretched slightly and this time failed to tear open her stomach wound. In fact…she smacked her lips and turned her head to the door.

“Get me a big healing potion. Now.”

A servant ran as Niers gazed at Foliana. Three-Color Stalker took another bite of the Shards of Relief.

“…How?”

That was all he could think to say. He was stunned. The Commander of the Forgotten Wing company, one of the greatest [Rogues] in the world, savored each bite of the sharp thank-you present. And she decided that it was one of the best she’d ever gotten. Amused, she gazed down at Niers.

“Nothing like a [Witch] for breaking curses. There must have been a lot of magic in these things.”

All the magic of a Level 46 [Innkeeper] and her closest guests. Niers Astoragon whistled softly. And the apprehension—exasperation, fine—and a bit of pique he’d been feeling faded into…something else.

He reached for the smallest Shard of Relief, and Foliana flicked him off the table.

“Mine.”

“Foliana!”

 

——

 

Imani knew that nothing would ever be the same. Not because Erin had worked wonders there.

Or rather, not just because she’d done something crazy, dangerous, and magical.

The Wandering Inn would change, because, after Erin sent off the Shards of Relief, after she changed the world in her way, she wheeled herself back into the kitchen and went back to cooking.

“Okay, this time, let’s make them a lot softer. Less sharpness, more…candy. Can we do jello stuff? I think it should be blue. Blue fruits are our specialty! We need, like…what’s jello made of?”

“Gelatin? We actually have some, Erin. You would not believe how we got a source, actually.”

Imani watched as Erin poured a new base into a pot. She’d lost all her witchy-magic, so she was back to [Wondrous Fare].

That was enough. Erin poured a mana potion into the pot in lieu of water. Far less sugar, a bit of gelatin…she hummed as the guests calmed down outside.

“~~ Sugar glass, sugar glass. Put a bit of mana in it and it’ll be done in a flash! And taste like—”

Mrsha and Bird waited for her to finish her song, but Erin hesitated. Numbtongue tried to say what rhymed with flash, but Lyonette covered his mouth.

Unfortunately, Mrsha figured it out. She was still rolling about and giggling silently as Erin tried to work the quickly cooling sugary ‘glass’ into what she needed. This time, it was a lot less sharp. But she was trying to pour the cooling mixture into something other than a pan.

“I need—perfect circles! Spheres! But hollow! Is there a mold I could use or something? Tiny spheres! I’m making candy!”

Kevin raised one hand.

“Take two half-circles and put them together. There’s gotta be something circular in the inn. Maybe just use shot glasses if you have to and, like, cut then glue them together. Any [Carpenter] can make a tray.”

Erin pointed at him.

“Kevin, you’re a genius.”

“Um. No, it’s sorta basic shapes. But thanks.”

It took Erin nearly an hour in the kitchen. In truth, she took that long because the first batch wasn’t enough, and she made copious mistakes. But small ones, like overheating her mix, then figuring out how to extract the hardened, resinous candy without breaking them or the shot glasses into pieces.

Erin decided she needed to order custom molds like Kevin said, but got the second batch to work with a bit of oil coating the glass so she could pop it out when the mix was done.

Then she had two semi-transparent light cyan semi-spheres which she could glue together, carefully, carefully. Erin muttered as she put the last of barely ten candies on the table.

“Okay, I need to put them together, seal them—with a bit of heat—and then bore a hole and fill them up. Each. Wow, this is too much work. I quit! I’m out!”

Exasperated, she tried to wheel away, but Mrsha tugged her back. Erin grumbled.

“…Fine. How about some blueberries? Also, I need Sage’s Grass and, um…what else is magical? You know what, blue juice and Sage’s Grass might do. It’s not going to be the biggest thing ever, right? Get me more mana potion and…you know, it needs something else.”

“Dreamleaf extract? I’ve got—”

“Palt, I will stab you! How about some honey?”

Even then, the filled circular candies were missing something. A bit of the razzle-dazzle. Erin thought they were fairly magical, but even if they were far less involved than the Shards of Relief…she pursed her lips.

“It’s not magic-y enough. Octavia? How do you make something super-magical? Pisces? Ceria?”

Three of her friends looked up, and each replied with a different answer.

“Kill something even more magical and use its parts. Or soak it in magical bases for months.”

“Uh—put it in the center of a magical leyline of some kind? Or a small focusing ritual?”

“Bury it in a graveyard for a century?”

Erin looked at the three and pointed a finger.

“…Ceria. Ceria’s our person. Pisces too, sort of. Even Octavia.”

“Yay, me.”

The [Innkeeper] pointed at her [Garden of Sanctuary].

“What we’ll do is—we’ll bury these in a little jar. They’ll stay good, especially if it’s airtight. We just bury it around the Sage’s Grass and pull it out after a few days or a week or more. And tada, more magic! But these will probably do as prototypes. Wanna taste?”

She offered them around, and since they looked decent and nothing had gone boom this time, her guests all took one and thoughtfully chewed or bit it in half.

They were sweet pieces of sugar glass that had a bit more give than pure glass thanks to the gelatin. And if you decided you didn’t want to wait for them to dissolve, you’d get a burst of honey and blue juice in the center.

Delightfully sweet. Ceria put three in her mouth and got the ire of everyone else because that meant only seven were left. Mrsha sucked on hers happily. Yep, this was pretty good! Then she frowned and produced her wand. She made a big ball of [Light] appear.

“Mrsha! That’s wonderful! Did Gire teach you that?”

Mrsha nodded absently. She felt her hair lifting on end and then glanced at Erin. The [Innkeeper] waited.

“Well? Do you feel mana-full?”

“It’s like…a weak, weak, weak mana potion.”

Octavia chewed on hers thoughtfully. Erin beamed and clapped her hands together.

“Yes, exactly! I call it—mana balls! No, mana orbs! Orbs of mana! Mana…magic…”

“Mana Candies?”

Palt removed one from his mouth and decided this was the best mana potion he’d ever eaten. The regular mana potions? Sometimes he did think if he kicked up a ball of dirt and added it to the mana potion it would taste better.

Erin agreed. She explained to her test group the theory behind her Mana Candies.

“So what you do is you eat it. And it’ll slowly release mana, hence the shell. And inside is, like, more mana concentrated. I think kids’ll love it and [Mages] too. Best of all, it’s not the hardest thing to make, and I don’t need to gather stuff like for the Shards of Relief. What do you think, Bezale?”

Erin tried to include the Minotauress into the discussion since Montressa was gone and Bezale looked left out. That turned out to be a mistake. The [Spellscribe] folded her arms.

“…So it works exactly like a mana potion? Except it’s less potent, you have to wait a bit for them to fill you, and they’ll go bad unlike mana potions, which last a long time if the bottles are sealed.”

The reproachful look Erin gave Bezale made the Minotauress relent a bit.

“…But they taste sweet.”

“Yep. Not like that’s cool or anything. Not like I just made some lovely candies that anyone can eat. I don’t see anyone else selling candy. See if I make you a candy cane come Christmas. I could even do cool shapes, but too bad it’s only slightly magical.”

Erin sulked as Mrsha patted her on the hand and glared at Bezale. The Minotauress closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry I don’t enjoy sweet things that much. Will they have more effects if you bury them in the ground for a while?”

The [Innkeeper] sighed.

“Nah, probably not. They’ll just restore more mana. They’re really just treats and stuff. I think it’ll sell? It’s a Wandering Inn-exclusive, though! Imani can’t make these without [Wondrous Fare].”

“Oh no, whatever will we do, dear? She’s running us out of business.”

Palt hugged Imani dramatically and planted a kiss on her head. Erin rolled her eyes, but everyone was chuckling in relief. Erin nodded as she noted the recipe down.

“Just ordinary mana candy restoratives. But you probably don’t get mana burn from these.”

Ceria slowly stopped chewing on her huge mouthful of candy. She narrowed her eyes. What, as in the conundrum of all [Mages] when you drank so many mana potions you were incapable of replenishing your magic without poisoning yourself? Bezale froze and turned back to Erin.

“…go on.”

 

——

 

The Wandering Inn was filled with cheers when Erin Solstice came out with the mana candies. Lyonette went around the tables, telling everyone that they’d be a regular on the menu in a week—and they’d keep for another week!

Maybe they wouldn’t be an adventurer’s new standby, especially since they would grow stale, but they were useful and the first of new magical foods. The Wandering Inn was back!

Erin Solstice was back, and people were marking her name down. Not in the same category as the Titan of Baleros, but if there was a map for people, not places, hers was on it. And The Wandering Inn got its own spot on regular maps.

Individuals in Izril and elsewhere that had never bothered to look into a few coincidences sat up and marked her name. They looked into her background and began factoring her into their plans. As an obstacle or ally. She could be either, and if she were an enemy—well, at least it was proven that she had a weakness to being shot.

Which, to be fair, was most people’s. However, the proof of this was in none other than the man who greeted Erin Solstice in front of all the tables he’d helped serve with Ishkr. He looked like a performer, an [Actor], and a [Waiter] all crossed together.

“Erin…this is…”

The [Innkeeper] had been cooking all day, so she’d barely left the kitchen. She blinked as the man offered her a bow.

“No way. Are you an [Innkeeper]? Like Timbor? You’re…high-level.

“Miss Erin Solstice, my name is Barnethei, and I must apologize for the subterfuge earlier. I came to Liscor last week and did a tour of the city. My inn is The Adventurer’s Haven in the north. I wonder if Liscor has heard of it?”

Erin’s brows shot together. The Adventurer’s Haven? It sounded so…

“Erin, that’s the most famous inn in Izril! It’s up north, close to First Landing! This is—”

The highest-level [Innkeeper] in Izril. Or was he? Erin felt a similar level of—intensity from him. She felt he could do amazing things, and certainly, he could make dishes levitate, and she suspected that was only a drop in the bucket of his talents.

Yet he wasn’t more than her. In fact, Barnethei gave Erin a deep bow.

“I’m afraid your [Princess] is mistaken, Innkeeper Solstice.”

Lyonette started and looked around hurriedly.

“I’m not a—”

Mrsha, Numbtongue, and half the guests rolled their eyes. Yes, yes. Skip that part, would you?

The other [Innkeeper] nodded to Erin.

“I should be clear. I am a Level 41 [Vice Innkeeper]. I was sent here to see The Wandering Inn, and I am glad I did. It may be slightly understaffed—but I can see how it earned its reputation. I will report back to my boss.”

“Your boss?”

His eyes shone, and the [Innkeeper] nodded.

“I am her second-in-command. The Adventurer’s Haven is a large establishment. The highest-level [Innkeeper] on Izril is over Level 50. She was an adventurer of some acclaim back in the day. I was sent here to see Liscor’s finest. She will see you soon, Erin Solstice.”

He took a bow, and Erin Solstice saw him smile like a challenge. Competition? Lyonette looked at Ishkr and Numbtongue and Mrsha, and the Gnoll girl folded her arms.

Well then. Bring it on. Erin Solstice stopped Mrsha from offering Barnethei fisticuffs. She smiled uncomprehendingly.

“I’d—like to meet her. Is she going on vacation or something? We’re sort of far from First Landing, even by magic door.”

For answer, the [Vice Innkeeper] just smiled widely.

“Not to worry. We’ll come to you soon enough. It’s been a long time since The Adventurer’s Haven has gone far—but our inn moves.”

He saluted her and stepped out the door as Erin Solstice’s jaw dropped.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: I hope you found this chapter salutary. I feel a bit—discombobulated. Which, I know, is not encouraging for the start of my writing month.

But in fairness, I just finished a 46,000 chapter for The Last Tide Pt. 2. And that was a fight. I actually took my break to recharge since it was so hard and I realized it wasn’t just burnout or fatigue—sometimes chapters are hard to write.

I had to go back to my roots, and outline heavily. Plan ahead—I think I had at least 7,000 words in my outline or more. I think it wasn’t bad what I got out, but big chapters are hard.

This one was more spontaneous, but I have been planning ahead for Volume 9, and so parts are ‘pre-written’. I know the scene. For instance, in this chapter I had actual parts of dialogue written around Erin making the Shards of Relief and mana candies. I knew that the Vampires were coming to Liscor, so I added that with no pre-written notes.

Planning is hard. Keeping secrets is hard. But you know what isn’t hard? Joining the sweepstakes for free merchandise. If you didn’t see the huge…obvious…picture at the top of the page, what were you doing? Hit the link, take a look, and join in! I’ll let you know more, but I’m excited to announce it.

That’s all from me for now. Thanks for reading, check out the giveaway, and vote in the Patreon poll! It should be up right with this chapter. See you next time! Hopefully no chipmunks. Did I tell you it came back? Pro tip for rodents: don’t hide in the dryer. It was…sad. That particular chipmunk will not be coming back.

 

 

Giveaway, Defenders of the Cave, Troll, and more by BoboPlushie!

 

Shh Erin, Gire and Mrsha, and Pie Relc by pkay!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/peekay

 

Tok by LeChatDemon!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.04

(Check out this link for an announcement for The Wandering Inn’s official merchandise store!)

[I will be doing an AMA on r/progressionfantasy on July 26th, 2022! A post will be made at 8 AM EST. I’ll start answering questions…later than that time. I’ll announce it when it happens.]

 

Purely hypothetically. What would you consider the worst, most existential threats to existence? The top three answers might not surprise you.

For instance—most of the world would almost instantly say ‘the Demons’ or ‘Rhir’ or ‘Crelers’, and mean the same thing by and large. Which was fair—one half of all armageddon events had come from Rhir*.

 

*Armageddon events being an actual scale of measurement used by [Historians], which defined the event as a worldwide disaster if at least three nations per continent were destroyed or disintegrated to an extent from which they might never recover. Cataclysmic events were continent or nation-wide by contrast. Disasters just sucked.

 

The point is that Rhir was the first answer from most. But it might surprise the ordinary citizen who thought of the Demons as a hopefully-abstract threat to know that they also thought Rhir harbored the potential for world-ending disaster.

They just thought that the culprits wouldn’t be them.

 

——

 

When he was younger, an [Archmage] had told him in private confidence that he would get bored of physical intimacy.

Othius the Fourth of the Blighted Kingdom had forgotten many things, but he hadn’t forgotten laughing about that. But then—he had never expected to live this long.

The joys of sex—of any extreme or position—went before you lost your appetite for food. Then went drugs, even magical ones. The desire was still there, but the satisfaction?

It dulled. And no matter how much you tried to…intensify…the old feelings, there came a time when you found yourself putting on a pair of boots and a Ring of Greater Ice Resistance and clearing your schedule for a day and asked yourself—what was the point?

Humans were not meant to live forever. They weren’t even meant to live past two hundred years. It wasn’t even the way their bodies aged or took disease or injury or organs just stopped working—they were mentally weak.

Othius had studied the problem when he realized how long he might live. Half-Elves, Dwarves, the longer-lived species, even Djinni? They had mechanisms that allowed them to function over the centuries.

For instance, half-Elves got obsessed with things. Yes, they had their timeless villages, but they also had passions. Polymaths were rarer among their kind. They might move on from a specialization and study complementary areas, but they tended to throw themselves into being something for a while.

On the other hand, Dwarves were sometimes incredibly, usefully grounded in the present. They could be as ‘normal’ as other species they worked with and functionally live lives in cities or wherever they wanted.

Then, when they moved or retired or found their friends passing, they would retreat for a decade or two and process what they’d gone through. ‘Going home to Grandfather’ was an older term from when they’d been more far-flung.

Well, those days had come again. As for Djinni—Othius had spoken to many, and some claimed their shifting natures made their slavery bearable in a way. They changed, and because they were pure magic, the same Djinni did not bear their torment.

Each species had a method, and generalizations obviously left out the individual ways they succeeded or failed. Othius knew this—and knew he didn’t have their coping mechanisms.

He could not take a few decades off. His work was not a passion in the same way it had been, more of a burden that he struggled to carry. And as for change…all he felt sometimes was his body dying, piece by piece.

Why did he cling to life, then? Vengeance. Vengeance, the belief no one could yet succeed him, and the desire to triumph. For his bones to be the last beholden to war and the despair of the Blighted Kingdom.

What he found was that after lovers, after largesse, after bodily desires, what the Blighted King dreamed of was the time thereafter. Of the completeness that only the Blighted Kingdom had.

Take the Drakes’ miserable, petty wars with each other and the Gnolls, for instance. They had done their best to wipe out a species, and Othius had watched their battles. They acted as if it had been inevitable, and in some ways, would always be inevitable—they were in a battle with Gnolls and now Antinium for dominance of Izril.

But the Blighted Kingdom had Drakes. The largest populations of Drakes and Gnolls hither-to the migration to Chandrar by the tribes.

They didn’t kill each other. They were, in fact, very amicable. The Demon threat united them, as did their identities as a common people rather than a species.

“No species should be wholly isolated from another. A people that function and act purely in service to themselves is a selfish one. Each race should be part of a greater collective or ruled by an outsider.”

He penned that down himself in Memoirs, the 5th Wall, which he had entrusted his thoughts and words of wisdom he hoped would be posthumously read. Of course, he based it on ruling the Blighted Kingdom, and yes, his was a unique circumstance.

But think of what this could be without the Demons. 

Here was an example that Othius used when dining abroad or entertaining guests. He would have them visit an infested farm and show them the horrible pests that were Vorepillars, the disgusting vermin that ate everything, sometimes even dirt.

They were a [Farmer]’s worst nightmare. Level 40 [Farmers] had been wiped out and entire famines had begun when these pests spread abroad to other nations. The only thing worse to find in a field, Othius had heard, were Crelers.

Any other nation in the world, when faced by Vorepillars, would see their farms wither, their crops blighted, and suffer. Yet in Rhir—these were standard hazards, like crickets or rats.

The [Farmers] weren’t necessarily that much higher-level than extraordinary individuals abroad, but their attitudes towards their work were completely different. They had complex crop cycling, understood contained silos, and vigilantly checked the quality of their produce, which also led to far less rotten or infected grains and whatnot.

If they could do it on Rhir’s soil, what might they do in fertile Baleros? And—Othius now thought—

What might they do on Izril? 

It was a beguiling notion. The Blighted Kingdom received tributes from around the world daily. Not just gold or soldiers, but magic and technology, ideas like sewers from the Drakes, boat designs, Pallassian elevators—and the knowledge of another world of late. The only thing that kept them from being the greatest wonder of the world was a war with Demons.

It was worse now that two of the Deathless were back. Othius felt the trepidation in his bones each day—the spell nets around each major city were being tested, and he had seen the night sky light up each time Silvenia tested the 5th or 4th Walls.

Yet they held, and dead gods, they would win with their reinforcements. However—would it take ten years? Twenty?

What if they suffered a calamity like Crelers? What if the Antinium won on Izril? Othius’ fears woke him gasping many nights. So he distracted himself with dreams of what might be once they won.

Now he wondered—what if the Blighted People, the most hardy, resourceful, and loyal, didn’t have to worry about Demon-level danger? What if the Blighted Kingdom, dependant on scraps from other nations, had a foothold, a colony which provided them food, arms, and more soldiers for the war?

He had long known that few nations would ever give actual land to his kingdom, and he was wary of making enemies and embroiling himself in politics. If other nations began to see his as the enemy or boycotted their tributes, his kingdom died. The only places Othius had ever thought to colonize were the sea—which even his kingdom was not able to do—the Great Desert of Chandrar, or the High Passes.

All highly dangerous, unlivable Death Zones. But now, Othius had seen with his own eyes a new land rising.

“One third the size of old Izril. Seafloor land—mixed with what some [Geomancers] believe is part of Izril’s underground.”

“Explain that last, Nereshal?”

Othius listened attentively in a private court as his trusted [Chronomancer] laid out the findings from preliminary teams. Obviously each nation was keeping what they knew close, but the Blighted Kingdom had eyes and ears everywhere.

They had to, in order to kill Demon [Diplomats] and [Spies] who spread lies and tried to find support abroad. It was a war that the Bighted Kingdom had long won in most corners of the world.

The [Chronomancer] still looked pale and unwell, despite it being nearly two weeks since he had had some kind of reaction to the Seamwalkers and Khelt’s war. Nereshal had speculated it was probably due to some kind of time-catastrophe, barely averted, which had struck the Dyed Lands on Baleros.

Othius was merely glad it hadn’t gotten worse. The [Chronomancer] gestured to the map roughly sketched out.

“Whatever those [Shamans] did, it wasn’t as crude as merely ‘lifting’ the seafloor up, Your Majesty. That might create a void or force them to move the very firmament of the earth. Instead, you could imagine they rolled part of the lands under Izril up, as well as raised the sea floor.”

“Yet they had to take the ground from somewhere. One cannot make soil—can you? Or were they at that level?”

That came from the far younger woman in the room. She was thirty-six years old, eight feet tall, and had lavender-purple hair, cropped short. It didn’t hide the scars on her face, from one running down her cheek to two on her neck and more on the rest of her body.

She was the Blighted Queen, Coretine the First, mother of Erille, and stepmother to Isodore, the two Blighted Princesses—the only two direct members of Othius’ family living.

Coretine was the third Blighted Queen that Othius had married. She could barely sit still for the hours-long briefings, and she kept her arms folded under her breasts while she leaned back in her chair.

Before he had married her, she had been one of the Blighted Kingdom’s [Generals] and had risen to that rank from fighting on the front lines. Coretine was—interesting. In many ways, she was much a stranger to Othius.

Oh, they had spoken longer than he had with anyone but Nereshal, and she was privy to almost all the Blighted Kingdom’s secrets. Coretine was the finest ally that Othius could wish for, and they had raised two children together.

And wasn’t that a task at his age. However, their marriage was exceptionally functional. Coretine still toured the walls, and she was the younger half of the throne; she had time to impress dignitaries, lead from the front, and be the next spark for the kingdom to burn around.

He did care for Coretine. Yet sometimes Othius looked at her and saw one of the other three—or their corpses. And he would wonder how long until poison or war or some other treachery took her, or whether it would be him next.

If that were cruel—it was because Othius had been her. He had been the Blighted Prince and watched his father die upon the throne, screaming as a ring that had bypassed all the [Mages] melted him from the insides.

He had buried his entire family, each queen he had loved—and he had married for love until he realized how cruel that was—and his children.

Some of them he couldn’t even bury. They would have destroyed the earth and everything around it.

And the Terandrians wondered why the Blighted King never attended their courts and had no time for their games.

These thoughts were common, so Othius dragged himself out of it and into Nereshal’s explanation of geography to Coretine.

“…Must have lowered the sea floor dramatically. We cannot tell how deep, Your Majesty, but the [Admirals] and [Captains] both fear the sea currents have changed forever.”

“Fortunes willing, it will allow us to re-establish routes with all the major nations along sea-lanes soon. At least we won’t have to hunt Demon ships in the waters until the right currents are found.”

The idea of burning becalmed enemy ships made her smile. Othius spoke irritably.

“The Death of Magic will just teleport them. She has done so already—and slain Ailendamus’ Great Knight. Another trick no one knew she could do.”

The Blighted Queen’s enthusiasm turned to chagrin as she bowed slightly to him.

“Your Majesty is right.”

He…patted her hand oddly. It hurt when she looked at him like that. Othius had been very up-front about the nature of the marriage. Children, a backup if he died, and the duty of rulership.

He had been surprised that she admired him, even loved him, perhaps. She saw the shield that had kept the Demons at bay. The unbreakable will of the Blighted Throne.

He had felt it waver in him when the Death of Magic returned. He had quailed and reached out for the ritual to summon Earthers. Nereshal watched the rulers of his nation, and when he glanced down, it was too-quickly.

The [Chronomancer] of all people must have sensed how Othius’ will was weakening. Well, he was the most loyal servant Othius had. Even so, the Blighted King watched Nereshal. He had not forgotten how the [Mage] had looked when the second wave of Earthers appeared.

A thousand [Heroes]. A thousand young, untrained [Heroes] with loyalty to their world, not the Blighted Kingdom. Nevertheless—a thousand people who might be Level 30 or Level 40 within a year.

Othius had made a mistake the last time they were summoned and cast them aside. This time, he would bide his time and ensure everything was perfect. When the Demons were struck, it would be a mortal wound.

For now, he enacted contingency plans, and so Othius spoke slowly.

“Poor currents at sea can be overcome with magic. I hear Krakens are moving. A [Druid] or appropriate escort can also mitigate the risk. If the half-Elves, Dwarves, and Drowned Folk managed it, so can we.”

“To settle this new world, Your Majesty?”

There was a small array of advisors in the Blighted King’s court. [Generals], [Admirals], [Strategists]—all the usual elements like [Mages] of Nereshal’s caliber.

However, Hayvon Operland as well, possibly the highest-level [Lord] in the world. At the very least, one of the Blighted Kingdom’s most formidable war leaders. Nobility might not have meant more than a class in other continents, but here, it was assumed to be an indication of competence.

“You disagree, Lord Hayvon?”

Nereshal answered for Othius, as he often did. Even if he didn’t know Othius’ will, it was a kind of simple political maneuver. The [Chronomancer] questioned all perspectives from a rational angle, giving Othius time to think. Not that he had to in this case.

Hayvon barely bowed, but spoke directly.

“I object only if it means weakening our defenses here. Every nation will want this new land. We may well make enemies. The Blighted Kingdom has been historically neutral. We must be.”

“The benefits must outweigh those concerns.”

Othius whispered, and his advisors and queen focused on him. He spoke, and since it was rare for him to do so without hearing council, they listened intently.

“A suitable colony, no matter the condition of the landscape, will do. Enough land for farms. Enough space for a wall—to section ourselves away from their disputes.”

“A 6th wall?”

The whisper came from no less than a [Governor] of one of the major cities, a Dullahan who knew the gold and economy of the Blighted Kingdom better than anyone else. Othius smiled wryly.

“It need not be even a tenth as glorious as the 5th Wall. Only enough to deter other conflicts. Then we will have an oasis. We know how to take stone and make it fertile.”

Hayvon was nodding.

“A perfect outpost to support the Blighted Kingdom. But can we seize that much space without another nation objecting? The Gnoll tribes and Drakes will do so most of all.”

“Other nations can be persuaded. They will see our reasons, and we hardly need more than a fraction of the new lands of Izril. As for the Gnolls and Drakes—I intend to position our colony as a check on the Antinium.”

Ah. Allies to a Third Antinium war. The Walled Cities might not object to that. And the Gnolls?”

Othius had played this game before. He gestured, and a report slid towards him as he activated the Ring of Greater Telekinesis as naturally as reaching out himself. He tapped the records of rich tributes to the Blighted Kingdom.

“Their people have been badly hurt from the conflict. Exempting them from tribute and gifts of gold and artifacts and more will not go amiss. Buy the land, even if we must spend a fortune for it.”

“I will assemble forces from our Walls, Your Majesty. It will be a balance to take as few capable warriors as possible.”

Anyone over Level 30 was needed to block the Demons’ assaults. A Level 30 Skill or higher, when used right, could save hundreds of lives from Silvenia’s spells. Othius had thought of that too.

“That will not be necessary, [General] Torthe. Lower-level [Soldiers] from our classes will do. Under Level 20, with exceptions.”

A [Catastrophe Aversion Strategist] cleared his throat gently.

“This new land may not be without extreme danger, Your Majesty. The possibility of a calamity-level threat being present is not…impossible.”

The cautious tone. Oh—that told him he was being an idiot. Othius always listened to it and nodded.

“What would you say, then, Hayvon, if I told you we will send champions to break the new lands open, even impress other nations? Not our adventurers—indeed, those that level there may be swayed to our cause with gold and offers of employment. We will send only a handful, but they will return to the Blighted Kingdom as heroes. Or rather—even more the [Heroes] they already are.”

Aha. They got it. The council looked at the Blighted King.

“The children?”

Coretine was surprised. Hayvon—even more wary. Nereshal as well. He made a gesture unseen to the others, and Othius heard his whisper in his mind.

“Disloyalty, Your Majesty…”

Of course. The Blighted King slightly curled his first two fingers on his left hand, and Nereshal fell silent.

“Would…the relative safety of other nations not entice our [Heroes] from the necessarily bitter war here, Your Majesty?”

Someone else said what Nereshal was thinking more diplomatically. Othius shook his head.

“A handful will go, with escorts, and certain requirements of their character. The—interception—of the new generation of Earthers, for instance.”

The way he said that, instead of the summoning ritual, made the room pause a second. Othius continued.

“Geas spells. Magical contracts, for those who agree. I intend to send half of the first [Heroes]. As a reward for their service. The same for those who are suitably promising. Loyal Earthers, who will level higher and return to fight alongside their comrades here.”

“Ah, of course.”

Othius thought of Sir Richard as Hayvon nodded, relaxing at once. He would be a good candidate. Othius knew all too well how weary one could become of war. Richard would go. Or Emily.

Not both. The same for others, especially the new generation. Those with certain levels of loyalty or sympathy. By that token…

“And individuals like Sir Thomas, Your Majesty?”

Nereshal glanced at the Blighted King and saw that old face never move. Othius did not look his age, but he did sometimes think he seemed withered. Frail, certainly, but Nereshal’s magic kept his body young. He just seemed as though time had worn him down. Othius turned his head and murmured.

“Tom the [Clown] is—extraordinary. Unpredictable, a bane to our foes and his allies. He is far too much a [Hero] to ever leave Rhir.”

“…Of course, Your Majesty. Then shall we prepare lists of candidates?”

Othius lifted a ringed finger slightly.

“I have no interest in the selection. I shall leave it to Lord Hayvon, who has been with the new heroes most. My council, we shall draw up plans and waves of reinforcements today that we might expedite the colony onto shore. But I intend to announce the Blighted Kingdom’s efforts tomorrow on Wistram News Network. Within this hour—Admiral Veixl. Launch two warships crewed by our interception forces and the appropriate [Mages] to speed their progress. Have them maneuver to sea then speed up once out of sight of land.”

“As Your Majesty bids.”

And it was done. Othius sat back as Nereshal called for experts to begin the tasks of defining the second wave of ships, but the Blighted Kingdom moved fast. Three species might have landed first, but the other two warships would be sailing for Izril within half an hour if he was right. And more would come.

New land. He didn’t just want it to prove how his kingdom could flourish or create a backup to lean upon. New lands…he would take families who had earned it, take [Farmers] who had lived their lives fighting the worst Demons could unleash and let them be the third wave to settle the colony.

Let them have peace and send back a wave to help drive the Demons into the depths of Rhir. The Blighted King smiled for once, and Coretine squeezed his hand gently, pride in her eyes.

He could not have known it, but Othius the Fourth had echoed plans once spoken on this very continent. Echoed a dream of another world power that had sent their finest to bring back salvation to Rhir.

The Antinium had gone first, and their dream was lost in the wreckage of the oceans. As for the Blighted Kingdom?

They dreamed of land and safety. Othius had one more plan, of course. He always did. But as it pertained to the colony—

If it were safe. If they created but the foothold he wanted, he would take a risk on his life and the future of the Blighted Kingdom.

Othius might be old, but he learned and copied from everything.

Even horrors. He had seen the Dyed Lands change as something struck it, throwing them hundreds of years forwards. Well. If all went well, he wondered what Nereshal might do. His magic was not, perhaps, the same as Dionamella, that incredibly, unnaturally hidden monster of Ailendamus, but it had frozen the Blighted King in time along with Nereshal and a few others, and Nereshal could still act as the greatest [Mage] of the Blighted Kingdom.

For great sacrifice, or with the right tools—what could Nereshal do to the colony? The Blighted King weighed his [Chronomancer] against the risks and costs. After all—he looked around the room of trusted people he cared for and then at his mirror image on the polished wood desk.

They all would give everything for the Blighted Kingdom in time.

 

——

 

The second great threat to the safety of the world was far less old, but no less present in the public consciousness.

Which said a lot about his success. Like it or not, the King of Destruction might not have achieved armageddon-level status, but he had taken an entire continent and almost turned it into a machine of war.

An entire continent. Not ‘most of a continent’ or ‘parts of a continent minus the fiddly bits’, but all of it.

The King of Destruction had recently been to Izril. He had seen the new lands rise. And like Othius, he had designs on it.

Only—his attitude was somewhat different than the Blighted King. He was explaining it to Trey and Teresa Atwood.

It was almost nostalgic. There they were, the two twins, the King of Destruction, like they had when he had begun his return.

They were even in the same place. The throne room, that cracked place of faded glory where a small chair had sat behind the grand throne.

Only, everything was different. Trey Atwood kept looking at Teresa, and he wondered…

Was her chin always like that? She’d had a dimple in it, and while they hadn’t exactly received the chin that receded back into your face, a sign of proper noble breeding back home—it hadn’t exactly been the chiseled jaw you could use to break cement.

The same for their builds. ‘Dumpy’ might be pushing it too far, but ‘dumpling’ in the vague sense that you could see a bit of imperfection rather than an athlete’s build was fair for the twins.

Or—had been. Trey felt like all these things were fair, if hurtful, for him. But Teresa?

She’d gotten rid of the dimple. She seemed like she was an inch taller. She looked like—well. Either she’d been in makeup for an hour or she had changed.

To be more accurate, her class was changing her. Teresa Atwood ignored Trey studiously as she listened to Flos. Trey was tempted to cast [Appraisal], but he knew it wouldn’t work. Still—she’d at least told him her classes.

[Blade of War]. A class for someone who had leapt into the fighting with the King of Destruction, fought in the siege for Reim, and never looked back. It might have been responsible for Teresa’s sharp look—you tended to get defined arms and calves when you spent all day stabbing people and riding around on a horse.

But Trey rather thought her second class was the one that was doing it.

[Glory Seeker]. And if that didn’t say a lot, well. Trey Atwood turned his head to gaze at the young men and women standing at the windows.

They were different, too. Earthers. They stood, jumping every few seconds with shock, alternatively looking from Flos and Trey and Teresa out the windows.

Not the same. Flos himself had changed. He kept running a hand through his hair, smiling, and he had eaten a storm after returning.

Being burnt into a crisp and suffering for months did that to you, but his return to form was also miraculous. He looked rejuvenated. Not least because his crazy plan to attack Wistram had succeeded, not least because he’d gotten to go to Izril and kick up a diabolical fuss, but because the last of his Seven had returned.

Amerys, the Calm Flower of the Battlefield, Amerys, the Archmage of Chandrar, the Archmage of Lightning—had returned.

Oh—that last thing that had changed in the throne room? Trey looked up as the King of Destruction stopped talking, and everything turned blinding white for a second. The flash was brighter than any camera’s bulb, and unlike a camera, the thwoom of lightning made Trey’s bones shake.

It was raining. Storming. Exploding outside, and the Earthers leapt as one from the bolt of lightning coming down literally a dozen paces outside the balcony.

“Jesus wept!”

Someone shouted. Possibly George. Elena, the [Beautician], just shouted.

Fuck, my ears!

But they didn’t look away. After all, the absolutely pouring rain of the storm was a sight to see on dry Chandrar. Amerys had called it in from the sea and carried it all the way to Reim as a present.

Yet the real thing to see was watching someone catch a bolt of lightning. And Trey was half-itching to watch himself, because the funny part was—it wasn’t Amerys doing the catching. It was Orthenon, and boy—it looked unpleasant when he missed.

 

——

 

The flash of light illuminated them all in one timeless second again, and Teresa Atwood saw Trey glance away. She looked at him, much like he’d been studying her, and wondered what happened to him.

He was the same height. The same build, although he might have gained a few pounds from Wistram if anything. However—his face was a stranger’s.

Teresa had once heard someone claim that you aged internally as much as in your body. She hadn’t quite believed that, but now she thought Trey looked like he’d skipped part of being a man and moved into being older.

Perhaps it was his class. Not [Bloodglass Mage], but the other one. [Chaos Schemer], which was an upgrade of [Plotter].

She saw that in him. A kind of…keenness that pierced through her, made her skin itch. As if he was trying to figure out what you were worth when he put you into a box for later. A cold detachment.

The other Earthers had certainly seen it in him or why were they keeping away? They were all from the same world, but Teresa had seen how that girl, Elena, looked at Trey.

Uneasily. Teresa had heard from Gazi and the rest what Trey had done there, but she wondered if there were things that the half-Gazer hadn’t even told Flos.

At the very least, Trey had left a lot of dead people behind him. Yes, Gazi and Amerys and the Quarass had done most of the killing—but Trey had done that.

Differently from her. Teresa walked onto a battlefield where the other side knew that she would kill them, and that was fair. Trey? He’d gone to Wistram as a student, smiled at some people, and then gotten them killed.

Maybe it was necessary. Maybe they all deserved it. But Trey? He looked like one person to Teresa, and she didn’t think he’d like the comparison. He looked like the Quarass, not Fetohep.

There was a big difference.

Teresa itched to take Trey aside and talk to him further, but they’d had practically no time since the ship, Sand at Sea, had finally dropped them off at Reim. There was celebrating, explaining, recap about Fetohep’s ride—

And she’d missed all of it. Teresa was still furious about it. Trey had seen the events of a lifetime, but he acted like it was a chore. He’d had a chance to fight and address the wrongs the Drakes had done to the Gnolls. After having to watch the entire battle, Teresa frankly envied him.

The Gnolls deserved better. She hoped they’d find it on Chandrar. The first thing Teresa had done upon their arrival was introduce herself to the Chieftains. It had also done a lot of good, because Nawalishifra had stopped moping about to greet the Gnoll [Smiths] from one of the tribes.

Venith Crusland on the other hand…he had greeted Calac and taken him to Maresar’s grave. But he was probably still walking the borders of Reim, destroying everything in his path with his Aura of Wrath.

Teresa had walked with him a few days, but he’d made her stop after she went through two healing potions trying to just talk to him. She’d visit later and take Trey with her, or Nawal, since Venith would talk to her.

However, there was an order to things, and this moment—the King of Destruction—deserved it. Teresa wanted to be here, and as Flos tried to say something, another flash blinded all three staring at his map of Izril.

“Argh, enough! How long will it take them?”

He strode over to the balcony and into the rain as Teresa followed. Trey muttered an umbrella spell, and a little Lifesand Golem ran after them.

Well…‘little’ meant four feet tall. Minizi had been downgraded slightly in all the fighting from her enhanced size, but she now had teeth.

Red, glass teeth, and her eyes were now orbs of fused Bloodglass. Teresa thought it didn’t bode well. She’d reminded Trey of Hal 9000. He’d told her that if Minizi turned rogue, it wouldn’t be a problem.

Frankly, looking down into the courtyard outside of the palace, Teresa got his point. There stood or flew five individuals, each one, she believed, over Level 50.

The King of Destruction’s Seven. Teresa wondered if there were a more high-level group in the world. Possibly in the Demon Kingdom or maybe Wistram…?

No. Individuals might surpass them, but five, six counting Flos? Teresa looked down at them all.

She was counting the individual in the center as one of the Seven. Orthenon, the King’s Steward, might have shied away from the title before Flos went into his slumber, but that was functionally what he was these days.

He was, funnily enough, one of the most thickset of the Seven, and he was still a slimmer build, a treacherous infighter with a sword, and one of the finest spearmasters in the world on horseback.

A long mustache, slightly drooping, and black hair made his gaunt look all the more austere, and he dressed like some kind of butler or chamberlain. What distinguished him from both, even the [Combat Butler] that Teres had heard of, was the way he walked when unguarded or when he forgot himself.

Like a cat. Not like ‘a cat’s grace in a swordsman’, which was also a thing, or a cat in nimbleness. He would hunch his shoulders a bit and give the impression—like an angry cat—he was about to pounce.

He was also touchy, like a cat. Prideful, like a cat. And Teresa truly did admire him. She thought he was exceptionally handsome—the quiet blademaster.

Who—was right now lying on his back, soot marks all over his face and arms, half the clothing on his arm and shoulder blown apart. Teresa saw Orthenon get up with a slightly shell-shocked look and then curse upwards.

Amerys!

He shouted upwards, and Teresa looked at her new favorite member of the Seven. She drifted amidst the storm, her bare feet clinging to the air. A robe made of jet black and topaz highlights made it seem like electricity was crawling up her clothing—a good match for the actual lightning sparking off her grass-green hair.

It blew almost as crazily as her smile, but Amerys drooped in the air, barely able to keep upright. She rested, hovering, in a kind of half-recline, head thrown back, as if she had stopped mid-swoon.

She was so weak from months of captivity she would walk and move around as if half-falling, but with a kind of odd grace. Like a dancer stepping across the air like lightning.

Right now, she was laughing at him.

“Catch it better, Orthenon! Are you afraid of a little lightning bolt?”

“You. Missed.”

Orthenon got up, and Teresa thought that ‘lightning bolt’ didn’t do it justice. She had seen [Lightning Bolt] spells, and for all they were deadly—they weren’t quite the natural bolts of lightning when cast by average [Mages].

Amerys, now—she’d called down something past the level of [Grand Lightning]. It was so powerful that even the Garuda standing warily next to Orthenon had run four hundred paces away rather than risk getting hit.

Takhatres jogged back, and Teresa heard his voice.

“If you’re going to finish this before we all die of a cold? I’ve run eight miles already.”

Takhatres was almost as impatient in how he shifted from foot-to-foot as Teresa felt. He was the real warrior of the Seven in how he carried himself, always challenging, yet he was also the leader of his tribe. He could be dignified, but mostly—he was funny. That curved beak could often be a sly smile, and of all the Seven, he’d get on Flos’ nerves the most.

His plumage was blue running to green, making him one of the ‘plainer’ Garuda around, and he was always on the ground. He couldn’t fly, but in a storm like this, he was like all Garuda—grounded. And he was the fastest person in all of Chandrar as far as Teresa knew.

“Just hold still. I can’t aim precisely to your exact spot. It’ll come down within fifteen feet.”

“Fifteen feet I need to be exactly within. You had better aim before you were incarcerated.”

Orthenon grumbled. Amerys pointed a finger down at him.

“You try sitting in chains for months and see if you can shoot an arrow and hit a target at a thousand miles, Orthenon. I am dragging lightning out of the sky. Hold still.”

She pointed up at the raging storm. But Orthenon, for once, looked like he was chickening out.

…Probably because the last four lightning bolts had nearly blown him off the entire hill the palace was standing on. He pointed accustorially at a figure clinging to a tower high above Amerys.

“Even Gazi doesn’t trust your aim, Amerys. She could be down here.”

“I…need a good view.”

The half-Gazer called down to the others amidst the gale. She was indeed holding onto a tower from the roof’s ledge, shading her eyes and staring out into the distance. Her brown armor looked as plain as ever, but the crack in it drew Teresa’s eye each time.

Even so, the orange-skinned Gazer with her four-digited hands and sharp teeth was always alien to Teresa. Always…unnerving, because Gazi smiled so sinisterly. And of all the Seven, Trey liked her the most?

She had pushed him out of that tower for training. However, she was as wary of Amerys’ lightning as the other two, and Teresa didn’t blame Gazi.

Even the last member of the Seven, arguably the only one who was actually lightning-proof if she wore the right armor—or maybe even without—was staying out of this.

Out of the rain, too. Mars was sitting in a nearby stable. She’d found a hammock, set it up, and was watching in front of the scared horses. She lifted a piece of cheese on a toothpick and saluted the other four in the rain.

You nearly got it this time, Orthenon! I believe in you!

The scowl that everyone but the laughing Amerys gave the dry, snacking Mars didn’t deter the [Vanguard]. Today, she was a supermodel with fire-red tresses drifting down around her, wearing what might have been armor crossed with a bikini.

In short, the most unbelievable sight here. But that was Mars the Illusionist, and Teresa looked at her the least. Because everything you saw about Mars was a lie, her magic. Even her attitude—she was sometimes humble or casual, but then you saw her fight and remembered why out of all of them, even Flos, she was the highest-leveled.

Orthenon that Teresa had a crush on and learned from. Takhatres she liked and hung out with. Mars? Teresa wanted to be Mars in many ways. Someone who could change battlefields, challenge an army and walk away the victor.

However, Mars the Illusionist had no place in this activity, so Orthenon, still breathing hard, took his position in the space next to four other craters in the ground. He held up what he was carrying—

A spear. Not the same spear Fetohep had given him, an artifact, possibly a relic. Fetohep had demanded it back, and besides…this spear was deliberately cheap.

Plain. The spearhead might not have even been steel, but iron. Orthenon raised it overhead and called out.

“Ready!”

Amerys lazily floated sideways and nodded. Teresa felt the charge in the air with the others and tensed. The Archmage looked sideways, down at the Garuda.

“Takhatres?”

“Ready…don’t screw it up this time or I’ll quit.”

“Gazi?”

“Ready. My liege? Do you have confidence in this one?”

Gazi glanced over, and the Seven realized Flos was at the balcony. He laughed into the storm.

Not at all! If Amerys misses—I’m going to duck! Try not to hit us, will you? I just healed from my last injury!

They laughed at that. All of them, and Amerys laughed the loudest. She floated up there, and Teresa saw why Flos had lamented her absence.

Each one was a legend. Orthenon—without him, the kingdom fell to ruin. Gazi stopped the [Assassins] and [Saboteurs] that would have cut Flos’ return short in moments. Mars scared armies, and Takhatres and his tribe were the army that had held down the Empire of Sands and then the bulk of Nerrhavia’s Fallen by themselves.

But Amerys was magic. Now, her brows drew together, and her eyes began to glow with power.

The other three of the Seven tensed. Each one was ready. Teresa was still fascinated, despite them trying four times already. She watched as Amerys whispered.

“The bolt is coming. I’m putting everything I have into it. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six…two…watch out—

She misjudged the timing of the storm building its charge. Teresa looked up as, overhead, the storm clouds began to shine.

A crackling bolt of lightning moved sideways, bouncing from cloud to cloud in a single flash. It was gathering towards a central point with dozens of others.

It happened so fast that Amerys was on two when they linked, flashing across countless miles. Then—they merged and came down.

It was so fast that Teresa thought the Earthers and Trey didn’t see more than a blinding flash or maybe the aftermath of what was happening. However, her Skills and class gave her reflexes that were pushing the Human limit already.

It was still so quick that she only processed it later. But what she saw was the bolt of lightning coming down straight at Orthenon. He reacted almost as fast, shifting left two feet. Then—he leapt straight up as the bolt of lightning flashed down. His straining arm holding the spear came up—

And the bolt of lightning hit the spear.

It should have blown his arm off. Instead, the bolt of lightning…warped around the spear. It didn’t ‘surround’ the spear, because what was it supposed to do, just hover there in a nimbus? Rather, Teresa saw the bolt twist and curve around the spear from the tip, as if it were sucked in by a magnet.

It spun around the spear—how fast? How fast did lightning move? A hundred revolutions every microsecond? Faster?

It made the spear look like it had turned into the lightning itself. Amerys was pointing down, keeping the power from unleashing itself onto Orthenon and the surroundings. But even she was sweating with the effort, or so Teres thought; the pouring rain made it impossible to tell.

She didn’t have long to wait. Orthenon was hovering in the air in the second of his jump. He shouted up.

Gazi!

This is where it had failed twice before. Takhatres was already gone, sprinting ahead, but Gazi’s voice rang out in the connected speaking spells linking them together. She stared into the distance.

I see your target.

Her eyes were glowing. All five were fixed on a point. She pointed, and Orthenon pivoted as if he could see what she did. Then Teresa saw the light filling both’s eyes. He was falling to earth, but he tossed the spear.

A bolt of lightning arced up through the air, far slower than the natural strike. It was still impossibly fast, like an arrow, and Teres saw Trey shield his eyes and then track it.

“Is it—?”

“Takhatres, run!”

Mars had abandoned her hammock. Flos Reimarch whirled—and the Lord of the Skies ran.

Orthenon couldn’t do more than catch the lightning and bind it to the spear. His throw was as strong as he could make it from that posture, but it barely cleared the city even from the top of the hill. Like a football…shaped like a spear…charged with a super-bolt of lightning…it fell as the [Soldiers] on the wall looked up and ducked.

If it hit the ground, it was all over. Orthenon had aimed it towards Gazi’s target, but it was miles and miles from the location.

But the blur that raced through the city, accelerating, was heading towards it. The Lord of the Skies was moving even faster when he caught the spear. And when he threw it—Amerys snapped her fingers.

Unleash!

The Lord of the Skies crowed as he grabbed the spear. Teres heard his voice.

A gift from the Archmage of Chandrar!

The lightning crackled, and the spear flashed through the air. It began to accelerate back into the speed of a bolt of lightning—only this time, the spear was being carried with it.

Oh—and the spear of lightning was about a hundred times bigger. It curved into the horizon as Gazi’s eyes fixed on a point.

For Nerrhavia’s Fallen, for the siege of Reim and our lord’s injuries.

She whispered, and Orthenon murmured as all four of the Seven spoke at once. Teres heard the unnatural silence in the storm become a deafening roar that went on, and a streak of light filled the sky.

“—[Combined Skill: Bolt from the Heavens].”

A four-person combination Skill. Teresa felt her arms break out in goosebumps. The spear of lightning seared her eyes, but it didn’t land. Not yet. She heard someone counting softly.

“Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three, thousand four…”

He was counting down the miles. Teres listened as Trey’s voice sounded in the silence. Flos was smiling, and the other Seven were nodding or congratulating each other—but Gazi was still watching.

“—thousand sixt—

The rumble in the distance was loud. It was accompanied by a flash that lit up the horizon. Teresa heard wild cheering from everyone watching. The Earthers just looked confused and nervous, but the King of Destruction and the Seven were gazing at Gazi.

“Well?”

“Direct hit. Nerrhavia’s army on the borders is in chaos. We struck their command tent.”

The Gazer was already sliding down the tower. Amerys laughed as Orthenon calmly wiped water out of his eyes.

“See? I told you we’d get it done. And this means more than us going in person. Now—I need a hot bath. I shall meet you all in forty minutes.”

With that, she floated to a higher balcony as if that was that. Orthenon headed into the palace, and Gazi climbed towards Flos’ balcony. Takhatres was jogging back to the city, raising one arm to the cheers, and Mars followed Orthenon inside.

As if that were normal. Teres finally remembered to breathe. She looked at the King of Destruction and saw Trey’s troubled look. Flos just laughed.

“With Amerys—so much more is available to us. Now, where was I? Let’s dry off. A towel for everyone, and a drink for my Archmage! Ask our Chieftains if they want to gather before our council. A shame we can’t hit Izril or I’d throw a few bolts at Zeres.”

 

——

 

The King of Destruction ate popcorn with a towel around his shoulder and a fire raging in the fireplace. He toasted the Chieftains who’d come to Reim as opposed to Khelt and elsewhere as if he hadn’t killed possibly thousands with a long-range spell-Skill moments ago.

That was the man that Trey had delivered the Earthers to.

…It was still probably better than Wistram. Especially if Amerys honored her vow and she and Gazi managed to move Flos’ opinion.

As for Trey, he reflected that at least he was levelling. For instance, Minizi proved invaluable as everyone had snacks. She held the popcorn bowl out and stared at Trey in a way that said that the Golem uprising was coming.

However, Flos just ruffled her ‘hair’ and patted the Lifesand Golem on the head. Minizi stared at him as he chuckled.

“Your little creation comes to life. And as cute as can be! Gazi, isn’t it flattering? We should make those…figurines and sell them across my kingdom! I think there were dolls of all seven of you, but as I recall, not many children wanted yours. Mars? Exceptionally popular. Right behind Tottenval. You and Queravia, though…”

Gazi blushed at the compliment. She took a handful of popcorn, and Amerys drifted back into the throneroom. She needed no Golem. The Archmage of Chandrar had apparently taken half the larder with her as a bevy of floating foods surrounded her—along with a bottle of wine and a cup.

“What vintage is that?”

Orthenon narrowed his eyes, and the bottle obligingly turned around to hide the label from him. Takhatres strode in, shaking his feathers like a dog.

“I will have a cup. Make it two. Are we murdering more children today?”

“No, there aren’t any eggs here.”

Flos rolled his eyes, exasperated, as one of the Gnolls choked on her food. He slapped her on the back as Mars raised a cup. Amerys poured them all a glass, then settled back.

“Are we discussing the war, the new lands, or your kingdom-building ideas, Flos?”

She used his name, and Trey thought Amerys was interesting. Orthenon did his scowl at the lack of decorum, and Takhatres smiled, but Trey knew the other Seven and Orthenon.

Amerys was new. And she…was different. Unlike laid-back Mars or Gazi, who would put on her act. Amerys had revealed some of her personality within days of returning to Reim by her hobbies and inclinations.

What was she? Well, Amerys was…cosmopolitan. In all the ways that were good and bad.

“Flos, you’ve downgraded your baths. No Balerosian mud baths, the hot water isn’t piped any longer, and someone stole the water purifiers. Your beds are, at least, silk, but you’ve got a very distressingly small larder. The wine is only good because it’s been sitting in your cellars for twenty years. And there’s almost no runework in the palace at all. Oh, and your walls are as bare of art as Takhatres’ bald patch.”

The Garuda pointed a fork at Amerys.

“Take that back.”

Dilettante might be another word for Amerys. She was, well—

Wistram. It was true she was far hardier and battle-savvy than the academy, but Trey understood that she hadn’t been completely apart from the academy like Valeterisa. There was a reason that Amerys had gone back there when the King of Destruction slumbered.

“As I recall it, the castle was looted of almost everything—including the piping—by [Servants] with my blessing. Or sold off later as necessity demanded.”

Flos looked amused. Amerys yawned into one hand.

“Yes, well…let’s have it back soon. Not just for here; all the cities I passed by could use some civic-minded improvements. Libraries, for instance? I’m displeased to note half the ones I set up are gone. Books sold, missing, never returned. Well, in the ones with low-level [Librarians].”

Mars raised one hand.

“…What would anyone want with copper piping?”

Amerys rolled her eyes.

To install them somewhere else, Mars. High-quality plumbing is exceptionally expensive.”

“Ah. Everyone who’s too good to haul up a bucket. Well, the Archmage of Bidets has returned to us, and all of Reim shall rejoice for their cleaner behinds. All hail!”

Mars did a mocking bow, and Amerys flicked a tiny bolt of lightning at Mars’ face. The [Vanguard] sneezed, and it ricocheted into the floor.

“I am serious, you know, Flos. Reim has been looted of all it had, quite literally, and it would be good to return that.”

The King of Destruction’s good mood could not be abated, but it did soften slightly with contemplation as he took a cup of wine.

“You are, as always, my font of foreign culture, Amerys. No one has gone as far as you—save Orthenon.”

“And he is as culturally-minded as Mars.”

The Archmage was snippy. However, the other Seven clearly liked her being back enough that they put up with it—or they were used to it. Flos scratched at his chin.

“We have gold from the Nerrhavian captives we’ve ransomed back. I can see no reason not to put some of it towards the infrastructure of Reim. That was what I intended to discuss, anyways. Along with the new lands and the war. We’re allowing most of the soldiers to rest and return home, anyways.”

Because the war was over. As Trey understood it, Reim was suddenly at peace after the running conflicts with so many nations.

King Raelt and Jecaina of Jecrass had both been returned to their country. Whilst Flos had an outstanding objection against both—Khelt had claimed the western part of Jecrass, and Flos had agreed not to do battle with Khelt. Jecrass was tired of war, and the two largest enemies in the north?

The Claiven Earth and Medain were quiet after Khelt had trashed both. Belchan was conquered, and while that meant unrest, the will to fight had been ground out of the north by the fierce battles.

As for Nerrhavia, they had suffered catastrophic losses at Reim, and Amerys returning had scared them spitless. Pomle was fighting an army to the southwest, and Tiqr was in rebellion.

Trey had heard there were other problems in the great kingdom, but the truth was that now that Flos Reimarch had only one real enemy, they had gotten to the same point that all the nations had feared: him concentrating his forces. They had attacked from all sides to prevent that.

Instead of killing him as hoped, they had instead helped level his armies, and Amerys was back.

Even so, the amount of deaths and war was exhausting to all nations, Nerrhavia included. Yet the King of Destruction just lifted a finger as he addressed his audience.

“We—dead gods, this is good—are moving our veterans across the border. While the regulars take a few weeks of rest, we’ll push forwards and begin hammering Nerrhavia along their borders. They have a lot of damned forts they’ve built since I was asleep. Let’s knock them down so we don’t have to worry when we heat things up.”

There was his power. Not just strategic acumen, or strength, or his charisma over people—it was the fact that Reim kept fighting. When other nations slowed down or began to think of peace, Reim was still fresh.

In fact, it seemed like Reim was not only fresh, but flourishing. Trey had seen countless farms that had been lying fallow now being worked by the people who had come to the King of Destruction’s kingdom. And they were as bountiful as anything he’d seen, positively blooming with green.

“How are all the farms producing so much food, Flos? The rains you kept summoning? It wasn’t enough for this.”

Teresa had noticed it too. Flos just chuckled, and Amerys raised an amused eyebrow.

“They don’t know?”

The King of Destruction turned to the twins.

“I told you I was a [King of War], you two. Every Skill I have is geared around how my kingdom lived. [Blood is Growth]. In Reim, at least, the fields will be three, five times as rich as they were when I slumbered. I have many Skills like that. As for gold—very well! I am going to spend the lion’s share on what we need to arm ourselves, Amerys, but I will reserve a fifth for you. A great project, I agree. Does anyone else have anything in mind?”

The Seven murmured as Trey exchanged a look with Teres. Orthenon shook his head.

“Deeper wells, perhaps?”

“How mundane.”

Amerys shot back. Takhatres folded his arms.

“We don’t have Drevish. It’s got to come from Amerys unless Mars wants to dig for eight days and nights?”

“Pass!”

“Flos, what’s this project about?”

The King of Destruction looked at Teresa and smiled, then included the Gnoll Chieftains in his confidence. And the listening Earthers, hovering in the background.

“I saw it as I was fighting across Belchan. Jecrass was one thing, but Hellios, Germina? Positively as poor as Reim. Stripped of what they had.”

“Civil wars after you fell asleep did that.”

Mars put in succinctly. Flos sighed deeply.

“Yes. But I hated to see it. At least Belchan had those academies that Amerys built! They produced some [Grand Mages], you know. At least one. She’s fighting with Parasol Stroll.”

“Really? I need to catch up.”

Amerys’ eyes brightened, and Flos nodded. Then he scowled again.

“Jecrass’ cities had a few improvements, what I saw of them. But I think…no, there’s no excuses. Reim was a jewel of Chandrar, and the twenty years I let it crumble are entirely upon me. But I looked north and thought that all our great architecture, the wonders of Chandrar—we did them in the nations I conquered later, didn’t we?”

The Seven looked at Flos, and he sighed.

“I suppose each nation did well enough when gold and artifacts flooded in. But my roads I built all over Chandrar’s eastern coast? Drevish’s landmarks, Tottenval’s gardens of plenty? I should have left a few here.”

Orthenon nodded once, but Takhatres disagreed.

“If you did, we’d have had to take a damn fortress that spat Yellat-shaped ballista bolts at us while the statues on the walls sang Chandrarian chants.”

Flos nearly snorted wine out his nose.

“…Yes, well, aside from that. I will not leave Reim penniless twice. But for Drevish…Amerys, you will get to fill his shoes. I need you to prioritize cost—I won’t beggar us, but think of what he made. Your pipes.”

“I need to design houses—streets? Absolutely not. I am a student of Wistram. Where in that description does ‘balancing costs’ seem to come in for you, Flos?”

Amerys was mildly horrified. The King of Destruction winced.

“Well, someone must do it, and Orthenon can only hire people he works with. Not design himself. If the Mad Ones were here—”

“Each house would have a bidet that shot water ten feet straight up.”

Gazi glared, lifting a finger.

Takhatres—no, you’re right. Someone must, so Amerys should do it. You only need to do a single street.”

“I cannot. I don’t lay bricks, and I need to do everything with ordinary workers, not magic! Isn’t one of Drevish’s apprentices alive?”

“What, all two of them? His workers are, but no one survived his personality—”

The arguing Seven were something of a treat to watch for Trey. But then he was reminded things would be different, because someone raised her hand. And Elena spoke.

“Um. Excuse me. Can I speak?”

The King of Destruction and his Seven turned, and the Earthers drew back. But Elena only gazed cautiously at Flos until he smiled.

“Aha! Elena, isn’t it? Trey spoke of you. I was wondering if one of you would have the courage. Speak—you are guests of Reim. What you will be in the future, exactly, we will find out. But I consider you welcome guests. Hold nothing back. We know of Earth, and my trusted vassals and I harbor no secrets. Unlike Wistram.”

He spread his arms widely, and one of the Gnoll Chieftains nearly leapt out of his fur.

“You know about…?”

Flos stared innocently at the Gnoll.

“Did I not say? Ah, but the Gnolls know of Earth? We have much to talk about! Later—what did you wish to say, Miss Elena?”

His eyes twinkled with interest, and she hesitated. Trey wondered what she thought of Flos now that she had met him face-to-face. Wistram painted one view of Flos, but Elena was open-minded. She had known the Singer of Terandria…

And she was sharp.

“What are you, um, talking about exactly, Your Majesty? You plan to build improvements across Reim? For your people?”

Flos nodded.

“Something. Some—project. But as you have heard, my greatest Architect, Drevish—is dead. He was the one who could redesign Chandrar. In his absence, I need Amerys to. Or someone else. Simply one thing. Like…a deeper well. Or copper pipes, though we have not enough copper to copy it into every city, even the ones in the few nations we have. And, frankly, the cost in gold scales to difficulty.”

“You plan on sending work teams to redesign your cities?”

Trey was curious. He didn’t know if Reim had that many dedicated craftspeople, at least, not on the scale required. Hellios, Germina, and Belchan might have them, but Orthenon would have a headache organizing that. Flos snorted.

“Hardly. I do not intend to argue with the Crafter’s Guild. I would rather battle Medain again. Medain and the Claiven Earth. If I can redesign one city, or even a village—economically—I will use a Skill and copy it. Kingdom-building Skills run on gold and material.”

Kingdom-building Skills?

The Earthers drew closer, and Elena blinked at Flos. He nodded grandly.

“Have you not ever heard of a palace being built in a day? Djinni can do it—and so can some [Kings] and [Queens]. Some can raise walls, others, adjust part of their cities. When I ruled most of Chandrar, I needed to implement broad changes across the continent. I require gold, materials, and the competency of workers, so Drevish designed cheap, easy-to-build improvements. Then, with my Skill, any city under my control in need of, say, an improved grain silo would begin building one. They don’t just pop out of the air.”

He paused.

“I truly wish they popped out of the air. I am told the Blighted Kingdom can do that, but then—they can also create beams that turn everything they touch into gold.”

It was more like copying blueprints on a wide scale. An alternative to the internet or Mage’s Guilds. Trey was a bit disappointed, but Flos clarified.

“It doesn’t just work on architecture. Magic runes, ways of…breeding sheep or whatnot? The problem is that it must be simple or else only a Level 26 [Woodworker] with specific Skills can do what is necessary, for instance. [Here, And Everywhere I Rule]! And that is how you get a hundred thousand salt shakers that do not shake salt out the bottom third.”

He put his cup down, and Orthenon shuddered. Yet Elena and the other Earthers were fascinated—or disturbed. She shot a look at Trey, and he nodded.

That’s right. That’s the man in front of you. Someone with the potential for great change, good and bad.

“You should make, like…well pumps. Or—or wind turbines and something useful like that? George is a [Student]. He could design you something from Earth!”

One of the Earthers raised a hand, and George turned pale as Flos looked at him keenly.

“George? Are you a scholar, then?”

“No, no—I just was a student—”

“Ah, a student of Earth. Which, as Trey and Teres tell me, has everything from automobiles to flying planes. If you could develop anything to change Chandrar, I would reward you handsomely. Roads, fortifications, ease of living—that is a [King]’s promise.”

Flos smiled, and George froze up. The King of Destruction peered at him, then patted him on the shoulder. He faced the others and spoke to his Seven and the twins.

“…That is what I will return to my people. It is time to take on Nerrhavia’s Fallen, but I want my vassals back. Amerys proves how sorely we lack for our specialists. The Mad Ones. I hear Loquea Dree and the Monks of Sottheim have both reawakened. We need the rest.”

“Those insane executioners and the horniest [Monks] in the world? Wonderful.

Takhatres was as sarcastic as usual, and Trey wondered what he meant by that. But Flos had strode back over to the prototype map of Izril.

“Nevermind, nevermind. This ties into Amerys’ wants, my wants for improving my lands. For the war and everything. Look upon the new lands of Izril. What do you see, my Seven?”

They gazed at the map, and Mars stuck a hand up.

“…A butt? A cute one, though.”

Flos’ beaming smile turned into a scowl. Takhatres objected.

“Be civil, Mars. It looks like a boot, to me.”

“It could be a peach?”

Orthenon tried, and Flos glared around.

“I see opportunity.

“For what, new lands? Every nation in the world wants that.”

Amerys was skeptical, and Flos snorted.

“New land…? Land, Amerys? What need have we of land? Have you not seen Chandrar? Look there!”

He strode to the balcony. The storm had ended, but they could still see the darkening landscape of Chandrar, stretching out into the distance. Flos pointed west and shouted.

Yonder lies Zeikhal! The Great Desert! In Hellios, Germina, Jecrass especially—I see altogether too much land! We do not need more. People to fill the land, riches for comfort—that is what we need. Resources, perhaps, but if I ever lack for room, I will fill Zeikhal first before Izril!”

He turned away from the balcony and stormed back over. He was excited, and his green eyes were lit up.

“No, I don’t crave land, Amerys. Just think—the new land is filled with adventure! That is romance. If I was not a [King], I would be exploring it now. Even from the outskirts, there are broken cities and, doubtless, dungeons and unearthed secrets. I crave that. Artifacts—no—discoveries of a lifetime. Weapons and spellbooks to take us beyond our opponents, or secrets such as those quests being posted by our [Innkeeper] of some renown.”

He gave Gazi a significant look, and she gave him a half-smile, slightly bitter. Trey recalled the famous young woman who had blinded Gazi.

Erin Solstice. Flos clenched one fist, frustrated.

“To pick her mind about the other quests…! But no, we are sadly an ocean away, and our authority is weak on Izril. Yet I will not pass this opportunity by. I am minded to create an expeditionary force in our own right.”

“They’d be slaughtered before they touch shore.”

Takhatres objected, and Flos waved a finger at him.

“Only if anyone knows they hail from Reim. I predict…a rush. Trey, you had thoughts on this entire event. Repeat what you said to me, and chime in, you others.”

He motioned Trey forwards, and he was conscious of every eye on him as he spoke.

“It’s not the same, but it reminds me of the Scramble for Africa. Or the rush for the west in America. Lots of nations trying to claim land—in this case, it’s actually uninhabited.”

“It belongs to our people. But you are right—who is respecting that?”

One of the Gnolls growled unhappily. Flos turned and strode over.

“I will. And if I take Izril—I will return these lands. Frankly—I have an idea that may involve sending some Gnoll volunteers back, Chieftain Reitx, I believe? I listened to Trey and agree. I foresee a huge rush as every nation tries to colonize this place. Among it—I intend to prioritize great discoveries. Call it—a funded expedition. Perhaps even one of you Seven will join it. Assuming we can disguise you properly.”

Flos Reimarch looked around, beaming, and Orthenon sighed.

“Your Majesty, we could focus on reconquering Chandrar…?”

“Orthenon, what fun would that be without joining the chaos? Besides which—”

Flos’ eyes glinted, and he looked at Trey.

“—Everyone else from the Quarass to perhaps Fetohep himself is surely joining in. I have multiple goals in Izril, and finding the lost City of Stars or this ‘Crossroads of Izril’ makes me ask one huge question.”

He faced the map and then flipped it over the board and stared at the map of Chandrar. Flos Reimarch’s eyes narrowed, and he murmured.

“…Perhaps there was once a Crossroads of Chandrar, too. I want to speak to that [Innkeeper]. I have a feeling there is something else that Fetohep did that he is not telling me. Or some…change in the world. A Fraerling city appears, Seamwalkers distort reality, and Earthers are appearing faster than Sariant Lambs at a noblewoman’s buffet. I will have answers.”

He turned and looked at the others.

“So. Who wants to storm Nerrhavia’s Fallen, and who would like apprentices? If any of you Earthers would like to learn magic from Amerys or study under Mars, speak up! Or if you have any grand ideas, I will hear them now.”

He beamed at the Earthers, and Elena sucked in her breath as she gazed at Trey. Slowly, she raised a hand.

“Yes, Miss Elena?”

Flos Reimarch turned to her. Elena looked at him, then Trey, then took a breath.

“Could I…go to my friends in Terandria? Just leave?”

The King of Destruction looked at her, and his eyes flickered. He rested his chin in his hands for a moment and thought.

“…I am not opposed, but I will ask you to stay at least a while, Miss Elena. Trey Atwood took a great effort liberating you and Amerys. I am in need of help. Do me one service and I will pay passage myself. Otherwise?”

“Otherwise…?”

George looked at Flos warily, and the King of Destruction smiled.

“Otherwise, I will deliver you to Terandria once my fleets sail in. I intend to visit too.”

The bloody conqueror smiled and turned back to his maps full of opportunity, but his eyes lingered on Izril and that inn. As if he could tell there was more he was missing and impatient at not being the absolute center of it all.

He had no interest in the land, however it was shaped. Only what—and who lay on it. But even Flos Reimarch was not in possession of all of the facts.

 

——

 

And lastly, if you asked someone for the third greatest threat to world peace, they’d say—Goblins. Or some nation like Ailendamus. Or Crelers, because they were a good option, again.

If they were in a position to know more, they might say ‘Regis Reinhart’, or ‘Ailendamus with immortals’, or ‘vampire Krakens’.

But someone with a lot of information about all the secrets of the world might reasonably say that the third greatest threat to everyone was the highest-level [Necromancer] still…living.

Az’kerash, alone, was a worthy contender for third place. Especially in light of recent events.

He had achieved what few [Necromancers] had ever dreamed of doing: creating levelling undead. The Necromancer had rid himself of Izril’s greatest [General] and had also benefited from the war of the dead in significant ways.

In his secluded castle betwixt the enchanted forest and High Passes, no army or assassin could easily find him. The roads that led in and out of his abode twisted such that even to get in you would need to navigate the labyrinthine true path that was both invisible and changing—one misstep and you’d be walking out of the forest.

Even should an intruder pass the forest, they would emerge into a barren field of dead grass and see an ancient castle that had once been the home of [Knights], then a [Lady] of great renown, a travelling aegis—brought low by treachery and stained with misdeeds.

The stone was black, and the castle’s ramparts had long since given way from the living to the dead. Skeletons holding bows were the least of an attacking army’s worries. Liches, undead spellcasters, and even stronger undead like Skeleton Lords manned the walls as ordinary defenders.

The real vanguard was buried in the ground, skeletal giants and worse waiting to destroy any foe. The castle, then, was a fitting resting place for the Necromancer. An omen of death to anyone who stumbled upon it.

The…giant hole on the left side that had been somewhat clumsily patched up with regular masonry detracted from the image. Undead were not good builders. Nor were [Necromancers], at least with things not made of bone and flesh.

Nevertheless, the castle was mostly old grandeur and tireless undead, whose eyes glowed with malice in this heart of death magic. Unlike the Blighted King and King of Destruction, the Necromancer was largely unknown to the world, and his enemies knew his strength full well. The dread Necromancer, enhancing his strength each hour…who could challenge that?

Well, the six-armed super-titan made of glowing cloth that was punching out three bone giants was probably a good start. It had three heads and, like a monster from Greek legend, was also capable of literally turning the cloth-flesh to a burning radiance that burnt the undead trying to crawl up it to ash.

Unlike monsters of Greek legend, this particular titan of cloth had more tricks up its sleeve. For instance—the undead being smashed to pieces were being covered with bits of string that yanked up their bones and ‘reanimated’ them. Only, what came at the castle’s defenders were half-undead, half-string warriors.

What was the difference between the regular undead and these things? The half-string creatures had a quasi-flesh. And they screamed as they fought the undead.

Back to the cloth titan. It was half again as tall as Az’kerash’s regular bone giants, and it was faster and tougher than both. The observer, a certain skeleton wearing over eight relics, had made a few observations.

Regular giants were dangerous, but slow and arguably fragile if you concentrated on them. Gold-rank adventurers had proven that during the Village of the Dead raid. 

Greater giant-class undead were more formidable, but Az’kerash preferred to raise a horde over a single undead. That was biting him in the coccyx now. The cloth titan was currently using one of its hands to hold a skeleton giant in place as it smashed its ribcage to bits.

The other two skeleton giants kept trying to bash it down, but it was tough. They were doing no damage. Nor were the other defenders of the castle.

The swarm-tactics the regular undead were using were getting them vaporized and sent back as minions. And while the cloth-undead were having trouble taking the castle because of the competent defenders that the skeleton with purple eyes had set up in choke points—he was fairly certain the titan would punch through the walls.

This might require the Necromancer himself. No undead present could stop the titan. Well—at least, not the Chosen.

He, the skeleton with purple eyes, who called himself Toren, had just watched the cloth titan kick Venitra into the High Passes. She was probably undamaged, more the pity, but it would take her at least an hour to run back.

Bea had walked up, touched the cloth, and begun corrupting it—right until a fist punched her three dozen feet deep into the earth. She had declined to get back out there and give it another shot.

As for Ijvani, the last of the Chosen deemed combat-ready, well, Toren had found one of her bones. The clavicle was trying to roll across the battlements towards the rest of its body.

He gave it an encouraging toss over the ramparts. Yep, this was a sorry sight. The Necromancer’s finest undead, trashed. His personal abode, under siege. Who could do such a thing? The skeleton put his gauntleted hands to his skull in a parody of fear.

Oh no. It was such a mystery.

Or it would be if every single one of the screaming cloth-warriors and the titan itself weren’t shrieking to the high heavens. It was a female voice, although Toren had never heard her scream like that. The screeching dissonance was probably eerie to mortal sensibilities.

“NECROMANCER. RETURN MY DAUGHTER TO ME.”

Belavierr, the Stitch Witch, had sent this minion against the castle. And it was amazing, really. Toren knew she wasn’t here. She wasn’t even on this continent, according to Az’kerash. Even after those ghostly [Witches] had messed her up, she still was able to throw this minion at the castle.

That was class. Although…Toren turned his head sideways and saw a figure struggling in between two Chosen trying to keep her there. She burned with dark fire.

“Mother? Mother!

Maviola, the undead made by Belavierr, shouted as Devail and Wesixa restrained her. She was reaching out, but uncertainly—she could have burned the other two Chosen, but her flames were only coating her own body.

The world’s most high-powered custody battle involved titanic clashes of undead and, among other things that had been besieging the castle, swarms of giant insects, meteor storms, and showers of needles.

Well, the cloth titan had just taken down all but one of the bone giants, and it was finishing off the last one. Toren looked at Maviola, and she went silent a second as he lifted a hand.

[Judge] Toren had been watching the entire affair. The sordid offspring between the Necromancer and Belavierr! The poor parenting on both sides! The skeleton adjusted his skull.

If he had a bone in this fight, he had to admit—Az’kerash made for the better parent, and that was a low bar. Not that Toren liked the Necromancer that much.

But he had to admit—the skeleton did a flying leap from the castle battlements and crushed a cloth warrior between his enchanted boots. He reached up, swung a sword made of glass through another warrior’s head, and strode forwards.

He enjoyed the perks.

The [Relic Guardian] strode into the open ground between the castle as the cloth titan turned its wrath towards Az’kerash’s home. Yet, incredibly, it seemed to notice the tiny skeleton coming its way.

Perhaps the eight aforementioned Relic-class pieces of gear that Toren was wearing did the job. They would normally have generated so much magical interference that it would have caused a chain reaction that destroyed part of the castle. Again. However—Toren grinned as he put the sword on his shoulder.

He had some new Skills. He beckoned to the cloth giant with his free hand. After all his turmoil and torment at the hands of the Chosen—he was back to the good stuff: Inflicting bodily harm on other people.

 

——

 

The cloth titan brought down a fist that caused an earthquake in the surrounding region. Even on the castle’s walls, the defenders felt it.

A wobbling slime glowing purple with brilliant flecks of orange within jiggled in fear, but it was watching the battle. Even the Chosen had fallen silent. The blow should have destroyed the skeleton beyond even regeneration’s capacity to recover.

Yet—when the dust cleared, Toren was still standing there. He’d caught the fist with one hand. Even the cloth titan seemed amazed by that.

“He’s so cool.”

Maviola forgot her tears long enough to stare at Toren. He was grinning. Well, he was always grinning, but he definitely seemed to be enjoying this as he threw the hand back and leapt up the arm.

“The gauntlets did that. They make him as strong as a giant. I could do that. If I had them on.”

A skeleton’s head, black iron and two glowing gold flames, sulked as the rest of Ijvani’s bones slowly rolled towards her. Devail looked at her. The fibrous undead carrying the rapier turned from the cloth titan to Ijvani.

“Why did you not, then?”

The skeleton [Mage] opened and closed her jaw and then glared at him.

“Be silent. I am the original Chosen.”

Yetyetyet…Toren is the one instructing us to fight.

A soft chittering sound produced the odd chattering voice. Wesixa’s body dangled with string. She was more of a…puppet than person, but she didn’t look human. Rather, it was as if someone had taken a spider, turned it into cloth and ivory, and given it a puppet’s strings.

She wasn’t creepy at all. The healing slime hid behind Maviola as the undead [Lady] stared at Toren fighting the titan. He would have probably been smashed, even with all the relics he was wearing—Belavierr had sent a true city-destroying nightmare at Az’kerash. But more Bone Giants were rising for backup and the undead were streaming out of the gates.

“I want to go with Mother. Why won’t Archmage Chandler let me go?”

She had asked a variation of that question the last twelve times Belavierr had tried to recover her daughter. However, the Necromancer had sat her down and explained.

Belavierr was not a fit…mother. Maviola would join his Chosen, and she should not listen to mysterious lanterns appearing at her window telling Maviola to follow them. Or spells, constructs, or other phenomena of that nature.

The undead Maviola might have tried to run away despite that, because Belavierr was her mother—but Toren had patted her on the arm. He didn’t speak, but he had communicated via the undead’s shared understanding that Belavierr could be a real Erin. She might be loving, but she could be entirely hurtful by accident, and in the skeleton’s experience, this tended to end with a deathmatch in an inn.

So Maviola had stayed, especially because the cute little slime and Toren kept her company. She didn’t like the other Chosen. Or the evil woman Az’kerash had put in the circle.

“Why is master not coming? Toren will fail. We failed—therefore, he will.”

Ijvani was anxious, but Wesixa answered as Toren tried to saw off a leg.

Hehehe is busy with his guest.”

“They are always in his rooms. He has missed sparring practice with me. Twice.”

Devail put in, slightly upset. Maviola saw Ijvani’s neck reassembling as the skeleton mage looked askance.

“Why do those petty—ghosts have his attention? They were once alive. They are inferior to us.”

Maviola raised a hand.

“Maybe Archmage Chandler is having sex. Private, illicit rendezvous.”

The other Chosen turned to her. Wesixa looked surprised.

Sexsexsex? Why would he do that?”

Maviola folded her arms defensively.

My mother told me that is what a man and women do in private. Or man and man. Or man and animal. Or man and monster. Or man and eighteen women and—that’s all you do in private. We should spy on them and record proof of the affair for blackmail.”

The Chosen looked at each other. Most took Maviola at her word, but the Healing Slime, somehow the most adult member of the audience, reflected that Az’kerash might be the better parent after all.

 

——

 

What the Necromancer of Terandria, the most feared individual for a century of destruction, bane of the living, fallen Archmage of Death, Perril Chandler, was actually doing during the battle outside was suffering.

He, who had long since forgotten the trevails of flesh, had weathered death and all agonies of betrayal and the mortal world’s torment—was in pain.

It was amazing. His body wasn’t being harmed. He was a being of such mana that even a Djinni would look upon him in awe, arguably one of the highest-leveled individuals to ever exist, let alone currently live.

And yet—every time he turned his head to the floating figure in the circle of contained magic she had demanded, demanded he install in his personal workroom, unlike the others in his laboratory below—he almost flinched.

Words. Mere words, not even Skills, made the Necromancer dread going into his private lair.

He had met [Bards] of renown. Even heard [Pun Masters] with wordplay so cutting they could rend flesh. Yet none, not even the scathing rebuke of a sixty year-old [Lady] in a ballroom from behind a paper fan, compared with the mistress of critique.

If Az’kerash was the recent monster in the public consciousness, a myth that was still used to terrify children, he was looking at one of the originals.

Someone so famous she wasn’t a modern hit, but an all-time classic in the history of the world. One of the greatest villains who had terrorized a continent for over a thousand years.

The Immortal Tyrant, Nerrhavia. Az’kerash had looked up some of her history after ‘rescuing’ her from the battle at the Meeting of Tribes.

Nerrhavia, a Human who had gone from a mere commoner in the Empire of Ateverha, a corrupt and failing nation, to ruling everything and scaring even the Walled Cities and nations on other continents. She was called the Suzerain of Cloth, Ruler of the Woven Citadel, and among her names, Twisted Chamberlain of the Lacreous Courts.

Even that last bit was a story in itself. Az’kerash had looked into the tale until he’d grown so uncomfortable he’d had to close the book. That was Nerrhavia.

And her ghost, her actual ghostly soul, was in his possession. To a [Necromancer], that was the ally of a lifetime. The power and secrets of the greatest ruler, someone whose level might exceed his—at his beck and call. Not to mention the other ghosts he’d captured in the prison meant for Fetohep’s enemy.

Why, then, did he regret it so much? Perril Chandler had realized, too late, the mistake so many of Nerrhavia’s enemies had made. Guest, prisoner, ghost in a [Necromancer]’s power or not…

She got inside your head.

The woman’s ghost was the same as the last time he’d seen her. She could not alter her appearance, much to her displeasure, and some of the abilities she’d claimed were part and parcel to every ghost in the lands of the dead had left her.

For instance, she looked—as all the ghosts did—just like she had when she had died. In Nerrhavia’s case, the cause of death was simple.

Someone had taken a blade—and Az’kerash, as a student of dueling, thought it was a handaxe—and chopped through half her neck. Of course, that hadn’t killed her. But since, as Az’kerash understood it, Nerrhavia had fled the final siege and used the last of her strength to kill herself and rob her enemies of a trial or a torturous death, he supposed her true death-wounds didn’t show.

Namely, destroying half the palace and all the attackers in a final blaze of spiteful glory. That was the Immortal Tyrant’s legacy, and she certainly had dressed for her death.

She was draped in cloth that revealed her shoulders and upper arms but kept the rest of her body hidden, and Az’kerash imagined she had lounged upon her throne, idly applauding the first people to slay her last guards. She had painted her lips and nails red like blood, which complemented the sheer white dress—the color of death—very well.

Poisoned nails, incidentally. Nerrhavia had also braided her hair back like a stinger.

The entire look was impressive—but the ghost hated it. She floated in the circle he had drawn that anchored her soul to this world. If it broke—she would be returned from whence she came, and she assured him that would be a fate worse than death.

Yet she didn’t sound pleased by being one of the last ghosts to exist in the mortal world. If anything—her tone was exceptionally annoyed.

…and five changes of clothes. Each in the modern style, assuming they are tasteful. If I had known I would be forced to wear the garb of my death, I would have chosen something more all-purpose.”

The Necromancer was aware his castle was under siege. At any other time, he would be personally assessing the battle, destroying Belavierr’s minions, or talking to Maviola. Right now…his black eyes with white pupils fixed on Nerrhavia incredulously.

“Nerrhavia.”

Empress Nerrhavia. You may address me as Suzerain, Tyrant, or Eminence as a gesture of my goodwill.”

She snapped back. Az’kerash’s mouth stayed open a fraction of a second.

“—You wish me to design you clothes a ghost can wear and change into. Clothes for a ghost?

“Oh, is it beyond your capabilities? I apologize—I assumed I was speaking to a [Necromancer], not a [Corpse Digger].”

She put her head on her folded hands and regarded him with a bright, cheery smile. For a second. Then her scowl resumed.

“And I insist you bring me more entertainment! Those scrying orbs do well enough for mundane entertainment, but send me that interesting child. The one with fire hair, the daughter of the Stitch-Witch.”

“Maviola? Belavierr’s creation? I think not. She is already—distressed about her mother. She does not need poor lessons.”

Especially from you. And especially because, Az’kerash had learned, Belavierr and Nerrhavia had been contemporaries. In fact, they had been friends and allies.

When he had learned that, he had forbidden Maviola from getting anywhere near Nerrhavia. The Immortal Tyrant turned her head slightly, incredulously eying Az’kerash.

“It appears your ears did not survive your resurrection into undeath, [Necromancer]. That was not a request. Send the girl. How long until my body is ready?”

That was enough. Az’kerash turned from what had really been a fruitless time looking into Izril’s new lands. Even his myriad mental processes were running at reduced capacity.

That was how annoying Nerrhavia was. He spoke curtly.

“It seems I was not clear enough before. Allow me to readdress this situation. Great Nerrhavia, Tyrant of old. I am well aware of your legend and might in the histories of the world. However, you seem to be under the misapprehension that you are, in any way, in charge. You came to me, desperate for sanctuary. Now, you are a ghost in a [Necromancer]’s sway. I am no perverse being, but you have no power. If anything, you should hope to court me as the only ally and chance of resurrection you have—which will be as I deem most helpful to myself.”

He had been working on that speech for the last two days. Waiting to hit her with it. Instead of the calculated words finding their mark, however, Nerrhavia just peered at Az’kerash.

She said nothing at all. The Necromancer waited…then snapped.

“Well?”

That was a sign of how much he was losing, incidentally. Losing his patience? Working on a speech? Nerrhavia’s reply was succinct.

“I have known better [Necromancers].”

Archmage Chandler stared at her. She clasped her hands together, turned slightly, and went back to watching the scrying orbs broadcasting the news. Az’kerash snapped.

I could use your soul as fuel for my magic—

“Your armies would have been an interesting war for my empire, had they made war upon my nation.”

Nerrhavia broke in calmly. She turned her head back to Az’kerash and glanced out the hallway at the undead he could raise at a snap of his fingers. Az’kerash hesitated. Nerrhavia went on.

“I imagine the hordes of lesser undead would have lasted for about five minutes in the field. When my body is prepared, I expect you to do a better job than on your crude children.”

My Chosen are the finest undead—

“Oh yes, a woman carved out of solid bone, a plague zombie, and what were the other ones? A Draugr and a skeleton dipped in a bit of magical metal? The finest work I have ever seen!

Nerrhavia threw up her hands lightly.

Never once in my reign have I seen such genius at play! The [Archmages] and greatest golem artificers of Chandrar would throw themselves into the sea would they have witnessed the idea of making a zombie carry disease! Not one [Necromancer] ever surpassed such genius in form—making an undead that looks exactly like she was in life? The art. The passion.

“You—”

Was Az’kerash turning red? No, no…good. He was still dead. And yet, why did he think that Nerrhavia could see the blush? He tried to interrupt, but Nerrhavia kept going.

“Cathian Tombwalkers were invented under my reign. Do you know what those are?”

“I…Cathian Tombwalkers? I’ve only heard of them.”

And there it was. He got distracted, and Nerrhavia twirled a finger.

“They didn’t leave the designs into the modern era? Ah, well, one supposes all my people’s creations were destroyed. A pity—but I do recall their look quite well. One was said to be the match for any Silver-rank adventurer.”

“Ah, merely Silver-rank. I see—”

“Of course, that refers to my era’s standards for success. I believe you would call that a Level 30 [Warrior] armed with artifacts. Up to Level 40—Level 50 was the agreed-upon standard for Gold-rank. Naturally.”

Az’kerash’s mouth closed. Nerrhavia turned her head coyly.

“One Cathian Tombwalker was a sign of hundreds. If you would like, I can describe what some of my [Necromancers] viewed as the height of design. You see, their forms were economized with seithbone such that even a Level 15 [Necromancer] could maintain up to four.”

“A Level 15 [Necromancer]? Seithbone—what was that?”

Nerrhavia smiled at the distracted [Necromancer]. She turned back to her scrying orb and then spoke off-handed.

“I believe I shall enjoy some more of those song crystals, followed by a draught—that poor liquid you served me will do. Following that, one of those ‘plays’ those entertaining [Actors] put on. You may have that young Maviola attend me with all and sundry. I assume that disturbance is Belavierr? I grant you leave to attend to her, and we shall reconvene in the evening.”

The Necromancer stared at her.

“…No. Answer my questions.”

He had made the mistake of giving her some of the ethereal liquid that undead could imbibe. Apparently, ghosts derived something from it too. Nerrhavia could lift objects—ghosts had some combat potential, but without Skills or magic, she was more like an ethereal creature who could chill someone and absorb their life force.

And hurt their feelings from a thousand paces. Nerrhavia eyed Az’kerash.

“I don’t believe I recall how seithbone was created. Nor shall I ever, I fear. It is simply gone. Alas, that is what happens to knowledge. Permanently lost.”

She flicked her fingers. Az’kerash refused to be baited.

“I am aware ghosts feel pain. My magic—”

“Cathian Tombwalkers, gone. Another loss.”

“—your bluffing will not—”

Then she turned, and he felt the full force of her stare. Nerrhavia’s light tone vanished, and she advanced to the edge of her protective circle. He almost stepped back, and she tugged at her clothing, almost exposing her bosom.

Ah, I see I have no recourse after all! Very well, Archmage Chandler! Perril Chandler of Silvaria. Torture me until I give everything away! We are all your captives. No, I shouldn’t have tried for life instead of oblivion! I imagine I shall be ravished—if it were possible, I assume Az’kerash would make it so for ghosts—or spend my days screaming in agony. Any objection—any protest, and you will force your will upon me and the other captive spirits.”

Az’kerash backed up a step before he caught himself. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew she was trying to manipulate him.

Nevertheless, it stung. And he regretted telling her—alright, boasting when she sneered at him—about his past.

“I am not—a monster.”

Oh, truly? Then you will not be torturing me? And here I thought your threats were merely in line with Roshal’s finest. But perhaps I should remove my clothing and address you as ‘master’ ere we meet?”

I am no [Slaver]. I torture and coerce none of my guests! My enemies are another matter, and you would do well to—”

The Necromancer shouted. He lost his temper, well and truly lost it. He only realized his mistake when Nerrhavia floated back to the center of the circle.

“Oh, if torture is too depraved, oh mighty Az’kerash, then tell me—does a noble duelist of Terandria, a man worthy of a golden bell and the titles of a Terandrian kingdom, lack for etiquette? Does he indeed keep his guest without repast or entertainment?”

“You’re dead.”

Az’kerash just stared at Nerrhavia, simultaneously exhausted and amazed. How was she doing this? Nerrhavia sighed.

“Oh, pardon me. I forgot I was dead. Millenia of death where I craved naught but to touch and taste one last time. And you—I am sure—have never imbibed any pleasures for the undead. You are, of course, correct to lecture me.”

The Necromancer stared at Nerrhavia. His agile mind thought of a dozen responses, then it asked a salient question.

What was he doing? They weren’t talking about necromancy secrets, plans for the future, or anything else. He had spent three days arguing with Nerrhavia over whether or not she deserved drinks.

He…hesitated, but he had literally gotten nothing out of her. So the Necromancer made his mistake.

He raised a hand and floated a decanter of the ghostly liquid into her ‘cell’. It passed through the containment magic, and Nerrhavia snatched it out of the air. Thus, Az’kerash sealed his fate.

“I shall require a cup. Naturally.”

And that’s how he found himself getting her a cup. And once you’d played servant to a ghost…

The Necromancer actually stood outside his rooms with a cup in hand, staring at it. He heard the cloth titan dying in the background.

He could smash the cup, but if he did, he’d be arguing with her another day. Slowly, Az’kerash closed his eyes.

When he entered the room, he was ready to engulf her in a prison of silence and the void rather than put up with one more petty request. However, Nerrhavia accepted the cup as it floated into her enclosure and then steepled her fingers.

“I suppose I shall make do with entertainment later. To business once more. Do you intend to find the Crossroads of Izril? It would be a potent boon to secure access—although I cannot imagine you will be able to restrict it. There are copious treasures in these lands raised by Gnolls.”

And suddenly she was talking sense. As if she could tell exactly how far he’d be pushed before he snapped. Az’kerash twisted his mouth.

“I do not believe the new lands have much to offer me. Neither land nor most artifacts are beyond my means.”

“Really? You may be surprised at what lies buried. Even at the height of my power, some of my greatest treasures were found, not created. Seithbone, incidentally, is far denser than regular bone. Unlike regular bone, [Necromancers] described it as akin to coral; it acts not like regular bones but the interior generated magic in the ivory, such that greater undead could be formed.”

His head snapped up. Nerrhavia went on, idly sipping from a cup as she faced the window.

“You will need quite a number of bodies to create greater undead. More space than this castle by far, and if the Stitch Witch has found you—others will as well.”

“This castle is exceptionally fortified. It is the heart of my strength.”

“Mm. There is a hole in it. You mentioned a Dragon as an antagonist? Teriarch, the Lord of Flame, never troubled my domain directly, but I knew his name. I also know Reinharts. Either one could potentially kill you, even here. But you will surely die if your real enemies come calling. You think of your level as the highest, your power unmatched. Look at me and know I was greater—and I was laid low.”

She turned to gaze at him, and Az’kerash felt—just for a second—intimidated.

She had been his level, or higher. He had—forgotten.

He could still level up. He was high-level, the highest in the world. But there were still ways to go.

He was a Level 77 [Necromancer]. Well. That wasn’t his class, but Nerrhavia looked at him, and suddenly—he felt like he was thirty levels lower.

“The times have changed, Nerrhavia. My enemies are hardly as dangerous as yours. The only beings who might surpass me still are the Deathless of Rhir.”

They might be higher-level. At least, Silvenia might. Nerrhavia tapped her lips thoughtfully.

“In any other time, I would take your words at face value, Archmage Chandler. That the ‘best’ of your world, this Titan, the King of Destruction, seem to be anywhere from Level 50-60—you would have the advantage. But we are not locked against mere mortals. You and I face foes so dire that I would have thrown my empire into battle preparations even when my armies covered Chandrar. We face powers that extinguished heroes of old with a touch. I saw it.”

The Necromancer saw her gaze flicker, and he wondered if that moment of fear was acting or genuine or both, calculated to affect him. Yet he hesitated and took a second.

“G…”

Nerrhavia waited. Yet her eyes were alight on his face, and she saw Az’kerash’s throat work, though he needed no breath. He swallowed and then concentrated his will, abandoning all other thoughts. His focus became a pure point of control.

Gods. I am not unaware, Nerrhavia.”

He said it. And the Immortal Tyrant smiled and nodded.

“This is why you are the Necromancer of this age, Archmage Chandler. Fetohep of Khelt, for all his power and the authority of his predecessors, could not fathom nor speak the word. You can.”

Az’kerash straightened slightly. It had been difficult. He had been rattled by the realization that ‘dead gods’ was such an unconscious phrase. It might have been his death or his level, but he had grasped his foe.

In a sense.

“I still do not quite understand the magnitude of their threat, Nerrhavia. I understand their concept as you described them to me.”

He imagined them as a kind of Djinni or ultimate elemental—capable of absorbing ghosts, entirely knowledgeable, and, by all accounts, impossible to truly harm without objects beyond relics. However, they had no bodies, and they had been dealt severe blows.

Nerrhavia just sighed.

“Archmage Chandler, the greatest foe is one that lives. I crushed rebellions to the last because the one survivor became the [Hero] who came back a decade later. These foes do not die. Gnomes and Elves and Seamwalkers combined managed to stalemate or delay four of the six. I do not know what these…beings are either.”

She grimaced; she could not say the word. Nerrhavia hurried on.

“Ignorance is a weakness. Yet I do know what they are based on. Children from another world. As well—filth from beyond The Last Tide.”

Az’kerash nodded. His head spun from the revelations she had given him. There was another world. And yet—he felt like he’d known it.

Clues from The Wandering Inn. There had always been other dimensions—why not other worlds? The Necromancer spread his hands reasonably.

“None of this changes my goals. I have created the foundations for the most powerful undead to ever exist.”

“Yes. And in doing so, planted the seeds of your own betrayal in time. But let us move past that and assume they are ever loyal. They will be swept aside by your foes.”

He hesitated.

“…Nonsense. My Chosen—”

“—Are what, less than ten? How many will you create? Twenty? Let us say a hundred. Let us assume they all level as quickly as anyone thrust under adversity. There are millions of the living in any one nation. A Level 80 [Paladin] can match your Chosen blow for blow at the same level, even if you made their bodies out of Seithbone or the greatest materials. You. Require. Allies.”

Az’kerash had to sit down. She was pointing out flaws in his reasoning he didn’t like.

“Hence your body.”

This was where all his instincts told him it was the worst idea possible. Yet Nerrhavia just smiled archly.

“It may take you some time to replicate Khelt’s ritual. The greatest ghosts worked with admittedly crude mortal intermediaries to transfer ghosts to bodies, but I have faith in your talents, Archmage Chandler. Not just myself. Allies can be mortal as well. You claim no interest in the new lands, but—how fare your Chosen not present here? Kerash?”

Az’kerash jumped. He glanced to the side and felt his connection with Kerash. The Gnoll was even visible on a scrying orb that Nerrhavia lightly watched.

…just a bit further, Chieftain. If memory serves, it was around here.

The Gnoll looked more vibrant than he ever had as Az’kerash’s servant. The Necromancer even felt like Kerash was—satisfied.

And he was leading a tribe of Gnolls after him. They were dubious, weary, and Az’kerash saw the despair and loss from the Meeting of Tribes on their faces. Yet they followed Kerash.

“They should…recover the buried treasure within a day. You disapprove?”

Nerrhavia had watched him hurry to bury said treasure and make it seem like all the artifacts and gold were aged a few years. Az’kerash had been sweating about that, but it was all in place. Kerash and the Lomost tribe, who had agreed to send representatives with him to recover the treasure he’d found, would recover a small fortune.

“Quite a bounty for the Gnolls. Which, of course, is all due to your Chosen Kerash. Your little puppets have also been rendering aid for them. Will Kerash lead them into the new world after he becomes a Chieftain?”

“I…intend his rise to be meteoric. This is merely the first step.”

Why was she switching to Kerash? Az’kerash had always intended this. Nerrhavia tilted her head.

“Of course, he will also help defend the Gnolls from those dreadful Drakes. Did I actually catch you sending a [Healer] with potions you funded when that tribe began getting sick? The adorable little Gnoll cubs were especially grateful.”

“—It all serves Kerash’s reputation.”

If the Necromancer had any sweat left in his glands—he was watching Kerash, not avoiding Nerrhavia’s gaze. The ghost pressed a hand against the barrier keeping her from the mortal world. She watched Az’kerash from the side and whispered.

“I was feared when I took power, but my position was not always safe. My subordinates had power far more direct than I, but I stayed in power for so long because I knew my courts. I could spot true treason, play my enemies against each other, and have those who wanted nothing more than my death act as loyal servants all their lives. Do you know what I see? Weakness. You quite enjoy playing the hero, Necromancer.”

He turned and fixed her with an undeathly glare. She gave him the gaze that had scorched Dragons.

“If what I do serves my ends—”

Spare me. I am not blind, Necromancer. Allow me to simply warn you of something: you are not the first to go this way. We all have done this.”

“…Excuse me?”

Nerrhavia pretended to clean her nails on her dress. For once—she actually blushed faintly, her dark skin mottling.

“—It happens. I think most who find immortality go through a period of altruism. Even I, myself, mentored some individuals in my first three hundred years. Those I have spoken to recount the same—we try to amend our mortal follies. Do things over. I think all but Belavierr truly had times where they took it upon themselves to deny their natures. Or they had—champions.”

Her look was too keen, and Az’kerash wished he hadn’t kept the newpaper articles and other stories about the Horns of Hammerad on a board to the side of his room. Nerrhavia bent slightly.

“It is understandable, but, Necromancer, like parents raising children to succeed where they failed, like the past, we cannot remake ourselves anew. You will rebound into the very wrath and madness that engulfed you the first time when it collapses, that dream. It only takes treachery—or disappointment.”

She floated there, and he tried to muster a response. However, Nerrhavia just turned back to the map of Izril.

“By all means, keep up your project with the Gnolls. You are correct that a warm touch will aid your servant. But let me assure you—you want allies. My entourage you have kept will be fine allies. As for the new lands, explore them, Necromancer. It is my belief we have all yet to find weapons in the war against our true foes. And remember—”

She turned her head and fixed him with a serious gaze.

“—neither you nor I are capable of besting them alone.”

That was why it was so hard for him to simply ignore Nerrhavia. He feared she was right. The Necromancer took a breath and nodded.

“…And what of Erin Solstice, who you mentioned?”

Nerrhavia pursed her lips.

“She refused my class. Which is altogether fine. A worthy servant refuses three times, in my experience. She may be impossible to touch at this time, given the eyes upon her. But as I said. We are in a race against our enemies for the greatest treasures, including my palace. We must begin securing what we can. Your Chosen must be sent out. They are, I hope…mature enough to act alone?”

The Necromancer was silent for a long time. Nerrhavia rolled her eyes, and Az’kerash spoke.

“—They are growing. But I have countless undead. My control over them—”

“Is as finite as your mind, which should be devoted to improving your undead. You make an inchworm’s progress in all areas rather than focusing your intellect. Do you have one servant you trust? Or will it be for us to wait for bodies?”

Nerrhavia stared at Az’kerash. He hesitated—even Kerash. Belavierr was gone. Maviola was her child…Wesixa and Devail were new.

Bea, Ijvani, and Venitra were—

He slowly put his hands behind his back.

“I…have one servant you haven’t met who may be competent. I believe he just slew Belavierr’s greatest creation. Did you have a target in mind?”

Nerrhavia peered at Az’kerash, surprised, but he was sure she couldn’t see the crossed fingers behind his back.

 

——

 

Toren, flush on victory, was letting Healing Slime sit in his ribcage when he was called upon. Apprehensively, he marched into the Necromancer’s rooms and found the ghost there.

She had never noticed Toren, the ordinary skeleton, among the other servants. Nerrhavia gazed blankly at the skeleton and then stared at the quivering Healing Slime in his ribcage.

Az’kerash was rewarded with a look of genuine surprise on Nerrhavia’s face. For one moment. Then she turned her head slightly.

“This is a levelling undead?”

“A skeleton, yes. A [Relic Guardian], in fact. The slime is sentient. It possesses healing and speed qualities thanks to the potions it has imbibed. This is Toren. Toren…this is Nerrhavia, a being you will take instruction from. Within reason.”

Toren eyed Nerrhavia and got the distinct sense that she was dangerous. But she was also a ghost, so he walked around her circle and then tried to stick a hand through.

“What the—enough!”

He felt a freezing touch on his hand as he poked through one leg. It didn’t bother the skeleton at all. Az’kerash watched with increasing enjoyment. Nerrhavia batted at Toren, then ignored his poking. She gazed at the skeleton and frowned.

“What level is he?”

“Level 33 in his main class. He also possesses classes in [Sword Dancer], [Tactician], and, uh, [Carer] and [Barmaid].”

Az’kerash stared at Toren’s classes as he cast [Appraisal]. Nerrhavia stopped and stared at Toren. He offered her a salute. She glanced at him, the slime, and then at the Necromancer.

“Ah. Now I know you did not create him. This one has more originality in a single bone than all your Chosen combined.”

The Necromancer twitched slightly, and Nerrhavia turned back to Toren.

“Who did?”

“A talented [Necromancer] gave him life. But he was last in Erin Solstice’s employ…before I discovered him.”

Az’kerash admitted after a long pause. Nerrhavia’s head turned slightly at Erin’s name.

“Oh. Fascinating. Well, well. It seems the [Innkeeper] would have made a fine [Necromancer] as well as [General]. Yes. If she helped give this undead personality—he will do quite nicely. You will have to give him suitable bodyguards. And upgrade him. Can he not speak?”

Az’kerash hesitated. Toren was making it quite clear how he felt about Nerrhavia, but the ghost had none of a [Necromancer] or fellow undead’s power.

“No. Not as such.”

Nerrhavia smiled, looking Toren up and down, and he stopped poking her and backed up a bit. He didn’t know if she beat Belavierr after all.

“Give him a tongue. I will give him a purpose. But first…I want to know what his personality is. Oh, and Necromancer?”

She turned to Az’kerash, and he looked at her expectantly. The new lands of Izril lay open, but Az’kerash cared more about allies. About a means to effect even greater power. Whether that meant bodies for his allies or…precautions, time would tell. Cautious, he had to be cautious.

Nerrhavia turned to him as the Necromancer waited. She smiled.

“—For now, I will settle for due entertainment. Send the Maviola child in with you. And song crystals. Report to me when the skeleton can speak tonight. You have my leave to go.”

The Necromancer looked at Toren, and his eyes flashed. A green tinge filled the room, and Nerrhavia waited for the confrontation she had planned—that she would win—as Toren and Healing Slime ran for it.

If he hurt her, she won. If he stormed out, she won. If he lost his temper—she won. But for once, Nerrhavia’s plans went askew, because the Necromancer’s fury about to be unleashed in no uncertain magical terms suddenly stopped.

The charge of magic halted, and Nerrhavia frowned as his expression focused on something in the room. She twisted, and then she frowned.

He was staring at one of the scrying orbs. Staring with genuine concern. For, as the Blighted King’s council was interrupted, the King of Destruction’s plans for conquest halted a moment by a servant—

A sudden, surprise broadcast began playing on the scrying orbs.

A Wistram News Network special. For the greatest threats to world peace came the smiling face of a half-Elf having a sit-down talk with a certain Drake [Reporter].

Archmage Eldavin.

 

——

 

They had developed the room in which Drassi was sitting for the purposes of the conference. Or rather, Eldavin had. It had those semi-circular couches, a ‘relaxed on the open terrace’ vibe to the background, and bright colors.

It was amazing, in fact, how similarly generic it was to the kind of ubiquitous room you wanted in the background while you talked the important talk.

Crucially, it was different from the more somber room where you disclosed personal secrets or upsetting events, or the more intimate fireside setting. This was the ‘open discussion’ moment, and it even had the same slightly-forced cheery energy.

“Er—Grand Magus Eldavin. It’s good to see you.”

Drassi was nervous. You got nervous when someone said, ‘we have an interview for you with a dead man, and you’re teleporting to get to it’. The half-Elf, as impressive as ever, gave her a slightly arch smile.

“And to you, Reporter Drassi, a good morning. I hope you didn’t find the journey upsetting?”

She hesitated.

“Er—no. Not at all. That is, to our viewers, I’m Drassi Tewing of Liscor, reporting for Wistram News Network. [Honest Reporter], sitting down with Grand Magus Eldavin. I have just teleported to what I assume is—Wistram?”

“Wistram Academy, indeed. Not that this is new magic; we’ve always had the ability to transfer people at great magical cost.”

Drassi hesitated. Her tail was curled up, but it clearly wanted to vibrate, yet she was aware of the cameras on her and Eldavin.

“Yes…but you could probably teleport me and half of Liscor, right? You cast [Grand Teleport], people have said you’re the one true [Archmage] left in the world worthy of the class—and forgive me if I skip ahead, Grand Magus Eldavin, but I think it’s exceptionally pressing—I thought you were dead. Everyone saw you die, or rather, announce your death when battling Ailendamus’ Viscount Visophecin.”

Eldavin laughed lightly; he was half-turned to face the camera, and he sat with perfect ease—or seemed to.

“You know, Reporter Drassi, so did I. Which is why I wished to address the world and put to rest doubts of my death when they inevitably occur.”

“You thought you were dead when you told everyone to flee?”

Eldavin shrugged self-consciously. He even blushed slightly and smoothed at his white beard.

“I truly did. In hindsight, that was a bit of grandstanding, I must confess. Announcing my own death—but I thought I’d taken a mortal wound and was preparing to die.”

“Then what happened?”

The half-Elf paused, and his cheerful expression grew serious on camera. He looked past Drassi and stared ahead for a second.

“—I can only call it fortune or a miracle, Miss Drassi. Counter-levelling, a bit of resolve at the end—I woke up half-dead and managed to pull myself to safety. Who knows? Perhaps it was one of the spirits that struck the battlefield, but I realized that I was just a bit player on a grander stage.”

He gave her a rueful smile, and Drassi nodded as images from the events at Ailendamus flashed up to remind people what happened. It was a very high-quality broadcast, and everyone was taking notes.

“I think that goes for all of us, Grand Magus. But to confirm—you’re alive. Can I, uh—poke you to make sure I’m not talking to an illusion?”

“Poke away, Miss Drassi, hah hah hah.”

 

——

 

There was a bit of pain to the kind of forced laughter and the stilted way that Drassi and Eldavin spoke, especially if you knew either one. But it was probably well-received among the world-wide audience.

It certainly…changed everything. The broadcast was barely fifteen minutes long and only served for Eldavin to let everyone know that he was back in Wistram.

Also—that the Terras faction was falling back from the war with Ailendamus. They’d done what they set out to do, and while Eldavin had not destroyed Ailendamus, they had been forced back from conquering Calanfer.

The one interesting question was where Drassi went off-script. She turned to Eldavin.

“I know we’re almost done, Archmage—but I have to ask. Ryoka Griffin, the Wind Runner of Reizmelt? Everyone saw the—dramatic moment where she attacked you in your camp. It’s been said that one of the reasons you fought against Ailendamus was because, in your own words, she was magically suborned. What is your stance on her now?”

Eldavin’s face froze a moment, and the watchers in the background nearly grabbed Drassi, but he replied after a moment, holding up a hand to stop anyone from dragging her off set.

“Ryoka Griffin? I can’t say where her allegiances lie, Drassi. Honestly? I was hurt. Physically, as you might imagine, but also personally. I think the most honest thing to say is that we will resolve our differences if and when we next meet. For now—there’s a reserve between us.”

“I can just imagine. Thank you, Archmage, for your time.”

That was that. Drassi had a mildly discontented look, as if she could tell she’d run into a polite spin on things, but the broadcast was being played across the world.

As for Eldavin, he was already in another meeting, because they had pre-recorded the broadcast two days ago. What people took to be live didn’t have to be.

It also meant that by the time he met with Archmage Feor, Blackwood, and Viltach, they had time to process him being back.

Viltach had prepared for this meeting by drinking as much stomach medicine from the [Alchemist] as he could. He had at least one ulcer. Perhaps two.

Why wasn’t hard to guess.

Nailihuaile was dead. Wistram had been attacked, the Earthers stolen—and Eldavin was alive. Alive, and Khelt had done something, Wistram’s reputation was as low as it had ever been—

And the Archmage of Memory was here. Verdan, Viltach, and Feor had all discussed the issue, and they’d agreed they were allied. Eldavin could not have Wistram. They might not have his magic, but their factions outnumbered his by a huge margin. This was their moment to take over Wistram, and it amazed the Human Archmage that he was working with Feor, his longtime opponent.

A common enemy did unite them. The Archmages had just gotten past pleasantries, and Viltach was waiting for Feor to let Eldavin know things would be different, now. The King of Destruction had freed Amerys, and they needed to all work together, which meant that Eldavin had to work with them.

He might squirm or wriggle, but if he wanted to get anything done in the Council, he’d need their help. That was the theory.

Right up until Archmage Eldavin leaned back with a puffer in his hand.

“Archmages, thank you for meeting with me. I won’t waste our time with grand pronouncements or showboating. The Necromancer of Terandria is alive. To my knowledge, he’s been building an army of undead, and he’s somewhere in the south of Izril.”

Viltach began choking on his cup of purified water, and his stomach hurt so badly he reached for the medication. The problem with healing potions was that his body thought the ulcer should be there, so it just re-opened it when he drank one.

“The Necromancer…?”

Feor turned pale, because he had been Archmage Chandler’s student. Verdan looked sick as his magical armor activated a few defensive enchantments automatically. Viltach had grown up on horror stories of the Necromancer; he remembered when the undead armies had attacked kingdoms and hiding under his bed as a child.

“Alive. He killed Zel Shivertail, and unless we do something, I believe he may ally with the Antinium and turn the south of Izril into a charnel house. It was my goal to destroy him prior to arriving at Wistram, but I don’t have the power after battling Great General Dionamella. I’ve elected to tell you first, and obviously this is a secret; if he knows we’re onto him, he’ll go to ground, and he must die.”

“You knew before—how long have you known?”

Eldavin calmly answered Feor, and Viltach realized they’d lost control of the conversation. He almost didn’t care. He just sat back and listened as Eldavin explained in brief his knowledge of Az’kerash.

“…I knew because I hired Ryoka Griffin to look into the matter. She escaped the Necromancer, hence our association.”

It was impossible to tell if he were lying; truth spells just bounced off anyone of their level, but it all made sense. Viltach’s blood chilled, but he looked at Eldavin with almost a hint of respect.

“You thought you could take down the Necromancer by yourself, Archmage Eldavin?”

The half-Elf gave Viltach a guilty smile that reminded Viltach of the custom wand he’d been gifted.

“Well, I did have a high opinion of my battle abilities, as you may have seen. I’ve been humbled, well and truly. But I think it’s clear that the Necromancer is Wistram’s greatest threat, and I hope you can all work together in helping me bring him down.”

“Wait. Just wait, Eldavin. The Necromancer…is a true danger. To Wistram especially, since he was one of us. But surely—the King of Destruction is worse. Amerys is free.

And she held grudges. Verdan looked afraid, but Eldavin shook his head.

“The King of Destruction is…not an issue to me.”

What?

The Archmages were incredulous, but Eldavin steepled his fingers calmly.

“He is just a man. A [King] with some high-level vassals, but he is, compared to Az’kerash, a minnow before a shark. High-level individuals like the Necromancer are the greatest threat to the world.”

His eyes flickered.

“Naturally, that count includes Ailendamus in an existential way, but I’d put the Necromancer and the Demons of Rhir as our greatest threats.”

Of course, he wasn’t wrong, but Viltach was amazed. He had no love for Chandrar, but the King of Destruction…

“What if the King of Destruction takes over Chandrar?”

“He can try. But he has a lot to conquer, and it is my belief he will run into obstacles beyond merely Wistram, Feor. I want us to focus on matters Wistram can deal with. We’re not an army. But we can take down one spellcaster if we perfect our actions. Let me put it another way—I am open to dealing with all threats to world peace, but shall we agree the Necromancer is a good first target?”

Eldavin looked about, and he didn’t get much pushback there. He nodded to Viltach and smiled about.

“We need to bring Wistram higher, Archmages. More lessons, repairs after the chaos the King of Destruction wrought…Terras is coming back to the academy, and I intend to make this a true renaissance of magic.”

With you at the head? The Archmages looked at each other and tried to object. Feor smiled at Eldavin like his face hurt.

“We will listen to your input on Wistram’s future, Archmage Eldavin, but this is a meeting of equals. We must align our interests.”

He stressed the word and waited for Viltach to back him up. Then he realized Viltach was smiling at Eldavin, and Feor looked at Verdan and saw the old Archmage of Baleros looked pale, rattled by the news.

The alliance of three began to collapse as Eldavin nodded at Viltach.

“Exactly so, Archmage Feor. Viltach and I have talked quite a bit in private—would you care to catch up tonight, Viltach? After dinner—I have company.”

“Certainly, Eldavin. Over some wine? I’d be happy to.”

Viltach avoided Feor’s gaze. He’d done a swift recalculation and come to a simple conclusion. Valeterisa had already thrown over for Eldavin.

Far better to be the first to join than the last. The Archmage of Memory nodded to Feor and then dropped the hammer.

“As for Nailihuaile’s tragic passing—I assume her replacement will come from her faction?”

“Her…oh, yes. At some point someone suitable will emerge.”

Feor blustered. Whomever it was would have a hard time establishing control, but Eldavin thoughtfully nodded his head.

“I look forwards to it. We should confirm her successor within the month. Although—perhaps we should space out the additions to the ranks of Archmage.”

“A-additions?”

All three men looked at Eldavin, and he smiled at them.

“Why, surely you agree that the most valuable mage to prove they deserve, nay, already walk among us as equals is Galei, or Taxiella, or whatever their name is from Ullsinoi? I believe we should appoint an Archmage from their number and reach out to see if there is interest in a representative from the Drowned Folk or even an honorary Archmage among the Drakes.”

Foreign Archmages? Archmage Eldavin!”

Feor leapt to his feet, but Eldavin stared pointedly at Verdan Blackwood.

“Archmage is nothing more than a title, Archmage Feor. If it’s loyalty to Wistram that’s a factor, well, we can discuss that. But Wistram must change. It already has, but I intend for it to be even more crucial to the world. If not, we will fade away, and we must be the beating heart of magic.”

He looked at everyone and smiled.

“In a year, we’ll all be ten levels higher. We’ll break Zelkyr’s test in half and march up to the thrones of magic. That is my goal. The Necromancer dies this year. Now…let’s discuss Wistram’s defenses. The Golems of Wistram are all very well, but it has been a long time since we have had an army. And I believe—one may be required to safeguard ourselves and our interests abroad.”

 

——

 

Archmage Eldavin spent two more hours browbeating the other three Archmages mostly in the direction he wanted. He did it because while Feor might object, Verdan Blackwood was old and cowardly and Viltach knew when to jump ship.

The Necromancer was what did the trick. Feor was afraid of Az’kerash, and he had every right to be. The half-Elf might be just as old, but he was only an Archmage in name.

The real [Archmage of Death] could walk into Wistram and kill everyone there. But for Cognita. It made sense he was a threat, but if he was considering the matters of the world in an unbiased way, Eldavin would have gone after Ailendamus or the King of Destruction after all. Or, frankly, the Walled Cities for their egregious actions towards the Gnolls.

However, he had a mission. He had orders, and the Archmage of Memory thought about his future as he wrote missives to the people [Messaging] him.

He felt…old. Tired. His bones hurt. It was hard to keep a smile on his face when he felt a sudden drag to his steps.

That damned half-Elf. Dionamella had done something to him, and Eldavin had lost a step. Not only that—the blazing fire of magic he had been able to draw upon was gone.

He hadn’t lied to the Archmages or Drassi. He had already realized his arrogance fighting Ailendamus. Now? He was in danger. Eldavin was weaker.

But he had another chance. And that was worth all the pain in the world. Eldavin breathed in and out, and he felt a half-Elf’s old body—but all the potential in it.

He…was alive. Youth treatments were not impossible, and he could…

He could have children. He could marry or change or…

It hurt him because this freedom meant he was untethered. He was no Dragon. And in a sense, he’d always be inferior to the image he had in his head.

But he was grateful to be alive, and he, Eldavin, knew he was on a side with a lot going for it. His challenges were immense, even at the head of Wistram, but the half-Elf had taken the hand of fate itself.

Or something greater. He was annoyed at being tired, though; a simulacra barely needed to sleep. Now, he got exhausted more quickly, and he napped.

But, oh—there was one more thing. One tiny, teensy little thing that he had gotten. Eldavin’s eyes closed as he stretched out in an armchair, and he heard a voice.

 

[Level 8 Magus!]

 

What a charming sound. So low-level, but then—he’d only been alive a handful of days. Eldavin listened to the sound and heard no Skills or anything else this time, but already, he understood the obsession of the people of this world.

Such a lovely announcement. He thought he would never get tired of it.

 

——

 

Eldavin’s return spiked fear into the hearts of his enemies. It astounded the world and made even the powers that be move warily.

It provoked bowel-moving anxiety in a certain young woman named Ryoka Griffin. Disbelief and uncertainty in Magnolia Reinhart. Because they did not know if this was a good sign—or the worst.

Someone who wasn’t concerned by the announcement was a Brass Dragon who watched the announcement with a huge frown on his face.

“Archmage of Memory, Eldavin? What a pretentious name. Eldavin. That means in the Elf tongue—imposter. Seeming, rather. I wonder if he knows what it means.”

He put it out of his mind. The Dragon was headed north. His great, austere form…did not fly in the sky. He lay on the ground, panting.

“Alright. One more hundred mile set. I can do this.”

He flapped his wings and then felt the ache. Teriarch decided to rest another hour.

“When did flying get so hard? Someone must be doing something to the air. That’s it.”

It was definitely some flux in the air after all the chaos. Not him barely going two hundred miles before needing a break. The Dragon knew he had to get a move on, but he…decided the most prudent course of action was to hone his strength.

Yes, absolutely.

That was why travellers on the road north to First Landing occasionally stared at the huge pile of logs being transported via wagon along the plains. Some people called out to the drivers who were idiotically taking the wagons in the soil and grass, but they clearly had skills that let their wheels make good time, because they only waved and shouted back.

The ‘pile of logs’ and wagons was Teriarch. He lay on a platform of light he’d enchanted to roll forwards, muttering about air density. He was tired.

“Maybe a little nap?”

No, no. He couldn’t do that. But the Dragon was tired, and he was on the move. So—small steps. The sun was quite nice, and if he curled up just so…he began to snore, and a distant [Herder] wondered if the [Lumberjacks] transporting the giant felled trees were doing some sawing.

Dragons on the go. Kings and Archmages, dead and alive. What a wonderful time for it all. But their plans, while grand, relied on mortal agents, because even a Dragon couldn’t be everywhere and do everything.

It required a sassy skeleton, vassals of the King of Destruction, soldiers of the Blighted Kingdom, or [Mercenaries], the brave and the crazy.

Adventurers for the new lands of Izril. How many would head out in search of opportunity or wealth? The first wave was moving towards the new lands, and only later—only later would the news break.

An inconsequential story, at first. Something with no relevance unless you were an [Alchemist] or [Merchant] who understood the implications. It had bearing with the sudden sharp rise in the price of healing potions, and when people did understand—

Well, it was too late. It had been too late. But word came that the last shipment of Eir Gel for the foreseeable future had come from the isle of Hesheit. The world’s supply of healing potions had just…vanished.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: That’s right. We have a merchandise store! And I’m doing an AMA! And I’m already tired.

Mostly of things that don’t pertain to writing. I am a writer of one talent. And that’s writing, not doing anything else in life.

Cleaning, self-promotion, knowing what a mile is, realizing there are only twenty-eight days in February…all beyond me.

And speaking of my one ability, this chapter is short! It’s only 22,000 words long and I think that we can all agree it might not be as fulfilling as 30,000, but perhaps we can live with it? I hope you understand and will take the merchandise store as an apology.

And also the amazing art! Including the next cover for Book 7: The Rains of Liscor! Events, happening left, right, and center! But the chapter always comes first. I hope you enjoyed this look into our top…well-intentioned viewpoints from around the world.

I plan on trying to do the side story chapter next, then we’ll see where the month takes us. Thanks for reading and hopefully no more chipmunks. I keep looking for them but maybe they’re just plotting my demise in hiding.

 

Silveran Merch Store and Erin In Love by ArtsyNada!

 

Wandering Inn Pillow by MarkTechv7 [Bachatero]! (And cat).

 

The Rains of Liscor book cover by JAD and Shawn King!

JAD Illustrated: https://www.jadillustrated.com/

Shawn King: http://www.stkkreations.com/

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Interlude – The Isles of Goblin and Minos

A pair of Minotaurs and a half-Elf walk into a bar. A third Minotaur is already waiting for them. The half-Elf orders a bowl of bugs, and the other two Minotaurs look at the third one.

He has no arm. He smiles and stands up. Then—the Minotaur asks the other two.

“Is today when I finally face justice? Is today the day I die?”

And nobody laughs at all, because it isn’t a joke.

 

——

 

It’s a military bar, not the generic bar where a horse is allowed to order a glass of water. In fact, ‘bar’ is stretching the term; [Camp Bartender] is a specialized class that has the ability to deploy essentially a tent with benches for the purposes of dispensing alcohol on a moment’s notice.

In some military minds, the act of creating a place where [Soldiers] could unwind with a mind-altering beverage might be a poor idea. However, to another type of perspective, it made sense.

Placed in a secure area that would not suffer attacks, the army’s bar was a valuable inducement to morale. Officers and regular soldiers could mingle under a certain veil of anonymity or take the temperature of a regiment. More importantly—the bar was a place for [Soldiers] to spend their valuable pay and send it right back into the army’s coffers.

There were cold, sharp minds in the military who styled themselves upon leading crack-troops into decisive combat and breaking their opponents with a combination of will, arms, and tactics. They had nothing on the financiers of said armies, who operated in the cold, hard vacuum of economics.

That was all to say that the ‘bar’ served alcohol, and if you asked what kind, you didn’t get any. It also meant that it was Liscor’s army’s bar, and so, to get here, both Minotaurs had taken the portal door to this location. With said half-Elf.

Finally, because it was Liscor’s army’s bar, it sold bugs as snacks. Crunchy beetles endemic to this region that you took a shot of Firebreath Whiskey with. It was already tradition for non-Antinium squads to haze new members with the practice.

The two Minotaurs were Venaz of Hammerad, [Strategist] of the Forgotten Wing company as a student, and Bezale of Maweil, a [Spellscribe] of Wistram’s Scriptel faction.

Ceria was Captain of the Horns of Hammerad. Of the three, Venaz had never met Calruz. Yet, of the three—his impression was perhaps the most important, and it was already defined by a few events.

Firstly, testimony from people around Liscor. He had interviewed Elirr, Mrsha, and other people who had been present during the Raskghar raids, including Erin Solstice. Following that, Venaz had personally spoken with Ceria Springwalker for several hours, as her testimony was most relevant.

Secondly, he informed his judgment based on testimony from a certain Silver-rank team of Minotaurs, three of whom had survived the Village of the Dead raid and offered their commentary. Venaz had further added notes from Watch Captain Zevara and spent some time confirming the magical nature of the dungeon with Bezale and every mage-adventurer in Liscor willing to speak to him.

Finally, he thought of the ‘Beriad’ of the Antinium. 6th Battalion. Another event had occurred during the Minotaur’s walk through the camp.

That was Bezale and Venaz both being greeted as ‘Captain Calruz’ by confused Antinium who wished to congratulate him on regrowing his arm. These were not members of 6th Battalion, incidentally.

Calruz of Hammerad watched Bezale stop when she saw him. Ceria was already ordering a small bowl of beetles. She was alive. Zevara had written him to inform him of this, but he hadn’t seen Ceria until now.

Yet he looked at Venaz and knew.

There was nothing to distinguish the other Minotaur from Bezale physically, at least, that he carried the authority Calruz had been waiting for. Yet, aside from knowing Venaz individually, Calruz saw the other Minotaur fix him with a studious gaze before striding along the room.

Minotaur feet were interesting, incidentally, because not all Minotaurs had five-toed feet. Some had hooves, others had regular feet similar to a Human or Gnoll. Bezale had humanoid feet. Calruz had humanoid feet.

Venaz had hooves. They clicked gently on the stone floor of the camp bar. Aside from that, he made no sound as he waited.

Bezale was right behind him, Ceria trailing at the rear. The other [Soldiers] in the camp bar turned.

They had heard Calruz’s question. Why did he smile? The Antinium had certainly noticed—they were leaving the bar in a rush.

“Calruz of Hammerad?”

“I am Calruz of Hammerad. Formerly of the Beriad of Minos. Prisoner-soldier in service to Liscor’s civilian army under authority of Commander Olesm as remanded to him by Watch Captain Zevara.”

The Minotaur stood straight and put one arm behind his back. Venaz eyed him.

“…Formerly of the Beriad? Your status was not revoked, last I inquired.”

His tone was—severe. Enough so that Wil, Merrik, and Peki, who had followed him covertly, were surprised. Venaz was often authoritative, but right now, he was cold in a way he seldom came off to his friends.

The one-armed Minotaur stiffened. He seemed to have two scars for every one Venaz carried—and Venaz did have scars. An adventurer who had fought in Liscor’s dungeon. He was, as Peki pointed out, in very good shape. If anything, Wil thought he had begun to develop the inhuman or in…Minotaur…body that came to those of a certain level.

Skin as tough as steel. Yet his voice was the interesting part. He had no battlefield roar—if anything, his was a quiet tone, and it hesitated now.

“I…assumed my position would have been in question at least. It would certainly be revoked following review—”

“But you are a member of the Beriad to your knowledge, Calruz of Hammerad? Answer.”

Venaz cut him off, and Calruz stiffened slightly. He clasped one arm across his chest.

“I am. Calruz of the Beriad. Forgive me, V—cousin of Minos.”

There was a logic to this. Venaz nodded, and only then did he copy Calruz’s gesture with his left arm.

“I am Venaz of Hammerad. Beriad of Minos, and [Strategist] in training under the tutelage of Lord Niers Astoragon of the Forgotten Wing Company. I believe you know Bezale of Maweil, also a member of the Beriad, [Mage] of Wistram’s Scriptel faction.”

“I do.”

Calruz nodded to her, and Bezale nodded back, looking…uneasily at Venaz. Not once did the [Strategist]’s face move. He was watching Calruz.

“I am also a member of the Mneiol by virtue of my rank as [Strategist]. I have the authority to render judgment in or outside the House of Minos. Per your request, Calruz of Minos, I have come to evaluate your actions as Captain of the Horns of Hammerad, then as leader of the Raskghar in Liscor’s dungeon. So. Tell me the events as you recall them.”

With that, he sat down and placed a truth crystal on the table, put one gold coin on the table as someone came to take his order, and waved Bezale and Ceria over.

“I will have water or a non-alcoholic beverage. Calruz of Hammerad?”

The other Minotaur paused a moment.

“…Water.”

He glanced at Bezale and Ceria. The half-Elf had a cup of wine and paused in the middle of taking a huge gulp—she’d dipped a giant stag beetle in a shot of whiskey and was about to down that.

“Do I need to not drink?”

“As you choose, Captain Ceria. Magus Bezale?”

“Wine. Whatever you have.”

It was quite strange. The three watching [Strategists] realized Venaz wasn’t about to render instantaneous judgment. And he confirmed that the moment he turned around.

“I am not about to cut his head off. This will take time. Hours, days…he has to tell his record of events. You three might as well come in, but don’t interrupt unduly.”

Embarrassed, the other students slunk into the bar. Calruz blinked at them as Venaz introduced them.

“My companions. I apologize if their presence is distracting, Calruz.”

“No. I…am I to be judged as if I was home, Venaz of the Mneiol? I did not expect that. Surely the facts are clear.”

At that, Venaz folded his arms.

“What other judgment would suffice? You have been granted exceptions to your execution under Drake law by the Watch Captain of Liscor. Did you think your arbiter would come with any preconceived notions to pass judgment in an hour?”

Calruz flushed.

“I—must have been long from home, Strategist Venaz. I will confess, my mind is made up. I also do not expect mercy, nor have I ever been judged by the Mneiol for crimes. My impression was—different.”

He glanced sideways at Bezale, and she turned beet red as she recalled their interaction. Venaz looked at her and nodded.

“I will take your position into account. So you know—the Mneiol judge much like you were judged when you were named Beriad. Your Right to Dissent is not an option; the rest is much the same.”

Bezale and Calruz started.

“Like that?”

“Similar enough. So—I will require your testimony. If you have prior engagements or duties to your commander, inform me, and we will make allowances. Otherwise…”

Otherwise he would render judgment as soon as he believed he knew all there was to learn, and as soon as that was done, he would execute whatever he had decided.

The half-Elf knew it—that was why she was here. She watched Venaz out of the corner of her eye as she flipped a shot up, and Peki crunched a beetle down and then spat it into Merrik’s face.

Yet Venaz seemed more relaxed than Calruz. In fact, he was mulling over the short list of snacks.

“A…plate of Belgrade Ambush-Fries for the table. How many does that serve? Make that two. What differentiates this from regular fries?”

The server gave him a crooked grin.

“Lots of ketchup and relish plus some beans scattered around for good measure. What an enemy squad normally looks like when they run into Belgrade’s division. Blood and scales everywhere. See?”

“What’s the beans, then?”

Wil was very curious to meet an Antinium commander—much less see a Drake army in action, even one as unorthodox as Liscor’s army. No, especially one like Liscor’s army, and learn all he could and report back to the academy.

The Drake server replied happily.

“That’s all the crap from their pants. Two?”

“We can remove ourselves. I have a tent, Strategist Venaz—”

“Be at ease, Calruz. Is it Captain Calruz or Adventurer Calruz? How is this campaign against Hectval going?”

The question threw Calruz a moment.

“It—is mostly static and skirmishes, as Hectval’s alliance has withdrawn around their cities.”

“Indeed. I would dearly love to meet some of Liscor’s army. Even see them train if there’s time? This is personal—I intend to report my experience back to my professor, Niers Astoragon. Assuming the Antinium allow it, viewing their command would be highly informative.”

“I could arrange that. But…”

Calruz was almost as surprised as the other non-Minotaurs by Venaz’s commentary. The [Strategist] noticed and was about to speak when there was the marching of boots. Ceria had already heard it and turned casually in her chair, but she relaxed when she saw dozens of Antinium storming into the bar in a hurry.

Everyone else freaked out. But mildly—Peki was on her feet, and Wil grabbed his sword before sitting down. Venaz turned, and Calruz cursed.

He recognized their company. Of course he did, but even without their rank insignia, it would have been obvious from the crude horns over their antennae and the giant two-handed weapons each one carried which company they were.

6th Battalion, the Beriad. The group he trained and led. Calruz even recognized their leader Gladheart, a [Lieutenant of the Fray] who he had personally appointed.

“What is the meaning of this? Disperse to your company! Strategist Venaz…”

The Beriad didn’t move. They stood in formation, and then a Worker spoke.

“We are 6th Battalion of Liscor’s Army. Strategist Venaz. You have come to kill Captain Calruz.”

The Strategist hadn’t moved. He was watching the Beriad. With much the same expression of surprise and confusion he had worn at the Meeting of Tribes. But the flicker in his eyes wasn’t hatred or fear. He was…watching them.

Watching them with an interest he had given few people. Even, his friends thought, something like regret. He stood slowly and faced the Antinium Beriad.

“I am not. My presence here is to judge Calruz of Hammerad under the laws of the House of Minos. Any conclusion before my verdict is reached is premature and unacceptable.”

Bezale turned even redder. The Worker hesitated, and the Beriad stared at each other. They hadn’t expected this! A group near the center huddled for a second, and the Worker replied.

“We…are Antinium who serve under Captain Calruz’s command. He must not die for being dishonorable. Therefore, we would like to offer testimony as warriors who have served under his command. We believe this is in accordance with Minotaur law and custom.”

Calruz choked on his cup of water. He had told them about the House of Minos’ customs—as one did for young soldiers with no upbringing nor past nor future till now. Yet he hadn’t expected them to do this!

And yet, they knew the songs only Minotaurs knew. They had heard him tell them of what it was to be a son of Minos, and he had named them with a title reserved for the best of the House of Minos.

Calruz’s head sank. He interrupted Venaz.

“Strategist—I am ashamed. 6th Battalion, return to your posts. This is—not for you to decide.”

The Worker stared at him.

“But we are your sworn warrior-companions. This qualifies us to do so.”

“It would. Non-Minotaur warriors are no exception to the rule. I have a hundred more to interview. Hundreds, if you taught members of the army and fought alongside them for the last few months.”

Venaz murmured. Yet Calruz turned red and stood. He had been expecting Venaz for a long time. His arrival was a relief. This…

This felt like stalling. If he didn’t know better, he would have assumed Ceria or Zevara had arranged this, but the half-Elf was looking hugely entertained.

“It is not necessary, Strategist Venaz. 6th Battalion, return to your posts. This is an order as your captain.”

He regretted doing that to them, because they cared for orders so much. However, again to his astonishment, the Beriad didn’t move. The Worker in front hesitated, then Gladheart raised his hand and began ticking points off on his fingers.

“One. You are a probational captain and a [Prisoner] of Liscor. Your authority may be overridden as indicated by Commander Olesm, so I therefore override it as a commissioned officer of Liscor’s army. Two, Prognugator Tersk and Dekass have both given our battalion orders to disregard any non-Antinium command if necessary, under authority of the Queens of the Antinium. We will ignore you. Three, no honorable warrior will ever stand silent when a true crime of conscience is committed in front of him, regardless of the punishment.”

He folded his hands behind his back. So there. Calruz’s mouth was open almost as wide as Bezale’s. Venaz?

He smiled. Then he turned to Calruz.

“Calruz of Hammerad, you are the member of the House of Minos under judgment. Decisions regarding this trial are not yours to make.”

“Of—of course, Strategist.”

Calruz sat down, and Venaz went on.

“The Antinium are correct. Their inclusion is mandatory. Not least because it is my personal judgment that they are warriors of honor, and thus their testimony is highly relevant…”

The Antinium stirred, and Venaz nodded to them.

“…but because the King of Minos has herself expressed interest in the Beriad. Those who wish to join this conversation may. I will interview the company as time allows. You have my word as Mneiol of Minos that I will let no willing, reasonably accessible testimony go unheard before passing judgment.”

Calruz groaned. And he didn’t know why—only that he remembered stories of Minotaur arbiters charging into battle to get witness statements from former comrades for judgements in the past.

Part of Calruz was confused. Was this not what he wanted? Here was one true judge for him—and yet, when it came to this moment he had waited for and, yes, feared, the eyes of authority did not stare at him with the same hatred the Minotaur in the mirror did.

They were…careful, watchful, observant, and even kind. Even amused and, perhaps worst of all, slightly respectful. Calruz realized that Venaz was younger than him.

The Beriad milled about, and then a quarter sat, and the rest went back to their posts, albeit reluctantly. Venaz nodded to the suddenly-full section of the bar.

“I hope you will introduce me to the Beriad, Captain Calruz.”

“The King of Minos wishes to know about them? Truly?”

“Yes.”

It sounded like a lie, but—you didn’t lie in the House of Minos. Then, Calruz realized he was far from home. He had dreamed of judgment much like the [Hangman] or [Executioner]. When he recalled home…

It had been a long time. A long time since he had come to Izril, worked up from Bronze-rank, and then founded the Horns of Hammerad. He had met Ceria six years ago—no, seven, now. Two more and it was nine years from home.

Venaz saw that on his face. That yearning for home all travellers felt. He spoke quietly as two large plates of fries were served and fourteen more requested.

“How long has it been since you were in the House of Minos, Calruz?”

“Nine years.”

“And you, Mage Bezale?”

“Four. I had the opportunity to visit once graduating as a full mage of Wistram.”

Venaz nodded.

“Two for me. I had intended on visiting this summer and taking my fellow students, but we never landed. Perhaps in the winter. Perhaps next year. Although, I am told the Isle is about to reach our waters.”

His tone was conversational, but the two other Minotaurs stiffened slightly. Ceria’s ears twitched.

“The Isle? Already? It’s…no, it would be time.”

Bezale was counting. Calruz just watched Venaz as the [Strategist] nodded and grimaced.

“Another reason to regret not returning—but I would make little difference. In truth, I also hoped to return home in time to visit my pets. Another time. Hammerad has also changed somewhat, Calruz. They’ve embarked on a project with sand the last six years, I believe.”

“Sand?”

“Yes, quite an amusing tale, actually. Let me think. What else is new…? Prince Khedal remains unchanged. I saw him board a Drowned Ship by himself as it dove underwater.”

Mention of one of the royal members of the House of Minos made Calruz start. The famous Prince of Minos was a warrior on-par with any Named Adventurer. He had famously taken part in the action that had led to the King of Destruction’s defeat at sea.

Of course, the King of Minos had led the charge, but Khedal was a name like the recently-deceased General Ozem, who had assailed the King of Destruction on Chandrar. Speaking of which, Venaz brought him up, too.

“I propose a toast—once you have finished your recollection of events for the day, Calruz—to General Ozem and the fallen. Then to your army’s victories. Did you happen to see the battle? I thought—”

“Strategist Venaz, what is happening?”

Calruz burst out at last, and the Strategist stopped. Calruz, the [Honorbound Prisoner], looked at Venaz and then around at the listeners and the conversation itself.

“You have a problem, Calruz?”

“This is not how I expected my judgment to go. I…expected interrogation under oath. A swift resolution. Mercy in justice, but justice.

Venaz had been chewing on some fries, but now he stopped. He swallowed, patted his mouth with a handkerchief, and spoke to Calruz, looking into the blue eyes with his own light brown ones.

“I will be swift, Calruz. If this distresses you, we will stop. But I will not clap you in irons and interrogate you under threat of torture. I will talk to you of home and, yes, gossip with you about world events. I will not be swayed by charm nor words, but listen to how you speak. Your character is in question as much as your deeds. Should I be any other way? If your judges have no honor—how can you ever expect fair sentencing?”

To that, the Minotaur had no answer. He hung his head, faintly ashamed, and Venaz sat back, awaiting a response. Until he noticed the rest of his friends staring at him.

“What?”

“Who are you, and what have you done with Venaz?”

Merrik demanded faintly. Venaz scowled at him.

“I’m trying to be professional, Merrik. This is the highest duty I could be asked abroad. I’m relaxed around you all.”

“You’re a stubborn ass who gets angry, won’t listen to reason, and has all the tact of Peki practicing [Hammer Kicks] to my groin. Be professional more often.

Wil and Peki nodded rapidly. Venaz looked from them to Calruz, who was resting his horned head on the lip of his cup.

“Home. I do miss it.”

That was all Calruz said. And then Ceria spoke up.

“Venaz, you have pets? Do Minotaurs have pets?”

Bezale had been hunched in her seat. Guilty didn’t really express her emotions—she had been full of righteous anger when she told Calruz to kill himself for his misdeeds. In front of Venaz’s approach? She felt ashamed, and worse still because Calruz wasn’t bringing up her actions. Impersonating the Mneiol? She hadn’t thought of herself doing that—but she had to tell Venaz later. It was the only thing to do.

However, Ceria’s question snapped her out of her funk. Venaz turned with Bezale and Calruz. All three looked vaguely insulted.

“…Of course I have pets.”

“Minotaurs have pets?”

Wil blurted out, and Venaz glowered at him.

“I’ve never mentioned…? Why wouldn’t we?”

“Ceria, I’ve told you about the Isles of Minos.”

“A bit—but not that much. You were always, ‘honor this’, ‘duty that’, ‘proper formation means we line up shoulder-to-shoulder and charge like idiots’. I’ve never talked to Minotaurs about their home casually before. Are they like your pets, Calruz?”

“You have pets?”

Venaz and Bezale were surprised. Calruz thought of his rats, in Selys’ care.

“Rats. A pair of them gifted to me.”

“Rats…interesting. Well, we would never keep rodents as pets. That would be entirely foolish.”

Venaz blinked, looking more surprised by this fact about Calruz than anything, even the Antinium. Bezale shuddered.

“Rats?”

“What, don’t you have rats? What about cats, dogs?”

Venaz frowned until he snapped his fingers.

“Some of both, although our pets are…hrm. Wait, don’t we have rodents as pets? Astelain.”

Bezale and Calruz had to think about it. Calruz turned to his friend and found she was looking at him with curiosity.

“…I suppose they’re rodents. Pets aren’t as common as they are in Liscor, Ceria. Some are shared and—well, the House of Minos doesn’t act as much of the world does. I know I’ve talked to you about that.”

“Yes…but we didn’t talk about our past as much. I never told you about the village, not exactly, and you were considerate. So you have pets. What’s an Astelain?”

Calruz hesitated and looked at Venaz, but Venaz was all too ready to share. And before they knew it, the three Minotaurs did what people from the same place, far abroad, did.

They talked of home to the other [Strategists], to the Beriad who clustered over with drinks in hand, and to Ceria. Home—the House of Minos.

A place like no other. Paradise, the only home of Minotaurs. Honor and duty. The Minotaur King.

But what did it look like? Well…Venaz took a long drink from a cup of water.

“What do you think the House of Minos looks like?”

Peki raised a winged hand eagerly.

“Hundreds, thousands of Minotaurs who train every day.”

After all, all three Minotaurs, even Bezale, a [Mage], looked like they were in the prime of physical acumen. Venaz looked at his companions, and his lips quirked.

 

——

 

In the House of Minos, the Minotaurs got up at the break of dawn and ran ten miles along the beach.

Some carried weights on their shoulders, rocks tied with string, or just ran in armor with weapons strapped to their backs. They shouted encouragement at each other.

Male, female, it didn’t matter. They ran in a furious, churning wave of muscle—and there was a lot of muscle. Anyone who stumbled, fell, or injured themselves pushed themselves back up and would have slapped a healing potion out of a hand offering it—then slapped the offerer.

Minotaurs didn’t need healing potions! 

Imagine…imagine a thousand Grimalkins, running down the beach, only with fur instead of scales. Sweat running down biceps, abs doing ab-like things. Gritted teeth, snorting pants as they finished their run and then began to eat.

Huge mouthfuls of grainy porridge, ostef, shoveled down so fast they barely tasted the fish and vegetables mixed in. Fish being the major protein source of an island nation.

Island, so the air was humid and the sea visible from almost every spot across the House of Minos. After all—it was an archipelago that the Minotaurs lived in, each island a different region. The central port and largest city was the capital from which the Minotaur King ruled. The harbors were not nearly as filled as many trade cities, but they did get fleets of mercantile ships, including this week.

After all—if you were a friend to the Minotaurs, there were no safer waters than the House of Minos. Their enemies stayed well clear, for Minotaurs with their siege weapons mounted on their warships could down twice as many enemies in a fair fight.

The warriors ate fast, for after breakfast would come punishing spars, practice with their chosen weapons, and studying the art of war. They were relentless in their pursuit of battle. In fact, one Minotaur sprang up no less than eight minutes after sitting down, wiping her face clean.

“You, Spekelj, a rematch! Barehanded.”

She pointed, and another Minotaur rose as his fellows shouted him on. They marched over to a sparring ring, both eight feet tall without their horns. They lowered themselves into a fighting stance—yes, neither might be a [Fistfighter], but a true warrior of Minos could fight even when deprived of their weapon.

If either were hurt, they would tough it out the rest of the day. Only a truly debilitating injury would require a healing potion; Minotaurs knew that healing injuries weakened their bodies in the long run. It was possible either combatant could be seriously injured or die; they would not pull their punches. Yet to kill another was such an act of dishonor and loss of control…

The air seethed with adrenaline and sweat. And more sweat because humid, warm climates could really suck. But even mosquitos feared the grinding teeth, the, again, dangerous abdominals and sheer musculature that could kill the bloodsucking pests by flexing as the insects dared to try and take blood from the most elite, most battle-focused…

A third Minotaur walking down the road and yawning caught sight of the two young Minotaurs grunting and throwing each other around the ring. He paused to lean against the fence demarcating the sweaty Minotaurs from the road.

“As always, working hard, aren’t you all?”

The two sparring Minotaurs halted a moment and nodded to the third Minotaur. He had no abs you could presumably use to grate cheese. If anything, he had a paunch and would thus be the first Minotaur that Ceria or many non-Minotaurs had ever seen with anything like a relaxed gut.

He was also an ordinary citizen watching the antics of the Minotaurs enlisted in the House of Minos’ volunteer army with a bit of amused dismay. The female Minotaur wiped a bleeding nostril.

“The Isle is closing into our waters, sir. Can we help you in any way?”

“Oh, no. I’m walking for my health, and I see you all every day. Could I interest anyone in some olives?”

He had a huge jar slung along his side, snacks for the road, and plenty of water. The two Minotaurs shook their heads.

“We’ve eaten, sir. Thank you for your consideration.”

“Ah, well, back to it. If ever you want any olives, I have an orchard…”

The ordinary Minotaur winced as he watched the female Minotaur eat an uppercut straight to the jaw. He watched something fly out of her mouth and hoped it was only a bit of breakfast, not a tooth.

Then he went on, greeting some of the furiously-training soldiers. They were, amazingly, in good spirits despite the grueling regimen. They enjoyed it. Each to their own. And that was the beauty of the House of Minos and why it was called paradise, despite actually suffering conflict regularly.

Even Fetohep of Khelt would admit that while his nation had superior culture, a people that wanted for nothing, and so on and so forth of self-congratulatory lauding—

The House of Minos knew how to give their people something that even Khelt’s citizens lacked. And that was purpose.

 

——

 

Ordinary citizens of the House of Minos did not look like bodybuilders. Some did, and maybe there was a proportionately higher number of super-fit people per capita than other nations, but if so, it was only because Minotaurs had the leisure time to do as they pleased.

“Six hour working days?”

It always surprised foreigners who were admitted past the strict harbor checks how the House of Minos operated. For the crew of Poking for Treasure, the funnily-named lead ship of the small flotilla owned by the [Merchant] Saimh, the House of Minos was an interesting journey on their trade route.

They had come with ships carrying goods the Minotaurs wanted, everything their island could use more of, from alchemical ingredients to shipments of metal, but they intended to make the lion’s share of their profits here.

The newcomers to the House of Minos were walking a bit wary, because they had been given a huge list of rules. And failure to comply meant you were exiled to your ship or faced Minotaur justice. And it could be swift.

However, a lot of the rules were basic. Don’t offer insults, don’t pick fights, don’t steal…the basics. Some, on the other hand, were a bit harder for [Sailors] or newcomers.

Like littering. You didn’t do that, here. Not just, ‘don’t toss potion bottles into the sea’, but, ‘don’t spit’. Don’t spit, don’t litter on the floors, and essentially leave any area you had been as clean as when you had arrived.

It was one of those rules that wasn’t hard to practice…unless you made a habit of not really caring about your litter. Then you might be upset when someone took you to task.

And that was any Minotaur on the street who saw you. However, by and large, the laws weren’t difficult to follow. A visitor could certainly trade, chat with Minotaurs who were willing to talk politics, news, or any number of things because they expected it in the ports, and learn about Minotaur culture and sample their unique dishes and sights.

Each island had a limit of people able to travel, and some areas were off-limits, but the limited visitors to the House of Minos meant this was rarely an issue. So a Drake, come to see the world under Merchant Saimh’s tutelage, was quite taken aback to learn that the House of Minos was not the war-prepared, battle-minded people he had expected.

They looked…well, like ordinary citizens. And apparently they worked for six hours?

“Six hours minimum. Some will work more. I told you, this is a paradise.”

Saimh absent-mindedly reprimanded his apprentice. He was…interesting. For one thing, he was a Drake, but had grown up in Baleros. One of those rare non-natives. He also was quite renowned as a safe-trader, someone who stuck to sea lanes where piracy wasn’t common.

That wasn’t the odd part about him. The odd part was that he’d never taken an apprentice until Ocello, the young [Trader], and he was also an expert in Minotaur trading.

Few [Merchants] were counted as friends of the House of Minos, so Saimh had less-rigorous checks, and getting paperwork to stay here was easier. Ocello hesitated as the two Drakes strode into the city.

The House of Minos favored sandstone, but like many paradise-states, took the time to add color and artwork to their cities. Interestingly…they had a number of statues that Ocello recognized.

Not Minotaurian heroes, because he didn’t know many of their legends. He’d bought a book about Minotaur culture, but had fallen asleep and never opened it again on the way here. However, the statues were familiar.

“Isn’t that General Ozem?”

“It is. It must be new—oh, and there’s Venaz of Hammerad. I saw him last time—he must have a prominent fan in the [Sculptor] community. Although, it’s quite an interesting piece.”

Each square had some piece of art, and one statue of the late general gave way to one of Venaz, sitting in a classic pose, chin resting on one fist, in repose across from a chess board. A quite noble statue for someone so young, as Ocello understood it.

But perhaps there was some humor in it too, because Venaz had only three pieces left, and the tiny Fraerling had most of his. There were even a few chess tables where a group of Minotaurs were playing chess.

“Are they not working?”

They looked like they were in their late thirties at most, but Saimh gave them one look and shrugged.

“They might not have gotten to work yet. It’s only early morning. Or they’re taking an early lunch break. Minotaurs don’t work like the Walled Cities, Ocello. They don’t have to.”

“Why not?”

It seemed to the younger Drake that of course any nation needed to have that much time allotted to their working hours! Could a [Farmer] make do on six hours? For answer, Saimh smiled.

“Well—because it may be culture or inclination as a people, but Minotaurs do throw themselves into what they do with a passion. Take a look.”

One of the first stops on their trip around the harbor was a group of Minotaurs rendering down poorer fish into paste, or some kind of chum or bait, perhaps. They were deboning the fish, then brutally mashing the paste up with long wooden hammers. Ocello was surprised at the simple tools, but the Minotaurs were fast.

A Skill might have done it, but one Minotaur could just slit a fish open, tear out the bones and put them aside, and toss the fish to another to cut the head off. He kept moving while he talked—about a romance book of all things.

“I am telling you, give it another shot. This time, Sandquen really did write something quite well done.”

“Ridiculous. I am done with the unofficial romance-adventure novellas.”

“No, it was actually published in the latest edition of Tales of Adventure and Woe. It wasn’t even romance. Have you heard of the ‘Horns of Hammerad’?”

“Vaguely.”

“This was a retelling of their first adventures in the Ruins of Albez. I found it gripping. The entire conceit was that they had that Antinium—Ksmvr of Chandrar?”

The other Minotaur cutting off heads and tossing them into a pile gave the first a stern look.

“You’re beginning to make me interested, Kaned. If this is another ploy to get us interested in your romance novellas…”

“Perish the thought. So, the Antinium was recently exiled from the Hive, but to read the book—they have a map that he—no, I’m giving it away. But I will lend you the book when we break.”

“Hm. Do that.”

They were efficient, casual, and quite patently enjoying themselves. Now, Ocello could have found a similar group of Drakes doing this in Zeres, mixing up chum for [Fishers] or preparing fish for immediate use.

However—there were some major differences with the grumpy Drakes, who’d be swearing at anyone who blocked their light and swatting at flies.

For one thing? There were no flies. The Minotaurs had an enchanted stone that was glowing a protective rune around them, preventing the annoying bugs from ruining their work. Second, they had some canopy roofs for shade, although most were enjoying the sun.

Third, they weren’t being crowded at their spot; it was designated, and their performance wasn’t being rushed because they had to earn enough coppers to justify their job—this was a job they’d chosen and enjoyed. They had homes, food, and someone was playing on a stringed instrument in the distance, so if they didn’t keep talking, they could listen to that or talk to other Minotaurs or visitors.

“Music while you work. They stole that from Noelictus. Although, it might just be a performer. A number of Minotaurs practice music.”

“They do?”

The idea of a Minotaur delicately blowing into a horn was beyond Ocello. He envisioned drums or warhorns—and Saimh gave him a stern look. The older Drake had a huge scar that ran down his chest.

Not a war-wound from battle, Ocello had learned. An old infection that had nearly killed him as a child. He scratched at it absent-mindedly.

“You still only think of their army, Ocello. The House of Minos is proportionally high in how many fight, but that’s only because their population is carefully matched with the size of their islands. Most Minotaurs have never swung a blade, nor need to. Look—they have pets. See? There’s one of their Astelain.”

The Drake looked back just in time to recoil with a shout. That was because a giant thing had just come ambling down the street! It was…

What was it? A mutated beaver? It was bigger than a beaver. In fact—it was rodent-like, but it had such giant fur that Ocello had thought it was a dog.

“Wh—what’s that?”

“I think it’s got another name in Baleros. A…capybara?”

The oversized rodent was indeed as large as a Fortress Beaver, but it just plopped down next to the Minotaurs, accepted some seaweed, and began to chew it down next to the [Fish Gutters].

Those are Minotaur pets?”

Ocello couldn’t take his eyes off them. In fact, they were so chill and relaxed and he realized there were a lot of them, more than cats, dogs, or birds, that he suddenly wanted to pet one and see what it was like.

“Go ahead. You can talk to anyone. They’ll tell you if they’re busy.”

Ocello did, and a few minutes later, he decided that the Astelain were quite nice. They were so relaxed—probably because most threats that usually preyed on rodents wouldn’t even have a shot at bothering them.

“Those aren’t our only pets. But you’ll have to wait till midday if they decide to come in. Merchant Saimh. Going to tour the islands? I hear you’re retiring this year. It will be a shame.”

One of the [Gutters] recognized the older Drake, and Saimh smiled sadly.

“My time has come. But I am glad I will be missed…I have obligations, and I’ve decided to give up my trading life.”

“Understandable. Family or what have you come first. But I encourage you to tour the islands and show your apprentice at least the major ones.”

“We may go to Hammerad today, Maweil tomorrow—unless the sales have begun?”

“Excellent choices. Hammerad is always popular thanks to their beaches. No, the sales will take a day to set up. The King is busy with the Isle. She and Khedal both. Which reminds me—we’ll put in ten hours, everyone. No work to be done when the fighting begins.”

Ah, now there was the thing Ocello had been waiting for. The other Minotaurs grunted and nodded.

“Fair enough. Ten hours. How will you spend the three days off? We can’t be near the sea…”

“I think I shall climb Honn’s Mountain once more. Or dredge some new land along Caeitl. I nearly have eighteen feet done.”

“Respectable, respectable. I myself have obligations with my daughter. She wishes to practice with the rapier after the Arbiter Queen.”

“Don’t get cut. Is she planning on joining the Beriad or…?”

“Time will tell.”

 

——

 

Two interesting comments came out of that conversation. Dredging didn’t become clear to Ocello until later, but it was plain that Minotaurs did spend a lot of time in family units.

“So they do have traditional families?”

“Mostly.”

Saimh and Ocello were heading to Hammerad, the nearest island to the east of the capital. It was a short boat ride or walk over a land-bridge. Few horses were available given the islands and the Minotaurs’ own physiques; you learned to walk. Although Ocello saw at least two Minotaurs riding bicycles customized for their frames.

“How do they have enough money for that? Do Minotaurs have a currency? I thought they had a paradise?”

“They’re still paid. This isn’t Khelt. As for families, Minotaurs have parents. Just not necessarily the ones they were born to. Excuse me—is that a bi-cycle?

The [Merchant] called out to a Minotaur, who stopped, panting, and removed a helmet with two holes for horns cut into the wood.

“Indeed! And a word to you—this odd helmet may amuse, but I began wearing it after I nearly cracked my head open. Laughter will be met with your entry into the sea.”

She pointed down the coastal road to the beach, and Ocello wondered if she could throw him that far. The Minotauress was clearly tired of ridicule, but Saimh assured her that was the last thing on his mind.

“I was hoping you could tell me what it’s like to ride one of those things. And my apprentice has never been to the House of Minos. He was wondering about growing up.”

The Minotauress gave Ocello an odd look.

“Like any other species, I should imagine. I had smothering parents. The House of Minos does not change that. As for this…I did spend every coin I worked on for the last four years to buy it ahead of everyone else. I regret nothing. I can do a circuit of the entire archipelago in a day if I push myself. I am…a [Cycler].”

She said that with the kind of obsessiveness that told Ocello this would be a thing and she would tell everyone about her class. In time. However, he raised one finger politely.

“Did I hear you had parents different from the ones who gave birth to you?”

She gave him a blank look.

“Indeed. Both were of similar temperaments and had been a couple for years. They asked for a daughter, and it was I.”

“But your original parents…?”

“I met them. Why? Ah, did I like them better? I didn’t care for my blood-mother’s attitude towards work. I forget you outsiders do it differently.”

She scratched her chin, and Ocello was confused. Just as clearly, the Minotauress was amused by the notion of parents who bore their children having to raise them.

“It is not for everyone. Many Minotaurs do raise their own children, but it is perfectly fine to decide you are unready to. I am not ready.”

“But wouldn’t people just have children and give them away…?”

The Minotauress and Saimh gave Ocello such an affronted look he backed away.

“Do you think it’s enjoyable? Moreover, each island cares for children. Too many put a strain on our homes. It is a responsibility. Would we just have children and…do you not have contraceptives?”

She got back on her bicycle and pedaled off. Saimh gave Ocello an amused look as the Drake shouted apologies.

“As you can see, Minotaurs do have the time to talk. As for personal lives—they spend a lot of time on that. Hobbies, passions—the House of Minos encourages that sort of thing.”

“Yes, but everyone has time off.”

“Mm. We’re nearing Hammerad. You may wish to take that back in a few moments. You see—Hammerad for the last six years has developed something of a sub-city on their beaches. As I understand it…”

 

——

 

It began with a son asking his mother for help building a sandcastle. The mother, understanding of a younger Minotaur’s frustration with the limited amount of ability he had with a simple spade, fetched a shovel. They spent six hours building an actual fort on the beach from which he intended to throw mud balls at his companions the next day.

More Minotaurs of Hammerad, at their leisure on the beach, were taken by this idea. A father and daughter decided that if a sand-war were in the works, they should get a head start, so they built another fort, then the daughter asked her father, who had served in the army, if this was really the best way to avoid mud balls.

He opined they should also create an underground bunker, and so the rest of the family wondered if that were possible. The House of Minos had [Engineers] who built ballistae, and an uncle on break said it was possible with proper supports. But building them out of wood was wasteful.

That might have been that, but then the question was raised—could you build an underground bunker with sufficient safety supports out of sand?

The next day, a group of off-duty [Engineers] and [Builders] had brought out measuring tools, gear from work, and begun stress-testing how high you could build a sand fort. How much water went into the dense enough sand?

By the end of the week, half of the city was heading down to work on the evolving project, which had long since been moved past a sand-skirmish into an attempt to build a walkway made completely out of sand. Just for fun.

Six years later, tourists to Hammerad found an entire city built out of sand still being worked on by Minotaurs in their spare time. You could head to the upper level and see homes actually being inhabited, or head down below to where an entire warzone of sand-traps and fortifications was battled through by younger Minotaurs.

That was a Minotaur’s project. And that was what they did for fun.

 

——

 

Each son and daughter of Minos was born into paradise. However, maintaining that came at a cost.

It was their choice whether or not they wanted to fish or build siege weapons for a living. Acting as a soldier was optional. But you did serve in some way.

Purpose. That is what they taught the young. Purpose was tied to honor and duty. The unfeeling hammer had a purpose, but no sense of duty, no pride in the task. In the same way, Minotaurs were more than pieces in a greater machine. If they were not fulfilled in the most menial of tasks, like cleaning the streets, something was wrong. Whether that was the Minotaur for the job or the nature of how the job was laid out was the question.

It was why the House of Minos had curios like the giant puzzle box that Relc Grasstongue was so eagerly showing Selys.

“It’s a real Honolac cube. From Etrerra-Valar itself.”

“Relc…”

“You can tell it’s real because of the ash mark here. And it’s entirely made of wood. Hand-carved, over two thousand pieces. I’d have to save up for a year to buy one. And Klb got me it. Klb.

“I get it. It’s a super-puzzle.”

Relc looked insulted.

“Super…? It’s not about the difficulty alone, Selys, it’s a work of art! You can disassemble it and put it back together perfectly once you master it. This is like—one of your stupid paintings.”

They marched through her mansion as Selys, exasperated by the hour-long lecture by Relc, who’d been following her around, snapped back.

“Don’t make fun of my paintings!”

“Why n—oh, sorry. I meant, uh, Hawk’s painting. Did he give you it as a present?”

Relc had caught sight of another painting of a Drake standing by himself with a helmet tucked under one arm. He looked slightly uncomfortable, which was how you knew it was an actual painting of Zel Shivertail. He stopped and nodded up at that painting.

Hawk’s portrait of the Courier mid-stride was less prominently placed. Selys called over her shoulder.

“I thought you said there are only less than fifty of those in existence. Which makes sense.”

“Why?”

“Because only fifty people would want one.”

Relc made a sound like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. He stomped after Selys, but she was changing for a day out with Erin. A wall of her bodyguards muscled over, and even Relc stepped back.

Slap, slap. If you were a [Thief], the ominous sound of a beaver’s tail hitting the marble floor was the sound you’d hear right before they started breaking your bones. First your feet, then everything else.

Relc hadn’t seen Selys’ new home of late, and so he backed up and saw a giant…dam. She actually had a pond’s worth of water in the antechambers. He whistled.

“This is some place, Selys. What’s with the multiple doors?”

You entered into her actual home after passing through an area on the outside with a bowl and a bunch of letters and gifts piled up. Then you passed through what was essentially a living room or reception where the beavers made their home.

“Layers of security. My front door is actually unlockable with a basic key. That means Street Runners can get in or out.”

Relc hesitated. Far be it from him, a lowly [Guard], to talk about security, but…

“Isn’t that dangerous, security-wise?”

Selys poked her head out and emerged in a unique piece of clothing. Relc took one look at it and began sniggering.

“Shut up. It’s the latest fashion in Invrisil.”

She was wearing a modified track-suit in red with white stripes down the leggings. Relc kept snorting. Selys ignored him as she tossed some sticks from a bucket into the beavers’ den, and they splashed in after them.

“I have the beavers for security, Relc. And a bunch of enchantments. I’ve fried about eight [Thieves] so far—all alive, although some got messed up by the beavers.”

Relc stopped laughing.

“What, really? Is it that bad? Having lots of money doesn’t sound that great. I’ve only been robbed once, and I think the guy got the wrong room.”

Selys just shrugged.

“You get used to it. Amazingly fast, actually. Alright, you lot. Don’t eat any Street Runners.”

She patted the beavers on the heads as they made odd chirping sounds and then looked around, exasperated.

“Where are Calruz’s…? Rhata, Haldagaz!

Relc had almost forgotten the other two pets Selys was taking care of. A loud squeak made him jump, and Selys’ inner door opened slightly.

Now, a rat couldn’t pull a door open, but it could push it like a dog or cat. However, that was quite a feat for such a small animal. And yet the grey rat that plodded into the room did just that.

What was more impressive was the fact that it was dragging a dumbbell behind it. Five pounds. Relc stared as Rhata nosed forwards, and Selys sighed.

“I guess Haldagaz is alive, somewhere. They’ve got food—stay. Stay.

“Shouldn’t you put them in cages, in case the beavers eat them?”

The Fortress Beavers and Selys gave Relc a skeptical look. The Drake shook her head.

“I tried, Relc. She kept on breaking my cages.”

“Well, just buy—”

“She ate the wood ones. Then I bought iron, and she bent the bars. I actually commissioned a steel cage large enough for her, and it took her two days to bust down the cage door. Then I got an enchanted one, and the lock vanished! I don’t even know how she did that. I’m afraid she ate it or something. Calruz’s rats are insane. She’s as strong as…well, she’s strong for a rat.”

Indeed, Rhata seemed to be dragging the dumbbell around for fun. Relc scratched his head.

“What about the other one? Halda…?”

“Haldagaz. He’s just smart. Smart enough that he can feed himself. I mostly catch him in my libraries like he can read books. I actually think he stares at the pictures.”

Selys chuckled. Relc just gave Rhata a mystified look.

“That’s so cool. I should get some rats if that’s what they can do. Hey, Selys, do you think I should get a pet?”

“No.”

“What about…a cat? No, wait, a monkey-thing from Baleros. Erin told me about them, and I looked them up. I could teach it how to use a spear…”

“Relc, this is why the answer is ‘no’. Now come on, I have to meet Erin. Why did no one ever make more than fifty Honolac Cubes?”

Relc shrugged as he headed for the door. Selys locked her home, although there was a tiny entrance for a rat to get in and out.

“Honolac—that’s the puzzle-maker—made tons for cheap. He had a [Merchant] who worked with him, and once they got popular, I heard the [Merchant] ordered a hundred, but when he heard how long they took to make, he suggested hiring some [Carpenters] and such in other cities to do it quick. You know, expedite the process?”

“That sounds like how I’d do it. What went wrong?”

“The Minotaur quit. He said it no longer interested him. Making a bunch of money wasn’t as fun. That’s Minotaurs for you.”

The door closed, and the beavers and Rhata were left to mill about. If you looked closely after Selys and Relc were gone, you might see Rhata jiggling on the floor happily. If you looked closer…it became clear the rat was doing press-ups.

Such were Selys’ pets. However, the last one, the one that hadn’t been seen, only made his entrance after Selys had left.

Squeak, squeak. 🐁

 

*🐁 If you haven’t read Haldagaz and Rhata’s mini-chapters, go to Interlude – Hectval Pt. 2 and find them!

 

Haldagaz the Rat appeared moments after Selys had left. He looked left and then right, listening hard, but Selys didn’t come back, and he was sure that he would hear the loud, green one, Relc, long before they opened the door.

Even so—he was cutting it close. Laboriously, the white rat scurried forwards, past Rhata, who stopped doing pushups to watch him.

Like Rhata, he had something attached to a bit of string looped around his body so he could pull it behind him. Unlike Rhata, it was not one of Calruz’s training weights.

It was a tiny scroll of parchment he had worked on for the last two weeks. Hiding the piece of paper from Selys wasn’t hard; she was rich enough that she had stationary everywhere. Quills, ink, the same. The difficulty was manipulating anything with rat appendages.

And keeping Rhata from eating it. The only way Haldagaz had managed to get anything legible close to the books he read was to get one of the smaller beavers to lie down while he pinned down the piece of parchment or paper and then delicately manipulated the quill from on top the beaver’s head.

Needless to say, Selys had put down the dozens of failed attempts to Rhata eating all the parchment—which was how Haldagaz got rid of the evidence.

Yes, the rat could write. And read. It had taken him a long time to figure out how the words on the pages went together, and since Drake script was different from Human—although they shared the same letters—he had taken longer.

However, he was among the most intelligent animals in Liscor thanks to Calruz’s Skill—[Pet: Best Quality, Refined]. In fact, given Haldagaz’s ability to plan, and the natures of Elirr’s cats, who were famously able to open doors and outsmart most other animals, it was amazing some animals didn’t have levels.

Yet like Ogres and Trolls, even monkey species, intelligent rats, and the Sariant Lambs couldn’t level. Haldagaz had wondered why and concluded it was because he was too small, thus proving he hadn’t learned about Fraerlings yet. He might amend his conclusion to the fact that it was only one rat who had gained this advanced intelligence, and thus his people, the Children of the Grain Sack and other sacks around the world, were unworthy.

He was only partially right. But then—only a few species would have been able to tell him the truth. And most had no voices a rat or person could understand.

At any rate, Haldagaz was in a hurry, and he scampered across the room, panting as he headed into the antechambers. He was aiming for the bowl, and he tugged the piece of parchment up laboriously, let it slide into the bowl, and then went back for the second note.

Would he make it? He was worried he’d cut it too close, but Selys had mentioned Venaz was meeting Calruz today. Therefore, he was out of time.

Someone was at the door. Haldagaz froze as he placed the second slip of parchment above the bowl. He didn’t have the rest ready! He looked around frantically and then—miracle of miracles, he heard a squeak!

Rhata, his dear sister, had followed Haldagaz. She might not have understood all the things that the white rat did, but she knew her brother was doing it for the Horned One of many pats and gains. So she had grabbed what he needed—

Selys’ money pouch. It had a bunch of spare coins. However, she had dragged the entire thing after her. It had to weigh a lot! Haldagaz only needed one coin. He scampered down and grabbed the coin, then placed it in the bowl. Almost done…Haldagaz saw the door opening and froze. Wait!

A Fortress Beaver sidled over to the door and leaned against it as someone cursed and the door opened. Haldagaz saw the big rodent nod at its smaller cousin and squeaked in thanks. Then he fled to watch his plan unfold.

“Argh! Damn—whoa. Easy—I’m a Street Runner. Nice beaver. Nice…”

The Fortress Beaver admitted the nervous Gnoll after a second. The Street Runner backed away as she called out, watching the beaver return to its den.

“Miss Selys? We got your request for a pickup! Miss Selys?”

The Runner’s Guild had offered Selys a service for its richer clients, along with the Mage’s Guild and Merchant’s Guild. Essentially home-deliveries where she could, for a nominal fee each month, get her letters and [Messages] picked up and delivered without the hassle of having to wait in line.

The Street Runner headed for the bowl, grumbling a bit when it became clear Selys was not home. However, she brightened up instantly.

“Oh? Oh!

There were three things in the bowl. One was a letter. The second was a note, and the third was a gold coin. The letter was sealed, but the note read as follows:

 

Hello. Please take this to the Mage’s Guild and send to the following. Here is your tip. Please send to…

 

The address was interesting, and the Street Runner thought the handwriting looked odd for Selys. But the gold coin was too distracting.

This was why you had rich clients. The Gnoll would run this to the Mage’s Guild, pronto. She took the letter and headed out. A quiet squeak of victory followed her out.

Yes, he’d done all he could. Haldagaz felt guilty for stealing Selys’ coins, but Calruz might be executed today. He was doing the only thing he could for the only being that had ever been kind to him and his sister.

In that way, the little white rat was quite intelligent. Quite loyal.

For a rat. His sister was trying to do pullups on a ledge next to him. They had been two rats condemned to a simple existence and a quick death when they were found. Now, two rats were trying to save the life of a Minotaur condemned by his own honor.

 

——

 

Antinium. Rats. A half-Elf, a Watch Captain, all speaking to the virtues of a single prisoner. All for one Minotaur. There was some irony in it, this month of all months.

For the island was fast approaching the House of Minos, and their old enemy had come once again. And not one voice in all of the nation of Minotaurs spoke up for them. Not one voice—and no one to defend Goblins even with words. Not for a long, long time.

Until recently. Until the [Innkeeper] of Liscor, who made strange plans. She thought, reasonably, she would have to bully and convince and bribe. Never once did she think there might be at least a few ears in unexpected places who would listen to what she had to say without reservations.

Here was the thing. Haldagaz’s plan worked. The Street Runner took the note to the Mage’s Guild, who translated the message across the world; their client was paying. Anyone could refuse to pick up a [Message] or request private messages from specified contacts only, but Selys was a notable figure in Liscor, and this was, unusually, still an individual of fame who accepted [Messages] from all.

The white rat had carefully timed and written his letter. But he had made one mistake. He was an exceptionally intelligent rat—but he was still a rat. So in his research into Calruz’s case and his attempts to find a way to help spare the Minotaur’s life, he had gone to the same logical conclusion a child might. He hadn’t known it would be Venaz, specifically.

So if you were going to plead a Minotaur’s case, who might you go to? The answer was…

The boss.

The [Message] reached the House of Minos, but not its intended recipient. Instead, it was vetted, because the King of Minotaurs was busy.

“An odd letter, but one I believe the King would appreciate. Yet I am sharing it with you, Prince Khedal.”

“If it is private, it is none of my business.”

The palace of Etrerra-Valar was exceptionally open, and the sea breeze would often blow far indoors. Unless there was a storm, those working here appreciated the contact with the outside world. They were, generally, administrators, the Mneiol, who had the authority to pass judgment, and occasionally Minotaurs in armor who represented the military arm of the House of Minos.

However, a fixture of the palace was the figure in armor who strode about with a pair of axes at his side. Prince Khedal was fifty-five years old, and grey had begun to enter his fur, already dark brown. He was third in line to the throne of the House of Minos.

Succession dictated that the Minotaur King’s family would be nominated in event of their death. After all, Minotaurs chose their families, so it followed that the most worthy would go thereafter.

In this case, the Minotaur King’s son preceded Khedal, a younger brother. A far younger Minotaur as yet unproven, who had not become Beriad.

Many believed that Khedal was the more obvious pick, and in the case of the Minotaur King’s death, the younger prince might cede the rights to Khedal anyways. However, that was not something to be desired.

The current Minotaur King was exceptionally popular. And she had the unwavering support of Khedal, renowned as one of the most high-level and honorable warriors in the House of Minos. He often led warships on patrol around their territory.

As another example of Khedal’s level, he had, five years ago, celebrated his 50-of-50 party and been toasted across the House of Minos and even received laudits from abroad. Technically, he had already fulfilled half the requirements before turning 50 years old, but the party was to celebrate someone who reached Level 50…while they were fifty years old.

It was an accomplishment few could boast of, and similar to 30-of-30, a mark of significant accomplishment. Anyways, Khedal stood with horns capped with mithril inscribed with the symbols of Minos, in perfect posture, ever armored and ready for battle.

Especially now. He spoke to the Minotaur who’d reviewed the letter.

“Is it personal?”

“Not to my understanding. I do not believe our King knows of the issue.”

Khedal thought about this and came to a quick decision.

“Our King is busy. I will review the letter, then, if reading the contents would not be shameful. Thank you.”

He took the letter and began to read. Khedal seldom smiled except when in the company of his family, the Minotaur King, or the young prince. His frown deepened, and he raised his head swiftly.

“This is important enough to warrant at least a mention. The honor of a Minotaur lies at stake. I shall convey it to the throne at once.”

And then he began striding down the palace, moving so fast he nearly ran into the team of Minotaurs removing a statue. Khedal side-stepped them with a brief apology, but the workers were used to it.

He was like the swing of his axes; when he moved, he moved. Khedal’s progress was impeded only slightly by the dozens of Minotaurs pulling statues, artwork, and other fine works out of the palace.

The King of Minotaurs was removing all the artwork in the palace. All of it. Heroic statues, paintings—all of which would go on auction. That was why the Merchant Saimh had braved the sea at this time, to collect the art.

It would be worth a fortune if sold to the right people. It was no whim either; the King of Minotaurs had simply decided it was a good time.

The palace would be bare after that. For a year or two. Then, like the plazas that now had statues of Venaz, Ozem—it would fill up.

Each new generation would create the art that adorned the palace itself and the squares, and were seen throughout the House of Minos. It was a practice the last few Minotaur Kings had adopted.

If the great art of older masters overshadows that of the present, would that not stifle the accomplishments of the current generation? It was a theory they had been testing out.

Of course, not everyone was happy about this, and as Khedal approached the throne room, he saw a pair of figures discussing it. He slowed slightly and listened as they spoke, watching the beautiful art going down to where it would be sold.

“I don’t understand why it must all go, Mother. Or at least, be sold. Some of it is beautiful beyond compare. These are our treasures. Why should they go to other peoples and other lands?”

It was a younger Minotaur, who was taller of the two. The other might have been taller, but she was stooped over, leaning hard against the railing. Neither one had armor on, and their clothing was plain enough that a visitor might take both as ordinary citizens.

Except that in the case of the female Minotaur, they’d look twice, because she had clearly fought in some battles. In an age of healing potions, it was still plain to see that the King of Minotaurs had scars that would never heal.

Part of her ribcage was missing. A divot, a long-since healed scar that was visible in her light robes, and a network of long scars below it. War wounds so dire she often sat rather than stood.

Khedal slowed as she replied.

“Do you have one piece of art you care for more than another? That one, perhaps?”

She pointed with some amusement to a painting that was familiar to Khedal and most Minotaurs. Her son didn’t answer, but he stared at the familiar protagonist captured in battle.

That would be the same Minotaur standing next to him, if far younger. The King of Minotaurs, Inreza. As Khedal knew full well, it was also Lareqol’s father who had painted it.

“…I just don’t see the point.”

The younger prince said at last. Inreza glanced at Khedal as he approached, the letter in hand.

“What do you think, Prince Khedal? Lareqol is speaking of how we divest ourselves of art.”

Khedal replied instantly.

“I am partial to many of the scenes of glory we are selling, my King. I would keep them all if it were my decision.”

Lareqol turned. Khedal didn’t often say things like that. Inreza listened.

“And would you say we should call the sale off?”

Khedal shook his head.

“Not at all. My desires do not lie superior to the good of our people. And it is our people who benefit from seeing their works displayed proudly to the world. This practice encourages artists and our crafters to aspire, Prince Lareqol.”

He spoke affectionately to the younger [Prince], who he personally tutored. Lareqol looked at the two old legends of Minos.

To say he was in their shadow would be something of an understatement. He worked hard, had a gift for combat and a sound mind—but he was also not awarded the privileges of rank. Most Minotaurs considered his an unenviable life, trying to live up to his mentors.

Of recent note, about four years ago, Lareqol had competed with other Minotaurs to be the student sent to the Forgotten Wing Company to learn from the Titan of Baleros.

He lost to a certain Minotaur named Venaz. Khedal continued, as if he were lecturing the young.

“There is another reason why we allow other peoples to take our art, Lareqol. Consider our King’s feats of glory. They are known throughout the House of Minos. In time, they might sit in a palace where other species witness a story time and time again. It is not a shame to sell our works of art. If anything—it proves that it is valuable.”

“How so?”

Lareqol hesitated, and Khedal smiled.

“We create works that other species covet. Worth is not something one can judge alone, but bestowed by others. We value the past, honor our works of great art. But the past cannot overshadow the deeds of those today. If this were not so, we would cease this tradition. The House of Minos must act in a way most beneficial for all, while minding the needs of each individual. The artists who created these works have already made more or have passed.”

He spoke with pride for the talent that had gone into each piece, confident that their worth would remain wherever they went, and a mind towards the needs of the nation he had dedicated his life for. In that way, when dignitaries came to the House of Minos, it was often Prince Khedal they mistook for the King of Minotaurs, an archetype of honor, duty, and war.

The King of Minotaurs listened to Khedal’s speech and saw Lareqol nodding. She coughed and spoke with a slight whisper behind her voice, a straining of her lungs. Inreza nodded to a vase passing below them.

“…We also sell our art because they make quite a lot of money, Lareqol. And we have limited storage space in our islands.”

Khedal faltered as the prince turned to his mother.

“Do we not do it for the reasons…?”

He glanced at Khedal, and Inreza shrugged.

“They are all excellent reasons Khedal speaks. But ask yourself—why do we actually maintain this tradition? Have we found reasons to explain the tradition when more…pragmatic ones suffice?”

“I see the honor in the actions, my King.”

Khedal protested uneasily. Inreza smiled.

“And I can see your point, Khedal. If there is honor to be found, good. But not everything need be honorable. I try not to look for honor everywhere.”

And that was the difference between the two. Rather than object, Khedal just bowed instantly.

“Your wisdom is always something I strive for, my King.”

“You needn’t do that. Just listen, and if I make sense, adopt what fits.”

Inreza looked amused and resigned, but then Khedal proffered the letter.

“I apologize for interrupting, my King, Prince Lareqol. But I have this letter, and I deemed it worthy of your immediate concern. It is an affair of honor for one of the Beriad.”

Inreza raised her brows as she took the letter. She read, and her eyes focused slightly.

“I see.”

The letter, written in small words and as neatly as possible—if slightly nibbled on one corner—read as follows:

 

To the King of Minotaurs,

I am writing to you regarding the judgment of Calruz of Hammerad. He is to be sentenced to death under Minotaur law if found guilty, and as of writing, he is now under trial by (Venaz of Hammerad). 

It is my belief a sentence of death is wrong. I have observed Calruz of Hammerad as a close companion and see no monster. He is an [Honorbound Prisoner]. The facts any arbiter may hear are incomplete. Calruz was a prisoner of Liscor’s Dungeon, and I hope you will consider his sentence personally.

I am not at liberty to give my name, but I hope you will think of his honor; he has done many things, such as charging Crelers and fighting monsters, to redeem his actions. He is my friend, and I would not see him hurt any more. 

Sincerely, H. Please pardon the damage to the page. I have rat troubles.

 

Inreza turned the letter about and stared at it.

“I assume the original was nibbled upon. Whomever this is has not sent [Message] spells before. Where did it come from?”

“Liscor. I can trace the sender…”

Inreza’s eyes flicked over the letter once more. She peered at the odd handwriting.

“Neat. Precise. But an odd penmanship. See how each letter wobbles? I wonder why. They did not know it would be Venaz when they wrote that letter.”

“Venaz is in Liscor?”

Lareqol spoke with faint envy and interest. Inreza nodded.

“His journeys take him far abroad. This letter is odd, again.”

“Why?”

“It was written in the common script, not Drake. It has no forms of their address. I wonder who wrote it?”

Khedal had observed none of this, only the comments about honor.

“Should I send a reply? Or ask Venaz about the facts of the case?”

The King of Minotaurs regarded the letter. She lifted it up, thought for a few seconds, and then calmly tore it up and let the pieces blow away on the breeze.

“No. I have read the letter. I will not alter Venaz’s judgment. He is qualified to be Mneiol. Someone cares for Calruz of Hammerad. That is plain. If he is innocent, he will be found to be such.”

Khedal opened his mouth, watching the pieces of the note flutter away on the breeze. The King of Minotaurs turned back to Lareqol.

“You two disagree?”

Both hesitated. Khedal spoke up slowly.

“If there are facts that Venaz doesn’t know, my King…”

“If I, personally, were to tell him to investigate the dungeon, it would affect his judgment because his King ordered him to do so. If there is an effect in the dungeon, he will look into it. This Calruz’s class will certainly be part of Venaz’s understanding. Do you have faith in his ability to rule fairly?”

Khedal folded his arms.

“He is young, rash, and he has embarrassed the House of Minos more than once publicly. But he is sound of mind. In such matters, I would expect him to behave with the dignity of the Mneiol. This is all true. But—”

He did not like the implication a judgment could be rendered wrongly, especially with such stakes. Inreza nodded as if reading his mind.

“The letter makes it clear that the sender believes the wrong judgment will be made. They would like me to act. Because that is clear, I will not. Khedal, I entrust you with monitoring Venaz’s decision. Say to him nothing, but tell me what is decided, for he will report back to the House of Minos in either case. Also, if you have a record of what this Calruz of Hammerad has done…I will read it tonight.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Relieved, Khedal bowed. And like that, a certain Minotaur’s name was now known to the King of Minotaurs.

Small things. The King of Minotaurs watched the pieces of paper she’d torn up fly into the air and then murmured.

“Ah.”

Prince Khedal and Prince Lareqol turned and saw the Minotaur King gazing off into the distance. Khedal bowed.

“My King?”

“I believe I am currently littering the skies. That is my error.”

 

——

 

Thus, in the Palace of Minos, you could see the King of Minotaurs, even speak to her. And sometimes, rarely, see Prince Khedal charging after a piece of paper to protect the honor of the House of Minos.

But he couldn’t get all of the scraps, and many more floated into the fickle air, far, far over the islands. A few passed by some of the ‘pets’ of Maweil and were sent into the sea as jets of water blew upwards.

After all, Maweil had one giant pet which was currently singing and blowing water out its blowhole as a pod of its kin swam around the island. Minotaurs waved and gathered the treats for the blue whale named Beorro. More tossed fish to dolphins and other friendly sea-creatures.

Aside from the Astelain and regular pets, many Minotaurs befriended sea life since they took up no space on the islands. More than one Minotaur was known to swim with a dolphin they knew specifically.

The rest of the pieces flew onwards, fluttering, dancing on the sea wind. Trying not to land in the water. It was a doomed pursuit; they might fly for minutes, even hours, above the waves, given their light forms and the fickle nature of the wind.

But they could not fly forever. One by one, they succumbed to the water, a rat’s hard work of weeks sinking into nothingness. The last pieces gamely fluttered on.

Only one remained after nearly an hour of being blown by the strong winds off the House of Minos. It was dipping into the water when a creature snatched it up with a beak and flew up.

It was…a raven. Not a seagull, but a raven. And it soared higher, its prize clutched in its mouth. The raven joined a chorus of wings. It flew upwards, and seagulls honked next to giant albatrosses coming down for landing next to a giant bird, larger than the raven by a hundred, possibly a thousand times.

A Roc on migration. Other birds, including ordinary blue jays and Creona Flashbirds, soared around it. Some of these birds even preyed on one another, but right now, they behaved.

After all, they had made this long sea migration this far to return to this island. It was odd, perhaps, for some birds like ravens to go this far, but they had a route they’d memorized that only worked at this time of year. Only with this island.

Of course, it would be suicide for them to roost in the House of Minos; Minotaurs were not adverse to removing threats like plagues of birds. And the need for food meant that a Roc would almost never regularly migrate anywhere it didn’t have food. Like whales it could hunt.

Yet here…they had a guaranteed food source, and they knew it. After all. They might not be pets, but as they began to land, a green arm came up, and the raven holding the piece of paper spat out the interesting tidbit it had found. Then it accepted a piece of mackerel from the Goblin’s claws as a pair of red eyes focused on the piece of wet paper.

A mouth full of shark’s teeth grinned, and the Goblin caught the scrap of parchment. He was one of hundreds of Goblins feeding the birds as they landed around them.

Even the Roc headed for a basket filled with fish. It made a keraw sound as a dozen Goblin children swung out of the forest and landed on its back, giggling. They clung to the giant bird, and if you could see this island from afar, say, from the balcony of the Minotaur King’s palace, still miles upon miles distant, you might see something that few species could believe.

Goblins had pets. Or rather, animal friends who they knew. Some found a Goblin, picking out one they knew in the crowd, and received seeds or other food. They landed among the sprawling canopy of trees, roosted like a hundred colors of feather, pecking at bushes fat with glowing berries, or getting caught in net-like vines, both cultivated for their terrain.

The trees were hardly as large as half-Elven forests, but they were still the size of redwoods, some felled for their wood, but most overgrown, hiding the inhabitants of the island within. The birds filled the skies for a few days, circling in vast swarms, each one calling a different signal as they stopped on their migrations that converged on this spot.

Many might never return, but those that did visited the island each year. The Goblins met new birds. Some eyed injuries and delicately applied salves with a brush.

One Goblin child got her ears pulled for trying to attach a dagger to a seagull’s foot. She screamed, and the seagull screamed too until the scolding older Goblins produced some tiny steel-tipped claws, which they inserted onto the seagull’s talons. Daggers were too heavy.

Aside from dangerously arming the wildlife, the Goblins gathered on the edge of the island were watching the archipelago in the distance come closer. They were waiting. The ships were ready. The warriors were gathering.

This coming month would see their floating island come closer to the House of Minos, close enough for nothing but ship-based combat, but they would be ‘in range’ of each other for a good month before swinging away.

It was a period of strife that both species knew and were ready for. Indeed, for all they continued business as normal, the main harbor of the House of Minos was locking down. Minotaurs were checking siege weapons along the walls, and their fleet was preparing for the first day of conflict.

This time—it would not be a slow escalation. The Minotaurs and Goblins fought, one to keep the other from gaining too much power.

To keep the Goblins of this island from spreading across the world. It was a war of attrition. However—the Minotaurs did not enjoy the conflict.

It was costly. But they could count how many ships were loitering in the Goblin island’s bays. So they were preparing for a decisive strike to scuttle as many as possible. Their duty was to deny the Goblins a seafaring force.

It was a conflict many nations didn’t remember or care much about. Like Drathians and Seamwalkers, or even the Blighted King and Demons to some extent—this was a Minotaurian affair. Containment of a worldwide threat, often thankless and unnoticed.

But then, the rest of the world thought of the Island of Goblins as a bunch of savages, if at all. Just like they thought the House of Minos contained almost exclusively sweaty Minotaurs preparing for war, they had no idea what it looked like.

The truth might surprise you. For instance, if anyone thought ‘why didn’t the Minotaurs, with their superior island, siege weapons, and warriors just eradicate the Goblins once and for all?’, they would quickly earn Khedal’s stinging rebuke. If the Minotaurs could do that…wouldn’t they?

If the Minotaurs could do that.

The Goblin who’d found the piece of paper studied the few words he could read. They were mangled from the weather and raven spit. He said one word out loud, sounding it out.

Cal-ruz.

The other Goblins glanced at him. He shrugged as he showed them the scrap of paper. It was a mystery. So the Goblin petted the raven on the head and took the piece of paper to a Goblin wearing a [Shaman]’s outfit.

Feathers, mostly. She was surrounded by birds and negotiating for some of the Roc’s handsome plumage. She blinked at the piece of paper the Goblin had found. Then she took it.

“Paper. Letter. Message. Show me what you said. Show me who wrote you. What is in your head?”

She shook out the piece of paper and then had to use both arms to unfold it. She handed the same letter the Minotaur King had torn up to the curious Goblin.

It was fully intact, and the Goblin puzzled over it. But the [Shaman] wasn’t done. She bent down and sprinkled some sand in the air.

It did not turn into a silhouette of the person she was expecting. She looked around, confused…then saw a tiny rat on the ground with a quill. The sand-image of Haldagaz made both Goblins’ eyes bug out.

Then they started laughing. More Goblins looked up as birds took wing, and they gathered around and pointed and laughed so much one threw up.

The rat-letter in its entirety was so popular that the male Goblin had to take it down across the coast. He ran until a Goblin sleeping in the trees noticed him and swung down. She took the letter, heard the story, and ran to her village to see the rat-writer for herself.

By the end of the day, half the Goblins on the island had heard about the rat-letter. It was so funny one of them went to the warriors gathering and preparing for battle.

“Huh, huh?”

She kept poking the Goblin four times her size. He was twelve feet tall and barely grunted as she explained how funny it was. The giant Goblin was all muscle. He was, to be precise…Fomirelin. What other species called Great Goblins.

He also had apparently traded his sense of humor for more muscles, because not even the image of the tiny rat with the quill made him smile. He just sat there…staring into the distance.

The House of Minos would come, tomorrow or the day after at the latest. This particular Hob had been waiting a while.

You could tell because he was covered with a light shower of dirt where he sat cross-legged. Moss was growing on his back and shoulders. If he moved, he would destroy an ecosystem.

He and a second, female Fomirelin sat there as the Goblin holding the piece of paper grumbled and walked off. They were among the oldest of the Goblins there. The other warriors laughed or ignored the rat-letter as they chose. They stretched and talked and waited.

And oh, one more thing.

They were all Hobs.

Not ‘mostly hobs’ or ‘there were fifty hobs and a hundred regular Goblins’. They were, all of them, Hobgoblins. Over six hundred had mustered at this point, and more would be coming once the Minotaurs appeared.

This place was a beach, an inlet protecting their small harbor to the west where warships weighed at anchor, some built from the tall trees creating the vast forests of this island. Others were spoils of war. Most? Salvaged wrecks that had a distinctly Minotaurian design.

It had taken years to gather this many. The Goblins hadn’t tried to hide them or sail them away; the risk was too high the Minotaurs would just assail them at sea and find them magically.

No, they had put them here, where the Minotaurs often attacked. At the strongest point of the Isle of Goblins.

This shallow cove wasn’t very strategically sound, mind you. A narrow, rocky cliff offered some protection from above, but it had all the defensive qualities of a beach exposed on multiple angles. It wasn’t even a big cliff. The isle of Goblins floated on the water, such that there weren’t any giant rock faces like Avel’s natural beaches, nor a long stretch of land until the Goblins’ inhabited terrain.

Any enemy could land on the beach and get to the island proper with a five minute jog. And yet—it was the people here that would force the Minotaurs to attack the Goblins directly or stay far, far away.

Not just because of the two mossy Fomirelin boulders. Oh, no. There were more Great Goblins, although they were still far fewer than their Hob cousins, much less ‘regular’ Goblins.

The reason was because of the small cliff facing the sea. A tree grew there, nothing special, bearing no particularly grand fruit. It wasn’t that old, but it faced the House of Minos.

Oh—and it smiled. The bark was oddly warped in places. If you looked closely, you might see the outline of something. Someone…sitting there.

Then, if you were really close, you might see a pair of deep crimson eyes open. And the face in the tree would move.

Then you’d realize it wasn’t just a tree. It was another Goblin, who had sat for so long in one place that a tree had grown up around her.

She didn’t move. Not during storms. Not during war or battle. The Goblin Lord sat there as the delighted younger Goblin showed her the letter. And you could tell she was amused because she smiled. But then her eyes fixed on the letter, and she whispered one word.

“Show.”

The hilarity of the rat’s letter faded from the younger Goblin’s gaze as she faced the leader of this island. The other warriors were looking up, and she put her claws behind her back nervously. The younger Goblin, her hair tied back with delicate loops of fishbone, brought forwards the letter nervously.

She wore simple clothing, but not primitive. It was akin to cloth, but made from some soft reeds on the island that were combed and spun like cotton. The warriors were different—many had gone bare-chested, male and female, so they could be marked with magical paint.

Metal was in short supply, but they had more than enough for weapons. Some still preferred stone or wood for their arrowheads, but one look at a hardwood point etched with tiny glowing lines of magic would set off a Gold-rank adventurer’s [Dangersense].

The young Goblin timidly held out the letter to the Goblin Lord, and it was ready. That smile never wavered. Then the Goblin Lord did something unexpected.

She nodded, and the bark cracked and the tree shivered. The two Fomirelin bodyguards stirred, and the warriors went silent. The Goblin Lord spoke again.

“Go.”

The Goblin with the letter fled, all hilarity forgotten. A [Shaman] chased after her, scolding, but then froze and approached the cliff. A spire of sand from the beaches grew, lifting the Goblin [Shaman] up. He listened to the Goblin Lord speaking quietly, and then when he was let down, he did smile. He waved up at the still figure, who went back to watching the sea.

That evening, the Isle of Goblins was busy. Alight, in fact, with Goblins hard at work. They sent some of their kind into the forests to grab bark and make more papyrus. They didn’t bother with paper or writing as much, and so quills were produced from the birds who offered spare feathers.

The difference between the Isle of Goblins and Minos was notable in many ways. They had some similarities—their isolation, statues, great leaders, and preparations for war.

However, the Goblins had more of a sense of humor.

 

——

 

Venaz listened to Calruz begin his testimony from meeting the Horns of Hammerad, the originals, and they had just gotten to him getting to the dungeon after meeting Ryoka Griffin. It was a long story, and they had spent some time catching up on home.

It was important, because Calruz seemed more relaxed, understanding the process. Venaz had arranged to meet him the next day.

The strangeness began that evening, when he returned to Liscor. He was checking in the Mage’s Guild for anything for him, probably more love-instructions from the Professor. Yet the Minotaur’s vague sense of dread was overturned by a [Mage] catching sight of him and pointing.

You! It’s that bastard! Get him!

The Minotaur put a hand on his sword, but the angry [Mage] was no fighter. Nor was he able to get to Venaz past the…mountain of parchment.

“What’s going on?”

“We’ve been getting [Messages] all day! All addressed to you! Venaz of Hammerad? Judging Calruz of Hammerad’s case?”

“Yes…”

That was supposed to be secret. How did—

The [Mage] picked up a stack of letters and began throwing them at Venaz, one after another. They were bound with twine, but he had ammunition to keep throwing non-stop.

Here!

Venaz stared down at the letters as Wil and Merrik took cover. Peki was just punching the stacks of letters flying at her face.

“What is—”

Then he picked up one message and saw what it said.

 

To Minotaur King and Venaz.

I am a very honorable warrior. [Honor Warrior] Gerise. I have written you from my home to vouch for Calruz of Hammerad. I have never met him, but the rat is right.

You must not kill a Minotaur! For the rat!

—Gerise.

 

Venaz’s lips moved, but the more he re-read, the less it made sense. And they were all like that. One of the letters that Wil picked up made him gasp.

“Venaz! Did Calruz mention being in Terandria?”

“Maybe. Why?”

“He knows a—look at this!”

Wil showed Venaz the letter, and the Minotaur blinked.

 

Dear Venaz, sir. 

I am writing you very urgently about Calruz. I have just heard of his plight. I am a [Prince] of Ailendamus. Calruz saved my life from a hundred Crelers when we were small. I request on behalf of my country that you not execute him. Please give my best to your King.

Sincerely, Prince Omalous of Ailendamus.

 

It took Venaz exactly four minutes to catch onto the problem with the letter.

“This is fake. There’s no Prince Omalous of Ailendamus.”

“How are all these being sent? The cost…”

The amount of money per [Message] spell had to be high, even if these were being sent from a Mage’s Guild waiving the sending and spell cost. The Liscorian [Mages] didn’t look happy, even if they were making good coin.

“The money’s all been verified, more’s the problem. There’s a few backers. A few Merchant’s Guild funds owned by some [Merchants] who set it up, somewhere called Anazuland…they cut off the letters after the first thousand. I can’t imagine how much gold it cost.”

A very unhappy [Witch] had heard about the mass-sending, but Venaz just stared at the piles of letters he had to stuff into a bag of holding. Apparently, the King of Minos was getting these letters too.

Who was sending them, though?

The answer might surprise you. Yes, it was funny to the Goblins. Yes, they did it because a rat had written the first letter and because they were sending it to Minotaurs.

But there was some sincerity in it too. Thousands of Goblins wrote letters and sent them across the world for a Minotaur’s life. Not for him.

For the rat. The Goblins reasoned simply that if any person, Minotaur or otherwise, could get a rat to plead on their behalf, they were probably worth saving.

That night, the Goblins’ island was awash with mirth, reading responses as they came in, and the laughter reached the Goblin Lord’s ears, though she sat far away from any one settlement.

Her island was no larger than any one of the House of Minos’ islands. Enough to support tens of thousands of Goblins. No more.

Not the House of Minos’ full numbers. It floated on the sea, and she looked ahead, that smile fading hour by hour.

Waiting. That night, the Goblins pleaded for a Minotaur’s life. If it had been allowed, if they had been wanted, they would have strode into that city of the Minotaur King’s throne room to demand his life.

It didn’t have to be this way. The days that would come next did not have to begin. But they did, time and again. Like Goblin Kings and the rest of their race’s struggle.

A cycle.

The one difference lay on this island. They knew much of the truth. And as they waited for the Minotaurs to come, the Goblins looked out. They knew no fear.

Not here.

 

——

 

The day of the battle, Prince Khedal heard Prince Lareqol requesting permission to join the fleet.

He was refused. Khedal backed the Minotaur King’s verdict.

“We have taken you to slay Creler nests, Lareqol. Into the dungeon below the isles. If we re-complete the [Labyrinth of Fithel], I will personally vouch for your candidacy to enter—with suitable training and a team.”

“But you won’t let me sail in defense of the House of Minos?”

To that, Prince Khedal only nodded as he adjusted his helmet. His enchanted armor glowed as he took hold of his axes, then let go of one to touch Lareqol’s shoulder.

“This is no common war. This is…bloody. I am reasonably sure I will survive. Not all of our army will join in the fighting either. Our King is not judging you as a son, but as a warrior. Even Venaz would not be allowed to join our fighters, only observe from the rear.”

“I see.”

That did clear the younger Minotaur’s face. Khedal rose, and a Minotaur on a throne raised a hand.

“Khedal. I will be here, as ever.”

The Minotaur King had a view of the island from her throne room, which was open to the outside. A single axe rested against her throne. The axe she had given Ozem. Khedal nodded.

“We will stop that fleet from leaving the island. My oath on it.”

“Do not push in too far this time, Khedal. Something is different. My instincts tell me to be wary.”

The Minotaur King looked his way, and Khedal met Inreza’s gaze. He nodded tightly, and his sense of tension ratcheted up another notch.

When the House of Minos went to war, it was an impressive thing. Khedal set foot on the largest warship, The Horns of Valar, with a crew of Minotaurs armed to the teeth.

Each one was over Level 30. They were the vanguard. Around them, the ship’s crew managed the siege weapons. This warship had sixteen on either side; they were capable of the same tactics used against the King of Destruction. Dedicated [Artillery Experts] could hurl dozens of shots per minute with trained crews.

However, the warships that followed Khedal into the sea only contributed to a third of the firepower aimed at the Goblins. The rest was aligned on the harbor walls.

Massive weapons turning and training their payloads on the Goblins’ isle.

Enough enchanted munitions to turn their entire island to glass and dust. If only it reached them. Khedal felt Inreza’s warning prickle his spine as the ships cut through the choppy waters.

“Storm coming. Summoned or natural?

“Too early to tell, Prince Khedal. We did not see magic in the air, but our eyes are worthless here.”

A [Battle Caster] spoke up from next to Khedal. He wore a full suit of armor and had a staff more like a giant lightning rod, which he was anchoring to the deck. With it, he could throw a bolt of [Grand Lightning] into the air.

But all species had their standard [Mages]. The interesting Minotaur was pacing down the decks. She had a bowl of red liquid in one hand. With the other, she was pressing a hand to the chest or armor of each warrior who passed.

The bloody handprint sizzled, and the warriors grunted, but the [Blood Mage] whispered.

“[Coldfury of the Lizard]. [Boar’s Strength]. Prince?”

She turned to him, but the Minotaur declined the enchantment.

“My Skills supercede that magic.”

The Minotaur nodded and walked on. A third caster was preparing his weapons.

Talismans, some drawn with summoned monsters, others wards to be deployed one after another. He would unleash summoned Manticores by the looks of it. That was Drathian magic, but they traded with the House of Minos enough to have shared classes.

“Ballista checks.”

“Ballista One, operational.”

“Ballista Two, operational!”

A Minotaur roared across the deck, and a chorus of voices reported in. The [Captain] was watching the island growing larger in the distance. Khedal couldn’t see them well, but he knew what to expect.

The Goblins would be on the beaches, waiting for the warships. However, most would be in that dense jungle behind. Hidden.

They were already in range of each other. Technically, the Isle of Goblins had been for nearly a week now.

Functionally, neither side bothered to fire a shot. They were waiting to get closer. Khedal kept turning his head.

“Captain. If I am indisposed, I want you to hold two ships in reserve. Watch for flanking ambushes or some other trick. Have our [Diviners] seen anything in the water?”

“Not yet. Are you expecting an ambush, Prince?”

“Yes. Always.”

The Goblins were always unpredictable. The House of Minos had battled them here for centuries. They changed tactics, both sides, but…Khedal’s nerves were prickling.

Sometimes, the Minotaurs didn’t send a fleet out. The need to remove those ships was pressing them into an attack. Long-range fire from both islands was more common some years.

This time, there would be blood. Khedal raised one axe.

Archers, artillery—ready!

The Month of Strife is upon us! Warriors, the House of Minos sends you from its shores. Ready!

Minotaurs roared, and their eyes began to fill with blood as the Prince of Minotaurs stared ahead at that figure on the cliff.

Not once had she moved. That contempt, that…he ground his teeth together.

This time.

They didn’t sing. The Minotaurs were close to home. The Goblins watched in silence, standing from where they had been sitting. The owners of their home, waiting to greet the visitors year after year.

A line of glowing eyes and bared teeth. Goblins wearing armor cast from trees or vines—or salvaged metal armor, some still with the faded regalia of the House of Minos. That alone made Khedal’s jaw creak, but he looked at the Hobgoblins and saw more than one resting on the balls of their feet, perfectly balanced in the sand, a hand on a sword, or balancing a throwing axe or the middle of a spear on a finger.

Experts every bit as familiar with their weapons as the Minotaurs standing at his shoulders, their hilts clashing off their armor and shields as they roared challenges. Yet the Goblins said nothing at all, just grinned, watching. Biding their time.

Khedal waited as the first ships passed the invisible line in the water. He felt his sense of danger spike and roared.

Loose!

They were still three thousand paces from the islands when the warships began unloading. Far closer than they needed to be, but the deadly barrage shot towards that cliff and the first beachhead like rain.

Glowing munitions, one wave, then another, fired in seconds of each other. Followed by a salute twice as large from the House of Minos’ harbors. A storm descended upon the Island of Goblins, each bolt and stone enchanted to explode and tear across the Goblins’ home.

They never landed.

Kheldal had seen it time and time again, but it never ceased to make his stomach roil. He saw a ballista fire next to him, heard the snap tear the air. The ballista bolt was as long as he was, made of iron, and enchanted to unleash a stored bolt of lightning wherever it struck.

It shot through the air at one of the Hobgoblins on shore, and the Hob jerked—too slow to dodge. But then there was a flash—an explosion, and the Hob was grinning as the others pushed him back into place.

A new warrior who’d never seen this happen before. Khedal’s eyes locked on the Goblin Lord. That tree.

And he saw another flicker, hundreds, thousands, as the bolts exploded in midair. You could only see what was happening with someone of Khedal’s level. If you slowed down time, you’d see something catching the enchanted ammunition out of the air.

A net, a dome of twisting vines. They shot out of the sea, snatching the magical projectiles, letting them detonate harmlessly around the island. They kept regrowing, kept shielding the Goblins from the deadly fire.

A single Goblin was doing that. A single Goblin Lord. Without moving, without visibly chanting—Khedal watched the fury that had humbled the King of Destruction and forced him to charge, a greater onslaught than that, grounding itself helplessly against the air.

Of course, that network of vines was not perfect. One single Goblin could not handle all of the ammunition coming down, and the Minotaurs had pushed past that limit with the sheer volume and speed of fire.

However…Khedal’s eyes picked out a flicker from the treetops. A Goblin perched there loosed an arrow straight up and hit a falling comet, a boulder thrown by a trebuchet.

[Interception Fire].

Hundreds of Goblins were adding their arrows to covering their home. [Shamans] were throwing up walls in the air, others casting blooms of magic to detonate the danger above their heads.

The Goblin warriors didn’t move as shrapnel fell around them. This was just the welcome. All of this wasn’t enough to overload their protections.

“Vanguard, ready! Follow the Prince!”

One of the [Battle Leaders] roared, and Prince Khedal’s warship surged forwards. The [Captain] shouted.

“[Ramming Speed]. Brace. Three—two—one—

The Minotaurs held onto something, save for Khedal, as the ship plowed onto the beach. Not towards the harbor with the Goblin ships. Khedal had chosen the stronger point to distract the Goblins.

It was impossible for a regular warship to perform this maneuver normally. They were deep-water vessels, and their hulls didn’t allow them to come this close to land; they’d run aground unless they had a specifically-adapted hull to let them perform this trick.

The House of Minos had many such vessels, but Khedal had no need to use one of those warships for the simple reason that the Isle of Goblins floated. Past their beaches, the terrain just dropped into the sea. It meant that he could take his ship in. Assuming he was willing to lose it.

They were aimed straight at that cliff. At the Goblin Lord. She saw them coming, but she didn’t even look down from warding the island. The ship was willing to ground itself permanently to so much as disrupt her concentration.

They never made it. Khedal felt The Horn of Valar slowing and looked down.

The two giant Fomirelin had moved. The moss-covered boulders stood and blocked the ship. Their feet dug into sand, and they skidded backwards—then the ship began to slow.

Hammerad’s shores.

One of the vanguard spoke into that breathless silence. Khedal said nothing at all. He leapt from the railings as the ramps lowered. The Minotaurs stormed down onto the beach, and the Goblins screamed their peculiar, high-pitched warcry. Khedal brought down his axe on a Goblin head and then—

 

——

 

“Ancestors.”

Ocello whispered. He was watching from the harbor with an enchanted spyglass. He was allowed to be out during the fighting—but the Minotaurs had said they would not take responsibility for his death.

Because there was fire coming back from the island. The Goblins had neither siege weapons nor ships, but some were still throwing arrows miles upon miles.

It looked like…a cloud of arrows frozen in time. It blew gently overhead, then the arrows unfroze and rained down. Minotaurs took cover as the Goblins’ reply blew a ballista apart.

Merchant Saimh watched with his own spyglass. What rattled Ocello to his core was the fighting. He had already seen the magical protections of the Goblins with disbelieving eyes, but any Walled Cities could do better.

But he’d realized he was in denial because the Goblins had no enchantments. They were doing that with the magic they possessed.

When the Minotaurs took the beach, he realized—there was no way the Minotaurs were taking it easy on the Goblins.

“They’re not winning.”

Eight-foot tall Minotaurs were charging down the ramps with axes and shields mostly, but also swords, spears, each one one of the finest of Minos. Yet it seemed like for every Goblin that fell—so did a Minotaur.

The Hobs. They were everywhere. More Hobs than Ocello had ever seen in his life, even in the Goblin Lord of Izril’s army. They were strong and fought in small squads, but the Minotaurs had the edge there.

Not against the Great Goblins. Giant Goblins lunged into the battle and then backed off to heal their wounds. One swung an axe and crushed a Minotaur against the lead warship. Another took a ballista bolt straight-on and was still alive when the Prince of Minotaurs buried his axes in the Goblin’s chest.

“This is why Minotaurs don’t always have armies to spare on the rest of the world.”

Saimh spoke quietly. Ocello shook his head.

“Why don’t they leave it alone?”

“They were entrusted with the responsibility. Also—it’s probably why the Minotaurs are so renowned. They keep their armies in conflict. For the rest, you’d have to ask someone like the Minotaur King or their [Generals]. This war has already gotten twice as bloody as previous years. See? They’re pulling back.”

The Prince was withdrawing to his ship, and Minotaurs were heaving it back to sea. Their charge onto the beachhead had failed. Or maybe it had done exactly what they wanted.

The rest of the fleet had headed for the harbor with the unmanned Goblin warships. They had abandoned targeting the island or Goblin Lord and were unleashing their weapons at point-blank range.

Trying to shred the Goblin ships. The Goblins were trying to push them back.

A foolhardy effort, or so Ocello thought. Right until he saw the first giant Fomirelin emerge from the water and—

 

——

 

“Great Goblins in the water!”

Khedal was falling back. He’d left twenty Minotaurs on the beach and cracked a rib when one of the Great Goblins slammed him into the ground. He looked up and saw the warships at the harbor mouth were under attack.

The giant Goblins were in the surf. One was trying to smash the enchanted hulls of a Minotaur’s ship. Another had a shield raised. A tiny figure leapt from its back, pasted the hull with something that began to glow—

The alchemical blaze ignited, ignoring the water as Minotaurs shouted and tried to put out the blaze or patch the hull from within.

That was the first wave. The second came from the sky.

Goblin fliers!

Khedal’s warship was under attack too. The Prince looked straight up and saw a giant albatross flying overhead. Then—an arrow flashed down. He lowered his head, and it cracked off his helmet.

“Archers in the air!”

A small Goblin was riding on one of the birds, loosing shots from overhead. The Minotaurs began to fire upwards, but their siege weapons were ill-suited to tagging the nimble Goblins.

Nets! Ballistae 1-4, nets and scattershot munitions! Lightning in the skies!

The Goblins peeled off as the weapons switched. Khedal kept one eye on the skies, but he knew it wasn’t over.

Snipers in the forests. He slashed an arrow out of the sky as a Goblin took a shot at him. A Minotaur ignited the trees, and a Goblin leapt out of the canopy, howling.

Three ships down…First to Shore is sinking. Prince Khedal, the Goblins are constructing a land-bridge!

“Do not let them near the ships.”

Khedal spun and saw land rising from the sea. A cluster of [Shamans] were creating a bridge for the warriors to storm onto the ships. It was rising higher than the decks; they’d be able to leap onto the ramps and kill the exposed deck gunners.

However, they had to charge across the bare space, and the ships switched targets again to create a killing field. The Goblins milled about, hunkering behind shields. A suicide charge?

No, these ones didn’t do that. Why risk it?

Khedal had his answer in minutes as his warship maneuvered towards the Goblin ships. The Goblins in the surf were skirmishing with his deck, but he was waiting for an opening. The two Fomirelin bodyguards protected the Goblin Lord—but Khedal just needed twenty seconds if he could get to that cliff unaided.

However—-a single Goblin with a giant tower shield was waiting at the largest land bridge. The [Shamans] were clustering around him, now. What were they doing? A single Goblin wasn’t…

Then Khedal’s head turned as if a magnet had seized it.

 

——

 

The [Shamans] were applying their magic. So were other [War Leaders]. The lone Hobgoblin was grinning as his fellows chanted.

They chanted one word.

Doom. Doom. Doom!

The first [Shaman] raised a hand that crackled with violet light. She drew a sigil on his back, and the [Hex of Damnation] activated. Then a second [Shaman] touched him.

“[Curse: Bad Luck].”

“[Mark Target].”

Another Goblin marked his ally as the recipient of fire. The lone Goblin waited until he got a nod. Then—he charged.

[Taunting Warcry]. [Fire Magnet]. [One Stands Before All].

He charged as every warship fired uncontrollably at him, a void of luck and destiny. The other Goblins charged down the land-bridge as a single target took the deaths meant for them.

The Hobgoblin was wearing the thickest armor the island had, enchanted by the Goblin Lord herself. It might as well have been paper in front of so many attacks. He kept his shield up and struck it with his sword, laughing.

He had asked for this role. But he wouldn’t die. He would not—

 

——

 

The land bridge the Goblin was on was a smoking crater. Even the sea couldn’t rush in. Had that Goblin lived or died? Khedal didn’t know. He had no eyes for that spot.

The warships were under attack. Goblins leapt onto the decks. The diversion had worked.

Kingfall, withdraw. [Captain], take us in to relieve Terandria’s Shores!

Prince Khedal leapt across the decks and threw his axe into the side of the first Goblin he saw. The Minotaurs were locked in combat, and half the gunner crews had to leave their stations to defend themselves.

How many warships burning?

“Six—”

They were aiming for fourteen. Khedal snarled.

“We are engaged. Tell the mainland to fire on our position!”

“They have not enough friendly fire denial Skills—”

Volley!

More shells began exploding around the Minotaurs within two minutes of Khedal’s order. The Goblins stopped their advance and pulled back as the Minotaurs came under friendly fire. Khedal felt a sting across one shoulder.

Advanced piercing Skill or magic—it had gone right through his armor. He grunted.

“Evercut arrow. Status?”

“Five enemy ships down. Three friendly. The Goblin Lord is blocking our incoming fire.”

“Take us around and prepare to volley on the Lord’s position. Unleash the Lordslayer munitions on my mark.”

Khedal saw most of the Goblins trying to protect their ships. His feint had worked. His first, costly assault on the Goblin Lord meant the Goblins, confident he wouldn’t try that again, had moved to protect what they perceived as his true target.

Which was the ships. But the Goblin Lord had less than a third of her original defenders. The Goblins reacted too slowly as the Minotaur warships turned. They began to race back—but walls of stone and intercepting fire turned the ground between them and their Goblin Lord into death.

What about the ships, though? Prince Khedal was waiting. Then he heard it.

The thwoom of sound was the loudest sound yet, even louder than the enchanted artillery firing. It was the sound of water exploding in a geyser that rained down along with the beginning of the storm.

The sound of the deck of one of the Goblin ships exploding into shrapnel and two pieces of the ship sinking to the seafloor below. Khedal grinned through the blood on his face. He looked left, and a second axe the size of one of the Great Goblins hit the deck of a second ship.

The Minotaur King had entered the battle. She was hurling axes from her throne room.

[Axe of the Gigant]. The Goblin Lord caught one in midair and failed to stop another. Even her protective dome didn’t have enough force to stop the full might of the Minotaur King.

Eight warships…Khedal spun.

The King has given us our opening—target the Goblin Lord! Fire!

This time, the munitions that each ballista loosed were the most expensive, costly weapons the House of Minos could produce. Mithril-tipped arrows, enchanted steel bolts—

Not as explosive, but incredibly hard to break in midair. Meant to penetrate the cage of vines that the Goblin Lord created. And it worked. Suddenly, the Goblins on the beach were falling. Walls of stone began rising around the cliff, trying to form an actual dome.

“Not this time. Horn of Valar—charge.”

Seven warships surged towards the beach, following Khedal’s charge. The Minotaurs would outnumber the Goblins four-to-one.

Khedal was after the Goblin Lord. He saw that figure remain still, shielding her forces, as the two bodyguards watched him. He raised his axe with a roar. Then Khedal felt the prickling on the back of his neck turn to a cold chill.

“Prince—a Goblin ship from behind.”

The Minotaur spun, and there it was. A single warship, maneuvering away from the battle. His eyes locked on the Goblin ship which had been spotted at sea months ago. But it was fleeing the barrage locked on it. Its job was done.

 

——

 

Kingfall had escaped the Goblins’ attack by land bridge and was coming in for the Goblin Lord attack. The Minotaurs on the deck were aware of their surroundings—but not one expected the greatsword to come hurtling across the sea and explode their main mast.

What hit us? To arms!

The [Captain] whirled around and had just one second to see the Goblin warship. Then—a figure with red, glowing eyes hauled himself on board.

A Goblin, the oldest Goblin she had ever seen. With a grey beard. He looked lean, but there was only muscle and sinew beneath skin. And when she gazed at him, the [Captain] drew a sword without hesitation.

Blademast—

 

——

 

Kingfall is sinking.

Khedal whirled. He barely saw a figure leap from the decks. His eyes were locked on the ship. And the line in the center that was dividing the vessel in half. Both sides were collapsing into the sea.

“That Goblin isn’t on record. All ships, continue advancing!

“No. Take us in.”

Khedal pointed, and the Captain whirled the ship. The Goblin was climbing another ship, and Khedal saw a crew fire a ballista at point blank range. His name, his soul was screaming a name at him the moment he saw the greatsword. But it was confirmed when he saw the Goblin swing his sword and deflect the bolt like an arrow. Then he lunged and cut the ballista in half.

Minotaurs charging down the deck at him fell one by one as his sword moved. The vanguard on Khedal’s ship murmured one name.

Greydath.

The Goblin Lord of Blades. He should have been dead. But Khedal didn’t ask any more questions. He just pointed an axe at the Goblin Lord.

“Greydath of Blades. FACE ME.

The Goblin Lord turned his head, and his grin was mocking. He turned, drove his greatsword point-first in the warship, and twisted.

The entire ship cracked. The Goblin Lord sprinted across the dying vessel as Minotaurs began to evacuate. Heading for the third.

Then he looked up and blinked. He raised his sword—dodged ten feet left and then swung his greatsword up. Even so, he staggered slightly as he deflected the gigantic axe that curved after him.

The Goblin Lord raised his head and stared into the distance at the tiny palace on the horizon. As if he could see the Minotaur King—

The deck exploded behind him as an armored figure landed like thunder. The Goblin Lord of Blades turned, and Prince Khedal raised his axes.

The Minotaur took one look at Greydath’s rusted, notched greatsword and spat.

“Battle gives me no time to give you a proper weapon, Goblin Lord. Face—”

The Goblin Lord sighed and walked away from Khedal, ignoring the Minotaur. He put the greatsword at his side as if it were a regular longsword and watched the palace in the distance.

“Stronger King.”

Goblin.

Khedal snarled. Greydath tapped his hilt, and Khedal’s armor exploded in a diagonal line. The Minotaur stumbled backwards and stared down at the sliced bone from his shoulder to his stomach.

Cut? His blood rushed onto the deck. He hadn’t even seen the slash.

[Delayed Cut]. And a lightning-speed draw that the Minotaur hadn’t even noticed. It might not be a death wound, but it probably was. Overconfident, despite his level. Greydath was watching the palace, still.

A [Thrower] of that caliber was far more dangerous than…

The pattering of blood on the decks was a slight sound amidst the thunderous volley of fighting and screaming. Even so—Greydath realized it had stopped. Slowly, he turned his head.

And Prince Khedal swung one axe where the Goblin Lord’s head had been. He whirled his blades as Greydath dodged back, eyes open with surprise. Not quite shock—but—

There was no way that wound could have healed that fast. And no way…he looked at Khedal’s armor.

His undamaged armor save for the wound in his shoulder. Khedal spat.

“[Your Dishonorable Blow, I Deny It].”

Greydath rolled his eyes. He slid sideways, leaping across the deck. He had no time for this.

An archer was trying to track Greydath. She rotated across her body, but he had leapt across a warship’s deck so fast she gave up targeting him and grabbed a wounded companion to drag to safety.

There was no way to even catch a foe who could move faster than she could aim. The Goblin Lord was moving in a world of his own.

—And so was Prince Khedal.

Greydath halted as a blur caught up with him. He leaned back from an axe swinging across his face, parried a second blow, and hesitated.

The Minotaur Prince was as fast as he was. He left an afterimage where he had been standing, and suddenly—Greydath jerked back as the second swing from above and below nearly caught him.

That speed! Greydath launched himself from the ship and leapt across the railing. He actually hopped from one ship to another, a twenty-eight foot jump—and saw the Minotaur right behind him.

This time, Khedal actually scored a cut on Greydath’s arm. The Goblin Lord twisted away, but he wasn’t prepared for Khedal’s swiftness. It was as if the gap in speed had suddenly—vanished.

Then the Goblin Lord turned. The Minotaur spoke into the void of time between them.

“[You Cannot Escape My Steps].”

He lunged, and Greydath struck his armor with a kick, then brought his sword down. He moved to cut the ship in half, with the Minotaur on it. The greatsword swung down—

A wave of silver came up. Khedal’s axes cut the air, one, then another, as he activated a Skill that chopped half of the sail apart. Greydath parried the Skill and landed on the deck. The Minotaur advanced.

“[I Match Your Strength for Strength].”

Relentlessly, he advanced, using the two axes to threaten both of Greydath’s sides. He wanted to get in close, where the greatsword was useless. Greydath spun.

Evacuate the deck!

The [Captain] of the ship shouted, and six Minotaurs fell as Greydath’s horizontal sword slashed them across the waists, cut through the railing, a ballista—

And stopped as Khedal blocked it, saving the ship. The impact rocked the ship, but the Goblin Lord’s eyes were locked on Khedal.

“[Until Death or Dishonor, I Challenge You].”

The Prince hissed. Greydath looked in his eyes and, finally, read his class.

[The Glorious Challenger].

 

——

 

A third warship was being destroyed by the Minotaur Prince’s conflict with Greydath of Blades. However, Khedal was keeping up with Greydath’s insane speed.

Greydath of Blades was bleeding. Yet his arrival should have been a great portent for the Goblins, an ally in this battle.

So why was the female Goblin Lord frowning? Perhaps because this had not been predicted. And with the Prince’s life in danger—

The House of Minos was unleashing everything.

Another giant axe struck down as a tree exploded out of the waters, taking the impact. It still spun towards the island, and one of the two Fomirelin raised a shield and stumbled backwards as he absorbed the rest of the throw.

Spells! Spells!

A warning shout—the Goblin Lord looked up and saw the first of Valmira’s Comets coming down.

No…Valmira’s Comet Storm. They were using spells. And if anything, despite the warships sinking and embattled, the House of Minos was throwing more ammunition into the fight. She clicked her tongue. Escalation.

“Wave.”

 

——

 

“Tidal wave! Tidal wave—evacuate the—”

Merchant Saimh grabbed Ocello as a wall of water began to rise up. The Drake saw it rolling slowly, slowly, towards the harbor—then realized how big it had to be. Minotaurs began throwing up magic shields around their ballistae. The rest?

They took cover as the King of Minotaurs turned her head slightly.

“Lareqol?”

Her son was watching her throw each axe, slowly, gauging her target. It might be a minute or two between throws. He started.

“Yes?”

“Evacuate the throne room.”

Then she slowly stood and reached up for something hanging above her throne. She had been throwing axes she had used while she rose to her title. Now—she pulled down the relic passed between Minotaur Kings.

The Axe of Minos.

 

——

 

Khedal was bleeding. But he was also grinning. He whirled ever-faster, the twin axes he carried seeking Greydath’s skin. The Goblin Lord had no armor, and the shallow wounds he took bled, but Khedal had gone for a healing potion twice.

Yet one blow was all Khedal wanted. The two were fighting across the ruins of the warship, the Goblin Lord forgotten. This was a duel of honor, and Greydath couldn’t escape without dishonoring himself.

And he refused to do so. The Goblin Lord whirled from blade dance to art, yet Khedal charged into a cut trying to open a void, aware he was behind in Skill. One cut—and he was willing to sacrifice his body for that cut.

He was forcing Greydath into the end of that deadly dance when the axe roared in Khedal’s ears. He looked up.

“My King? No—

Greydath whirled as the Axe of Minos howled through the air, and the storm broke. The Goblin Lord stared at the single relic, not a giant axe, shooting towards him like an arrow.

The challenge ended. Greydath spun, and his body twisted as he threw himself up. Far over the spinning axe. It twisted up with him. Greydath’s eyes narrowed. His greatsword flashed, and he parried the b—

He stared at the hilt of his greatsword as the Axe of Minos severed the blade in half. Greydath grabbed the axe as the head tried to spin into his neck. His arms bulged. His veins stood out, and his muscles contorted.

It lodged an inch into his neck, and the Goblin Lord held it there, quivering—then tore it out. He threw it down, and the axe zoomed into the air. Back towards the thrower. The Goblin Lord looked up as Khedal approached him uncertainly.

“…Nevertheless. Take it.”

Khedal tossed one axe down, and Greydath sneered. He lifted the hilt of the greatsword—

And both he and Khedal turned as the Goblin Lord on her cliff stood up.

The bark cracked. The tree groaned. Her bodyguards looked up and cried out, and the centuries the Goblin Lord had sat were over.

She landed on the warship as lightly as a feather. Khedal spun. Greydath moved, and the Minotaur Prince cursed—without the duel, he was no longer as f—

Greydath kicked him. The Minotaur Prince landed two minutes later. The Goblin Lord was watching him fall towards the island, and Greydath raised his hilt to throw when the [Shaman], the great female Goblin Lord, tapped him on the shoulder.

“Greydath.”

“Izikere.”

He looked the other Goblin Lord in the eyes and saw the mask of bark and nature, the greatest [Shaman] of Goblins, smiling at him. A descendant of Sóve, the Goblin King who had raised this very island.

Izikere pressed a finger to Greydath’s chest, and he jerked back, forgetting Khed—

 

——

 

The Minotaur warships were retreating in the face of Greydath of Blades. Not all the warships were burning. Two-thirds…but they had lost Prince Khedal. The ranged fire was still continuing as evening fell, but the giant tree encasing the Goblin Lord finally split open as the angry Greydath of Blades cut his way out.

The Minotaur King watched as her generals reported in.

“Is Khedal alive?”

No one knew. Nor did they quite understand why the Goblin Lord, Izikere, had attacked Greydath.

Inreza stared at the Isle of Goblins. Khedal’s survival was remote, but not impossible for his level. After all…

She too had once walked the Isle of Goblins. She wondered what he would see.

 

——

 

Khedal landed, obviously. But he only woke up an hour later.

Consider the impact a single kick had to transmit to launch a Minotaur wearing full plate armor into the air. Then consider how hard Khedal hit the ground.

He buried himself in the soil. That was probably why no Goblin found him at first. When he tore his way out of the earth, he had to dislodge a shattered tree that had fallen on him after he struck it.

“…defeat.”

That was all he said. Khedal had healed his wounds as he woke up. Only when he looked around did he realize.

He was in enemy territory. He was on the Island of Goblins…and while he could hear explosions in the distance, it was clear that the navy wasn’t on the attack.

Khedal understood he might be dead. If so—he swore to make it a death to remember. He had one axe, he was sure the healing potions had only partially healed his cracked ribs, and his right arm clicked every time he raised it.

Left arm, then, and find a shield for his right. Khedal looked around. His armor was in tatters, but it would do.

Now, when behind enemy lines, there were a few methods for a fighter to survive. Hiding, disguising oneself, covertly signal for extraction or make your way back to—

Khedal started running. He charged through the brush, eyes scanning for opponents. He found one within four minutes. The Minotaur burst out of the brush onto a dirt trail, long worn out of the jungle, where a little Goblin was gathering fruits from a bush.

The Minotaur raised his axe and saw the little Goblin jerk up. She stared at him—her clothes were bright green, and she had a necklace of beads. The Minotaur realized it was a child.

The child dropped her basket and ran, shrieking, into the distance. Khedal lowered his axe.

“A village?”

He had never seen one of the Goblin villages from shore. Seconds later, he heard shouts and horns in the distance. The Minotaur knew the village was alarmed, and well they should be.

He was headed straight for it. The Prince burst into the open as he followed the child, looking for their warriors. He saw Goblins in turn bursting out of houses, whirling, shouting the alarm to their warriors that a Minotaur was here.

One raised a hoe in front of a garden, and the Minotaur saw a Goblin glance up, sitting while a squirrel ate an acorn on top of its head. He saw a Goblin in a tree house swing down and another train a bow on him.

He…hesitated.

Not because of the children running into homes. Nor the [Shaman] or older Goblins trying to block him. The young warriors calling out challenges. Not because of how familiar it surely should be.

No, he saw Goblins. It was the architecture that confused him. He looked up and saw, for a second, before the first poisoned arrow shot down, a house among the trees. Built into the trees, but not a tree house.

A tree house, a cabin in the air was so primitive. So ungraceful compared to the flowing architecture. The bridge across the air.

The gardens…Khedal deflected a blow from a Goblin youth and nearly took their head off until the Goblin who’d been feeding the squirrel pulled the young one back. He made a gesture and then punched Khedal from a dozen paces away. A…[Martial Artist]? A [Monk]?

A poisoned dart from the side. Goblins screeching at each other. Khedal’s one axe swung as he seized a shield from an attacker, backing away.

A garden? His mind whirled as the poison bit him, and he backed up. He was confused, so he fled backwards. The leader of the village shot a third arrow into his back. Khedal looked over his shoulder once.

He was a traveller of many lands. He had sailed across the world for fifty years. Why…

Why did that village look like the ones he’d seen in Terandria? The Claiven Earth?

Like a half-Elf’s…

 

——

 

Greydath was nursing his wounds when Izikere spoke. She stood, warding the isle against the Minotaurs’ wrath.

“The fleet is coming back. For the ships.”

“Let them. You. Sit.”

The Goblin Lord of Blades glowered, but the rest of the Goblins were so terrified by Izikere standing that they ran to their posts.

“I could sink half of them before they retreat.”

Sit. You have done enough. Is that Minotaur dead?”

A Goblin raced towards her and reported no, he had just been seen in one of the villages. He was poisoned—but alive.

“Leave him. Let them [Scry] him. Watch where he goes. No fighting.”

Greydath growled.

“I could kill him t—”

The [Shaman] kicked at him, and the [Blademaster] leaned back. Izikere wore an expression of rare discontent. Centuries she had sat on the cliff. She pointed a staff she had grown out of the ground at him.

“You have done enough. Sit. The King of Minotaurs will not be idle if her Prince dies. Did you think I was in danger?”

Greydath just glowered back. They spoke in the Goblin tongue, but not in the crude hodge-podge, the barely-literate sentences he used with Rags and the others. This was the flowing language as it should be.

“I return to this island and fight for you, and you greet me like this, Goblin Lord Izikere.”

“Greydath. What happened to Izril?”

He shrugged, and the Goblin Shaman turned her head dangerously. Greydath spoke, making his words short like the Goblins he had lived among for decades.

“Goblin Lord appears. Goblin Lord dies. Many Goblins die. Sad. Death. Always death. Here…”

He gazed around the Island of Goblins with almost as much distaste as he’d had for Tremborag’s mountain. The gift of a Goblin Lord. A memory, perhaps their potential on display.

He hated it here. And yet it drew him back each and every time. Like a memory of something beautiful, but so sad it cut you apart every time you saw it. A dream. Izikere was going to spare that arrogant Minotaur’s life?

It was her island and domain. Greydath wondered what Khedal would see.

 

——

 

The arrows were poisoned. He’d forgotten…the Goblins here were more dangerous than Drowned Folk on their ships.

Too strong. No—that wasn’t it. He could have taken a score of them down. The foreign architecture had disturbed him. He didn’t need to slaughter them in their village.

Why half-Elves? Design? The Minotaur ran down forest trails, aware he was being watched. His head was dizzy—he was feverish.

He would take a long time to die. Perhaps that was why they didn’t close with him. Yet the more Khedal ran across the island—the stranger it got.

Perhaps it was the venom in his blood, but nothing made sense. The forest trails were primitive, but no more than any overgrown part of Minos where Minotaurs might hike. There were bugs and wild plants in profusion, yet the Goblins lived in cleared areas.

Was that a town he skirted, Goblins watching him from homes, bows drawn? So many bows. Living amongst nature like—

No. Just pointed ears. He ran past a fishing village and saw the nets neatly waiting for low tide. Fish in a bowl for colorful birds to eat. They flew off around him as he charged past.

A thousand kinds of bird, fluttering down the beach. A Goblin staring at him unafraid, holding a fishing spear. Unlike the savages he’d met who—

Fomirelin. Coming out of the waves like a charging bull, roaring. Khedal cut him three times and landed as he was thrown, getting to his feet. The sounds of fighting would be his guide to his people.

He couldn’t let himself die. His King needed him. Prince Lareqol…

His skin was burning with whatever the Goblins had hit him with. Khedal felt like he was breathing blood, but he was just thirsty.

The Minotaur burst across a stream and drank greedily. He splashed water over his face and then realized…it was a garden. Abandoned?

No, not like the other villages or roads. A single Goblin sat there with a tiny knife in hand. She was watching him.

Grey hair. He lifted his axe, but she didn’t move. She sat protectively in front of something she was working on. Then he realized it was a carving knife, and she sat among flowers which bloomed a light blue, in neat beds, and he’d just rampaged through another one.

The Minotaur was sick, dizzy, and he knew he had a fever. Or how else did he look at that statue and hallucinate further? His lips moved, and he grinned.

The Titan of Baleros had once boasted to him like that. Could he now say it? There was no mistaking the differences.

Pointed ears. Half-Elves, Goblins. So what? That was one feature. But there was something in the face. The eyes? A timelessness captured. The Minotaur shook his head.

He was seeing something else. It was a statue of a Goblin. It had to be. Or else why was it here? Why…

His lips moved, and he spat blood into the stream. Hoarsely, the Minotaur repeated that boast the Fraerling had once told to him.

“…I have looked upon the faces of Elves.”

The Goblin [Sculptor] said nothing as the Minotaur looked at the half-Elf standing there. His red eyes, his bloody armor…he stared at her in silence. Slowly, her lips moved.

“Yes.”

He didn’t know who it was. Khedal stumbled forwards, but the words on the statue were foreign to him…and the Goblin blocked the statue with her body. Protectively. He heard sounds from behind him and turned. One last time, he looked at the statue and thought it seemed familiar.

Oh, so many things were different, nuances of the body, hair, but the blood threw true. The Elf looked a bit like…that Named Adventurer.

Elia Arcsinger.

He left a trail of blood behind him. The Evercut Arrow dug into his shoulder, and the poison wormed at his mind. Imagining this. 

He crashed through a hedge-maze and stopped before a row of Goblins. They knelt or sat or raged at the sky. He realized they were made of stone, some as old as…

“Goblin Kings.”

That made sense. Khedal ran past the last one, Velan the Kind. Then looked back once. Each Goblin had been carved with something unreal, something—an object or something more than their face and features.

One held an island in her claw. Sóve. The one who had made this island. The second-to-last Goblin King was one that Khedal knew. His great-great-grandfather had died in battle against Curulac of a Hundred Days.

He held a little Goblin child wrapped in cloth in his hands. A greatsword leaned against the chair he sat in. That wasn’t the monster who had ravaged Terandria ere he died.

And Velan…Khedal saw the Goblin King kneeling next to bowls of herbs and stone potions. In his claws, he held a ring with two keys.

Then Khedal blinked, and he was running into the sand as Goblins shot arrows at the ship surging towards him. Minotaurs leapt into the water, grabbing him, shouting his name, and Khedal was rambling. They felt at his bandaged shoulder and called for an antidote—

Blink.

The Goblin kept poking him. Khedal raised his bloody axe, or tried to, but the old Goblin just pushed it down. He finally found the Evercut Arrow and yanked the head out.

“Mm? Mm.”

He slapped something on the shoulder and bound it with a bit of cloth. A poultice? Khedal rasped.

“I won’t be a prisoner.”

The Goblin tilted his head. He glanced at the hole that Khedal had put in his hut when the Minotaur had run straight through it and collapsed. He spoke, and Khedal blinked uncomprehendingly at the chattering voice. Then the Goblin concentrated and tried again.

“We…not you death. Not you.”

He tapped Khedal on the forehead. The Prince rasped at him.

“What? What…?”

The Goblin grinned and shook his head.

“Kings mad. Kings…long ago. Not you. See?”

Khedal didn’t. The delirious Minotaur saw the Goblin pull something out. It was very important—he kept snapping his fingers as the Minotaur tried not to close his eyes. Khedal had to get to shore. But the Goblin showed him a tiny, carved figure.

“…the faces of Elves…

The Minotaur whispered. He looked at the old Goblin, and the [Herbalist] shook his head.

“No. Stupid.”

He poked Khedal in the snout, and the Minotaur growled.

“Then what?”

Friends.

The Minotaur—blinked

And he was lying on the deck of the ship. The [Battle Healer] leaning over him jerked back.

“Prince Khedal? Stay still.”

“I’m—”

“Safe. The Goblin’s poison is mostly neutralized. Lie still. We are headed back to harbor.”

“The King is asking about the Prince. What is your response?”

The [Healer] turned.

“He will live.”

Khedal’s mind was still reeling from the disjointed memories. Slowly, he felt at his shoulder and found no grassy bandage, but a professional one. The Evercut Wound needed to heal regularly, but the [Healer] had applied it.

“Of course. I—was hallucinating. Under fire from Goblins.”

“Only you would survive that, Prince. It is good you did not fall to Greydath of Blades.”

“Is it confirmed it was him?”

“Confirmed. The King is debating announcing it to the other world powers. Hold on—[Fill the Sails]! We are still in danger.”

Khedal lay still until something poked him in the side. He grimaced and fished out what he thought was a piece of shrapnel out of his side. But it wasn’t.

“Ah, Prince. Did you buy that from the harbor? It’s well made.”

The relieved Minotaurs were speaking to each other. One noticed what Khedal was holding and assumed he’d pulled it out of a bag of holding.

“Perhaps a [Good Luck Charm]? If I were you, I’d wear the same boots and helmet in any battle.”

Even the [Battlefield Healer] joined in. Khedal just stared at the tiny figurine. To the others, it looked like a half-Elf from afar. He stared back at the island.

“I don’t know what it means.”

His hand tightened over the figurine, and he almost made to throw it overboard. Then he lay back down.

 

——

 

After every battle, the House of Minos sat down and looked at how it had gone, where they had taken casualties or failed to make ground, and adjusted their tactics. It exposed peculiarities of their commanders as well.

Unfortunately, sometimes the conclusion you drew was ‘don’t fight a Kraken’. Similarly, the Goblin Lords were just—difficult.

The tidal wave that Izikere the Guardian had summoned hadn’t been as large as some, and it had been directed at the harbor. Minotaurs had built up their seawalls enough so that while most of the streets were flooded, the biggest results were a few cracked walls and a lot of debris.

There was only one real casualty of the wave—and that was all the art and statues that had been readied in a warehouse by the docks for sale. Most had been damaged by the water or smashed by the impacts. Artisans were attempting to repair them, and [Mages] were casting restoration spells, but the Merchant Saimh had little to buy.

He had accepted the Minotaur King’s personal apology with assurances he understood. It was their legacy that had broken there. He would collect what there was to buy and leave, though the journey would doubtless cost him a small fortune with how many ships he’d brought.

The memories of their people were ruined. But few Minotaurs had died.

It could have been worse. And, as Izikere pointed out as the Goblins did their retrospective, it would have been worse if Prince Khedal had died.

She punctuated her points by hitting him on the head. Or rather, trying to. Or rather, three trees in the grove they were sitting in kept leaning down and trying to whack him with their branches.

He refused to let them touch his skin. Greydath slapped a branch off a tree, and the thunderous crack as wood sprayed everywhere made the other trees withdraw. Izikere glowered harder, and the tree branch began to regrow.

That was her talent. She sat cross-legged, once again almost immobile. She spoke—but she had no need to fidget or move more than her mouth. A bunch of sparrows, some magical, were balanced on her head and shoulders, but they flew off when Greydath glared.

It was the most animated Izikere had ever been, and the other Goblins regarded her with a kind of awe. As if the mountain you’d been walking past all your life asked how you were doing and if that were really the shirt you wanted to wear for your date today.

Greydath, by contrast, was more annoyed than he had been on Izril. And if the Goblins of the island treated Izikere with reverence—he, they avoided.

The Goblin Lord of Blades was eating from a huge bowl of eel. Giant, oversized eels—big cuts of them marinated in the Goblins’ hand-made sauce. Oysters, sweetberries for the sugar, a local bean…

They had more than most tribes could dream of. Greydath spoke irritably.

“This place hasn’t changed in what, sixty years?”

“I don’t count time. You were here when the last Minotaur King was alive. This one is dangerous, isn’t she? When she was younger, her axes would strike the island every year.”

He grunted in disdain.

“She caught me off-guard.”

As mentioned, the Goblins spoke with the flowing nuance and grammar unknown to most Goblins. Their language was complete.

No, not even complete—it was finished. The crude way Goblins expressed things vocally was always made up for by their rich body language. When Greydath spoke to Izikere, they were combining both body language and verbal.

She did not move, but the patterns of moss changed on her body and even grew to copy the way he spoke. For instance, when Greydath commented about the island not changing, he had stuck one leg out and tapped a big toe against the ground.

Derisively. As one would use punctuation to emphasize a point. Similarly, when talking about Izikere, the moss on the [Shaman]’s hands moved like pattering rain.

At any rate, Greydath was still annoyed by the interrupted battle. He had done a quick tour of the island and seen something different than Khedal.

“The island is nearly overfull. You must be fishing nonstop to feed them.”

“They will leave, soon.”

Greydath picked up a cup of tea and gulped it down.

“The Minotaurs didn’t get all the ships? They sank at least eight.”

“We have enough to send them forth. This time—they will all go together.”

The male Goblin stopped, a pair of chopsticks expertly holding a piece of eel. He glanced up. That was big news.

The Goblin ships that reinforced tribes on other continents were one thing. It was a perilous journey, but they used stealth. Izikere intended to do the opposite this time.

She intended to send thousands.

“Are you going to the ‘new lands’ too?”

The other Goblin Lord laughed at this, and Greydath chuckled at his own joke.

“No. I may split them by continent. Each a tribe. Isn’t that why you came here? I felt the Goblin Lord of Izril rise and die in moments.”

…And like that, he wasn’t hungry anymore. Greydath tossed the bowl over his shoulder, and the cup followed.

Savage. Barbaric. You put plates and dishes away. But what did the Goblins of this island think of their cousins across the world? Greydath sneered.

“The last one called himself Reiss before he died.”

“Drake name.”

Izikere looked curious. Greydath nodded.

“He was a servant of a dead Human [Necromancer]. But he still became a Goblin Lord. He had a dream, to build a city of Goblins where they could live in peace.”

“Did he not know of the island?”

The blademaster sneered around at the island, and Izikere’s eyes glowed a bit brighter.

“If he did, I did not tell him. His dream sounded better. You could take a nation, secure it, and demand to be like the cloth-people. You would just have to risk your life.”

It was a challenge, an old argument, and the fundamental difference between the two. Izikere was the Guardian. She stayed here, like the last three Goblin Lords before her.

Greydath travelled continents abroad, alone. Seeking the next Goblin King.

Izikere took her time replying. She didn’t seem to need to drink nor eat, but the talking had clearly made her want to wet her mouth, so she inhaled a mist that drifted down before speaking.

“What then?”

“Hm?”

“We take a nation and do what? Scream out our voices to the world and say, ‘we are a people, we are kind, ignore the Goblin Kings’? Do you know what Demons do?”

The [Shaman] turned her head as if she could see across the world towards Rhir. Greydath, who had met Demons, spat.

“I know. Their [Diplomats] die in beds, in shadows. Everyone who listens dies. So? Is this easier?”

The Minotaur barrage had damaged the island. Nevermind the [Shamans] and [Druids] who could repair it. Nevermind that fewer Goblins had died than anyone could reasonably ask. They were still dead, and this conflict was yearly.

Greydath leaned forwards.

“You could throw yourself behind the next Goblin King. But it would take the island, everyone. Risk it all for…”

They had this argument almost every time he returned. Sixty years felt like six. Greydath stopped talking, because there was no point.

He saw the fear in her eyes. Izikere replied with a gaze that looked through him, not at him.

“It will change nothing. The battle is already lost. Or won—”

She held up a claw to forestall his snarl.

“—I will not destroy this island. You sneer at the villages.”

“You could build a city, here.”

He jabbed the plain soil. Izikere was no [Druid]. And even if she were, [Druids] could build wondrous cities. They could have at least put this floating island on some great animal, like a turtle. Or a sea-elephant. Or five sea-elephants on top of a turtle.

The [Shaman] laughed in his face. He had such stupid ideas.

Cities alarm them. We are contained. We are the Minotaurs’ problem. You, Greydath, wish to destroy the greatest achievement of Goblins? No.

His eyes narrowed. Greydath had no more cups or plates to break, so he dug a claw into the ground and picked up a handful of dirt.

“This is worth nothing. Since this island was made—not once has a Goblin King emerged from the Goblins here. Not because your Goblins are less ‘Goblin’. Silly words. If anything, yours know more of the truth and who we should be than any others. And yet, do you know why they will never even become Goblin Lords?”

She was getting annoyed, and the ground was sinking slightly around them, turning into a bog. Izikere didn’t reply, and Greydath went on with a laugh.

“Because your Goblins are as foreign to the rest of the world as Antinium are to Drowned Folk. They cannot lead our people.”

“So you keep searching for a single shining soul among children who can barely talk or remember the truth. My warriors found the tribes that come to greatness. The [Witch] of the Molten Stone tribe of Izril came from these shores. Kraken Eaters were descendants of my people!”

“Tremborag was not. Nor were the Redfangs.”

Izikere gave Greydath a long, cold stare. She didn’t even know their names. Greydath grunted as he tossed the dirt down and dusted his hands.

“I fought for Velan. You hid here even when he came—twice. Once to learn, then to make war.”

“I sent warriors. The Goblin Kings are trapped in the past. If they did not remember, perhaps Goblins would not be hunted.”

Izikere the Guardian’s tone was bitter. Yet Greydath picked up the greatsword she had grown for him out of the oldest tree in the forest and slashed at the ground. He drew a line between them fifty feet long in the soil.

“The past? Have we won? Lost? If that is so—why do they scream war every time they rise?

“Trapped by madness.”

She turned and wouldn’t look at him. Tremborag was right. Right—and wrong.

Every Goblin Lord who rose with Velan the Kind had been young. Ones he knew, or ones who had come to their position as contemporaries.

The old ones, though—and there were a few—did not go to Velan. They were like Izikere. Only Greydath of Blades had served the Goblin King. And the next might be the last, if he even lasted that long.

He would be hunted, now that the Minotaurs knew he was still alive. A Goblin Lord who had fought with Velan was entirely more alarming to any nation than Izikere was.

Because their fight might start destroying parts of the island, the two Goblins went for a walk. They stood on a cliff over a village, and Greydath watched the necessity of this island.

Young Goblins grew up at any task they wanted. Much like the House of Minos. Yet…the difference was that you could be too good at something.

One Goblin child was making cups out of clay. She knew how to spin the wheel and make a cup as fine as anything you could buy in a Walled City already, and played with colors and shapes.

She was too good with her hands. A [Shaman] had watched her at work for two years. He took the last cup she made from the kiln and then offered the Goblin child a spear. The [Potter]’s face fell, and she protested, but weakly. And stopped when she saw the Goblin Lords looking down at her.

Greydath spoke bitterly as Izikere avoided his glance. The newest recruit slowly joined the most talented Goblins to become warriors.

“She will never become a Goblin Lord. She might, following her passion. Clay would make her a Goblin King. Not blood. Not your choice.”

“She will become a fine warrior. This island is safe, Greydath. Safe—it is a place of Goblins and will not fall. I have met the last two Goblin Kings. I am not as old as you, but when he became a King—Curulac vanished. All that was left was rage. That is what happens to them.”

And for once, Greydath hesitated. He put out his claw, and Izikere stirred.

“No.”

No? Few things surprised Izikere, but she turned her head, blinking, as the Goblins in the village pointed up at the Goblin Lords. Some waved. Greydath stared past them and whispered.

“Not Curulac. Nor Velan. They were filled with fury. Consumed at times, yes. But Goblin Kings are only partly insane. Whatever happens to them—they have lucid moments. I was with both until their ends. That is why each one leaves something.”

“Curulac destroyed Terandrian Kingdoms at random. All that he ruined is rebuilt—”

No. He fought for a reason. He went to Terandria and broke the enemies he sought to kill. Servants of our foes, he called them. Do you know the ones they call Agelum and Lucifen?”

Izikere tilted her head back and forth.

“…I thought they were dead.”

“More are, now. Just like Velan, they all left something. Sóve, this island. Velan, his challenge to the Goblins of Izril.”

The other Goblin Lord was looking at Greydath with sadness, now. She spoke.

“And Curulac left you.”

Greydath of Blades’ hand tightened on his greatsword, and every Goblin decided it was a really good time to go inside their homes.

“Not me. My mother. And he was not the Goblin I knew when he became King.”

And still, he wanted them to rise. The two Goblins stood there, arguing, sharing secrets, but in truth—Greydath looked tired. He had seen another Goblin Lord fall as soon as he rose. Greydath turned away from Izikere.

“—I came to tell you that the Redfangs of the High Passes are gone. Their Chieftain was Level 38, I think. Two classes. Garen Redfang. He is dead. Another tribe has begun setting up there, but the Goblins of the north have lost many tribes. South, too.”

“I will send many Goblins to their shores, then. It will be the most dangerous, with all the nations fighting for land.”

“Good. I will go to Terandria. Something…calls me. Not the other tribes. A strange Goblin. Do you watch the news?”

“News?”

Izikere gave Greydath the blankest look in creation, and he laughed. The Goblins of this isle hadn’t even heard of television, yet. That did make him smile.

 

——

 

“The Goblins will be launching their armada. We have witnessed them preparing the ships at night, covertly. Even with Greydath of Blades, it seems they have no confidence they can protect their flotilla.”

It was a huge migration of Goblins, the very thing the House of Minos wanted to avoid. Prince Khedal was preparing to lead the fleet against the Goblins, though it would be a running battle against two Goblin Lords.

The Minotaur King, Inreza, had asked if Khedal were able to keep fighting. He had assured her he was capable. Of course, he probably would have said that if he were breathing out a hole in his chest, but she hadn’t forbidden him.

He felt…slightly off after surviving the Isle of Goblins. Most put it down to the poison and harrowing journey—or his defeat, all of which could damage the prideful prince.

Inreza thought the real reason might be different. She approved Khedal’s warplans with the [Admirals] and then spoke to him alone.

“You have been unhappy with me, Khedal. For interrupting your duel with the Goblin Lord.”

He hesitated. Khedal, who spoke his mind about any dishonor he saw, no matter the situation, was loath to contradict her. Once, when rumors had spread that Inreza might be best served by appointing Khedal her replacement and retiring due to her wounds, he had offered to abdicate his claims to the throne on the spot.

His jaw worked as he put his hands behind his back.

“I—understand you acted as a leader of the battle, my King. But I had the chance to slay one or both of the Goblin Lords, or wound them enough to be finished. My life—”

“Khedal. I can kill Izikere.”

The Prince’s eyes widened, and he swung around to the Minotaur King. She leaned on the balcony, staring at the Goblins’ isle in the distance. No one was loosing weapons tonight; they were saving up for tomorrow.

A fortune in ammunition. Dead soldiers…warships destroyed. Each island would be working to replace the losses. Inreza turned to Khedal.

“It is no guarantee. But it is possible. Do you know why I do not? If you killed Greydath or Izikere—the Goblins would have charged. They would ram their island into ours and fight until fury left them. I would count the deaths in the hundreds of thousands at least.”

Khedal turned to the island. His first words, which he’d snatched back, were, ‘then it would be done’.

Two nations, two powers too equal for one to triumph over the other. At least, without that kind of cost. It was the Minotaur King’s duty to decide whether it was worth it.

“You saw something on the island, Khedal. More than you reported.”

“I was delirious and sick. I cannot substantiate any claims…even material.”

Khedal stalled for time. He still had the figurine he had found in his armor. Inreza raised her brows.

“Tell me. I will listen. You know, I won my way onto that island thirty-eight years ago.”

Khedal spun.

“You did?”

The Minotaur King rested her arms on the balcony, back to the island, and nodded. She stared at him, and he felt like the child he had once been standing before the throne the first time he came here.

“What did you see?”

For a long time, Khedal hesitated. He paced back and forth and looked at that island in the distance. When he did speak, it was slowly, watching her face, but she gave him nothing.

“I saw—a level of civilization to frighten the complacent. Goblins advance much like Trolls or Ogres given time. I saw statues…a mystery. Our enemy may have laid a trap for me, mind-games. I was left alive for a reason, so the rest of what I saw, I doubt.”

Was that the right answer? He saw Inreza sigh faintly. Khedal’s heart sank because he never understood what he said that was wrong. But he thought there was something. Inreza turned and nodded.

“If that is what you saw, I believe you. I have been thinking, Khedal, about the new lands.”

“As every leader must. Are we to try to colonize it?”

The question made Khedal uneasy. The House of Minos had sworn not to expand past these islands. It was an old pact, but they had honored it. When first they had come to these islands, the House of Minos had been less than a third of the size it now was. They had dredged and built these islands, bucket of sand by bucket, until they were as large as they were.

Inreza knew their history even better than Khedal. She craned her neck up at the stars.

“We were exiled here to contain the Goblins, Khedal. Yet I have heard it said that the Goblins contain us. This war keeps our forces strong, but it also keeps us from growing with our yearly enemy. You know, few Goblin Lords ever come from that island.”

“But the tribes they found—”

“—Later contain great Chieftains and Goblin Lords. Save for the one that guards the island or those that visit, few emerge here. An interesting phenomenon, don’t you think?”

It was. Khedal frowned as he tried to piece that into his knowledge of Goblins. He knew how to fight them, but not much else. And in fact—no one did.

“There is no theory of Goblins, Khedal. Nothing but observations, rudimentary analyses of their race by the kind of writer like Krsysl Wordsmith. [Naturalists], [Historians], document them, but there are no writings on them, no interviews, no first-hand accounts by anyone save adventurers who come with magic and sword. There was one book published in recent memory, though.”

“Really? I had no idea. By whom?”

The Minotaur King’s smile was bitter.

“Niers Astoragon. Every single book was burned when Velan the Kind became a Goblin King. I have read it.”

She waited for his response, and Khedal uncertainly gazed at Inreza.

“Did you learn much about our enemy?”

This time, he missed her second sigh. Inreza shook her head as she dismissed him; he would need rest for the battle tomorrow.

“No. Not much about our enemy.”

 

——

 

The next day, the Minotaur King sat in her throne room with the throwing axes and the Axe of Minos. She waited for Greydath to show himself; her Skills were limited, and her [Strategists] had agreed keeping the deadly Goblin Lord from battle was the most important.

She watched the naval chase as the Goblins made their exodus from the island. Nine warships set sail. They had apparently managed to patch a few, and they were racing ahead of the Minotaur fleet.

Enough to colonize every continent with a tribe or two. Khedal led the chase, and his ships kept up a constant barrage.

However, Izikere made their task difficult. She shielded her people’s ships while they were in her range, then produced massive waves to slow the Minotaurs. She even spawned a huge clump of tangling seaweed that stalled their rudders.

Greydath threw a sword through the mast of one of the ships, but he didn’t join the Goblins at sea. Perhaps because he knew they were doomed.

They almost made it. But Inreza saw—the Goblins’ knowledge of the sea was turned against them. Rather than catching the current that could take them into the sea and scatter, they found nothing with the oceans changed by the new lands of Izril. And the Minotaurs, who had deployed oars, would catch up.

Inreza listened to the terse reports and watched. She had one eye on the battle, another out at the island in the distance.

The House of Minos had shifted its aim away from the island to the Goblin fleet. Inreza thought about throwing an axe, but Khedal had things in hand.

And she could well kill her people if her aim were just a hair off. She was a [Thrower]. That was not her current class, but she had been a [Thrower], and a Minotaur King was not like a [King], so she was one of the most dangerous leaders, in personal combat at least, in the world.

There was some nuance to hurling a giant block of metal at someone. A direct nuance, but even a [Thrower] had guile. A basic feint was to aim at one target and hit the other.

Just like Khedal had done. Minotaurs were not stupid. If anything, the assumption that they were straightforward had cost many armies in battle when the House of Minos flanked or ambushed them.

An entire world of strategy lay simply in aiming at a target—or letting your opponent think you were aiming at one thing and not the other. Inreza glanced out the balcony and saw a few ships sailing out to sea.

Merchant Saimh had left, skirting the battleground and trusting to the House of Minos’ protection. His fleet of ships were now out of range of the coastal batteries, and presumably, loaded with the salvaged artwork from the palace.

“Presumably.”

The Minotaur King murmured. Someone rapped hard on her door.

“Prince Lareqol. My King—m—it is urgent. I know there’s a battle, but—”

Her son called out. Inreza called out.

“Enter. What is it?”

He strode into the room. He’d failed to best Venaz, but the fact that he had been vying with the [Strategist] for his post had meant he had been second-best among all the applicants. Lareqol was sharp, and he had just been walking the harbor.

“My King—I just met a Drake called Ocello. He was at the docks, shouting for help. He and his entire crew were at the warehouse with our art.”

“The ruined art? What of it? Saimh is at sea. Has he forgotten his apprentice?”

Prince Lareqol’s expression was urgent, and he nearly tripped over his words, so he didn’t see Inreza’s calm expression.

“No! They never picked up the art.

He strode to the balcony, and the Minotaur King glanced at the flotilla of nice, big, cargo ships…circling around to the isle of Goblins.

My oh my. Who could have predicted that?

 

——

 

The Drake was a curiosity to Greydath. He had assumed Izikere had a plan, but hadn’t known her ships would be replaced by these. The Drake sat on the ground as the rest of his crew shouted curses at him.

Well, some. A few just sat there as the rest were loaded on a rowboat to be sent to the House of Minos. The Drake stared at a Goblin offering him a beautiful cup.

“Is this a welcoming present? I hope I get a house.”

“Big house. Nice house. Lots of flowers and food.”

One of the village leaders assured him happily. The Goblins were inspecting their new ships, but most were loading in a hurry. The Minotaur fleet was at sea, but they wanted to be gone before the Minotaurs began firing.

The Drake would never leave this island. He had a death warrant on his head, but he seemed at home with the decision. He scratched at the large scar on his chest as Greydath squatted down.

“You are Greydath of Blades, aren’t you?”

“Yes. And you…why did you give your ships up?”

For answer, the [Merchant] pointed at the scar he’d received as a child from an infection.

“Every single [Healer] in the world told me I would be dead as a boy. Except for a certain Goblin Chieftain who saved my life. I came to these islands long ago—in secret. I’ve been here every year since. Not when it comes to the House of Minos, of course. This was planned long ago.”

“Huh.”

Greydath looked at Saimh and then at Izikere. She had found a new place to sit where she clearly intended to turn into a second tree. She didn’t turn her head, but one eye winked at him. And this was closer to Reiss’ dream than the island had ever seemed before.

The Goblins set sail as the Minotaur armada reported that the laughing Goblins who had made a skeleton crew on the ships—complete with fake Goblins made of reeds and vines and grass—had merrily teleported away once Khedal’s warship closed and began to board.

Disastrous. Greydath decided he’d join one of the ships bound for Terandria, and the Isle of Goblins celebrated merrily at the House of Minos’ expense. A Goblin’s trick.

 

——

 

Just as planned, really. Inreza offered a short report to the other nations and reported Khedal’s vow to hunt the Goblins down. Then she also announced that Minotaurs would join the races seeking to explore the new lands, the first expansion of their nation since their inception.

While the rest of her nation tried to calculate the Goblins’ trajectory and see whether there was a point in assailing the island after this, she pulled out a worn book from her personal quarters.

Goblin [Mercenaries]. Leading Goblins and being led by Goblins, by Niers Astoragon.

It was one of the last copies in the world, and she wondered if the Fraerling had kept any. Perhaps, in Fraerling cities where only his kind could read them. It was one of the few books with anything like interviews with actual Goblins. As she had told Khedal, few species got to observe them in anything more than an adversarial role.

However—the journals of Minotaur Kings before her also provided insights. Some were like Khedal. Some saw nothing, and some had fought Crelers and been too busy for Goblins. Except to note moments where the Island of Goblins and House of Minos had slain an Elder Creler and their warriors had withdrawn without spilling each other’s blood.

Khedal, in some ways, was like a rock. His journey to the Isle of Goblins might not change him immediately, but perhaps, like a drop of water falling on a boulder over a decade…well. Under Inreza, the House of Minos had taken fewer casualties in their war against the Goblins—that had allowed them to battle the King of Destruction’s ambitions abroad.

Presently, after reading, Inreza heard a sharp pinging sound, like someone tapping a crystal with a hammer, and felt a buzzing at her side. She closed the book and put the high-quality speaking stone on the armrest of her throne.

“—You never did gain the Titan’s confidence to ask him about meeting Velan the Kind, did you?”

“I—no, my King.”

The voice that spoke through the stone was slightly sheepish. The King of Minotaurs nodded.

“He is a cautious man. Perhaps when you return. How many letters did you receive, Venaz?”

“Over two thousand. Do you know what caused it? Calruz swears he has no knowledge. They kept referencing a ‘rat’.”

Venaz, the [Strategist] from the House of Minos, was reporting in. Inreza sighed as she plucked a letter she had received from her bag of holding.

“I believe the Minotaur has two rats as pets. Is that correct?”

“Yes…I think he mentioned…are you saying…?”

“One of the rats is intelligent enough to write a letter. Treat them like Sariant Lambs. How was his testimony of yesterday?”

Venaz was apparently trying to choke himself to death of his own volition. The Minotaur King waited for him to finish.

Rats…?

“Pets can be intelligent, Venaz. Sariant Lambs can read books. The Hundredfriend Courier’s companions are all around that intelligent. Are they a people in all but name, dignity, and the way they are treated? I have often wondered that.”

“I…will consider that carefully, my King.”

She was currently giving Venaz a migraine, so Inreza relented. He had enough to do.

“Tell me about Calruz, then. If you wish. But I trust your judgment as Mneiol, Venaz.”

“I would still be grateful for your wisdom. I will not take up your time.”

The Minotaur King listened, leaning on one side of her throne, as Venaz reported in. She was not unsympathetic to the rat. It was just that Haldagaz—what a funny name—was not in possession of all the facts.

Nor was even Calruz or Khedal. A [Thrower] had to have guile. Or else what made them different from a ballista? Sometimes you hit a target no one was expecting.

Venaz, [Strategist], was in Liscor judging Calruz of Hammerad’s actions. As was well and proper. He would do that to the utmost of his ability. Yet…Inreza closed one eye as Venaz came to the end of his report.

“…I have heard that the Goblins have made an exodus from the isle, my King.”

“Yes, a problem. We shall deal with it as best we can. However, Venaz, concern yourself only with your studies and your duties abroad.”

“Of course, my King. I…have not as of yet begun any judgements on my second target. I only gained access to the inn two days ago, and I believe I am still somewhat unwelcome.”

“How long is your break?”

“I should return to the academy soon, but I can extend it as long as needed. The Professor will understand. Today, I will return to the inn and try to meet with…ah, him. Numbtongue seems the most well-versed and spoken.”

Inreza’s eyes opened fully, and she sat up.

“Good.”

That was all. A member of the Mneiol could judge another Minotaur’s actions. But who was Venaz there to investigate?

Perhaps—a Goblin in an inn inclined to talk. And if he was—Inreza glanced down at her books and her own journal. No, it would take more than a single Goblin’s testimony, but you saw honor where you found it. You didn’t have to seek it out if it were as visible as a hundred Antinium standing amidst the waves.

Antinium and Goblins. The rest of the world could say what they wanted, and no species was one people. But if one weren’t a monster…the Minotaur King waited until she had more facts. More facts, and evidence, and the opportunity to change this world.

If only she or Venaz could have read that [Innkeeper]’s Skills and seen [Natural Allies: Goblins]. Then Inreza would have had more questions to ask. If she had one fear…well.

She still had great reservations about Venaz’s ability to be tactful.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: The island of the Goblins. And the House of Minos. You can’t talk about one without the others. Goblins, Minotaurs. They go together like um…g-green tea and steak?

Yes, that’s my analogy and I’m standing by it. Hope you enjoyed. This is a longer chapter than what I hope to be average, and it took me all three days. It’ll be a busy week as well after this…personally busy, not writing-busy, but the more stuff I have to do, the less writing.

So we’ll see how this next chapter goes. For now, I’m sign off and see you next time! I left out more lore about Minotaurs and Goblins but I’ll cram them into other chapters. Thanks for reading and uh, pet your capybaras?

 

Behemoth by Miguel!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/cmarguel

Twitter: https://twitter.com/cmarguel

 

Voidgoat by Vescar!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/vescar

 

Tom, by painterinthesky!

 


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9.05 NPR

It might be difficult, even for someone who knew him, to spot the difference at first. The clues were all there, but you know how he lied. He lied in words, actions, and even to himself. Perhaps he was more lie than man, now.

So, yes, given the circumstances, it was entirely forgivable not to see the changes in him. An absence when he might normally interject witty observations into conversation like one interjected air into veins. A hesitation that was more visible the longer you noticed old habits that didn’t resurface.

Perhaps their recent experiences had changed him for the better. That was another reasonable conclusion, until you saw a shadow hanging on his shoulder even in the daytime. The things unsaid.

The entire past might be better if he had been more honest with his feelings. Unlike anything else that had happened to him, though, this was the hardest thing to talk about. But he had to talk—or go mad.

 

——

 

It was better that it had been him.

That was Pisces’ conclusion at the end of it. Not that any of it had been good, except the death of a few monsters calling themselves men.

But better it was me than the other three. Ceria, Yvlon, Ksmvr—especially Ksmvr. The Antinium would not have deserved it. No one did, but Ksmvr was a child.

Yvlon—Yvlon would have died. Not because she was any less tough or enduring, but because she did not suffer fools nor travesty.

And Ceria? Pisces thought she might have survived it, just like him. Even so, he would have given that role to no one else.

Of course not. It was he, after all, who had proposed going to the Village of the Dead for the Helm of Fire and begun this entire debacle. He was only grateful that the other three had not suffered worse.

Ksmvr had fought his way out of an arena and led a rebellion. So had Yvlon, to an extent, and Ceria had navigated the deadliest nation of [Pirates] above land—and fought an Adult Creler.

They had all gone through a lot. He still dreamed, sometimes, that this was all an illusion. Then he woke up with the collar on his neck and the Emir Riqre was staring down at him. And before he tumbled out of his bed, thrashing and shouting, then grateful for the [Silence] spells, Pisces felt just a moment of relief.

For it meant Cawe wasn’t dead.

…Then he looked at the ceiling of The Wandering Inn and felt the comfortable sheets, the safe place where Erin Solstice was alive around him, and the guilt and relief redoubled. And Pisces Jealnet, as he sat, eyes red for lack of sleep but unwilling to rest, swore to himself again that today would be the day.

He hoped it would. But he was also afraid of just saying it. How…pathetic was that? Yet, day by day he waited, and Erin Solstice recovered from her death. And he told himself he wouldn’t wait for her to ask but tell her all he’d seen.

 

——

 

“Fifteen days, now.”

Pisces’ comment over breakfast was casual, but the rest of the three adventurers sitting at his table reacted. Ceria took a huge bite of yesterday’s soup and talked as she chewed.

“Fifteen? Dead gods, it feels shorter. Doesn’t it feel shorter? Erin’s been back from the dead fifteen days.”

“And she still cannot walk. Her recovery rate is substantially less than an Antinium Worker or Soldier.”

Ksmvr observed as Yvlon tossed a napkin roll at Ceria. Pisces watched as a young woman in a wheelchair slowed to glower mock-angrily at Ksmvr.

“Hey! I heard that! You’re supposed to whisper insults, Ksmvr.”

“But how would you hear them? Also, that is not an insult, Miss Erin. Merely an observation.”

“Yeah, but it’s rude. Haven’t the Horns taught you any tact yet?”

Ksmvr looked at Pisces, Yvlon, and Ceria.

“No.”

Erin eyed the other three. She nodded slowly.

“Yeah, that’s fair. Maybe you should intern with Griffon Hunt or something. Carry on.”

She rolled on her way to breakfast, and Yvlon snorted.

Griffon Hunt? Between them and the Halfseekers or Silver Swords, I suppose that makes the most sense to Erin, but honestly—Halrac? Not tactful, just irritable. Ulrien was in his way, but Revi? Typhenous is tactful.”

This was the perfect moment for Pisces to interject a comment about Revi’s tact still exceeding Yvlon’s fist in your gut. Or some other pithy comment. He thought about it, but again—

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to say it or he was trying to be nice. It was just…in the milliseconds of time where he could have said that and gotten an elbow and irate look, Pisces didn’t. And so Ceria slipped in a comment with a grin.

“Typhenous is a snake, Yvlon. He’s smooth—not tactful. Half the time, he just makes fun of you without you knowing. And all three are still better than us.”

“Better than you three, maybe. I can be tactful, Ceria.”

“Yes, and a bear can dance. Name one time you were tactful.”

“In—we were separated, so you didn’t see me, Ceria.”

“Okay. How tactful were you when the Silver Killer of Izril was punching her way out of Nerrhavia’s Fallen? They said you left five hundred dead on the first day.”

“Who says—I did not. I told you, it was all exaggeration. It was probably Rexel, or Leprel. My teammates in the arena.”

Yvlon reddened, and Ceria cackled.

“No one, actually. But isn’t it a great rumor?”

Yvlon’s severe look didn’t deter the half-Elf one bit.

“If I were you, I’d stop after the Order of Solstice incident.”

Ceria waved this off cheerfully.

“What’s the worst that could happen, Yvlon? And before you answer—what’s the worst that could happen to us? But let’s just settle one thing: you can’t pretend you’re the odd one out every time we get called crazy or tactless. You can be tactful, you just never are. A Hollowstone Deceiver changes his shell only once a year.”

“Ooh. I appreciate this local proverb, Ceria. Let me try. Jexishe the Friendly Creler still murders tens of thousands every year. Do not trust her.”

Pisces blinked. Ceria tilted her head, and her eyes lit up as Yvlon rolled her eyes.

“Ksmvr…”

“Jexishe the what, Ksmvr? Someone’s got a pet Creler?”

Ksmvr glanced about and lowered his voice and mandibles conspiratorially.

“No, Ceria, Pisces. Yvlon tells me this is wrong, but I have asked Bird, and he swears it is true. There is a friendly Creler who served with the Forgotten Wing Company.”

“Ksmvr—”

Yvlon put her head in her hands as Ceria began cackling with laughter again. Pisces’ lips twitched, but Ksmvr was adamant.

“I asked Yellow Splatters and Mrsha, and both told me they had heard the same story.”

“Because Bird is a liar. And so is Mrsha!”

The argument attracted a betrayed look from a passing Gnoll. Mrsha sniffed and looked ready to burst into tears. Then, at Yvlon’s long stare, she shrugged and padded off. Fair.

It was such a convivial moment that Pisces was enjoying it. Or…his smile faded. Was he trying too hard to enjoy it? Was he aware he should enjoy it?

Was this even funny? When you got to it, what a waste it was to tell silly stories like this. How—mundane. How wasteful.

Was Merr alive? Eloque, Qshom, Bearig, and the others? What was he doing here? Pisces turned his head, and sitting across from him not a table away, banging her spoon on the table with Mrsha as a harried Lyonette headed out of the kitchen, scolding both, was Erin Solstice.

She was so close that Pisces could get up, sit down, and tell her right then and there that he had been a [Slave]. That he had met a monster named Riqre and seen worse than what Crelers did. That he had left his friends and, perhaps, part of himself behind on Chandrar.

…But he didn’t. Pisces stared at the back of Erin’s head. Now was not the time.

After breakfast. She should eat, and besides, Mrsha was there. He needed a private moment.

“—Pisces? [Mental Clarity] to Pisces.”

Ceria snapped her fingers in front of Pisces, and he jerked. His head snapped back, and he had his hands on the table before he relaxed.

His old friend gave him an amused glance.

“Save that for later. Are you doing anything before 2?”

“Two…”

Pisces’ brow furrowed. Ordinarily, he would have pretended he knew what was going on. This time, Ceria just sighed.

“Two. As in, two in the afternoon when we go to Invrisil’s Adventurer’s Guild, to talk about the loot from the Village of the Dead?”

“Oh.”

Ksmvr happily chipped in.

“Your attendance is mandatory. Please do not be late. Until then, I shall be touring Invrisil for gifts.”

“Gifts…? I’ll go with you if you’re shopping. You still might run into people who panic at the sight of an Antinium, Ksmvr. But why do you need gifts?

Yvlon seemed surprised. Ksmvr sighed.

“It has escaped my knowledge, and I did not have time to do so anyways, but apparently one brings gifts from their travels abroad. Bird and Mrsha have suggested I purchase gifts as amenities in Invrisil. Snacks. Do you have any recommendations?”

Yvlon’s head slowly rotated, and a little Gnoll girl hunched her shoulders at the table opposite theirs.

“Oh, we can certainly discuss the issue, Ksmvr. But some shopping will be a good way to pass the time. I don’t relish arguing over our loot. The teams want what we picked up. So what’s the plan, Ceria?”

The half-Elf scratched at her head as Pisces turned to her. He had the spellbook he’d recovered upstairs, and he worked on it every day. Ceria hadn’t mentioned where the circlet had gone, and as for Yvlon, she had the two rings that had yet to be worn and a pair of scrolls. Ksmvr had left his sword back on Chandrar.

Pisces was understandably worried all the treasure they’d taken might be in danger, but Ceria didn’t look too concerned.

“We can’t avoid them forever, Yvlon. We did nearly die, so our claim is strong, and there’s gear from the rest of the raid to divide as well. Treasure-division is a huge game of politics and backstabbing. I’ll speak to some of the other team leaders. Besides, Prince Zenol is far removed from here—I think we’ll be as equitable as possible.”

“Well, Elia Arcsinger’s representative has been claiming her team is owed a big share. Everyone wants the Helm of Fire, and I don’t know if we’re going to get it. Pisces, how badly do we need it? Pisces?”

Once again, it went back to Chandrar. Pisces started and looked at Yvlon.

“I—it would be exceptionally unfortunate if we didn’t get it, Yvlon. Promises were made.”

But Erin’s alive. So—what’s the reward from your client worth?”

Pisces bit his tongue. What’s it worth? Not being slain and reanimated as corpses. He hadn’t told them it was the Necromancer he’d contacted.

Pretend. Pisces steepled his fingers, sniffed self-consciously, and remembered how much Eloque and the others laughed at that. His team just waited as he chose his words, pretending to look less concerned than he was. Which was still very concerned, but to his friends, it would look like he was playing it casual when he really was concerned.

Lies within lies. His specialty.

“I—would consider it a rich patron who might be displeased in more than words if we were to renege. I will ask about the fee being waived but…”

Az’kerash might be unhappy. Then again, he alternated between a cold, admonishing voice, speaking as if Pisces were an insect on the path to true Necromancy to…well, what Pisces had thought he might be like, the wise Archmage of Death.

At any rate, Ceria nodded seriously.

“That might actually help if we claim it was promised. Alright, break, team. Pisces, you can join us…”

“I may stay here.”

Pisces turned back to Erin as the rest of his team split up. Now. Perfect. It might not be long enough to say the entire story, but Erin had finished eating a breakfast burrito and was chatting with Mrsha, Lyonette, and Numbtongue.

“Erin, may I request a moment of your time?”

The [Innkeeper] didn’t turn around. She wheeled over to the kitchen, ignoring Pisces. Because…he hadn’t said the words out loud.

They’d caught in his mouth. He hesitated, and then it was too late, again.

Alright! Look out, kitchen, here I come! You might think you won yesterday, but today, I’ll take you down! Are you ready for battle, Lyonette?”

“Erin, we’re making doughnuts.”

Erin waved a finger at Lyonette. She glanced at Pisces as Mrsha offered to be a [Taste Tester].

“Nah, nah. We’re making Spider Succulents. Remember? My new creation?”

“Spider what now?”

Ceria paused with one hand on the doorknob, and so did Ksmvr. Yvlon grimaced, but Erin waved her hands.

“No, it’s not bugs this time! It’s this dough ball we’re gonna fill with custard and coat in chocolate or something nice and make teeny little legs! I’m thinking jerky. So they’ll look like spiders, see!”

“…And this is meant to be appetizing?”

Yvlon was appalled as she said what most people were thinking. Erin just grinned.

“Well, it’s unique! I heard a lot of guests like the bug-vibe, not just the Antinium. So why not lean into it? But that’ll be on our menus tonight. Something not even Imani can copy!”

“I can copy it. But I won’t.”

Imani put on her own apron as she headed for the door for her own job. Erin shook her head at Imani’s back.

“That’s the mundane dish. We’re also perfecting…a bisque. I mean, a magical one. How’s that, Imani?”

The [Chef] turned in the doorway.

“…What’s magic about the bisque?”

The [Innkeeper] scratched at her head.

“Well, y’know my Scaleguard Sandwich? ™, copyright, can’t steal?”

“Yes…”

“I’m making the muscle-version of it. It’ll have, uh…venison. And bone. And other stuff! We’re nailing down the ingredients, but it’ll be in my magical lineup! Scaleguard Sandwich and, um…Bulkup Bisque! I already came up with the name. I was gonna go ‘Beefcake Bisque’, but there’s no actual beefcake in there. And Mrsha kept laughing.”

Erin beamed around, and Pisces felt the vague need to applaud.

He did not. However, it was clear that Erin was actually developing her inn’s menu. She was turning towards the kitchen, and he had missed his opportunity to talk to her.

“Pisces, you wanna taste-test my stuff?”

The [Necromancer] froze halfway up the stairs. He looked at Erin, and Numbtongue, sitting and pulling out his guitar, gave Pisces a warning shake of the head.

It could be an opportunity—but Pisces shook his head.

“No. Perhaps another time, Erin?”

He smiled, and Erin shrugged.

“Your loss.”

She wheeled away, and after fifteen seconds, Pisces kicked himself for not taking her offer. What was wrong with him?

Another day. He had more time. He’d…Pisces went back upstairs and read from his spellbook as he composed a message to Az’kerash. He had things to do.

It was just—if you went back over that conversation, if you were listening to Pisces alone, and you knew to look—

You’d realize that over breakfast, with his friends, not once did he sass anyone. Something was wrong, and the person who realized it most was Pisces.

 

——

 

Survivor’s guilt was an odd thing. No. Forget that. Guilt was an odd thing. After the dust had settled—wondering what you’d done wrong, how you could have changed things. Regretting everything—

It was tough. Even if you were thousands of years old, it was difficult. Oh, perhaps you stopped caring about certain people. But—Ryoka Griffin suspected that you cared about some people nonetheless. And when they died, it was the same.

In the days after war, the ghosts returning to Izril and the tricks of the Faerie King, after a single soul was brought back to life—then two, one Human, one Dragon—after betrayal and killing Fithea and telling the immortals of Ailendamus everything, there was only one question on no one’s mind:

Whatever had happened to Ryoka Griffin?

And did anyone care?

No, no, that was harsh. Tyrion Veltras cared. Her friends cared, but Ryoka Griffin was the Wind Runner of Reizmelt. Aside from being generally unscryable, people were used to her popping out of nowhere, being chased by something new.

A few notes in the Mage and Runner’s Guilds for reports of her were all the lengths Erin and others had gone to right now. They might well suspect Ryoka was torn up from betraying Eldavin and the actions of the Ailendamus war—still ongoing, by the way.

Ryoka had done a lot of thinking. Some crying, but healthy crying. She had looked at her mistakes, and she’d made a lot of old ones and some new ones. She…regretted a lot of things, even if some of the events couldn’t have been predicted, like Fithea’s betrayal.

She hoped she would learn and feared that she was doomed to keep never changing. And wasn’t that the worst thing of all, to never grow?

However, Ryoka Griffin raised her head and decided she had made peace with her actions. The manacles on her arms and legs clinked as she tried to get comfortable.

Yep. The prison cell never got more homey no matter how many hours she was in it.

A real prison cell, by the way. Ryoka had sort of hoped for a house arrest, but Ailendamus had a dungeon, and they’d tossed her into it.

A sliver of light from a window far too small for anything but air to pass through. Moldy bricks, and rats?

There was one every hour. Roaches too, giant ones. And other pests. The guards fed Ryoka halfway decent food, probably from the banquet hall, but Ryoka had found maggots in the food twice.

She wasn’t sure if the torture would come after that or this was the torture. Nor was Ryoka exactly panicking.

Not…exactly.

Okay, it was bad. And in any other circumstance, like Valeterisa’s mansion or a Walled City’s jail, Ryoka would have been seriously worried about her wellbeing, let alone freedom. However, this prison had some, ah, nuance to it.

For instance, Ryoka was pretty sure she was the only important prisoner-of-state in the cells. She didn’t base that on her cellmates.

No, no! Not the rack! Not the—

A screaming man, half-naked, flailing with spittle, was being dragged out of his cell by two burly figures in black hoods. He had blood on his fingers, and he looked like he was twisting the bones out of his body to get free.

The other prisoners that Ryoka could see looked no better. One hadn’t moved for two days, and black flies were ominously flying around the body. Another was a whimpering pile of bloody rags.

As for the captors—Ryoka thought they were the archetype of unthinking brutes. The only thing she saw in their eyes was boredom—or malice. Their clothes were black but still stained with liquid, and the entire prison complex was often filled with moaning or distant screams.

It smelled just fine. Sort of musty, and there was the faint hint of magical sage, that tingling in the nostrils that signaled magic. Oh—and the brutes who kept dragging prisoners out for torture weren’t Ryoka’s guards.

They were actually Dame Chorisa and another [Knight] of the Thirsting Veil. Ryoka saw the two bringing her food, and they were the only ones standing guard at the entrance to the dungeon. They looked disturbed by the screaming, or had—now, Ryoka thought they’d brought earplugs.

Which was a bad idea for guards for a cell of Ailendamus’ worst prisoners. If this were an actual prison.

Ryoka had her doubts. The lack of smell despite the streaks of color on the walls was one clue.

Another was that each time the brutish thugs took out a prisoner, it was a different person. And critically, they never seemed to put anyone back in the dungeon. Which might indicate the dungeon’s tortures were horrible and final, but Ryoka had other, subtler clues.

Like the roach about four feet long that skittered past her cell door. Yes, it was disgusting…but it was also just a bit too big. Dungeons had pests, but lice would disturb Ryoka more than a giant roach that even the jailors wouldn’t tolerate.

Also, the rat that kept appearing was the same one. It would run about, squeaking, in the exact same pattern and then disappear in a hole in the walls. It ran through the piece of apple Ryoka had tossed into its path as if it wasn’t there.

The chains were real. The dungeon was fake. The visitors were also real, and Ryoka was expecting Visophecin. Or Itorin. Or Oesca or her mother or a number of people soon.

But it wouldn’t be a dungeon without torture. And the person who had imprisoned her, who had ordered Ryoka thrown into the dungeon, Duke Rhisveri, was a depraved tyrant. He had thought up some clever tortures despite what Ryoka suspected was an injunction on physical harm by the other immortals.

It was beginning again. Ryoka saw two helmeted heads peeking into the prison. With sympathy? Or were they just watching?

Her captors could not stop what came next. The prison dimmed, and the world turned so dark the only thing visible was that bar of light from the window. And then…once again, it happened.

A figure rose from the ground. It looked like—a miniature Ryoka Griffin. She stood there like a little figurine, twice the size of a Fraerling, so one foot tall, barefoot, with the cloth strips bound to her feet, bouncing on her toes, wearing loose running clothing. She even had two missing fingers.

Ryoka stared at the image of herself, and then a series of flowing lines, deep green, appeared in the dark air above the miniature figure.

 

You are standing in a dark room in the Adventurer’s Guild of Tisekn. The windows are closed. Dust lines the floor. There are a few objects on the counter, but they are impossible to make out.

“Excuse me, can you turn on the light?”

A woman calls out. She is silhouetted in the doorway. You can hear lively chatter from beyond. A lantern sits on a table with a little Wand of Sparks.

>> What do you do?

 

It was really, truly amazing. No, she hadn’t told anyone about this particular bit of flavor from her world. Someone had just come up with it himself.

Ryoka sighed.

“I turn on the light.”

 

>> Ryoka Griffin is not intelligent enough to turn on a lantern without specific instructions.

 

“Go fuck yourself.”

 

>> Ryoka Griffin is not capable of that action. No one else is interested.

 

“I pick up the Wand of Sparks, then.”

Instantly, the little figure of Ryoka Griffin went over and picked up the wand. Ryoka sighed.

“I use the Wand of Sparks on the lantern.”

Mini Ryoka Griffin pointed the wand at the lantern. A shower of sparks lit the wick, and a glow enveloped what looked like a fairly interesting room full of items to pick up and the figure in the doorway.

“I pick up the lantern.”

Mini Ryoka went to pick up the lantern. Then she knocked it over.

The real Ryoka sighed as the lantern shattered on the table. Instantly, the merry sounds in the distance died down and a woman shrieked.

“It’s a fire! Put it out!”

“I stomp on the fire.”

The miniature Ryoka began to stomp, but the flames just spread around the stomps—in fact, the sparks and embers began to light up the rest of the room from her motions.

“Oh, come on. That’s not how it works. I…put out the flames with my wind. Hello? I can do that. I suck out the air from the room. I—too late now.”

The entire room was a bonfire. The woman in the doorway screamed as the fire enveloped her, and Ryoka saw more words writing themselves in the air as the miniature Ryoka was engulfed too.

 

The fire consumes the entire building. The kindly Guildmistress is set ablaze. She dies horribly. You are burning, and the guild is being evacuated.

Eight people are dead. They all burned to death. You miraculously survive because of course you do, but eight innocent people are immolated beyond recognition. Another man is crippled for life.

The Guildmistress was pregnant.

 

“Oh, come on.

The next image cuts to a funeral. The figures were lining up, sobbing and throwing themselves at a line of coffins, when Ryoka twisted in her chains enough to face the other way. She ignored the text screen.

…Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it. It never was. Ryoka was debating humming loudly when the miniature funeral suddenly vanished and the air cleared.

She turned her head, and to her relief—there stood Viscount Visophecin. The Lucifen looked mildly amused by her expression, but he leaned slightly against the cell wall, waiting for her to untangle herself from the chains.

As always, no one had seen him come in.

“I presume I have not interrupted anything?”

“No. Not unless you count the world’s first text-based adventure.”

He raised his brows, and Ryoka sighed.

“It’s…actually, I can explain right now. How many hours do you have?”

The Lucifen clicked his tongue and drew in the air. Ryoka saw a magical timepiece appear, and he studied the hands.

“Pressing little, I fear. I wished to see you and inquire as to your…health?”

Ryoka tried to shrug and smile.

“Good. I guess. Am I, uh, going to get out today?”

“We are continuing to press the issue. I wished to tell you that Lord Tyrion Veltras continues to maintain his presence along the border. He will not relent until you are freed.”

Visophecin raised his voice slightly, although it was still as calm as ever. Ryoka and the Lucifen waited, but nothing happened.

“What…was that display?”

After a second, the Lucifen lowered his voice. Ryoka raised her brows.

“I told you, it gets weird when no one’s around.”

“I see. I believed it was—different.”

Both he and Ryoka fell silent for a moment, because it was just odd. The person maintaining all the illusions never responded to the criticisms. Nor did he show himself, but Ryoka had to believe he was watching. The things she saw were sometimes on autopilot, but some were so inventive a mind had to be coming up with them, if not actively watching her.

“Perhaps we should continue our discussions of what you call the Lands of the Fae. Or, if you prefer, I have more news from around the world. Of note—the Gnoll tribes who have left for Chandrar have finally been identified. What is your opinion on the future of…”

Visophecin was about to begin a thorough breakdown of Ryoka’s opinions on most recent events, which could be entertaining enough until it slipped into pure tedium. Ryoka doubted it was all purely to get her to spill valuable information.

He just liked to debate world events and politics, and he seldom got bored. Ryoka had made the mistake of trying to discuss different market-based concepts with him, and he’d been so fascinated he’d called in six Lucifen who took notes and debated for eight hours.

She had better things to do, like hang in place and stare at the wall. However, before the Lucifen could continue their discussion, the air darkened again.

Visophecin nearly dispelled the illusion, but then…froze. He couldn’t help it. His eyes opened wide, and Ryoka saw the most horrific thing yet appear.

Her jaw dropped as a giant…serpentine…sock puppet arose out of the flagstones. Then another puppet appeared, looking like her.

Two more appeared, a Griffin puppet and a withered tree-puppet. Ryoka’s stomach churned as the puppet of Fithea joined one of Rhisveri, Ryoka, and Gilaw.

“Hell’s contracts. What is…?”

Visophecin’s words were drowned out by a bright, sunny voice from the Rhisveri-puppet.

What a lovely day it is! My kingdom is flourishing, and I want for nothing. In my generosity, I have allowed even a worthless thief certain privileges. Isn’t that right, thief?”

The Ryoka puppet nodded and opened what Ryoka thought was a too-big mouth, even for puppet standards.

That’s right! I am a worthless ingrate, but I am eternally grateful for your forbearance despite all the transgressions I have made. Speaking of which—good day, Fithea!

“Hello, Ryoka. What is that you’re holding?”

“A flaming sword. I am going to kill you. Because whenever I appear, people die. I am a curse upon the world, ahahahaha!”

A flaming sword began to burn the Dryad’s puppet. Visophecin’s mouth hung open as the Gilaw puppet croaked.

Mother. You have killed my mother.

The Rhisveri puppet nodded.

“That is correct. What should I do with such a murderer?”

The Ryoka puppet flung the sword away and pretended to look innocent as a chorus of Lucifen and Agelum and other immortal puppets appeared. They chorused as one, led by a suspiciously familiar Lucifen in a suit.

Let her go! We are brainless incompetents who trust a single mortal implicitly! It doesn’t matter that she murdered the last Dryad in existence.

The growl interrupted the cheerful voice—then was replaced by Ryoka giggling in an unnatural voice.

That’s right! I’m just a silly mortal, tee-hee! It’s not my fault that I get everyone killed.

The Rhisveri-puppet nodded with a slack-jawed expression clearly meant to convey idiocy.

“Well, I cannot argue with that. You’re free to go, Ryoka! In fact, let me give you some treasures from my personal vault. What will you do now?”

The Ryoka-puppet appeared to think for a moment.

“I think I’ll visit the nearest orphanage and burn it down.”

“Oh? But there are none in Ailendamus due to our superior system of government.”

“Don’t worry! There will be after I accidentally murder all the adults in the next town. Bye~!”

She began to head off to the side as the other puppets ducked away. Ryoka thought that might be the end of it, and Visophecin clearly did, because he was turning to whisper to her.

“What is…?”

Then he turned as an entire town popped up and a bunch of innocent townspeople meandered about as Ryoka cheerfully waved her sword at them.

Oh, and look! Here’s my best friend, Cara, the treacherous Singer of Terandria with her hammer!

The Lucifen’s stare almost made Ryoka laugh. Almost…but she whispered back.

“This could go on for an hour.”

“An hour?

It was almost funny. Almost—and the other things the Wyrm was creating. He’d been doing it for two weeks, now.

Almost hilarious, because she didn’t think she was going to die. And yet—Ryoka stared as her puppet began to ‘accidentally’ decapitate people in the village with Cara wielding a giant hammer and beating the other puppets to death. While singing.

Bits of ‘blood’, gore, Ryoka professing how sad she was and none of it was her fault—yes, it was pointed, and yes, it was stupid.

But she watched a little child-puppet leaning over another dead one.

“Mother. Mother? Wake up. I don’t want you to go.”

It whispered, hugging the dead puppet-body. Maybe the rest of it was fake. Maybe this was all an act to get on her nerves or hurt her.

But the voice whispering behind the puppet-child was his. Two fake cloth hands reached down and shook the body, so gently. Then urgently. Then stopped, and a pair of fake, sewn eyes stared around vacantly at nothing at all.

And it sounded…Ryoka closed her eyes.

It was the best play she’d ever seen, if it was acting.

 

——

 

“I want an armada.”

“Who’s going to pay for it?”

“Me. I’ll damn well fund the ships myself if I have to. But we need an armada. We have forces abroad.”

“That you sent. This sounds like a problem you made.”

“Well, yes. And now it’s your problem. So—what are we going to do about it? We nearly lost to Jungle Tails. We need to restructure. Oh—and I need two companies in Talenqual yesterday.”

Niers Astoragon enjoyed his games of slow chess. He often practiced a laid-out schedule where he would teach his classes, keep the company running, and maintain order in the Forgotten Wing Company’s vast domain.

Right now, he was a whirling dervish flinging out orders and requests, and the [Servants] and [Strategists] rushing past the breakfast table where he and Foliana were still debating were a symbol of how much was happening.

Foliana munched on an odd meal. It looked like…steel wool. Literal steel wool covered in honey. She spat some out.

“Mm. I think Peclir Im lied to me.”

“You actually took him seriously when he said that was his favorite food?”

Even Niers was distracted for a second. Foliana shrugged. She reached for a plate of spaghetti with, of all things, deadly amentus fruits squeezed into a cup.

“Sometimes people tell the truth. I killed a Lizardwoman who ate mud. Just mud. From houses. Mm. Spaghetti.”

She slurped down a few noodles and concentrated.

“…Still too far. Damn.”

“No Antinium on Baleros?”

Niers asked half-sarcastically, but Foliana treated it like a real question.

“If there are, they don’t like spaghetti. Good to know. Or the Slayer liking this was a lie. Also good to know.”

“…How do you learn these things? I have [Spy] reports, and I have never, ever, seen anything about what Klbkch the Slayer considers his favorite food.”

For answer, Foliana just pulled something out of her bag of holding and laid it on the table.

“My sources are better than yours, see?”

The Titan had to stand up from his breakfast seat to get a look at the pamphlet of paper. He saw a fairly colorful title—Foliana paid for color—a city surrounded by water, and a big #2 next to the name.

 

The Liscorian Gazette.

 

Below were subheadings listing the articles within as the catchy title and covers hadn’t been perfected yet.

 

Containing: the Birds of Liscor, a column by Bird the Antinium. An exclusive interview with Senior Guardsman Klbkch by [Reporter] Drassi on hobbies, love life, and more! Your Top 10 worst monster encounters, ranked! And more! 

(Chess Monthly now sold separately.)

 

The Titan’s mouth worked as he read through the magazine. He glanced up.

“What love life…?”

“It was a lie.”

Even Three-Color Stalker was disappointed about that. But hey, it was definitely pushing sales. Niers sat back in his chair. After a moment, he resumed talking.

“—The Iron Vanguard will try to destroy them. So I want a fleet.”

“Got a better idea than watching them burn this time?”

“As a matter of fact—yes. We’ll beg, borrow, steal, or buy as many ships as we can.”

“Mm. And how is this my best [Strategist]?”

Foliana fished some earwax out of her ear and flicked it at him. Niers smugly dodged it.

“Because this time, Perorn is doing the hoofwork with our coin. We’ll ferry our troops from Baleros. Intrigued?”

The giant Squirrel thought about it. She nodded at Niers and then gave him one of her long stares. Disconcerting, as all three colors ran together.

“Are you sure you’re well?”

Niers Astoragon gave her a tight smile.

“I’m as well as I need to be. I learned some lessons in Izril, Foliana. Complacency is one of them. I want Jungle Tails dead. Slap a 10,000 gold bounty on anyone above [Captain] in rank. Clemency without questions for any [Soldiers] who turn over their superior’s head. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some Goblins to talk to. And my fellow Fraerlings.”

He left her at the table. Foliana was still recuperating, and so they’d taken inspiration from The Wandering Inn. She refused to get on a floating pedestal, much less a Golem-carried chair or the other methods of transport elderly figures used.

However, Foliana would accept a wheelchair to which she had attached two pieces of plywood that spun around at wheel-level. It would kneecap everyone not standing clear of her.

The fact that she could even move around much less be an obnoxious hazard showed just how effective those Shards of Relief had been. Niers marched towards the open Fraer-ways as one of the servants placed a little ramp so he could climb up into the hidden tunnels throughout the academy.

Rich, bacoina-wood floors. Glass featured heavily in the Fraer-ways—carpets, not so much. Niers had imported some art, but since the Forgotten Wing Company didn’t have a community so much as younger Fraerlings who signed up for a few years, it was a bit sparse.

Hanging Tallfolk art was impossible, and while some fancied themselves good enough to carve poems on grains of rice, the writing looked rough when you were Niers’ size.

No carpets. Lots of glass. Niers had long since known they looked more like an expensive tunnel system than a home. He nodded to a few young Fraerlings who greeted him with clear relief and excitement.

“Lord Astoragon, it’s good to have you back. The representatives—”

“I’m on my way just after this next meeting. Isn’t it Oiex? I hope you stayed out of trouble during the fighting.”

The fighting. Niers slowed to talk to the younger Fraerling, who looked a bit older than the boy who’d run away to see the outside world and come here.

“A lot of the Tallfolk died. On our side, I mean, Lord Astoragon. I’m glad we won. And the—traitors—Tallguard Ekrn and Explorer Gindal got them, but I saw some of the fighting. I was backing up the security! I never thought I’d fight other Fraerlings.”

His look was uneasy—that of someone who had always thought that while the other species could be dangerous or alluring, his people were just good. It was the face of someone realizing he might have to fight his own people.

Normal Fraerlings never considered that. Niers? He patted Oiex on the shoulder.

“That’s a perspective I hope you’ll think of—but it’s not something to obsess over or live by. It’ll change you, inform you no matter where you go. Home or elsewhere.”

“I—might go home a bit, sir. Once this is all done. To see how it feels.”

The young man hung his head, but Niers just smiled.

“Everyone should visit home. I do it now and then—take a month or two off.”

He wondered if he’d ever see Oiex again as the Fraerling looked relieved. Niers took the time to talk to Oiex and the other Fraerlings, despite his urgent business.

He had to show himself in Elvallian again. He’d gone drinking in the bar and just—talked—all night long. He’d stayed on the same mug, only sipping it to wet his throat.

Well, you didn’t exactly chug an Elixir of the Copper Tongue. Niers had filled the mug with that, knowing he’d be talking, not having fun.

That was called, in [Strategist] terms, ‘planning ahead’. Foresight—preparation—whatever you wanted to call it, half of teaching new students was just getting them to think like that in all regards.

It was something Niers hadn’t been doing of late. He’d been acting like a [Tactician] in parts, reacting. The Titan had reflected on his mistakes, and he would continue to do so.

For now? He was back, and what Niers Astoragon did when he was back was what Bird did for fun:

He lied. If he had the [Liar] class, Niers was probably pushing Level 50 by now. But he didn’t need the class—it was part of being a [Strategist].

Oiex? Niers hadn’t gone home in forty years. It was something you said. Happening to go out for a drink on the town? Purely intentional, as was putting an aphid in the ears of anyone wanting to talk to him and vent or get reassurance.

Even the ground upon which he walked, the Fraer-ways, were a lie. As the Fraerlings who had come to the academy had discovered—they had been designed to capture hostile forces if need be. Each section could be locked down by the top commanding officers. The glass wasn’t a way for the Fraerlings to look out. It was a way for the Tallfolk to look in.

…The lack of carpets was just because of how much of a pain they were to clean. Also, insects and rodents loved chewing on the damn stuff.

Busy, busy. Niers hurried down the Fraer-ways at a jog after meeting a few fellow Fraerlings. He had no end of work.

For instance, one of the things he did was call a meeting with the Selphids who formed his vanguard in battles. His [Immortals], his [Lineholders]; the fearless vanguard.

Even they’d been chewed up by Jungle Tails’ attack. Yet they greeted Niers with loud enough cheers.

“Titan, you never disappoint. I was wondering if you’d fly in on a bird at the end, but teleporting a Goblin army will do enough. Are we on deployment against Jungle Tails?”

One of the [Diehard Warriors]—a lower-level version of [Immortal]—greeted Niers cheerfully. Someone had blasted part of her true body apart, but she was recovering.

He wondered if she’d lost memory or some mobility—yet Selphids could regenerate given time. And the grin her Lizardfolk body gave him was big enough.

“Eager on adding another dozen bodies to your collection?”

The dry comment provoked uproarious laughter. These were veterans—they’d done their mourning already. When they’d sallied, they knew the risks. You laughed, here. Later, you continued talking it out.

“I’m sending four back home. One for each of my family. Aside from my sister—she married in. Lizardfolk.”

Niers grinned as the Selphids tallied up one of the reasons they fought for him—access to bodies. It was hard for regular Selphids to get good, fresh bodies, much less high-quality ones. Selphids in his army were awarded the battlefield dead in many cases. The Forgotten Wing company had agreements with some of their enemies, like the other great Companies, not to poach their dead, but Jungle Tails had no such protections. He nodded to the other [Mercenaries].

“She can stuff hers, then. I just stopped by to congratulate you all. And I’d say my hand slipped—but like Nagas, I’m going to fill my bag of holding with all this worthless metal. Alright, bring it in.”

He motioned, and one of his [Generals] marched into the room with an actual Chest of Holding and began tossing out bags of coin. The first Selphid who caught it opened it and eyed the gold and silver inside appreciatively.

The silver was there to make the bag feel hefty, but it was a sizable bonus. The Selphids cheered as Niers shouted.

Drinks are on you all for a month. This is just a token of my appreciation for staying when it got hot in the soup. I know it might be straightforward, but as I’ve observed, nothing makes a Selphid happier than a cold body and a handful of gold.”

They laughed harder at that. Niers didn’t stay long, and in truth—he didn’t think they needed him to.

It really was straightforward. You didn’t need to lie to the career soldiers who’d been with Forgotten Wing through thick or thin. Niers would spread the joy with the other soldiers later today, but he did make a point of doing it himself.

We reward your loyalty. Plain and simple.

Maelstrom’s Howling, the Centaur Great Company, was made up of almost every semi-nomadic Centaur clan. They vied for support, and it was more political, a point of pride that their leader, Fellstrider, had to juggle.

The Iron Vanguard were Dullahans, essentially, and loyalty was a huge factor in keeping their troops. Culturally, it was probably easier for the Seer of Steel. Both obviously had enticements, but Niers was straightforward.

It also meant he’d lose the [Mercenaries] once they decided their time was up and they wanted to retire. He’d found Selphids were the most inclined to keep going, hence forming a vanguard with them—they didn’t care about losing limbs, and they lived longer than Lizardfolk and Dullahans on average.

From that basis, that single idea, Niers had spent decades until the Forgotten Wing company was second in how many Selphids it employed in all of Baleros. They won him wars.

Still, he was reminded of another group that had fought for no pay at all. They had gone deep into enemy territory, and their daily allocation was food and each other’s company. You couldn’t have bought that with gold, yet the Fellowship of the Inn had charged into armies where [Veterans] would have balked.

Antinium. Goblins. Oh, and a few others. But what a time.

Niers had entire spreadsheets of classes and soldiers under his command. He sometimes rotated them around so he had an entire unit of soldiers with a specific Skill like [Evasive Dodge], for instance.

But they were statistics to him. He cared, but even the rare classes were only assets.

The Fellowship of the Inn had been—interesting. He remembered their names, like Infinitypear, Gothica, and their classes had just popped up like mushrooms.

Low-level children on a suicide mission. Nothing like it for levelling. Niers wondered how he’d incorporate an Antinium battalion into his forces.

Sappers, probably. I’d have hundreds of tunnels in key areas, and if an enemy army came, they’d just drop into a pit-trap. The Antinium never fight in regular combat, just kill monsters underground and then take out a support beam and clean up.

That was Olesm’s mistake, honestly. Niers had caught up on Hectval, and the young [Strategos] had gone into the grinder against Manus and won. However, he’d treated his Antinium like an exotic set of infantry. True, they’d done amazingly well, but he wasn’t creative enough.

Goblins, now…Goblins surprised you. Niers didn’t have to think how he’d employ them.

He could remember. Goblins would make semi-autonomous warbands who surprised their allies and enemies alike. There was nothing like telling a Goblin Chieftain to ‘go wild’ and give them enough resources. Tulm the Mithril’s head would split open from the chaos they caused, all without you having to do more than ship them healing potions.

“Healing potions. Does anyone have a report on Eir Gel? What the hell happened to Hesheit, and why didn’t Tulm deal with it?”

Niers snapped into a speaking stone as he headed to his next destination. He got the report on the go and grunted.

“Wonderful. I assume we’ve bought up all the Eir Gel we can find? Buy all the potions. I don’t care how expensive it gets.”

Tulm was probably already doing that. Niers sighed.

“We’re in trouble.”

No healing potions meant more casualties. It meant companies were more afraid of losing troops. It also meant he was probably going to come out on top against his enemies.

Selphids, again. Less healing potion per wound and expendable bodies.

“That’s what you get for being a one-species army. Eat Creler eggs, Tulm.”

He smiled about that.

Right up until he met with the Fraerlings representing the cities and settlements who had come here. Emissary Vuul of Reiryul Crystalhome. Paeth on the Coast—well, they’d only left one Fraerling. Sentry Leader Ekrn and Guidance Heish had gone back to their city long ago. And…Torteth of Colors, which had been in the Dyed Lands.

What might be the last Fraerlings of that settlement were waiting for him. Explorer Gindal and the Fraerlings in his company.

All of them greeted the Titan quite civilly. Even the annoying Emissary. Niers had sent refreshments ahead, and they were eating the Tallfolk’s infinite larder. Yet they didn’t seem intent on feasting. In fact, they were refreshingly straightforward.

“Reiryul is considering withdrawing from our alliance with the Forgotten Wing Company. As is Yuite under Waters and Comost Lightdrenched.”

Niers had been expecting it. Even so—that hurt. He took a deep breath.

“Emissary Vuul, that is difficult news. Can I talk you out of it? I understand we have let you down.”

“Fraerlings have been under attack, Lord Astoragon. Cities you swore to protect. Oierdressql is gone. Hundreds of thousands of Fraerlings are dead. Paeth was nearly lost, and another city is being held hostage. They might all be dead—at the very least, they’re captive to the Jungle Tails company. They would not be if your trusted advisor, this Peclir Im, didn’t know where they were.”

Vuul was an obnoxious man that Niers had met before. A puffed up city-Fraerling unlike Tallguard. Yet the horror in his voice, the disbelief?

That was earned. Niers head lowered.

“…Peclir had no idea where they were. I never gave out the locations. I swear to you all. That is no excuse, but I was not so lax. My guess is that he did have access to the shipments we sent. He traced our dropoffs. I am considering every city we have done business with for the last twenty years in danger. Regardless of any decision—my forces will intercept and destroy any Tallfolk attempting to gain access to your locations.”

The other representatives nodded. Vuul was mildly relieved, but he pointed at Paeth’s single Tallguard representative.

“How do you intend on making amends for Oierdressql and Paeth?”

“I will be heading to Talenqual directly today. My soldiers are already moving to secure the region. If Paeth wishes to relocate—I don’t know how they managed to move their city. But we will ensure they are safe.”

A Fraerling city in the open. The first in an age. Something to excite—if it hadn’t come on calamity’s heels. Yet even Niers felt a chill run down his entire body as one of the representatives of Comost whispered.

“They opened their Last Box. I have heard tales that it is gone. Whatever you hear with your own ears, Lord Astoragon—we would like to know. Even if Comost is…separate from the Forgotten Wing company.”

“I will inform you all of what I learn. However…would you accept two thousand Tallfolk soldiers in the region? One of my Chess Towers with a garrison?”

He needed the Fraerling Cities, but they wanted to withdraw from their arrangement. They supplied magical artifacts beyond the quality of any other civilization—and the precious Signim.

Even a single city could only give away so much, and Niers’ stock was practically emptied. Yet each representative instantly balked at the offer.

“Having Tallfolk near us is what destroyed Oierdressql, Titan. Not your soldiers or any others. If we are still hidden—we will stay that way. We crave protection. Not discovery.”

That was the conundrum of all Fraerlings. They would love a few Tallfolk to punch out jungle cats and destroy Creler nests and other threats. However, the Tallfolk were inherently untrustworthy or just susceptible to spies. Niers posting his forces in number was a beacon.

“We understand the treachery was unavoidable, Lord Astoragon. Yet you must understand—this is for our cities’ good. Unless you have a better compromise, we will regretfully sever ties.”

“Give me a day or two to make a suitable counteroffer.”

Foliana’s traps? Double the resources they were given? Niers didn’t know, but even Vuul agreed to that. As for Gindal…the [Explorer] had been quiet in the opening, but Niers turned and gave him a respectful nod.

“Explorer Gindal. I’m…sorry for your loss.”

“You had nothing to do with the Dyed Lands. Or if you did—I’d be impressed.”

The scarred Fraerling had a sense of humor. Niers smiled himself, but it was pained. Gindal had the crossbow that Ekrn had given him. He played with it, checking the mechanisms as he spoke.

“Our home is gone. Or, if it’s alive, it’s been centuries. Not just Torteth of Colors; three other smaller Fraerling settlements vanished, and one more is on the outskirts of The Dyed Lands. Monsters are rampaging across the region, but I’m told Homnel is safe.”

The other Fraerlings fell silent. Another disaster for their species, yet The Dyed Lands’ sudden advance in time was concerning for the continent, the world. It was among the things Niers had on his list.

And there were so many. The Titan nodded.

“What can I do for you, Gindal? I owe you greatly for protecting my company and stymying the traitors. If you want an escort to try to find Torteth…or adventurers?”

Gindal hesitated. His people looked at him as he put the crossbow down on the meeting table.

“My assumption is Torteth is gone. Or, if they’re there, no one I know is alive. Not unless that time-shift event let—no. Nor will I take my company into a death zone we don’t know without precautions. Escort to Homnel will do. I understand the need for secrecy, but frankly, the monster reports we’ve heard are horrific. How many Tallfolk can you give us?”

“I can have six thousand and two Chess Towers on the move within an hour. If you would like, I will place them at the nearest town or road. A peacekeeping force.”

“That would be welcome. Thank you.”

Niers turned to one of the Fraerlings in his company.

“Maps. Gindal, where should they be headed…? I will inform the commander and their second officer of the situation. No one else will know about the proximity of a Fraerling city.”

Even he didn’t know where Homnel was, but he did after Gindal indicated a location for Niers’ forces to rally. That was the thing—you could guess.

Like Reiryul or Paeth, there were locations away from Tallfolk that had a good proximity to natural resources or safety. That was how Peclir had wormed his way into finding Oierdressql.

Damn him. And damn Niers for not taking more precautions.

His fault. The older the Titan got, no, even after his adventures on Izril, the more he thought—

How much of this was his fault?

Losing his leg in the High Passes was due to overconfidence. Wanting his ‘adventure’. Not meeting Erin Solstice was due to him putting it off, being complacent, distracted by romance.

He could have done so much. The Fraerlings who had died on Baleros were because he had been on Izril.

He hadn’t even managed to make an impact in the final battle with the Gnolls and Drakes because Belavierr had thrown him back home. Just…pulled him off the board.

Humiliating? Yes. Shameful? Absolutely.

But what struck Niers as he moved to his third appointment before he flew to Paeth was that he was remembered for his deeds.

Named Adventurer who conquered the Labyrinth of Souls. Founder of the Forgotten Wing Company. The [Strategist] who had pushed the King of Destruction back. 

And so on. Yet Niers…

His career was also founded upon his mistakes. He could never escape them.

Once, the Forgotten Wing Company had been known as the company that fielded the most Selphids outside of the Selphid-dedicated company. Even more than The Bodies of Fellden, by virtue of their sheer size.

Yet that wasn’t what had outraged the world. It was also the fact that the Forgotten Wing Company had been the second-largest employer of that hated species. Had forged contracts and risen to Great Company by virtue, in part, with their alliance with that Goblin Lord.

Velan the Kind.

Once, they had Goblins.

 

——

 

Chieftain Shaik of the Ghostly Hand tribe wasn’t that mad about being teleported a continent away.

That was Goblins for you. She landed on her feet. She wasn’t even that mad about being transported into a battleground; her mushroom-laced arrows had destroyed every Lizardfolk clump around her troops and turned the battle into a rout.

She was grinning as her Goblins feasted on the generous provisions Niers kept sending to them. They were camped far from Elvallian; far enough that Niers needed to ride for nearly an hour to meet them.

So if we attack, they can vanish. Nevertheless, Niers had brought only a small bodyguard as a show of good faith, and he wanted this to go well.

“Chieftain Shaik, my Skill to send you back hasn’t recharged, and frankly—I don’t know when it will. I’d also like Perorn to stay in Izril, but I want to hear you out first.”

The Chieftain was sitting, petting her Shield Spiders, which crawled around her. Gross. However, she just shrugged as Niers sat on a pedestal at head-height.

“No. We don’t need to go back. Lomost left their homes. Drakes are stupid-mad. Home was gone already. Here? Baleros is…wet. Lots of bugs. Different trees.”

She poked at the soil and opened her mouth, as if tasting the humid climate. The Goblin Chieftain pointed at some concerned Goblins digging up soil and…eating it? They spat it back out and grumbled as they carried little pots around.

“[Growers] not sure if mushrooms grow bad here or super-good. We find out.”

“Can I purchase some mushrooms? And perhaps instructions on how to grow them?”

Niers really, really wanted them. Shaik opened her mouth and laughed.

“Can try. Mushrooms very hard. Even other Goblins cannot. Maybe you can? Sure, sure. How about one hundred thousand gold pieces per mushroom.”

“Do you want that in gold pieces or in other forms?”

She stopped laughing and gazed at Niers’ deadpan expression. Then Shaik offered him a wry smile.

“Scary small man of Baleros. I know you. Goblins know you. The smart Chieftains.”

“I’m honored. In truth, Chieftain Shaik, I didn’t come here just to assure you that we want a peaceful relationship or to purchase mushrooms. I realize you’re far from home. I’m…interested in offering you a mercenary contract with my company. Not all your Goblins, but your warriors and tribe in general. We’ll give you security, payment, and we have land you can settle in. What do you think?”

Goblins liked straightforward offers, not dancing. Shaik blinked at Niers, and her eyes opened wide. One of Niers’ escorts murmured.

“Lord Astoragon…”

He held up a hand. If Perorn were here, she would have already been trying to kick him. But she wasn’t, and Foliana hadn’t objected.

Niers played chess every day. One game in the mornings. Erin Solstice didn’t always write more than a ‘hi’ or ‘good game’, but he’d thought about her question.

What do you think about Goblins?

He knew what he’d thought in the past and how it had gone down. This time…one tribe like Shaik’s was small enough. And she was not Goblin Lord material—yet. If she did become one, that would change things.

But one tribe? Especially one that produced the amazing alchemical regents? Erin hadn’t asked him to help Shaik, if she even knew the tribe was here. 

If she asked him, what would he say?

He was willing to toss down a hundred thousand gold in a heartbeat for the chance to get ethereal arrows for his forces. Erin had an inn. Did she want a new wing? Did she know he’d offer?

Should he? Well, Perorn had definite ideas about pushing his influence.

This, though, wasn’t about Erin. Okay, it wasn’t just about Erin. Shaik mulled the question over seriously, without asking for time. She closed her eyes, hummed under her breath, and then opened them.

“No.”

Niers exhaled.

“May I ask why?”

Shaik gave Niers a brilliantly sharp smile. She patted a spiderling crawling through her hair. Niers eyed it. Was that a different spider than a Shield Spider? Yes, it had long legs—a Spear Spider? The Goblins seemed like they were already trying to domesticate the local breeds. Shaik shrugged as she let the spider crawl onto one hand.

“You too scary. Everyone knows the tiny man is actually a Titan. You say one thing—but if you say the other, who can stop you? Not my tribe.”

“I could give you a magical contract…”

“No. Not just trust, Niers Astoragon.”

Shaik let the spider crawl onto the ground where it began to ‘play’ with the Shield Spiders. She gave Niers a long look.

“You knew Velan.”

His stomach sank. Niers slowly nodded, resting his hands on his knees.

“I did. I allied with him, and I was a good-faith ally until the end.”

“Yes. Then you went to Izril and killed him. Fair. He was Goblin King. Goblin Kings are scary.”

Shaik said that all seriously and looked at Niers. Her crimson eyes were different than any other species except maybe Fierre’s—and only her irises were red—but they were still eyes. The corner of the Goblin Chieftain’s eyes pinched a bit, and Niers saw then how old she was, not just by Goblin standards, but just any standards.

She might be his age. She looked younger, but the Ghostly Hand chieftain—for all she was the daughter of the last one—was old. Old by leading, old in years. Old in the weariness of people who counted death in numbers, not by names.

“I bear you no grudge, scary Titan. But you killed Velan. You saw him die. I want peace for my tribe. You are not peace. You are war. So, no.”

And that wasn’t something Niers could argue with. He slowly nodded.

“…Then we should discuss your exit and where you want to go. I can give you an escort or arrange an opening. Do you have a map of the region?”

Shaik smiled gratefully, and he gave her a map to let her figure things out. She even let him have some mushrooms in exchange for an army’s worth of supplies, which was putting it very cheaply in his eyes.

Good business, something for something, and so on. Yet…Niers wearily sat as he headed back to his academy.

The world still remembered Niers had been allies with Velan. They would never forget his mistakes, and neither would he.

Yet the Goblins remembered it too. They were afraid of him? The Titan put his head back as he stared up at the sky.

He had a feeling about the Antinium. He wanted to talk to Erin Solstice about it—she assured him they were people. She saw the same things in Goblins he had, and he wanted to talk to her. But perhaps he was wrong about Antinium. Wrong about her. A fool never learned from his mistakes, and all the mistakes he’d made about trusting people, Peclir, Velan, the rest?

I’m fine, Foliana. He really was. It was just busy. Just owning up to his mistakes. The Forgotten Wing Company would have less Fraerling allies, and the Fraer-ways had never been filled with his people as he imagined. He had forces on Izril, and wasn’t that a big step?

But just once…Niers’ lips moved as he spoke, with no one there to hear him.

“Just once. I’d like to bet on the right thing.”

 

——

 

Numbtongue had a huge problem. It was really eating him up. And that was—why wasn’t he levelling up more?

He was a Level 36 [Goblin Soulbard]. That’s right. He had leveled from his adventure to save Mrsha.

…Once.

It was a huge problem for the Hobgoblin, and he felt like it deserved some attention from his brain. Everyone else had leveled, and yes, he was a Level 30+ [Bard], so asking for more levels was a lot, but it was a war. Surely he deserved two, maybe three levels?

But no. One. The Hobgoblin was sitting at his table, strumming the guitar as he relaxed in the pleasant inn.

And that was what it was. Pleasant. Good food, good people…he was happy again. He had feared he might never be happy again when Erin died. Now?

Now, joy was sticking a ‘kick me’ note on Mrsha’s back and waiting for the little Gnoll to freak out. She kept doing it to people after Kevin showed her the trick, but the face of horror and betrayal as Bird lightly tapped her butt with one foot made Numbtongue laugh until he was nearly sick.

She punched his leg until he grabbed her and gave her a world-ending noogie. And Gnolls were all fur, so you could really mess up their hair.

Then he smiled. So yes, the levels were the only problem on his mind.

Unfortunately, he sort of knew what the problem was. Pyrite, Reiss, and even Shorthilt’s ghosts stared at him from the table, and Numbtongue whistled as he ignored the looks.

A [Bard] is not a [Warrior].

The Goblin Lord whispered. Reiss’ half-formed ghost flickered…broken memory. Was it mending? Or was it still torn from whatever had happened to him?

Shorthilt nodded a few times.

“Singing-Goblins should sing. Stupid.”

Pyrite tried to eat Numbtongue’s fork and then grunted.

[Bards] do fight.

Reiss and Shorthilt both turned slightly, and both ghosts gave the big Hob a glare for not backing them up. Pyrite elaborated as he burped.

“…You fight the wrong way.”

Numbtongue sighed. The problem with ghosts was that they told you in no uncertain terms what they thought. You know the conscience in the back of your head? Ghosts were louder, and they also called you names.

“I’m trying. What do I do?”

All three Goblin ghosts spoke at the same time.

Make music.

Perform to others.

Lots of sex.

This time, Pyrite and Reiss turned to Shorthilt. The Hobgoblin [Weapon Expert] put his claws behind his head and grinned.

“What? It work. Little Fraerling said so.”

Niers had, in fact, said just that, but Numbtongue had steadfastly ignored his advice. The Titan of Baleros knew how most classes worked, and he had pointed out to Numbtongue that the Hobgoblin was actually a really bad [Bard].

Not because Numbtongue couldn’t sing or make music. He had, in fact, taught himself to play the guitar to a very high level by himself, which was quite amazing. The problem was that he was, uh…

Audience-shy. Numbtongue was not the exceptionally performative type all the time. He had quite enjoyed the band he’d put together, and he did make music. But he just didn’t do it enough. He was not, like Niers, a huge showoff.

The Titan had countered that by saying that if Numbtongue popped in and out of a hundred beds, he’d probably level up. [Bards] were, apparently, infamous for more than just their entertainment. And just like chess actually leveled up the [Strategist] class…

Well. Well. Numbtongue was just grateful the ghosts were not always physically present. Now that he thought about it…it was going to be really awkward the next time he had some fun.

But it wasn’t something he was going to do to level up! Although…he wondered if that were a good excuse.

Still, the Hobgoblin stubbornly continued playing. He was going to try. If Erin Solstice could try to make food, he, Numbtongue, would try to make music.

So he began to play. Numbtongue had made the Ballad of the Redfangs, although it still needed work. Yet he felt like his first performance would be…themed music.

It would be the song for Erin Solstice or the guests of her inn. The Hob closed his eyes as Erin rattled around in the kitchen and occasionally went ‘oh no!’ or ‘aha!’. Pisces sat at a table, drumming his fingers. He looked—distracted. He’d gone upstairs and come right back down, and he wasn’t playing with Mrsha or studying magic.

Anyways, Numbtongue tuned him out as he searched for the sounds.

He had never taken classic education in anything. So the Hob’s way of thinking about music went like this:

Each song was a theme. Each person was represented by the notes. Music was a language. For instance, high-pitched notes could be airy and light—or annoying—or the screaming climax of a guitar solo. Or they could be eerie. Just like there was nuance in how you said a word, the six strings on a guitar had a wealth of meaning.

So—how would you explain Erin? If you were superficial, Numbtongue thought you’d capture that frantic energy, have some kind of rapid, chaotic, friendly-merry song.

He spat on that idea. Erin could be those things, but the Hob remembered when she had first met them. Shyly, awkwardly, thanking them for fighting for her.

Erin was at her best with a slow tempo. With…his claws drifted lower on the strings, and he began to pluck.

A slow, building melody that sang like magic. Magic and kindness. In the end—Erin’s music was almost sad, but almost…and it should build into a kind of glorious, full sound, adding more refrains.

Yes. That was the story of Erin Solstice. Quiet at first, then building. She was easy, in a sense. You just had to make the most beautiful music you could think of.

That was how the Goblin thought of her. He was too shy to ever say it. But he could play it.

The Gnoll girl leaping around stopped trying to pick a fight with Bird and listened as Numbtongue played. He stopped and started, but there were the beginnings of something in the music already. Mrsha scribbled on some parchment.

“3/10. Good start. Is this the Erin-song?”

Numbtongue read her note and scowled. He nodded and grunted.

“Yeah.”

Mrsha eagerly wrote below it.

Do my song too! I want a big, epic song! With lightning!

She waved her paws, and Numbtongue thought about it. With a smile, he began to play.

Plonk, plink. A silly, stupid-sounding series of notes came out of his guitar, like an aimless butterfly smacking into a glass window repeatedly. The harmonic equivalent of ‘dur-dur-dur’.

Mrsha narrowed her eyes and glared at Numbtongue. She looked around for Lyonette, then wrote a word on the notecard and held it up.

He laughed as she scampered away. Bird happily repeated the word a few times until Lyonette came to tell him not to say that—then chased after Mrsha.

Well, that was just to be mean. If Numbtongue thought about Mrsha’s music…

Yes. It started light. Airy, carefree. Innocent, that was a better word for it. Yet—as you felt like this was such a beautiful, happy song…it turned dark.

The notes slowed down and crept lower. Like shadows. Like…growing older. Monsters in the distance. A dark moment—

And you were right back to the happy part. No, the happy part was now tinged by melancholy. But perhaps it was lighter because it was earned. Wistful, now.

“…Ow.”

It actually hurt Numbtongue a bit. Yet he had the concept in mind, and it suited Mrsha. A happy, brave, annoying little sister. Despite all that had gone past.

He decided he’d work on both songs and add them to his playing arsenal. Maybe demo them with the evening crowd.

Not once did Numbtongue have any lyrics to add. He felt that was too unsubtle. You didn’t tell people ‘Mrsha’s had a sad life but she’s survived it all, and that’s amazing for someone so young’. You implied it. You showed them without saying it. And if they didn’t get it, well.

“Hey Numbtongue, is that you making that music? It sounded pretty neat! I really like the cute music.”

Erin Solstice poked her head out of the kitchen with a big smile. She had some hot Spider Succulents still hot from the oven.

“Wanna try a Spider Donut? No spiders inside.”

Numbtongue warily picked one up and took a bite. It was sweet, fried dough with an inner filing and some salty jerky for the legs. Not bad! He licked his fingers and gave Erin a thumbs-up.

“Tasty.”

“Alright! Hey—Pisces, you try some.”

Erin was looking around for victims, and Numbtongue saw Pisces blink.

“I…ah, thank you.”

“Not going out to negotiate for your items yet, Pisces?”

“No, not quite, Erin. I—”

Pisces fell silent for a moment, and Numbtongue saw him take a bite of the Spider Succulents. The Hob blinked. Erin waited, but Pisces just smiled weakly.

“This is quite tasty.”

“Right? And Lyonette says ‘you can’t sell spiders’! Shows what she knows. Say, Pisces, I wanted to ask you something. Did you like the chests of weapons and stuff that Fetohep sent you? I never got to ask if they helped or something.”

The eavesdropping [Bard]—a very class-y thing to do—blinked in astonishment. The chests of what now?

Pisces reacted almost as dramatically. He coughed until Erin gave him a mug of water.

The—? You really did send them? I wondered why they appeared out of thin air. The cost to teleport them! They were Chests of Holding, no less!”

“Yep. Well, y’know, I asked Fetohep, and he’s super-rich. I think he put…watermelons in them?”

“Among other things. It was a boon. You…you did that? But you were—dead.”

Pisces looked at Erin, disbelieving. She smiled a bit sadly.

“Well, you know how it is. Fetohep’s technically dead—I was able to get a message through. Did it help?”

Then the [Necromancer]’s face changed. Numbtongue, chewing on some of the jerky, saw Pisces hunch. Not withdrawing or getting angry like he sometimes did. More…wearily.

Numbtongue recognized that look. The [Bard]’s ears perked up as Pisces searched for words, then raised his head.

“More than you could know. Thank you.”

Erin’s smile was gentle and, Numbtongue thought, careful.

“I’m so glad.”

She waited a beat—but Pisces said nothing more. He struggled to, and Numbtongue saw Erin waiting—then there was a crash.

Mrsha! The pan—

“Oh no. My treats! Pisces, one second.”

Mrsha raced out of the kitchen as the rest of the Spider Succulents fell onto the floor. Pisces sagged back, and Numbtongue saw his look of frustration.

Interesting. Well, more than that. Concerning. Erin raced past Numbtongue, but she gave him a look as he glanced at her.

He wasn’t sure if it meant stay out of it or not. But it was something. So—the Hob stared at Pisces and began to pick up on the clues.

Oh.

Hrm.

Something was different about him. It was the way the [Necromancer] just sat at the table without really staring at anything. Not really tasting his food. Looking at the kitchen and hesitating.

Pisces Jealnet.

Numbtongue really didn’t know him that well. They’d talked. Pisces had a sharp tongue, which made Numbtongue chortle, but he was sort of ‘one of the adventurers’. Numbtongue thought he’d talked to Jelaqua more, one-on-one, but the two knew each other, and when Pisces glanced up and saw Numbtongue looking his way, he gave him a smile.

“Ah, very good food, isn’t it?”

“Mhm.”

Numbtongue nodded. And that was about it. It was, uh, hard to strike up a conversation. Maybe that was why Numbtongue was having trouble with his class.

To break the silence, Numbtongue decided he should come up with some more music. He had Erin down—and Mrsha—he just had to refine the theme into music. Coming up with the basic flow of the song was harder for him.

Lyonette was another matter…Numbtongue wasn’t really in the mood to study classical Terandrian waltzes and incorporate those into some kind of song. Because, obviously, that was how you wrote her.

Bird? Numbtongue had no idea how to do his song justice. Bird’s theme song was Bird singing his own songs.

But Pisces…now, here was a challenge. Numbtongue’s brow furrowed. He knew Pisces’ history. Which was somewhat sad. A [Necromancer] expelled from Wistram, bad stuff before that being persecuted, coming to the inn, being heroic…but he was also the sniffing sasser.

A brilliant duelist. A gifted spellcaster. Arrogance and talent and a genuinely good person at times. Someone who’d helped down an Adult Creler.

And now…a shadow over him.

How did that translate into music? Numbtongue gave it a shot.

 

——

 

Three hours later, Numbtongue put down his third cup of goat’s milk and sighed. By now, a small audience had gathered, and they were listening while snacking.

But the Goblin wasn’t happy.

First, he’d gone for a kind of operadic rock, the kind of electric music that Kevin claimed was a genre in his world. But it was too…action-packed. It fit more to Yvlon. Actually, for her, Numbtongue thought heavy metal might do. Refined, noble music that transitioned into a berserk solo with incoherent screaming.

But not Pisces. Numbtongue had done some heroic music next, the kind of inspiring journey of the true underdog reaching the top. Yet it didn’t—fit.

Pisces wasn’t a [Hero]. He was an adventurer. He had great moments, but was he just…heroic?

Numbtongue didn’t think so, and that was no knock on Pisces! Few people blazed with pure, exemplary heroic conduct every second.

Ylawes Byres or maybe, uh…Ylawes Byres might fit that. And if Numbtongue did his song, there would be a lot of sarcastic overtones.

No—you know what? Someone who deserved that heroism, the emotion, the despair, and the glory in all its full rawness was Headscratcher. Or Zel Shivertail. Sadness and glory without any prevarication, because that was just how they lived and died.

Perhaps that Drake as well. Sserys of Liscor.

Not Pisces. So…what was left?

Next came sadness. The bitterness. The despair. The…shining soul poking through all the shit the world hurled at him?

It didn’t fit. Pisces wasn’t that gloomy. It sort of worked—Numbtongue felt like there should be at least melancholy if not sadness there, but Pisces was both successful, triumphant, and in pain.

Pain…how about something grand. Grand and dark, like…

“[Echoing Strings]. [Counter Melody].”

Now this was opera. Dark opera, the grim soundtrack of a figure standing alone in a graveyard under a moonlit night. The music to fit a villainous hero’s smile. A figure dressed all in black standing against the shrouded abyss as the mists revealed a gargantuan horror creeping below. Numbtongue’s [Counter Melody] Skill let him play two melodies at once—but he had to know what the first one sounded like.

A dueling echo of wailing strings and a sharp refrain screaming torment into the night. Yes…was the air darkening in the room? Did you smell blood and thunder on the horizon?

Did you see a grinning Goblin [Goth] and a Vampire vibing out in the background? Numbtongue glanced up at Gothica and Fierre.

“…Nah.”

Okay, maybe he’d gone too far here. His music had gone way too far into, well, goth. And it was attracting the posers. Gothica and Fierre looked incredibly disappointed as Numbtongue filed that song away into the ‘not playing this sober’ category.

Somewhere between that and the heroism. A kind of…thoughtful edginess. Yes, wasn’t that Pisces? A bit embarrassing. But that was also Pisces—Numbtongue had seen Erin calling him out. It all fit.

…So why did he think that was wrong? It was like Numbtongue was doing everything right, but doing it wrong.

As if I’m playing the Erin that people talk about, not the Erin who’s actually there. And when he realized that, the Hobgoblin decided he should talk to Pisces. If only because the [Necromancer] had been sitting for three hours without doing much of anything. Not really hearing Numbtongue and watching Erin.

“Hey.”

Pisces jumped as Numbtongue walked over and sat down. The [Necromancer] stared at Numbtongue.

“Er…good morning to you, Numbtongue.”

“Thanks. Mind if I sit?”

“Not at all. If you want to—”

Pisces looked around, thinking, perhaps, that Numbtongue was moving, but then he realized the Hobgoblin was there for him. He blinked at Numbtongue.

“Not…at all. I assume you have finished your musical soliloquies? They were quite profound, to judge by the audience.”

Ah, now there was the language Numbtongue liked. The Hobgoblin grinned. Pisces spoke like some of the books the Hob had stolen as a child. All big words.

“Nah, my music isn’t good enough yet.”

“I see. I see. Well, as first attempts go, they were pleasant to the ear. I imagine it must be enjoyable to be a [Bard] and compose your art all day.”

“Hmm. Maybe. It’s not art.”

“Ah—well then. To each their own definition.”

The conversation was a bit like yanking teeth. Pisces was clearly distracted and making light chatter, and Numbtongue didn’t know him.

Do I make fun of him sniffing or ask him if his robes are clean? Erin’s rapport with Pisces was a bit…straightforwards. Pisces seemed uncomfortable and was clearly already looking for a moment to bail.

“Not that I am an expert in musical culture. Cosmopolitan I and Ceria are not, despite hailing from three continents now. Quite embarrassing, actually.”

“Mhm. But you two are adventurers. You don’t ingratiate yourself into bourgeois societies and experience, um…contemporary hospitalities of the nations you visit. No, wait. Nations you second yourself to.”

Pisces was nodding absently in the way of someone trying to get out of the conversation. Then his brow furrowed, and he blinked.

“We—don’t. That is to say, I habitually attempt to enjoy the modern leisures of the populace, but it occurs to me that I—and the Horns of Hammerad at large—do not always use the thoroughfares that would put us into proximity with the latest trends. The Players of Celum rather came to us, being the broadest outlier to that example.”

He chose his words carefully and, Numbtongue thought, rather deliberately. The Hobgoblin took a long sip from his cup.

“An astute observation. But the Players of Celum’s vivid arrival in the cultural zeitgeist is an event I would expect the Horns of Hammerad to bear witness to. Given the juxtaposition of new forms of entertainment with the more express development of ideas on natural frontiers of nations, both conceptually and literally.”

The two stared at each other as Pisces’ eyes narrowed, and his lips moved faintly, trying to keep up. Numbtongue wasn’t even sure if what he’d said made sense, but he delivered it smoothly.

Mrsha poked her head up from over the table, dazed. Her head swung back to Pisces as he slowly inhaled through his nose.

“That is—a fundamental conceit of most nations, and a systematic flaw in the development of the ethos, perhaps, of the complacent citizenry or governance that tolerates such approaches to new—I should say—innovative refinements in any particular field. I quite concur with the phenomenon, not with the tolerance of this method of advancing our culture as a totality.”

Mrsha’s head spun, and she let go of the table and fell onto her back. Mrsha the Wordy couldn’t even get a word in edgewise. She was outmatched!

Numbtongue met Pisces’ challenging stare and sucked on his teeth for a second.

“I vouchsafe your thesis as profoundly correct.”

The [Necromancer] and [Bard] stared at each other for a second—and then both of them burst out laughing, and Pisces shook Numbtongue’s hand. Passing by, Ishkr rubbed at his ears as the two congratulated each other on their outstanding verbiage.

It just sounded like verbal diarrhea to him.

 

——

 

“I forgot you were a [Bard]. You truly did learn the entire lexicon of the common tongue, didn’t you?”

Pisces looked more energized in that moment than he had in two weeks. Numbtongue modestly shrugged.

“I lived in sewers. I stole books. There was a store…I took a dictionary.”

“Oh, that would explain much. Yet you speak so…well, fluently.

“Lots of practice. I wanted to be friends with the Humans.”

“Ah. And how did that turn out?”

The [Necromancer] froze slightly, and Numbtongue smiled bitterly.

“They went into the sewers and tried to kill all of us.”

Pisces looked at Numbtongue, and the [Bard] lifted a drink.

“Goblin classic.”

He had told that story to other people, but never so…casually. It was a terrible story, but Pisces simply inhaled, realized Numbtongue did not want his deepest sympathies, and nodded.

“I had a similar tale about growing up as a [Necromancer]…I don’t know if I’ve ever told it to you in mixed company?”

“I’ve heard it.”

“Oh, I see. Then my condolences. I, er, have no one to blame but my own desire to sound quite academic and mage-like as a young man. You know, it does work at times.”

“Really? People think you know lots of magic?”

Pisces plucked at his white robes.

“The correct attire, the right attitude…it worked about forty percent of the time. I would walk into a Merchant’s Guild in a small town and pretend to be waiting for my important delivery. Or be representing another [Mage]. I didn’t have my seal on me or ‘how dare you ask me for proof’? I collected the item—then left town in a hurry.”

“Ooh. Nice trick. What happens if you were caught?”

“[Flash Step]. Illusory spells. Then I turn myself invisible. Most towns or villages have no one capable of seeing through the spell. Nor are they wise enough to figure out how to locate me.”

“I thought Erin hit you with a frying pan?”

Pisces sniffed.

“…I didn’t think she would actually throw it at me. I was a giant, pustulous monster.”

“That’s Erin for you.”

They were having a convivial chat. Although…Numbtongue still had no more insight into how to ‘play’ Pisces’ song. He knew now that it was probably not gothic rock, nor the pure heroic music for sure. Pisces was too…

Unique for that. If anything, he seemed as uncertain as Numbtongue as to who he was. The odd [Necromancer] in a Gold-rank team. The Hobgoblin found himself smiling naturally and almost forgot his song and Pisces’ woes for a second.

Right up until a ghostly claw poked him in the side, of course. He didn’t really feel it, but Reiss whispered in his ear.

“Let me talk to him. He’s a [Necromancer]. So was I.”

Pyrite poked Numbtongue from the other side.

“I want to eat a Spider Succulent.”

Shorthilt poked Numbtongue’s sword.

“I want to cut something.”

 

——

 

It eternally amazed Pisces, even though he should surely expect it. Even so—it was the quality of Erin’s inn that he just made…well, if not friends, then likable acquaintances so easily.

The first had, of course, been Ksmvr. But Olesm and now Numbtongue were just fun to be around.

Not even them. Pisces suspected he and Halrac would only have exchanged words in a fight to the death or at the tip of an arrow before coming to The Wandering Inn.

“Finding someone else as erudite a conversationalist is a pleasure.

“F-forsooth.”

Mrsha held up a notecard hesitantly. Numbtongue and Pisces looked at her as she tried to qualify for the conversation.

She fled their amused smiles more than the scorn and arrows of any words. Pisces chuckled, and Numbtongue grinned.

Then Erin emerged from the kitchen, and Pisces’ stomach clenched.

She was out again. He’d missed the last—eight times? Enough.

Say it. Just get up and say—

Erin was sniffing the air, and Pisces thought she was mocking him, but she wheeled around randomly. He clenched his jaw, forgetting the moment.

He had to. He’d feel better. He hoped he would. At the very least—

He hadn’t even told the other Horns. He’d tell them after Erin.

Say it. Sayitsayitsayitsayitsayitsayitsayit—

His head lowered. Pisces was afraid and ashamed. He couldn’t even have explained it. Just…he didn’t say it.

Pisces had never told anyone he was—sad. Or hurt. Or needed help. He had never expected to say those words. Not since Gewilena and Feren and being a boy.

So they caught, like pebbles of truth trying to roll through miles of gravel, no matter how hard he threw them out of his heart. He wished Erin would pry them out of him.

That would be easier. That was, in part, why he liked her so much. Because she had once looked at him and saw the person he hoped he might be. Or was afraid he could be.

But no, she was just rolling about as the silly [Innkeeper], sniffing the air. Mrsha thought Erin was mocking her…right up until Erin pointed up.

Aha! I see you up there! And I can smell you too, even if no one else can! Come down here, please.”

There was no response. Pisces, however, sat up, and so did Numbtongue. Erin folded her arms.

“I know you’re there. No, uh, free beds? Wait, do you have a room here? I’ll…”

And then Shriekblade appeared. She swung down out of the rafters, and Pisces jerked in his seat. He hadn’t noticed her! One second nothing, then he remembered there was an insane Named Adventurer in the inn.

Not just Saliss. But one who was known for her violence. It was as if he forgot she existed—it had to be a Skill.

Along with the scarred Drake’s presence came a smell. Mrsha clapped two paws over her nose and ran, yelping, and Ishkr gagged. Even Pisces and Numbtongue smelled it. The Hob covered his nose, and Pisces picked up the pungent odors he had sometimes, uh, smelled on himself.

That was, of someone who had been living in their clothes for two weeks. And who stepped in a puddle and thought that was fine. And so was the mold. True, flies began avoiding him, but that was a net benefit, and you got used to—

Erin turned green up close, but she held her ground.

“You stink, Tessa.”

“How do you smell me? No one can smell me. Not even Gnolls.”

Tessa’s smell was not just down to her living in her clothes. She had what looked like food stains on her clothing. She was apparently a messy eater. So imagine a fourteen-day-old meatball that had gelled with some ice cream and…

Erin covered her nose.

“It’s my inn. You can stay here, and really, you need a room, but take a bath. Now.”

“I can jump in a stream.”

Bath. Do we have a batht—”

No.

Ishkr and Lyonette both chorused instantly. Pisces was fairly certain there was a copper bathtub, or some kind of wooden one, but Ishkr was adamant.

“She should go to Liscor’s bathhouse, Miss Erin.”

“Ooh, good point.”

The guests instantly protested, though. A Drake, Menolit, waved an urgent claw.

“No, wait! Go to Pallass’! Theirs are better!”

“Yeah, I want to have a bath today! Pallass is a Walled City! They’re superior!”

“I’ve always said that baths equal Pallass. We just can’t compete. I’ll put it in writing.”

Unfortunately, Erin was in no mood to bully past the door guards in Pallass. She pointed at Tessa.

“Liscor’s got bathhouses. Um…go for it.”

“I’ll just—”

“No! Bathe with soap! Shampoo! Brushes!”

Erin was getting really distressed by the smell. She waved her arms and turned to Lyonette.

“We should have a big bathroom here. At least a shower. Let’s build one—but for now—”

“Okay. I’ll go.”

Tessa was clearly not in the mood to argue. She headed for the door, and Erin narrowed her eyes at the Drake’s back. That was a fast turnaround, and as Pisces could have told you…

“Waitaminute. You’re lying. Do you have a change of clothes?”

Tessa’s shoulders hunched.

“Yes. Somewhere. I’m going to the bathhouses.”

Erin patently didn’t believe her. The [Innkeeper]’s head swung around, but Lyonette put up her hands.

“I have to help finish making food, and you’re busy.”

“Ishk—”

“No.”

The flat refusal made Erin blink. She switched targets and brightened up.

“Numbtongue! You’re looking smelly. Why don’t you walk Tessa to the bathhouse? And Pisces! Do you bathe?”

Both Hob and [Necromancer] were insulted at the insinuation. However—before either could protest, Erin was directing them to the public bathhouse. Tessa glowered as they found themselves standing outside.

“I bathe.”

Numbtongue began counting on his fingers.

“…Eight days ago. At the Wailant farm.”

“Did you shower since then?”

The Hob gave Pisces a blandly insulted look.

“I have a bucket from the well. I dump it over my head after morning workout.”

Pisces sniffed and wished he hadn’t.

“Well, I take care of my personal body odor. There is such a thing as [Cleanse] spells. And odor spells besides.”

“Yeah, cast one on me and we’ll go inside.”

Tessa brightened up. Pisces was about to agree when Numbtongue frowned.

“Wait. When did you last shower or bathe, then?”

The [Necromancer] had to think about it.

“Well…given my usual routine…I don’t think I’ve ever been in Liscor’s bath house per se. I had what was known as a steam bath in Chandrar. About two months ago. Before that…one supposes I used the stream from time to time before mastering [Cleanse]. But I don’t think I bathed—no. Not in that city. Nor—hm. W-Wistram was seven years ago, but I’m sure between then and now—”

Tessa was giving Pisces an approving nod past Numbtongue’s look of horror.

“You only bathe when you’re covered in blood. Or you roll around in dirt until it’s mostly gone. Everything dries off.”

Even the Redfangs of the High Passes had standards. In fact, an Antinium Worker with silver antennae coming up the hill walked wide of the three, and Silveran’s look of horror made Pisces reconsider.

“…Perhaps a bath would not kill us.”

 

——

 

It was hard to say who horrified the bathing attendants most. Pisces was a Human and a [Necromancer], but they didn’t have to know that.

However, Tessa’s smell was beaten by her telling them Pisces hadn’t bathed in seven years—an exaggeration.

And Numbtongue was a Goblin.

All three had somehow forgotten that. The guards hadn’t stopped Numbtongue as he went into Liscor. They’d been more staring at Tessa and pinching their noses.

Yet…this was the first time a Hob had been to a bathhouse. Would they turn him away?

The attendants thought about it. Numbtongue had the cheerful face of a Hob who was prepared to be turned away. And just as prepared to call an [Innkeeper] to make the bath house explode if he didn’t get his soap.

“We have a private bathing area. Miss, um, Tessa?”

“Mm.”

Tessa’s glare made the Drake attendant squeak.

Adventurer Tessa! One room for you, and another two for these fine gentlemen…this way! And please, we’ll take your clothing and have it washed by the time you’re done. Please put it in, um. This basket.”

They had male and female public bathing areas, but it was clear that Numbtongue and Tessa would cause too much of a stir. The Hob seemed content with this, and he spent much of the time admiring the tiled bathroom and putting his toe in the hot water.

Bathhouses were an interesting concept to Pisces. They were all under one large roof, but the ‘private’ rooms and public areas were separated by walls that didn’t stretch up to the ceiling. So you could hear other bathers.

Still, this was quite private with the curtain, and there was a hot pool and a cold one you could jump in. You washed yourself before entering the cleaner water, but given the public nature of the bath house, Pisces spotted tools to regularly clean the pools of fur, scales, or dirt.

“…Some minor runes to keep this pool hot. I assume this one’s trying to cleanse the water, hence their assurances it is all ‘magically clean’. It is about as effective as a cup of water in an inferno.”

The [Necromancer] was still enjoying this moment with Numbtongue enough to chat as if he were with the Horns. And in fact—he slapped his forehead as he began to wash himself.

The House of Byres! I did enter a hot bath just this year!”

“One. Still dirty. Why’s the cleaning rune not working?”

Numbtongue had decided he might enjoy this experience. There was also a lot of shampoo and soaps, and he poured them all into one bowl. Then he shucked his clothes off.

Pisces got a really good, slightly unwanted look at Numbtongue before he whirled away. The Goblin had no sense of public or private! Then again—there were stories of naked Hobgoblins who had crept around The Wandering Inn when they first arrived.

And yes. Everyone was curious. It turned out that Hobs looked mostly like Humans. Pisces turned back to the curtain and saw it move slightly as someone hurried off.

Numbtongue was completely unconcerned. He dumped the soap over himself, chortling as it became a huge pile of colored foam, and then took a taste of the shampoo before spitting it out. As bathers went—Pisces still suspected they beat the average child.

He found a towel for modesty before he removed his robes and put them in a bucket. You lowered it on a rope, and it went down…hopefully to reappear later.

Brisky, Pisces used some warm water to remove only a slight layer of dirt. He spoke absent-mindedly.

“You see, a cleansing spell is hard to scale up. Like, ah, purifying salt water. Or else countries would never want for water, even in Chandrar. That rune could purify a cup of water very well. It would be about forty minutes for an average cup.”

“Ah. Dirty water? Don’t drink.”

Numbtongue was already relaxed, fully naked, legs spread, in the most aggressive pose that Pisces had seen in a hot bath. The [Necromancer] almost wished they’d gone to the public bathhouse.

Numbtongue had the same energy as an old man, regardless of species, who would lean on you—naked—while having a casual chat.

Pisces entered the water with the towel around his waist, and the instant he was in, he saw why people bathed.

“Oh. This is quite salubrious.”

Numbtongue was up to his ears in the water, but he raised his head long enough to grin, pleased. The hot water was wonderful on the skin.

“You really do talk like that all the time?”

“It’s a habit, I’m afraid. I could see this being quite the hobby. A private bathing space is very nice. Perhaps I will go here with Ksmvr—he lacks for such experiences. And it is quite pleasant to be isolated.”

“Mhm.”

Numbtongue gave Pisces an odd look and a frown, but the [Necromancer] was relaxing already. He eyed the wall connecting his room to Tessa’s.

“One fears for the bath Miss Tessa got into though, eh? The cleaning bill will—gah!

He ducked as one of the baskets filled with shampoos came flying over the wall. Numbtongue lazily blocked a block of soap, took a bite, and spat it out.

“I don’t see what the point is. Tastes terrible.”

He seemed to be addressing the blank air to his left. Didn’t Pisces recall something interesting with his class…? The [Necromancer] lowered his voice as Tessa could clearly hear him.

Despite his reservations, he had to admit, the second Named-rank adventurer he’d been in close proximity with for any time fascinated him. Saliss was an [Alchemist], so aside from his dodging abilities and amazing ability to create, it was hard to see what separated someone of his level from the ordinary.

Yet Tessa could hide her smell from a Gnoll, and she clearly had the ability to hear as well as one too. Pisces decided this bath would be a nice time to talk with Numbtongue and forget about talking to Erin. Later.

He had almost forgotten about that and was about to inquire of Numbtongue who he kept talking to when the Hob nodded at Pisces.

“Where did you get that? Looks like a brand.”

For a second, Pisces didn’t know what he was talking about. Then he glanced down and saw the outline of—a name. Raised flesh. A scar, a brand from hot iron.

IGHERIZ.

The [Necromancer] froze up and then—

 

——

 

Numbtongue caught him as Pisces was halfway out the curtains. Pisces had stopped, because he realized his robes were gone and he’d have to walk back with a towel over his chest and pelvis.

Yet it was not wanting to show anyone that word that halted him, more than immodesty. Pisces was about to cast [Invisibility], but Numbtongue stopped Pisces.

“Wait.”

Pisces’ breath was ragged, and he was panting. He was flushed—but not with the heat of the bath. Hot and cold. His heart was racing a mile a minute.

“Don’t tell anyone you saw—that’s—”

He had forgotten all about it. Of course—he didn’t look at himself in the mirror because of that. Same with bathing. Now, it felt like it was alive with pain again. He could remember that [Slaver]’s face.

Until it was eclipsed by Numbtongue grabbing Pisces and using his one arm to hurl Pisces into the cold bath.

The cold shock of the allegedly therapeutic hot-to-cold transition woke Pisces up. He flailed about, and Numbtongue offered him a hand.

What are you—

“Bath’s not done. Come on.”

Pisces hesitated, but Numbtongue offered the hot pool, and the [Necromancer] covered his chest with one arm.

“I believe I’m done. This is—private. Please understand.”

He was still breathing hard. Numbtongue nodded.

“I won’t tell anyone. I know scars. You going to get rid of it? Cover it? Ask Ulvama.”

Pisces stopped with one hand on the curtain, the [Invisibility] spell on his lips. He turned around.

“—What does that mean?”

The [Bard] waved him back towards the water. Now he looked at Pisces like—

Too knowingly. Pisces wanted to kick Numbtongue into the water, and he had a feeling about how well that would go. Yet his ire evaporated a bit when Numbtongue spoke again.

“Redfangs have that. Sometimes. We use paint or bigger scars. Or you take this scar and make it like claw marks. With a knife. Lots of fun.”

“Fun…?”

Numbtongue saw the [Necromancer]’s uncomprehending look. He pointed to his bicep.

“Right here. Big scar. Or brand on back, shoulder? ‘Damn Goblin’, or something? Or just other scars? Covers it up. Changes it. Ulvama is a [Shaman]. She can make them go poof.”

He waggled his fingers. Pisces looked at him, and the words registered.

“Goblins have scars like that?”

He found himself sitting with his legs in the water as Numbtongue explained. Of course Goblins had that. Not every Goblin died in an encounter with adventurers. Sometimes they were captured. Sometimes they lived. Adventurers could be creative. Or whomever else captured a Goblin.

“I had no idea. Did you…?”

“Nope. Just scars. Like this, see? Evil skeleton.”

Pisces bit his tongue as Numbtongue showed him a scar on his ribs. The [Necromancer] saw Numbtongue wave a claw at him.

“I won’t say anything. Go poke Ulvama if you want. Otherwise, I forget.”

He didn’t ask what happened. In that sense—perhaps the Goblin could guess. He was certainly trying to be considerate. Pisces hesitated. Then the words came out, faster and faster after the first one. And the relief he felt—

“I was captured as a [Slave] by Roshal’s caravans. That’s how I got the scar. The Stitch-man who gave it to me is dead.”

It was said and done. Pisces closed his eyes and felt like he released a breath he’d been holding since reaching safety. He opened his eyes just as fast and saw Numbtongue look up at him.

He wasn’t Erin. He wasn’t the one Pisces had wanted to confess to. But he was someone…and Pisces felt a sudden moment of terror. Right up until Numbtongue raised a fist.

Water dripped off his green skin and his own scars as his fingernails, neatly-filed for playing his guitar, clenched together. One thumb rose straight up.

“Good.”

That was all he said for a moment. He waggled his fist at Pisces, and the [Necromancer] blinked, then gingerly touched a fist to Numbtongue’s. The [Bard] lowered his hand and nodded.

“Would have had to get on a boat to kill him, otherwise. Long trip.”

He leaned back in the waters, and Pisces sat there. They were almost casual words. Almost—until you remembered Numbtongue was a Goblin and meant them. The [Bard] looked at Pisces, then nodded to the opposite side.

This time, Pisces got back in the hot water. He hesitated, then uncrossed his arm. His skin felt like it burned, but Numbtongue only glanced at it once.

“What happened?”

And just like that, the story came out of Pisces. Not smoothly—he had never told it, and he started with Igheriz dying and the Death of Chains before realizing where he was and trying to start at the Village of the Dead raid.

He had to abbreviate too, because the bath house was noisy and attendants checked in to deliver the robes and ask if they needed anything. But Numbtongue listened, and he understood.

[Slave], Igheriz, Cawe and Bearig, Eloque, a monster named Riqre, Azam, and then freedom at great cost. 

The branding was almost skipped because of the rest. Those three weeks had defined Pisces’ journey in Chandrar more than any other part.

The [Bard] did not say much. He listened. And he was good at that. When Pisces was done and the silence was stretching out—Numbtongue nodded at Pisces’ chest.

“Scar from Igheriz? You should make it a bird. Two wings. Would look good.”

That was his comment? Pisces started—then saw Numbtongue’s serious gaze.

“You think so?”

“Redfangs wear our brothers and sisters. Our paint is them. If you want—never forget. Just a thought.”

“Thank you. I’ll consider it.”

It was such a Goblin-comment that Pisces didn’t have a follow-up. Nor did Numbtongue, it seemed. He put his head back, stared up, then looked back at Pisces.

“Did you tell Erin yet? Your team?”

“No. Not yet. I…haven’t been able to find the moment.”

“Hm.”

Numbtongue stared at his hand. He looked guilty, but the effect of skin pruning in water had distracted him since it was the first time he’d been in water so long. He tried to rub the wrinkles out on his arm, looking concerned, and Pisces almost smiled.

“…Want me to talk to Erin when we get back?”

Pisces started.

“Talk to—”

“For a big chat. It’s easy. I’ll pull her away from silly cooking or anything. She should listen.”

Numbtongue looked serious. Pisces bit his tongue.

“I—I would actually appreciate that, Numbtongue. Truly. Perhaps tonight?”

“Yes. Good.”

It was like pushing on a [Forcewall] and finding no resistance. So he’d get a chance to talk to Erin, barring any disaster? It was a relief—and it made him more nervous.

But he was grateful, truly. It was just that Numbtongue was sitting in the water. He glanced right and left. The bath was still no less hot, but Numbtongue seemed less pleased now. He glared at what looked like three spots then—abruptly—punched the water.

“Useless! I don’t know what to say, you say something!”

He pointed at an invisible presence, and Pisces stared at him. The Hob turned guiltily to Pisces.

“Sorry. I…”

He struggled for words. Then the [Soulbard] shook his head. He looked at Pisces helplessly.

“Bad things happened. It’s good the [Slavers] are dead. Your friend was brave. Erin…Erin would know what to say. You should talk to her.”

He looked extremely guilty, because he didn’t know what he was supposed to say. And again, Pisces felt almost a moment of…relief.

Because he wasn’t the only one having a hard time. No, he didn’t want Numbtongue to suffer.

But it meant the Hobgoblin cared enough to feel guilty.

“It was a—trial. An ordeal, Numbtongue. I do not think I can put it into proper words. Thank you for your consideration.”

Pisces tried to assure him he understood. Numbtongue settled back.

“I’m supposed to be a [Bard]. I wish I had words to say something. ‘Is bad’ sounds stupid.”

“You have helped immensely. I was unable to say—if I talk to Erin, it will be a load off my mind.”

Numbtongue pointed a finger at Pisces.

“I’ll get her. Promise. Mrsha or Bird or even that stupid Fraerling won’t stop you. Or the rainy [Lord]. I’ll toss the chess board down the outhouse.”

Pisces laughed at that.

“You don’t need to go that far. I’m sure she can…help. I hope she can. Not that I expect anyone to—I will see what she says. I’m just a bit affected by it all. As you see. Some scars don’t change. I won’t ask anyone to heal that.”

He indicated the brand sardonically, but that was a lie. He hoped. However, as Numbtongue wrestled with a reply, someone spoke up from next to the two in the hot tub.

“Try the Faerie Flower tonic. You’ll forget your pains. I do. That’s why I’ll stay here forever.”

And then Tessa was there. Numbtongue kicked at her reflexively, and Pisces lifted a finger, but Tessa just pulled the Hobs’ foot up, and he went underwater. When he resurfaced, she was staring at him.

The [Bard] relaxed…and both wondered how long she’d been listening. Long enough to hear everything. Pisces stared at Shriekblade and then away.

She was, like Numbtongue, naked. The Hob glimpsed at the Drake and then stared. Completely unapologetically—she wasn’t being shy either.

“Nice scars.”

“Yeah. Yours reminds me of the Guild. The Assassin’s Guild. Some of the recruits from Chandrar had that. Roshal.”

She pointed one claw at Pisces, and his skin chilled. The bath was no longer quite so inviting.

“I…presume you’ve heard everything?”

He felt angry, but Pisces had a sudden recollection of every conversation he’d eavesdropped upon, and there were hundreds. Tessa shrugged.

“I was bored.”

“Then leave.”

Numbtongue glowered. Tessa blinked at him.

“I thought I had to stay with you. I’ve been waiting for you to get out.”

“Oh.”

Pisces and Numbtongue looked at each other. Tessa went on, unconcerned. She jerked a thumb at Pisces.

“You should get that scar covered up. The Goblin’s right. That’s how [Slavers] track down their quarry. Hints like that. But they probably know your face, anyways. They’ll stay away from you on Izril, probably. Don’t go near ports, I guess. Or get an official release from Roshal.”

“A…release?”

Pisces felt himself baring his teeth in a snarl. Tessa just nodded.

“To say you’re not a [Slave]. They might get rid of the class, too. You don’t want Roshal chasing you.”

“They made me a slave without recourse or reason. I did nothing wrong.”

“Mhm. That’s what they do. If you say it loud, they might do it for free. Or hire an [Assassin].”

He knew she was giving him actual advice, but Pisces clenched one hand in the water. Tessa gazed at him, and then she tugged at his towel.

“Oho.”

Stop that!

The [Necromancer] turned red. Tessa though—grinned. She stretched and smiled.

“I feel great. The Faerie Flower drink works. I haven’t felt this good in ever. Does Liscor have a brothel? I’ll visit it tonight. I haven’t wanted to in years.”

The Human and Goblin exchanged a look as Tessa relaxed.

“Everything is great. You should be lucky, [Necromancer]. Ask for the tonic I have. Or just drink potions to forget then take it. You’ll need more if you become a Named-rank adventurer. You’re halfway there.”

“I…am?”

Shriekblade had closed her eyes and was resting her neck-spines in the water. She spoke to the ceiling.

“Of course you are. They say all Named Adventurers are crazy. Saliss always says that. He’s right. You’ll fit right in. You should be happy you were a [Slave].”

“Happy?”

Pisces’ voice rose, and Shriekblade shrugged, still not opening her eyes.

“Whatever. You got free. If you’re alive, you’ll level faster. That’s why you and the Goblin are lucky. You’re both over Level 30 but below Level 40. You’ll get there soon.”

She opened her eyes and stared at Pisces.

“You’re on the edge, aren’t you? I bet you have more than just [Necromancer] classes. Have they been levelling up?”

“How do you…?”

Pisces had indeed leveled in all his classes, but mostly in [Mage] and…[Slave]. But Tessa just shook her head.

“Once you hit Level 30 in [Mage]—no, wait. Level 29—and if you reach Level 39 in [Necromancer], then you’ll do it. It’ll all become one class. Then you’ll be one of us. But it won’t be lying around here. You’ll kill some great monster and lose your hand. Or watch someone die. And you, the Goblin—you’ll do it too. You just need more of these, see?”

She gestured down, and both Numbtongue and Pisces stared at her chest. Then they realized she didn’t mean breasts, but scars.

“The more you have, the higher you go. It makes you stronger. That’s the secret.”

She stopped talking and sank below the water. No bubbles floated up. She stared up through the water, like a corpse. Pisces saw in her gaze a flicker of the same emptiness in Azam’s eyes. Or Eloque’s.

Numbtongue stared at Tessa then glanced at Pisces. Slowly, he took a bowl of soap and briskly mixed up a lather until it covered Tessa from the surface. He nodded to Pisces as he stood up.

“Let’s go find Erin. Ignore her.”

Their clothes were waiting right outside the curtains. Pisces walked out feeling—if not refreshed, then cleaner. Tessa followed silently, and Pisces looked at Numbtongue with budding friendship. Tessa…the Named-rank Adventurer followed them to the inn and then vanished.

Then Numbtongue went to speak to Erin. He came out of the kitchen with a thumbs-up, and Pisces sighed. Erin rolled out a moment later.

“Hey, Pisces. You got a second?”

The [Necromancer] inhaled, nodded to Numbtongue—and the door burst open. An irate Yvlon stalked into The Wandering Inn.

“Pisces! The negotiations are beginning in less than an hour! We told you to meet at the Adventurer’s Guild at midday, remember?”

The [Necromancer] thunked his head into the table repeatedly as Yvlon hesitated, about to drag him off.

“Er. Pisces?”

Erin Solstice just glanced at her friend and then nodded to Numbtongue.

“I’ll go with you guys. Numbtongue, wanna push me to Invrisil?”

Pisces’ head rose as the [Innkeeper] smiled.

 

——

 

Listen. Say what you wanted about the medium, but it was still an effective torture. If not for the reasons the designer thought…it had an effect.

Hanging there in her chains, bombarded by plays about how horrible she was—it was a super-effective tactic on Ryoka Griffin.

Guilt was her special power, after all. She snapped after a gift was sent into the prison.

Namely, an eight by six portrait by one of Ailendamus’ most gifted artists. A rush job, obviously, but framed in one of those gold-gilded frames that couldn’t make up its mind about what it was supposed to be—the vaguely leaf-like corners twirling together as if it was supposed to replace the art or add to it.

Gaudy, ostentatious, and named The Wind Runner’s Triumph. It had a very flattering Ryoka Griffin, wind blowing behind her, carrying a package in one hand and her Faeblade in the other, posing on a hill, her bare feet covered with blood.

Mostly because the ‘hill’ was made up of bodies of people, their faces twisted in agonized poses. Not only Human; it was a really diverse cast of every species in the world.

In the foreground, you had a line of people being run through with pikes from which hung banners that read, ‘consequences’, ‘self-evaluation’, ‘rampant theft’, and so on.

Ryoka spent about eight minutes with the painting before she finally snapped.

I’m sorry! What do you want me to say? I never wanted to kill her. Blame me for everything—stealing, for using your scroll! But she was going to kill Gilaw and Menorkel. I’m sorry. Please…just let me go or be done with this.”

She shouted in the jail, and no one responded for a good minute. The wind howled outside, but somehow, the Wyrm had managed to ban it from her prison.

In that sense, he was better than Valeterisa, or he knew his enemies. Ryoka actually tried to tear free of the chains, but she only succeeded in wrenching her shoulder.

Enchanted. Obviously. For the first time, she had a real moment of fear about ever being free.

Yes, Visophecin and friendship and blah blah, Faerie King. But…

Rhisveri was the Wyrm of Ailendamus. If he really didn’t want her free or wanted her dead, who could stop him?

Then, once again, the air darkened, and it arose from the floor. A sock puppet…Wyrm. Bits of cloth comprised his neck-fin, and it opened and closed its mouth as if the puppet was being held up by a hand.

“Oh, now she protests? I’m so sorry I killed the last Dryad. Oops. Silly me! That stupid Wyrm should let you go free right now. Let me just get the key. La~la~la~. Where did I put it?”

The high-pitched voice of Rhisveri as he pretended to search for a key caused Ryoka to snap again.

“I told you, it wasn’t…it wasn’t her fault, either. It was whomever was behind her. Kas—”

She hesitated. The puppet turned its blank eyes to her.

Kasigna. So you said. Some random person I have never heard of before, ever, suborned Fithea’s loyalties. Oh, wow, I guess I’ll just send Ailendamus to war against her! And a bunch of dead people.

“You know I’m telling the truth, Rhisveri. The ghosts. You saw them. The Faerie King—”

What I know is that one person held that flaming sword and burned Fithea to death. One person. I’m supposed to just let her walk off. Fithea was a minister of Ailendamus. Let’s assume she was some arrogant noble who challenged a visiting dignitary, insulted their honor, and got herself killed in an honor-duel. There are still consequences.

“I don’t know what to do. I just want to live, Rhisveri.”

The sock-Rhisveri slapped his head into the wall.

Wowie. I never considered that. You wanted to live. And here I thought you just wanted to die. You know who else wanted to live? FITHEA. No, wait. She only outlived her forest and all her people because she didn’t feel like dying for thousands of years. It’s not like she hoped to revive her kind or anything. It’s—oh, look. Here come the tears.

Ryoka was really trying. But they still rolled down her cheeks, hot and wet. Rhisveri’s sock puppet produced a floating handkerchief and blew it.

“Don’t cry! Oh, my poor heart. Tears? Tears solve everything. All is forgiven.”

The Wind Runner choked out the words.

“I’m sorry. I—I know what she meant. Just—”

She didn’t know what to say, but the sock puppet interrupted her suddenly.

Meant? Oh, you think I’m personally, emotionally affected. Nonsense. Don’t be stupid. Fithea was just an irreplaceable asset. This is about accountability. Something the Lucifen, for some reason, can’t grasp. I blame inbreeding with the Agelum.

The tears slowed. Ryoka tried to wipe her face.

“Wh—you’re not serious.”

Me, affected? I mean, Rhisveri? Ridiculous. Fithea was the last Dryad. She was the last of her kind. That means something. In a grand sense—like a work of art, being burned to a crisp by a Wind Runner with a magic sword, who later stole my Scroll of Resurrection. I’m angry about it. Intellectually. But I’m a logical being. Everyone dies.

“A logical being.”

The Rhisveri-puppet nodded up and down.

“Do you think this hurt Ailendamus forever? Fithea, General Dioname—don’t be so conceited. Ailendamus was built to replace them. I could lose eight Legions of the Hydra and we would have more to fill the ranks. No, you don’t get it.”

A pair of spectacles floated down and hovered in front of the sock-Rhisveri’s face. He bent down, came up with a pointer-stick, and tapped a floating blackboard.

“You see, Ryoka, when you murder someone, anyone normal gets ‘angry’. I’m going to write this word here. I want you to memorize it. ‘Morality’.”

He wrote both words on the chalk-board and underlined them. But the young woman was just…gazing at the cloth-Rhisveri.

I’m unhappy because you have threatened a foreign nation. Murdered a high-ranking member and stolen an irreplaceable relic. We call that ‘hostility’. That’s why I’m mad, not because of Fithea’s life. Now—are you listening? Because you have a stupid look on your face, but that’s your default, so I can’t really tell if this is sinking in or not.

Ryoka whispered back.

“You cared for Fithea. Don’t…don’t do that. Not for her. Or Dionamella.”

Sock-Rhisveri retorted.

And if you knew her, you’d know she was called ‘Dioname’. Don’t patronize me. I mean, Rhisveri. He’s a Wyrm. You’re a Human. Keep your worthless perspective out of this. Nothing is worse than your anthropomorphizing of every other species and object to your perspective. Wyrms do not have ‘friends’. They respect people. However, Fithea was old. She was going to die eventually.

The puppet spat out the pointer stick. It ‘looked’ at Ryoka, and a bunch of burning flames appeared.

They looked like…people. One stretched its wings, cawing, and Ryoka recognized Gilaw. Another swished a cape unnecessarily, and she took it to be Visophecin. A swimming group of tiny flames, a hammering figure…

And there, standing next to a singing giant, was a withered tree. Ryoka’s heart clenched, but the puppet-Rhisveri just casually surveyed the lot. There was a glowing green bar hovering next to the flames, some kind of meter. The words ‘Ailendamus’ Strength’ was hovering on top of it.

“These are all assets. Irreplaceable, but not essential. Now, what happened was this: a variable vanished. A number went down.”

The flame flickered out. The glowing bar lowered slightly. The puppet nodded to Ryoka.

“That’s what happened. You affected a nation—so well done, you idiot. But nothing happened to me, personally. Why would it? She’s not part of me. You Humans think you’re connected to each other. In what way? Telepathically? Magically? These are just thoughts in your primitive minds. Dur. Dur. Dur.”

A stick smacked Ryoka on the head a few times as the puppet grabbed its stick and whacked her. Hard. Yet Ryoka’s sudden silence seemed to annoy the puppet more than her tears.

“What? The silent treatment? Okay, let me get my play I’m going to feature in Sophridel’s new theatre. It’s entitled, ‘The Casualties of Ryoka Griffin’, by…”

“Rhisveri. It does matter.”

Shut up. You’re delusional. Wait, what am I saying? You always were—

“It matters.”

Not to me. You’re projecting.

Ryoka shook her head slightly. She met the puppet-Rhisveri’s eyes and felt stupid and surreal doing so. Yet that carefully artificial voice. The slips, like how perfect that Dryad looked, conjured from memory. All of it.

“It does matter, Rhisveri. Or why would you be doing all this? Why…”

What I do with my spare time is amuse myself.

The puppet was sounding annoyed and the voice—deeper. Ryoka Griffin stared at him and felt the chains clink. The wind was whispering to her at the entrance to the prison.

“Then, Rhisveri—why can’t you look me in the eye?”

The puppet jerked around. Two glassy eyes rotated to face her.

What are you talking about? I’m looking—oh. You damn…”

The wind blew through the prison. No…that wasn’t quite right. The breeze that had been blocked from the closed door filtered through the cracks. It whispered into the room, and it blew through the walls and prisoners. Through the illusion, carrying it away in filaments of color.

Ryoka watched the magic vanishing. The air tore away like a cheap piece of paper, revealing the truth. Just a matter of perspective. It had taken her two weeks to see through it.

The filthy flagstones vanished, replaced by pristine marble. The cell doors flickered away, revealing a huge head that shifted away as a vast, serpentine body coiled around the room twitched.

Only the chains remained, attached to a simple [Wall of Stone]. And around her, facing her, was the Wyrm.

Rhisveri’s sock puppet turned around comically and then drooped. It faded into the floor as Rhisveri himself stared down at Ryoka. The Wyrm whispered as she looked up at him.

“Well, well. You surprise me. Is that how she felt the moment she died, I wonder? Just surprise—then pain. Then nothing. Would that it were as quick as a blink. My brother took hours to die. I saw him, you know. Or did you plan that too?”

Pretenses lost, his head slunk down to stare at her. One eye, larger than she was, blinked its slitted pupil. Ryoka shook her head.

“I didn’t know about that. Rhisveri—”

“Emotions. I did not weep one tear when my brother died. I laughed for a day in triumph. I have never wept. They say snake tears exist, but this Wyrm mourns not. He feels nothing. He should not. Not for a mere Dryad. Not for a single half-Elf. So why indeed do this?”

He looked around blankly. The rat-illusion scurried across the floor, as if it were still in the cells. Rhisveri flicked his tongue, and it vanished. Ryoka opened her mouth, but his head moved away.

“She was a traitor, in the end. She would have killed me. Menorkel and Gilaw both testified. As if she could. But if she were careful…she could have wreaked great havoc. I owe you for that. A servant who turns to disloyalty never deserved respect. A traitor negates any sympathy, you understand?”

“I understand what you’re saying.”

Rhisveri nodded reasonably.

“Exactly. Why would I bother to remember her as more than a lesson or as the first sign of my new enemy? I am aware of my foes. They have some charm or influence. That’s all. Maybe they struck her mind. Dryads are weak to parasites. Beings of nature can be affected. Maybe there’s rot in the forests she once claimed.”

“You think that could have happened?”

It almost made sense. Ryoka was blinking in the unaccustomed light. Had she really been here all this time? Wait, no wonder she hadn’t had to use the restroom once. Rhisveri absently moved his tail.

“I’ve…sent agents to investigate. It would make no sense, otherwise. Otherwise…she truly had a distaste for my power. Fithea surely knew what I would do if I learned of her treachery. However, I can only suspect she was mad with her desire for her forests. Seeing the traces of another world’s great forests on you did not help.”

“Yes. She believed.”

Ryoka whispered. Fithea’s haunted look of desperation followed her. Rhisveri nodded.

“Weakness. There’s no simpler explanation. Disappointing, really. I promised her to rebuild the forests. If she waited two hundred…no, just fifty more years, she would have seen the largest forest in Terandria. A bunch of groves, you see. They’ll spread and grow. A large circle—she tended them obsessively. Now I suppose I’ll chop them down.”

“Don’t do that.”

The Wind Runner whispered. Rhisveri pretended to be flipping through some maps.

“Perhaps not. The half-Elves always make such a fuss. But who knows? I promised her new forests, and that is how she repaid me. No faith at all in me. I could understand betrayal of anyone else, but I, who could grant any wish? Who could—revive the dead themselves?”

He turned one eye to stare meaningfully at Ryoka. Rhisveri went back to shaking his head. He plucked something out from the tomes of books and maps neatly organized. A worn book, the cover thick with bark and lichen.

With some distaste, he showed it to Ryoka.

“Do you see? It keeps contaminating my shelves with moss. She gave me that book. You know—I found her underground?”

“I think someone told me that, once.”

Rhisveri ignored that. He went on, absently studying the book, flipping through it.

“I met a strange Dryad underground before I ever surfaced. I had no real desire to eat her—being made of stone. We couldn’t communicate, obviously. But she taught me her language, and I had read common, just never spoken it. I often credit her with a small edge in my battle with my brothers and sisters. She taught me the foundations of most magics. I have long since surpassed her. Still. It was amusing to see a stone Dryad casting fire magic.”

“You knew her that long?”

One eye blinked at Ryoka.

“Yes. And she was already stone, then. How does it feel to know you ended…? No, don’t answer that. Fithea was the first immortal I graced with Ailendamus’ protections. Her wishes were the most difficult. I’m almost grateful you freed me of her nagging.”

“I—”

“If you say you’re sorry again, I will melt you. I just cannot believe she was so treacherous. I would have honored my words. That’s all. That’s all she was to me, and all I should waste on her. A moment’s self-reflection. A wary mirror for knives at my back. So why have I wasted so much time, indeed? Enough for even a half-trained thief to worm her wind through my spells.”

The Wyrm stared past Ryoka. Then, abruptly, he put his head on the ground and stared at her again. The chains around Ryoka broke. She fell to the ground and rubbed at her limbs.

“Am I…?”

“No. Be quiet. You know, Visophecin has told me House Shoel will force the issue tomorrow. Half the immortals, including Sophridel, who knew Fithea before me—are on your side. The other half are undecided. Only a few want you dead. Lady Paterghost is one of them.”

“Oh. She hates me. I think. I don’t know why.”

“Yes. But she is a vocal minority. It behooves me not to execute an associate of the Faerie King. You stole my scroll. You have ruined parts of my palace, gotten one of my trusted advisors killed, but even a bunch of haughty ghosts tell me I have more important matters. As if my own brother would utter a word without trying to manipulate me. He is gone. They’re all gone.”

Rhisveri’s pupils dilated.

“Can you see the dead, Ryoka Griffin?”

“No. You can?”

The Wyrm had proven that, of course, but he just snorted. Then his head rose, and he stared around. A tremor ran through his body.

“…I see nothing. The barriers are gone, but there are not even my pesky siblings. Not one across the breadth of Ailendamus. I see only emptiness, as if there never was. You know, I spoke to my mother.”

The Wind Runner stared up at Rhisveri. He clarified, turning his head again.

“Briefly. I gained little from the association. The others were far more practical. But it is an answer to how she sounded. Now there was a Great Wyrm. So venomous she would have poisoned the land with words alone. She had few associates, I imagine. Even her mate, my ‘father’ as you would dub him, she ate.”

He was rambling. Ryoka listened as Rhisveri switched from topic to topic. Then he looked down at her again and sighed, that sickly-sweet odor of acid and chemicals.

“…There is nothing to gain from me killing you. Nor even any real reason to accuse you when I know the nature of my true enemies in large. So. How much obol have you left? Do you have any…great artifacts? That sword, for instance.”

He sniffed about her, as if searching for treasure.

“I don’t really want the autographs. I think they’d keep me up.”

“What? You want—money? Are you serious?”

The Wyrm simply raised his head and fixed Ryoka with a long stare.

“Yes. Bribe me. Promise me—oh, something I believe. Swear to bring me back another scroll or a treasure. I want you to convince me to let you live.”

“But you just said…”

The Wyrm coiled around Ryoka, but loosely, giving her plenty of room. He lay with his head sideways on the floor, staring past her.

“I know what I said. Now you’re the one not listening. I’m…asking you to appeal to my baser instincts, Ryoka. Force me to let you go. Turn my nature against me. Give me something. Because I want to kill you.”

His head rose, and his mouth opened. Acidic venom dripped to the ground, a mist that began to sting Ryoka’s body like fire. She flinched away, and the wind blew defensively, but blood began to run from evaporated skin. With—effort—Rhisveri jerked his head back.

“Let my base mind rule over my higher one. Because…all of my superior mind, my consciousness, my understanding of everything? It wants to kill you right here for no reason other than you killed Fithea. I want to neither forgive nor forget till the end of time. So give me another reason.”

He closed his mouth. Ryoka’s hands, raised to cover her face, fell down as Rhisveri turned away. He lay down, staring at his side, his serpentine body.

“Rhisveri…”

There was no reply. Ryoka turned to go, and the snake’s body moved slightly to show her the door that the [Knights] guarded.

“Leave this capital and I will be your death. Find a way to persuade me. I’ll think of something. Or this will pass. This weakness, if I wait long enough. Surely.”

His voice followed her as Ryoka put one hand on the doorknob. She looked back, and the Wyrm was curling in on himself. His thunderous voice was gone, and a little sock-Rhisveri popped up from the floor.

Do you want to know something silly, Ryoka Griffin?

It bobbed left and right, a silly thing. The Wind Runner looked down at him. She bent over.

“No. Tell me?”

The ridiculous child’s toy opened and closed its mouth as it whispered a secret into her ear.

“…I always thought I’d see them again. As ghosts, you see? You can copy any spell if you build a kingdom with grand enough spellcasters. After all, someone made that scroll to raise the dead. I never thought death itself would vanish. Silly me.

Ryoka’s eyes did predictable, Human things. The Wyrm’s eyes were clear like a toy’s. The Wind Runner rubbed her face on her sleeve.

“I see. That’s so clever. And silly. Excuse me.”

The door opened and closed with a click. The Wyrm lay there a while. With every fiber of his being, he was trying not to kill her.

 

——

 

In some ways, Niers Astoragon was more emotionally mature than a thousands-year-old Wyrm or a twenty-three-year-old [Necromancer]. That meant that he didn’t have giant, gaping holes in his soul. Even Peclir Im was different.

If the other two bled, he had scars. He had seen his great dreams come crashing down into ash. A Goblin King’s madness. A dead [Strategist]’s curse.

A frozen [Innkeeper] and more.

So you know what hurt him? What hurt Niers Astoragon was not another fallen edifice of his ambitions.

What hurt him was seeing a dream coming to reality. Without his being any part of it.

Paeth on the Coast looked like a giant redwood tree had suddenly, inexplicably, grown up overnight in Talenqual. It towered over the modest Lizardfolk mud-brick buildings and the plain wood structures.

The ruins of the Featherfolk Brigade’s headquarters were mostly gone, and an entire thousand-foot space had been cleared around Paeth. A large amount of space for a Fraerling—less for Tallfolk.

However, each inch of the circle was lined with warning signs which became auditory if anyone looked like they were crossing into that boundary.

No Tallfolk are to approach within a thousand feet of Paeth save those with special dispensation! This is not your last warning, but we will not hesitate to use spells. Disintegration begins in a hundred feet.

…And that was the kind of warning you took seriously if you had seen what the Fraerlings had done to parts of the city. The battle for Talenqual had ended after some exceptionally bloody street-combat judging from the four reports Niers had read, but both sides had reinforcements they could pull.

Especially the Featherfolk Brigade, who had forces across the region. However, the sight of their commander, Fezimet, being melted by a laser had knocked the fight out of the Lizardfolk. They had surrendered, and now Talenqual was in different hands.

But whose? The answer was apparent as Niers saw a group of Dullahans, Humans, Lizardfolk, and Centaurs patrolling the gates.

“Halt and identify yourselves! This city is under the protection of the United Nations company and Gravetender’s Fist!”

The nervous Dullahan on the wall had been a Silver-rank Captain if Niers’ notes were correct. Captain Eldima, the Rustless Vanguard. One of his lieutenants called out.

“We are the Forgotten Wing Company, as we have [Messaged]! We come under truce—Lord Astoragon rides with us!”

“The Titan?”

Whispers. The cityfolk had a shell-shocked look of people who’d seen real fighting of late. Well, the burned forests spelled economic disaster in the long term. Yet they still stared at the palanquin and the flag of the Forgotten Wing company as if he were the most extraordinary thing to see.

Not a Fraerling City. Oh, and the palanquin was actually just filled with a Chest of Holding, incidentally. A glorified supply wagon. Niers always rode with his second-highest-level commander to chat and issue rapid orders.

Apparently, their arrival hadn’t gotten to the gate guard, who waited for this confirmation. Niers didn’t blame the leadership at all—if he understood things, the mercenaries who’d fought for Paeth had signed on for temporary guard-duty along with Gravetender’s Fist, who had joined the United Nations company.

However, the leadership was probably ashambles because a number of officers were dead. Quallet Marshhand, the leader of Gravetender’s Fist, had gone down with a number of others in the fighting.

Still, the response was fairly fast, and the Dullahan relaxed as one of the four people helping keep Talenqual running in the aftermath galloped to the gates and ordered them open.

A Centauress that Niers recognized shouted as she flew out the gates.

Professor—

Marian, one of his top students, looked about to cry herself. Niers was astonished to see her moving, but he shouted an order instantly.

Open fire!

Marian stumbled, and bows swung up along the lines of the Forgotten Wing’s forces, nearly two thousand strong. A single arrow struck her as she swerved, and a painted arrowhead fell to the ground as Niers called out. The defenders were frozen, but he just shouted at Marian.

Did you check it was me, Marian? Or would Jungle Tails have marched right in after you went down?”

The Centauress turned beet red and cantered over to him.

“Professor! I recognized Lieutenant Hewilst, and your coming was public knowledge! And the [Message] spell—”

“I am just teasing you, Marian. After this battle, I don’t know if I even need you back at class. Come here.”

Niers Astoragon leapt from a Dullahan’s shoulder, and Marian held out her hands as he landed. He beamed up at her and swept a hat from his head.

“Well done. Here I thought Wil’s team would have the biggest story to tell when they came back. How did it feel to fight one of Baleros’ mid-level companies and win?”

“If that was only the middle…Unicorn’s hooves, Professor. We had a thousand soldiers against forty times that number. I thought we were dead. And you—is Professor Fleethoof really in Izril?”

Niers laughed.

“She is, and you can write her an essay on defying the odds. You’re just lucky she isn’t here to chew you out. But you did it. Umina, Cameral, Kissilt?”

“Waiting for you, sir. I mean, they’re busy—”

“I’m sure they are, and I’m sure you need to show me to whomever’s leading the city. But I just wanted to tease you—and to say you’ve done it.”

“Er…which thing exactly, Professor? Graduate? Because after today, I’m sure I need another year of class.”

Marian pleaded with him nervously. Niers shook his head.

“No. I mean—you’ve survived a battle you thought you had no chance of winning. You took part in an event that someone in Rhir or Terandria will hear about. Your name, Marian, might not be the loudest spoken, but when you say, ‘I was at Talenqual when Paeth appeared’, most people in the world will sit up and take notice. How does it feel?”

The Centaur, so quick on her feet and with her tongue, stumbled on a reply. Niers just smiled and felt…good. Just a tiny bit. Marian turned red with pride, and that was important too.

He meant every word. But he was also inspecting Marian’s hooves. To be more precise, her foremost right leg. Because…he was fairly certain she shouldn’t have been walking.

The Centauress noticed the glance.

“Professor, did you hear about the battle?”

“I read your report. I’m not going to lecture you—”

“Please, do. I know my mistakes.”

“—now, I was going to say. We’ll be analyzing your battles in class.”

“Oh, of course.”

Niers looked down at Marian’s leg as the Centauress laughed. She went on after a moment.

“…I thought I could take out the enemy commander. I had my shot. Venaz turned out to be right—one unkillable leader nearly turned over the battle. I…well. I found out what happens when you make that mistake in battle. Do you think I should have done it differently?”

Her leg had been gone—eaten up to her torso by the crazed Quexal. Now, a strange prosthesis had replaced it. It looked like a hardlight projection of some kind. Like [Light Bridge], but sculpted into a leg that moved almost as nimbly as her old leg had.

Fraerling technology. Even Perorn didn’t have that—although she only had a war wound, so it wasn’t as if she’d ever wanted to amputate her leg. Yet on this scope? Niers looked up and answered slowly.

“I would have probably taken that risk. Especially if I thought I had a chance of ending the battle.”

Marian smiled weakly.

“That’s…good to know, sir. I’m not the only one who got chewed up. I’m—grateful, if anything. I can actually walk. You can do it with three legs or even two, or at least, stand. But—”

Centaurs who couldn’t run about were crippled. And their culture had a stigma against it. Niers just nodded.

“I was exceptionally happy to see you come through those gates, lack of caution or not. Now…who am I meeting?”

 

——

 

Marian’s leg was not the only sign of Paeth being in Talenqual. They had been here two weeks, and the rubble was still not all swept away. There was a heavy presence of soldiers watching for trouble, but the city already looked different than any other part of Baleros, including Elvallian.

First was the clinic. It was practically untouched in the fighting; both sides had avoided the Last Light’s practice, and two more had popped up across the city. Geneva Scala had always maintained that a [Doctor] alone could not hope to tend to a single town, let alone a city, but she had never had much support outside her small company.

The new owners of the city who knew her had taken her ideas to heart. As well as the influence of…somewhere else.

Lizardfolk were laying down a thick, tar-like substance that Marian told Niers would form a smooth surface even better than concrete for roads.

“And you just had the recipe lying around?”

“No, Professor. The Fraerling [Alchemists] mixed it up. They did a few trial runs based on the local resources and some…accounts.”

She looked shifty, and Niers sighed.

“Marian. I sent you here to investigate the Humans. I assume they’ve taken you into their confidences, but believe me, I knew what you were looking for.”

“You knew—of course you did.”

Marian covered her face, and Niers chuckled.

“Alright, roads. Someone knows the benefit of good transportation. But I’ll wait till I talk t—is that a Fraerling over there?

He whirled around and pointed, and Marian jumped. A Fraerling looked up from the window of a building—Niers’ shout was so loud half the street and his guards turned.

“…Is that the Titan?”

Both Niers and the other Fraerling just gawked at each other. You had to understand—a Fraerling in the wild was the strangest, craziest thing Niers had ever seen. Yet there she was, just standing behind some glass in a shop with a bunch of Lizardfolk, two Dullahans, and a Human.

“What in the name of aphids is—”

The entire convoy halted, and Marian trotted into the shop as Niers had to investigate. The Fraerling blinked at Niers and then nodded.

“Lord Astoragon. I needed a volunteer. Do you have ten minutes?”

“I—what? Volunteer for what, exactly?”

The Fraerling’s eyes glinted, and only then did Niers see the oddly padded tables, the diagrams of various bodies, and the oils and such around the room. The Fraerling pointed.

“Shirt and armor off, if you please. Or at least the armor.”

 

——

 

Niers Astoragon lay face-first on a table, questioning his life choices.

“Each part of the body is connected. There’s actually a muscle that runs all the way from the bone up the arm and down the hand. If we sliced open someone, you’d see it.”

Someone ran a finger down his back as she moved his arm to demonstrate, and his audience murmured. The Titan muttered.

“I’ll do it myself. Just let me—aaahhaha. That stings!”

The cry came from the [Masseuse] gently poking his shoulder in a place that made his arm jerk. She gave him a long look, and the Fraerling woman looked up to her trainees.

“It seems the Titan of Baleros has shoulder pain. Which you’d want to loosen up. There’s a basic test you can run on most humanoid bodies, from Dullahans to Centaurs, that shows if a muscle-area is in distress. Now, each species, each person varies, but there is a logic to it. For instance, if you stretch out Lord Astoragon’s arm like this, you are acting on the muscles that are sore. Here and here.”

She took his arm in two of hers, and Niers groaned.

“I didn’t come here to pull my arms off—hey, that feels good.”

The stretch was actually very painful since he’d been sitting at a desk for ages doing paperwork—but then he felt his arm limber up.

“I’m expediting about a few hours of stretching each day for a week. And some salve will keep the muscle fresh. If I were an expert—which I am not—I could make a [Warrior] as flexible as a [Body Dancer]. Very lucrative. I specialize in restoring mobility.”

“Would this work on someone very old, Miss Porwinke? I’d be worried about tearing their muscles.”

“You work them up to it. And in fact, you want to have them building the muscle they’re neglecting. Now, I think I felt at least some Galas-muscle here, and that behaves differently. Give me five more minutes, Lord Astoragon?”

For fixing his shoulder pain, she could have fifty. Niers had forgotten what it was like to have a massage.

Even if he’d cared to waste Signim, most Tallfolk had all the knowledge of massages from mentorships, not a Fraerling’s knowledge of the body combined with their alchemical prowess. What this Fraerling was teaching her students was probably the height of massage-therapy.

It was also probably a course in biology beyond what many [Healers] had. And she was standing in this shop…in front of Tallfolk…unafraid and teaching them.

Porwinke talked to Niers after her short demo with someone her size. He rubbed at his shoulder, which felt great, and raised his brows.

“Teaching Tallfolk. Don’t tell me you’ve done this before? Were you Tallguard?”

“How’d you know? I was still shaking the first four times I did it, but those volunteers want to learn, they’re very respectful of me, and they’ll share some of their profits for a few years with Paeth.”

“And teaching them how to massage at such a high level…?”

The [Masseuse] hesitated.

“You’d have to ask Guidance Heish and the Architects about that, Lord Astoragon. I’m doing everything I can to help rebuild Paeth. A few gold coins could pay for the entire city’s food supply, and I hope to earn more than that. I’m aware of the risk, but massages were deemed acceptable. Alchemy? Not so much. Even so—Paeth is in clear sight. We can’t take the cat back out of the bag of holding. And I say, let it rot.”

That was a Fraerling expression that flipped the Tallfolk’s affection for the sadistic murderous felines with how Fraerlings got rid of them. But Niers got the message.

He left with Marian and saw more Fraerlings. Not many, but now that he looked, he saw a [Master Architect] advising some [Builders] on constructing new buildings. A [Mage] was floating near a cowed Centaur and correcting him as he tried to cast a proper [Light] spell for the mage-globes.

Fraerling magic-tech. 

Niers had long ago wondered what would happen if the Fraerlings brought their full innovation into the open. His assumption was the Tallfolk would steal it until they had no need of Fraerlings or hold them for ransom.

This—this, though, was like his best-case scenario. Fraerlings introducing innovation while holding onto dangerous ideas. Collaboration. Mutual dependance.

All it had taken was a Human man arriving by accident. The needs of a Fraerling city under danger. And the courage to fight a war against an entire company.

To say Niers was incredibly torn when he met with Kenjiro Murata was an understatement. The [Diplomat] welcomed the Titan to Talenqual, and quite gracefully too.

“Lord Astoragon, I have hoped you might come to the city. Can we make your company welcome in any way? Your students talk exceptionally highly of you.”

He had a Drathian accent. Niers smiled as he nodded to the young man. Kenjiro hadn’t been flustered about trying to shake Niers’ hand or offering a finger or something stupid. He’d just given a very elegant bow which Niers had returned.

“We won’t strain your resources, Diplomat Kenjiro. In truth, I am simply in awe of Paeth’s survival. I hoped to talk with their leaders as well as your company’s. May I ask if they have time to meet with me?”

Very polite. Niers wondered who Ken would claim was in charge, but the young man surprised him with a glance towards the tree-city in the distance.

“I believe they have just finished a conference, Lord Astoragon. You will be able to meet with the leaders of Paeth shortly.”

Niers’ brows rose—and then rose higher as he was introduced to a group along with Ken that he recognized from various meetings.

“The joint Fraerling-Tallfolk Council of Paeth. Leaders of the United Nations: Engineer Paige, Captain Daly, myself, Ranger Siri, Rower Luan, and Housekeeper Kirana. And the Architects of Paeth. Farspeaker Humalepre, Judiciary Honst, Tallguard Commander Ekrn, Enchanter Ilekrome, Guidance Heish—”

He knew some of them. The Architects—no. Not except for the glowering Tallguard leader, Ekrn, who Niers felt like he had encountered once. But Luan Khumalo?

Yes. Niers waited till the introductions were done and spoke.

“I would like to greet Paeth’s Council with the utmost respect for what has happened here. I’m agog—and I would like to reassure you all that my mission here is entirely peaceful and, I hope, beneficial to all. I believe I’ve met some of you. Courier Luan, from Daquin. And Commander Ekrn? Is the Tallguard of Feiland now part of Paeth proper?”

Luan nodded with a smile. Niers noted that Daly Sullivan’s leg was giving off a faint glow beneath the table. As for Siri, two of her wooden fingers clicked on the table.

More prostheses. The Tallfolk counterparts of the Architects looked very young, and Niers wondered if this would last. On the other hand, it might reassure the Fraerlings more than grizzled political leaders.

The familiar Fraerling had a head of spiked, white hair and enough scars to instantly make him Tallguard. However, he also had a crossbow that made Niers feel like checking his amulets just by looking at it and a pair of deadly swords. Ekrn was armed to the teeth even in a peaceful mission, and he didn’t hide it.

“Titan of Baleros. I’m surprised you remember.”

Alright, what did I do to him? Niers didn’t remember, but it must have been something. He suspected Guidance Heish kicked Ekrn under the table, because the Commander took a moment to grimace before continuing.

“—Feiland’s functionally no more. We’re replenishing our ranks, but we’ve rolled in our forces with Paeth. We will continue to serve other cities, but Paeth is clearly in need of protection.”

“I see. And the Architects don’t intend to hide or move the city again…? Forgive me for being direct, the rest of you from the United Nations, but Paeth could use a smokescreen—”

It was Enchanter Ilekrome who answered for the others. He looked—worn out. Probably still magically recovering, but he had the eyes of someone who had seen miracles.

“Paeth cannot move again, Lord Titan. Not easily. Even if I dared to try and recreate the spell, we will not move. Hiding alone brought us no allies. This time, if we are assailed, it will be an army of Fraerlings and allies of the tall who defend us. We may fail within a year, or Paeth will no longer endure, but we will make this our home and let the rest of our kind see what occurs. There is no more Last Box to shelter. We have fulfilled our duty, and now…now we stand by the Tallfolk who have earned our respect. We will arm them and fight with them. And learn from each other, hopefully.”

Niers Astoragon let out a long breath and felt a shiver run down his back. He had so many questions, and the Council looked ready to answer. But the first and utmost thought on his mind was…Niers looked at Ilekrome and saw a truth there that made even him nervous.

The Last Box. That wasn’t even on par with Erin Solstice coming back from the dead. That was more like A’ctelios Salash getting up and doing a dance. Dead gods.

And he’d missed this? The Titan smiled.

“It would be my honor to hear it all at your convenience, Council. And if the Forgotten Wing company can provide soldiers or support to our allies—”

The Humans were looking nervous. The Architects glanced at each other, and the Titan’s words tumbled together. He saw Ekrn arguing with Heish, and he was fairly certain the Tallguard was saying, ‘let me say it’.

“Lord Titan—”

Heish began, but Ekrn spoke over her.

“The Forgotten Wing Company may be allies of Paeth in time, Lord Astoragon. But to be clear from the outset—we will not be part of any Great Company.”

“Sentry Leader Ekrn! Er—Commander Ekrn!”

Heish snapped, and the Council began a furious argument of clarifications, amendments, and explanations as Niers stood there.

 

——

 

The Titan’s face was hard to read, but Luan Khumalo could see the disappointment in a moment. Paige groaned, and Kirana looked like she wished Aiko had replaced her after all.

“Oh no. I asked Commander Ekrn not to say it right away!”

Ken whispered to Daly. The Bushranger’s leader groaned as he felt at his magical leg. He had a pair of Fraerling-made crossbows at his side, and the trusted forces were all armed with a caliber of weapons that even Fezimet would have feared.

…But he didn’t think making an enemy of the greatest [Strategist] in the world was a good idea. They needed help, and even if the Fraerlings could buy it on a promise, they had limits to their manufacturing capabilities. Daly whispered back to the others.

“Fecking fantastic. I thought we had the big mouths. Now how are we supposed to get him to help us find Geneva?”

Niers Astoragon’s head swiveled around, and Daly froze. The Titan of Baleros lifted one hand as the Council fell silent.

“—Regardless of anything else we settle on today, I can do that. Who grabbed her and why?”

Daly’s mouth worked, but he managed to get out a few words.

“Er—excuse me, Lord Niers—Titan. It—we think it was—”

Luan interrupted him smoothly. He looked at Niers and wondered if the little Fraerling was a relative of the man on the boat during the Summer Solstice. Or just like a more advanced Ekrn.

They’d find out. The Courier took a breath.

The Bodies of Fellden did it, as far as we know. Selphids. We think Geneva’s alive and well. But we have no clues.”

The Titan’s eyes flickered. He cursed softly.

“The Minds. That will be trickier, but I assure you: I can retrieve her.”

The members of the United Nations company looked at each other, and Siri swallowed. She had wondered why Paeth was so reluctant to ally with one of their own, but one look at the Titan’s gaze told her why.

The greatest powers of the Selphids had been too dangerous for Paeth to consider going after even in the face of their new alliance. But with a few sentences and a single promise—

They were now in trouble. And yet, Niers’ eyes looked so longingly at this alliance between Tallfolk and Fraerlings. But once again—Chieftain Shaik’s words haunted him. Despite all he’d done…

Tiny man too scary.

 

——

 

It was hard to say who was more uncomfortable when they appeared in Invrisil. Pisces? Or Numbtongue?

They went through the door like a growing storm. From the moments the words left Erin’s mouth, it was like a hurricane building at sea.

First swept in tempest Lyonette, full of questions and objections. But when she realized Erin was serious, she threw her might behind Erin’s headwind.

Ser Dalimont? Ser Sest and Ser Lormel, with you and Erin!

The [Princess] pointed three of her [Knights] forwards. Obviously, an impossible chess move, except she’d already captured one Pawn.

Backup achieved, Erin negotiated who would not go to Invrisil. No Antinium. And definitely not Mrsha the Gale, who begged and pleaded and held onto Erin’s chair until she was removed by Lyonette. There could be shenanigans, and for once, they would not involve Mrsha.

“No more Goblins. Sorry, Gothica. Next time.”

The [Goth] did her signature pfft and blew the hair out of her face. But she didn’t argue; she had heard ‘next time’. Besides, the others cramped her style.

They didn’t make it to Liscor without incident, either. Lyonette had some kind of magical warning system for Zevara like a speaking stone or [Message] scroll, so the Watch Captain battened down all hatches.

A Watch escort conveyed Erin to the door and put the regular transports on hiatus. Erin peered suspiciously at the [Guards] escorting her.

“Y’know, this celebrity treatment’s sorta weird. Is it because I own the door? I still want it back.”

“We’re just trying to minimize the collateral damage, Miss Solstice.”

The Gnoll was sweating slightly as she peered at him. Erin puffed her cheeks out, then exhaled.

“Alright. But you know that I’m gonna get annoyed by being treated like a glass doll.”

“Better than an ice cube.”

Numbtongue muttered. He put out a fist, and Pisces blinked at it, before tapping it with his own. Erin’s laughter made both relax. Pisces was watching Erin. She knew he needed help. It was only Yvlon, who’d hurried back to the guild, who was getting in the way.

Well—this wouldn’t be so bad?

…Numbtongue was slightly tense. The only time he’d been in Invrisil was in disguise and under the arguably superior protection of the Players of Celum. With Jasi and Wesle and the others gone, it was Erin who had made the offer.

And as history had proven—she wasn’t exactly immune to sneak attacks. Numbtongue also remembered that a certain Named Adventurer was there. And Invrisil had run into Goblins recently.

“I could wear helmet, maybe?”

He suggested, and Erin twisted in her chair.

“Do you want to, Numbtongue?”

The [Bard] chewed this over.

“…Sort of. Seems like lots of panicking Humans might be dangerous.”

“Well, we’ll go once, and if it turns bad, we’ll duck out. Maybe the second time they’ll be more used to it. Like Liscor. But do you want to walk around in Invrisil without a helmet?”

The Hobgoblin bared his teeth.

“It would be nice.”

Erin’s eyes glinted.

“Yeah.”

The citizens of Liscor were watching Erin and the [Knights], along with Pisces and Numbtongue, head for the door. A small cyclone touching down on Invrisil’s beaches. Possibly never to grow past that. The Thronebearers were looking nervous; they didn’t know if they had the means to quell a full-scale riot.

Then came the squall from the side. Selys with the metaphorical steel chair! Erin’s head turned as a squad of marching boots heralded the arrival of none other than the one, the only—

“Captain Todi?”

The Gold-rank Captain and his squad of adventurers gave Erin an ironic salute.

“Miss Selys thought you might need an escort, Innkeeper Solstice. Mind if we join you? We’re veterans to the guard routine. Vetted by the Mercenary’s Guild for cross-class work, even.”

“That would be welcome, Miss Erin.”

Dalimont said, relieved, and Erin gave Selys an exasperated look as the [Heiress] waved from the background. Pisces glanced at the Drake, but then Erin was grudgingly adding Todi to the squad.

Then—they were in Invrisil, and the shouting began.

Goblin!

They didn’t even get out of the plaza where the door was now installed without the first man pointing at Numbtongue and reaching for a belt dagger. The [Bard] froze, but Erin cupped her hands to her mouth.

Human! Watch out!

She pointed accusatorially at the man, and his brain locked up for a crucial second. Erin pointed ahead towards the sign aiming for the Adventurer’s Guild.

“It’s a Goblin!”

Someone tried again, and the plaza fixed on Numbtongue like a beacon of fear and growing hostility. The [Innkeeper] was ready for it.

“[Crowd Control]. [Crowd Control]. [Crowd Control]. [Crowd Control]…”

She muttered under her breath. Then raised her voice. Her own shout eclipsed the regular voices as [Loud Voice] activated.

Hobgoblin coming through! Don’t get in the way. He’s a busy guy. We have business at the Adventurer’s Guild. Move it! Don’t push! No autographs. Ser Dalimont, make a path.”

The [Knight] gave Erin a look of mild respect as he caught onto the plan. Instantly, he, Ser Lormel, and Ser Sest spread out around Erin, but began gesturing with their hands.

“One side, citizens!”

Prithee, keep moving. Do not crowd—ten steps back, please! No autographs.

It was like a magic password that flipped a switch in people’s heads. Especially in Invrisil, where the practice of autographs had really caught fire and become a worldwide phenomenon. Wait a second.

No autographs? That implied there was a reason to get said autographs. And if you weren’t allowed to have one, firstly, how dare you. Secondly—a Goblin giving out autographs?

All Erin needed was a second or two. A minute—and then it was hard to restart the ‘look out, a Goblin’ screams. You felt silly being the first one to retread that ground.

“It’s a monster! Call the Watch!”

Someone tried again. But Erin cheerfully shouted back.

“I said, clear a path. Gold-rank adventurers on the move! And a [Bard]! Captain Todi of Todi’s, uh, Super-Elites is too busy to sign autographs! So are Pisces and Numbtongue! Move it!

Todi’s Super-Elites? Even the Gold-rank Captain was giving Erin a confused look, if somewhat gratified.

It was a very [Innkeeper]-y thing Erin was doing, combined with, well, a [Witch]’s attitude towards crowds. It wasn’t classic witch-behavior, and Erin had never taken Headology 101, but she was a fairly experienced veteran in the field. Her method, as many had observed, was continuously interjecting more confusion into the scene.

First you had a Goblin. Then she said no autographs. And while you were wrestling with this one, she flipped it on Gold-rank adventurers and Todi’s Super-Elites.

“Make way! Pisces the [Necromancer]—coming through! And Numbtongue the [Bard]. And Todi the…Super-Elite. Psst. Todi, what’s your class?”

Pisces had been listening to the entire rampage of Hurricane Erin with some amusement, but his body stiffened when she invoked his class. He looked at Erin, and then there was another round of exclamations.

“[Necromancer]? Did she say…?”

His class was not beloved in Izril. True, it wasn’t the Terandrian reaction, which would have been full-blown panic, even with Erin’s Skills and methods. But the Necromancer had cut a path from the north down to Liscor before he died, and his undead had struck the south too.

Necromancer.

The word was almost as reviled as Goblin. Ser Dalimont bent down.

“Miss Erin, perhaps this is not…”

She ignored him. Erin waved around cheerfully as a Watch Sergeant on patrol finally caught up with them.

“Stand back, sir. This group is under protection of the Thronebearers of Calanfer.”

“And Todi’s Super-Elites.”

The Gold-rank Captain chimed in as Ser Sest expertly blocked the patrol. The Watch Sergeant stared at Erin, Numbtongue, and spluttered.

“What’s going on—there’s a Goblin in my city?”

“That’s Numbtongue. [Bard]. We’re headed to the Adventurer’s Guild, so if you want to escort us, be my guest. This is Pisces, Gold-rank adventurer. On very important business with, um…Elia Arcsinger? He’s a [Necromancer] and my pal.”

“A nec—Arcsinger—

Pisces was staring at Erin, and Numbtongue gave her a huge frown, but Erin kept rolling as he pushed her. The Watch Sergeant had a hurried conversation with Todi, who did know the score. A trio of gold coins and the patrol moved ahead, shouting at people to move aside.

This was really what Pisces had expected of Erin. And yet—he was conscious of the eyes on him as Erin kept shouting his class. Had she done that before? Perhaps she was using [Necromancer] to distract from Goblin, but it added to what he felt was unnecessary chaos.

“Maybe she’s out of practice.”

Numbtongue had the same opinion and whispered to Pisces as they approached the Adventurer’s Guild, down one of the most prosperous streets filled with restaurants, shops for magical items, and mundane goods like rope, potions, all to cater to the very rich adventurers who stopped by. Pisces didn’t know. Erin kept glancing at him.

They’d talk later.

He wanted it to be now. And as Pisces saw his team and the plethora of adventurers who turned and reacted to Numbtongue—he remembered why he hadn’t wanted to go to Invrisil.

It had completely slipped his mind with his urgent desire to talk to Erin. But even Ceria and Yvlon hadn’t insisted he back them up aside from the actual negotiations. Silver-rank adventurers milled around the central area of the Guild, and the Gold-ranks were in the back, the elite area where Pisces had met Todi to his displeasure the first time.

Yet—even without Erin’s class-dropping. Pisces the [Necromancer] stepped out of Erin’s group as she began to fend off adventurers, inserting a Goblin into Invrisil’s mind with a hammer. He let her do it and looked for his team.

And absolutely no one hurried up to him. Not the [Necromancer].

The adventurers knew who he was, unlike regular citizens. Then again—Pisces had [Famous Name], now. They knew who the Horns were—half were here because they had been part of the Village of the Dead raid.

Pisces recognized a few. Vuliel Drae, the Pithfire Hounds, and those were the teams in the Silver and Bronze-rank area.

The famous ones, like Elia’s representative and the other Gold-rank teams, were probably in the back. Pisces saw a few heads nod cautiously at him, like Anith, and the Pithfire Hound’s leader looked like he was debating getting up.

Yet most of the looks were, if not outright hostile, exceptionally distrustful. In the world of Adventurers, Pisces occupied the class that many adventurers would fight against. He was the [Necromancer] raising undead in the crypt.

That he was also a member of the Horns of Hammerad put him in neutral territory. But—Pisces realized—

It was somewhat ironic that he was the only member of his team who stood alone. He wished Erin hadn’t mentioned his class.

 

——

 

The rest of the Horns of Hammerad were talking with adventurers. Ksmvr was in the common room—Pisces just didn’t spot him at first because of how many people were talking to him.

Yvlon was changing from Gold-rank back rooms to the front, and Ceria was talking with a half-Elf representing Arcsinger’s Bows. Pisces knew that because of the actual banner hanging behind the table filled with Gold-rank Captains in deep negotiations.

Ceria waved at Pisces, but she was speaking behind a [Silence] spell, and Pisces just took a moment to survey the room. Spot escape routes, check for spells, the practical things one did.

The other Gold-rank adventurers sized him up, but he was the pariah. And Pisces noticed—

Ksmvr was not. Ksmvr was the Antinium. And yet, Ksmvr was also Ksmvr of Chandrar. That [Journalist], Rémi Canada, had changed Ksmvr’s reputation.

He wasn’t ‘an Antinium adventurer’. He was the Antinium adventurer, so half the people surrounding him wanted to size him up. Some were challenging, but many were just curious to meet a representative of the Black Tide who seemed, well—personable. Even likable and, of course, fascinating.

“—I have indeed met Empress Nsiia of Tiqr. She does not make it a habit to be naked aside from regularly scheduled intervals.”

“Wh—really? How regular?”

Ksmvr gave the too-avid adventurer a blank stare.

“…As regularly as one bathes or changes clothes. Periodic nudity is a custom for most species, as I understand it.”

“That’s not the same.”

“But your clothes are off. I do not quite understand the stigma against a lack of clothes. Most Antinium are naked. We put on clothing to leave the Hive.”

“You’re all [Nudists]?”

“…I did not think we were. Oh dear. Maybe we will all gain the class?”

Ksmvr’s mandibles clacked together at the light laughter. He really was hard to dislike. At another table, Yvlon Byres had almost as many adventurers keen to talk to her for obvious reasons.

Her silver arms stood out. Pisces eyed a [Warrior] rotating his shoulder and wondered if someone had made the stupid mistake of challenging her to an arm-wrestling contest. The [Armsmistress] was in more serious talks with none other than Seborn and—Pisces saw with some gratification—Typhenous.

Neither Gold-rank adventurer had their team with them. They were representatives, Typhenous probably because Invrisil had been his home. He was also, frankly, the best option for cold-blooded negotiations compared to Revi, Halrac, or Briganda.

“…got to cut Prince Zenol and the others not here a fair portion.”

Fair? Elia Arcsinger wants the Helm of Fire, and the Terlands are backing Eldertuin.”

“We had an agreement—”

Typhenous broke in smoothly.

“…Which the Silver-rank teams are justifiably nervous about. You know how things change, Yvlon. Many of the Gold-rank teams would like to, ah, claim certain items outright and relegate the rest to gold-distribution.”

Yvlon’s jaw clenched as she glanced up at some of the Gold-rank teams who seemed to be in a kind of alliance with Elia’s representative.

“Ceria called this raid. Our team did. We’ll be fair. Can I count on your teams to back us up, Seborn, Typhenous?”

“What loot are you going to give us? Alright—don’t turn your hands into a damn knife. Yes, Jelaqua’s all for it. But it’s going to be messy. Pisces. There he is.”

Seborn waved to Pisces, and the [Necromancer] approached. He recognized some adventurers vaguely, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

Even now, he got a few wary nods rather than effusive greetings. One of the [Strategists], an Owlkin Beastwoman, spoke in an eerie whisper reminiscent of hooting.

“Adventurer Jealnet. We were discussing fair distribution of the limited artifacts. Join us.”

“I—thank you, Adventurer…”

“Soew. [Strategist].”

“Of course. I’m, ah, partial to being called ‘Pisces’ as opposed to my last name.”

“Naturally.”

A few more adventurers came over as Pisces sat down and caught up on what was essentially a lot of arguing over who got what. Keldrass’ team, the Flamewardens, the ‘Silver-rank’ team of Maweil’s Reach, the three Minotaurs, and even a Gnoll representing the Pride of Kelia had all joined this discussion.

Old adventurers and young, each one trying to play nice and get an artifact or payout above the others. Pisces glanced at Yvlon.

“What, pray, did we actually recover from the raid beyond what the Horns took?”

Her smile was wry.

“You’d be amazed, Pisces. Did you see that Drake Revenant who cut up all the monsters?”

Pisces had actually watched the public video of the raid, so he nodded.

“A true monster. I’m amazed he was brought down.”

“Yeah, well—we got his sword. And he had a bag of holding full of high-grade artifacts. Before we pulled out, we looted monster parts from the big monsters—yanked a bunch of artifacts from the Skeleton Lords. But the main thing was the Helm of Fire. Everyone wants that.”

“I’ll take the sword.”

A burly [Warrior] joked. Everyone laughed, but Yvlon just nodded at the Adventurer’s Guild.

“The Guildmaster has it under lock and key, and [Thieves] have been going at it every week. No one’s been able to divide the loot while we were on Chandrar. They argued for nearly a month until it turned out we were alive.”

“…And graciously waited until our return for the most equitable distribution?”

Pisces’ lips quirked at his own joke, and Typhenous laughed. Yvlon rolled her eyes.

“No. They want what we found. It’s all loot recovered from the raid, so the claim is we should divide it under the same rules.”

“Ah.”

“Yep. However, Ceria’s been talking with the other teams, and she’s reminded them of something that might bite them—we have the claim on the Helm of Fire. One Relic, guaranteed.”

Now that would be…well, the other adventurers fell silent as Pisces bit his lip.

A Relic on par with the Heartflame Breastplate, for their team. Az’kerash had sent back a message. A very…confusing message that seemed to indicate he didn’t need the Helm of Fire as he had not fulfilled his obligations.

 

…to you, apprentice of death, I will cede the relic if it should aid your own studies. My armory is replete enough without it.

 

Very generous. Suspiciously generous. So thoughtful, in fact, that Pisces was wondering if that was a subtle hint telling him to absolutely donate the Helm of Fire or else. However, the Necromancer had assured him after a few tactfully worded questions that he meant what he said.

Pisces cast a [Silence] spell and whispered to Yvlon.

“We—could very well lift the claim on the Helm of Fire. Selys will be unhappy, but it is no longer mandatory.”

Her brows shot up.

“Selys wants it? Of course—the set. We might have to let her down, Pisces. It’s like swimming with Crelers here. Some teams have even been saying we should cut out groups that perished like Lifwail Blades. You know, the ones who were all wiped out?”

Pisces blinked. Part of what the Horns had done after the crypt raid was give proceeds from Albez to the dead adventurers.

“Truly? That seems exceptionally unchivalrous.”

“It’s not going to stand. I’ll let Ceria know about the Helm. You just…mingle. And don’t cause any fights. Why is Erin bringing Numbtongue here?”

Yvlon had finally noticed Erin. Pisces grimaced.

“I believe she’s introducing a Goblin to Invrisil.”

Yvlon just groaned and shook her head as she pushed herself up.

“Wonderful. Alright, wish me luck. And find me a calming tonic—if I hear one more idiot saying ‘the dead don’t need gold’—”

She stomped off. Ceria looked calm as ice, and Pisces wondered if it was her class—if anything, the representative from Elia looked nervous as he whispered in her ear.

“Pisces. Do you want to take a look at the inventory?”

“Let me check on Erin first, Seborn.”

The Drowned Man nodded as Pisces pushed himself up. He walked back into the common room and heard a familiar voice.

“[Bard]. B-A-R-D. Erin Solstice, The Wandering Inn. I post quests. Oh, and there’s Pisces! Pisces! Tell them I know you! I keep wanting to go in the back rooms, but apparently it’s only for Gold-ranks. That’s Pisces. He’s a guest at my inn. One of the first. [Necromancer]. N-E-C…you can probably spell that.”

Again, Pisces twitched. He saw a Silver-rank adventurer talking to Erin glance his way and recoil. Could Erin not ruin his reputation with any adventurer who hadn’t met him yet?

He began to walk towards her and felt angry. He didn’t care about the loot.

Really, truly, he didn’t. It felt hollow, meaningless, and…greedy.

He kept imagining Igheriz talking about the gold he’d receive for selling Pisces. It wasn’t the same, Pisces knew. But he felt hot, sweaty even after his bath.

Pisces just wanted to talk to Erin. Yet she was causing more trouble, and he heard his class on her lips.

[Necromancer]. [Necromancer]…Pisces thought that, in this moment, it was a title more reviled than Goblin or Antinium.

 

——

 

Numbtongue could tell Pisces was getting upset. The [Bard] was staying with Erin and Todi’s Elites. Ironically, Erin’s trick was sort of working. Most people were staring at Numbtongue and asking questions rather than going for a weapon.

Ksmvr helped. As did the escort of [Knights] and adventurers. Numbtongue was actually sitting at a table in the Adventurer’s Guild, practicing on his guitar. It seemed like a suitably fascinating thing to do.

Goblin on a guitar. He had begun work on the Pisces theme-track again. It still was hard.

Pisces wasn’t rock n’ roll. Nor was he ‘pop’—from Terandria’s Singer. Not exactly. Maybe it fit a bit? Pisces was the Horns. Were the Horns…?

They were an odd group. Griffon Hunt was a kind of serious melody that went into hard action. Determined, wounded—they could sort of fit with rock, but were more like a marching song that you could insert into another genre.

The Halfseekers, by contrast, were that chaotic pop. Up and down, highs and lows. They had been the first team to have a Goblin adventurer. They had known betrayal, but they kept going, the friend of outcasts. More classic heroes who, yes, went in hard.

They’d killed a Drake [General] in battle. The Horns? No less important. They’d killed an Adult Creler and stormed the Village of the Dead. So they did fit with that kind of music.

And yet—Numbtongue looked at Ceria and remembered her nearly choking to death on a mouthful of food. Being broiled in a hot tub for ‘training’. Their dynamic, Pisces’ dynamic, didn’t do the seriousness.

“Hmm. Got to work on this one. I need more good musics.”

“What’s that, Numbtongue? Doesn’t Kevin have a playlist on his you-know-what? Actually, I hear there are song crystals all over. Why don’t we get some?”

Erin heard him as she rolled by. Numbtongue brightened up, and a few Bronze-rank adventurers clustering around heard her.

“The Guild has some music. Hey, where’s the song crystal player? And the scrying orb—maybe the Singer’s on?”

They obliged Numbtongue with a catalog of music, and he listened to a few tunes with one ear as the scrying orb came alight.

And Pisces still looked unhappy. Most of the adventurers glancing at him had his class on their lips.

“Erin. Maybe stop telling people his class?”

Numbtongue whispered to Erin. Even the Thronebearers, especially Dalimont, looked at Pisces with a reserve as Erin reminded them of who he was. Yet the [Innkeeper] just turned to the Goblin.

“It’s who he is, Numbtongue. I know what you said. I’ve got a plan, don’t worry.”

“Just don’t hurt him.”

The [Innkeeper] stared into the Goblin’s serious face as Todi walked over to Pisces with a drink. She glanced at Pisces as he smiled weakly at Todi.

“…I’ll try.”

 

——

 

Captain Todi sat down with a fake smile that Pisces returned.

“Not fun being the [Necromancer], I guess? Miss Erin’s doing you no favors, but hey, less leeches. Your time in the sun to shine. I knew it when you two walked into this guild the first time—you were going to stand out.”

“I’m—so grateful you recognized that, Captain Todi.”

You obsequious liar. Todi had all the foresight of Mrsha in front of a cookie jar. Pisces was sure that even if Todi was working for Selys, he didn’t like the Horns or Pisces.

As proof, Todi’s glance was a little too long on Ceria, talking with the most famous teams in Invrisil. There was frank jealousy in his eyes.

“Maybe we should have jumped in on the raid—but then we might have been dead. Play it safe. That’s how my team got to Gold-rank. Todi’s Super-Elites. I’m changing the name. Like it?”

“It’s certainly…unique. I am sure your team would have been a tremendous asset if you had joined in.”

“Yeah, absolutely.”

Todi drained the mug. Then he came out with it.

“Not every team gets as lucky as yours. Emergency-teleporting to Chandrar? I’m glad you’re not full to your heads with ego. You got what one in a thousand teams does—a lucky break.”

“I know that.”

Pisces’ jaw clenched. Finding that scroll and activating it—the [Paladin] coming back to life—yet Todi went on.

“You shook Chandrar right up. Coming off that ship with a [Hero] or whatever, and that undead king-thing?”

“Fetohep of Khelt.”

“Sure. Chandrar’s a fucking weird place, right? Just don’t get in over your head, that’s my advice. Not ill-intentioned. I just see people jump into the fire, thinking they’re now invincible, and they get chewed out. Rhir’s Hells, even Elia Arcsinger did it when she was named Named-rank, back in the day.”

“I will take that under advisement. Believe me—I’ve been humbled.”

Igheriz’s name still itched on his chest. Pisces stared at Todi.

“We’ve made a number of enemies. Like Roshal, Nerrhavia’s Fallen in part—we are well aware of how outmatched we are but for luck and opportunity and allies far above our means. I credit Erin Solstice with much of our survival.”

He meant it, too. She had somehow gotten Fetohep to save their lives, and he still had to ask her why. He wanted to—

But Todi seemed to take this honest statement as a kind of bragging. The Captain narrowed his eyes and pushed his drink back as if it was suddenly bitter.

“Oh, Roshal’s your enemy? Dead gods, man! Roshal and the biggest Stitchfolk nation in Chandrar? That’s what I’m talking about. Fine—you raided a death-zone. Who am I to tell you where you’re at?”

He raised his hands, looking so offended that Pisces nearly tipped the table over and kicked him. He was about to and snapped back.

Believe me, Todi. I know exactly what Roshal can do. I’m as keen to have them as an enemy as that monster in the Village of the Dead.”

His retort made Todi stiffen. It looked like the Gold-rank Captain would snap—then he caught himself, and his eyes flickered.

“Wait. You do still have that million-gold price on your head?”

“I don’t think they removed it just because I travelled a continent away. Yes, I think I might well expect [Assassins].”

Pisces hadn’t talked to his team about that, not in so many words. He was safe deep in Drake or Magnolia Reinhart’s lands—neither were friends to Roshal.

Todi eyed Pisces, and a look of uncertainty flashed in his brown gaze. He hesitated, then released his grip on the table’s edge. Pisces realized he’d been about to flip the table too.

“Oh. You actually meant Roshal was your enemy. Hunting you, that is. Not a boast?”

“Why would I boast about that?”

Pisces’ felt like his eyes were trying to bulge out of their sockets. Todi hesitated, then reached for his drink. He took a swig.

“—Well, your head’s on straighter than I thought. I can respect that. You lot had a rough patch, but that’s Gold-rank right there, surviving what you did.”

Pisces just studied Todi’s face as the man took a huge drink, turning faintly red. Todi turned and pretended to be interested in the scrying orb.

“Say, look at that. Fraerlings on a scrying orb. Never seen that before.”

Pisces was distracted as Todi made his escape. In fact, even the adventurers discussing the loot distribution were staring at a [Mage] speaking to a cluster of tiny people.

—I’m in Talenqual now if you’re just joining in. Speaking to the first Fraerling city to appear in public for over six thousand years since the Creler wars! Excuse me, sir, what do you think of the outside world?

A Fraerling looked up with almost as much awe at the [Mage] as the Human. But she spoke up, a tad bit nervously, with a fairly loud voice for her size.

“I—I think it’s amazing, the Tallfolk’s world! You have so much of everything! Food, buildings—and bugs! Just, everywhere! And all your magic is so, um…interesting! You do things like mill grain by hand. And no one can fly and barely teleport.”

“T-teleport? Well, we can cast that. You must be thinking of Gold-rank adventurers and the like.”

“Yes, exactly! They’re the only ones who can. But we love seeing the outside world and your television-ideas! Hello! Am I on the scrying orb?”

The Fraerling waved a bit off-center, and the Human assured her she was.

“May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

“Oh—Tallguard Noa! Of Feiland. Is this really going to be shown around the world? Will, um—I’ve always wanted to see the King of Destruction and all the famous people like Magnolia Reinhart. Would they see this?”

“I assure you—they probably will! Do you have anything to say to someone you’re a fan of? Wait—do Fraerlings know about, uh, us bigger people?”

Noa frowned.

“Tallfolk? We’ve been watching the broadcasts, and we know a lot about some of your famous ones. Even we hear stories of your adventurers. Right, Resk?”

She turned to a Fraerling hovering over, looking irate. Alchimagus Resk grabbed Noa’s ear as the Wistram Mage stared, dry-mouthed, at the casually-hovering Fraerling, still recovering from his wounds.

“What? Noa, you—yes, we copied all the broadcasts from Wistram’s Academy. They should really put a magical seal on them or anyone can just copy—er, hello!”

The [Mage] looked like he was unsure if he was getting pranked. But he rallied as Sir Relz prompted him.

“Well then—well—why don’t we have an interesting question? Spontaneously—what are your top…ten adventurers? Top five? Who do Fraerlings respect in the world of the Tallfolk?”

Pisces shook his head as Todi wandered off. Noa began huddling with some of her friends. Then someone tugged on his sleeve.

“Pisces. Hey, Pisces. Say hi to this [Mage] for me. Pisces, [Necromancer]. But he’s also a [Mage] and about your level in his other class. Do you have a tip for her?”

A nervous Drake backed up a step, and Pisces—snapped. He smiled at the Bronze-rank [Mage] and grabbed Erin’s arm as the [Receptionist] at the Adventurer’s Guild desk eyed him nervously and handed something to a Street Runner.

Probably to the Watch, telling them to watch out for the [Necromancer] who might loot their graveyards. Pisces couldn’t drag Erin back, so he wheeled her over to a corner and cast a spell.

“Erin. What are you doing? Please, I implore you—stop telling everyone I’m a [Necromancer]!

His voice was only heard by her and Numbtongue, who had wandered close out of concern. Pisces clenched his fists.

“This is already tedious and stressful enough. I would rather—be discussing other matters with you.”

Erin looked up into his face and put her hands in her lap. She looked serious and less shocked than Pisces thought.

“I know, Pisces. I’m sorry we had to postpone it, but I’ll definitely hear you out. If you’re ready to talk about…everything in Chandrar. I have something to tell you, too.”

It struck him like a kick. Pisces staggered and then realized—she knew. She knew he wanted to talk to her. Not only that, her expression told him quite plainly she knew how serious it was.

Rather than feel relieved…he got angry.

“You knew I wished to talk to—you are an [Innkeeper], and you are far too intelligent not to notice. Of course. Why didn’t you ask me?”

Erin blinked up at him. She bit her lip and looked slightly guilty. But then she pushed on her wheelchair and tried to get up. Her legs wobbled—and she leaned on Pisces and Numbtongue as they caught her.

“Damn. I still can’t quite do it.”

Erin smiled weakly. Pisces was supporting almost all of her weight. He hesitated, but she leaned on the wall and looked at him. She was still so…he felt guilty. And angry. And distraught. But Erin just looked him in the eyes.

“I know, Pisces. I do know. But I’ve been waiting until you’re ready to talk to me.”

“You were waiting for me?”

The young man felt…confused. Erin nodded. She braced herself, took a few deep breaths, and stood there a second.

“Yeah. Because—well, because Pisces, I sorta know a bit of what happened. I’m sorry, but someone told me.”

“Who? Wh—”

I have spoken to the dead. Pisces felt a chill run down his spine. He grabbed Erin, but she continued gently.

“Listen. I didn’t want to spring it on you. If it was someone else…Mrsha, or maybe Moore, who needs it, or…I would have brought it up. But you?”

She looked him in the eyes with almost a smile. A guilty one, but with a spark of something Pisces didn’t like. Something like trust.

“—I know you’d talk to me, Pisces. In time. Because you already broke those chains. You survived two monsters, and I want you to tell me everything. That’s also why I came here. When I heard what happened, I was so angry and sad—and proud of you. That’s why I’m doing all of this.”

He was lost for words. She knew—and Erin’s legs were shaking from less than a minute of standing. Numbtongue wheeled the chair over so she could sit, but she kept her feet planted, panting. Pisces looked at her and shook his head.

“I’m not as strong as you pretend, Erin. I did not break any chains. I was—rescued at the end. There was no way out by my power alone.”

“No?”

Erin’s legs collapsed. Pisces slowed her, and she landed in the chair. Cursing, Erin stared down at her legs and punched her knee. She looked up at Pisces and didn’t argue with his statement.

“No, then. Fine. Maybe you’re not that strong. But I do think you were that—glorious.”

That single word turned Numbtongue’s head as he politely pretended not to be listening. Pisces blinked, and Erin waggled a finger.

“Don’t let it get to your head. Or rather…do. Do you get it now? Numbtongue, what’re the cute Fraerlings saying?”

She looked embarrassed despite herself, but Pisces saw her glance at him. Then—he turned his head and saw someone striding towards him.

A [Mage].

Unlike the other adventurers, this was clearly a more academic [Mage]. In fact, he had the Mage’s Guild insignia on his robes—a scrying orb and wand. Pisces blinked as the [Mage] made a beeline for the [Receptionist] who’d been staring at him—then to Pisces.

“Adventurer Pisces Jealnet?”

“That is me.”

Erin stopped rolling towards the scrying orb. She stared suspiciously at the [Mage].

“Hey, buddy. If you’re going to talk about bounties or Roshal, now’s not the time. I have my stabbing knife right here.”

She produced the kitchen knife, and the [Mage] eyed her warily. He stared at Numbtongue, but then handed something to Pisces in a hurry.

“I am the vice-Guildmaster of the Mage’s Guild of Invrisil. Let me assure you that I would not be on business for anything less than the most urgent tasks. No matter what is going on—I have a Five Families priority-[Message] for you, Adventurer Jealnet.”

He said the words, and Ser Lormel’s head twisted around, eyes going wide. Half the adventurers in earshot looked up and fell silent. Pisces’ own eyes widened.

That was the top-level priority used by Mage’s Guilds in northern Izril. It was akin to Chaldion or a Walled City sending a [Message].

“To Pisces? Is Magnolia mad? Is it monsters? Crelers?”

Erin squeaked. The vice-Guildmaster looked exasperated.

“Neither. I don’t know how—but it came through our channels, and I was assured it would happen again unless I contacted you at once. Damned Drakes. A [Receptionist] Salii of Pomle can apparently flag a [Message] spell for priority delivery. Do you know her?”

Salii of Pomle? Pisces—had no idea who that was. But Pomle, he knew. Suddenly, his heart began to pound.

“I—may I see the—?”

“Go ahead. I don’t even know what it says. It wrote itself. And it’s magically sealed. [Receptionists].”

The [Mage] looked ready to spit. Pisces cracked the wax seal as easily as any normal one. He looked down at the writing, and his heart stopped for one second.

One painful, glorious second. The first lines were written by a careful claw.

 

Pisces, it’s Eloque writing through Salii who tells me she can get this to you. Are you well? We’re safe in Pomle for now—

 

She was alive. She and Merr, Bearig—Pisces saw several paragraphs, each in a different style, and a note from Salii at the bottom.

His hands were shaking. He only looked up when he heard a yelp from the side. The vice-Guildmaster had tried to take a look and gotten a poke from Numbtongue and a knife-poke from Erin.

“Pisces? Is it good news or…?”

Erin was glancing anxiously at him. Indeed, Ksmvr had turned from his table and was standing up. Pisces didn’t know what his face was like.

“It’s…good. Very good. Thank you for receiving this. Delivering it, rather.”

The vice-Guildmaster looked mollified. He glanced at Pisces face and sniffed.

“Well—for a Gold-rank adventurer, I suppose it isn’t the poorest thing in the world. Please tell that [Receptionist] we can flag you with a City Runner. Normally. You are a Gold-rank adventurer, aren’t you?”

“You don’t know who he is? This is Pisces. Pisces, a member of the Horns of Hammerad. And a [Necromancer].”

Erin waved her hands at Pisces indignantly. The [Mage]’s face turned from slightly welcoming back to frozen.

“A [Necromancer]?”

And there it was again. Pisces closed his eyes. He held the letter tightly and looked down at the words. Something caught his eye.

 

Pisces, m’boy. 

 

Only Merr would do that. He could imagine her laughing as the [Bandit Lady] wrote. Her handwriting wasn’t that bad—okay, it was messy, but for a [Bandit], it was quite legible. Big writing for her flunkies to be able to decipher.

 

We saw you on the scrying orb with the King of Destruction no less. We’re watching you. Stay out of chains and away from Djinni. Nerrhavia’s fallen back, and we’re thinking of what to do, but you don’t get…

 

They saw him? So they had known he was alive, at least. Pisces was already thinking of something to write back. To apologize and ask—

Then he heard Erin shouting and nearly snapped at her. She was going on about his class.

“[Necromancer]. Yes, I know the Necromancer of Terandria was a thing. So what? No, no. Shut up. Listen. This is Pisces. My friend. He’s the Necromancer of…The Wandering Inn. Hell’s Warden. Do you recognize that title?”

Her voice rose, and the people watching the Goblin or the huge fight amongst the adventurers for treasure turned. Numbtongue glanced at Erin, and then she was wheeling next to Pisces, pointing at him.

“He’s the [Necromancer] of the Horns of Hammerad. And he has more levels than any two Silver-rank adventurers put together. Except you Minotaurs. You don’t count. He doesn’t steal dead bodies. He makes undead out of bear bones, and he does teeth too. The next person who says something disparaging? Captain Todi, give them a kick to the shins for me.”

Erin slapped Pisces on the back. Since she was in her chair, she slapped him on the butt instead. Pisces opened his mouth.

“Erin. What are you doing?”

Then she winked up at him and finally explained.

“I’m telling them who you are, Pisces.”

“I was quite aware I was a [Necromancer] hither to your comments, Erin.”

She nodded reasonably.

“Yes—but they weren’t. Look at these people.”

She waved her hands at Keldrass, Drakes and Gnolls, Humans, an Owl Beastkin, and more. Erin shook her head sadly.

“The only [Necromancer] they know is the Putrid One or Az’kerash. And the Putrid One, well, he wasn’t the worst, but he did a lot of horrible things. You, though? You’re a [Necromancer], and you’re also Pisces Jealnet. It’s time people get that into their heads.”

She tapped the side of her head and looked at him. Then, Pisces began to get it. Erin nodded sharply around.

“This is the coolest [Necromancer] you’ll meet on the continent. Probably! Remember his name. Pisces, the Gold-rank member of the Horns of Hammerad. Pisces…the Nose.

Typhenous had poked his head out of the back rooms. He began choking with laughter, and Erin waved her hands as Pisces recoiled.

“Okay, maybe not that name. But—here’s Numbtongue as well. Numbtongue the [Bard]. Numbtongue the…”

“Don’t give me a name. You’re bad at it.”

The Hobgoblin calmly covered Erin’s mouth, and she looked indignant. But her little speech…Pisces saw people looking confused. Then he wondered if her visit to Invrisil had just been for Numbtongue.

No, of course not. He bent down.

“Erin? You have never, to my knowledge, ever bragged once about our association before now. Why the sudden change of heart?”

The [Innkeeper] beamed up at Pisces, a bit misty-eyed.

“Silly. That’s because you had such a huge ego that it would have gone to your head. You were always sniffing and telling everyone how great you were at magic. And yeah, you had a lot of talent, and you were a good person deep down. Buried. Like, a mile down—”

“I understand. What happened?”

The [Innkeeper] dropped her joking. She sniffed, rubbed at her eyes, then smiled up at him.

“—That Pisces was the same guy who went into the Crypt of Liscor and fought Skinner. He was the same person, fundamentally, who went into Albez. Even the person who fought the Adult Creler. But when you went into the Village of the Dead and everything that came after?”

A gentle finger poked Pisces in the belly.

“…He’s changed a bit. It might go to his head—but this Pisces is the guy who bested Roshal. He’s a true Gold-rank adventurer who met the Death of Chains and sailed with Fetohep of Khelt and the King of Destruction. When they meet you, if someone only sees a [Necromancer], they deserve a kick up the butt. That’s why I’m saying it.”

She gestured around at the guild, the street.

“Be prouder of your class, Pisces. Because you represent it.”

Nervously, beet-red, Erin looked up and saw Pisces’ mouth open. He stood there, looking stupefied, and Erin laughed.

“Don’t let it make you too big-headed. Okay?”

She whirled her chair around. And then Pisces felt like the clouds opened. He held his friends’ letter and knew they were alive. He looked up—and it was like a beam of light was shining down, illuminating him.

The first adventurer pushed forwards, glancing at Erin.

“—I don’t know if I’ve ever introduced myself, but we were in the raid together. [All-Terrain Ranger]. I saw your behemoth-thing clear a street when we were about to get swarmed. I thought I’d never get a chance to thank you. Muskrat’s the name.”

“Muskrat? Er—Pisces. I have to thank you for fighting with us.”

“Thanks.”

The Silver-rank sort of deserved his name; he had a scruffy face full of hair all about the same length, from beard and cheeks to head, so it did sort of feel like a feral animal was inhabiting his face. Yet he sat down, and Pisces saw Erin wheel over with some drinks.

“Order up!”

She left them alone, and more adventurers drifted over. Muskrat was not the only adventurer to make a beeline to Pisces. The [Necromancer] pointed at a familiar young man with faintly burnt robes.

“Levil—Pithfire Hounds? Ryoka’s friend? [Inferno Mage]?”

“You remember! And it’s [Inferno Pyromancer] now. Long-burning flames. Nearly burnt down a forest on a request while we’ve been waiting here. Say—you don’t know what’s going on in the back-rooms, do you? Us Silvers are stuck in here hoping the Gold-ranks don’t cut us out. Your friend Yvlon and some like Typhenous are good enough to clue us in, but we’re feeling sort of nervous.”

Pisces glanced towards the back rooms and at Todi. He was all too conscious of how it must feel to be barred from the ‘elite’ circle.

“If I know Ceria and Yvlon, a fair deal is all but guaranteed. They—I will do my utmost to make it fair. I am familiar with…favoritism.”

He tried to assure Levil and the other anxious Silver-ranks. Then, a loud commotion made him turn his head.

Wh—everyone look at the scrying orb! Look!”

The Fraerlings had finished their deliberations in the background. They were going down a list of top 5 adventurers. Noa was happily listing them off.

“Number one is the Titan of Baleros, Lord Astoragon. Obviously. I know he’s retired, but still. Second? I really like the Stargnoll. She’s the youngest Named-rank adventurer in the world! Third. Um. Third is probably Ksmvr of Chandrar. Because he’s an Antinium. Then I think I’d choose the Hell’s Warden of the sea—Resk, what’s her name…?”

Ksmvr. Suddenly, the Antinium was on the news. Ksmvr looked around as the Adventurer’s Guild erupted into cheers and shouting.

“Ksmvr—get in here! You’re on the news!”

Ceria kicked open the door to the back rooms, and Ksmvr got up. So famous even Fraerlings knew his name. Pisces was smiling for Ksmvr, but the Antinium [Skirmisher] turned.

“Comrade Pisces, shall we go?”

Levil fell silent as he grinned at Ksmvr. Pisces heard a clamor from the Gold-ranks, who were not immune to fame.

“—Maybe we can have Ksmvr live-react via scrying orb. Someone contact Wistram—or Drassi—I do know her.”

Keldrass was talking excitedly. Pisces was getting up when he saw the Silver-ranks gazing longingly into the back rooms. Captain Todi was already striding self-importantly forwards. And Pisces had an idea.

He sat right back down. Ksmvr halted on his way into the ranks of Gold-ranks.

“Pisces? What are you doing?”

“I—shall remain right out here, Ksmvr. Take a seat. My legs are exhausted, anyways. And there are more adventurers outside than in. If there are accolades—let them be here.”

Pisces looked around and saw a pair of twinkling eyes. He snapped his fingers and sniffed.

“[Innkeep]! A round for the table, if you would be so good.”

Erin pretended to grumble, but she snatched some drinks from the nearest counter and wheeled them over on her lap.

“Just once, for you, Pisces.”

The Antinium hesitated only a moment, then he clacked his mandibles together.

“Oh, of course. Dominance. You are always ahead of me, Pisces. Indeed. Drinks! Yes.”

He sat down awkwardly, and Pisces heard the notes of confusion from inside. The Gold-rank adventurers hesitated as they realized Ksmvr wasn’t joining them. And Pisces…he saw Todi come right out the door with Typhenous, who hurried to get a seat next to Ksmvr and Pisces. Then—it was like how Erin treated Invrisil.

Pushing and pulling until a dam burst and the Gold-ranks came out of their hiding spots. Especially as a [Mage]—the same vice-Guildmaster from before—came hurtling down the road with a camera crew. He put a huge smile on his face, adjusted his robes, and spoke.

“Is this on? I’m [Vice Guildmaster] Heroom from Invrisil, reporting into Wistram News Network! Ksmvr of Chandrar is, in fact, here, and if Tallguard Noa would like to say a few words—”

Pandemonium. Pisces had gotten up to help extract Erin from the press of bodies. Grumbling at being in a wheelchair, he and Numbtongue rescued her to a safe distance. Pisces found his chair was occupied—by no less than Captain Todi.

Rolling his eyes, the [Necromancer] saw Yvlon in a heated argument with a Gold-rank Captain refusing to look her in the eyes. She was looking dangerously mad.

Ceria was still arguing with the half-Elf from Elia’s team, who kept grabbing her arm, looking more and more distressed. Ceria was ignoring the man, glancing at Ksmvr and Erin with far more interest. And the drinks.

Pisces, though…he was smiling. The crowd outside the Adventurer’s Guild now had more than the Watch or civilians pointing at Numbtongue. They were pressing in, calling for autographs from Ksmvr, trying to get on camera.

“Whoof. And it’s not even my fault this time. See? I don’t cause that much chaos.”

Erin was talking to Numbtongue as they stood near the edge of the crowd. Some people were asking the adventurers to pass autographs to Ksmvr.

Adventurers being adventurers, half of them just signed the slips of cardboard and passed them right back. Someone actually handed Pisces a piece of cardboard.

“I’m sorry, Ksmvr is quite busy. I don’t believe he has time to sign anything.”

Pisces was actually tempted despite himself, but a trio of people—a Human man, woman, and a Gnoll, all younger than twenty—pointed at Pisces.

“No, you! Can you sign it for us?”

“Me? I…?”

Erin turned with delight as Pisces had a wet quill thrust at him. Flustered, he scrawled his name, saw how poor the signature looked, and tried to correct it. But the young woman who’d asked him for it was delighted. She had travel-robes on with the others, and she smelled a bit like dust, and Pisces supposed she too could have used a bath.

“Thank you! You’re him, right? Pisces the [Necromancer]?”

“That’s me.”

He glanced at Erin, and she shrugged, smiling. The young woman had bright indigo eyes. She leaned forward as she took the autograph card.

“I was hoping to meet you. You’re an inspiration. Silvaria be with thee, friend!”

Pisces’ head snapped up. He turned, but she leapt back into the crowd, looking delighted. He caught sight of her pulling her hood up, and Erin frowned.

“What was that, Pisces? Did she just say…?”

“Silvaria’s gone. What did that mean?”

Pisces saw the trio pause and whispered.

“That’s…an old phrase for how we identify each other. They’re [Necromancers].”

The trio stopped and stared at Pisces. With awe on their faces as they fought for the card. Pisces looked at Erin, and she laughed.

“You have fans.

“I have…fans?”

And then it hit Pisces that not all the people looking for Ksmvr or his way were entirely hostile. Some looked just—impressed. Like they were seeing Jasi or Wesle.

Like they had at Albez. And then Pisces turned and heard his name.

“Pisces Jealnet, also a member of the Horns of Hammerad. A [Necromancer]. What do you think about that, Miss Noa?”

Heroom was still interviewing the Fraerling, and Pisces had missed Ksmvr’s undoubtedly-hilarious exchange. Alas! But the next thing the Fraerling said was heard the world over.

“[Necromancers]? Great! We have, like, a hundred in Paeth. Is he the one who made that giant Frost-Behemoth during the raid? He’s so cool as well! Can I see him?”

Then every head turned to him. The young [Necromancers] pointed and screamed. Erin threw up her hands and laughed. Pisces saw the scrying orb turn to him, and the letter flashed in his mind.

 

We saw you on the scrying orb.

 

Were they seeing him now, as Heroom tried to fight his way over? Ksmvr was getting up, but he was tangled with the adventurers. Yvlon was shouting at the Gold-rank Captain, and Ceria was trying to get up as the other half-Elf clung to her robes, pleading.

And Pisces? He looked around and didn’t really know what to do. Erin gave him a slight nudge, and he stumbled forwards. The young man looked back, and she smiled.

“Pisces—”

 

——

 

The Hobgoblin began to play. So that was what it was. He saw Pisces stumble forward, his white robes slightly messy. His untidy brown hair blew in the wind, but when he caught himself, it was gracefully enough. He turned, and you could see the rapier he carried swing around at his side, catching the light.

A [Fencer]’s grace. And a [Necromancer]’s magic. A slightly supercilious, handsome young man who could embarrass himself or be that hero.

What kind of music did he deserve? Numbtongue had it. No power ballad. But yes, it was pop. Sort of.

The song was both bouncy and melancholy. Happily sad, with all the energy that deserved a chorus on the refrain. Erin’s head turned as Numbtongue began to play.

He didn’t quite have the words to express what this was. But then—he’d never heard the terminology he needed. Euro pop, perhaps. Or a disco song from the 1970’s. Glam rock?

Nostalgic. The [Necromancer] looked around, bewildered, then realized that Heroom wouldn’t make it to him. The television crew was being mobbed by adventurers trying to get their five seconds of fame.

But he was in frame. What would he show the world, the watching fans, young and two hundred years old, his comrades in Chandrar, and Noa?

The Gold-rank adventurer paused—then turned his back. He spread his legs slightly, relaxed his shoulders—and up came one arm.

He raised a thumb and stood there, as if he was signaling for a cab on Earth. A Hobgoblin’s gesture. A simple sign to show anyone everything was okay.

It was either cool or embarrassing, and you could take whichever one you wanted. Erin was clapping her hands and laughing, and Numbtongue couldn’t see Pisces’ face, but the Hobgoblin thought he was smiling.

The Hob played on, that chaotic, happy-sad song. And the Horns of Hammerad came out of the crowd. Dignified?

Ksmvr came crowd-surfacing out of the sea and landed on his back-shell, waving all four arms around as he tried to rock back up to his feet.

A giant metal fist punched a Gold-rank Captain past Pisces and Ksmvr as Yvlon, wiping blood from one nostril, advanced on her opponent. She froze as she saw the scrying orb and tried to smile and hide her bloody fist behind her back. She made a peace sign with two fingers.

Last came Ceria, who flipped the half-Elf clinging onto her over the table. She landed on a chest and grabbed a mug and basket of french fries. She swung herself into place next to Pisces, drinking unapologetically in that glimpse of them.

The Horns of Hammerad. Then, Pisces was laughing and trying to look impressive. And he was sure—the laughter wasn’t just coming from Captain Todi and his friends.

In Pomle, the Fraerlings, and whomever you wanted—they were either laughing or cheering and shouting his name.

The [Necromancer]. Yes. But say it right.

This was Pisces, the [Necromancer]. Member of the Horns of Hammerad.

The one you liked. Pisces rubbed at one teary eye and nodded at Erin. At last—he thought he was ready to talk to her.

 

——

 

Smile. A young Fraerling was laughing, around Tallfolk, and she looked like the happiest person in the world. For a moment.

Dreams did come true. Just not for everyone. Yet Niers Astoragon had been the first Fraerling out in the world. If not for his company, perhaps this wouldn’t have followed.

That was an older man’s reward, he supposed. Even so—Niers flew back from Paeth on the Coast after an entire day of talking. He couldn’t spare any more, and while he’d be back—he didn’t have a part in this new city as a contributor.

He was an outsider. Niers couldn’t even blame Ekrn for the decision; the Fraerling’s choice had been as pragmatic as anything else. The Forgotten Wing company was a dangerous ally for Paeth, who would want to play the board.

Having a powerful Fraerling city backing an individual Great Company made it a target for destruction.

It was just—

Not him? Niers Astoragon slunk back to his academy, landing the war-pigeon in the aviary, and stood at the entrance to the Fraer-ways a second.

Foliana was already there to greet him. It might have been Perorn—but the Centauress was another continent away. The Squirrel Beastkin rolled her deathtrap wheelchair around.

“They didn’t want you, did they? Mm. Thought so.”

“I’m so thankful you didn’t tell me beforehand. I couldn’t do with you rubbing it in.”

Niers briskly fed the bird some grapes, patting it on the beak as he avoided looking at her. One giant, furry paw reached up.

“Poor Titan. There, there.”

Niers let her pat the pigeon on the head. He just shook his head and stood as tall as possible. Although his dignity didn’t exactly matter in the aviary, with birds of all sizes chirping, cawing, or honking at him. It was getting fuller than usual. Had the [Beast Master] imported a trained goose? Niers was not riding that thing. He turned to Foliana, smiling ruefully.

“I’m proud of them, truly. They opened their Last Box, you know. They saw…Gnomes. At least, one of them did.”

“Really?”

The patting slowed, and Foliana poked her head up as the pigeon cooed. She offered a hand, and Niers stepped onto it.

“They didn’t say much. Apparently, the Last Box was a kind of weapon against something? The other cities aren’t sure if Paeth is crazy or lying or whether their Last Boxes no longer matter. Neither am I, but the Fraerling who saw the Gnome, Ilekrome, swears that saved his city.”

“Ghosts.”

Foliana wheeled Niers down from the aviary. He nodded, making notes for his spy network.

“Paeth is looking for someone—they didn’t want to tell me who. I’ll try to get it out of the [Strategists]. They might work with Paeth and Talenqual. Who knows?”

“Will they be coming back for lessons?”

“Yes…and won’t that be interesting?”

Niers almost smiled, wondering if Feshi would—no, not her. But it would be something to have the Diamond Swords of Serept sharing a place with Fraerling magic. He looked forwards to that. Foliana hummed quietly.

“And the Goblin told you no.”

“…She did. Although I have an idea about that. Maybe. Something—but we won’t keep the other cities, I think. We’ll have two cities and about six minor ones. That will do, and we’ll put diplomacy first for the others. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not. In all of this running about, did you even eat lunch?”

Niers’ stomach rumbled slightly. He opened his mouth and saw the bloody sunlight streaming through the window as evening deepened.

“—I’m sure I had some snacks in one of the meetings. Haven’t you eaten?”

“Mm. I was going to have a bite just now. Let’s go get food.”

In her way, he supposed the Squirrel Beastkin was being considerate of him. Now, if Perorn were here—he was sure she’d be her annoying self. He hated that she could read him, but if anyone could…

“I guess I can put off meeting Emissary Vuul for a few more minutes. We could do a formal dinner—but I don’t think you’ll go for that.”

Foliana rolled down past the Fraer-ways placed overhead in most hallways. Niers spotted a few servants running down the hallways. Must be rats again. Damn. They were in a hurry. Or maybe they were just having races.

To be young. A pair of servants rushed upwards with baskets heaped with food. Cut small in familiar Fraerling-sized portions. Niers looked amused.

“Going to stuff me full? Or is Vuul—ah, wait. Gindal needs supplies. Can we send a war-hawk with a bag of holding ahead of the troops?”

“Mhm. Good idea. Hmm—let’s eat here.”

Foliana diverted from the dining room. Niers supposed she wanted something poetic, like sipping cups of tea from the balcony. Then she’d tell him he wasn’t old and say something to cheer him up.

A game of chess. He swore he’d seen Erin Solstice in the background with those crazy adventurers.

“The thing about the Goblins is…I had a thought on how to at least make things whole with Reiryul and the other cities. It’s a long shot, but—wait a second. Where are we going?”

They weren’t headed to any balcony or a regular room. Niers had been so lost in his own melancholy-tinged thoughts he hadn’t noticed something was up at first.

Just like when Peclir had betrayed him—only this time, he glanced up and saw the glint in Foliana’s gaze. The too-casual way she turned her wheelchair.

“Foliana…I’m not in the mood for—hey!

She grabbed him as Niers backed up. Her fingers encircled his arms, and he wiggled, outraged, but didn’t activate any of his artifacts. The Squirrel gave him a big smile—then hopped out of her wheelchair.

“Put me down, you giant rat! Put me down. I’m not going to play your games. Oh no. Don’t you dare—

He saw the world move crazily as she raised her arm back. He knew what she was going to do and roared.

You crazy rod—

Then she threw him. For a [Rogue], it was an easy toss. She could put a knife in an opponent’s eye at a thousand paces—hurling a Fraerling through the air without breaking his neck was only a matter of the right motion.

Niers went spinning through the air, not sure where she was yeeting him. His long shout turned into alarm when he saw—she was throwing him straight at a wall.

That was going to hurt, armor or not! Niers braced himself and saw a blur bound past him.

Foliana. She was so fast that she could throw a ball into the air and run to where it was landing if she wanted. He saw her bound over to the wood paneling—and like the Dead Rogue’s Casket—

She slid the panel aside. The secret compartment opened, and Niers realized it was one of the entrances they had built into the Fraer-ways—

—ent! Gah!”

Niers crashed into Fraer-ways and slid down a table, scattering plates, cups, and paper as shouts and screams broke out. He crashed into a chair, went flying over the other end, and landed on his feet.

He remembered his Tallguard training enough to execute an emergency course-corrective flip. Niers was actually proud of that one. He stumbled upright and drew his sword.

Foliana, you are a dead woman! Three-Color Stalker loses an eye today! I did it to the Witch of Webs. I’ll do it to you!

The angry Fraerling was charging across the room at the smirking Squirrel closing the hatch when he saw a cowering figure in front of him.

“Ah, cats. Emissary Vuul? I apologize for—”

Niers froze, sword drawn. That tore it. Foliana, that idiot, had officially severed ties with Reiryul. Niers reached down with his other hand, and then, finally, the room caught up around him.

He’d crashed through a lot of paper and porcelain. Not just your average amount for a Fraerling emissary’s dinner. Piles of paper, really.

And enough to have fed all his guests. Which made sense if Gindal and the other representatives were eating with Vuul, but Niers was almost sure the [Explorer] would rather eat in acid rain than with the Emissary.

Also, two baskets of food would feed every Fraerling, including the servants and Niers, in the citadel for weeks. The hurrying servants he’d seen came together with Niers’ noting the birds in the aviary in one moment.

The Titan slowly looked down at the Fraerling whom he’d never met, then heard someone clear her throat. He looked up and saw a Fraerling sitting at the table with both boots resting on the wood.

“You know how to make an entrance, Titan. Next time, couldya not scatter half our maps to the winds?”

The [Grandmaster Strategist] looked at a woman who reminded him of Ekrn. Not because the hair was the same—hers was fury-red and combed. But her leather armor and the spear leaning against the table were the kind of gear a Fraerling used to mobile fights in the open carried.

She also had actual scars, which made her different from regular Fraerlings at once. In fact—a black eyepatch with an eye painted over the top was giving him the evil eye.

Literally. Niers felt like it was draining some of his energy until the Fraerling flipped the eyepatch up and revealed an empty eye socket. She put her boots down as the rest of the room got up.

“Trapped rooms. I am going to insist we relocate headquarters to a room without access by Tallfolk. Or at least Three-Color Stalker. Our Tallguard didn’t even see it coming.”

A grumbling Fraerling climbed back on what looked like a scrying orb with a pillow on top. He balanced on it as it zoomed left and right, and the papers still landing flew back into their piles.

“That’s on us, Thremagus. We cede our role to Itelloi’s Tallguard. They at least noticed it coming.”

Niers’ head turned, and a man, a Fraerling man, spoke with a slightly muffled sound. Mostly because of the adamantium helmet he wore.

The Crelerbane Armor warrior nodded to a shadow who had dodged Niers when he came flying into the room and pulled two more Fraerlings out of the way. She nodded and flicked a weighted dagger towards Foliana’s fingers as the [Rogue] went to close the opening.

Niers saw a blur—and the dagger came flying back. The Fraerling wearing a shifting veil of shadows caught the dagger.

Nimble. For a Tallfolk.”

Titan of Baleros. Good to see you! You’re looking as exciting as ever!”

Before Niers could say anything, the last figure in the room strode up, seized Niers, and nearly cracked his ribs.

The biggest Fraerling yet, a huge, broad-shouldered figure, grinned widely as he squeezed Niers out of breath. He put Niers down, and the Titan saw a beetle shell armor, bright blue with a slightly prismatic shine to it, covering his body.

“Commander Rozcal? What is Reton’s Tallguard doing here?”

Niers recognized this Fraerling of all the others. The far south of Baleros was hot, humid, and the Fraerlings there were protected by the Tallguard of Reton. Their leader was famous for wrestling giant beetles.

Rozcal laughed.

“Waiting for you! I didn’t think you’d come flying in, but that’s just like the first time we met. Dragging an entire army onto my doorstep with you and that blasted squirrel. Foliana’s looking well. We brought de-cursing artifacts as a gift, but apparently some [Innkeeper] beat us to it!”

Niers Astoragon, once he could breathe, looked around and saw the room again, clearly. The Fraerling with her boots up on her table raised one hand.

“Lord Titan. I’m going to call you Titan or Niers. Please do likewise. Eirnos of Culqe of Eyes. And to be clear—we’re not going to go on officer-killing runs for your wars. My Tallguard don’t go on suicide missions.”

He just looked at her. Niers’ mind was spinning, but he didn’t miss the other armed Fraerlings and helpers clustered at the entrances to the Meeting Rooms. Watching him. Not all were as cool as the ones in this room. They pointed at him, and then Niers felt it.

[Battlefield Awareness]. He could pull up an awareness of the surrounding area. Even if they weren’t foes—his ability to see things from above via [Hawk’s Surveillance] was no help here, but Niers could still get a rough count.

How many Fraerlings are in my academy?

He couldn’t count them. The Fraer-ways hummed with motion, and then Niers saw Explorer Gindal, righting a cup of spilled tea. He looked around and spoke.

“I apologize, guests of the Forgotten Wing Company. My commander, Foliana, likes to play pranks. I hope I haven’t disturbed much?”

“It’s your cutlery.”

Eirnos tossed a broken bit of plate back on the table. The other Fraerlings sat down, and Niers looked around.

Damn Foliana. The obvious thing to do would be to say, ‘what’s happening?’ and get a response. But that was embarrassing. It was a game, and so he improvised.

“I’m sure this has been asked but can I get you anything? Are you all settled?”

“We could use your actual reports on the movement of Jungle Tails. And—frankly—we’re going to want more rooms. Actual, Tallfolk rooms.”

Eirnos seemed to be in charge, because she answered while checking her nails. Her boots were still up, and Niers stared at them.

The boots stayed where they were.

“Is it—Commander Eirnos? I’ve never been to Culqe.”

Niers tried. The Fraerling woman smiled at him, and he thought she knew he had no idea what was going on.

“Technically, I’m Commander of the Tallguard for my region. If you’ve never heard of Culqe and have no idea what it is, let’s keep it that way. If the Titan doesn’t know—we’re doing our jobs. I think I’ve been appointed—what was it? Iuncuta-Commander in interim. I don’t report to you, in other words. But we’ll share resources.”

“Naturally.”

Niers tried again. The other Fraerlings were all watching him, and Rozcal’s chuckle was loud behind Niers.

“Three-Color Stalker didn’t tell him after all. I told you she was like that.”

Gindal laughed, and the room filled with chuckles as Niers sighed and relaxed. The jig was up. He raised his hands.

“I can guess. Let me give it one shot.”

His heart was pounding out of his chest. He nodded to the embarrassed Fraerling in armor.

“Crelerbane forces. At least…three Tallguard representatives, and I’m counting two Commanders of entire Tallguard regions.”

He nodded at Rozcal and Eirnos. He got nods, and the shadowy Fraerling raised her hand.

“I’m not a commander. Just our representative. A huge admirer, Titan.”

Niers blinked, and then went on, somewhat unsteadily. A feeling was rising in his chest, and he gazed around as he made logic out of this.

“—This is an unprecedented meeting. If I’m right, my academy has thousands of Fraerlings in it.”

“More arriving tomorrow. But go on.”

Eirnos looked at him, and Niers took a breath. That all but confirmed it.

“Your title. That’s old-language. Might I ask what it means?”

Her eyes glinted, and she grinned. She had pointed teeth—some difference in biology?

Iuncuta means ‘combination’. A fancy title for someone appointed joint head of…”

“…A multi-settlement task force. You’re here about the ransomed Fraerling city.”

Niers finished. His heart was pounding, but no other reason in the world would make so many Fraerlings gather. He amended that.

“Either that or you’re here on behalf of Paeth. Or to take me to task for failing to protect Oierdressql.”

He hoped it wasn’t that last one, but the Fraerlings nodded. Each one, the [Mage] on the floating seat, Eirnos, Rozcal, took a seat as they faced the Titan. Eirnos spoke, pointing one finger at him.

“You’re correct, Titan. We represent over sixteen cities.”

Sixteen? Niers had never been to that many actual cities in his life. Even other Fraerlings didn’t know where their cousins were exactly, for safety. Yet Eirnos went on.

“We’re here to take Jungle Tails to account. If a Fraerling city is held hostage and if our people are alive—we will free them. Great Company or not. Paeth is free to do what they wish, but we’ll have words. But you were only half-right. We came here seeking Forgotten Wing support, and your Foliana agreed to lend us soldiers, resources, and your academy. We’ll be headquartering here, rather than any one city in case of reprisals and so that we’re unified. You are not our commander, but I will be working with you.”

The hairs on the back of his neck were rising. Niers saw the Fraerlings nodding and felt the buzz in his academy. So many Fraerlings. Thousands?

But he’d built Elvallian to hold that many. They’d have to open the old rooms, ensure everything was safe—Niers looked into the eyes of the Tallguard, and she was not afraid of him. She knew exactly who he was. That was why she’d sought him out.

“The second reason we came in such numbers is because every single one of us might be needed. If it was just Nagas, we’d send kill-teams into their forts when we found them. However, our Farspeakers have been talking, and we agree—no one city alone can hope to pierce into the Dyed Lands. The colors are not ceasing their advance. Monsters are overrunning cities nonstop. It’s not just Fraerlings in danger.”

The Dyed Lands. Niers exhaled, and Gindal spoke up.

“If my people are there—I will find them. But if not, a Great Company needs to halt this disaster. Worse might follow. Niers Astoragon, are you willing to send the Forgotten Wing at this foe?”

It was a formality, but they all watched his expression. And oh, but he tried. The Titan did his best—

But was it wrong that he smiled? Despite the loss of life, despite the danger? He knew it was wrong, because it would be costly and people would die—

Yet, at last. At last, a foe without morality. A cause—people to save. The Titan of Baleros looked around and saw his people in his home. He straightened his back and nodded.

“I couldn’t build you a city. Nor keep other settlements safe. I will admit, the Forgotten Wing company guards its own interests, and we grab for power.”

He looked from face to face as they watched him.

“…I can’t protect or save or liberate. But war? I can do war. Welcome to the Forgotten Wing Company.”

Then, at last—he did smile.

 

——

 

Rhisveri Zessoprical stood among the immortals of Ailendamus. Well, it was impossible for him to stand with his real body, but his representative stood.

Better that than a sock puppet. If that was the judge and arbiter, Ryoka Griffin would laugh her way to the headsman’s block.

…Was it going to be that? She didn’t think so. She hoped not. If she was going to die—well, Ryoka thought it would be so fast no one could stop him.

So she waited as Visophecin and the others watched Rhisveri. He looked…calm. Menorkel was there. Gilaw was not.

She didn’t want to look at Ryoka. Even now, Menorkel gazed at Ryoka, replaying Fithea’s death.

There was a remove in the immortals, and many gazed at Ryoka with more wariness than they had shown any other mortal. She had brought death to Ailendamus, but even more—the knowledge that their great kingdom might not be the biggest fish. The ocean was pouring in, and they were afraid.

Fearful people did silly things. Perhaps immortals had learned their lessons, but Rhisveri was learning what it was like to lose someone. Possibly for the first time.

Yet he spoke, rather grandly, into the silence.

“Here stands a thief.”

Oh no, not again. Uziel rolled his eyes, and Visophecin looked exasperated. However, Rhisveri went on.

“Here stands a thief. A knave who has not only stolen the knightly virtues of several members of Ailendamus’ most elite warriors—”

Ryoka turned beet red. He was bringing that up?

“—But a murderer who has slain Fithea, the last of Dryads. She has attempted bribery of heads of state, endangered the life of Ailendamus’ royal family, slandered a number of those present—”

“Oh, come on. Rhisveri. Will you really do this? You might as well add kicking Sariant Lambs to her list of crimes.”

Uziel wheeled his chair around and snapped at Rhisveri. One of the Merfolk looked horrified.

“She did that?”

“If she did, I vote to pardon her on the spot.”

Azemith called out lightly, and chuckles ran through the crowd. Rhisveri, however, just stared at Azemith until the Lucifen’s expression darkened and she fell silent.

There was a danger in the air, and Visophecin was watching Ryoka. He had one hand in his pocket, and the Wind Runner didn’t know it, but he had a dart enchanted with a [Teleportation] spell coded to go through Ailendamus’ wards.

It might hurt, but it would hurt less than Rhisveri melting her. The Wyrm was…too calm.

“She has done more damage to Ailendamus than any one individual. More, even, than Archmage Eldavin. Yet many of those gathered here claim she is no more than a hapless agent and should be pardoned and treated as an ally.”

The Duke turned to Sophridel, and the Elemental of Masks spoke up.

“She is worth far more alive than dead, Rhisveri. That is purely logical. You may add disruption to the Court of Masks and attempted assassination of an Archmage to her crimes.”

Rhisveri snorted lightly.

“I will. Although I take your meaning. All of these crimes may be excused. All—save one. And that is slaying an Immortal of Ailendamus. I have said it—there can be no other answer than death.”

“Hear, hear! Off with her head!”

Lady Paterghost pumped one fist into the air before Nube made her take it down. No one else joined in, much to her displeasure. Rhisveri was looking at Ryoka.

What was his answer to his rage and sadness? She hadn’t figured out a suitable bribe before he summoned her here. There was no bribe, frankly. Offering something for a life, any life, let alone a Dryad’s?

“—I have deliberated long on this matter. At last, I have decided Ryoka Griffin is free to go pending one condition.”

The immortals looked astonished. Even Visophecin. Then worried—this sudden about face did not bode well. Ryoka gulped.

“If I can just say—”

A Rhisveri sock-puppet popped out of the ground, smacked her so hard the stick broke, and vanished. The immortals stared at the swearing Courier and then at Rhisveri. He pretended nothing had happened, and even for the ageless of Ailendamus—you really had to doubt the proof of your eyes.

“As I was saying. I am willing to overlook the death of Fithea given the circumstances, but a price must be paid. A price…rendered unto me and Ailendamus. Fitting for the death of the last Dryad. Ryoka Griffin. You came here to save your friend, this ‘Erin Solstice’, and steal a treasure to effect that. A task beyond belief. An impossible quest, one might say. Since <Quests> seem to be the thing of the day, I think I shall assign you one as well. Though I have no Skills, I will enforce it with a simple…time limit.”

He pointed at her, and Ryoka’s heart sank. Uh oh. Rhisveri pondered, tapping his lips.

“One year. Oh, very well, ten.

He amended it as Visophecin shot him a long glare. Rhisveri snapped his fingers.

“Ten—and until that moment, Ryoka Griffin is not to set foot in Ailendamus. She will contact no immortals nor have any aid rendered to her, not even word or look. Ten years and she dies if every soldier in the Kingdom of Glass and Glory must hunt her down. I’m sure ten is enough for a task just as impossible as the first.”

She’d done impossible quests before. Ryoka licked her lips. How bad could it be? Rhisveri’s smile was too-wide.

“Are you ready, Courier?”

“I—I am. How can I redeem myself, Duke Rhisveri?”

The Wyrm raised one hand.

“You slew the last Dryad in the world. The last of a race. Her dream was for her kind to flourish, and it will be centuries, millenia, perhaps, before a forest in Ailendamus can bear her kind.”

Uh oh. Ryoka knew what he was going to say before he said it. Sweat began to roll down her spine.

Rhisveri went on.

“Then—it would be eminently suitable for you to make this up by finding a child to fulfill that wish. Render unto Ailendamus a Dryad. Find a child or let a forest birth one into the world and bring them here.”

Oh no. Ryoka was sweating now, and the Lucifen and Agelum were protesting. But the other immortals were nodding. Rhisveri held up one finger with a smile.

“Ah—but one more thing, Ryoka Griffin? As Fithea was of this world—so must the Dryad be. No outsiders. Ten years. When you leave, a geas will bind you and slay you if you so much as send a [Message] to anyone here.”

Ten years. An impossible task. Visophecin was arguing along with Sophridel, but the Wyrm’s eyes fixed Ryoka with a look.

Anger, grief…and almost hope. Desire. Not just greed. He was such a damn liar.

Show me her future. Show me another. Can you do it?

Ryoka Griffin closed her eyes as the immortals looked at her. She bowed her head…then a thought occurred to her.

“Wait a second. Maybe…”

She had a sudden thought. Didn’t she know of a certain seed? It was a super-long shot, but she suddenly recalled—

The Wyrm’s face went slack as Ryoka’s look of determined despair gave way to a sudden thought. He glanced at Visophecin, and the Lucifen’s eyebrows had vanished into his hairline.

“Wait. You don’t know where a Dryad child is, do you?”

“N-no. But I’ll try to—I mean, who would?”

Ryoka put her hands behind her back. Lady Paterghost stage-whispered to the others.

“She is lying.”

“Even one of my fair cousins could tell you that. You know where a Dryad’s child is? No, you must know where a seed is.”

“I don’t—”

Ryoka flushed, and Rhisveri looked sideways at Uziel. The Agelum was chortling. Rhisveri looked left and right.

“…I also want an elixir of immortality. Do you know where to find one of those? Oh, and a flying island.”

He spoke incredibly sarcastically. Ryoka shook her head. But then hesitated.

If King Arthur was in the lands of the fae…why not Gilgamesh or something? And would a spaceship count as—?

The immortals of Ailendamus watched Ryoka’s face. One of the Merfolk raised a hand.

“Ask her if she can also produce a fountain of youth. See? She’s thinking about it.”

The exasperated Wyrm silenced the others, but he looked at her. Questioningly. Ryoka raised her head to meet his gaze and nodded.

“I don’t know if I can do it—but I can try.”

The Wyrm nodded. He raised one hand, and Ryoka felt the magic in the room intensify.

“In that case, I bind you to your task. Stand back. The [Greater Geas] will—”

Rhisveri broke off. The magic surging around the room, visible like mist in the air, abruptly went still. All the immortals looked at him—then up.

A shrill siren began to blare from one of Uziel’s pendants. A high-pitched whine above most people’s hearing came out of one of Visophecin’s rings. Rhisveri’s eyes opened wide, and he cursed.

Name of Djinni! What’s breaking through the—

Sophridel spoke urgently.

“Someone is shattering our teleport wards. They’re teleporting over the border.

“It’s the Archmage!”

One of the immortals shouted in alarm. Visophecin’s eyes narrowed.

“No. It’s not. To arms.”

Ryoka’s head slowly rose, and Rhisveri’s eyes found her. She felt her heart squeeze in her chest suddenly.

There was only one person it could be. Only one would have reason to be here. She was running outside with the others when they saw the air warp. It was almost unnoticed in the clouds, but Ryoka saw something emerge. She didn’t see what it was—it vanished too soon, and Azemith cursed.

“It went invisible! [Greater Invisibility]. Did I see it right?”

“Yes. You did. I think a guest has come to Ailendamus. Rhisveri?”

“I am going to greet him. I didn’t expect this. Bold, to teleport in. He must fear nothing.”

The Wyrm whispered. His fake form vanished, and Ryoka whirled to the palace in alarm.

Bold indeed, to teleport into the nest of immortals. It bespoke an arrogance typical of his kind—enough to alarm even Visophecin because of the sheer confidence.

Or—perhaps—if you thought about it another way—it was the act of a Dragon who reached the sea and decided there was no way he was going to fly or float across that. Azemith looked at Visophecin.

“Was it a…?”

The Lucifen looked at Ryoka and nodded.

“Yes. It was a Dragon.”

 

——

 

[Goblin Soulbard Level 37!]

[Skill – Song: Ballad of the Horns of Hammerad created.]

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: This is the longest chapter of Volume 9 yet. I regret everything.

Would you believe…I had the entire confrontation with Teriarch planned as part of this chapter? I guess old habits still die hard.

Anyways, I have a lot to say. But I am so exhausted I can’t say it. In brief—I hope this chapter was in some way good. I worry that I lacked for sleep or energy and didn’t hit every scene, but I tried, darn it.

You’ve gotta try. This is where editing might have really helped, but I’ve worked for at least 18 hours over three days. Probably more. I’m gonna hit publish soon and hope you like it. Uncertainty, hard work, and the death of hands.

This is The Wandering Inn’s style. Thanks for reading and see you next chapter. I have no idea what it’ll be about. Persua, probably.

 

How to Carry Your Innkeeper by ArtsyNada!

 

Belavierr and Angry Belavierr by seenkay!

 

Cast of The Wandering Inn by butts! (Yes, that was their username.)

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.06

“Hail.”

A simple greeting yet, as with everything of their kind, the nuance had layers of history behind it.

Meaning that even they had forgotten.

Hail. The other Dragons spread their wings, answering the brief comment with motion, not words. He folded his own wings as he landed. A gesture of peace among allies, however contentious their pasts. When he opened those wings again—everything burned.

“Hail, Teriarch.”

It was not the largest among them that greeted him. Size did not equal strength among Dragons. True potency of spirit, true danger came from the quality of scale and fang. The intensity of their eyes and breath.

Even that could fool. Many of his kind had fallen to foes who did not signal their strength. Yet the Lord of Flame nodded back to his equal among this company.

This last gathering of Dragonlords.

“Khetieve-Xool.”

His name was longer. Just like ‘hail’, their language was economical. A sign of the times. In the past, they would have had flowery phrases, elaborate ways to signal meaning and respect. The way you adorned your scales. The flick of a tail, almost reminiscent of Goblin language. Subvocalizations.

Not now. Not here. Hail was a word with the oldest meaning. It was a universal greeting. Many cultures had adopted it, but the Dragonlord of Flame did not know the nation that had first adopted it. Perhaps…no species that had first drawn breath on this world had.

Perhaps it came from beyond, from travellers and knowledge older than the world’s soul. A simple world. Like Khetieve’s name.

The Dragonlord of Waters belonged in the sea. Everything about him was adapted for speed underwater; his neck bore no mane but fins. He had gills and lungs, and even his talons were different. They were serrated, to cut a foe and leave them bleeding.

His teeth—when he spoke—shifted slightly. Even now, they unsettled Teriarch, and they were long acquaintances.

Not teeth, but a kind of melding between hair and bone. Like ivory which could adapt, from tearing fangs to baleen-like structures from the mouths of whales that filtered simple algae.

Water Dragons—how much of the world knew them—were not carnivorous by nature. Typical Dragons of air and land were omnivores, but they preferred meat. Most Dragons who had evolved in the water did not hunt even by nature or inclination.

Yet Khetieve was fiercest of his kind. Far more deadly than any Dragon born in the modern ages. That was why he had survived.

He was long weary of war. The Dragonlord of Flame waited for Khetieve to reconfigure his mouth to form words as precisely as he wished. The Dragonlord of Water had perfect diction, even for his kind.

“Khetieve will do. Xool is no longer mine, even in name. I relinquished it. The Iron Vanguard has claimed it.”

“You did not contest them?”

Perhaps that was an insult if he had been driven off. However, the Dragonlord simply spat—such a disgusting gesture from an elegant personage. Yet it was how his kind expressed themselves in water.

“We need it not. The Seatouched will leave land be. I hear the Dullahans even kept the name. May they keep their cities and rot.”

His tone was no less bitter, despite the light way he spoke. He could have cursed them with language so powerful a [Witch] would struggle to match him with spells. Yet he was resigned.

“This era is breaking down. Will we ever reconvene here, I wonder?”

A Dragonlord with feathers, not scales, spoke as the two oldest Dragons exchanged words. Another time—Teriarch might have snarled at her, in pride, for there was an order here.

Hierarchy was dead. Dragons were dead. The Dragonthrone’s seats lay empty—the others had come for battle.

Some wore armor. One carried a glowing spear, which floated around him, dancing with disintegration. Some, like Khetieve, trusted only to their abilities.

Teriarch’s armor was blasted in places. The truegold corroded. Green smoke still rose from the metal. He broke off from his light conversation. Nodded.

“Whatever happens next, the Dragonthrone will be used. This is the last beach. The mortals have drawn back. Whomsoever chooses to leave—”

“Do not offer us three times, Terrium.”

A hissing retort from a Wyvern, her scales dark like shadows. Teriarch glanced at her and, for a moment, wished the last Dragonlord who could join them in this stand were here.

Dragonlord of War. But she fought seldom with allies of their kind.

In the days to come—the last three Dragonlords to survive would be he, Khetieve, and the absent Dragonlord. The others would not die here. Not all of them.

Only three would survive the following eras. When the Creler Wars began, they would not gather here. It would be a mockery, three in a Dragonthrone meant for dozens of Dragonlords and hundreds below them.

He did not know it, but he knew it. Teriarch exhaled and nodded, and the Dragonlords walked across the throne, towards the boundary where this reality merged with the next. Proudly, heads held high, lungs filled with magic.

“—I am weary.”

The Dragonlord of Flames spoke as he walked. His head emerged from the Dragonthrone, and he saw a beach, torn by smoking craters of acid. Dead mortals, who had fought next to titans.

“Weary. Let us end this. Mortals need not join this. Whatever comes of this moment—we shall settle this long war here.”

The Dragonthrone shone behind him. A vision—a physical presence that divided the sand and water. A gateway into one of the greatest treasures of Dragons.

The mortals were watching from their ships. Harpies, flying cover over half-Elves and the loyal Drakes. Gnoll adventurers and Drowned Folk and more.

Watching.

He was not just speaking to his kin. The Dragonlord’s claws crunched on sand turned to glass. Chandrar’s green landscape stretched out before him, and the Dragonlords began to count.

They were outnumbered. Six-to-one. Twelve Dragons and one Wyvern spread out, facing the twisting figures that turned from their feeding upon carrion on the beach.

Yet these were no monsters. No thoughtless foes. They were princes and princesses. And—making the Dragons seem as children before true giants—

The Great Wyrms of Chandrar. The Dragonlords halted, and Teriarch spoke. To his cousins as they laughed and mocked him, as three continents’ armies fled in defeat. In that fragile moment of overconfidence where they gathered against their overwhelmed foe for the greatest of prizes.

They were vulnerable. All it would take was resolve. A battle with no quarter. A simple trick.

“Seal the Dragonthrone once a third pass into it.”

Khetieve’s mental voice was so quiet even the Wyrms wouldn’t hear. The Dragonlord of Skies answered him with a single flap of her wings. There was nothing left to do now. So Teriarch, the Dragonlord of Flames, dipped his head once as he met the Wyrms upon the sands.

“Hail, cousins.”

 

——

 

It took but a moment. Then he was descending. And his body felt far heavier, his wings less sure, and he wore no armor and flew with no one at his side.

That was how memory worked. One second to see that particular shade of scales. Jade green, a pale underbelly like a riverbed shining bright under a path of grass.

Green eyes, green scales, not mismatched like so many Dragons. A different kind of green within, though, like the wilds of a world inside, an overgrown landscape. Capable of wisdom and intellect.

All the Brass Dragon remembered in those familiar eyes—and he had seen thousands—was wrath. Contempt. Greed.

One look and he knew who had spawned the last Wyrm he had ever thought to meet. A name rose to his lips.

“Zessoprica.”

A single Wyrm cunning enough to let the Great Wyrms charge before her. Wise enough to fall back at their disastrous defeat.

The last Great Wyrm of this world. Or so Teriarch had thought. Another lay before him, his body undulating with threat.

He wasn’t even young. This Wyrm was…if not the largest that Teriarch had ever seen, one in his prime. No Wyrm could reach that size in two thousand years.

He also had magical training—Teriarch detected a dozen quick pulses, as adept as anything he could have conjured. It caught him off-guard, but the Wyrm probably found nothing more than the residue of teleportation and a few ward spells.

Who taught this Wyrm magic? He was unsettlingly good. If Teriarch had engaged in a battle of spellcraft, he might have…well, it would have become a contest of magical depth as much as finesse.

In that sense, the Dragon was at a disadvantage. He did not understand why Rhisveri’s eyes narrowed so dangerously or why he swept past Teriarch’s own magical wards.

It was as if they’d met before. Or at least, some version of Teriarch had. The Dragon tried to adjust his pace.

He was walking forwards like he was preparing for battle. Calm—he lowered his head slightly, attempted to smile.

However, he felt like he was walking upon older battlefields. His wounds ached.

Was this why he’d been called back? No—and no again. Humility.

The Dragon had taken a measure of Ailendamus as he flew in. A new Terandrian kingdom with merely two hundred years of backing? He—didn’t recall it.

But he didn’t remember anything in the last century, only bare fragments. It was conceivable he hadn’t paid attention or noticed, but in hindsight, the sudden rise to power was obvious.

No matter where he looked, he saw immortals. They had signaled him away from the capital, towards what looked like a former battlefield. Recent; it must have been the site of the last conflict between the Dawn Concordat and Ailendamus.

More and more elements made sense as the Dragon glanced left and saw a line of wary figures stalking him. Dignified—they had the whiff of fire, but there was more darkness about them. Even without that or the other telltale features, like the teeth, horns, and tails he could spot through their illusions, there was no mistaking their kind.

“The Lucifen. Wonderful. And Agelum. When did they make peace?”

That made him rethink his decision—again. Lucifen ruling a nation seldom turned out well. Then he reminded himself he wasn’t coming to dictate anything.

The Merfolk put him exactly in the opposite direction. Teriarch blinked at them. He hadn’t expected to see…

A Griffin was flying around him as the Dragon walked forwards. He heard whisper-spells telling her to back away. She was challenging him, but she was barely a sixth his size; a child.

It was conceivable she had been born in Kaliv or another Griffin territory. If there were no others, she was a wild royal.

Was the Wyrm kidnapping children from other lands?

Peace. Peace. Teriarch had steeled his will against whatever he might see. However heinous—wait first, then act.

He could ill-afford battle. Especially here, but the world had greater issues before it, and he had no allies. None—unless a Walled City he had no knowledge of in its current form counted. Or…

The [Maid] claimed he had one of the Five Families on his side. It sounded too ludicrous to be a lie, even if she’d managed the Skills. However, he was wary of whatever that had looked like.

Reinharts. A Walled City. A Wyrm-led coalition of the immortalis. Not ideal allies. And he had so many foes to contend with.

The dead rulers. Seamwalkers. The ill-fated Necromancer he vaguely remembered. And the Antinium.

He had been asleep too long. Even his note-spells, such as they were, seemed to indicate he had been in contact with this Magnolia Reinhart less and less.

A mortal weariness in my bones. I couldn’t even fly to First Landing. 

…Who in their right minds had chosen him as the ghost to bring back and lay the burdens of the world upon? Anyone else! That high-and-mighty Xarkouth, Saracandre, even Yderigrisel! If there was any Dragon who would relish a nigh-impossible quest against some horrific foe…

All gone. How did a Dragon mourn? Teriarch had not done it yet. He had awoken in despair and duty and come here first, after seeing all that had passed. He walked towards the Wyrm until he stared up at the giant serpent, coiled upon himself as if to strike.

Already, the negotiations were not going well. The Wyrm was not even hiding his killing intent. He was, like a snake, ready to shoot forwards.

The silence thickened as the immortals surrounded him in a semi-circle. Some looked patently disbelieving. Others—wary. Why did he see fear in so many eyes?

What did my shadow do? Another stab of guilt, but the Dragon did his best.

He opened his mouth, and his pre-prepared speech came to his lips. As before, so again.

“Hail, Cousin. Hail, descendant of Zessoprica. Hail, Great Wyrm of Ailendamus. I greet thee as—wait. Where did you get that?

The narrow-eyed Wyrm was baring his fangs, venom-acid dripping from his furious maw, when the Brass Dragon suddenly turned, fixed Culnous, the leader of the Merfolk, with an incredulous stare, and pointed one claw.

The old Merfolk raised the trident instantly, and a globe of pale, pinkish water enveloped the Merfolk. They backed up, and half the immortals tensed, but Teriarch was staring at the trident.

“That’s Khetieve’s Warden Trident. You’re Merfolk under his protection. What happened to him?”

Culnous froze, eyes opened wide, but then, at the name of the Dragonlord of Waves, blurted a reply.

“You know the missing guardian? No one has seen him since the Creler Wars! The sanctuaries were abandoned. This is his relic.”

“Haven’t seen him since the—is he dead? He shouldn’t be. He was only wounded—very badly, but he cannot be dead.

The Dragon was horrified. Culnous looked at another of his people, and she called out.

“No one saw him. He retreated below where even we can swim—but then, an earthquake shook the entire sea floor. He never returned.”

“He wouldn’t have been buried. Even wounded, he could call for help. Wait. Earthquakes…was that when those idiotic [Archmages] tried to sink Rhir and it backfired?”

“We—don’t know. Only four of the Oldest were alive, then. With his passing, the monsters grew bolder and bolder. We had to flee our sanctuaries after the second Kraken attack. And after that—our tridents—”

Rhisveri opened and closed his mouth in the way of someone who really, really wanted to interrupt the conversation with an expletive or pure violence—but who was also aware he had no opening and was intrigued despite himself.

Teriarch had completely forgotten the Wyrm for a moment.

“He can’t be dead. He was so badly wounded, yes, a lesser Dragon would have succumbed. Those damn Crelers ate his first heart. But he was going to live. He was…the Warden Tridents are nearly out of power. He didn’t tell you how to recharge them?”

“They’re rechargeable?”

Culnous almost dropped the trident he was holding. Teriarch closed his eyes for a moment.

Khetieve. He always did favor rechargeability over permanence in artifacts to let him squeeze in more useless enchantments. Didn’t you have a Moontide leypool?”

“The Crelers—”

“Oh. Oh no. I see. They would have attacked that first. What a compounded disaster. The tridents naturally recharge on ambient mana, but to bring them to full strength, Khetieve probably made them artistically annoying. They only gather mana actively under the full moon or underwater or what not. I can take a look after this and…”

Teriarch’s mouth kept moving, but suddenly the Dragon’s scales rippled as if he shivered slightly. His right eye swiveled over to the Wyrm, and his voice adopted a slightly stilted quality, as of someone who realized he’d gotten way, way off topic.

“…naturally, the last Dragonlord of Waves’ fate is one of my deepest concerns. He was practically like a brother to me. It overwhelms my sense of propriety, which is why I greet this gathering of the immortalis with even more profound respect. For you harbor those under my kin’s protection. Hail, Cousin. I thank you twice, then, for your gracious role as protector.”

He swiveled the rest of him back to Rhisveri, and the Wyrm’s glower practically reflected itself in Teriarch’s huge smile with all his teeth. As pivots went—well.

Ryoka had seen worse.

 

——

 

She wasn’t standing next to the immortals. For one thing, Rhisveri didn’t trust her. For another, Visophecin himself didn’t trust her.

She was a bargaining chip, so they left her with the younger immortals like Paxere and the young Merfolk. They were watching via scrying spell, and Ryoka was about to pee herself with nerves.

It was him. And yet—it wasn’t quite him.

The distraction from the main topic? Entirely Teriarch. Yet she felt like he was still a bit—off. He was so—well.

Humble. She had never, ever, seen Teriarch do anything like bow to someone, and even the head-bob he did was entirely awkward. But aside from that, he looked like she remembered. He didn’t sound like Eldavin—wrong from the first words out of his mouth.

Her heart was squeezing itself against her ribs, and Ryoka squeezed so tightly she heard a bah. Then the Sariant Lamb bit her.

The Wind Runner loosened her grip, and the lamb glared up at her, but even it was watching the moment. Azemith kept glancing at Ryoka.

“It’s a Dragon. A Gold Dragon?”

“No. More like…brass. A Brass Dragon? Does that mean it’s weaker?”

The other Lucifen were debating. Ryoka turned and stared.

“Weaker?”

“Gold surely beats brass in terms of metallics. Let me see—yes, Brass Dragons. No such thing as bronze. Silver, Gold…no Platinum. Perhaps we’re dealing with a weaker variant of the kind?”

Weaker? His simulacrum nearly stormed Ailendamus!”

Paxere’s eyes gleamed with triumph. Ryoka’s were filled with indignation.

“Aha. So it was the same Dragon. We Lucifen have battled their kind, you know. Rhisveri has fought them before.”

She looked triumphant at getting this tidbit out of Ryoka and immediately began whispering to Visophecin. Ryoka just stared at Paxere.

“…You’re no Visophecin. I told everyone that.”

Paxere’s triumphant look faded. She opened her mouth, but Visophecin himself spoke through the stone in their link.

“Brass Dragons are merely a type. They have no hierarchy metallically, Paxere. This is no ordinary Dragon. No younger Lucifen are to approach if an altercation begins. Sophridel has confirmed Ryoka’s name. This is Teriarch, a Dragonlord. One of the greatest Dragons ever to fly the world over. Do not let Ryoka Griffin approach him. Silence your communication spell.”

“Yes, Visophecin.”

Paxere fumbled with the stone, and Ryoka experienced a moment of vicarious pride. Right until it shifted back to worry.

They recognized him. Yes, some of them did. Many immortals, from Paterghost to Paxere, didn’t know the name. But the old ones did. They knew Teriarch like Ryoka knew of them.

Legends unto immortals. Sophridel’s masks, hanging in the veil of shadows, all turned to Teriarch with expressions of unease. Visophecin adjusted his posture as the Lucifen spread out into a battle formation. Rhisveri was still tensed, snarling.

 

——

 

“I wish we had a dragonslayer’s sword. We had a nice one before that damned Goblin King attacked.”

Uzine planted the eighteenth blade fifty paces away from the last one. He was still in his wheelchair. When he stood, he’d fight. But he might need even the scraps of energy it took to stand right now.

Dragonlord. Even the Agelum had few in their number who had met one—anymore. But then, they did die; their immortality was tainted by their shattered health.

Some of Visophecin’s predecessors had known Dragonlords, Uzine well knew. Not just met them, but had relationships both adversarial and amicable.

Damn. This wouldn’t be like fighting a regular Dragon. Eighteen blades, and each one was one of the finest weapons in Ailendamus’ armory, meant for their [Generals] or champions. Rhisveri had made three of them; the other immortals all but two.

Each one might break if it came to battle. Hence, Uzine spacing them out. The Dragon was alone, but Uzine didn’t want a war.

Not now. They’d all already lost enough. Fithea…

And Razia.

No one said she was dead. Not yet. Rhisveri had interrogated Ryoka and kept claiming she had something to do with it, but Uzine doubted it. Ryoka Griffin was not the sort of person who would or could do something like that. Make Razia disappear without a trace. The Human might be related to what had happened, but Uzine was a warrior.

He knew, already, what had happened. If not why or how.

Now we might waste more lives in a battle against the last Dragonlord of Flames. It would not come to that. Could not.

“If he fights, it will only be because Rhisveri loses his temper. See how he comes to us. He agreed to take this away from the capital. He spoke to Culnous as a friend.”

“Did you believe that part about the Dragonlord of Waves being his brother? I nearly shat myself laughing.”

The other Agelum smiled as she rolled her wheelchair forwards.

“Humility. He is trying to be reasonable.”

They were speaking, now. All the Agelum could hear it. Rhisveri’s voice was over-loud and full of ire, as much as they’d ever heard him speak.

—do not suffer Dragons upon my land lightly, ‘Dragonlord’. Or is it…Eldavin?”

The Agelum stiffened. The Archmage of Memory was alive. The fact that the Dragon could maintain such a powerful simulacrum and be here—perhaps the other one was weakened, but he had already shown his intentions. They waited, and Gadrea, holding a single axe in her frail hand, looked up sharply as the Dragon responded.

“…Who? That is not a name I would go by. Do you mean—imposter? In the old tongue? I assure you, I am the Dragonlord of Flame.”

“You—deny being Eldavin?”

Rhisveri’s voice sounded strangled. The Dragon hesitated.

“I—cannot deny my actions of late. If I was this Eldavin, I take full responsibility. However, I do not know what occurred. A magical incident robbed me of my memories. I am afraid a simulacrum with some of my knowledge went rogue earlier this year. Everything it has done is—lost.”

Uzine’s lips moved as Gadrea looked at him.

“You mean, we were afraid of an amnesiac Dragon’s alter ego?

The female Agelum’s lips twitched. Uzine gave her a wry smile.

“I told you we were losing our steps. First Curulac, now this. Are you really going to abandon us at this moment? You, Gadrea?”

The other Agelum turned her chair to face Uzine and sighed. Then…she stood up. She shifted a pack from her lap onto her shoulders, and Uzine saw her stretch her body.

He loved to see it. Relished the way her skin didn’t seem transparent any longer. Would have cried aloud with joy to see one of his kind stand and not break like glass.

Yet his smile was bittersweet. For Gadrea had a pack on, enchanted for holding, and she put the axe on her belt as she looked towards where Rhisveri was visible, rearing up in the distance. Past the illusion spell they were skirting, and it would look like an ordinary day.

“Now is perfect. If I hear Ailendamus is in flames, I’ll rush back. Otherwise—Rhisveri will be so distracted he won’t notice me gone. Visophecin as well.”

“We’ll claim you’re sick for a month and quarantining with the [Healer]’s orders. I doubt it will fool Visophecin more than a day if things are normal. Are you sure?”

He reached out to her, but Gadrea gripped his hand gently. Her eyes, so odd to other species, turned, and multiple pupils stared into the distance.

“I hear something, Uzine. Something calling me. Maybe this is what Razia followed. I must go. I am the second. Perhaps you will be third.”

He shook his head, tears spilling from his eyes.

“…Someone has to dream of our people. We may have a future, Gadrea. A future after all. Will you not stay and watch? A Dragon comes to Ailendamus.”

He looked up, and an Angel smiled. Not gently. Kindly—but with the same visage as a warrior of faith on a quest. Like an adventurer staring up at a distant mountain.

Full of life.

“And yet, I must go. I have always, my entire life, wished for a mortal’s lifespan to live fully, not waste away in kindness and frailty, Uzine. To death or whatever Razia found. A great purpose.”

He averted his gaze for a moment as Gadrea’s smile brightened. Then he heard the flap of wings. Just for a second. When he looked back…

She was gone. Uzine wiped at his eyes. Then he turned back to his home. The world was changing. Even immortals changed.

Or died.

 

——

 

“I did not come here to resume hostilities, Wyrm of Ailendamus. Any transgressions I have made—I intend to make recompense for upon this hour. Allow me first the chance to prove my sincerity and greet you as Dragonlord. To the last of the Great Wyrms of this world.”

He spoke well enough. Each line was a deliberate calculation, mixing the Terandrian formality with direct enough language so as not to provoke the venomous bile in Rhisveri’s chest.

Greet you as Dragonlord. Acknowledging him as a Great Wyrm—oh, so calculated. Suitable recompense for the damage he’d caused?

Yet…yet…Rhisveri longed with each passing second to attack, and it was more than even his hatred towards Ryoka. This was a rivalry bone-deep. Wyrm and Dragon. Even Teriarch’s presence was like an intrusion into Rhisveri’s lair.

We are more than beasts. So he had claimed to Ryoka. Proving that now—was far harder.

“You boast well for someone claiming the name of a famous Dragonlord. Have you any proof of it?”

“Endless proofs. The least of which I may share with you now. Yet I do not know your name, Great Wyrm. Will you not at least speak it, that all and sundry might bear it the rest of their days?”

The Brass Dragon was too flowery. Now, it reminded Rhisveri of the other Dragons he’d met. Arrogance in silver. Youth—a total ignorance of the rest of their kind—and in some, the same terrifying age as he beheld now.

If anyone belonged to Terandria, it was this Dragon. For he bore all the hallmarks of the kingdoms Rhisveri intended to tear down.

Clinging to past glories and a dead grandeur. Yet Rhisveri replied grudgingly.

“You speak to Rhisveri Zessoprical. Wyrm of the Great Zessoprica of Chandrar. Wyrm Queen of the Withering Age.”

He had looked up the rest of that long ago, yet he might never have claimed her. But for that conversation with ghosts.

 

——

 

Wyrm. Art thou mine?

The first thing she said to him was a question. He stared up at a Wyrm even grander than he, who seemed graceful and made his writhing about seem like energy wasted.

“I was born of your corpse. As were the thousands of others. Are you truly her ghost? Not one of our kin ever found you—and we see the dead! Why are you here? What is happening?”

For answer, Zessoprica lowered her head as the Dragonlords fought something he couldn’t see.

“Each of us a minute. Each, an explanation. To Baleros I went, with every other kin of scales. The last Elves died there, and their secrets are what we pass to you now. Listen, spawn of mine. Or just as you were born from my fall—turn and face your true foes. They command even death’s pall.”

She nodded left, and his scales burned with unease. Yet Rhisveri had so many questions not at all useful.

“What—what wisdom have you, Zessoprica?”

Mother? No—there was so little affection in those eyes. Just an intensity. And as if she heard that word unspoken, the Great Wyrm threw back her head and hissed like laughing waves.

My words are these to the spawn of my blood and flesh: we are Wyrms. Remember that, and do as you will. You will not die a noble death.

 

——

 

He had not seen Fithea before the ghosts vanished. He wondered what she would have said. Something less…quintessentially useless.

We are Wyrms. Now that he thought of it, Zessoprica had much of Teriarch’s air. A world-weary superiority and refusal to…

“I will remind you of what you have forgotten, then, oh mighty Teriarch. Your Archmage, your simulacrum has made war on Ailendamus. He has slain thousands of [Soldiers], and he was, in part, responsible for the death of my Great General, Dioname. But for his interference, thousands might live and a war’s course changed. He even kidnapped one of the ‘immortalis’ under my aegis. The Lucifen’s own. You claim you remember none of it?”

Teriarch’s eyes flickered left to Visophecin, but his face betrayed no emotion.

“—I do. I will amend these ills as best I may, cousin. I can only claim the madness of magic misused. I, myself, do not know what went wrong. If I could but guess—I attempted to do something so dangerous it backfired. Piercing Archmage Zelkyr’s last test comes to mind. Whatever guards Wistram may be more dangerous than I anticipated. Enough to wound a Dragon’s mind.”

Rhisveri hoped his own poker-face was good enough to keep his thoughts from revealing themselves. Archmage Zelkyr’s test? He said it so casually. Then again, Rhisveri had wondered if he, in his true body, might not break it in twain as well.

These were all good-faith statements. However, it was making the prickling ire worse. Rhisveri did not like feeling—looked down upon. But that was the effect he was getting, as a ruler entertaining the guest who had strode into his inner sanctum and demanded an audience.

Yes, that was what the Dragon had done wrong. He had teleported into Ailendamus and forced this meeting. His demeanor now was humble. No, wait.

He spoke as if one were supposed to be humble, but without a shred of it actually evident. Rhisveri decided he was losing control of his own tongue. He made a subtle signal, and Visophecin stepped forwards. He might have done it anyways.

“The Infernal Court greets thee, Dragonlord. I am Visophecin, First of Lucifen. It has been long since our kinds last met.”

His bow was careful and refined. Different from any other formal salute that Rhisveri had ever seen. It must be designed for Dragons, and as for those titles…Rhisveri hadn’t heard Visophecin claim that since their first meeting.

The Infernal Court was dead. House Shoel didn’t refer to themselves like that. Not after a Goblin King cut down their already thin numbers.

However, it was a probing greeting. Unfortunately for Visophecin? It seemed the Dragon was either fast on his feet or used to dealing with the Lucifen. Both, probably. The Dragon lifted a claw and drew it across his breast in a five-pointed star which made one of the other Lucifen catch their breath sharply.

“I greet thee, First of Law. Unto the Infernal Court, I come as supplicant only in hospitality’s sacred name. My admiration for the Infernal Court extends also to the Radiant Host. May I greet their Visionary?”

Visophecin only paused a second as he straightened out of his bow.

“He—is arriving presently. We regret that this meeting does not take place under more suitable auspices.”

The Lucifen acknowledged the simple battleground, and Teriarch replied.

“It is not the first time I have met the Infernal Court out of splendor, Lord Visophecin. Nor, I pray, shall it be the last.”

The two nodded, and Rhisveri thought Visophecin had lost that bout handily. Normally, that would really cheer him up, but it only added to the feeling in his chest. The Dragon was taking the time to greet everyone with names or titles he clearly remembered.

“Warden Culnous. A Keeper of Masks. May I know your name? Sophridel of Many Faces, a rare honor to meet one of your nature so diverse. And…”

He came to Lady Paterghost, and the touchy, supercilious suit of armor spoke up quickly. Of the immortals present, she was probably aware her nature was the least august.

“I am Lady Paterghost by dint of my long service to Taimaguros’ royal palace. With me stands Nube, my sworn companion, Dragonlord.”

The mimic waved one hand as Paterghost tried to bow. Now, how would he address her? The Dragon’s eyes fixed the animated suit of armor that had been around for a thousand years before it decided to start giving its opinions to everyone it saw.

“Ah, a Lady-of-Arms. You are well met indeed, Lady Paterghost, and Ailendamus could want for no finer a noble protectorate of the throne. Taima be with thee, and Gura shield you and your companion. A Treasurewarden and Lady-of-Arms is a potent combination of dignity.”

Paterghost looked delighted by the appellations. Rhisveri’s teeth ground together audibly.

She was going to refer to herself like that every time they gathered, wasn’t she?

However, that confirmed it. Rhisveri was almost, almost completely certain that Teriarch was making up names at this point. He based that on the convenience of the address…they were such obvious titles, ones that made sense, that Rhisveri suspected that if you had a fancy way to refer to an intelligent suit of armor or mimic, it wouldn’t sound like ‘Treasurewarden’ but some obscure name.

Secondly? If there was a grander way to refer to herself, Paterghost would have found and have been using it long ago.

Etymologically, Rhisveri had to admit he was a bit fascinated by this. Was this when the lexicon changed? Just a Dragon spouting bullshit? Actually—that was how most words developed.

Time to end the pleasantries. Rhisveri hadn’t just been simmering with active hostility. He had been planning a retort.

“I trust Lord Uzine and the other immortals will have time to meet you, cousin. However, I must insist that our business is concluded here first. Ryoka Griffin herself is my guest, and until you provide assurances to back up your insults to Ailendamus, she must stay out of sight.”

Teriarch’s head came up at that name. He turned to Rhisveri, and the Wyrm smiled. Right up until Teriarch spoke.

“Ah…Ryoka Griffin…? I believe I have met her. Hail once more to the Rulers of Mountains. The royal line does not die so long as their people remain.”

He gave a very respectful nod to the Griffin perched in a tree, ignoring her elders telling her to get lost. Rhisveri and all the immortals looked left, and the Wyrm’s mouth opened as he saw Teriarch addressing—Gilaw.

Gilaw looked confused and offended. Teriarch noticed and coughed.

“Er—was I perhaps mistaken?”

“Ryoka Griffin? The Wind Runner, the Human you—Archmage Eldavin seemed to hold in some regard? The thief who stole the scr—who helped return you to your body?

He didn’t want to mention the Scroll of Resurrection, although Visophecin and the others might have learned of its existence. Teriarch blinked at Rhisveri.

“Ah, Ryoka. Forgive me, Featherfriend.”

He nodded at Gilaw and then turned back to Rhisveri.

“—I would be interested in meeting with her, briefly. I understand she is a prisoner of Ailendamus. Her own crimes I would also like to amend and see her returned to her life without grudge nor enmity. I shall repay that debt, but we need not hold her between us as a point of issue, cousin.”

“You don’t—wish to speak with her?”

Rhisveri hesitated. The Dragon’s face was still almost completely unreadable, but his nonchalant attitude didn’t seem forced. Once more, Teriarch paused.

“I believe our acquaintance may also have been memories lost to me. It is regrettable, but as such things have come to pass, I hope simply to make amends. Come now. Let us not discuss mortal foibles.”

It was there Teriarch made his first mistake. It was all too likely that the Dragonlord said that after carefully considering how to speak to Rhisveri. Analyzing Ailendamus and so on.

However, his comment did not pass well among Visophecin or any of the other immortals. In fact—Rhisveri found his own mouth moving despite himself.

“The Wind Runner of Reizmelt is a Courier who broke into Ailendamus’ own vaults for you, Dragonlord. She not only bested several of my finest [Knights], but saved the life of an Ailendamus [Princess] and has the respect of the Faerie King.”

Visophecin’s mouth opened slightly as he looked sideways at Rhisveri. Technically…true? Beating Dame Chorisa in a footrace counted, and Ryoka had saved Oesca…even if the bomb were meant for her.

However, that last comment made Teriarch’s head snap up.

“The Faerie King has contacted this world? Truly?”

“Only through a gateway for Ryoka Griffin. And myself. I have exchanged words with him and had some business with the Lands of the Fae.”

Rhisveri’s comments would have been true under most truth spells. Teriarch actually backed up a step, and when he spoke again, his tone was quite different.

“I had no knowledge that Ailendamus was in contact with the travellers of the Tuatha Dé. Truly, then, this kingdom has the potential to shadow even the great gatherings of old. I only hope it shall be ruled with wisdom and foresight for the mutual dangers to come.”

Rhisveri twitched.

“Shadows of the great gatherings of old…? It seems as though you find the Kingdom of Glass and Glory less than magnificent, Dragonlord.

Teriarch hesitated, and his wings opened slightly.

“I misspoke, cousin. I merely mentioned this in reference to the previous Wyrm-Empires I have had the—pleasure—of visiting. Or making regrettable war against. Do not hold it against me. I walked the last Cormornest of Harpies. I have spoken to the rulers of half-Elves, whose palaces are but dust built upon by the later rulers of this land. Ailendamus is a powerful nation in this era. But as I hope we both know—some foes can humble even the Faerie King’s court. And theirs is the fount of all legends, myths, and stories.”

The immortals exchanged glances at this, but Rhisveri’s blood just ran colder and colder. Now came the hints, the threats, even implicitly.

“—And if we do not make peace, how long does Ailendamus have to last?”

The Dragon lifted one claw, his mismatched eyes focusing on Rhisveri’s. He didn’t blink as the Wyrm and Dragon locked gazes.

“Be it forever, as I intend to raise no claw nor speak against it so long as we can come to an accord. Cousin. I do come in peace, personally. Look—I bear no armor nor blade.”

“As you would know, cousin—we need neither.”

Somewhere behind them, Ryoka Griffin was crying. Hiding it in a Sariant Lamb’s wool so no one would hear her unless you had a scrying spell monitoring her reactions. Looking at the Dragon who didn’t even remember her name.

Challenge a Wyrm, steal a scroll, all for him. The Wyrm hissed.

“One last thing. You claim you can make amends, but your ally, Ryoka Griffin, slew a vassal of mine. Of the immortals you see present. She was—suborned by foreign powers. Yet Fithea, the last Dryad of the world, is dead. Will you answer for that, Dragonlord?”

Teriarch’s eyes flashed, and he raised his head.

“A Dryad? One still lived? And—no child, no mere Sapborn as some might find, but a true Dryad of the great forests? Dead?”

Rhisveri nodded. There were some ‘Dryads’ the world knew. Fithea likened them to half-conscious manifestations of trees, incapable of speech. Give them a hundred years and they might become the basis of what she was. But she was the last of a Great Forest. Even the Vail Forest of Izril could not produce her kind anymore.

“Dead. By your Wind Runner’s hand, in self-defense.”

The Dragonlord closed his eyes.

“—I take responsibility for that. Never could I condone such actions. I offer my greatest regrets. The last child of the forests upon land is gone.”

Rhisveri slowly nodded. The bubbling anger in him began to subside until he saw Teriarch’s eyes open slowly.

“Just remember, cousin. Such is the price of rulership over mortals. I hope we may discuss governance ere I leave. I would not wish Ailendamus to mirror some of the flawed nations I have seen before. Even mortals cannot suffer silently forever.”

He glanced to the side. Before Rhisveri could speak, Teriarch nodded at the Lucifen.

“I make such comments only out of familiarity with the Infernal Court, of course. They have attempted…theses of proper ruling that have gone astray in the past. As even they would admit.”

Visophecin’s red gaze fixed on the Dragonlord without a word. Rhisveri actually lifted one corner of his mouth as he bared his fangs.

A principled Dragon, then. One who came with charm but also that arrogance of old. Power and what he probably thought of as dignity.

A statesman of older lands. A champion of dead peoples. A mentor of the past.

Now, the Dragon moved a claw in the air, tracing what looked like a simple unlocking spell for a vault or some other holding device.

“If I may, I would like to speak now of a concrete gift to the Great Wyrm of Ailendamus and the immortals gathered here. A worthy bridge over the hostilities.”

The Wyrm smiled. He uncoiled from his striking posture and nodded.

“Naturally. Tribute to the tyrant, to appease. Will we swear friendship or merely a truce between cousins, Dragonlord Teriarch? After you inspect my kingdom for faults? Or shall I sign a pact not to invade other kingdoms?”

Rhisveri—

Culnous whispered, but Teriarch glanced up, and again, the air actually turned darker as the two locked magical stares.

“I do not overestimate my power, Great Rhisveri. I am well aware of the history…and reasons behind your war with the Dawn Concordat. I trust that you and I both know there are greater foes at hand.”

This time, Visophecin’s eyes locked on Rhisveri. He had not heard the Dragonlords’ warnings. Rhisveri had.

There might be no finer ally than this Dragon, yet Rhisveri’s mouth exposed all of his fangs.

“So you intend to interfere not at all with Ailendamus’ business? Very well. I intend to repay each and every nation that has troubled my borders soon enough.”

Noelictus, Pheislant, even Desonis and Nadel…the entire south of Terandria would be engulfed in flames. Even his other immortals looked alarmed at that, but Teriarch didn’t call the bluff.

“I am sure a Great Wyrm will choose his enemies as he wills. I only hope this: the safety of Ryoka Griffin and that the wrongs I have committed will also be a prelude to peace.”

The vault was opening. Rhisveri caught sight of a cave and realized the Dragon was transporting something from a continent away. The immortals tensed, but Teriarch spoke.

“A great tragedy has occurred, as I am sure all are aware. The ghosts of every age are gone forevermore. That they died once is tragedy enough, yet the peoples—my peoples, yours, Great Rhisveri—are gone. There are not enough of our kind left to mourn a species. Hundreds would be equally insufficient. But there is a tradition amongst Dragons I thought long on when pondering my journey. You see…in times of old, to mark the passing of our kind, we would give up a gift that mattered to us more than any other.”

Slowly, something began to move through the air. Visophecin didn’t even bother at a pretense of casualness—the immortals moved back and magical wards began appearing. Yet Teriarch was just focused on Rhisveri.

The Wyrm’s eyes were locked on something being drawn through the air. Teriarch continued, his voice low, solemn—and, yes, pained.

“This war has been bitter. One of forever’s children is dead, and her species dies with her. Let this be an end to it. The mortals need not trouble you, cousin. Allow them their hollow homes, built on our legacy. I offer you this in its place. Calanfer was built upon another, but that was gifted to Marquin the Radiant for her deeds by my peers. This…this Dragonthrone was never taken. It was home to the last gatherings of Dragon, Wyrm, and Wyvern. Let it be a fitting place for the last Great Wyrm of this world.”

He held a glowing orb in one claw. No—a contained world, so vast that it could hold hundreds of Dragons and still have room. Rhisveri saw tiny thrones made of material so powerful he had not more than scraps for his [Wizards] to research. The immortals around him gasped in pure shock. Visophecin’s own voice shook slightly.

“You are offering us…your Dragonthrone?”

The Dragonlord of Flames stared down at one of his greatest possessions. A sign of his authority. The legacy of Dragons.

Even his claw shook, so minutely only Rhisveri’s eyes saw it. Yet he let the Dragonthrone hover in the air, waiting to be unbound or entered. You could bring it into reality or use it as a hiding spot, have an inner sanctum no one could enter in the heart of your palace…

Every reason Rhisveri had used to convince the others to make war on Calanfer came back to him in a flash. This was the mark of power that no species could deny. The crowning jewel of Dragons.

Teriarch offered it to Rhisveri, and the Wyrm looked at the old Dragon.

“This is your gift? Truly?”

He couldn’t hide the surprise, the incredulity from his tone. Teriarch inclined his head slowly. A bow from Dragon to Wyrm.

“I do. I can offer no greater mark of my sincerity.”

The Wyrm’s gaze stared upon a wonder even he had not seen in eleven thousand years. A treasure to replace even a Scroll of Resurrection. His body trembled as he bent down to stare at the Dragonthrone—then up at Teriarch. He nodded slowly.

“I refuse your gift, Teriarch. I have no need of it.”

The Dragonlord’s eyes went wide, the first unguarded sign of true shock, and then narrowed a second before he resumed his mask.

Rhisveri!

Azemith called out, but the Wyrm was slithering back.

“Does something about it displease you, Rhisveri? This is my Dragonthrone. Home to the Dragonlords, and yes, even Great Wyrms. It was a shelter when magic died. A bastion to fight against—”

“I know. I do not want it. I do not want the leavings of an old Dragonlord too cowardly to do more than pay me off. I do not need a worn relic. And most of all, I scorn the notion that you could buy me as if I were as greedy as a lesser Wyrm.”

With each word, Rhisveri felt himself shaking. With glee. With satisfaction—purely for the anger now travelling across Teriarch’s face, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

“Lesser Wyrms? Do you mean Zessoprica or the Wyrm Kings and Queens who made war for this very Dragonthrone? Every single species has set foot in this Dragonthrone as supplicants or enemies.”

“And? I have not ever moved within it. So until now, there is little to boast of. If you wish, I will do a circuit of the Dragonthrone before you leave that you might boast of it from now on.”

Duke Rhisveri. We must speak to you now. Dragonlord, we will not scorn your gift so lightly.”

Culnous interrupted urgently, and the other immortals surrounded Rhisveri, but no one could just ‘drag him back’, even if Menorkel were there. And Teriarch’s eyes were glowing. Was that smoke in the air?

“Great Wyrm. I have been—I hope—nothing but respectful in my address. I had hoped you would reciprocate the courtesy. I do not pretend to take no offense from your comments.”

Rhisveri hissed, and the laughter was bubbling in his throat.

“You pretend to be humble and graceful well, Dragonlord. All I see is old peacockishness befitting of a preening [Earl] expecting half the court to bow to his rank and bursting midriff. You are old, out of shape, and deluded if you think I am impressed by mere words and pageantry. You claim to be here for peace—because you know what would happen if you tempted my wrath, let alone those gathered here.”

The Dragonlord blinked slowly as the immortals of Ailendamus froze and then began moving away from Rhisveri. Slowly, Teriarch exhaled, and there was smoke on his breath.

“I sense a challenge, Rhisveri. The young often sought to prove themselves in the past. I came to find a ruler, not a hatchling. May I speak to the Great Wyrm, not his impetuous pride?”

Rhisveri spoke with a giddy laugh.

I would have thought you knew Wyrms, Dragon.

Teriarch stared at Rhisveri, whose fangs were beginning to drip with venom that ran onto the dirt and cut holes into the earth. He nodded.

“I do. I have looked for change—but I see I was only speaking to a memory. Hail, cousin.

The two, Wyrm and Dragon, rested there, Teriarch on his claws almost sedately, tail curled, reminiscent of a cat or Sphinx of old. The Wyrm was slightly relaxed, uncurled from his striking pose, head lowered so as to be of a height with the smaller Brass Dragon.

The silence was broken by Rhisveri’s smile. Wide and unadorned by pretense. He said:

“[Blood Demon’s Lightning].”

 

——

 

You know, as conversations between Wyrms and Dragons went, this one had been on the better end of interactions.

The first bolt of crimson lightning struck the Brass Dragon—or tried to. It evaporated inches from Teriarch’s chest as it hit a ward spell and broke into fuzzy filaments. Which was impressive, because that was at least a Tier 5 spell.

Tier 6?

The problem for Sophridel, the Elemental of Masks, was that the categorization of magic got…silly when it came to higher tiers.

[Blood Demon’s Lightning] was an exceptionally advanced spell that was a curse melded into a lightning bolt. However, it was meant for a single, small target, and was thus not like [Valmira’s Comet Storm]. It was harder to cast than [Valmira’s Comet Storm], though, but less mana-intensive.

Did you call that Tier 5 or Tier 6? Tier 6 in complexity, Tier 5 in scale. Anyways, the Elemental would have liked to know how a Dragon took the spell head-on without protections.

Knowledge was a wonder. Sophridel watched as the Dragon took into the air, and Rhisveri lunged like a striking snake. Even for his size, he was faster than a viper—yet he missed. Teriarch popped out of existence and wavered into place a hundred feet up.

Then the fight began. Sophridel was aware of Visophecin organizing the other immortals to support Rhisveri and stop the conflict, but as he understood it, this was almost inevitable.

Wyrms and Dragons hated uncertainty. They would often fight—not even to the death—to determine who was stronger if they were in close proximity. Perhaps this would be for the best if they came to a mutually respectful end.

He suggested this to Visophecin, and the Lucifen’s cursing indicated what he thought of the idea. However, Sophridel maintained his calm—mostly because he had retreated to a safe distance and he had fourteen ward spells on him.

“My book is quite clear that Teriarch, the Dragonlord, often engaged in such duels for supremacy.”

Your what?

“I have a book on him. House Shoel’s libraries are quite replete for ancient texts, even if they have lost many entries. As is my own collection. Although this may have come from Rhisveri’s stolen library. Would you like to borrow it later?”

He was staring at Teriarch as the Dragon roared. Yes, this was definitely Teriarch, Lord of Flames. The Dragonthrone proved it.

It was just…Sophridel stared at the book with his many masks. Each one was his ‘face’, so he read the text from many angles, but it said the same thing. He glanced up at the Dragon, stared at the book.

A few frowning masks clustered around the text. There was a passage here, one of the first ones, that really described him in this book of tales about Teriarch, among other famous Dragons.

 

One eye shone like the violet skies of the Continent of Glass whence evening fell. The other—the deep, clear skies of autumn’s repose. He strode through the Palace of Seasons, each scale flashing under sunlight. His mane flowing copper, his lithe stance unto Dragons as [Swordmasters] were to half-Elves with no knowledge of war.

 

Sophridel’s masks swiveled upwards to watch the Dragon as he dodged a shower of acid. He hadn’t attacked back yet—he seemed to be trying to cease the fighting.

The eyes fit. Heliotrope and cerulean, quite magnificent. The mane? Check. The scales? Yes, most definitely.

The…picture the [Artist] had captured of the Dragon was where it became a problem. Oh, all the other elements were the same, and so Sophridel decided this book might have a lot of historical accuracy—even if you had to take into account historical bias.

He wouldn’t have even noticed the discrepancy if he’d met Teriarch normally. This was the first Dragon that Sophridel had met in safety at any length. It was just—

The Dragonlord in the picture looked a bit more lithe than the one flying through the air. A lot more. Maybe it was also the [Artist] clearly defining muscle groups, but Sophridel saw a lot less of that.

The Elemental of Masks was fairly sure Teriarch was out of shape. He watched, unconcerned, as a shower of acid splashed off glowing shields like armor coating the Brass Dragon’s body.

This was unto territorial marking and disputes between hyenas and Needlehounds in Chandrar. All species save his were ruled by biological impulses.

Even Elementals knew arrogance. Sophridel heard Rhisveri chanting—with two voices? He was splitting his magic up into increasing complexities that only Sophridel’s best masks could follow. He twisted up into the sky, flying, the Wyrm’s head striking like a snake. The Dragon flapped left, swearing and neutralizing spells.

“Prepare to support Rhisveri. [Teleportation] lockdown—”

Visophecin’s terse voice interrupted Sophridel’s notes. The Elemental of Masks spoke.

“The fighting will end within fifteen minutes, Visophecin. Do not—”

Rhisveri finished his spell overhead.

[—olcanic Ashtorm].

The Mask Elemental looked up just in time to see the first fiery column pouring out of the sky. Ash and fire, like the fury of a volcano. And it was coming down straight at—he slowly swallowed his book to keep it safe.

 

——

 

“Sophridel?”

No one was raising the Elemental of Masks via spell. Seeing him was impossible; a wave of ash was billowing across the ground, followed by a heat so intense the grass and earth were bursting into flames.

Ryoka would have long been in the air and flying—but the Lucifen were shielding their location. The ash billowed in front of ruby shields of magic, but even at a distance, Paxere looked—nervous.

“That spell hit us. What is he doing?

She shouted, to Ryoka more than the other immortals shouting at the others to take cover. Ryoka just stared up as a howling Wyrm burst through the maelstrom like the city-destroying nightmare out of a monster movie.

By contrast, the ‘small’ Dragon was merely the size of the largest commercial airplanes known to man. He flew left, swearing at Rhisveri—both their voices were loud enough to be heard over the dull roar of the spells.

—did not come here to do battle! Desist, Wyrm! This will end poorly for both of us!

So you claim. [Grand Lightning]!

A bolt blasted into Teriarch’s shields, and Ryoka saw it disperse over shimmering, overlaid plates of magic. Like a rainbow. However, that was just a feint; Rhisveri lunged, and his mouth was so wide he would have bitten deep into much of Teriarch’s body.

Save for the Dragon flickering out of existence again. His magical shields ate three more lightning bolts, two brilliant white-yellow, another crimson. Rhisveri’s next lunge slammed Teriarch back in the air; the Dragon caught himself with two wingbeats, and Ryoka heard him snarl.

A Dragon and Wyrm fought. For petty reasons, for no reason if you were uncharitable—but Ryoka had seen this coming.

Rhisveri was too prideful, too hurt. Even if Teriarch had given him two Dragonthrones, it might have come to this. Because, what Sophridel wouldn’t have understood was that, feelings aside, incentives aside—

Here was a Dragonlord. The legend of old. Rhisveri was comparatively—and it was really comparatively—young. He had bested his own kind and maybe other Dragons, but this was him proving how strong he was. Like how a hotheaded young boxer might rashly challenge the world champion.

How serious it got and how far Teriarch was past his prime—it could go a lot of ways. That uncertainty was why even Ryoka was hugging the Sariant Lamb, Lady Heppe, to her chest. Actually, the Sariant Lamb might have been hugging Ryoka on the basis that the Wind Runner could carry her to safety.

The striking Wyrm cleaved the air, leaving passages in the smoke as Teriarch kept dodging. He ate another strike, and again, the magical barrier howled, but resisted the strikes.

“Who’s winning?”

Menorkel was staring up as an ash-covered Gilaw came flapping into the protective barriers. Some of her feathers were on fire. Ryoka realized Paxere and the others were looking at her.

“I don’t—they’re not fighting hard yet. I think.”

“That’s not fighting hard?”

It was about perspective. Rhisveri had been firing off low-tier spells for him, and he was attacking with his body. Teriarch?

How would she describe this? To…Alber and Fierre? Yes, if she were trying to relate it—

Rhisveri was the younger fighter, taking a lot of wild swings at Teriarch. Too amped up on emotion and, perhaps, nerves. He kept lashing out with his body. He was big and had an immeasurable weight and size advantage on Teriarch.

On the ground, the Dragon would be in trouble. In the air—Rhisveri was trying to ground him to use his full weight.

Teriarch, on the other hand, was far older, smaller, but he had all the magical power of a Dragonlord, and he was turtling, blocking everything with his magical shields. He didn’t maneuver much—he mostly kept airborne, teleporting out of the way of attacks.

Impeccable footwork, still trying to calm Rhisveri down. It lasted right up until Visophecin locked down teleportation.

Ryoka saw Teriarch try to teleport—and then Rhisveri slammed into him and opened his maw.

Die, Dragonlord!

And he unleashed his venomous acid at point-blank range. Ryoka saw a cloud deadlier than even the volcanic ashstorm fill the skies, and the roar of pain was followed by a thunderous impact.

Teriarch slammed into the ground and got up just in time to see Visophecin chanting.

“[Summon: Avatar of the Wyrm Queen].”

The skies began to open. The battle went from about 21 to 100 in a moment. Teriarch looked up and roared.

If it’s a fight you want, upstart, then—

Rhisveri whirled around, and his serpentine body cracked out like a whip. Teriarch’s magical shields finally exploded as a ghostly Wyrm began drifting out of the heavens. The Dragon went tumbling across the ground, and Ryoka cried out.

“[Arise, Forests of Estiphole]!”

The Wyrm of Ailendamus had been practicing for battle against foes like Teriarch all his life. Ryoka had seen his workout routine once—she realized, as giant trees sprouted from the ground, what he was going to do.

Towering trunks of wood, every color from light beige to new greenwood, as large as the ancient redwoods of her world. And this was a spell—they formed entangling canopies, a network of vast columns.

Rhisveri’s body shot into the trees as Teriarch tried to fly and found the branches and trees stifling his mobility. The second Wyrm descended, and the coils of their body danced from tree to tree.

Like a snake, encircling the arena, able to strike from any direction. How they fought underground—adapted for an aerial foe.

Two Wyrms circled the Brass Dragon, and Ryoka saw Teriarch’s head turning left, right as he tried to gain altitude.

But so—slowly. Ryoka Griffin could fly faster than that. The Brass Dragon’s laboring wings were slow. He was so heavy that he really couldn’t zoom through the air.

And Rhisveri? He could fly as fast as a striking snake, amplified by his thousands of feet of body. He had caught her.

The two Wyrms struck in tandem, one going low, the other high. Teriarch saw the [Avatar of the Wyrm Queen] coming at him and dove down—straight into Rhisveri’s jaws.

No!

Ryoka didn’t know how strong his scales were, but nothing could take the impact from Rhisveri like that. The Wyrm slammed into the Dragon unable to teleport—

And then the sound that rang through the air made Ryoka and all the immortals clap their hands to their ears. It was followed by an ear-splitting shriek from Rhisveri.

The Wyrm writhed, howling, on the ground, and Ryoka Griffin looked up just in time to see a Dragon land on Rhisveri’s body and slam the Wyrm back into the ground. Ryoka’s eyes went round.

Then—she realized she’d never seen Rhisveri fight. Eldavin?

Rhisveri could have probably killed Eldavin. Especially with his true body. Especially against the Archmage of Memory who fought like a Dragon, with a Dragon’s arrogance and none of his qualities.

Teriarch was a Dragonlord. And as his scales flashed and he roared, Ryoka realized—

She actually knew squat about Dragons. Because Rhisveri had hit Teriarch, biting, put the full weight of his body into the blow. He hadn’t missed, nor had Teriarch attacked back.

He didn’t have to. The Brass Dragon stood as Rhisveri writhed, weighing down the Wyrm as Rhisveri fought to get free. He was so heavy the Wyrm couldn’t lift him off easily.

Because—he was made of metal.

He had always looked like his scales were metallic. Now? It was like a statue of a Dragon. Solid metal—solid enough for a Wyrm to chip his fangs on impact.

Brass Dragon. Rhisveri’s head came up. He aimed at the Dragon, and his mouth opened.

Wyrm’s venomous breath. Teriarch inhaled. Ryoka saw his mouth open, and again—he surprised her. Because what emanated from his maw, as Rhisveri began to exhale, was faster than any fire.

A storm of lightning engulfed Rhisveri’s face. Bolts which, like Dragonfire, were tinged purple, clinging to the scales as they discharged their energy. The Wyrm reeled backwards.

He’d lost the exchange of Dragonfire. Ryoka’s mouth was wide open.

He could do that? But fire—lightning was another kind of energy. It wasn’t as vivid as his fiery breath. But the Dragonlord had done what Rafaema hadn’t against the Wyvern Lord.

Practiced.

Wyrm and Dragon opened their mouths again. This time, the flames hit a stream of venom, and the explosion of steam engulfed both. Ryoka saw the vibrant flames pressing towards Rhisveri’s face. Equal in intensity—but Teriarch projected his like a spear of flame.

Rhiveri’s head dodged the flames, which still clung to his face as he screamed. He opened his mouth and exhaled black bile. Teriarch blasted it out of the air. He exhaled—then stopped. Ryoka saw him dodge aside.

The panting Dragonlord leapt away as the Wyrm followed him, still breathing acid. Neither seemed to have a limit to the Dragonbreath they could produce. But Teriarch was panting——

He was out of breath. Smoke trailed from his mouth as he ran on the ground. Ryoka recognized the blur of movement as [Haste]. Or [Greater Haste].

You pathetic Dragon! Die!

The summoned Wyrm dove straight down as Teriarch looked up. He opened his mouth—and exhaled.

This time, it was a ball of fire. It had been gathering in his mouth, compressing—and he spat it straight up into the open mouth of the Avatar. Ryoka saw the light enter the artificial Wyrm’s body.

Then she went blind. And deaf. Ryoka stumbled around until someone slapped her, literally.

“[Remove Blindness]! [Remove Deafness]!”

Ryoka could see again. The sunspots in her vision faded, and she felt the ringing in her ears clear up. Paxere pointed up.

“Look!”

Rhisveri was dueling in a firestorm of spells with Teriarch, shredding the magical forest. He was advancing—Teriarch was retreating, knocking down the magical spells.

Much like he had in Wistram. Only, this time—the Dragon was under attack from multiple sides.

The Lucifen had entered the fight. Azemith shot one of the deadly black bolts that had gone through Eldavin when he was first ambushed in Ailendamus. The Brass Dragon didn’t see the attack. It struck his scales—

And bounced straight into the dirt. Paxere choked.

But that worked on—

“Pathetic! Is this the best a Dragonlord can do?

One of Rhisveri’s spells, a swarm of [Shatterbolts], struck Teriarch. Rather than evade or block, the Dragon just put his head down, and the bolts glanced off him. Ryoka’s eyes were wide.

Was Rhisveri better than Teriarch at magic? Once again, Teriarch seemed to be on the back foot—until Ryoka saw he was retreating out of Rhisveri’s battleground of trees. The Dragon backed into a boulder and grunted as one of the Lucifen sent a [Fireball] blasting into his side.

Fall back. Lower-tier spells are completely ineffective.”

Visophecin met Teriarch’s gaze as the Dragon glowered his way. The Dragon glanced at the boulder, nearly his size, unearthed by the fighting. He slapped it once with his tail.

“I can use this. Are you done venting your pique, Rhisveri?

“I have not even begun to do battle. Do you think your fire has even injured me?”

The Wyrm came slithering out of the forest. He was scorched and burnt from the fire and lightning breath. He’d hurt himself striking the metal Dragon—but besides that, he was truly unharmed.

Worse—he was getting angrier. Rhisveri’s scales began to ripple ominously, and this time—he began chanting his first self-enchantment spells.

[Crackling Armor of the Lightning Emperor].

“Ah. Void take it.”

Teriarch swore mildly. He looked up as a bolt of lightning shot down—and encircled Rhisveri’s body. It formed a helmet, a jagged lance of lightning at the top, and armor, oscillating with every microsecond.

The kind of armor that would deliver a fatal charge to anyone, especially a conductive Dragon, on impact. The Wyrm dove at him, and Teriarch flapped his wings. Flames swirled around him as he took to the air again.

He cannot teleport. The network is holding.

Visophecin had switched back to containment after seeing the ineffectual attacks. The Dragonlord glared at the Lucifen staying far behind their shields, but he didn’t have time to fight them.

The Wyrm was coming straight at him. The Dragonlord saw the Great Wyrm twisting through the air like a lance of lightning. If it hit him—well, he was sure he’d survive one impact. Whomever Rhisveri had been—he’d fought other Wyrms. This was a move to pierce their hides, tear even their infamously tough forms, and rend them apart.

So Teriarch opened his wings and flew. He raced for the skies. Immortals around him. The charging Wyrm.

Gilaw, don’t!

The rising Dragon was under attack by a tiny form. A screaming Griffin, heedless of the danger. She dove in the classic hawk’s dive, the second-fastest creature in the skies aside from the Wyrm.

She missed. The diving Griffin aborted her charge, and Rhisveri’s glowing body nearly struck her as he lunged—then twisted around.

What the—?

They were both going at post-Ryoka speeds. If it had been Ryoka, she would have been splattered by the impacts. Yet Teriarch was gone.

“Teleportation?”

No, it was still—Rhisveri’s eyes climbed. And there was the Brass Dragon, flying upwards.

How? Rhisveri shot into the air as he teleported Gilaw into the palace. The idiotic child appeared in his quarters as the Wyrm lunged again.

You—

This time, he slowed enough to see what happened. The Dragon saw him coming. Did he use the Dragonthrone? Was it a clone? An illusion? A spell?

No—he flapped his wings and rolled out of the way of Rhisveri. Then, as the disbelieving Wyrm turned to catch him—Teriarch sped up.

“Impossible.”

When you said things like that—you knew you were in trouble. Rhisveri lunged, striking across five hundred feet in a second.

Teriarch was already twice that distance away and accelerating faster. Impossible! The Wyrm’s eyes bulged. How fast were his wings moving? They were flapping so fast that they looked like they were—

Not moving at all. Then Rhisveri felt the hot air. Then he saw—

The burning blue flames blasting from wingtip to wingtip behind the Dragon. The Dragonlord of Flames shot away as his fire burned behind him.

Like a—Rhisveri didn’t have a good analogy.

Ryoka—did.

 

——

 

A fucking fighter jet? What? What? WHAT?”

Teriarch wasn’t even flying anymore! Not with his wings—he just spread them like an airplane and let combustion do the rest. He accelerated as the disbelieving Wyrm fell into the distance. Then he turned—and Ryoka saw him circling like a fighter plane.

Ready for a dogfight. A dragonfight. 

The Brass Dragon came roaring back through the air, and Ryoka saw a shockwave of air travelling behind him. He had just breached the sound barrier—and he was coming right at Rhisveri in a straight-on charge.

The Wyrm of Ailendamus howled as he charged, encased in his lightning-armor. Willing to trade the impact.

The Dragonlord stared at the Wyrm coming at him—then he did a twisting corkscrew up and down through the air. Rhisveri was locked onto him, refusing to let him get around the Wyrm. They were going to collide! Ryoka cried out—

And then saw something flash on the ground.

 

——

 

Visophecin was so engrossed in listening to Ryoka and seeing the Dragon fight, he hadn’t realized the other effect of the Dragon’s speed. He looked up sharply and shouted.

Rhisveri—he escaped the teleportation lock! Watch—

Too late. The Lucifen felt the Dragon’s magic flow past him and whirled. He turned, and the boulder that the Brass Dragon had tapped flashed. Visophecin stared at it.

Between the moments when the Dragon had evaded the Wyrm till now, a subtle spell had been coating the stone. Chipping bits of it away, contouring it like an automated [Sculptor]. It was still mostly a giant block of stone.

Only, someone had shaped it into a giant claw. A Dragon’s claw—curled into a fist—

 

——

 

The Brass Dragon popped out of the air. He appeared in front of Visophecin at a complete stand-still. In his place, in the air, appeared a block of stone shaped like a giant fist.

It hit Rhisveri at about Mach 1. The thunder nearly deafened Ryoka again. But when Rhisveri landed, even the mortals in the capital, blissfully ignorant of the fighting, felt the tremor run through their houses and homes, sending valuables clattering off shelves.

The stunned Wyrm lay on his back and tasted his own blood. He was up in fifteen seconds with one thought in his mind.

That. Hurt.

His brother had been the last person to wound him that badly. He might have broken bones in his face.

And yet—he twisted around and saw the Dragonlord in the air. Rhisveri’s howl was followed by a lunge—

Teriarch shot up. did a vertical roll, and flew over Rhisveri’s back. His mouth opened. and he coated Rhisveri’s entire body in Dragonfire. The screaming Wyrm rolled around and then shouted.

“[Crimson Storm of the Blood Demon]!”

This time, he unleashed a thousand bolts of lightning which criss-crossed the skies. Teriarch contemptuously dipped one wing.

Dragonlord of Flame! He performed an aileron roll followed by a dizzying dive—all pushing the sound barrier, still accelerating as he built up speed. As Archmage Eldavin, so Teriarch.

He was second to none in the skies. He had brought down every foe, even other Dragonlords of the air, with a Fire Dragon’s speed. Rhisveri was larger, tougher—but he couldn’t even begin to catch Teriarch.

The Wyrm saw a flicker, and [Valmira’s Comets] began to slam into him as he tried to cast a spell and hit Teriarch. They were more like the lightest of punches thrown by a child, even with the Dragonlord’s power behind them, but the Dragon kept throwing them.

And he was speeding up again. Rhisveri was in a mortal terror of the second object the Dragon threw at him. All he had to do was swap places with a rock, and the impact could punch a hole through a fort if it were fast and heavy enough.

Or him. The Wyrm began chanting barrier spells, but the Dragon blazed past him like a living comet. He dove low to the ground, one wing snapping out to turn him at an angle. A Garuda’s Reversal, as precise as a 45º angle. He winced at the pain in his wings. Then the near-vertical ascent, dodging the immortal’s spells—they couldn’t even catch him with homing spells.

The Harpy Empress’ dive—Teriarch’s wings opened as flames shot below him to send him into the stratosphere. And he felt a muscle give.

“Oh—”

 

——

 

Ryoka Griffin hadn’t been breathing at the greatest display of aerial combat in this or any world. Right up until she saw Teriarch open his wings, saw one falter and close slightly—and him slam into the ground.

No. No. Slam was not the right word. Slam was hitting a door that closed in your face at a mild jog. Slam might break your nose at the worst.

This? This was a train engine crash. A runaway impact from an airplane crashing into the ground at the speed of sound.

The Brass Dragon twisted as his wings failed to open. He rotated—hit the ground along his back—and then went crashing across the ground, head over heels, sideways, wings and face and claws tearing up the dirt.

He skipped like a stone for a thousand feet, hitting the ground each time before he finally slowed, rolled over, and came to a stop.

Dead gods!

Oh. Oh! Oooooh!

Even the other immortals were groaning. Ryoka saw Paxere covering her mouth. Ryoka was half-screaming, half gasping. Was he…?

Even Rhisveri looked uncertain. The Dragonlord lay there, mouth slightly open—and then he rose. He got to his feet, and Ryoka thought at least one scale had been torn; there was some red on him. Teriarch gazed around dizzily, then whirled to face Rhisveri.

The Wyrm was encased in protective magic. The Dragonlord spoke after merely a half-second. He coughed and then nodded.

“You—well done. You knocked me out of the skies. Few can boast of that, Wyrm.”

Rhisveri’s mouth opened. Ryoka saw him stare at Teriarch, then reply.

“…No. You did that to yourself.”

“Nonsense. I felt the spell. I will not underestimate you twice.”

The Dragonlord’s face was completely straight, but Ryoka saw a familiar…look he was trying to hide. Rhisveri saw Teriarch cough into one claw.

“Shall we continue? We have both dealt the other a blow. Be warned—my next attack shall not take you so lightly.”

Bluff or not, the Wyrm hesitated. He saw a plume of smoke escaping Teriarch’s nostrils, and the Dragonlord’s eyes burned. Embarrassed he might be, but if he did that again—

Had he begun to fight?

What the Wyrm didn’t know was that Teriarch’s own facade was hiding a world of agony. The Wyrm hesitated—then snarled.

“Looking for mercy now? Show me something to be afraid of, Dragonlord of Flames.

I can’t feel my face. He kept swallowing blood, and Teriarch was sure that was not a good sign. Yet the rest of his body was intact. The Dragonlord of Flames crouched as Rhisveri called his bluff. The Wyrm charged, only to realize the mistake of young warriors.

The wounded Dragon only became deadlier. Teriarch flickered, and Rhisveri traced the magic straight up. He looked up. Then up.

Then…

 

——

 

Up. The Dragon was still flying higher, flames blasting above him, and the air was growing cold. He was hurt. The Wyrm could kill him.

So. He had flown like this before. The Dragon whispered no magic. He cast no spells. The Wyrm might be his equal in the magic he knew, which twisted like Dryads and had been learned from other immortals.

Yet he had never seen this. He had never fought in wars where Dragons were as footsoldiers in number. Teriarch had seen armies as dreadful as the Seamwalkers he had glimpsed in the lands of the dead.

Death. Blood ran in his lungs like poisonous vapors. He flew higher until the air vanished and the cold sting of starlight burned across his scales.

He flew through the Harpy Wars, roaring. Coming down as Wyrms fled. A charge, alone, with the last three Dragonlords against the Crelers.

He would die when he landed. Not before. The Dragon turned and began dropping through the skies. Claws outstretched.

The air, so cold on his scales, began to warm again as he re-entered the atmosphere. It grew hot—but no hotter than the bursting fury in his chest. It grew hotter still as Dragonfire engulfed him.

A manifestation of his rage. He was wounded. Yet he was the oldest of Dragons. He had seen them all die. He had killed far too many.

The Dragon descended faster. Now, he felt his scales turning to metal. Heavier…the weight of age. Gold was heavier than lead. He was denser still, a meteor coming down to earth.

A Djinni had once seen a Dragon’s killing blow and copied it. This? Fire and metal. It could wipe out a city.

 

——

 

Or burn a wound across a continent. 

The Elemental of Masks looked up. Some of his masks were cracked, but he barely felt the damage. He looked up—and tried to find somewhere to run or hide. But where?

The book. The book—Rhisveri was flying upwards, and it seemed like an ocean of magic was distorting the world around him. He was trying to open a hole in the world. Sophridel shook as he looked up.

It was just like the book.

 

The Dragonlord of Flame took wing. He burned with the last three Dragonlords, gouging a hole across the sands. Across Chandrar. Sand fused to glass. The very desert caught fire, and Wyrms burned, screaming. Eight days and nights, the fire burned. Even now, the wound remains. The Glass Straits, endless miles carved by Dragonfire. 

 

Down, like armageddon. A blow so powerful it would crack his own bones. The Wyrm had made a mistake. He wasn’t fighting Teriarch. He was fighting a memory.

 

——

 

The Dragonlord of Flame was coming. Visophecin pointed, and Menorkel ran into the door he had opened. Everyone was evacuating. Sophridel rushed past Ryoka, flowing in a mass through the door.

Stop!

She had heard them shouting it at Rhisveri after Teriarch had crashed. Ryoka wasn’t saying it. She was gazing upwards, head craned back.

Was she smiling? The Devil looked at the young woman insane enough to dance with him, to befriend immortals. He began to understand how she had befriended a Dragon.

“Ryoka Griffin. Come with me.”

Even Uzine wasn’t mad enough to stay in one spot. The Agelum turned, and Visophecin shouted.

Where is Gadrea?

“Already gone! Ryoka—”

“I have to stop it. Tell Tyrion I’m ashes if he asks. And Erin—”

The Wind Runner spoke dreamily. Visophecin was so astonished he was too slow. He grabbed for her—and she was already leaping into the air. He stared upwards. The climbing Wyrm shrieked at the Dragon carving a blazing path through the skies.

Even the mortals of Ailendamus looked up and pointed at and feared the comet falling to earth. Yet the wind rose, and a Human shouted as she drew her sword.

Neither one could hear her. Ryoka knew that. Even if they could hear the wind howling in their ears, her voice was like a whisper before two colliding planets.

Who could stop them by force? No one. Yet Ryoka flew up, the air tearing at her flesh, trying to get close enough. She had mere seconds as the Faeblade burned with flame.

Yet even plasma seemed paltry before the fiery Dragonlord. Even alien technology could not warp space like the Wyrm twisting through the void.

Ryoka’s other hand reached down for the only weapon she had. She tore it out from her belt pouch and screamed.

“Dragon and Wyrm fight, and both will fall! And upon their bodies, I, Merlin, say to build a castle tall! Upon their bones, in King Arthur’s name! Just as planned—Oberon’s twisted game!”

She did the rhyming just in case it helped. The single piece of paper tried to tear itself free as she held it aloft. Just a…signature. From King Arthur Pendragon.

The most famous Dragonslayer. The Faerie King’s name. But most of all—what she hoped and prayed a Dragon would remember.

A famous story, yes, from another world. But a famous story about how two Dragons died.

The autograph was just a name. So was the Faerie King. Neither element could stop the collision, but the most primal, instinctive motivation in both Rhisveri and Teriarch’s heads might. She thought she saw the Wyrm’s eye flicker as he shot past her. And she saw that brief, welcome flash of the thing Dragons and Wyrms shared, besides their arrogance, greed, immortality, and pride.

Paranoia.

A—trap. Ryoka felt the searing heat baking her skin and then—suddenly—disappear. The Wyrm twisted in midair, and Ryoka saw a twisted land opening in a cut in the sky aimed at her. A dirt path and a really scared-looking white Gnoll appeared before her eyes as Rhisveri screamed—

“Traitor!”

The dimensional hole vanished. Ryoka saw Teriarch flash down, leveling off and away as Rhisveri howled. She sighed in relief a second before Rhisveri’s tail slapped her out of the skies.

 

——

 

The Wyrm of Ailendamus came back to his senses as the fear this was all a ploy by Visophecin to get him killed—some long con—turned into a realization of what Ryoka had done. He saw Teriarch flapping back and exhaled as he looked up at the vapor trail in the clouds and realized how close he’d come to—

Then he saw the falling Human and hesitated.

“Oh.”

He might have broken her ribs. All of them. And he was staring at part of her lungs. From the outside. The Wyrm caught her gently on the tip of his tail. He whispered a healing spell as Teriarch turned to stare at the strange young woman. Rhisveri heard him murmur.

“That was—impressive. Especially for a mortal. Is that—an autograph?”

 

——

 

Some might think that the greatest politician, the most implacable, devious, and impossible-to-read being in the world would be a Dragonlord. Or—failing that, perhaps a Wyrm so used to cunning and subterfuge he had built a kingdom to rule in secret. Failing that, what about a being of literal masks, or a Devil?

Whoever thought that was, of course, a fool. For the being whom even Sariant Lambs could not match in the art of faking his emotions was none other than King Itorin II of Ailendamus.

He stood at the windows of his palace where the comet had landed. A comet out of thin air, along with a minor quake.

The moment Itorin had felt the quake, he knew Ryoka Griffin had something to do with it. In that way he had learned to survive his own immortals, he was aware today some judgment was being carried out.

He had—carefully—expressed his desire that she live to Rhisveri, but Itorin II had only been able to hope for the best. Now?

The court was ashambles with minor alarm. The [Geomancers] thought something heavy had impacted the ground or an unnatural cause, because this was no tectonic tremor. As for that comet…

Every eye was on the King of Ailendamus. And what did he do?

He turned, quirking one lip, and held up a hand, as of a man trying to hide a self-evident smirk.

“I must apologize to the royal court. I was aware, of course, of our [Mages] trialing a new spell. They assured me it would be private. Evidently not. The throne shall make its statement later today.”

What genius. What improvisation. Just the slight hint—the glance of evident regret and biting of his tongue to suggest he’d let slip some secret project in a moment of indulgence, and the court calmed down. The [Spies] composed frantic reports, and Itorin II hoped there would be an afternoon for him to do the cover up in.

He returned to his throne, the lone performer deserving of every award. He hoped Ryoka was alive.

 

——

 

Near-apocalyptic events had a way of diffusing the situation. Once you saw someone actually, accidentally slap the big red button, you reconsidered very quickly whether you actually wanted to get to this point or if there were another way out.

When the Dragon and Wyrm’s fury cooled, they both had minor heart-attacks at how close they’d both come to killing each other and, more importantly, themselves.

The only person closer to having their heart actually pop out of their chest was Wer, who decided he was never going to use this damn Skill ever again. First the Witch, now…?

It was not worth whatever the damn <Quest> was offering.

At any rate, everyone stood down. They waited—mostly watching and commenting on the young woman lying on the ground.

“Just push it back in, Paxere.”

“Push it back—it’s not supposed to come out. Those are her lungs!”

“Move aside, I’ll do it. Is this—healable?”

“[Restoration]. [Restoration]—bodies are incredibly resilient. Her heart stopped once—exploded, rather—and I was able to return her to life.”

“Canceling my puppeteering…lungs are working. Heart is beating, blood seems to be contained in veins without help. Ribs are…one, two, three…there’s a bit of bone there. Someone pull it out. [Pain Null] is still working? You would think that if you could heal this, whatever that other Human had with the crossbow bolts wouldn’t be so dire.”

“Indeed. Well, magic has deteriorated to the point where [Stasis Field] was not even an option, apparently. As for freezing a body solid—the aftereffects were so severe even the Potion of Regeneration hadn’t fully dealt with the issue when I did a checkup of the individual. The bodily possession did not help, frankly. A Drake was using the other Human’s muscles as if they were galas-muscle and possibly starting development in said body. Throw that all together and then have the body try to go back to normal functionality—”

“Fascinating. Gilaw. Stop that. I said, stop—

A claw was poking her in the face. Ryoka could see it, but not move her head. Nor, thankfully, feel any pain.

Incidentally, the feeling of someone maneuvering an internal organ back into your body with all the delicacy of someone stuffing a sandwich into a bag was unforgettable. Ryoka Griffin resolved never to buy Barbie dolls or any other toy where you forcibly assembled or disassembled them.

It was only as bad as getting a tooth pulled under anesthesia—aside from the mental trauma. However, unlike modern medicine—

“I think she’s good. Someone, check her body. Not like that, all of you disgusting—no younger immortals. Wouldn’t [Restoration] have fixed it?”

That was Rhisveri. The second voice was familiar. Teriarch’s.

“Er…[Restoration] only assumes a set amount of damage. And it merely restores.”

“Ah, of course. [Restoration] one more time. Canceling [Pain Null]—”

A second later, after the scream had finished ringing in the air, Rhisveri spoke very calmly again.

“—and it is back. Er…what caused that?”

“Maybe a stone was lodged in a nerve? Is she still…?”

Someone poked Ryoka in the head. Azemith, and the world’s ills became so wonderfully inconsequential, and the young woman began giggling.

“[Delirious Happiness]. Oh, look. Flip her over. One of the ribs you broke is sticking out her back. The spell must not push it out of the body. Want me to yank it out?”

“Ah. That might be the culprit. But let’s make sure there’s no other causes.”

Here was the thing. Was this the foundation of all the nightmares and trauma therapy for the rest of her life?

Absolutely. Did she regret her actions?

No. Seeing someone else in that level of pain really brought people together. If only in mutual sympathy. And most importantly—when Ryoka Griffin got up and assured everyone she felt fine with all the enchantments dispelled, even Gilaw gave her a pat on the head.

There was nothing like watching someone get cracked open like a clam to make a tiny bit of amends. Menorkel looked like he’d been sick at least once, and even the Lucifen were a teensy bit sympathetic.

She looked up at Rhisveri and Teriarch. The Wyrm withdrew his head, and the Dragon harrumphed as he realized all eyes were on him again.

“I had—apparently—saved your life once before. Miss Ryoka Griffin? Please understand. To me, this is the first time we have met. Yet I am aware of your deeds.”

She looked up into that familiar face and almost asked him to break her ribs again. This was harder still, but Ryoka stared up at the Dragon and nodded.

“I…you did. And we did know each other.”

Teriarch looked sadly down at Ryoka.

“Indeed? I would say that is astonishing, surprising, and unlikely. But I cannot profess that after that last moment of bravery. I am sorry. I understand this ‘Eldavin’ has caused you much grief.”

“He did. I mean…he was confused.”

Teriarch’s head bowed lower as Rhisveri watched Ryoka with the other immortals. He was longing to jump in, but he had calmed down, vented his pique, and was just observing. Ryoka looked up as Teriarch stared down.

“Did I do the right thing?”

“Hm? Oh—yes. I was dead. The backlash—something occurred. I do not know what, but it must have disrupted the connection enough to slay the host, myself. You brought me back.”

He said it gently, even, Ryoka thought, trying to thank her. But there was a note of accusation there he couldn’t hide.

If they were in his cave, she would have asked him to explain it to her. Yet the Dragon here did not elaborate. He simply nodded.

“I am in your debt. I shall repay it, Miss Griffin. I intend firstly to return you to Izril or the place of your convenience. Allow me a moment to—settle matters.”

He glanced at the immortals of Ailendamus, and Ryoka almost nodded. He was so aloof. She called out to Teriarch.

“Are you still planning on changing Wistram?”

He glanced over his shoulder. It was the only thing she could think to say to him. The Brass Dragon gave her a puzzled look, then a rueful laugh.

“Restore it to glory? So that was what I was attempting to do, I assume. No, no. I am pressed with—greater tasks.”

She wondered what they were. She wondered if she knew or could help. Yet the Dragon smiled at her in that fake way, and Ryoka almost reached out. She put her hands behind her back.

“—Then I guess you’ll make Eldavin vanish too, in time.”

Visophecin was listening sharply to their conversation, and Ryoka assumed Teriarch would give her a light response if anything. The Brass Dragon’s placating smile…froze on his face.

“…Make him vanish?”

Then, Rhisveri’s returning ire, the writhing pain in Ryoka’s stomach and urge to blurt out the last message from his daughter, the fear over conflict with Ailendamus—

All of it became a side-show to the look of dawning horror in Teriarch’s eyes. Pieces, falling together. Rhisveri’s comments, a familiar name—but that was the thing about arrogance. He had assumed his simulacrum was dead. As if his mistakes were so easy to erase. The immortals of Ailendamus gazed upon the Dragon’s true moment of fear and realized this new world would be trickier than they thought.

Teriarch had not known Eldavin was alive. Or rather, he had not known Eldavin was him. He had been asleep most of his travel across Izril, and he was not used to the television that was now commonplace in the world.

He also could tell everyone, instantly, that the Dragon and Archmage were not connected. One look—and the Dragon began to be very worried indeed. Very worried, guilty, and tired.

When she saw that, Ryoka Griffin almost burst into tears herself, because that…

That was the Teriarch she knew.

 

——

 

“My demands yet stand. Ryoka Griffin is to be exiled. Send her back to the palace and then out of my lands.”

“Without a geas. I must insist. The threat of death is unacceptable.”

The Wyrm’s jaw clenched, but he inclined his head very slowly—all without ever looking at Teriarch.

“It occurs to me, purely based on the initial wording of the geas, that emergencies do occur. Psychologically, it would not do for Princess Oesca to inadvertently murder Ryoka Griffin by sending her a [Message] spell. That tends to disrupt development in young minds.”

The young woman looked between Dragon and Wyrm.

“Rhisveri—”

“Get out of my sight. More pressing matters have arisen. Dragonlord, we shall discuss matters. Alone.”

The other immortals didn’t like that, but it beat the two brawling. It was the young woman that the Dragon noted. She wanted to say something to the Wyrm, but now was not the time.

When she looked at him—he found himself avoiding her gaze.

They had known each other, that was what his notes told him. He wanted to believe that it had not been much of a relationship. That he had mingled little with the mortals of this age.

Yet he looked at her and saw too many similarities to the other children he had met. It was, then, notable that he never met her eyes. Perhaps he was more afraid of speaking with her than Rhisveri.

“Teriarch…will I see you again?”

“My business on Terandria will not last long. I shall seek you out at least one last time, Miss Griffin. You have my word.”

He nodded stiffly to her. The look she gave him before she bowed back was…

In silence, she walked back to the palace with Visophecin and the other immortals in tow. The Wyrm and Dragon watched, both pretending to be aloof. Glancing at each other.

Stalemate. Or at least, a mutual understanding that neither could bring down the other without unacceptable cost. Or preparation.

Yet it seemed that even Rhisveri wasn’t about to grab a metaphorical half-brick, stuff it in a sock, and come back swinging. The Wyrm spoke, tracing a truth sigil in the air.

“I call a truce. Give me five minutes?”

The Brass Dragon inclined his head. Rhisveri slithered off towards the palace. He shot into the air and cloaked his body in a moment.

He can turn his entire body invisible. The Wyrm really was good at magic. Even if you had the mana of a Great Wyrm, turning that much mass invisible seamlessly was a trick.

What really rankled Teriarch—slightly—was that Rhisveri didn’t make any amateur mistakes, like forgetting to hide his shadow or concealing his presence in the clouds.

What was he going for, an artifact? A magical scroll contract? Healing himself?

Paranoia was a terrible thing, and Ryoka Griffin truly had figured out how to unnerve a Dragon and Wyrm. Yet the Dragonlord forced himself to wait, trying to stretch out a wing and accelerate his own healing. The trouble with being so magical was that, while you could put together a Human like a puzzle—[Restoration] on a Dragon was more like spitting on a wound and hoping it helped.

The Wyrm returned in three minutes. He came twisting back through the air, landing lightly, and faced the Dragon. They both sized each other up, then Rhisveri deposited something on the ground with his mouth.

“Here. One of the small benefits of ruling a nation. I do not propose we do something as mundane as downsize to crack open some ancient vintage like…nobility.

He sneered lightly, and Teriarch was glad he hadn’t proposed doing just that. He blinked at what Rhisveri had brought.

Namely…what turned out to be two massive silos, the kind one used in a brewery. Rhisveri had taken two malt beers, and he offered one to Teriarch.

Given the size differential, one was more than enough for Teriarch. He watched Rhisveri use his claw to puncture a hole in the top of one silo, pour the frothing drink into his maw, and drain over half in one gulp. He produced two more silos and set them down next to the Dragon.

Hardly elegant. If he were with another Dragonlord, it might have been wine. Or, depending on the Dragon, a roasted yak. Beer?

Then again, it was fairly sweet, and Teriarch found it novel to drink with his actual body. He was so used to adopting a smaller form that he understood the appeal after several foamy mouthfuls.

“This—is not entirely unpalatable. Does this particular, ah, beverage have a name?”

Glassmalt. The theme of Ailendamus, you know? We created enough dedicated barley and hop fields to supply the nation, oh…sixty years ago? All vineyards up till then, but the popular drinks weren’t wine in taverns. So we made an agricultural push.”

“Ah. Naturally. You know, I did not, in my study of your nation, ever inquire as to why Ailendamus was the Kingdom of Glass and Glory. Why glass?”

Rhisveri snorted lightly as he glanced down at his cup. He drank, tossed the first one aside, and reached for another.

“Glass? The first cities I personally oversaw featured glass windows in even commonfolk homes. I’m sure you know how poorly glass is blown outside of dedicated cities? I merely introduced proper refining techniques—Ailendamus doesn’t even have that much sand! A decade later, we were supplying glass to nations around the world.”

Teriarch’s brows rose.

“Is that why I noticed so much glass even in Drake cities like Liscor?”

Rhisveri looked quite pleased.

“It’s not all from us. Diffusion over two hundred years means the techniques resurfaced worldwide. But yes, that is likely Ailendamus’ influence. It’s quite a lucrative market—[Repair] spells are the best most [Mages] can do, so glass contributes to a substantial amount of our exports to some countries.”

“I see. You know, it reminds me much of this Chandrarian kingdom I visited, oh, five thousand years ago? They were also glass experts. Glass homes—opaque, naturally—but wonderfully colorful from sand. Glass roads, smooth as could be. Glass Golems—”

“It must have been as hot as a volcano there.”

Rhisveri commented. Teriarch’s brows rose.

“Oh, entirely. That was how they destroyed themselves, or so I heard. Someone built an edifice that was too reflective—and it started melting everything around it. Then that glass became reflective and—”

Rhisveri chuckled at the notion of an entire kingdom literally refracting itself to destruction.

“That is the stupidest construction I’ve ever…no, wait. I can top that.”

“Indeed?”

Rhisveri inclined his head as he glanced sideways at Teriarch. Still slightly challenging, but he kept his tone pleasant. As pleasant as Teriarch was trying to sound. Casual, that was it.

“Not that I’m a Dragonlord of such age, but I have seen a few amusing buildings in my time. Have you ever seen Sariant Lambs try to build a tower?”

“No.”

Even the Brass Dragon smiled. Rhisveri nodded slightly northeast.

“The Lucifen and Agelum love the damn things. Well, Agelum. We had so many at one point that they had an entire colony in secret. When Visophecin tracked them back, he found a damn tower being built by Sariant Lambs out of scrap.”

“These are Sariant Lambs, yes? Tiny? No opposable digits…? No mutations?”

Rhisveri’s mouth opened wide.

“None. Imagine a lamb trying to swing a hammer. I don’t even know how many casualties they took getting it that high. It was fifty feet tall, and it looked like weather had knocked it over three times.”

“That is actually ridiculous.”

Despite himself, Teriarch felt himself snorting. He was moved to contribute a story of his own.

“I’ve seen similar stunts, you know. Wyverns have built their own structures.”

“…No. Those inbred lizards?”

“Ah, the greater species are intelligent, and their royal versions can shapeshift. But regular Wyverns—indeed. It is amazing—Ogres, trolls, even monkey tribes do far better jobs when they have the time.”

Rhisveri chuckled.

“I wish I had seen that. It reminds me of when we decided to take apart the damn tower. The Sariants kept trying to fight anyone dismantling it. So I set fire to the building, and they ran around shrieking as if we were broiling them. Sariant Lambs, trying to form a bucket chain…”

That sounded more like cruelty to Teriarch. And he knew full well that Sariants were the most devious, untrustworthy little monsters you could find as pets. He bared his teeth and chuckled politely.

The Wyrm noticed the forced smile. He took a longer sip from his drink, and Teriarch did the same.

“—Forgive me. I forgot I was addressing the noble Dragonlord, champion of a thousand kingdoms. You’ve probably seen countless cyclical events before.”

“I would not go that far. It’s true that events repeat themselves—but seldom in the same way. Species love to build tall towers—I suppose that’s just a general consensus many come to. Height breeding authority and whatnot…”

Teriarch waved a wing and winced at his sore muscles. Rhisveri nodded, listening. Teriarch went on.

“…But the way species return to the same idea is always unique. For instance, if you recall our healing of Miss Griffin—it was lucky she had no actual galas-muscle or unique bones. Even so, the best ‘[Healer]’ on Izril is simply capable of casting [Restoration].”

“Hah. That beats Terandria in large.”

The Brass Dragon nodded, smiling ruefully.

“Yes, well. They’ve forgotten almost all shapeshifting and bodily manipulation magic too. When I was in Liscor healing that other individual—I saw the most extraordinarily muscled Drake. All manually developed.”

“…How muscular are we talking about? If you mean bulky—”

“No, no. I mean—he had muscles along his neck, just so—he didn’t just have trapezius muscles—when I saw him move, his sides had muscles. And his legs! It was like an anatomy course every time he flexed. And he did flex. He even was touting some kind of physical regime with suspended weights. All of this commendable effort when you could just…shape muscle.”

The Wyrm snorted lightly.

“That sounds like modern mortal mindsets. Not that training with blades is wrong—”

“No, of course not. But building muscle? I was almost tempted to tell him to visit A’ctelios Salash.”

He was still the same Dragon. He made the same observations, ignorant of the fact that he’d actually said as much before. Teriarch saw Rhisveri was smiling—almost as politely as he was. It was that kind of conversation. Forced amiability over a drink after a fist-fight. If they were anything like mortals. Which they weren’t.

Galas-muscle, now. I would respect it if the Drake advanced into building that. If he were trying to shapeshift those muscles into his body—hah! People have tried compressing mana into muscle.”

“—I’ve heard and even looked into the practice, but I heard it was ineffective…?”

Teriarch grimaced. He actually found he was halfway through the silo, so he took another drink—Rhisveri seemed to have quite a number in stock.

“No, it works. At least, it can work. You could build a body out of galas—I didn’t, even for my simulacrum, I’m sure. Regular muscle. One mistake in building even a strand of it and that’s a good way to blow half the scales off your body. Let alone our sinew and bone.”

“Not worth the risk. Although I noticed you had a bit of a paunch, Dragonlord. Threw out your wings a bit? You might want to do a few laps around a mountain each day.”

Teriarch chuckled lightly.

“Oh, I intend to. A millenia or two of rest will do that. Although I notice you were fighting head-first. Good form on your striking, but you were entirely too stationary until you grew that forest. Not classically trained in any academy.”

“There were academies for Wyrms to learn fighting?”

“Only a few. But those that did take the time to learn avoided the simplistic, natural way of Wyrms fighting. Rather like a self-taught [Barbarian] versus a [Blademaster] practicing non-naturalistic fighting forms.”

This time, the Wyrm’s laugh had a slight edge to it.

“—Well, I haven’t had many foes of my caliber before. It was quite the trick you pulled in the sky. Do all Flame Dragons fly like that?”

“Only myself. It was considered a technique far beyond most Dragons.”

“I can see why. Watching you smash yourself into the ground like that was the most amazing self-inflicted wound I’ve ever seen.”

The Brass Dragon took a second to take a longer drink before laughing loudly.

“Yes, quite! I could go faster, you know. But I wouldn’t have wanted to injure you that severely.”

“Or yourself. Hahahahaha.”

“Ohohoho. Quite.”

The laughter was getting less natural and more like…someone imitating the sounds. The Wyrm and Dragon stared at each other over their drinks. The convivial air, never that strong to begin with, faded away. Teriarch’s mouth opened wider, showing all his teeth. Rhisveri calmly crunched one of the silos and tossed it to one side while picking up another with his tail.

The Brass Dragon dropped the smile.

“Take my Dragonthrone.”

“No. I don’t need it nor want it.”

Rhisveri spat, and the Dragonlord of Flame growled.

“Don’t play games with me, Rhisveri. You won’t find a treasure equal to my Dragonthrone anywhere in this world.”

“I don’t want it. I’d cherish it if it were a prize taken from you in battle. A gift? A bribe? A patronizing little gesture for the ghosts? Give it to the Sariant Lambs. Ailendamus refuses.”

“You are arrogant beyond belief.”

Teriarch hissed. Rhisveri flicked his tail, rising slightly.

“Do you want to try again, elder Dragon? I am not the one feeling my age. Nor will you stop Ailendamus from doing as it wishes.”

“Do you think your nation is the largest I’ve seen burn? Mortals struck down your vaunted armies, my help or not.”

The Dragon paced left, and Rhisveri slithered, uncoiling slightly. The Great Wyrm snarled.

“If you want to back the other nations, be my guest. Shall we make it a proxy war or will I see you on the battlefield? I’ve defeated other Dragons. I fought in the Creler Wars and before that. Do you remember the Silver Dragonknight? I sent him crawling away in battle.”

Teriarch snorted a gout of purple flame in amusement, and Rhisveri hesitated, uncertain.

“Yderigrisel? He loses to everyone. Lost to. I remember a Necromancer beat him nearly a hundred times in a row. Yderigrisel was a Silver Dragon. Better at escaping or illusions. That idiot wore armor and fancied himself a [Knight]. He was no Dragonlord. Unless you fought him with an army at his back, that would be the last Dragon to boast of defeating.”

Rhisveri’s eyes narrowed.

“It must be so convenient to be the famous Dragonlord. No one can ever match the foes you’ve met, nor live up to some ancient kingdom of Crelercrap that existed two hundred thousand years ago and built Adamantium towers out of mud sticks. You have no right to demand anything of me. I am the last Wyrm.”

“And I am the last Dragonlord of Flame. I did not come here to make demands on Ailendamus nor you—”

“Oh, no. Just to assume I was a tyrant and tell me to change my ways or face rebellion. Do not prevaricate with me, Teriarch. I understand nuance.”

The Wyrm and Dragon narrowed the gap. Teriarch was trying to draw back from another heated exchange, but he was a fire Dragon.

He went in hot.

“If you keep conquering Terandria, I will not have to do anything. I came here seeking an ally. You know what’s coming back. Dead…gods.”

He spoke it into the silence, and the Wyrm recoiled. Rhisveri looked at Teriarch, and the Dragon’s pulse thundered.

Even saying their nature was anathema. Their natures…Rhisveri nodded slowly.

“I know. It’s impossible to fight what doesn’t exist yet, though.”

“There are ways to combat them. On this continent alone, no less. And more, in places even I do not know, hidden. Perhaps the new lands.”

“If so, Ailendamus will find and use them. We do not want your meddling. My advisors, my allies I trust. Not you. If you had come here with even the shred of humility—”

I offered you my Dragonthrone.

Your agent killed Fithea, the last Dryad! Ryoka Griffin stole my Scroll of Resurrection and used it on you!

The two roared at each other, so close they could taste each other’s breath, close to igniting or spraying acid. Teriarch had the sudden desire to copy a trick he’d seen the Dragonlord of War do. Which was plant a kiss on the head of a Dragon howling in her face. Then kick the upstart into the sea when they charged.

Not his style. The Brass Dragon’s voice turned into a low growl, and Rhisveri backed up as Teriarch’s body changed again.

Metal scales. Metal eyes. Only this time, it was pure Adamantium. That was what Rhisveri had collided with midair. Flames seethed from the gaps between Teriarch’s scales, coating his body in glowing magenta fire.

Listen to me, boy. The Lucifen are not your friends. Do you think they’re fine allies? They twist and manipulate and predate on mortals by their very nature.”

“You generalize. I expected better of a Dragonlord. Are all species defined by a single individual?”

Rhisveri backed up. Teriarch growled as he took a step; he was sinking into the ground with his weight.

“I remember all their sins. Ask yourself this—where were the Lucifen before they came to Terandria? You don’t know, do you? The Infernal Court weren’t always allies with the Agelum. Did they ever say what drove them into hiding as petty Human nobles?”

The Wyrm’s silence was all the answer Teriarch needed. He hissed.

They were on Rhir. Before the Blighted Kingdom! Before the Crelers! Another failed containment for whatever is buried down there. But unlike the current guardians—the Lucifen were exiled from Rhir. Do you know how depraved you have to be for that to happen?”

Rhisveri backed away, uncertain. Teriarch shifted back to normal—even that was draining, but the effect had worked.

“Count your allies alongside your enemies, Great Wyrm. Don’t think the Glorious Host is any less dangerous. An Elemental of Masks? A Dryad? Not all of their forests were kind, you know. The mortals drove Treants into the sea to their shame, but some Dryads spilled blood like water and sacrificed innocents upon their groves.”

“Do not speak of Dryads to me.”

The Wyrm’s voice was deadly calm. Teriarch backed down a step—Rhisveri had gone still, and the Dragonlord realized another word on that subject and this would escalate beyond the realms of mere anger.

The two moved apart and glared at each other. Rhisveri spoke first, laying his body like a line in the sand.

“…Stay away from Ailendamus, Dragonlord. Stay out of my affairs.”

“Make your peace with mortals and relish your kingdom as it is, Rhisveri Zessoprical. Your nation is grand for this era. I have seen wondrous civilizations burn before threats greater than Crelers. And worse is coming still.”

The Dragonlord turned. He spread his wings, and the Wyrm watched him begin to fly away. Rhisveri’s teeth ground together—then the Wyrm shouted.

Dragonlord! WHO IS KASIGNA?

He saw the Brass Dragon flinch in the skies. A head turned, and two ancient eyes burned down at Rhisveri. But the Wyrm saw the fear.

“You aren’t ready to battle them. Not yet. If they find their full flesh—my fire will barely scratch them.”

He whirled and soared away. Rhisveri was left staring up at the sky. The Wyrm bitterly drained the last of his drink.

“So there’s the hierarchy? Mortals before Wyrm, before God?”

Rhisveri spat onto the ground, and the venom hissed and bubbled away, eating at the firmament of the world.

“In time, neither Dragonlord nor dead specter will threaten my kingdom. Flee back to Izril. I’ll even let you have the Wind Runner. She can run wherever she pleases, until all she ever sees will be Ailendamus’ banners, hanging from shore to distant shore.”

 

——

 

If Ryoka Griffin had heard Rhisveri’s oath, she might have been less surprised by how she left Ailendamus.

Not in a bag. Nor teleported. Nor while being herded through the streets as people spat on her while being beaten with sticks by sock puppets. And yes, amazingly, that was one of the outside options.

Even she was surprised by her exit, though. However, it was entirely in keeping with Rhisveri’s nature.

Pride—but also cunning. Perhaps Teriarch had forced him to release Ryoka Griffin unharmed. Somehow, she thought that this had been planned from the outset.

Especially because it was no easy task to convene thousands of people—in the throne room, no less. Ryoka stared at her bare feet and wished, for the first time in her life, she’d put on shoes.

Viscount Visophecin looked surprised—or he had in the first moment when she’d been summoned. Now, he watched her from the ranks of Ailendamus’ nobility.

Queen Oiena of Ailendamus had a smile on her lips, but her eyes were searching Ryoka’s face. Yet it was King Itorin II who spoke and beckoned Ryoka as Oesca and Ivenius stood next to the throne.

Oesca had her hands folded in her dress, very demurely. Ivenius jiggled slightly with impatience, but he’d done quite well.

Baron Regalius had spoken for nearly ten whole minutes, and in royal time, that was a lot. Ryoka Griffin walked forwards in a bit of a daze.

Um. What was going on here? Dame Chorisa, standing among the many [Knights] flanking her approach to the throne, looked like she felt like she was having a fever dream.

Such was Rhisveri’s plan. King Itorin II spoke into the silence.

“…We recognize the Wind Runner’s exemplary service in no less than our personal token of esteem, to be granted from our own hand. Kneel, Courier Griffin.”

She knelt—someone would have kicked her in the legs otherwise. Ryoka stared up at Itorin as he accepted a medal made half of glass, the other half of some shining metal representing glory. He placed it around her neck, and the applause and cheering began on cue.

Ryoka Griffin stared at the Signet of Glass and Glory and then at Itorin II. He gave her a rueful smile of amusement before he schooled his expression and rose.

And that was how Ryoka Griffin left Ailendamus. Exiled—and also with the highest medal of honor dangling around her chest.

Because, like Itorin’s ability to bluff, Rhisveri had a simple choice. Pretend Ryoka had been a mistake, an enemy, and all the things she’d done had been out of his control.

Or pat her on the head and claim her deeds as Ailendamus’ own. Not least of which was muddling the claims of House Veltras and Archmage Eldavin.

It was really, really going to make Ryoka’s life complicated. And that, she thought privately, was probably the principle reason the Wyrm had done this.

She might never return. Viscount Visophecin walked her towards the border after a silent ride in his portal-door.

“…You have guests waiting for you, Ryoka. Time will tell whether or not you answer Rhisveri’s demands. I trust you will. It behooves Ailendamus to have—interesting—mortals like yourself in its company. I believe even Rhisveri understands this.”

It was the most straightforward way of saying things Ryoka could expect from the Lucifen. She turned, and Visophecin held out a hand. Ryoka shook it.

“I’ll try. I—I’ll come back, Visophecin. Once I’ve settled my debt. I hope I’ll be welcome. I want to make amends and…”

And. The Lucifen nodded, and Ryoka took one more look at the strange kingdom of Ailendamus. Terrible, glorious—and she wondered if Rhisveri were out there, watching her leave.

She walked, slowly, towards the border, glancing up at the sky every now and then for a flash of crimson lightning.

None came. Nor sock puppet. Nor Wyrm in any other form or fashion. When she looked back—Visophecin was gone too.

Was it all over? Ryoka felt disbelief, sadness for her meeting with Teriarch, uncertainty for the future, and general worry—standard emotions—running through her veins. And she saw a reflection of that in the group of people she saw gathered as she climbed a small hill, waiting for her.

Lord Tyrion Veltras and the Five Families saw the Wind Runner slow as she jogged forwards. Pellmia pointed, and Buscrei shouted.

“There she is! Look at the damn traitor! Put five arrows in her and let’s go home!”

She loosed an arrow, and Ryoka yelped as the shaft thunked into the ground a good ten feet wide of her, but Buscrei was already riding forwards. Swey, grinning, followed. But it was Lord Tyrion Veltras who got there first.

Ryoka Griffin stared up at the young man sitting in his saddle.

“Uh—”

She didn’t recognize him for a moment. Who was this guy? Jet black hair, a serious face, dark blue eyes…

Then she realized who it had to be. Only, instead of the middle-aged man, she found herself looking at a younger man, under thirty years.

Tyrion Veltras dismounted as Ryoka’s mouth opened and stayed there. She had known about Dioname’s last gift to Tyrion, but seeing him up close?

“Ryoka. I imagine I look—different. I was apparently made more youthful. By…Pellmia’s Skill.”

The [Lord of Love and Wine] sighed as Ryoka Griffin turned her gaze to him—then caught onto the lie. She goggled a second, then blurted out what she needed to say.

“Tyrion! I’m sorry that I got—Sammial’s fine. He’s with two Couriers and headed to Izril.”

“Yes. He arrived in First Landing four days ago. He is in our people’s care. Miss Ryoka. Good job.”

Jericha rode over, looking—well. Almost as bewildered by recent events as everyone else. She actually nodded to Ryoka, and the Wind Runner hung her head.

She was going to apologize to Tyrion for, well, everything that had happened since Pellmia’s manor was attacked. Explain, or try to, how she had ended up on Ailendamus’ side. Say something about this war, the death, the bloodshed, and her culpability in all of it.

Tyrion beat her to the punch. The younger man removed his helmet and then, adjusting his armor slightly, sank down to one knee.

Oh no. Oh, dead gods.

Ryoka turned white. Before anything else could happen, Pellmia kicked Tyrion in the back slightly. The [Lord] turned—then coughed and stood back up.

He stared at the sky, then at Ryoka, then glanced at his cousins, who were watching him with both deep reservation, and, at least for Buscrei, great excitement. It could be terrible, despite all their advice.

It could be gloriously horrible or great. The [Lord] spoke after a moment, looking Ryoka straight in the eye.

“I have a number of things I would like to discuss with you, Ryoka. But I feel…rather foolish at this moment in time.”

She blinked at him, and Tyrion went on, staring at Ailendamus’ quiet borders. At least—for now. The war was going on, but here was House Veltras’ last quarry. He glanced at his hands, felt the youthful energy in his body and a far weaker class hovering above him.

“…I set out to right a wrong, in my eyes. A simple cause that demanded no further inquiry beyond the need to act. Now—I must ask myself a question. Did I make everything worse for my people? Did I do what was best? Could I have saved more lives, done better, another way?”

He glanced at her, and Ryoka Griffin saw, to her amazement, Tyrion flush.

“Forgive me. This is my responsibility. I set out to make the world better in some small way, and I do not know if I did. I hope you are well. I fear I had little involvement in your trials.”

This was not what he’d meant to say to her…but it was exactly why Pellmia sighed in relief. Ryoka Griffin stood there, looking at Tyrion, and in his guilty expression, the uncertain look in his eyes, the difficult future—

Well. She sighed and nodded.

“I know what comes next. At least—for me.”

“Oh?”

The [Lord] of House Veltras waited, hopefully, and Ryoka’s smile was entirely crooked as the Wyrm watched her covertly. He saw her look down at her feet, brush some hair blowing into her face, and then reply.

“What you do next, Tyrion, is…lie.”

“Lie?”

His face turned to ice, but Ryoka went on.

“You lie. To other people, but yourself as well. You say…‘next time. Next time, I’ll do it better. Next time, I won’t make as many mistakes’. Then, of course, you do them all over again.”

Ryoka looked back over her shoulder at Ailendamus.

“…I really thought I was on the right track for a second. It’s hard to really change. Next time—”

She broke off.

“I guess I’ve got to try again. So. What happens now?”

She looked at the members of the Five Families. Lord Tyrion Veltras gazed at Ryoka and then nodded to Jericha and the others. He turned and pointed south. A ship was waiting for them in Calanfer’s ports.

“We go home.”

The company sighed, and the Five Families’ immediate part in the war was over. The Wind Runner looked up, and Pellmia gave it a perfect score.

Just 10/10. 11/10, really, not on an objective basis, but for the people involved specifically. He was about to rest easy, levelless, but content in the future, when Lord Tyrion turned.

“Would you—care to ride side-saddle with me on our journey back, Ryoka?”

Pellmia eyed Ryoka’s expression, and Buscrei and Swey began laughing so hard they both nearly fell out of their saddles. And yet—the [Lord of Love and Wine] had to admit—

It was a start.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: 20,000 words.

They were harder to write than twice that much last chapter. Not because the other chapter was easier—because I was far, far, far more tired for this one.

That’s the energy-flow of a web serial. You have to manage it like a gauge in a video game. If I draw too heavily one chapter the next has a deficit.

However, I am content with a shorter chapter because, as I said, not needing to push for 30,000 or even 24,000 per chapter lets me regain power. I only wish I could do it Dragonball Z style and scream in a field for an hour. Or do it like Kirby and half of manga protagonists and eat weird food.

Alas, all I get is energy from ‘good sleep’, ‘healthy eating’, ‘exercise’, and wholesome activities. Bleh. That’s all from me—I hope you enjoyed this semi-follow up to last chapter.

Can you believe I thought this all would fit in the last chapter? Even with cutting…well, that’s classic me. See you next time! Not sure when I’m taking my break, but there’s that AMA on the 26th, so it’ll definitely be around then.

Take it easy!

 

Outside The Wandering Inn by tobinkusuma!

 

Stink Squad by pkay!

 

Lyonette and Mrsha by slaetus!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.07

Another day dawned over The Wandering Inn, and a few people started their day in very different ways.

The sun was welcome these days, if only because the fall was getting cold. Cold enough that Lyonette had gone down to rekindle the fireplace in the hopes that it would warm up the inn. She’d doubled up on her blankets—and grumpily stared at the snoozing Mrsha who, furry and warm, hadn’t been affected by the night chill.

Picturesque. That was how the moonlight playing over purple, orange, and green grass looked. A foreign landscape for Earthers—or even for those not local to this area.

Pisces Jealnet was up before the sun began to chase the moons into the distance. He placed a mostly-untouched Faerie Flower drink on the railing of Bird’s tower.

It was the only place to really stare out at the landscape aside from your window or the roof, and he was fairly sure the occupants of the third floor would hear him walking about.

Now that he was here, Pisces understood why Bird spent all his time in the tower. It truly did have an unparalleled view of everything.

A beautiful night until dawn. Pisces’ eyes were tired, and he thought—now that he’d spent so long awake—he might finally sleep the moment he lay down.

Of course, he couldn’t. Pisces flopped into his bed, lay there for twenty minutes, then got up and spent another hour in the pre-dawn light filtering down from the High Passes.

He wondered what Cawe would have thought of it all. Greenery without end, water aplenty—far too much of it. When he had described it in their brief chats, she had claimed that was what any rich nation was surely like. And had been so disappointed to hear Liscor was not that rich. A Chandrarian Garuda had thought of water as unto richness.

Had she gotten to see it, in the lands of the dead? Maybe just for a few minutes.

From Chandrar to Baleros, then Terandria. No, she hadn’t made it to Izril after all. But she had visited more continents than he. All while being pursued by…what?

Erin hadn’t told him. She had looked him in the eyes—and never said the names. When he had pressed her, angrily, she had said only this:

“I can’t tell you. You’re not ready.”

That had been the angriest Pisces had been with Erin since…well, since that evening at the Adventurer’s Guild. It had not been a pleasant evening. Even now, it seemed, every second he could hear Erin whispering the words. Pisces felt as if Cawe were saying it.

“Tell Pisces I kept you out of their chains.”

He was watching her die. Only, instead of Igheriz, it was—what? Some monster that even ghosts feared? Why would Erin not tell him?

More questions, and he had thought he knew all the big ones, such as her world. Now this. Was he relieved?

The young man didn’t know. His head was empty and overfull, fixated on that single sentence and unable to focus on anything else. If there were anything he was grateful for—

It was that Igheriz had died twice.

He had told Erin everything. She knew his story already. Another unhappy realization—that Cawe had told Erin all of what passed. Yet the [Innkeeper] sat there, leaning forwards in her chair as they sat by the fire.

No one was allowed to disturb them that night. Pisces had seen his friends watching, but he and Erin had talked. It was not the relief he had hoped for. Some of it was—but other parts just brought the nightmare back.

“What of Riqre? Did he die twice?”

“He wasn’t there.”

So, no. He wasn’t ready to fall blissfully into rest. Pisces was going to be shorter on sleep than before. For a while. Yet the [Necromancer] was already trying to figure out how to tell his friends what had happened.

And he would. If only because, at the end of their talks, as Pisces demanded to know who had killed Cawe, Erin had turned to him and made him a promise.

“It’s the kind of thing where the more people who know, the more dangerous it is. The kind of secret that hurts people. Once you reach Level 50—I’ll let you know.”

Only she could be so…upliftingly aggravating. Pisces snorted as he took a light sip from the Faerie Flower drink. That seemed to bring memory clear, but not take him into visions or delusions.

“Level 50. She says that as if I will reach it within a decade. One supposes I have been holding myself back from levelling purely by inclination. She says it—

He ducked his head.

…With that aggravating surety in her gaze. Just when you thought she didn’t trust you or was supporting you in your fallibility—she looked as confident as the rising sun that he’d do it.

The [Necromancer] rubbed at his eyes as the first rays of light fell over him. Dawn. The earliest risers would be getting up. He saw a few birds rising and flitting about. Pisces raised his cup to a glowing bird—a Creona Flashbird, blinding its prey or predators.

“To the greatest [Pickpocket] in—twang.

An arrow shot past Pisces’ hand. The [Necromancer] saw the Flashbird dive in a scream—then a flash of light. When he could see again, Bird lowered the bow.

“I have missed. Wait. What are you doing in my tower? I am Bird. This is my home. Are you replacing me?”

The Antinium peered up at Pisces. The [Necromancer]’s mouth opened as he saw the alarmed bird flying away.

“No, I was merely enjoying the view. Pardon me, Bird.”

“You…were in my tower? Enjoying my view? Do people go into my tower when I am not there?”

Bird looked unaccountably upset. Pisces grimaced as the Antinium stared around as if searching for tower-assassins ready to leap into his abode.

“I assure you, it was a one-time affair.”

“Affair? With my tower? What have you been doing here? I know the meaning of the word affair. You will not put one on my head. Or over it.”

Dead gods. Pisces fled the aggravated [Hunter]. Bird looked around, then checked the door to his tower.

“I need a lock. People can just wander into my tower?”

 

——

 

Pisces Jealnet practically stumbled into his rooms, where he did fall asleep almost at once. Because of that, he missed the only other occupants of the inn awake at such an hour.

The Thronebearers and the other security.

Erin Solstice, even Lyonette, weren’t pre-dawn risers. The Thronebearers traded off by inclination. Shriekblade, Tessa, napped during the day and was often the nocturnal figure stealing food from the cupboards that had scared Mrsha to death when the Gnoll girl tried doing just that.

The sight of a Drake perched on the kitchen counter, eyes glowing slightly by moonlight as she stabbed a piece of cake with a knife—well. Good little Gnoll girls weren’t going to be stealing that cake anyways, were they?

So the nocturnal stay-awakers were in a different category from the real pre-dawn risers. Even with [Twofold Rest], it was a choice; most of the inn’s inhabitants just got better sleep than usual. Six hours of Erin’s inn giving them rest put them ahead of people who lived with only six—or four—or two hours of sleep each day.

A lot less midday naps required was the point. Only two goodfellows got up with Bird. And those were Normen and Alcaz.

What a strange time to be alive. Normen rolled out of his comfortable bed, and that wasn’t new. The Brothers had comfortable beds. They had lovely hideouts. They even had a generous hand with coin if everything was going well, and you couldn’t ask for more than that for a fellow who made a rough living.

—Or so he’d thought. But ever since tendering his partial resignation, Normen had discovered the joys of civilian life.

Namely, the feeling of sleeping in your own room, not a hideout, and that when you stepped outside, you might not have a target on your back.

Of course, he was now worried about someone putting one between Miss Solstice’s shoulder blades or on the lovable tyke, Mrsha, or the others. Yet guard-duty was not…being a Brother.

They’d thrown him a party. Just drinks and good company in one of the finer restaurants, and they’d all gone to one of the cheaper plays by the Players of Celum. Normen had been privately waiting for some…comeuppance for quitting the Brothers.

But they were an honorable lot, and the Gentlemen Callers had spoken up top. Mostly, Normen had learned—he and Alcaz had already been marked as dead. After Crimshaw had died and the chapter in Invrisil had taken so many casualties—anyone following the Tallman into a war and fighting Belavierr was probably dead. He couldn’t argue with that one.

Crimshaw deserved this. Normen stopped shaving with a bit of alchemical cream and a flick-knife. He stared into the mirror and around his room.

Not better than the Brothers’ hideouts or other accommodations he could afford. He’d earn far less than he might in a big job. And safety?

The inn was famous for being attacked. Normen had done the math on who might die in another Witch of Webs attack, and he was fairly certain how the first line of defense—himself and Alcaz—went. Yet there was a different feeling to this.

In the Brothers, you would get the call. One moment you’d be tipping your hat to a lady or gentleman on the streets, doing business in such a way that even the civilians didn’t look too afraid around you, although their kids were never present—the respectable ones with homes, that was.

The next? You took off that hat. And in the moments when your blood felt like fire and your heart was all you heard as you swung a club into someone’s face—you knew you’d be dead or breathing blood and relief in five minutes. And it was a coin toss on which it’d be.

Not a bad life. You could make it a while, and as Crimshaw had said when he vouched for Normen—sometimes a fellow stands for something. No [Slavers]. No harassing old folks or the worst of what could be done in the name of making coin.

You slept soundly in the Brothers.

In The Wandering Inn? Normen…rested.

“G’day to you, Alcaz.”

“Fine morning for it.”

The two Brothers greeted each other as they left their rooms, practically within moments. Not verbally—they mouthed the words and tipped their hats.

They were still Brothers. For now—it was all Normen knew, and he hadn’t lost the class. He was a [Courteous Mugger]. A man with a plan that involved hitting you until you lay down. He hadn’t consolidated his classes, though he had leveled up no less than five times in his adventure. Being in the Titan’s company and hitting [Soldiers] in battle did that.

He absconded with himself downstairs first as Alcaz prowled the upper floors. Normen didn’t go into occupied rooms, but he did go into unoccupied rooms. He’d do a circuit, check a few items, maybe straighten a chair, and leave.

He wasn’t a [Rogue]. Countering invisible foes was a hard, hard job. But Alcaz had a few tricks he’d shared with Normen.

They couldn’t use Seeme Dust or other expensive tools the Brothers would employ—not for long-term guard-duty. But a bit of dust just so meant that you could see it land where you sprinkled.

If someone were under the bed, for instance, even if they had a cloth mask so they didn’t sneeze, Normen might see the tiny bits of copper and silver mixed with the dust vanish or drift onto the invisible figure. Whereupon his foot would then connect with whomever was down there.

Was it necessary? Well—no. After four rooms, one of the Thronebearers emerged from a room she was checking and nearly ran into him.

“Oh, Miss Ushar.”

“Er—Ser Normen. Are you—checking rooms?”

“I…might have been insofar as I was having a walk about, miss.”

Embarrassed, the Brother tipped his hat, and the Thronebearer, Dame Ushar, gave a knightly bow. Both looked slightly askance—it was unprofessional to be caught out.

“What’re you using?”

“Just—grit and metal dust.”

“Oh. We have anti-invisibility charms, and we’ve been employing dust. Are you the reason why our [Trigger Runes] record recognized visits each day? We thought that was Shriekblade.”

Normen was entirely embarrassed. He hadn’t even seen the runes that Dame Ushar showed him. Not hidden in the doorjamb or anywhere on the floor, which he would have guessed. She flipped up a floorboard and showed him one written on the underside.

“That is—amazing work, Miss—I mean, Dame Ushar. I didn’t even notice it was altered. Do they teach magic to [Knights]?”

“More like runecraft for the purposes of defense. Each squad assigned to bodyguard has one magic-capable member. That’s me. We do still use dust, and we check glass for prints. But, er, if you are using silver, you may wish to switch to ground copper.”

“Why?”

“One of the guests—Miss Fierre—was complaining. Apparently, she is slightly, um, allergic because of an alchemical makeup she uses.”

“Oh. I see. Well, I shall tell my colleague, Alcaz.”

“If you wish to keep checking—”

Normen tipped his hat slightly and bowed.

“I can see when I’m outclassed, Dame Ushar. If I were one of the trickier fellows—I am not.”

The Thronebearers were good. Better than he was, and that embarrassed Normen to no end. He began to see why the Gentlemen Callers had encountered such difficulty.

They were not bodyguard experts. The Thronebearers were. Mind you—if it came to a fight, Normen would take the Hobgoblins over any one of the [Knights]. But if they were guarding the inn, what was his job?

He might have agonized, like Wilovan and Ratici, but Normen and Alcaz’s relationship was different. They were hired. They were—in no small way—part of the inn, not on contract.

Besides, Normen had found he had a lot to do day-by-day. So he decided he might do less rigorous sweeps per day as he headed down to the next part of his new routine.

And this—this was something the other Brothers had pestered Normen to get them. He was still in contact with his friends. There were a few, uh…in Liscor now, and he’d heard some might be heading south.

Which was an interesting development any [Guardsman] or Watch Captain would be really, really unhappy to hear about. But even the Brothers were in envy of one thing that Normen and Alcaz now had free access to:

The weights room.

Grimalkin had made a manual with pictures depicting how to use each set of weights after a few injuries. Alcaz was doing deadlifts as Normen strolled in and removed his jacket.

“Did you run into the [Knights] as well?”

They spoke, now that they were far enough from the guests to not wake them up. Alcaz shook his head.

“I fear I upset that Bird fellow. He was in a bit of a spot when I came into his tower, demanding to know if I was, er—fornicating with the woodwork?”

“Mildly hilarious, Alcaz.”

“I almost shat myself trying not to laugh, Normen.”

They smiled, because that was funnier than laughing. Then Normen began to lift. And he did enjoy that.

Dumbbells, bench press, deadlift station, and—Grimalkin kept trying to add more features, like some kind of compress for your legs and stretching bands. He hadn’t worked out how to copy some of the things he had been told about, but what he did have?

“I feel like I’ve gotten stronger. Maybe it’s my balance. I started at barely a hundred and sixty, you remember?”

Normen panted as he pressed the bar straight up, and Alcaz held one hand under the bar as he worked the other arm with a dumbbell. The other Brother raised his brows.

“Lack of balance.”

“Right you are—but even so.”

He was now up to two thirty-five, and he felt like he wasn’t at his ‘max’. He could do fifteen, though he had to stop after eight and then do them in smaller bursts. Sweat was already beading on his forehead as he switched stations.

“Ah—wait a moment.”

Erin Solstice was not in gym-management. But even she had begun remembering habits and routines from home. Alcaz caught Normen, and the Brother decided this was a day for embarrassment; he’d almost forgotten to wipe down the sweaty bench.

“Next—how do you do the plank-thing? I put my arms here—my legs here…”

Normen balanced over the two blocks as Alcaz offered to put some weights on his back. The other man refused—but he might accept in a week.

He felt like these weights were onto something. Every Brother, even the tricky ones, could move a knife fast and hard, but most, save for Wilovan, didn’t show their sometimes-surprising strength. Crimshaw had appeared to be a normal fellow, though his bulky jacket had gone some way to making him seem less formidable than he was.

Alcaz…felt like he was on a path towards defining his arms and legs and the alleged ‘core’ of which Grimalkin had so much praise for. Then again—the food also helped.

Consider why the other Brothers were envious when Normen described his lifestyle. After some light paranoid reconnaissance, he worked out for thirty minutes to an hour in the pre-dawn air. He might go to the bathroom, then for a walk around the inn, mostly just to take in the fresh air.

A fellow could rinse himself off with the well outside or schedule a trip to the bath houses later that evening. Yet just as he was getting hungry, the other occupants of the inn were up and there was breakfast.

“Normen, Alcaz? You’re up? Of course you’re up. Would you like to try Erin’s Bulkup Bisque? She just made it yesterday.”

Both Brothers looked up, and instead of a hearty breakfast of regular food, they found two delightfully-smelling bisques in front of them.

They had not known the inn’s poorer cooking, and Lyonette’s look of reservation was completely unfounded. One bite and Alcaz was trying not to move his spoon too fast.

“This—this is exquisite for breakfast, Miss Lyonette. Is this truly alright for us to have?”

The [Princess] was astonished.

“You’re employees, so naturally! Also, we need a test-crowd, and I saw you two in the gym.”

“Oh, if we were—”

“No, I was hoping you might tell me how effective this is! It’s supposed to make you stronger. It’s not…bad, is it? It’s mostly meat.”

“What kind?”

Alcaz was warier after hearing this was the magical food, but Lyonette reassured him.

“Wyvern meat. We needed strong, magical meats, so it’s Wyvern tendon, some bone, Corusdeer venison—muscle—some clotted cream, gumtree bark—that’s an alchemical ingredient, but it’s very edible! Makes the soup thick. And Weaverspider Silk, some beets, and—”

Normen felt like she skipped over an odd ingredient in the middle of her list, but it tasted fine. Before he was even done scraping his bowl, he felt…lighter.

When he went back to the weights room, he lifted the same weights bar in the bench press so fast he nearly clocked Alcaz in the face. The two Brothers looked at each other—then began to destroy the records list on the gym wall.

Lyonette clapped her hands together in excitement and relief.

“It works! How do you feel?”

“As if I could put on more weight. This won’t wear off suddenly, will it, Miss Lyonette?”

“Erin thinks it’ll wear off in a few hours, and even then be gradual. Thirty minutes. But she’s not sure. Be careful—and, um, let me know if there are any side effects. Do you think this will sell?”

Normen and Alcaz exchanged a long look before nodding rapidly to Lyonette. And Normen thought, for a moment, that the inn was going to be very busy today.

 

——

 

It almost made him regret quitting the Brothers. Because this? This was unfair.

There were tonics. Potions. Even very rare tinctures that you could drink that would give you the talents of someone else.

But they were expensive. So expensive that even a huge organization like the Brothers had to account for a single usage. Even the Gentlemen Callers had to justify using some of the tools.

This? According to Lyonette, the Bulkup Bisque would be ‘pricey’, especially since she wanted a good markup on the magical ingredients. Alcaz had inquired as to the price.

“Six gold coins, four silver. She’s thinking of making it six even.”

Six weeks of regular pay for a person for one meal. No regular client could afford that. But Normen?

I would pay for this every single day of my life. Especially if I were sorting out other gangs. 

One bisque. One tasty bisque and he could go toe-to-toe with a Level 30 [Brute] and have the advantage. And Normen was almost upon that level himself, with his recent gains.

With this bisque…with Level 30…the Brother caught himself thinking that he could be an officer. He could replace Crimshaw and make a mark. He could do that—but then the inn began to warm up, and he remembered why he didn’t.

Because the little girl who bounded down the stairs was the girl Crimshaw had died to help protect. Because—when he thought about going back to his old life, Normen didn’t know if he wanted to keep washing blood off his hands.

“Normen! Alcaz! Lyonette!”

Erin appeared out of the [Garden of Sanctuary]’s door in the wall, and Normen didn’t jump this time, though his skin always crawled when she snuck up on him. He tipped his hat and stood with Alcaz.

“Miss Solstice. Would you be wanting anything in particular of us today?”

“Oh, no…have you had breakfast? Hey, did you try my bisque?”

“They did, and no side effects yet, Erin. Nor has it worn off for…one hour. Don’t advertise it yet—we’re watching for anything else. I could use a bunch of ingredients for your next experiments…I have a list. Perhaps you could get it, Ser Lormel?”

The Thronebearer hesitated. They were reluctant to abandon their charge, so Alcaz doffed his cap instantly.

“I could run down and let Miss Krshia’s assistant know about the list, Miss Lyonette.”

“Would you? Oh—and if you’re going, can you send this? Today’s the day we get the door back. The City Council has a secretary at—”

“City Hall. Shivertail Plaza. I will be back in ten minutes.”

Take your time—

Alcaz was gone already. Normen settled back as Erin rolled over to a table and began tickling Mrsha. This was their job, so he listened with one ear as she spoke.

“I’ve gotta go to the [Healer]’s for exercises again, but I’m gonna help get the door back! What else? Is—is Pisces still up?”

“I think I saw him go to bed as I was waking, Miss Erin.”

Normen spoke up, and the [Innkeeper] shot him a relieved smile.

“That’s great. I’m—that’s good. Well after that, the Mage’s Guild. I wanna check up on Antherr!”

Every day, Erin Solstice made sure the Antinium on his way back from the Great Plains was still alright. Lyonette fussed about as she made Mrsha wear a bib, then served them some regular breakfast.

With a big salad for Mrsha, who instantly pointed an accusatory fork at a sausage that the Thronebearers each got.

“You get half of one and your eggs. Just eat your salad—don’t you put it in your bag of holding, Miss. I’ll be checking!”

Mrsha groaned and then took a huge mouthful of greens. Normen watched as she stared at Lyonette’s back, then scampered over to the wall. She spat into the Garden of Sanctuary and then innocently went back to her plate.

“Gross, Mrsha. Lyonette’s just trying to keep you healthy. Whaddya mean, starving you? When I was a kid, my mom made me eat veggies each and every day. That’s how you get big and strong!”

Mrsha peered at Erin. Then she turned to Numbtongue eating a decidedly green-free meal, aside from himself, of course. She held up a card, and the Hob read.

“…Nope. Sewer rats. Bad food. You want to get strong? Just grow.

He slapped his chest, and Mrsha looked at the ill-fed Numbtongue, who was over six feet tall, a Redfang in his prime, to Erin, who was…shorter. The [Innkeeper] threw up her hands.

“Fine! Don’t listen to me! Let’s see how tough you are—waitaminute.”

She realized she’d fallen into her own logical trap as Mrsha, conscientious of Erin’s slow recovery from her injuries, shoved the rest of her greens onto Erin’s plate.

Normen was smiling as they finished breakfast. Not that he was purely eavesdropping—he had a book on the Antinium Wars, and he was reading it.

If a fellow were going to stay at the inn, he felt like he should have some proper learning. Words weren’t as familiar to him written down, but he’d been listening to Mrsha take lessons.

“Alright, I’m ready for my exercises! Yay. Who am I going with? Numbtongue, wanna play some music while I work out?”

Resigned, Erin looked around, and Ser Dalimont nodded at Normen, who was already getting up to wheel Erin to her destination. That was a good job, an important job.

Numbtongue was a third bodyguard, but this time, he hesitated.

“I’m sort of busy today.”

“Doing what?”

The Hobgoblin hesitated again and then pointed to a rare breakfaster who’d joined them. Octavia Cotton paused on her way back to her shop.

“I’m—just working on some alchemical stuff. And Numbtongue’s keeping me company.”

“Working on her personal ballad.”

The [Bard] spoke helpfully. Erin frowned as Normen affected a straight face. The [Innkeeper] frowned at the [Alchemist] and Goblin. Numbtongue was straight-faced, but Octavia was avoiding Lyonette peeking out of the kitchen and Mrsha shaking her head.

“Hmm. Hmmmmm. Hmmmmmmmm.

Erin Solstice stared at Octavia and then at Numbtongue. She frowned…then blew out her cheeks.

“Yeah, I can’t figure it out. What would be a good theme song for Octavia? Something mad-science-y? This is why you’re the professional. Good luck!”

She smiled at Numbtongue. He blinked, and Ulvama, scratching her side as she headed into the kitchen for breakfast, turned back to stare incredulously at Erin. Was she real?

Well, that was a fascinating moment that only Erin missed. She let Normen help wheel her into the city, past the guards who gave him a longer look than Ser Dalimont, and they were down three streets when she spoke up.

“Wait a minute. I thought Octavia didn’t work this day of the week.”

Ser Dalimont’s face was amazingly straight as he opened the door to the [Healer]’s shop.

 

——

 

The [Healer] was a Drake. A middle-aged woman with a light-brownish scale coloration and the kind of gentle goodness that Normen was ashamed to be around. The kind that could turn to firmness when need be.

She kept Erin from telling too many jokes and had her stretching, standing using support, and working on her arms as well as her legs. She let Erin rest, offered her some tea for a break, and made the long road to recovery a pleasant one.

Sinew Magus Grimalkin was not so encouraging. After thirty minutes, Erin wiped some sweat from her brow, and the huge Drake, who had been silently observing today, spoke up.

Insufficient.

Normen winced as Erin Solstice looked up.

“What’s that, Grimalkin?”

“You can work harder. I was wondering how your progress was going, and if that’s the amount of effort you’re willing to put in, you won’t be seeing much progress.”

“Sinew Magus, we have discussed this.”

The exasperated Healer, Pemai, narrowed her eyes, but the Sinew Magus was unmoved. Erin pointed to her slightly sweaty hand.

“Hey! I worked out! I sweated! Isn’t this what you want with your…sweaty gym stuff?”

Grimalkin gave Erin’s hand a look as dismissive as if she’d just dunked it in a bucket of water.

“You can push yourself harder. I am not telling you to injure yourself—before you speak, Healer Pemai. I often have to mitigate excessive training off-duty for the soldiers I’ve reconditioned. But there is a difference between the bare minimum and pushing yourself.”

“I worked hard!”

Erin was outraged. Normen had seen her arms shaking as she walked back and forth, but he was silent because he felt like he knew what Grimalkin was going to say. And it was Normen’s attitude in the weights-room compared to, say, Mrsha’s.

“I know you can work harder. Do you know why?”

The Drake waited and then spoke as the [Innkeeper] glared.

“You did not, once, have to take a rest from any exercises you did. Growth is about pushing your boundaries.”

“Well, I don’t wanna grow and get super-muscles. I just want to walk.”

The [Sinew Magus] sighed.

“And walking is beyond you at the moment. By all means, continue Healer Pemai’s plan, but I cannot calculate how much slower your recovery will be. Push yourself, Erin Solstice. I know you can.”

Erin turned to Pemai, and the [Healer] briskly tidied up her cups.

“I find, Sinew Magus, that motivating my clients in the rare cases they need help is just as important as their effort. This is a long, difficult process.”

Erin nodded rapidly. Grimalkin’s response was curt.

“I do not motivate my apprentices nor those I work with. If Miss Solstice wants to walk—she will do what it takes. Consider repeating the exercises, Erin. Twice more per day.”

“I can’t just come back and bother Pemai.”

“I’m happy to offer more exercises you can do wherever you are.”

The [Innkeeper]’s glower made Normen decide to stand outside while she and Grimalkin argued. Privately—he felt like the Sinew Magus had a point.

Then again, Erin’s point was how hard it was. She could not walk—and he saw how frustrated she got at what she had been able to do every single day of her life up till now. It was frustration, not a lack of effort, he thought.

The other problem was that Erin Solstice had an aura and the ability to create fire. The fire of frustration burnt low and weakly at first—but it had nearly started a larger blaze in Pemai’s shop twice already when Erin accidentally created it. It was rust-brown, like an annoying stain or inelegant splotch, and Normen had gotten annoyed just stamping it out the two times it had appeared.

“That Grimalkin. He’s so preachy. Just because he…has giant muscles. I’m working hard! It’s not fun doing this stuff. I could do it twice a day. I guess. You know what he lacks? Bedside manner.

Erin was in a bad mood after leaving the shop. However, the Sinew Magus had apparently gotten to her. Possibly not a diplomatic win, but a win nonetheless for the Drake.

The danger was always in pushing too hard. Too little empathy. Normen tipped his hat as he pointed towards Shivertail Plaza.

“To see about the door, Miss Erin?”

“Nah. I’m mad, and Lism hates me. Lyonette calls me in as backup if she doesn’t get the door. Then—bam! Wheelchair to the knees! Let’s head back to the inn. I’d say I want to tour the city and see what’s new—but I’ll do it on my own two feet.”

The [Innkeeper] was unhappy, and Normen nodded. He had seen the new parts of Liscor, but a lot was still under construction. It wasn’t all paved, so Erin would have trouble with stairs or rocky parts. Or crowds.

It was just an imposition to be in a wheelchair when it was such a rarity in Liscor. Often, Normen had to slow, and Erin had asked Ser Dalimont not to clear people in her way.

Although…as they had to wait for another throng of people, Normen thought privately that this was a case where the Thronebearer should do when she said don’t.

He was learning his employer. And she was learning about him.

“How’s it going, Normen? Do you like the inn? Want to go back to, um, being a Brother?”

“Not at all, Miss Erin.”

The young woman sighed and relaxed a bit. A gaggle of Humans were passing across the road, not yet used to Liscor’s traffic, hence the holdup. They got some glares, but Liscor’s citizens were not outright hostile.

“That’s good. Ishkr has you helping, right? We’ve got new Antinium, but we’re going to need to train them, so I appreciate it.”

“It’s all quite pleasant, Miss Solstice. We’re by way of being more security, but it’s simple enough to haul some water up or move some chairs or bags from the basement. Mind you—I haven’t had to throw anyone out on their head yet.”

“Oh, like a [Bouncer]? Um…yeah, that’s good too! Wow, Liscor is busy, isn’t it?”

It was, with more species than any city other than Invrisil. And even in Invrisil or Pallass—Normen had noticed it was one species who held sway. Liscor was rapidly becoming a three-way tie of Drakes, Gnolls, and Humans.

But not all of them would stay. Some were visitors from other cities. And some?

Liscor had been the place for Silverfang Gnolls and Cellidel’s Gnolls to come to. However—it seemed many of the Humans flooding into the city might not stay for Liscor’s growth. All three waiting pedestrians heard a swirl of conversation.

“—heading to the New Lands. I hear some people are just grabbing enough food for a month, a bag of holding and supplies, and going.”

“With what? What’s there to go to?

“What do you mean? Some want to settle, found a city. Fancy being a [Governor]? Pickaxes, shovels—there could be buried treasure, shipwrecks—anything out there! If you’ve got combat classes, this is the time to go. But we’d have to leave now to be on time.”

“Really? I—I don’t know about going alone.”

“Entire Guilds are sponsoring people to go. I hear there’s a five-gold bounty on anyone with the right classes in the Merchant’s Guild. Not just guilds; the Empire of Sands was saying that anyone over Level 20 should contact their representatives to meet for an expedition.”

Normen listened with half an ear. Here was something else that he wanted—would have done but for this inn.

New lands. Just…pack up and go. Even a Brother might find a new life as a guard on the road.

It called to him. But Normen thought of Crimshaw and sighed.

No. You didn’t abandon what you paid in blood for. The Humans were excited as they talked, and Normen thought they were [Laborers], cheap builders for Hexel’s plans.

In fact, some of them were interesting. Not interesting in hair or skin tone—you got all sorts. But one had too much hair, if that made sense, that gave the impression of perhaps Gnollish blood. Another, the one tempted by new lands, had a personal pickaxe that was clearly enchanted with a frosted tip. To…break ground? Or just keep yourself cool?

And there was a young woman with a hand made of stone? Crystal? Semi-see through, like quartz. She hurried past as Normen blinked at her.

“What a colorful mob.”

Ser Dalimont remarked. Erin sneezed as some of the stone dust filled the air. She kicked the wheels of her chair, annoyed. Everyone else was navigating around the laborers, but she had to wait rather than accidentally hit someone.

“Yeah. I guess the new lands are big. I hope if any of my friends go they talk to me. It’s a shame the door’s not that strong…it’s so far.”

“Do you have any plans with the new lands, Miss Solstice?”

Erin looked up at Normen and, to his vague surprise, shook her head.

“Nah. I mean, it’s exciting but…I’m an [Innkeeper]. Liscor’s my place. I can’t see myself going, and I’m no adventurer. If the Horns or anyone else goes, I hope they’ll be safe. All I can do is make food. Speaking of which, how was the Bulkup Bisque? Did you like the name? How strong are you?”

Normen flexed his hand.

“I still feel as strong as an ox, Miss Solstice. Well, not an ox, but it’s like—[Lesser Strength]? On top of [Lesser Strength], since I have the Skill. You’ll make a fortune.”

“Yeah, if only we could sell it abroad and store it, huh? But hey, the inn will have an actual menu no one can beat. I just wish…”

I wish I could get stronger that fast too. The [Innkeeper] tried to push herself up slightly and fell back into her chair. They got moving at last, and she stared into the distance. Normen tried to cheer her up.

“It’s a magnificent creation, Miss Solstice. The kind of thing that’d get every Brother in the inn—not least for the gym!”

“Hey, we could do that! Workout and bisque.”

“Are you…sure?”

Dalimont looked slightly askance as he watched the crowds, but Erin smiled at Normen’s confused face.

“They’re well-behaved, right, Normen? I’m not opposed. If you want, invite them in!”

And that was why he was here. Because of one of the few people who’d say that to a Brother. Normen simply touched his cap.

“I’m sure some fellow’d be here tonight if I can pop out, Miss Solstice. They’ll love your bisque—”

Though they might need to take it to-go to avoid bringing trouble on her inn. But it might save his fellows’ lives. Normen smiled ruefully at Erin.

“It’s a crying shame that an [Innkeeper] can’t eat her own creations, eh? Like a [Chef] can’t enjoy their own meals.”

Erin nodded ruefully, then frowned.

“Well, yeah—I mean, Imani does like what she makes. So I don’t know if that analogy holds.”

“I meant, magically.”

“Oh! Well, Imani doesn’t do magic, but Palt gets high on his stuff. You meant me? I can totally eat what I make! It’s just that I don’t because I, uh, made horrible stuff. But if I—”

Erin’s mouth kept working as she suddenly realized what Normen had assumed. She slowly stared up at him, and he decided that it really wasn’t an act. Genius she might be—

But she really didn’t consider some things.

 

——

 

“Erin. What are you doing?”

Erin Solstice stuck a spoon in her bisque. Lyonette had been amazed when Normen rushed her back into the inn. In fact—Erin had demanded they return so fast that Grimalkin hadn’t finished updating his charts in the weights room.

He came out, saw her about to eat the bisque, and pointed a claw at her.

“I wouldn’t eat that, Miss Solstice. Remarkable effect. Would you consider selling the recipe to Pallass if we can replicate it?”

“What do you think, Grimalkin? And why can’t I eat it?”

“Because it’s a shortcut. We just spoke about effort?”

Erin eyed the bisque.

“Yeah, well—I don’t even know if it’ll work. And if it does, wouldn’t that be a great workout?”

Grimalkin made a disgusted noise as he watched Erin take a huge bite of food. The [Innkeeper] chewed timidly, then brightened up.

“Hey, it is as good as I thought! And you can’t even taste the spiderweb!”

Mrsha, about to sneak a bite, took a sniff of the bisque and decided to pass. She ran over to Grimalkin and began to pose in front of him. The Sinew Magus looked down.

“…What are you doing?”

Check out my gains, bruh. She made one arm and then flexed. Grimalkin hesitated. He patted Mrsha on the head.

“Very…impressive. Excuse me.”

He tried to get around her, but Mrsha raced after him. Okay, not impressed with that? She wrote and handed him a card. Exasperated—he was busy—the Sinew Magus took it, then hesitated.

“How is…Ferkr? Quite well. She’s leading some Gnolls back to Pallass, but my understanding is that she may be a permanent liaison to the tribes. A credit to her city.”

And to him, but he looked unhappy for some reason as he said it. Mrsha excitedly wrote, and Grimalkin peered over her shoulder.

“Is…she…yes, she’s contacted most of the tribes who remained on Izril. They appear to be—recovering. Not all the Gnolls were at the Meeting of Tribes, and the ones who avoided the fighting before the battle there have linked up with their people unmolested. I will inform Ferkr you mentioned her. What’s this?”

Mrsha handed Grimalkin a card with a smile. For a special friend? Grimalkin eyed the blank autograph card.

“…No.”

He flicked it back, and Mrsha caught it. But she wanted to brag to her friends! Then she heard an exclamation from the common room and whirled around. Grimalkin paused, then sighed. He walked back, and when Mrsha raced into the room, she stopped.

Erin was on her feet. The [Innkeeper] wobbled a bit—then slowly raised her head and took a few steps forward. She nearly fell, but caught herself as half a dozen hands reached out. She walked around—then did a little jump. It was still harder, but she walked—then she ran a few steps.

I can walk!

Grimalkin sighed slightly, but it was drowned out by the raucous cheering. The [Innkeeper] turned and wiped at her eyes. Mrsha threw up her arms, then tackled Erin and took her down, but the [Innkeeper] got right back up.

Beware.

In her office, Watch Captain Zevara got a slight chill on her scales as a [Guard] ran a message up to her. She read the note, then spoke as she folded her claws.

“I think we’re getting a bit poetic with our code phrases. Just…let me know what she does.”

The note read:

Chaos walks.

 

——

 

Chaos danced. It was never really boring in The Wandering Inn, was it? Relc came running into the inn with a huge smile on his face.

He was just in time to see Erin twirl across the room. She was doing an improvised dance—and so was Bird.

“I can walk! Relc! Look! No, don’t laugh—”

“Yay! Everyone’s happy. Do the Bird dance!”

The Bird dance was Bird waving all four arms in a semi-rhythmic fashion while spinning around in circles while walking. It was fairly hypnotic.

Mrsha was flailing about with excitement, but Erin had to stop after a second.

“Whew. I can feel that. I don’t think I’m doing any backflips right now. But look! No wheels! Take that!”

She kicked her wheelchair and then hopped on one leg. But the beaming smile never left her face. Relc grabbed Erin in a one-armed hug and laughed. Tessa poked her head out of the rafters as Klbkch followed him in—then Selys—then…

“Magic solves everything. See?”

Tessa looked around for someone to vouchsafe this to, but the [Necromancer] was still asleep, and the Hob wasn’t here. So she went back to sleep.

 

——

 

Now that really did feel like a return to form. When Ceria Springwalker heard Erin was walking, she smiled broadly.

But she couldn’t rush back to the inn just right now. The half-Elf sat back in the private backrooms of the Adventurer’s Guild. However, unlike other times, this was not a Gold-rank only area.

There were Silver-rank teams here, or rather, Captains. And of the Gold-ranks, only the ones who’d been on the raid or their proxies, including specially-warded scrying orbs, were present.

There were only three that the adventurers trusted to be even remotely secure enough to keep everyone from eavesdropping. Even then—

“Hi, Wistram. Remember me? You charged me eight silver coins for a [Message] spell your [Mages] ‘lost’. Where’s my money?”

Earlia peered into one of the scrying orbs, glowering as she hefted her warhammer threateningly. A voice echoed from the scrying orb.

“…Will someone get this idiot out of the way?”

Prince Zenol’s glower made Earlia blush. But yes, everyone did assume Wistram was watching. Come to that—Ceria eyed the Captains here.

Some, like Anith, were decent Silver-rankers who could keep their mouths shut. But their teams? Even Levil of Pithfire Hounds had talkative members. Ceria thought of her team, the original Horns, and wondered how long the details of this meeting would remain private.

“Hey, everyone. I’ve got some good news, so let’s get this over with. Settle down! This won’t take long. The arguing will.”

The other Captains turned as Ceria waved. She was still eating. She’d taken a bunch of kettle-chips with an entire basket of sauces and a drink to keep lubricated.

She was so casual. But perhaps that was how Ceria had wrangled any kind of agreement out of yesterday—and so quickly too.

Then again…

 

——

 

Typhenous was the representative of Griffon Hunt. His team was with Emperor Laken on guard-duty. They had debated heading to the Gnoll Plains, but Halrac, the veteran [Soldier], had made a simple call.

If Griffon Hunt went, the odds that they’d make it in time were remote. Secondly? They would almost surely die if they ran into a Drake army. They’d stayed at Riverfarm and Invrisil.

Waiting for Erin to wake up in case she needed backup. No one had expected Erin to fly off via pegasus. And no one could be more pleased than their team she was back and, apparently, on her feet.

Typhenous wished he could see Halrac trying to hide a smile. However, he was more curious about Ceria.

She had come into the contentious arguments and set all the parties mostly to rights. At least, the ones who could move the needle by influence. Elia Arcsinger’s team was the largest. And true—her presence had united the Halfseekers, Griffon Hunt, independent groups like Zenol’s team, and others around her.

But how in Rhir’s hells had she gotten Elia’s team to shut up and back her? The half-Elf who the Named Rank adventurer had sent was no adventurer. He was a [Negotiator], and a good one who’d been pushing for a Relic-class item for her team.

After one day, he sat there, upset and pale. Typhenous hadn’t missed how worried he’d gotten when Ceria started talking with him. The Plague Mage smelled underhandedness, and he was all in favor of it. He just wanted to know what Ceria had said.

 

——

 

The half-Elf smiled around the table, though the Captains had to sit or stand there were so many.

“Alright. I know everyone thought me and my team were dead. And I apologize for the delay. But at last—we’re ready to divide the loot from the Village of the Dead raid. Please, wait until I’m finished. Then object.”

“What, just like that? No ceremony? No—”

A Gold-rank Captain looked outraged. Dorgon, the Silver-rank Minotaur, rumbled behind him.

“Silence.”

Ceria rolled her eyes.

“Listen, you want ceremony? I’ll sprinkle roses and get a [Bard] to play while I hand your share out. But it’s coming out of your funds, Maeist. I know how hard it’s been for some teams, not knowing if they’ll get a fair share. So I’m going to come out and say it—we’re selling almost all the artifacts. It’s gold-shares, not loot shares.”

The sigh that ran through the room from most of the Captains was relieved. However, Keldrass and several Gold-rank teams objected at once.

“Those are Relic-class items, Ceria!”

“You want to just sell—you’re getting the Helm of—”

Silence!”

This time, Ceria shouted into a [Loud Voice] spell. Every Gold-rank in the room clapped their hands to their ears, and the Gnolls shouted invectives at Ceria. The half-Elf aimed her skeletal finger around, the frosted tip pointing at Keldrass.

“Cool it or I’ll start casting [Snow Plume]. Just let me explain my reasoning. Gold, not loot. Because if one person gets that [Legendary Swordbane…Drake Swordmaster]’s sword, even by fair and unbiased luck of the draw? There will be blood. You know it, I know it. That team won’t make it out of the city without a fight, from thieves and other teams.”

Keldrass opened his mouth, then nodded reluctantly. Ceria ticked off another point on her hand.

“Second? If we do loot, a lot of teams walk away with a pittance. We don’t have that much gear that people want. So no loot. It’s simple. Now, each team will get an equal share. Teams that were wiped? Fair share. Size? Doesn’t matter. I hope each team will allocate gold to teammates that fell, but it’s per-team shares. Silver-ranks get one. Gold-ranks, two. Named-ranks, three.”

This time, the muttering was a lot less happy. Ceria had just dumped a lot, and Typhenous was frankly surprised by some of it.

No extra loot for dead teammates? That was probably because it was per-team, and that made sense because it would have disadvantaged small teams for large, Silver-rank teams.

However, the distribution of loot was also colder, if more equitable, than he had assumed. Typhenous watched members like Dorgon’s faces, but the Minotaur was just listening for the end.

“Is it fair to let all Silver-rank teams be paid half what Gold-ranks get, Ceria? I mean, we’re not the same level, but that’s certification. Not level.”

One of the Silver-rank Captains glanced at Dorgon, bringing up the very same point. Ceria’s smile was bland.

“If you want to vote Dorgon’s team a Gold-rank’s share, I’ll let you all nominate him. But that’s the exception, not the rule. Listen. The Gold-rank teams went into the fire. We placed Silver-rank teams in support, not the vanguard. I’m not going to play this game—which is what has been going on here. If you want to say—Jelaqua’s team charged straight into the fighting, then we’ve got a problem, because now we’re comparing achievements. Fair, equal shares.”

“And the Helm of Fire for you. And what you pulled out of the treasure chambers. We never updated the haul with what you all got. We know you pulled a Relic-class sword out. What else did you get? Your message mentioned Relic-class items, and I heard there was a circlet in Savere. What about that, Captain Springwalker?”

One of the older Gold-rank Captains was glaring. Ceria’s return glance was bland.

“You know we claimed a Relic from the outset, Captain Derros. Let me finish. Everything that was recovered goes up for auction via the Merchant’s Guild. They’ll take their cut, but it’ll be small, and the overall gold gets portioned into shares and then given out. The Horns? I can tell you we’re claiming the sword, a spellbook Pisces found, and two rings Yvlon grabbed. We’re putting in two scrolls, and anything else we keep—”

The roar of protest was deafening.

That’s four Relics!

Ceria slammed her cup on the table.

“No, it’s two good rings, a sword, and a spellbook! The Relic is the sword—and it’s not ours. Some damn [Empress] is running around with it, so believe me—getting it back is going to be a problem. We went straight into the heart of the Village of the Dead, and it was a fluke we survived. Everything we got save for the two scrolls is ours.”

More protests, but the Gold-rank Captain Derros wasn’t done. He pointed a finger at Ceria.

“What about the circlet? That’s a Relic-class item!”

Everyone went silent, and Ceria Springwalker smiled crookedly.

“It might be. But I’ve got bad news for you, Derros. There’s no way you’re getting it. You know the Siren of Savere? The leader of the most dangerous nation of [Bandits]? How do you think I got out of there with my skin intact?”

The adventurers groaned as they realized what had happened. Derros’ mouth opened.

“She stole it?”

An interesting note here—there were truth spells and crystals all over the room. Most didn’t even bother to hide the fact that they were being used. A few changed colors depending on what was said, and there was a lot of interference with other people’s speaking, but the one closest to Ceria only flickered a bit as she spoke.

“Revine had it in a glass case in her personal rooms, and a Drake [Enchanter] was looking it over. You want to tangle with the Siren of Savere, be my guest. We’re laying claim to it—but it’ll be a headache. The Siren of Savere, uh, already has a bit of a grudge against me.”

The truth spells flickered a bit, but they all showed an unhappy truth to the adventurer Captains. All except Typhenous, whose eyes flickered because he didn’t use truth spells.

They were too easy to fool.

“Alright, but that’s still a huge amount of loot—we know you went into the Village of the Dead. Whatever that monstrous thing was you saw—Tolve…something—alright. But the Helm of Fire?”

Derros sounded almost pleading. And this was where Ceria relaxed.

“Oh. We’re relinquishing our claim on that. It’s going up for auction. That’s how we’re guaranteeing everyone gets a big cut.”

There was no shouting this time. Everyone exhaled, and Jelaqua gave Ceria a nod as Typhenous silently applauded. That was how you ran negotiations like this.

“Fair! Damn me, but that’s the best Relic because it’s so famous. Every Walled City wants it. The Five Families want it. I thought you needed it?”

Ceria waved that away.

“We were going to trade it for help for our friend. The Healer of Tenbault, an Archmage—yes, I want it, but we’re being fair. So here’s what we’re going to do. As I said, everything gets sold. But if a team wants an artifact—they have to pay full market price. Not auction price, but what the Merchant Guild appraises it for. You have two days, then it’s all going up for auction. It’ll take at least a week for the sales to go through and more for the division, but I intend to portion out the gold within a month.”

The teams listened carefully. Some were dismayed, because the conditions meant that a Gold-rank team could possibly buy a few artifacts from the haul. No Silver-rank team could.

“Monster parts? Sold. Loot from the undead? Sold. Fair shares to all. Now, listen. I know some of you were hoping you’d get an artifact, but let’s be real—that would cause the kind of infighting you hear about that leaves many teams dead. You’ll all get a share of the coin. But before you argue about Named-ranks getting three shares or bias, let me say this: you’re done.”

Ceria spread her hands on the table. The adventurers stirred. Was that a threat?

No. The half-Elf was smiling around at them. The Silver-ranks especially. Then…perhaps they felt it again, like they had after the [Sword Legend] had fallen. A leap in their hearts. Ceria looked at Earlia, Anith, Levil…and the same light from Albez was in her eyes.

“You new teams especially—this is your haul. The Merchant’s Guildmaster gave me some estimates. The Helm of Fire is probably going to sell for at least a million gold pieces.”

“A million?

“Under auction. Yes. It’s a relic. And true, there are a lot more teams here. Almost fifty, so it’s divided up, but I did some rough calculations, and I think we’re going to see each Silver-rank team walking away with at least 20,000 gold pieces from the Helm of Fire’s sale alone. Possibly double that. Or higher. That’s your haul. If you want to retire? Anyone who’s not in this for life is done with adventuring.”

The Silver-rank Captains had the same look Ceria had when she’d come out of Albez and began realizing how much they had. And unlike her—some were in tears.

They would retire. Retire with enough gold to set themselves up for a long time. If they managed their funds wisely. The Gold-rank teams were no less enthusiastic about those numbers.

That wasn’t just a few artifacts. That was…multiple artifacts per team member. Even divided up, the Village of the Dead raid was going to be one of the richest hauls in recent history.

Ceria Springwalker concluded with a smile.

“Given all this, I’d say drinks are on me. But since I know how much trouble you lot cause, it’s on the Merchant’s Guild. They’re throwing us a party, and we get to watch the auctions begin in two days. Food, drink—and don’t promise the [Merchants] anything. Now, who’s got questions?”

 

——

 

Yvlon could hear the cheering once the doors opened. They had been silenced, but the anxious adventurers waiting for their Captains to emerge burst into smiles when they heard that.

It had taken nearly two hours, even with Ceria’s straightforward distribution. Yvlon still thought it was a bit—cruel to teams like Lifwail Blades, but Ceria had pointed out a fair share to their families was enough to make anyone rich.

“We’re rich! We’ll never have to work again!”

Earlia kicked open the door and almost shouted the sum to her team before half a dozen adventurers grabbed her. Derros shouted.

“No numbers! Everyone talks in private, damn it! Do you want your city to eat half your gold? You’d better hope you don’t live near a noble or a Drake city!”

“They don’t strip us of gold like you Humans! Wait, damn. The income tax…”

Keldrass turned to Bevussa, who groaned. However, the jubilation was wild among the free adventurers, who had neither city nor anyone they owed dues to.

The Adventurer’s Guild was happy—they took a cut. The Merchant’s Guild took a cut. So food and drinks were already being rushed out as Yvlon found Jelaqua.

“Jelaqua—how’d it go in there?”

“Ceria’s a smooth leader, Yvlon. Don’t worry—she hit them with the old tough-but-fair breakdown. I was worried—you know? I’d be sweating up there, but Ceria laid it out, and almost no one objected. If anything, we thought your team took the biggest losses.”

“We did?”

“Well, two Relics both in Chandrar? And you’re giving up two scrolls most Named-rank teams would die for. At least you’ve got your rings. Sounds like that and whatever Pisces had were the biggest hauls. Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s fine.”

Yvlon felt her stomach twist when Jelaqua put it like that. That wasn’t much in-hand. She hadn’t thought that her two rings would be the biggest haul, but she hadn’t been thinking of that when Ceria broke it down.

Why was her friend so calm? Yvlon found Ceria talking to Eldertuin’s representative, who shook hands with her.

“Ceria, do you think it all worked out well?”

Ceria scratched at her head.

“Hm? Oh, absolutely. We kept a lot of what we took. We’re giving only the scrolls away, and that’s a lot of artifacts. We have to pick them up, but they’re ours.”

“True…but the Helm of Fire and the sword?”

“We were never going to get them. I hope Pisces’ backer isn’t mad, and Selys will be upset, but if we tried to take only the Helm of Fire, I think there would have been a fight. Pick your battles, Yvlon. Trust me. We got what we wanted. I did a lot of thinking about what to prioritize.”

Ceria gave Yvlon a significant look, but she had to break off to shake more hands. The Silver-rank teams wanted to thank Ceria especially, but the Gold-rankers clearly thought she’d done a fair job as well.

The only person who didn’t seem pleased was the half-Elf from Elia Arcsinger’s team, who left without even looking at Ceria. Yvlon whispered to Ceria.

“How did you get Elia to back down? By offering her team a triple-share? She had a lot more support for the Helm of Fire. She took down multiple giants.”

“With help. I just…persuaded her representative to shut up.”

“How?”

“By telling him I’d recall something publicly. Elia and I had a few words I don’t think she wants repeated. She’ll take the gold.”

Ceria winked at Yvlon. The [Armsmistress] blinked, but she didn’t get a chance to say anything more.

“Yvlon Byres. Ceria Springwalker. I would like to congratulate you on your negotiations. Is now a good time? House Isphel may attempt to purchase a few of the artifacts, although I fear the Helm of Fire is out of even our pockets.”

A voice spoke, and the two whirled and Ceria cried out.

“Prince Zenol! How are you?”

The Gold-rank Captain and [Prince] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen smiled, hands clasped behind his back as he stood in some rich room—the scrying spell didn’t show much. He looked unharmed, and Yvlon sighed in relief.

“Zenol. How—how is Nerrhavia’s Fallen? Queen Yisame?”

“As well as could be expected after the fallout of Pomle’s disastrous siege. The mood is—troubled. But I will not distract you from the moment.”

The Prince’s polite words reminded Yvlon that the last time she’d been there, he’d betrayed General Thelican and she’d essentially thrown Nerrhavia’s battle into chaos. Ceria chewed on a chip.

“We didn’t do you any services, Zenol. How much trouble is House Isphel in?”

His smile didn’t change.

“House Isphel has risen, not fallen, Ceria. As for the climate—well. Strained, but holding. I may not be an adventurer but a [Prince] for now, but I am grateful for my share in the raid. I hope you did everything you set out to accomplish?”

“Our friend, Erin, is alive. We owe you a lot, Zenol. Don’t ever hesitate to collect.”

He nodded slowly. Yvlon frowned at the small image of him in the scrying orb. The [Prince] nodded, and there was a slight glittering on his clothing. He made no move, just kept speaking.

“I must go, but again, as I have always said, my sincere respect to my Izrilian counterparts. If you do have the chance, Nerrhavia’s Fallen welcomes you both to return. Think on that if you intend to return to Chandrar.”

Ceria broke in idly before Yvlon could reply.

“Do you have…any kind of weather problems, Zenol?”

The [Prince] had begun to step away. He turned, and Yvlon saw that glittering…silver flash again, a tiny speck on the scrying orb.

“Just a bug problem, I believe. Nothing of note. Ceria, Yvlon—”

The image flickered out. Ceria eyed the scrying orb, then chucked it at a [Receptionist] across the room.

“Hey, put that into storage.”

Only when it was far away did she turn.

“Zenol’s in trouble.”

“Are you sure?”

Yvlon had picked up on some things, but Ceria just produced a few fingers.

“He was way too polite. Zenol isn’t shy about being direct. ‘Respect for my Izrilian counterparts’? Do you recall even a hint of that?”

Exactly the opposite. Which meant…Yvlon’s heart sank. Ceria nodded.

“Nerrhavia’s Fallen has it out for us. He was warning us off. I don’t know about the rest, but it sounds like there’s trouble for him. Did you notice that thing crawling up his clothing?”

Yvlon had. Zenol had deliberately not brushed it off. Ceria gave Yvlon a long look.

“A silver beetle.”

“This is my fault. He came back to Nerrhavia for me, and we might have made him a traitor.”

“Eh, you said Queen Yisame liked him. That counts for something.”

Yvlon bit her lip. She hadn’t told Ceria about Yisame’s frank…admiration for her. Or the Queen’s confession that a lot of Nerrhavia wasn’t under her full control. If Sage Etrikah hadn’t stopped the metal plague—

Her guilt wormed away at her as the adventurers celebrated. It was that reminder. Ceria seemed oblivious, but she had forged the fewest connections abroad. Everyone else could not help but remember—

Their friends were out there. And not all of them were safe.

 

——

 

The world was still in a better place than it had been a month ago. Erin was walking, and it seemed like the celebration at the Adventurer’s Guild produced more good news still.

“Hey, everyone! Look who’s rich!”

The Horns returned to cheers from the inn, and Pisces woke up, came downstairs, and found they were rich. Again. Ceria high-fived Kevin, grabbed another mug, and kept up her noshing on food as she congratulated Erin on being able to walk.

More news came in as Jelaqua finally dragged in Moore along with Seborn and Ulinde. Erin was hugging Typhenous when she saw the half-Giant.

Moore!

Mrsha ran up to him instantly. The half-Giant entered the inn, looking…gaunt. He didn’t seem as cuddly and nice as before. It was as if the dangerous Moore, when he got mad, had stuck. Mrsha leapt up—and he held up a hand.

She stopped, circled around, and Moore nodded to her.

“Hello, Mrsha.”

He backed off to a table, and Erin Solstice saw the girl staring at Moore. She went to hug one leg and climb up, but Moore tried to shoo her off.

“Oh boy.”

Seborn gave Erin a significant look, and the [Innkeeper] nodded to him. The half-Giant didn’t smile, and he reluctantly let Mrsha sit on his lap and scribble a smiling face she held up.

“Moore! Where’s my big smile? Jelaqua, Seborn, Ulinde, whatdya want to eat? Ishkr, do we have enough servers?”

“Perhaps. The new Antinium are here, and Silveran has…appeared to help out.”

A certain Antinium Worker was helping serve dishes. He ducked behind one of the adventurers as Lyonette tried to chase him off.

“Silveran! You’re not working here!”

“I can if I want to.”

Erin turned to Moore. The half-Giant nodded at her.

“I’m glad to see you’re walking, Erin. Here. Mrsha, go play.”

He tried to hand Mrsha off, and she squirmed in his grip. Mrsha looked betrayed and hurt. Erin picked her up. It was still harder to walk and move than normal, but any mobility felt like wings. She hesitated—but the Halfseekers were so loudly saying nothing that they were shouting it at her.

“Moore! My favorite half-Giant! What’s wrong? You look…um. Serious. Mrsha’s been dying to see you!”

She held Mrsha out, and the little Gnoll nodded, but Moore just hunched over.

“I’ve—been staying away. I’m glad to see Mrsha, Erin. But I don’t think she should be climbing over me.”

“Oh, because you’re so dignified? Too good to let Mrsha steal your snacks?”

“I would never do that! Not to Moore! Just everyone else!”

Mrsha wrote emphatically. The half-Giant hesitated, then looked up. The [Bloodearth Mage] hesitated, and then it burst out of him much like it had Pisces.

“I’m—dangerous, Erin. Children shouldn’t be around me. My magic and Skills have changed.”

“Moore!”

Jelaqua half-rose, and he hunched his shoulders. Erin saw Seborn looking at her, and the [Innkeeper] hesitated.

Instinct. Erin saw Moore lift a hand and then strode forwards. Even sitting, she had to hop and give Mrsha a toss. The little Gnoll girl yelped silently—and then landed on Moore’s head.

“Erin! Don’t throw Mrsha!”

Lyonette spun and shouted angrily, but Mrsha gave Erin a nod and then hugged Moore’s head.

“Mrsha, get off.”

He gently tried to pry her off, but stopped when she clung to his hair. Moore tried again, and Mrsha scampered onto his shoulder. He reached for her and saw the snot.

Mrsha’s eyes were running over with tears. So was her nose. She hugged him.

“Don’t you love me?”

She held a wet card. Moore hesitated.

“I do. But I’ve hurt people. Mrsha—after Erin—”

He looked at the [Innkeeper], and Erin grabbed his side. She hugged him fiercely.

“I heard you fought in a war for me. You—you silly half-Giant! I’ve been waiting for you to come here so I could do this! I just couldn’t chase you down in a wheelchair.”

“I’m too dangerous. I don’t grow plants. It’s all blood and death. Erin—don’t.”

“Make me! I bet you won’t. You hit bad people. Not Mrshas and Erins. Mrsha, get him!”

The Gnoll clung to Moore’s head, blubbering. The half-Giant didn’t seem to have the strength to pull her off.

Moore. I tolb you. We’re your teabmates.

The half-Giant looked around and saw Jelaqua oozing orange slime out of various orifices. The Selphid grabbed him.

“You big dummy. Ulinde, get in here! Seborn—”

“No.”

But the [Rogue] was watching, and Moore protested, but weakly.

“Jelaqua—no, really. Don’t hug—argh.”

“Seborn! Come on!”

It was a group hug, and the [Rogue] was the only one out. Seborn slowly stood up as his team beckoned to him. The Horns were watching. Half the inn was watching. Typhenous was definitely watching.

The Drowned Man slowly put a hand on Moore’s shoulder and rested it there. Then Erin pulled him in, and he embraced Moore’s arm for a second.

“Alright. Now let me go. I said let me—”

Moore’s arm trembled as he drew his friend into a hug. Mrsha patted him on the head, and he…sighed as he rubbed at his eyes. It sounded like relief.

 

——

 

You couldn’t hug away everything, but you could squeeze out a lot. Erin with legs was better than a wheelchair.

She could chase people down. And unlike Pisces, the real trick might have just been getting Moore into the inn.

Because Mrsha refused to let go of him once she got onto the half-Giant’s shoulder. She held a bowl of chips and kept feeding Moore bites and making sure he was eating. The anxious little Gnoll’s attention was enough to make Moore begin to tear up every few minutes.

Horns and Halfseekers. Adventurers in the inn, and Erin on her feet. Amidst all of it, a single man in a hat tapped Erin on the shoulder as she was resting her legs for a second and beaming around.

“Miss Solstice. I hate to trouble you, but I popped down to the Mage’s Guild on my errands, as it were. Was holding onto this, but I recognized the name and thought—”

Alcaz proffered a [Message], and Erin accepted it.

“Thanks, Alcaz! What’s this ab—Ryoka?

Every head turned. Lyonette groaned, and Mrsha looked up. Rather than let go of Moore, she hopped on his head and tugged at his hair like a driver.

“Mrsha, that hurts. Don’t do that.”

The half-Giant still obliged her by walking over. Erin was reading rapidly, and she exclaimed as Ceria walked over.

“Where’s Ryoka now? I haven’t heard of her since the Village of the Dead raid…tree rot. Is she okay?”

“I don’t know—does anyone know where Ryoka was?”

The other guests of the inn looked about. Klbkch raised one hand.

“I recall she was sighted in the presence of Lord Tyrion Veltras. Allegedly, he proposed to her.”

“He what? But—”

Relc choked on his drink. He hesitated.

“Well, yeah. You save someone’s life and it happens. He proposed…did she say yes?”

Levil called out.

“No, and I heard she appeared in Ailendamus. As a prisoner of all things! Or a guest. It’s hard to tell, but the Wind Runner was hobnobbing with some fancy [Princesses].”

“Right before she tried to murder the Archmage of Memory. Which is fairly typical for her.”

Lyonette scowled. Erin’s mouth opened as Mrsha began chucking salsa-dipped chips down at her mother. The [Innkeeper] blinked.

“So that’s where that was. Wild. Ailendamus…and what was—um. Nevermind. Well, she’s alive! And she’s out of jail.”

“She was in prison?

Half the guests exclaimed. Erin showed the letter around. It was brief, but Ryoka explained she’d been incarcerated and was on her way back to Izril and how were things?

Classic Ryoka. Erin sighed in relief. Then she remembered something else.

Rabbiteater!

She shouted in Selys’ face as the Drake went to read the letter. Selys nearly slapped her.

“Erin! What about him?”

“Wh-what happened to Rabbiteater? I mean…Ser Solstice.

Most of the adventurers didn’t know who Rabbiteater was, but the second name caused a lot of surprise. Levil nearly choked on his food.

“I don’t know who that other one is—but do you mean, Ser Solstice, the [Knight]? The new Lightherald of Calanfer?”

Erin’s mouth opened and continued to open as two-thirds of the inn instantly recognized the name and turned to her.

“No, I mean, my friend. Wait, is it the same Rabbiteater? He’s a—”

There was no time for anyone to stop her. Numbtongue, emerging from Octavia’s shop with the [Alchemist] in tow to figure out what the hell was going on, began to shout. But he was saved by the power of Ulvama.

The [Shaman] turned, saw Numbtongue’s expression, and then delicately, swiftly, and deliberately tossed her entire mug into Erin’s face. The [Innkeeper]’s splutter and ensuing shouting was enough time for Numbtongue to get over.

“Hey! Why did you do that—Ulvama?”

Erin glared. The [Shaman] stared at Erin.

“Acid bug on your face? I need another drink.”

She handed Ishkr her empty mug and took one off of Silveran’s tray. Erin was about to shout in confusion and anger when Numbtongue dragged her aside. Erin’s eyes went progressively rounder until she raised her head.

“There is no way. Does anyone have a recording of—what battles did you say he was in?”

Levil nodded eagerly.

“There’s an entire documentary. No, wait. What did Wistram say they were selling? A film of the war. You buy this memory crystal you can use with their cheap scrying orbs…hey, Ceria. Can I get an advance on my share? I’ll buy it all!”

Erin was glad for the commotion and recap. She had to sit down again.

“Rabbiteater’s a hero? No way.”

It wasn’t him being heroic that was so astonishing. Just—she hadn’t known about it. And she had thought she knew a lot of what happened.

Her friends, around the world. Erin suddenly looked up and found Alcaz trying to see if the bisque had fully worn off by now.

“I have to send him a [Message]. I hope he’s alright. Everyone—keep partying! I need a bath.”

Lyonette sighed.

“We can draw some water from the well later, Erin. It’ll take too long right now.”

“Darn. We need plumbing! And a bathroom! At least a towel. I’m sticky.”

Pisces pointed a finger at Erin.

“[Cleanse].”

Some of the sticky mead vanished from Erin’s clothing, and she sighed in relief. Pisces sniffed.

“As you can see, it is entirely effective in keeping oneself clean—”

Erin threw up her hands. But she was laughing.

 

——

 

The Bulkup Bisque had an effective duration of four hours. It wore off in the last thirty minutes. It also seemed like it shielded the users from some of the effects of their exertions.

At least, Normen and Alcaz claimed to feel a bit sore, but nothing to trouble anyone over.

Erin? She sat down abruptly in her wheelchair and then began yelping.

“Ow. Ow. Ouch, what’s—

Within five minutes she was grabbing a healing potion. She took one huge gulp.

Argh! My body is killing me!

The potion reduced the pain at once, and Erin relaxed—then realized she couldn’t stand up again.

“Damn! The bisque wore off!”

“…I assume that sentence made sense to someone else?”

Yvlon looked around. Erin groaned.

“I’m out of strength!”

Ceria was aware of Erin’s new food and looked around the inn, still full of activity. The new Antinium were learning the ropes and serving food to the adventurers, who were too high on relief to even care who was bringing them food and drinks.

“Well, why not eat more?”

“I don’t wanna eat bisque right now.”

“You could…oh, hey. Anyone know enchantment magic? Palt? Bezale?”

“What? Oh—[Lion’s Strength]? I could use a scroll, but that’s expensive.”

Bezale was reluctant, so Palt tapped Erin on the shoulder.

“How about [Rhinoceros Beetle’s Might]?”

“Isn’t that a Tier 3 spell?”

Ceria snorted, but Erin Solstice pushed hard and rose with a wobble. She clung to the table and blinked.

“Hey, this isn’t as strong as my bisque—but it’ll do! Bezale, how much is a [Lion’s Strength]…?”

“Eight hundred and twelve gold pieces. That’s the friend-discount.”

“…Bisque it is! I wonder if I can make it last longer? Probably more of the gumtree bark.”

It was enough for Erin to hobble around and move from seat-to-seat with. She decided a bisque would help her get around for four hours each day—or she could have two, but she didn’t know if she had enough room for bisque in her life. But if Palt enchanted her…

Well, the inn didn’t party into the night. Mostly because the adventurers left the inn to head into the town and hit the bars and celebrate. The Wandering Inn was, ironically, not the spot a lot of the teams wanted to be.

When you said, ‘I was at the Village of the Dead raid, and now I’m rich’, the guests in this inn tended to say, ‘okay, that’s great’. They didn’t buy you a drink or give you a star-struck look of wonder because they’d seen the team that went into Albez and slew Adult Crelers.

“Hey, Lyonette. Whatever happened to our door?”

Erin called out as adventurers began to head to Liscor to get back to Invrisil. She was worried Lyonette had been stonewalled before even getting to the Council, but the [Princess] just turned around.

“The door? The Council asked me to give them a day for all the arranged transits. But they promised to bring it here as soon as the gates open next morning.”

Erin’s mouth opened.

“…Huh? Wh—just like that? What about all the fees you wanted to collect?”

Lyonette’s face soured.

“For using the door? Councilmember Lism told me he’d discuss that tomorrow morning. Mrsha, dear. You’re going to get to play with Gire tomorrow morning!”

Mrsha looked up and then patted Moore excitedly on the head. She wanted to introduce one tall friend to another! She completely missed the adults’ looks of interest or reservation at Lyonette’s smile.

 

——

 

Presently, it was night and thus had gone another day of The Wandering Inn. Adventurers earning coin, friends abroad, and Erin walking.

Not a bad day at all by Normen’s calculations. Quiet, but dramatically quiet. It was indeed pleasant. He could see himself doing this for a long time.

Did he crave the new lands or feel some tinge of regret when he saw the adventurers? Yes. But the inn had a rhythm of its own. The [Innkeeper] led no charges in battle unless she did, but here…

Here things mattered. For instance, as Normen was eating his supper—he’d stayed sharp rather than eat with the guests—he noticed Erin walking into her garden, leaning on her chair for support. Normen turned to Ishkr.

“Can I help you clean up, sir?”

The Gnoll stopped with a huge load of plates.

“I’m fine, thanks. Liska will help me clean up.

He glowered at his sister and the two Workers who were bussing the tables. She glared back and began pulling chairs and tables to the side for sweeping.

Normen didn’t know how the [Servers] enjoyed that kind of life. He wiped his mouth, stood up, and sidled over to the garden. Mostly because a certain little Gnoll girl, who’d made Moore promise to come back tomorrow morning, was creeping in after Erin.

“Mrsha? It’s bedtime. Mrsha…”

Normen saw Mrsha turn, notice him, then hop through the door. He grabbed for her and missed.

“Come on, Miss Mrsha. A poor fellow—or girl—keeps a lady waiting.”

He whispered as he chased her around the outskirts of the [Garden of Sanctuary]. The new plants were growing nicely, although Normen wasn’t much of a plant person. Mrsha clearly wanted to run around some more, and the Brother obliged her.

They were quiet enough or Erin was preoccupied enough that she didn’t notice them slipping in behind her. She stood amidst the Faerie Flowers and Sage’s Grass at the top of the hill. Mrsha was wiggling in Normen’s grip, and he was sneaking back to deliver her to Lyonette when he heard Erin speaking.

“Whew, Numbtongue and Octavia? Who would have predicted that? I mean—it makes sense. But wow.”

Mrsha stopped wiggling, and she and Normen exchanged a look. The Brother blinked. So Erin wasn’t oblivious? And yet, he was almost completely certain the bisque hadn’t occurred to her without his suggesting it.

Erin folded her arms. She stood there for a few seconds, nodding, then shaking her head.

“I’m…I’m not having the talk! Octavia probably knows everything. Yeah. Alright, and Ryoka’s alive. That’s good. I guess I’ll find out what the heck she was doing later. How long does it take to sail from Terandria to Izril? Mysteries.”

She was talking to herself. Hyping herself up? Despite himself, Normen was a Brother of Serendipitous Meetings, and anyone on the street loved a secret. Mrsha was just a nosy girl. They listened, tip-toeing to the door when Erin spoke.

“Alright. Okay. Alright, okay.”

She took a few breaths and then let go of the wheelchair and thrust one hand into the sky as she planted her feet a shoulder’s width apart. Erin stayed like that—then she grabbed the wheelchair and shook her head.

“Nah. What about—”

She pointed forwards dramatically. Then she tried to copy Pisces’ thumbs-up pose. Mrsha was giggling so hard that Normen had to cover her mouth. Erin gave up in the end and just clenched a fist.

“Here goes nothing. <Post: Heroic Quest>!

Both Gnoll and Brother stopped smiling. They stared up as Erin raised her hand.

“Heroic Quest: Zeladona’s Trial of a Thousand Blades! Receive the [Walk of the Swordmaster] Skill! A thousand people must participate! Survival not guaranteed! Reward—the Skill. Posted rewards—um—wait.”

A charge flickered in the air. Just like the first time, Normen felt something wanting to set his hair on end, but unlike when Erin had nailed the quest to the Adventurer’s Guild—it wasn’t quite working. The [Innkeeper] leaned on her wheelchair.

“Darn. I’m missing something. It’s not the conditions…it’s the reward? I know how it works, but I can’t give out the—huh. Damn.”

She sighed. Mrsha and Normen exchanged a look of silent awe. Then, Erin Solstice closed her eyes. She took a breath—and the [Garden of Sanctuary] went very, very quiet. Normen felt his arms tremble, and Mrsha stopped breathing.

“<Post: Legendary Quest>.”

Erin’s words hung in the air, as if you could almost see the letters hanging there. She spoke slowly, and Normen felt like each word was trying to insert themselves into his head.

“Legendary Quest: Destroy Rosh—

She hesitated. Normen was about to shout at her. Don’t. Don’t post that quest.

There wouldn’t be an inn left. Not even if the entire Brotherhood were here. And the [Innkeeper] needed no Ulvama, nor Normen. She sighed, and the words faded out of the air.

“…Not yet. Not yet. Not that or anything else. Not—”

She turned, and Normen and Mrsha slipped out the door as Erin began rolling downhill. Silently, Mrsha accepted her scolding and went to bed, though Normen was sure she wouldn’t sleep easy.

Yes. This was why he was here. The Brother went to his own light sleep. Rather than this being too easy or calm, he only feared, even with his new levels? Even at Level 30?

He wouldn’t be able to do what was needed when the time came.

 

——

 

The next day, Erin Solstice was in more pain, but a healing potion sip sorted her out. She woke up, asked Normen to take her to the Mage’s Guild, and sent Ryoka a reply.

At the same time, she filed a request.

“Hey. Um. Do you know where [Witches] are? I’m looking for a ‘Nanette’. Can I send her a [Message]?”

The [Mage] had to lean over the counter to talk to her. The Drake hesitated.

“Do you mean a [Witch] in general? We don’t…just keep records of random [Witches], Miss Solstice.”

“Okay. But you have records, right?”

“Are you asking us to search through all the records of known [Witches] for a Nanette?”

“Yes. She’s on Izril, around Riverfarm, maybe? But she may have moved. Can you put out a [Message]-thing for all Mage’s Guilds in the area asking if she’ll talk to me? Say I’m, uh—trying to contact her regarding witch-stuff.”

“I suppose that’s possible. The cost will be…let me add this up.”

Erin interrupted the Drake as he fetched a kind of abacus out.

“Wait, hold on. Can I talk to Emperor Laken? I’ll ask him if he knows anything.”

“You mean—the [Emperor]? You can’t just send a [Message] spell to someone of that class randomly. He is on an exclusivity list. Even then, his [Messages] are vetted by his people.”

“Yeah, but I know him. He [Messaged] me, actually. Tell him I’m looking for Nanette.”

“You aren’t on his lists. I could inquire—”

Erin had to reach up to slap her hands on the desk.

“What do you mean, I’m not on the list? He talked to me! Isn’t that proof?”

The Drake was having a bad day. He had to confer with a senior and then groaned.

“Oh. You were dead, so you’ve been removed from—I have to contact Riverfarm’s Mage Guild and ask them to clarify. It may take a while—”

I’m not dead! Just tell him I’m not dead!

“Er, Miss Solstice. I’d hate to interrupt as it were, but this isn’t this gentleman’s fault, exactly.”

The Drake gave Normen a look of sincere gratitude as Erin hesitated. She looked around at the other customers waiting in line, staring at her.

“Classic Solstice moment.”

One of the Drakes, Menolit, of all people, chuckled. Erin turned beet red.

“I—I would like to inquire at Riverfarm. Thanks. Um…do you accept tips?”

 

——

 

When Erin got back to her inn, the portal door was being installed in Hexel’s room by no less than the [Architect] himself. Erin brightened up—she had been embarrassed into silence the entire ride back—right up until she heard the argument.

Lyonette, Lism, and the [Negotiator], Teliv, were having a duel in the middle of the inn’s hallway.

On one hand, you had Lyonette, flanked by two Thronebearers, the aura of royalty on her side and a [Princess]’ knowledge of negotiations. The Thronebearers themselves were as savvy in this field as any other non-combat profession.

On the other side—Teliv, a [Negotiator]. And Lism.

Lism’s stubbornness seemed to be winning. Teliv flinched when he saw Erin and tried to hide behind the [Councilmember], but Lyonette kept snapping.

“What do you mean, no remunerations? You’ve had that door running for months!”

“Yes, and we are completely willing to offer you credit on your taxes for the coming fiscal year. Ah, Miss Solstice! Your door is being returned to you. I hope you will remember Liscor’s tax on visitors, but we are delighted to return the door to its proper owner. We never intended to hold onto it, as you can see.”

The Drake’s smile was not being returned by Erin. She gave him a suspicious look.

“You’re being nice. What’s wrong? Are you not paying us? That’s illegal.”

“Indeed it is. Erin’s a citizen of Liscor. She had to pay her taxes—I demand a share of the profits. Not even half, but a—quarter will do for however long the door was running.”

Lyonette’s eyes flashed. She knew Liscor had funding from selling lands and their other recent economic ventures. They could afford to hire a famous [Architect] in Hexel.

Lism sighed as the [Innkeeper] joined forces with the [Princess]. Teliv was no help, so the Drake put up his claws.

“Very well, Miss Solstice, Miss Marquin. You win.”

He held out a claw.

“I believe that would be sixty gold pieces. We’ll round it up, but we’re two hundred and forty plus gold coins in the negative, so a quarter…”

Erin blinked at his claw. Lyonette’s mouth opened.

“You lost money on the door?”

Suddenly, it clicked. Lism glanced at the door being maneuvered into place.

“We did indeed. That damn door has been more trouble than it’s worth. I wish you the best of luck making a profit on it, but if you want the actual income—you’re not going to get it. For four months, we’ve been losing money on it. The only thing that even kept it from bleeding gold was sending supplies through.”

“But the fee for each person is six silver—”

“No, it’s ten. We upped the price to twelve, but then brought it back down. And even then, as I think you’ll find—recharging the door for all the foot traffic costs more than you can spend.”

“Impossible. That might be the case in Liscor, but Erin’s inn produces mana.”

Lyonette spoke flatly, and Lism laughed.

“You think so? There’s a bit more traffic coming through the door these days. Do you know how many Pallassians are willing to visit Liscor in a day?”

“No…”

“At least a hundred. How many can your inn sustain per day? And that’s just Pallass coming through one way. We’ve subsidized the costs against the business they bring. But we don’t make money on recharging the door. We’ve tried mana stones—that’s the way to bleed the most gold. It’s simplest to hire [Mages] to spend their mana on the door. You’ll need a rotation of at least forty. I’ll send a [Clerk] with the details.”

Erin and Lyonette looked at each other in horror. A hundred visitors per day? From Pallass? Lism was backing away slowly.

“As you can see, we consider it a public service, but we will be delighted to consider some credits in the future. Now, I must be—”

He was almost out of the inn when Ser Sest leaned against the doorway.

“Councilmember, please, have a seat! It would not do for such an important Councilmember to leave without refreshments. And as I’m sure Lady Lyonette and Miss Solstice would point out—the income of the door is still income, no matter the expenses Liscor chooses to take on.”

Lism cursed and tried to use Teliv as a battering ram, but Dame Ushar also spoke cheerfully.

“It would also behoove Liscor to negotiate for usage of the door.”

“What? We earn a tax! It’s implied we’re working together.”

“Yes…but what’s to stop Miss Solstice from recouping her losses by charging three gold coins per visitor? That would cut down on traffic nicely.”

Lyonette started breathing again as Lism put his back to the wall. He produced a quill like a sword and waved it back and forth.

“Teliv—get me our [Clerks]. And Krshia.”

They were squaring up for a battle for the ages. Erin glanced at Lyonette and whispered to the [Princess].

“…I really don’t want to be part of this. You handle the door, Lyonette.”

“Erin! You need to at least consider the inn’s finances! I’m managing it myself, but—”

—But the [Princess], despite acting as a manager for the inn’s affairs and finances, was not, in fact, good at high-level economics.

It was a realization that Mrsha had come to. She was trying to sneak up on Lism and plant a note on his back, but she had realized something of late.

Erin and Lyonette were sort of bad with money.

And it said a lot that a [Princess] of Calanfer was better than Erin. Lyonette at least counted the money coming in, but here was the thing—she was sort of, um, princess-like in how she regarded money.

In short, Lyonette’s funds went into a vault buried in the garden. The inn was the state or kingdom, and all proceeds went into the treasury. She then doled it out to vassals and could have really benefited from a [Chamberlain of the Coin].

Lyonette had been taught more to audit and make sure her council wasn’t mismanaging or embezzling funds, rather than how to use it. Erin? Erin just asked if there was enough to fund the newest project and thought that as long as more money went in than went out, everything was peachy.

Mrsha wasn’t exactly interested in numbers either, but she had been hanging out with Aunt Selys and Gire. And what she realized was that there was a difference between the two.

Gire hadn’t been able to meet with Moore, so Mrsha had just played with him that morning. Gire was, in fact, working out the Ekhtouch tribe’s affairs and delegating budgets of gold to various tribe members, ordering them to link up and managing purchases of healing potions across the continent through proxies.

Selys also got mad when Mrsha messed with her paperwork. She had [Clerks], budgets, and income reports.

Actually, she hadn’t been able to take Mrsha in that morning either to avoid her watching Lyonette’s showdown with Lism. She was with Kevin in the common room.

“Well? What does it look like?”

Pisces was hovering at their table and sniffing self-importantly now and then, but he was struggling to keep up. Kevin frowned at the numbers and the circled ones.

“…Yeah, you need double-bookkeeping.”

“What’s that?”

“Uh—something from home. This is way too confusing, but I think that’s on purpose. Whomever this guy is—he’s making some of the gold vanish.”

Woman, and I knew it. I’m going to the Watch.”

Selys slapped the table. Kevin exhaled as Pisces nodded hesitantly. He squinted at the list of numbers.

“It is quite, ah, adeptly concealed. How did you identify the thefts, pray tell?”

“Aside from the fact that I felt like I was spending too much gold? I…found these ledgers open on my desk. I must have been looking into them. See how I circled each bad entry?”

“Nice.”

Selys rubbed at her head.

“Yes. Nice. I barely remember it, but I’ve had a lot of late nights—”

Mrsha sniffed the ledger. It smelled like a rat. Well, the entire embezzlement was also fishy, so she let that slide.

In that sense, rats were better with money than Erin and Lyonette. Mrsha tugged at Selys’ arm.

“Not now, Mrsha. Aunt Selys has to go arrest a mean [Clerk]. What? Oh—the door.”

Selys knew what the fuss was about and grimaced. She’d explained to Pisces and Kevin, and the [Mechanic] winced. He stood up fast.

“I’ve gotta go. Before Erin thinks I can help.”

“Can’t you help her like me? You can at least put together numbers—”

Kevin backed away so fast he was practically moonwalking over to the hallway.

“No, absolutely not. I worked in my bike shop now and then, but I hate numbers. I hate them. I can barely do Solar Cycles’ work. In fact, we have a bunch of new orders for our big clients. The Empire of Sands. So, uh—bye.”

He vanished just as Erin turned from the discussions.

“Kevin! Don’t you know about—Kevin? Wait, come back! Oh, Selys!”

“Pass. I’m clearly not cut out to judge character, Erin. Excuse me. I need to find Relc.”

The Drake also got up, and Mrsha saw Erin’s face fall. The little Gnoll girl sighed. Lyonette had the Thronebearers’ help, but they didn’t manage businesses. They could negotiate, but it seemed, to her, that the inn was badly mismanaged economically.

What to do? She pondered for a moment, then brightened up.

Wait a second. Mrsha the Networker might be able to help out after all. Didn’t she know about someone who could help with business ventures? She scampered up to her room to find her [Message] scroll. Mrsha scribbled furiously with a self-satisfied smile.

 

——

 

King Fetohep of Khelt was reading. He was not happy while reading.

He had spent sixteen days straight repairing the damage to his realm, allocating new lands for the Gnoll tribes, but mostly—conducting diplomacy, a rarity for Khelt on such a level.

It was taxing, because, while he could write a [Message] or speak via spell while also doing paperwork, he had to pretend to devote all of his attention to a fellow ruler of state. But it was a certain trio of kingdoms that were demanding his attention.

Well, one in particular. However, his new expansion into Jecrass needed security, leadership, and restoration from the war. It was not monster-free, and the people were afraid of the undead. Worse, however…Khelt sighed.

The Claiven Earth and Medain. In fact, not just them, but several cities had, apparently, surrendered while he had ridden north. Khelt was now in possession of two kingdoms. The Claiven Earth were being very…very careful. He had not asked much of them, and they had not protested. Yet.

The armies he had sent across Khelt were fresh in everyone’s mind, but Fetohep was also aware many half-Elves had joined the exodus to Izril. He had to deal with them, but carefully. Simply…releasing them was an issue. There were many factors, but the half-Elves were at least intelligent. The cities who wanted to be part of Khelt could be dealt with.

Yet one man was somehow so…imbecilic that he was a worse headache than all of the other elements combined. Fetohep read the long [Message] accompanied by—he stared down at the shipment of spices from Baleros—a gift.

 

Your Exalted Majesty of Khelt, Eternal Protector of the Sands, King of Kings Fetohep of Khelt—

 

It was always a new combination of addresses. Was this hand-written? It was slightly harder to read.

 

—Your Obedient Friend and [High King] Perric would like to inform you that I have commissioned six statues in each major city of Medain. I have demanded their construction within the month, and I hope this small gesture will please you—

 

Fetohep groaned. He actually didn’t know what to do.

He said no parades; Perric threw him a banquet. He insisted on no banquets; statues appeared. It was even worse, because the High King was not a clever man.

If he were, he would have realized that Fetohep would have accepted statues of Khelta or Serept or any other ruler, but himself?

A month’s time? They weren’t even going to be good statues, and meanwhile, Medain would be looking upon the hated image of the tyrant.

“What does one say to a complete fool? I…cannot express the words in a straightforward enough manner. Perhaps a [Curse of the Dunce] would do when I pen my reply.”

He needed to cut Medain and the Claiven Earth loose. Just—Fetohep was reading the rest of the long address when a [Message] scroll flashed with new words. He looked to the side and saw it was one of his personal ones. Keyed to…

He read the brief message. Fetohep of Khelt raised a hand, and an enchanted quill poised to take his dictation.

“No.”

 

——

 

Fetohep: No.

 

Mrsha’s face fell. She wrote back furiously.

 

Mrsha: I don’t need your help, you stinky, lazy skeleton! Poo-brain! Creler-face!

Fetohep: I will draft a [Message] to Erin Solstice with the contents of your statements.

Mrsha: Have a nice day! Goodbye!

 

Well, darn. Fetohep was clearly a high-level [Mrsha Expert]. She couldn’t even get a rise out of him. Mrsha thought for a second and then thought of the other person she could contact.

Wait a second, yes! Didn’t he do math-things too? She should have asked Yelroan first! And like that, Mrsha wondered where he was.

Was he okay after the battle? She frowned and began to write a letter, then realized this [Message] scroll was keyed to Fetohep. She’d need to get to the Mage’s Guild, but that was okay.

“Miss Mrsha? What do you need, a walk to the Mage’s Guild? I believe Princess Lyonette will approve that. I shall go at once.”

Ser Lormel glanced over his shoulder, and Mrsha quite audibly heard Lyonette saying a few bad words to Lism. She almost wanted to stay, but Ser Lormel hurried her out of the inn. They were just heading down the hill when someone caught up.

“Hey guys…”

Erin Solstice had bisqued up and innocently avoided Mrsha and Lormel’s stare as Normen and Alcaz caught up. She put her hands in her pockets.

“Whatcha doing, Mrsha? Going to the Mage’s Guild? I see, I see. I’ll just tag along. Maybe Laken’s written me back.”

Mrsha pointed back at the inn accusatorially. Erin glanced over her shoulder.

“Lyonette? She’s got it. Let’s go. Right now. Come on, hup, hup, hup! I’ll race you!”

 

——

 

Laken had not written back to Erin, and the [Mage] at the desk visibly tried to duck down when Erin returned. But he took Mrsha’s [Message] with some relief as Erin tried to act…peaceable.

“Who is this Yelroan guy again, Mrsha?”

Mrsha wrote on a piece of paper for Erin.

“Yelroan is a considered scholar of the mathemagical world. I vouchsafe him as a good friend, if one with altogether too much style to be lumped in with the plebian academics. He has nice sunglasses. He reminds me of Saliss. He was working for the bad Plain’s Eye tribe, but then redeemed his actions by saving my life! He and Merish—of whom I have considerably less positive things to say—are the only two Plain’s Eye Gnolls worth a damn in my esteemed opinion.”

Erin glanced at Ser Lormel, and he dabbed at one eye.

“Such beautiful prose. Worthy of any Calanferian missive. I say, I say, well done, Miss Mrsha. Although I will note the foul language in the last line.”

The [Innkeeper] stared down at Mrsha’s beaming face. She liked her writing—Fetohep refused to reply if she wrote like this, though. He said it was ‘odious for a child to write so’.

Erin’s face fell as she remembered the tribe of doom-slaying Gnolls…that Mrsha had told her about. She had only stories, not lived it, but Mrsha still had friends abroad.

“The Meeting of Tribes. I always wanted to see it. Now…how are things?”

Mrsha sighed, which was answer enough. She shook her head and began to write. Meanwhile, a [Message] skipped around the world to a certain [Mathematician].

How were the Meeting of Tribes, the surviving Gnolls, doing? More importantly, now Erin and Mrsha wondered it—

What had happened to Plain’s Eye?

 

——

 

Yelroan was working when Mrsha’s [Message] found him. Unlike Fetohep of Khelt, he was not managing the affairs of his tribe.

Not anymore. Feshi had him doing his work for the other tribes at the Meeting of Tribes, taking lists of names and seeing who was dead and what was left.

But that was not the only thing the blonde-furred Gnoll was working on. He was the premier [Mathematician] of Izril.

Alright—the only one. So there were institutions aware of him. The Merchant’s Guild, for instance, hired him for the same thing Haldagaz had done for Selys.

Checking their numbers. Yelroan could, for instance, actually visualize numbers. It helped him spot trends and irregularities, but part of a [Mathematician]’s class were Skills that anyone could value.

“[Data Discrepancy]. Let’s see…it might just be a mistake in the ledgers.”

Yelroan’s quill circled an entry in red ink. He supposed a lesser [Clerk] might have this Skill, but he could tell almost at once this was probably only a bookkeeping error by an apprentice, not a systematic pattern. He was going to advise the Merchant’s Guild in Pallass to stop trading via their northeastern roads in steel products.

They were just not profitable. He’d done a comparative—and it was worth more to sell south, even to Oteslia’s weaker market forces. Manus was better, and Liscor was untried, but if the door kept charging the same rates, they’d make a fortune.

Now, Yelroan saw this based on the data, but he was aware there were surprises. He wasn’t a [Merchant]; his job was to take data, infer some conclusions, but mostly, present the data back to the employer in digestible formats.

He’d done that all the time for the late Chieftain Xherw and other Chieftains, so Yelroan wrote a brief summary with all the discrepancies he’d found as he packed up the files. Then he included his breakdowns of profits in their trading routes and his recommendation.

“[Message] for the Merchant’s Guild in Pallass. Care of Guildmaster Toiese. Ask them what to do with my files—store, return, or burn?”

Yelroan had a system. The Gnoll who had the [Message] scroll was one he’d worked with. She was…well. She took the [Message] without a word. Her eyes lingered on Yelroan for a second too long. Then she got to work, sending the data.

Store, return, or burn was common practice. Either Yelroan kept the data for use later or a City Runner brought it back—an expensive, slightly dangerous option. Lastly? He could just erase the valuable records, since the Merchant’s Guild obviously had their copies.

Some idiots only kept one copy and sent them to him. Yelroan shuddered at the worst practices he’d seen. He nodded to the message-Gnoll and retreated to his office.

His tent hadn’t been damaged in all the fighting. Amazingly, every warrior had just rushed past it or looked in, seen little to loot or destroy, and run on. Yelroan supposed that was a commentary on the value of numbers being disguised.

Today, over two weeks after the Meeting of Tribes, the betrayal of their entire tribe’s history, the death of his Chieftain and Shaman Ulcreziek, Yelroan worked with numbers.

No. He was not over it. If anything, he was working to avoid what he’d seen. If he stopped and thought about it—

He’d panic. It was a kind of denial, and it applied to the assistant sending [Messages].

What had happened—happened. It was hard to deny. But Yelroan sat in the Plain’s Eye camp. Or rather, what was left of it. He stuck a quill in an inkpot, ready to get back to calculating just how many healing potions the tribes used per month.

There was going to be a real shortage of potions. However, Yelroan’s quill scratched on the parchment.

“Out of ink? Damn.”

Yelroan cracked another inkwell…then another…then realized he was out. He looked around, bemused…and realized no one had refilled his paper sheaves either.

That was how he knew his tribe was ashambles. Just—no one remembered to give him ink. Yelroan got up slowly. He hesitated as he walked out of his tent.

The Gnoll who sent [Messages] had been placed next to his tent, so he spoke for a second.

“I’m just—heading out to get some ink. Do you know who has any?”

“Silverfang?”

She spoke after a second, her voice croaking with disuse. Yelroan vaguely recalled Satar talking about her free ink.

“That makes sense. I’ll be back.”

She barely nodded. He stepped out of the tent, and the sunlight gleamed off his fur. Yelroan looked around and inhaled, even now, the stench of death. But far away.

The blood was still clinging to them, even two weeks later. Not that many Plain’s Eye warriors were around. They were—split off, divided up. Some were under the care of other tribes. Others were serving their original subtribes in Plain’s Eye, but they were not a force anymore.

They could not be. The trust was not there.

Plain’s Eye was camped on the outskirts of the former Meeting of Tribes. A kind of…ragtag assembly from the great, organized tribe it had been. Many of their members were gone. More would leave, tomorrow, and the day after.

They were not a tribe any more. At least—Yelroan doubted they could ever be. The name was tainted. Their very purpose was called into question, and the Gnolls who had lived through the war in the Great Plains had become the most hated people of the plains.

Yet they were alive. Alive and not butchered for their deeds.

Chieftain Feshi had seen to that. Adetr Steelfur, the other Chieftains had refused to let this become a second slaughter. So there were many Plain’s Eye Gnolls alive.

There was just one thing. As Yelroan emerged from the tent, he saw many Gnolls glance his way. Just—glance and sometimes stare, then, often, look away. He was used to it by now, but for once, Yelroan was glad his sunglasses hid part of his expression.

He kept his face straight as the light yellow, blonde fur on his body waved in the breeze. He headed past Gnolls sitting aimlessly around. Children silently mending blankets, braiding cord to make rope.

Even fletching, cooking—but almost all trade goods. They needed to make money.

After all—they had to live. And many of the Gnolls who’d fled had taken a lot of the tribe’s coin with them. The work of making an arrow, tanning hide, that was distracting.

Yet it was hard for the Plain’s Eye Gnolls to ignore it for long. Because, unlike Yelroan—the reason why he was used to the stares? The [Mathematician] felt his fur rising, even now.

For everywhere he looked, all he saw were white Gnolls.

Doombringers. No—Doombearers. Every single one. Yelroan was the one Gnoll with fur any other color; every other Gnoll had snow-white fur. They would stare at each other, and that instinctive horror would rise—then they’d look down at themselves and remember.

An entire tribe, changed by the Witch of Webs’ magic. Save for Yelroan.

That last bit wasn’t actually that surprising. Yelroan had essentially exiled himself from the tribe by opposing Xherw. If it had not come to the end, he would have surely left his people forever rather than be part of the killing.

Was he spared? Why had he come back? Yelroan didn’t know. He just…

Knew math. He knew this job. So he worked. And slept little, but to see that battle where all the treachery had come to light. And he did not wake with nightmares to realize this was reality, but relief that at least Mrsha was alive. At least—

It was over. Now came penance, and Yelroan was at least willing to earn gold so the Doombearers might not starve.

It also made his life easier. The Gnoll guards at the Silverfang camp recognized him, but if he’d had white fur, they would have questioned him.

Sort of ironic, that. White fur was no longer the symbol of cursed fate. It was now a Plain’s Eye symbol. A mark of traitors.

Not a great move for white-furred Gnolls, but the few that Yelroan knew looked relieved it was over.

Then again—they didn’t have white fur either. Qwera the Golden Gnoll and Wer the Wanderer both had brown fur, dyed, and both had declined to ‘go natural’.

Yelroan saw Qwera briefly while he was asking for some ink from a Silverfang [Packmistress], who gave him four bottles in exchange for a signature and note that he’d taken it. Silverfangs were organized. Yelroan had a meeting with Gaarh Marsh to give them a better system of keeping track of things tomorrow.

The Golden Gnoll looked exasperated as she stood in the middle of the Silverfang camp. She was loading up her caravans. A [Merchant] sold what they could, but she needed to buy as well, so she had a lot of artwork, valuables from jewelry to ceramics, family treasures, all loaded up.

A lot of it was Plain’s Eye. They’d sold it to Qwera to raise funds, and she was going to send it, probably to Drake cities or further abroad, for a profit.

In return, she had offloaded much of her caravan’s supplies, but her generosity had limits. She was snapping at someone as Yelroan headed back to his camp.

“I have given you every deal I can, Merish.”

“You still have that Pallassian steel. There is enough metal for more than one tribe in those ingots.”

“Yes, and I’ve promised it to Weatherfur, who will divide it among the tribes.”

“But none for us.”

Yelroan stopped and turned his head. He saw a large, familiar Gnoll, two hand-axes at his side, speaking with his head lowered to Qwera. A few Silverfang Gnolls were watching him, but Merish had switched sides at the end and had been the one to kill Xherw. For that, he gained a pass.

Yet his fur was white. That was the difference between them. Merish noticed Yelroan and nodded to him, and the [Mathematician] stopped, but the [Shamanic Warrior] was still part of his tribe. If anything—he was one of the reasons Plain’s Eye had not completely disintegrated.

“I am not giving Plain’s Eye ingots to forge metal. Ask Feshi for some or what the other tribes make. I’m entirely aware of how poor your tribe is and how dire this coming winter is.”

The Golden Gnoll’s own brilliant fur gleamed in the light. Merish waited, but Qwera was done. She turned away and shouted.

Ysara! Are you done packing or are you going to dally here until your precious little sister appears on Baleros fighting Hydras?”

“I’m ready to go! She’s not doing that, is she?”

Ysara Byres was packing her single wagon. Qwera rolled her eyes.

“Not yet. Let’s say our farewells. Merish—”

She looked back at the Doomslayer with little love. Merish looked so tired as Yelroan approached, but Qwera gave him a single nod.

“You don’t have to keep being Plain’s Eye. Maybe it would be better if they did disband.”

“Even if they wanted to join other tribes and forget—we are white Gnolls. Someone must atone for what we’ve done.”

The Golden Gnoll glanced at Yelroan and then spat to one side.

“A shame you’re all wearing white fur now. But at least it’ll make the others less of a target if some idiots start all this again. Yelroan, are you really staying here?”

“For the moment, Miss Qwera.”

Yelroan raised a paw and nearly dropped an inkwell. Merish caught it, and Qwera sighed.

“My offer stands. I could always use someone with a head for numbers. Alright then. Off to Liscor or wherever! And about time, too. Tesy’s already raising hell in Oteslia.”

Tesy and Vetn were gone. Qwera and Ysara were moving out. A lot of Gnolls were going—but the remnants were still here, trying to figure out what to do. Merish turned to Yelroan.

“Ink?”

“I’m out. It’s nice to have Satar around. No steel for Plain’s Eye?”

“We don’t need weapons. We need—tools. And arrowheads. And any number of things. Few tribes can spare that even if they would trade with us. Did Ysara offer you a job as well?”

Yelroan shrugged self-consciously. He had always known he could quit his tribe and find a job anywhere from Rhir to a big city, but Merish hadn’t known that. Yelroan stuck with his tribe out of loyalty, not a need for work.

“I can always take her or anyone else up later. You need someone telling you how much you have. Are you still planning on a city?”

Merish rumbled in his chest as they walked out of the camp, back to their ragged mess.

“Yes. Most of the warriors are dead—even if all the other subtribes agree to rejoin us, we will need walls. In case of…anger.”

Reprisals. Not to mention Drake armies. Merish gestured vaguely to the west.

“Feshi has marked a spot westwards. We’ll set out soon enough.”

“Generous of her. We get to build a city or town right in Manus’ path if they come calling. Do you really think you can quarry enough stone in…”

Yelroan was no [Geomancer], but the flat Great Plains did not strike him as a good spot to build a city out of. Merish just shook his head.

“We cannot do what we’ve done. Plains Eye—no, whatever tribe we become, the white Gnolls here will need to survive the winter, first. And monsters, other tribes, Drakes—”

“Walls. Well, maybe some [Shamans] can raise the first walls out of dirt. I need to get back to work. Tell me if you need anything?”

Merish just nodded. Yelroan waited, and then he spoke.

“—You don’t need to be the one all the other tribes shout at. You…”

You killed Xherw. It made Merish less of an enemy to the other tribes, but more of a traitor to some of his people. Merish, though, just shook his head. He looked down, and Yelroan felt another chill on his fur.

Merish had taken Xherw’s axes. They were one of the few valuable things left that the other tribes had not taken. The [Shamanic Warrior] spoke heavily.

“Chieftain Feshi is not a cruel person. She is a [Strategist], but even she is reluctant to give us much. Yelroan, the other tribes will move away from here, those that don’t build their own settlement here.”

Out of the fort that they’d fought around and the Chieftains’ Tent, still hiding the secrets of Earth. Yelroan nodded. Merish glanced west.

“We have enough to eat and live off of now. Once winter sets in, if no preparations are made, tens of thousands will die with no one to beg for help.”

“Right. Well then. I’ll keep working on your budget. You need to find more [Shamans], Merish. Or we won’t even have dirt huts, even if we keep making more tents. Too many burned.”

It wasn’t cold, sleeping under the stars, unless it rained. Merish nodded, and Yelroan saw him walk through the camp.

Alone. Until the first Gnolls drifted up to him, and he gave them orders, which they began to follow. His sister, a little Lizardman letting a Gnoll girl cling to his back, warriors…

Somehow, despite the burden on him, Yelroan thought Merish looked better than he had when first he had come back from Rhir. His friend had told him that this, at least, gave him no more nightmares.

Just regrets.

Oh, a world full of regrets. The quiet Gnoll, as shellshocked as everyone else, blinked as Yelroan put an inkwell in front of her.

“Just in case you run out.”

“Thank you, mathematician.”

That was the first full sentence she’d said all day. He tried to smile—then he returned to his workspace. Yelroan stared at the inkwells, head in his paws.

All his ambitions for the future, all his dreams, the certainty of everything was gone.

This is what we deserve.

He knew that. But it still…Yelroan tried to count, blankly, how many gold coins they’d need. No—how many monsters might come calling.

That was when the Gnoll called out.

“Mathematician Yelroan, a personal [Message] for you.”

“Put it in my pile.”

“No…it’s from…her. The Doombr—the Doombearer. Mrsha du Marquin.”

Yelroan sat up, and his head rose as the first [Message] from that little, innocent Gnoll, found him. He strode out, read the [Message], and sighed.

 

To Yelroan,

Are you keeping well? It is me, Mrsha. I am writing to you in inquiries regarding your superlative mathematical talents. I have something of a math-related quandary with two dunces managing my inn and was hoping you had some insights into the subject.

Are you well? Is Qwera still there? I hope you are okay. It feels as though the Meeting of Tribes is so far away, but I still think of Chieftain Torishi, and I am very sad. However, I trust Feshi is in the peak of health, and I want you to be too.

You were nice. Are you okay? Can you help me with a math thing? We have a door that earns money, but Erin (she’s alive), doesn’t know how to make it earn money…

 

It was painfully ornate at times and also young. It hurt—more than anything. Especially because she remembered it all.

Torishi Weatherfur. Iraz Steelfur. Cetrule Silverfang, Firrelle Ekhtouch, Reizet Az’muzarre, yes, even Xherw and Ulcreziek Plain’s Eye.

Too many legends had fallen. Too many holes left in their people. Sometimes, Yelroan thought of what had happened, and his anger wasn’t just at Xherw—but at the Drakes.

Xherw had been a traitor to his people, made a monster, and tried to kill countless Gnolls. The Drakes? They were just—bastards.

He realized Mrsha had laid out a small business problem, and he thought of the door’s mana consumption problem as a numbers game. Not so much in terms of how to fix it, but deal with an unchangeable variable. Yelroan wrote back.

 

Dear Mrsha,

I am well. Plain’s Eye, or what we now are, is stable. The Gnolls are still mostly in shock, and we help out. Mostly, another tribe like Silverfang says it needs burial detail or asks for our artisans, and we work.

I’m still at my old job, to help pay for costs, mostly. Merish—I hope you don’t think too poorly of him—is keeping everything together. He thinks it will be a tough winter and is saving up. A lot of the subtribes fled, and we gave a lot of our goods and gold to the other tribes when they left. So you could say we’re now the poorest tribe in the world, but I’ve seen Greenpaw’s income.

I don’t know what’s coming next, but you gave me a simple problem. You’re going to have to get a deal with each city you connect the door to. Count each person who goes where—and they subsidize the costs. That means, if the actual cost of the door sending someone is twenty silver, but you only get paid ten, or six after taxes, they need to guarantee fourteen for the inn. More if you want a profit.

I can work out the average costs if you have data from Liscor. It’s not pleasant, but your only other alternative is raising prices to lower demand.

Frankly, I think Invrisil and Pallass will agree to terms. Their leaders will negotiate. Reach out to both of their offices. You want to go to the 6th Floor in Pallass and lodge an appointment with their Civic Management secretary. Entry or passports might help, but they mostly report to the Watch Captain, and this will need higher authority.

I don’t know who to go to in Invrisil, but try the [Governor]’s headquarters. If neither one pays attention to you, inform them the door is closed until you can come to a speedy agreement. 

I have sample contracts I can send you the wording on, but any Merchant’s Guild can probably do the same. Have Liscor’s send you a representative as a witness and get a Magical Contract, Tamperless-subtype. That’s very important. Then pay to send one copy to the care of Oteslia, and another to First Landing.

What that does is it means you have a witnessed, legal document proving the contract, so that if either city tries to not pay you or get out of it, you have a copy in two major cities they can’t change. Liscor will have one as well. 

That’s how to do subsidies, and if you can expand the door’s mana capacity or—I don’t actually understand what you meant when you said it runs on grass—you can obviously change the deal, but it’s not a bad idea to be paid by each city. Remember, you have a monopoly on the door.

…Do you have it secured? Also, frankly, if you’re going to be sending hundreds through the door each day, I’d be worried about bathrooms, lines, etcetera. It might be good to connect this door outside of your inn so you don’t worry about thieves or people to move through it. However Liscor did it? Ask them if you can hire the people who made it work last time. Also—

 

Yelroan dipped his quill into the inkwell and realized he was running out of space to reply. He had written all this automatically. Obviously, he was thinking, but this was sort of second-nature. Not that he’d ever seen magical doors being installed in a city, but even if he wasn’t in charge of this, you had to know this in his role which often went to more than math.

Idly, he gave the paper to the Gnoll to send back.

“I’ve got more. Are they still there?”

“Looks like it.”

“Alright, give me five minutes.”

Yelroan sat down and kept writing.

 

—security is an issue. Someone has to manage the lines, make sure no one cuts ahead or does anything like that.

I think you need to consider asking Liscor to just manage the door. Also, raise the prices. It will reduce the number of people travelling, which I know Liscor doesn’t want, but the needs of the inn are not that of a city. A hundred travellers from Pallass? Forty [Mages] to recharge one door? It’s also risky to have it connected to an army. This could really entangle the inn, Mrsha.

I’m not telling you how to do this, but bear it in mind. Oh, and you also need to make a deal with the Merchant’s Guild regarding transporting goods. You need to take a cut, but cities have import and export taxes as well as contraband.

The Merchant’s Guild will use your door to transport illicit goods and pretend they had no idea it was wrong and leave you in trouble. [Smugglers] will go through the door too—this is why Liscor and each city needs to organize it. Is there a checkpoint?

 

He handed the second piece of paper off and went to find a sample contract. After less than a minute, he got a response back.

 

This is too much work! 

:( 

Stop telling me to do things! Erin’s going to throw up all over. Pallass has a checkpoint thing with a really mean Drake! 

 

Yelroan almost smiled. He wrote back quickly, passing the contract over—the Gnoll sighed, but began to copy some of the wording so Mrsha could see. He was glad this was being paid for by her. Normally, he didn’t care, but this was now…

The Gnoll stared at the parchment, and his quill began to move faster.

 

I’m sorry, Mrsha. This is what happens when you have an object that everyone wants. You need to think about the future. Pallass would have an organized checkpoint, and the other cities should probably copy that. So should you.

I know it’s hard—you don’t have to do any of this. This is if you want this to be a civic, public door. Otherwise, just restrict access, make it exclusive, and put all these things in place on a smaller scale. It means only rich people will be able to use it, but it’s easier on you.

Change isn’t easy. It can be a good way to make money—you just need to ensure all your deals are fair, and the Merchant’s Guild can do that. You have a magic door.

I wish we did. Merish is going to lead our people westwards. Build something to keep us from starving in the winter or being attacked. It’s going to be difficult. I’m staying with him—I may remain with the other tribes, though, because I can make money here and I’m useless in a fight.

Every gold coin is going to count. Even the journey could end up with a…a lot of people dead. One big monster attack and there are a fraction of the warriors we used to have.

I know it’s necessary. No one trusts Plain’s Eye, and they shouldn’t. But the kids didn’t hunt Doombringers. Doombearers, like you. Some tribes are taking a few Gnolls on, but the white fur is risky.

I saw a zombie rise out of all the dead in the Meeting of Tribes. Then it fell backwards into a pit, and a Crypt Lord emerged. Spontaneously. Then it collapsed into two more, and whatever appeared took every Gnoll over Level 30 to fight. Lehra herself had to slay it.

That’s…bad luck. Once we’re away from the other tribes, more events like that could happen. No one can control their powers here. And the other tribes don’t want us around. 

 

He stared at the paper, then realized he was off-topic. Yelroan almost went to tear it up, but he couldn’t. He was writing what he wasn’t saying.

 

Sorry. For the door—if you’re not doing this already, do a schedule. One big transit per day or break them up if you have to. It will cut down on the inn’s guests too, and can’t you offer them food and drinks while they wait? I’m no [Innkeeper], but I bet this is all obvious. Just writing at random, sorry.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice was reading over Mrsha’s shoulder. So was Ser Lormel and even Normen, although Alcaz was glancing around.

“Whoa. This is such good advice! Who is this guy?”

Mrsha was beaming—right until that last part came in. Then her ears drooped. Erin bit her tongue as Yelroan’s emotions came spilling out onto the page.

“Oh no. That’s terrible. I didn’t know there was such trouble. Are they…this is the bad tribe, right?”

Mrsha nodded emphatically with a huge scowl. Erin tried again.

“But there are innocent kids and people? They’re not all bad.”

They’re all bad! Except for Merish and Yelroan!

Mrsha held up a furious sign. Then she amended it.

“Except for babies, maybe. But most are bad!”

“So how many babies are in the tribe? What’s Plain’s Eye?”

Ser Lormel coughed into one gauntlet.

“The…largest tribe in the world? Hundreds of thousands, perhaps more spread out in various sub-tribes? Millions?”

“How many babies is that?”

Mrsha’s face fell as Erin tried to work that out. The young woman felt her stomach clench.

“If only we could send them, like—help. Not a care package, but something like what Liscor gave to Esthelm. But they’re way too far south, right?”

Far too far from the door. And besides—Ser Lormel pointed out the obvious again.

“I believe Plain’s Eye could fill up Liscor to the brim. This is only one group, Miss Solstice. If a large one.”

“Maybe you could post a quest, Miss Solstice? Something to help them if they run into a monster? Or…send something?”

Mrsha raised her head.

I can send my allowance to Yelroan! To help babies. Only babies. Erin, give him your boon!

“My boon? I was gonna give that to Rabbiteater…hey, I haven’t booned anyone yet. Maybe. Although I’ve never met Yelroan…I don’t think I can boon anyone I haven’t met. I wonder if Ilvriss could help?”

And like that, Erin’s mind was racing. Didn’t Wil say that Feshi was a friend of theirs? Maybe—

“Salazsar is currently at war with Fissival. Sort of a tall ask if you want my opinion.”

Erin looked over and saw Menolit was still in line.

“Menolit! They are? I mean, I remember that. Sort of. What are you doing here?”

The Drake looked self-important.

“Organizing visitors for Liscor Hunted. I’ve got some clients who want to bag a Rock Crab.”

Erin rubbed her hands together. Yeah, yeah. Didn’t she know Ilvriss? And there was some Centaur that was also there—

She had lots of friends. Whom she could ask to help her do things. Like…protect and shelter and feed a few hundred thousand Gnolls.

Erin hesitated.

“Even Ilvriss isn’t gonna be happy with that one. I’d better think of some good incentives. Like a quest. I’ve got two. If I can figure out the big, big one. Or I, uh, bake him some muffins? Say, buddy, is Laken talking to me yet?”

The Drake [Mage] looked up with a sigh.

“No, Miss Solstice. The Mage’s Guild or whoever is over there is reviewing our request. But they get a lot of [Messages]…please check back tomorrow. It might take a while to reach someone in authority given our channels. Again, this is unfortunate—”

“Aw, come on! Wait, Griffon Hunt is there and Typhenous is here! I’ll just ask him! Duh! Why didn’t I think of it?”

Erin slapped her forehead. The [Mage] glowered as Erin turned to the others.

“If Nanette is there, I’ll ask Griffon Hunt to escort her back.”

“Is that team not on some sort of assignment? They cannot just take on an escort out of nowhere. That would be a tremendous breach of contract!”

Ser Lormel looked mildly horrified at the idea. Erin blew out her cheeks.

“Okay, I’ll get them to talk to Laken who sends someone with Nanette. If she’s there. Otherwise, we’ll find them. Uh—uh—maybe the Horns? Or Ryoka? If they’re willing.”

She was having a headache again. This time, Menolit, who by now was leaning on the counter and openly listening in, broke back into the conversation.

“You want to send a Gold-rank team to bring someone back? Or a Courier? I like that. That’s being rich for you. Pure overkill. Don’t use a [Flame Jet] spell to slay a rat, cast [Hurricane of Acid].”

Erin opened and closed her mouth. It was true. That did seem like a trivial waste of Ceria’s time when you put it like that.

Yelroan’s Gnolls, finding Nanette, and Erin had a bunch of other tasks like connecting with Goblinhome or looking into certain things. She had a bunch of friends, but they were people. With…desires. Interests.

“It’s too bad I can’t pay them to do that. But they’re Gold-ranks and Couriers. Damn. I need cheap…intelligent…labor.”

Mrsha the Mercenary puffed out her chest. Erin patted her on the head.

“Not you. I guess I could hire Silver-rank teams, right? Or actual [Mercenaries]?”

“That is how most people get things done, yes.”

Menolit’s face was deadpan. He was really enjoying this. Erin sighed.

“It’s too bad. But what if I got like—Vuliel Drae? That’s a bad roll of the dice. Oh, hey, Insill. Didn’t see you there. Sorry, but you guys did cause a moth attack.”

She waved at a mortified Drake. Erin felt like she was coming to some kind of a conclusion, but she turned back as Yelroan sent more files over.

“This Gnoll’s super smart, Mrsha. What did you say he did? Managed an entire tribe of Izril’s finances? I feel like that’s a difficult job. Do you think he could do our finances?”

Wistfully, Erin leaned on the counter and stared ahead. At this point, even the casual observers pretending to read newspapers or wait in line were giving her the side-eye.

This [Innkeeper] was really something, huh? Erin Solstice spoke slowly, coming to a conclusion she had really come to before being shot with crossbows.

“I think…I need more employees who can do that sort of thing. I don’t know about entire tribes, but more help’d be nice. Or…hey, Normen, Alcaz. Do you think you could go to, like, Riverfarm and find someone and bring them back?”

She looked at the two Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings. Normen opened his mouth. He thought of all the hazards that lay on the road even for a resourceful fellow, especially if he had to guard someone. Not to mention…[Witches]?

Brothers didn’t mess with [Witches]. Erin stared at him innocently.

“What? Maybe both of you?”

Every spy, informant, and observer in the Mage’s Guild felt the two Brothers’ pain as one overworked employee to another in the face of the obtuse boss.

No—mostly obtuse. Erin was leaning on the counter hard, exhaustion playing as big a part as…unexpected weakness.

Normen saw it. The same young woman who could and did look Sinew Magus Grimalkin in the eye and not blink at his disapproval, who had challenged the Assassin’s Guild in Izril—and he had been there—

She feared Yelroan’s simple, straightforward instructions more than that. Erin was speaking faster.

“Can one person even help with an entire tribe? That’s an army, isn’t it?”

“No one fellow could do that, I’m afraid, Miss Solstice. Not even Wilovan, and you know he’s a true gent. I hate to say it—but I’m not your man to go find a [Witch]. Aside from a lack of decorum…we’re not able to assure her safety, as it were.”

For a moment, Normen saw Crimshaw tangled with a dozen Gnolls in the doorway of the inn. He tugged his hat down.

“…A fellow does the best he can. But I’m afraid I’m no Gold-rank adventurer.”

Erin nodded slowly, her eyes on Normen. Then the same Drake, Menolit, broke in.

“There is someone who could help protect most of the Gnolls in this tribe. At least, if they stuck to one place. Not all of them, obviously, but eliminate big threats, help with issues like cold—everything. The full affair.”

“Who?”

“Saliss of Lights. He’s not called Pallass’ one-Drake army for nothing.”

Erin frowned.

“I have literally never heard him called that. But yeah—he could probably blow up any monster he wanted. Or melt them. I saw him fighting Frost Wyverns.”

“Exactly. You want someone who can solve an entire, uh…tribe’s problems? Saliss of Lights. Or—an Archmage. Get Archmage Eldavin to teleport everyone to safety, build them a city, and reinvent a lost magic over breakfast!”

Menolit was warming to his theme. He gave Erin a side-eye.

“Saliss is back in Pallass. Think you might call him up?”

Everyone turned to the [Innkeeper] expectantly, and Erin just sighed.

“…I don’t give friends orders. The Horns could do that too. They’re not gonna do guard-duty for a few months if I ask.”

“Okay—what about a certain Fraerling that I heard plays chess with you?”

“Who? How do you—”

Menolit rolled his eyes. Everyone and their sister knew the Titan’s students were visiting Erin’s inn. Had Erin not remembered that Venaz had presented the Titan’s gift well within view of the walls?

“There’s about a few thousand Centaurs running around the Great Plains. They’re bound to be good at guard-duty. So—”

Ask the Titan of Baleros for help. Normen knew civilians asked for big favors. On the streets, any favor you got was one you could repay, and you would repay it. It was mind-boggling to him to even suggest. You’d get laughed at if you went to another gang and asked for something like that—or you’d receive a shiv in the ribs.

Erin seemed to have the same opinion.

“I’m not doing that. There’s a difference between…asking for help and getting armies to march around. That’s not a favor, that’s a relationship.”

Menolit was getting exasperated. Normen could not know it, but the Drake was a regular of Erin’s inn, and he had known Erin almost as long as most of her customers.

“Well, that’s sort of how business works, Erin. Didn’t you organize the Watch to help fight the Raskghar?”

“Yep. And I got adventurers too. Because it was a common threat. Menolit, the difference is simple. It’s like—Chaldion. Let’s pretend this is Chaldion, not Niers. Everyone knows Chaldion, right? Yay tall, has a cane, one eye?”

Erin indicated the air, and everyone agreed that they personally knew Chaldion and played chess with him all the time as if that were a natural thing.

Crazy Human. The [Spies] were really listening here, and not just in a professional capacity. Erin laid out her Chaldion-themed view of people.

“Chaldion—he’s fun. Sometimes. He’s definitely smart, and you know, if he wants something done, it gets done. Armies? He can probably mobilize a lot of Pallass. The thing about Chaldion is that…you don’t want to give him everything.”

“Why not?”

Menolit sort of got her perspective, but he was craning his neck around, trying to understand. Erin threw up her hands.

“Because he’s Chaldion! You give him a Wand of [Sparks] and he’ll burn down someone’s house with it! He does…mean things in Pallass’ service. Even I get that. When I ask Chaldion for help—if I do—it’s always something he and I both want. Like less Raskghar eating people. But I don’t ask him for favors. And if he does something, it’s because he thinks he’ll get something out of it. He does everything like a chess game. Only moves that help him come out ahead. I would rather give…uh…Magnolia Reinhart a magical fortress’ coordinates than Chaldion. At least there’s an outside chance she’d use it for more than just Pallass’ benefit.”

My goodness me. Lormel mouthed the words as everyone listened to Erin’s spiel. Some of the spies of a certain Drake persuasion who were reporting to the Walled Cities were alternatively amused or nervous.

Especially because a certain [Strategist] was going to hear this. Erin was too annoyed to care. She poked her palm with one finger.

“I know this. Why do you think I don’t invite Chaldion over to play chess every other day, even though he’s the only expert within walking distance? I can’t even talk about my bisque without worrying he’ll turn all of Pallass into bisque-city.”

That one made no sense, but Menolit protested.

“Hey, I’m a Liscorian kid, but even I know the Grand Strategist’s saved the cities more times than I can count. What has he ever done to you, specifically?”

Erin gave Menolit a mildly outraged look.

“Nothing. He’s always nice and polite and helpful.”

“So…”

“So what? I don’t need to see him doing bad things to me. I can see the other things he does. The next time you see Chaldion? Any of you. Look in his eyes. Eye. After every Wyvern in the world attacked Pallass, he looked like he was coming to my inn for drinks. He doesn’t blink. I don’t trust him. I don’t want to be in debt to Chaldion, or the Titan, or even Altestiel or Ilvriss. But I also need…”

Erin rested her head on the counter.

“…more employees.”

Ah. Normen felt like this was the moment when a lot of observers captured the duality of Erin Solstice. The ability to read a Grand Strategist and the inability to hire someone to clean the dishes. Erin stared down at the counter and then around the Mage’s Guild. She looked at Mrsha, and the Gnoll girl had an exasperated look on her face. Erin blinked at Mrsha, and her face turned suddenly rueful.

“This is me, again. Isn’t it?”

Mrsha hesitated as she wrote a scathing critique. She peered up at the [Innkeeper] as Erin looked around, and it was familiar.

Her breathing was too fast, even if she was burning energy by standing. She felt…harried. A bit frantic. The walls were closing in—and Erin felt like she had a while back.

In Invrisil, to be precise, in a fancy restaurant as a bunch of [Actors] and everyone threw her a big party. Or at the Christmas party, trying to keep things together.

She was fighting off the panic attack, but it was coming upon her when she thought of the things she not only did not want to do—but felt she wasn’t qualified for. This was why she was an [Innkeeper]. She wanted to help that poor Yelroan fellow; she needed to find Nanette.

But not like this. Yet Erin knew that if she ran away, if she went back and invented some kind of Spell Soufflé—she would only be solving part of her problems. She could not go back to the way things were. Erin stared down at Mrsha, writing on a card as she stood on two legs instead of scampering about. Mrsha had even put on her kilt to go into the city.

She turned to Menolit, and the owner of Liscor Hunted peered at her. When had that even happened? Erin looked at Normen, and he stood where Crimshaw had been, where Wilovan and Ratici had been. Erin closed her eyes.

“Yeah.”

If she had time to herself, she felt like she could work this out. Unfortunately—her time was up. Erin had stayed at the Mage’s Guild too long.

She hadn’t realized it, but her being bound to a wheelchair was, in a way, safety. Because it meant she rolled along with an escort and could not move about as freely. The inn was a safe haven in the way only a nigh-impenetrable building with a powerful hidden garden and a Named Adventurer running guard duty could be.

In fact, despite her comments, Chaldion, Niers, and the other individuals Erin knew were part of the reason why people had not been tearing down her front door to meet General Sserys. But she was back, and the consequences were this.

“Innkeeper Solstice? Aha!”

A panting figure burst through the doors of the Mage’s Guild, and Normen whirled. Alcaz had his hand on a knife, but neither man drew their weapons—yet. Ser Lormel moved in front of Erin, but the team of five Humans came to a stop.

“Who…?”

Normen’s sense of danger spiked, although none of the figures were holding a blade. He recognized enchanted artifacts, and the leader had a wicked throwing axe to complement a battleaxe strapped to his back. He wore iron armor—simple, cheap—strong. Perhaps a tad cheap for his level, but his team had invested into their enchanted weapons, which each of them carried. He threw Erin a salute.

“Captain Derros of The Axe Brigade. I participated in the raid on the Village of the Dead. Gold-rank team. This is Gaineos, Berob, Camiw, and Zeb.”

He introduced the four other teammates. Erin vaguely recalled him from last night’s celebrations.

“Okay.”

“Ser, I regret to inform you Miss Solstice is on business. Please allow us our private space. Miss Erin—perhaps we should return to the inn? This Yelroan can speak via a [Mage].”

Lormel was glancing out the window, catching onto something, but Derros kept speaking as the [Knight] tried to physically screen him.

“Miss Erin! You’re the owner of The Wandering Inn, right? I have an opportunity for you.”

“What? What opportunity?”

Derros beamed.

“My team is just about to come into a lot of gold as part of our share on the raid. I am prepared to offer you a very handsome sum for a quest. Personalized to my team. Something, oh, that might reward us with a Skill or treasure? I believe you can do it—and I’m willing to recompense you for something suitable. Just the quest, not even completing it!”

Erin Solstice looked at Derros, and there was a stir from around the watchers. Her heart sank, and she saw the first natural conclusion of all of her actions thus far beaming at her.

“I don’t—I can’t just give you a quest. Captain Derros? I don’t know you.”

“Ah, but I know the Horns of Hammerad. And I’m willing to pay you for…whatever you might offer quest-wise. Not even a <Mythical Quest>! In fact, we’d like to start lower. We could trial one of the, uh—is it <Rare Quests>? And work our way up. I’d love to talk it over. Do you want to eat in one of Invrisil’s restaurants? Here? We could discuss it, all paid for by us, of course. What do you have in stock?”

Erin backed up, and the three men blocked the Gold-rank team. The [Innkeeper] looked exasperated.

“I can’t just give out the things I may or may not know. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Why not? Do you need a price on it? Uh—uh—forty thousand gold. For the right quest.”

Normen’s head spun despite himself. Erin Solstice blinked once, then her scowl deepened.

“No. I told you—I don’t know you. You need to be…”

She struggled for a word.

“…worthy.”

Captain Derros’s brows shot together. Now he began to look annoyed.

“See here, Miss. We’re a Gold-rank team. Do we need to prove our worthiness somehow?”

“No, I meant trustworthy! Ethically worthy! Not a bad person!”

“We do plenty of charitable cases. Ask anyone—The Axe Brigade is a long-established team which takes in criminal classes and reforms ‘em. We’ve got twenty trainees all ranked Silver and more in Bronze-rank. If you want our history—”

“No! Mrsha, come here. Let’s go back to the inn.”

Erin tried to back away—but the Gold-rank team was in the doorway. She was circling around them when a second team burst into the Guild.

Wait! Whatever Derros’s offering you, we can match it!

Another adventurer that Erin had never met before threw out her hand dramatically. She had…makeup? No, something closer to exaggerated face-paint, and her clothes were colorful and flashy.

The [Fools] of Fortune have arrived! To bid on a quest!”

Mrsha’s jaw dropped. Derros instantly swung a fist at the [Fool].

“You Silver-rank idiots. Get away from—oh shit.”

It was a cuffing blow meant to miss, but somehow the woman walked straight into the fist. It sent her sprawling to the ground, and three figures running after her tripped up on her and went sprawling to the ground.

My face! He’s broken my face!

The [Fool] screamed. Derros swore as he reached for a potion.

“That was an accident! Don’t call the Watch—”

He was offering the potion when the [Fool] sprang up.

Aha! Acting! I auditioned for the Players of Celum, Miss Solstice! Even a Gold-rank team can be laid low! Give us the chance the Players of Celum never did, I beg you!”

She swept a leg, and Derros landed on his back. The [Fool] put a foot on his chest and then fled backwards as The Axe Brigade turned on them.

Erin’s mouth was still open. Mrsha was applauding her new favorite team. Most of the Mage’s Guild was chuckling now, watching the chaos. Menolit was whispering to the [Mage] on duty.

“Five silver says your guild explodes somehow. Chair, window, entire thing. Give me six-to-one odds. It’s good money for you, but I’ve won…twice.”

Erin backed away from the [Fool], running from Derros and his team as they tried to get to Erin. It was funny for everyone—

Except Normen and Alcaz. Lormel too, but he didn’t recognize the Fools of Fortune.

Normen did. He recognized folks from the street when they walked in, and this Silver-rank team might not have enchanted blades on par with The Axe Brigade—but Normen was sweating.

Knife-fighters. They could gut you from chin to groin in a flash.

“The fucking Parade gang’s members. Back off.”

Alcaz hissed, his blade half out as he thrust a palm out. One of the [Fools] laughed.

“Oh—whoops. Brothers! Shh! Don’t alarm the civilians! We’re reformed! We quit!”

Parade was like the Assassin’s Guild—but a lot less covert. There was nothing quite as nasty as a bunch of [Fools] laughing and dancing down the street suddenly surrounding you and knifing you two dozen times before pretending you’d ‘fallen down’. They didn’t hold territory—gangs hired them to off each other.

Mrsha stopped looking excited and backed off as her sharp ears caught the whispers. The [Fools] and Gold-rank adventurers were still trying to get to Erin.

“Out the back doors. This way, Miss Solstice.”

Normen didn’t even see how Lormel found the back doors, but the [Knight] apparently knew where they were. He blocked off the hall as Erin backed out the door. Normen followed, embarrassed, as Alcaz helped stymie the teams.

Damn it. Once again, Normen was reminded that the Brothers didn’t do protection. He really was behind the Thronebearers.

“Thanks, Normen. I guess Lyonette was right. I need you guys around. Let’s go to the inn.”

The adventurers were now trying to get out of the building, but it sounded like they were busy fighting each other.

“Summon the Watch!”

…And that would slow them down more. Normen sighed as he and Erin hurried down a street. The [Innkeeper] could barely go above a fast walk—she looked tired.

“Don’t pull me, Mrsha! Even with the power of bisque, I can’t run! Darn. I wanted to ask Yelroan more questions. Maybe Typhenous for Riverfarm. Lormel’s actually sort of impressive. Too bad they’re on loan from Calanfer, eh?”

Mrsha gave Erin a grudging nod. Normen saw Lormel exit the guild and run after them. He panted to Normen as he caught up.

“Your friend, Alcaz, got tangled with the Gold-rank teams. He’s fine—”

Lormel winced at the loud voices and crashing behind him.

“—I think. It’s just a fistfight.”

Erin opened her mouth. But Normen blurted his question in frank disbelief.

“How did you get out, Ser Lormel?”

Alcaz was a knife-expert, and Lormel was…well, no offense, but without armor, Normen would bet his life savings on his friend every day of the week. Ser Lormel gave Normen a slightly embarrassed smile.

“I know when not to raise my fists, sir. A fellow in armor isn’t much of a target if he backs away.”

A completely different attitude towards the fight. Normen nodded and resolved to work out how to change their methods with Alcaz. They were just heading down main street when the third group caught them.

Horse shit eatin’ slimes on a corpse pile.

The Brother of Serendipitous Meeting lost his temper. Entirely unprofessional, but Mrsha’s look of awed respect almost made it worth it. Crimshaw would have cuffed him on the head—but even the older man would have probably said something similar.

Because four [Knights] were headed straight towards them. And one of them was pointing at Erin Solstice.

“There she is. Pray thee halt, company! We require an urgent conversation on the manners of knightly affairs!”

They were each wearing a different kind of armor. One looked—fast. He was on a horse and had green and cobalt armor. Normen vaguely recognized him as Izrilian.

A second had armor in black and purple—Ser Lormel tensed up. Another? Light purple and green. The last was completely different from the other two; he was helmetless, had what looked like a scale and bag of coin on his chest, and he seemed older than the others by far. He also had a bag of holding on prominent display.

The Order of the Clairei Fields of Izril, the fastest Izrilian [Knights]. A member of the Order of the Hydra, and another from the Thirsting Veil of Ailendamus. Lastly? One of the Order of Haegris, a Haggle Knight of Terandria.

A Thronebearer of Calanfer!

The Hydra Knight spotted Ser Lormel, and her imperious tone changed to hostility at once. Lormel cursed. He raised a speaking stone to his lips.

Dalimont, to me! We have a problem—[Knights]! Miss Solstice, behind me. Halt! This person is under Calanfer’s protection and a citizen of Liscor! This is not Terandria!”

He held up a hand, and the Hydra [Knight] drew a spiked mace.

It is always a fitting place to battle Ailendamus’ enemies! I challenge you, Ser Thronebearer!”

“Dame Thuile. This is not the time for a duel. We are on the affairs of our Orders. Stand down.”

The Haggle-Knight spoke sharply, and the woman hesitated. The other figure on foot wearing the black armor of the Thirsting Veil spoke sharply.

“As [Knight Captain], I order you to stand down, Dame Thuile. My rank supercedes yours abroad.”

“Yes, Ser Lotorghast.”

The [Knight] lowered her mace, and the four [Knights] approached.

“Miss Erin Solstice? We would like to speak to you urgently. I realize this is quite inopportune, but may we have a brief word?”

The Haggle-Knight smiled. Erin stared at his chestplate. Mrsha backed behind her as Normen put out an arm.

“Back up, sirs and madam. Miss Solstice is busy.”

His temper was already up. Normen’s fingers curled around his club’s hilt. The Hydra Knight recoiled from him.

“I espie a brigand of some sorts. My Skill detects it. Stand down, whomever you are.”

Ser Solton pinched at the bridge of his nose. But Normen just reached up with his other hand and tore off his hat.

I said, back up or you’ll find yourself staring at the sky. This is not a moment to test my patience.

His hat was upon the ground. The Clairei Knight knew what that meant and went for his sword. But the Hydra Knight just stared at Normen—then she went for her mace.

She was fast. They both came up with mace and club as fast. Normen swung.

[Brute’s Swing]. A blow like someone swinging a bat, straight for the face. The [Knight] shoved an arm up and knocked his swing wide. She slid in, as if she were skating across ice.

[Shoulder Ram’s Charge]. Normen ate it as he tried to move back, stumbling. He stepped in with a roar.

[Flash Blow]! His club smacked the knight across the head, and she stumbled. The faintest of dents—

Then her mace swung into his side, blindingly fast. Normen felt a blinding surge of pain.

“—[Willow’s Counter].”

He was down and trying to get up when she pointed at him.

“[The Defeated Lie Still].”

She was…over Level 30. Even without the armor, there was a cut to her moves from the way she’d shoulder-charged into him like that to start the fight.

He’d never seen a [Knight] do that, nor use a counter-Skill. He didn’t think they had that. Even the Clairei Knight looked astonished.

Dame Thuile. Enough.”

The Thirsting Veil Knight looked upset at his impetuous comrade’s actions. He turned—and Ser Lormel was hurrying Erin down the street.

Halt!

Thuile charged after Lormel, clearly hoping he’d turn and fight. The Thronebearer whirled around. He raised his shield—and then began slamming the hilt of his sword into it.

Help! Rogue [Knights] on the streets! Summon the Watch!

“Oh dead gods.”

Ser Solton moaned. Ser Lormel backed up, still shouting, as the [Knights] halted. Normen, lying still, unable to move, saw Dame Thuile hesitate. Lormel backed up, the perfect choice to block the [Knights] while he got his ward to safety and the Watch stopped them.

Unfortunately, he made one mistake. He’d stopped dragging Erin away. The [Knights] were trying to call out this was all a mistake when Dame Thuile swore.

Ser Lotorghast!

She flipped her mace up and deflected the spinning frying pan. It clattered to the ground, and Ser Solton stared at it.

“Is that a frying pan?”

My arm!

Erin Solstice screamed as she grabbed at it. Then she pulled a glowing green jar out of her bag of holding.

“Let go of Normen or I’ll melt your faces.”

Normen really, really hoped she didn’t throw that. The [Knights] froze.

“Did anyone else’s [Dangersense] just go off? I think we’re getting off to the wrong start.”

The Clairei Knight spoke nervously. Dame Thuile raised her shield—right as a squad of [Guards] came skidding around the corner. She whirled as a Drake came barreling at her.

Relc kiiiiiiick—oh shit.”

He broke off the kick, dodged back as she whirled the mace at him. The Thirsting Veil Knight looked at Relc, the Watch, and then did two things. He kicked Dame Thuile in the back of the knees so she went over and raised his hands.

Enough! This is a mistake. We yield. Let us talk civilly, and if you say one more word, Dame Thuile, I will have you shipped back to Ailendamus in a rowboat.”

His voice was authoritative enough to stop everyone for a second. The [Guards] halted, and even Relc lowered his spear as Normen felt Thuile’s Skill on him break. Dame Thuile froze, and the [Knight Captain] removed his helmet as Erin approached, still waving the jar of acid.

“I apologize to the Watch of this city, as well as the Thronebearer of Calanfer and you, Miss Solstice. And to your…protector.”

He eyed Normen as the Brother scrambled up. Normen looked at the other [Knight] and, head lowered, fell back behind Erin.

“Who are you and why are you after me?”

Erin demanded hotly as the adventurers who had been after her caught up, saw the Watch, and decided to make a tactical retreat. It was Ser Solton who replied.

“We are the [Knights] who were—formerly—part of the Chandrarian crusade against Khelt, Miss Solstice. We were also present at the Meeting of Tribes and have ridden north at best speed to make it to Liscor. Some of us are heading home. Others—”

He nodded to the Knight of the Clairei Fields.

“—Have joined us on this mission of diplomacy.

He glared at Dame Thuile.

“The Order of the Hydra does not act for all of us. Our young associate is impetuous, and we will pay any fines necessary.”

“Ooh. Good. Fines. Hey, someone tell Watch Captain Z to levy a bunch of fines!”

Relc rubbed his claws. Ser Solton turned to Erin.

“Miss Solstice. Would you please lower that…weapon? We have, in fact, only come here to approach you about a certain matter of [Knights] that we thought you could answer.”

“Me? Knights? Normen, are you alright?”

“Nothing’s broken. A day’s rest will do me good, Miss Erin. Sorry to let you down.”

The Brother muttered. Erin glanced at him and glowered, but Ser Solton offered a healing potion and his bag of holding.

“We will repay any injuries, Miss Solstice. Ailendamus and Calanfer are at war. Dame Thuile was acting as most [Knights] do. On Terandria.”

He sighed.

“…I am just going to say this before we’re arrested or cause more trouble. Innkeeper Erin Solstice. Do you know or are you a member or associate of the ‘Order of the Solstice’, of whose members include the renowned Ser Solstice, the Goblin Slayer of Izril and Lightherald’s replacement in the Dawn Concordat’s war with Ailendamus? We would dearly like to meet a new Knight-Order and inquire into some of their codes of conduct regarding chivalry in battle and their inception as an Order.”

And then it came full circle. Ceria Springwalker skidded to a halt with the other three Thronebearers, Lyonette, and a very wrathful Numbtongue. She stared at the four [Knights] and recognized Dame Thuile from the boat.

Dame Thuile, of the Order of the Hydra, who had had contact with the famous Ser Solstice of Izril and heard tales of the Order of Solstice.

Ailendamus’ spy networks weren’t incompetent. You heard Solstice, checked on the few people who had that as a name, and found an [Innkeeper] who was also connected to the Walled Cities and a lot of strange events. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been such a big deal except for Rabbiteater hobgoblining around with [Princesses] and defeating the Dame of the Hills.

And perhaps it wouldn’t have gotten to this part but for a half-Elf assuring Dame Thuile the Order of the Solstice existed. Yvlon grabbed Ceria’s pointed ear.

Do you see what you’ve done? Your words have consequences!

Ceria eyed Erin Solstice, whose mouth was wide open in confusion. She grinned without a hint of regret.

“Yeah, but not for me. Dibs on the closest viewing seat. This is going to be great.

 

——

 

Fifteen minutes later, Erin sat in the inn with a bunch of advisors.

Lyonette du Marquin and Numbtongue, to be exact. Normen watched them as he hovered near their table, feeling about as useful as a bug.

The four [Knights] were all waiting, talking, as Ser Solton investigated the weights room and Dame Thuile received a loud dressing-down from her comrade in the Thirsting Veil. The Clairei Knight just kept staring at Numbtongue, but Erin was cloaked in privacy spells. Mostly because her advisors needed to hammer a few things into her head.

“No matter what, you cannot say that Rabbiteater is a Goblin, Erin. You will get him killed. It will be a scandal for the Order of Seasons, Calanfer, and us. Just tell them enough to get them to leave. Say…you know Rabbiteater—but say Ser Solstice!—and that you have no idea about an order.”

“Don’t say Goblin.”

Numbtongue nodded and poked Erin from the other side. She swatted at him.

“I’m not an idiot, you two! But why the Order of Solstice?”

“I don’t know. Yvlon says it’s Ceria’s fault, and if so, I’ll have it out with her. But just lie to them.”

“They can tell I’m lying, though. I bet they have truth spells.”

Lyonette rolled her eyes.

“So? Then they know you’re lying about something. Tell them nothing. Say nothing about Rabbiteater being a Goblin and they just know you’re lying.”

“Don’t say he’s not a Goblin either or they’ll know that’s a lie. Don’t be stupid.”

Argh! Enough! I’ve got this!

Erin threw up her hands. She chased the other two away and then sat there, glowering at the [Knights]. She didn’t leave the privacy field. Instead, she glanced around.

“Normen, you sure you’re okay?”

“Just my pride, Miss Solstice. I’m glad Ser Lormel was there. Now there’s a fellow who can do his damn job.”

The Brother sat at the table. Erin looked at him, then glared at Dame Thuile. The Hydra Knight had removed her helmet. Her hair was deep brown, and her skin was darker still—but crossed by a number of scars on her face. They looked like big talon wounds. Or—someone with claws?

Erin stuck out her tongue, and Thuile looked astonished at the levels of childishness. But then—she hadn’t seen Mrsha pouring pepper spice into the drink she was about to be served. Ishkr didn’t even stop Mrsha.

“All I’ve gotta do is lie to cover for Rabbiteater. Simple. This day sucks. It’s way too…busy. And I feel like I’m getting nothing done. I’m sorry you got hurt, Normen.”

“It’s my job, Miss Erin.”

She glanced at him sideways as she rested her chin in her hands.

“You can call me Erin, you know.”

Dame Thuile had finished being dressed down, and the other [Knights] were waiting for Erin. Her annoyed colleague in the Thirsting Veil was relaxing—just in time for Thuile to take a gulp of ale and spray it all over his armor.

That made Erin smile. Normen too. Alcaz was nursing a cut lip with a drink of his own, and he had earned it. Normen…

“I think I’d best leave the guarding to the [Knights], Miss Erin. I’m no good here. You can count on me to throw a few drunks out, but I’m no Crimshaw.”

Erin looked up slowly.

“Crimshaw. I know him, don’t I? He…what happened to him? I don’t remember—”

The guilt in her eyes was almost a good thing. Normen shook his head, smiling despite himself.

“You couldn’t remember. He—was caught up when a bunch of idiots attacked the inn. After you got shot.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Was he your friend?”

“Sort of. More like—a mentor. That’s how you get into the Brothers. Someone guarantees you’re the right sort, and you live up to that. Any big mistakes are on them, and they show you how things’re done. Crimshaw was mine. It’s why I wanted to stay. And a fat lot of good I’ve done.”

Normen stared at his hands. Erin patted him on the shoulder.

“It’s not your fault. Look at those [Knights]. They’ve got armor, and Lyonette thinks they’re all important ones since they went on the crusade against Fetohep. Which was a bad idea, because he has, like—super-spells he could blast you with.”

It was all true, but the Brother didn’t feel better.

“It’s kind of you to say, Miss Erin. I just wish I could be more’ve a help. Maybe I’ll do some work waiting tables.”

“No. You’re great. You can guard the inn and…”

Normen shook his head.

“I can’t make sure you’re safe, Miss Erin. I just can’t. You know it, I know it. I can’t even go through civilized roads and find whomever you’re looking for in Riverfarm.”

“Nanette? No, I get it…you’d want an escort.”

Normen smiled bleakly.

“If I was Wilovan or even Crimshaw, I’d do it. In a heartbeat. An adventure like that, a small one for a good thing? I just don’t want to—see what happens if I fail. I’d go down to help them Gnolls too, but four baby Crelers’d do me in. I’m afraid I’m not the good sort, Miss Erin. That lot is. I know you don’t want to impose, but they’re the real ones.”

He nodded at Ceria, being scolded by Yvlon. Ksmvr was tugging on her other ear gently, and Pisces was staring daggers at the two [Knights] from Ailendamus. Erin looked at Normen, and her sympathy turned to…

Anger? No, outrage. She grabbed his arm as he turned.

“Don’t say that. You went into a war after Mrsha for me, and you didn’t have to do that. You—Rasktooth, Infinitypear? Even Ulvama? You’re all heroes. All she’s got is a set of armor.”

She jabbed a finger at Thuile, who watched Erin warily. Erin stomped over to the edge of the ward spells.

All you’ve got is some fancy, stupid armor! Yeah, you heard me!”

She waved her hands and sat back. Normen coughed.

“…She’s also better than me without armor, Miss Erin.”

“Oh. Well—she’s got fancy training! If you had those things, you’d, uh, be at least as good as she is! Twice as good!”

Normen considered this might actually be true. But so what? Erin just stared at the [Knights.]

“Rabbiteater’s the Goblin Slayer of Izril. Ser Solstice…the Order of the Solstice. That’s—nice.”

She rested a chin on her hand, looking thoughtful.

“Nevermind that he’s in trouble. Look at him. My [Champion]. And they don’t even know he’s a Goblin. I wonder if he wants to come back to Izril? I want to help him—if he needs help. Nah, I just want to hug him.”

She looked proud. Proud and thoughtful. Erin glanced at Normen. Then she stared ahead thoughtfully.

“…I’ve been a bit embarrassing today, Normen.”

“It’s all company at the bar today, Miss Solstice. I haven’t done well myself.”

Normen saw Erin’s lips quirk, but then she shook her head.

“I hate doing things like this. Really—I do. It’s so—uncertain. D’you know why I like chess? Chess has a lot of variables, and you have to think ahead. But no one dies if I mess up a chess game. It’s all just pride and scores. That’s okay. This?”

She looked morosely at him.

“…If I’d have known the Horns would go into the Village of the Dead for me, I’d—I wouldn’t have lived with myself if they died. I don’t want to get you killed or ask someone to die for me. Even if it’s people I don’t know via Niers.”

Normen looked around. He spotted a Drake sitting at a table with one gemstone eye flashing. Chaldion might have been trying to read their lips, but Palt had been running interference, and the Drake looked annoyed.

Possibly hurt by Erin’s comments this evening. The [Innkeeper] sighed, and Normen tipped his hat.

“It’s a decision we can all make. Myself, Alcaz—we’re ready for the call. Not eager, but if it’s the right reason, it’s why Crimshaw stayed. He could have run. He knew how to get out of any scrape, but he didn’t. Sometimes, Miss Erin. Things are worth putting down your hat for.”

Erin’s eyes shimmered as she met Normen’s gaze. She wiped her eyes.

“You—and that’s what they told me. They told me, when I didn’t want to do this. Yep. Even if I don’t want it—you’ll all do it yourselves. I’ve got crazy adventurers, and I’m going to get into trouble.”

“Who said what?”

The [Innkeeper] found a handkerchief and blew her nose.

“Oh—ghosts. Alright. I guess—I’ve got to do this.”

She stood up and glanced at Normen. He shifted uneasily, because Erin’s eyes looked straight at him.

She didn’t see a man in a hat. Nor a Brother. He had the feeling she was looking straight at him and seeing something even he couldn’t in a mirror. It was unnerving and intoxicating. Why he wanted to be here.

Because she saw something more than a criminal on the streets. The Gentlemen Callers, the Brothers…Erin whispered.

“Normen. I have an idea. Stick by me, would you? You don’t have to agree, but hear me out?”

His hat was on the table. Normen put it on and adjusted it.

“Always. What am I doing?”

Erin Solstice looked around, and her eyes alit on someone as the [Knights] waited for her. She pointed, and the figure rose uncertainly.

“First? Get me Ser Lormel.”

 

——

 

It was safe to say this was probably being broadcast, recorded, or watched in some way. The inn had guests, from Menolit to newcomers, and the [Knights] would report home. Even if Wistram News Network were not in this room—this would be news.

Moreover, it was also safe to assume that the inquiry from the four [Knights] was hostile to Rabbiteater in some way. Ser Solton and the Clairei Fields representative were more neutral parties, but two from Ailendamus?

If the Order of Solstice did not, in fact, exist, or if it were scandalous, it could reflect poorly on the Goblin Slayer abroad. At the very least, it was knightly-politics.

Knight-Captain Lotorghast didn’t even pretend, to his credit.

“A new Order of [Knights] is no light thing, Miss Solstice, hence our concern. Even new orders, like the Knights of the Petal in service to House Walchaís, required substantial representation, as well as the credentials of the esteemed [Chevalier]. One cannot claim representation in an unofficial order.”

“But Ser Solstice is a [Knight]. I don’t see the problem.”

Erin pointed out reasonably. Lotorghast nodded.

“That is not under question. A [Knight] is a [Knight], even if some Orders would take issue with such a simplistic analysis…we are not so fastidious. We would simply like to know if the Order of Solstice exists.”

“And meet with their membership. Peaceably. Again—this is all a huge misunderstanding.”

Ser Solton added. Erin sort of liked him. Not only was he intelligent enough to try bribing Mrsha with some of his loaded baked potato, he had checked his drink after Dame Thuile’s mishap.

Erin frowned as Ser Lormel stood there, backing her up as a member of the Thronebearers. Lyonette watched anxiously.

Please don’t say anything stupid. Please don’t say anything—

“The Order of Solstice? It totally exists. Ser Solstice, um—takes his name from the order! Anonymity and stuff. I’m not affiliated with the order per se, but I guess they liked my name? I’m like—a friend of the order. Which exists.”

All four [Knights] exchanged a look. They all had truth spells of some kind, as a [Knight] might well encounter trouble on their affairs abroad if they could not take people at their word. The problem was—

Erin’s statements weren’t entirely false. Not one thing she’d said was false—even that last part.

“The Order of Solstice does exist? Impossible. I have a fifteen gold bet that half-Elf made it up!”

Ser Solton jerked a thumb at Ceria. He really wasn’t a fool. But the [Innkeeper] folded her arms.

“No, it totally exists. Maybe it wasn’t, uh, properly recognized, but I’m recognizing it now. Bam. Order of Solstice, [Knights] of Izril. Sworn to protect the innocent and kick people they don’t like.”

Lyonette looked at Erin in horror. That wasn’t what Erin was supposed to say! Knight-Captain Lotorghast forestalled Thuile’s outburst, and the Clairei Knight spoke.

He was actually white-haired with age, he was so old, but he was fairly polite.

“Miss Solstice. You cannot simply instate a Knight-Order. I have no…prejudices against a [Knight] who appears naturally by his conduct. It’s simply a matter of falsely claiming membership, which is in and of itself no great crime. There are brilliant [Knights] who gain their class without any membership such as Ylawes Byres, whom I believe you know?”

“Brilliant. Ylawes. I get what you’re saying, but I’m telling you—the Order of Solstice exists! I’m making it exist!”

Erin waved her hands. The [Knights] tried to smile at the silly [Innkeeper]. A few covert scrying mirrors zoomed in on Erin for their viewers.

“Miss Solstice. You would have to have proper representation, the authority to claim all this. There are rules. A Knight-Order is more than a name. For instance, one cannot be a [Grandmaster Knight] without being part of an order. To start a chapter, why, you’d need at least a few [Knights] as members. Not one.”

Erin Solstice’s eyes glinted. Normen was watching everything, and he saw the silly look in Erin’s hazel gaze vanish suddenly. The other [Knights] didn’t notice, save for Ser Solton, who looked up sharply and then around.

“Oh, but the Order of Solstice does have multiple [Knight] members. It has three, and three’s all you need.”

Ridiculous. Ser Lotorghast, this [Innkeeper] is clearly bluffing.”

The younger [Knight] shot to her feet, but the Thirsting Veil Knight held up a hand.

“Then why is my truth spell only flickering, Dame Thuile? I agree, this is all very unusual. Miss Erin Solstice, I am no…Thronebearer of Calanfer. I do not know knightly customs, but even I am aware that a Knight-Order requires at least a hundred [Knights] of pre-existing class to be convened. Moreover, even if you try to create a Knight Order, Ser Solstice still lied, albeit in a minor way, when he claimed to be part of a Knight-Order.”

Erin Solstice’s smile was bland. As bland as Crimshaw who bought a drink for a fellow a few minutes before he shoved the glass pieces up the other fellow’s nose. The [Knights] saw her look around, and then the air changed.

“That’s what you think, is it, Ser Lotorghast? My, my. I guess you guys really aren’t old enough to remember the rules.”

Her eyes flickered, and they were suddenly—uncannily—sharp. Precise, as if she was zeroed-in on a target. As if she knew…

Everything.

The [Knights] hesitated. Erin Solstice looked up at the ceiling and then spoke, reciting something from memory.

“Regarding the issue of Ser Solstice representing himself as part of a Knight-Order—he did not lie. He was a [Knight] because he was a [Knight]. And he got to claim being ‘Ser Solstice’ and call his Order that because he was declaring his Intention of Familiarity to form a Knightly Order.”

“How do you know about the—”

The Clairei Knight started. Lyonette’s jaw dropped along with half of the inn’s, but Erin held up a hand.

“All of this is correct and fair under the codes of chivalrous statements.”

The four [Knights] had not come prepared for a showdown in knightly-culture. They turned to Ser Solton, and the Haggle-Knight hesitated, searching his own memory.

“True…but that would require at least one other [Knight] having expressed interest in the same causes. Intention of Familiarity implies multiple [Knights], at least two, wishing to create an Order.”

Erin raised one finger.

“There was another.”

“Oh, come now. Who? Ylawes Byres was never—”

The Clairei Knight fell silent. Lyonette looked up suddenly. There was only one person she could think of. And Erin—

She wouldn’t forget. Mrsha stopped trying to glue Thuile’s feet to the floor with a paste Octavia had given her. She looked up, and her eyes shone. Erin spoke slowly.

“Brunkr Silverfang was knighted at this very inn. He was the first Silverfang [Knight] in living memory. He wished to join a Knight-Order and was denied by the ones he applied to in the north. He is, posthumously, the first [Knight] of Solstice.”

Every Gnoll in the inn turned to Erin. She looked around, and a few figures tried to hide the scrying orb.

Terandrian Events, a live broadcast on their channel, saw the [Innkeeper] staring straight at them.

“Be sure to write this down. I, Erin Solstice, am formally declaring the Intent Valoris to form a Knight Order. It was already declared by two [Knights], and it will be formally recognized when enough members have declared their intention to be recognized as part of the order.”

“Two out of a hundred?”

Dame Thuile spluttered. Erin shot back.

“No. Two out of five. Only five members are needed.”

Ridiculous! A hundred is—”

Terandrian law. I am declaring the Order of Solstice a crusade-chapter. Based in Chandrar, but we’ll move it to Izril. One of its members is already on Terandria, and the others will not stay at a headquarters.”

Dame Thuile just looked at Erin. She didn’t even know what that meant, and even Ser Solton was confused. Then Ser Sest gasped.

Eternal Throne! That’s what she means! She’s invoking the Order via crusade law!”

“Crusade law…?”

The Clairei Knight looked bewildered, but Ser Lormel, one of the experts in all things not related to combat, explained to a fascinated audience.

“Ser Lotorghast is correct and incorrect that a Knight Order requires a hundred members to form in Terandria. That bar was actually raised after the Order of the Hydra was formed. But the authority of [Knights] in Terandria, is, well, Terandrian. The number is less in Izril, hence the Knights of the Petal containing far fewer members when they were incepted.”

Ser Sest nodded, taking up the explanation with visible excitement.

“Meaning that unlike Terandria, where the bar was raised to two hundred independent [Knight-Errants] or [Knights] of other orders, or Izril or Baleros or Rhir, where different dispensation was needed, Chandrar maintained that only enough [Knights] in good standing needed to pledge to form an Order as there were Shield Kingdoms. Symbolically, that was still dozens in antiquity. Now?”

Ser Solton spoke slowly.

“Four. Plus one leadership role.”

Erin’s eyes glittered as all the other [Knights] turned to her. Thuile was protesting.

“You cannot invoke a Chandrarian chapter of [Knights]! You are on Izril.”

“So? A [Knight] Order can be convened anywhere with enough authority.”

You are not affiliated with Chandrar! I happen to know a crusade is more than a word. I was just part of one!”

Thuile hammered a fist on the table, flushing with outrage. Erin Solstice put her hands on the table.

“Oh yeah? Well, I was friends with a number of [Knights] of Chandrar. Virtue Familaris allows me to invoke the crusade.”

“That’s ridiculous! You can’t call a crusade! That’s not…”

Erin’s eyes stilled Thuile’s tongue in her mouth.

“Not on Terandria. Not now. In the old days, when [Paladins] were an arm of [Knights], it was fair. The Crusaders of the Dawn Patrol were founded by a dozen [Knights] determined to fight against fangs in the darkness. They became so famous they fought across Rhir and every continent in existence. My friends are [Knights] of Chandrar. They are dead—but don’t you dare deny they were [Knights].”

The truth spells shone bright and clear with honesty as Erin jabbed a finger at Thuile, who leaned back each time.

“Who are they?”

Erin turned and fixed Lotorghast with a stare.

“You don’t get to know their names. Not right now. You came here demanding to call Ser Solstice a fake. Well, he has all the requirements to declare he’s part of an Order, and once three more [Knights] join, it will be real.”

“You have no headquarters, no armory, no squires nor livery nor anything else. An Order in name is but an idea, Miss Solstice.”

Ser Solton spoke kindly, but thoughtfully. Erin gestured around the inn.

“This is all the base they’ll need. Drinks are free for members of the Order of Solstice. As for an armory—they can buy armor. Weapons. Actually—Mrsha, didn’t you say you knew someone who made that Demas Metal stuff? Let’s get a suit of armor and ship it all the way to Terandria!”

Mrsha hesitated. Could she get Mrell to…? Yeah, she nodded thoughtfully.

She could probably do that. And it’d be one of the few actually useful things that he did. The [Knights] were hesitating, but now Erin was aglow.

Literally. She clenched her fists as pink fire burned on her palms. Glory. She was lying…but with the truth.

Bird realized how deep his class was as he beheld a master at work. A real, true genius did not lie, but made lies a reality.

“…It seems that the Order of Solstice is more legitimate than we thought. If still unrealized. We withdraw our complaint, Miss Solstice. Although I would still like to note that the Order of Solstice’s current, single member is somewhat dishonorable in how he conducts warfare.”

Ser Lotorghast spoke up at last. Thuile was astounded, but Erin just folded her arms.

“But he wins. Oh. And one more thing—I’m not doing this just to be cute.”

She pointed at her own scowling face. Ser Solton’s brows were in his receding hairline.

“Perish the thought. Are you planning on recruiting more [Knights]? This Ser Ylawes, perhaps?”

Yvlon choked on her drink at the idea of Rabbiteater and Ylawes being fellow [Knights]. Erin pursed her lips.

“If he wants to apply, we’ll consider it. But no. These [Knights] will do what they want. But some of them…some of them have causes here and abroad they’ll fight for. Tell me—what do you call someone who works for little to no pay, risks their life for something important, and is an expert, enough to make a difference wherever they go?”

She looked around the inn, and Mrsha was reminded of their conversation in the Mage’s Guild. A few guests called out. Relc raised a claw.

“A smart [Mercenary]? Oh wait, they don’t exist.”

Captain Todi.

“Gold-rank adventurers?”

Menolit raised his claw.

“Stupid Humans?”

He got a laugh. Erin Solstice raised her brows. She turned back to the four figures sitting across from her, and Ser Solton saluted her.

“[Knights], madam Solstice. [Knights].”

Then, a figure sitting almost forgotten behind the commotion and excitement felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Those shining eyes turned across the room, and a plain man in a cap, a ruffian of little-good repute turned from glancing out the window for threats as Erin Solstice looked his way.

“Yes. [Knights]. If anyone wants to join, I’m willing to accept them. Knight Orders didn’t always just take [Knights], you know. They took [Crusaders] and [Paladins], [Chevaliers] and more. Even [Mages]. But a [Knight]…is an honorable person. A good man. It’s a class upgrade for most. And I’ll make sure anyone who joins gets a suit of armor.”

She looked at Normen, and Dame Thuile stood.

“That is a brigand. A criminal. I know this. This entire event is riddled with unvalorous statement and intent!”

Erin Solstice turned to the Hydra Knight. She smiled at Dame Thuile.

“You are speaking to one of my employees. Normen was part of one of the most famously honorable organizations in all of Izril. Isn’t that right, Mister Knight?”

The Clairei Knight looked like he was about to swallow his tongue.

“To—some sensibilities—that statement is broadly correct. You cannot be seriously saying you are going to knight someone…?”

Erin Solstice pushed herself up. She turned to Normen, and the Brother froze in his seat. He stared at her as Erin smiled his way.

“That depends on what he wants to be.”

 

——

 

“Sorry for springing it on you. You can say no, if you want. You can also quit being a [Knight]. It’s not forever.”

Ser Sest looked like he was about to faint at Erin’s words. Normen? But for Alcaz patting him on the shoulder, he thought he might swoon over, and since Mrsha was standing next to him, he doubted he’d be caught.

“Erin, this is insane! How did you know all that? Did you learn it when you were dead?”

Drassi had come barreling through the door upon hearing the story. Ceria, Yvlon—everyone was gathered around Erin as the [Knights] watched and Thuile had a breakdown in public. Erin glanced at Lyonette with that knowing look…then an impish smile crossed her face. She flapped one hand dismissively.

“Nope! I asked Ser Lormel if there were weird [Knight]-laws and traditions. Old stuff has all kinds of stupid rules. You should read up on them some time. I used to do it all night long when I was bored.”

What?

The [Innkeeper] grinned mischievously.

“I was pretty sure I could fulfill a lot of the requirements, but it was all Lormel’s knowledge.”

The Thronebearer executed a smooth bow, a pleased smile on his face.

“Never face a Thronebearer anywhere but the field, I believe it’s said. A privilege to serve.”

Lyonette looked like she was ready to kill Lormel, but Erin turned to her.

“Lyonette, can you make Normen a [Knight]? If he wants to?”

“Me?”

The [Princess] froze, and Normen’s heart leapt in his chest. He looked at Erin and then at Alcaz. His friend was giving him a wide-eyed look.

A [Knight]. Him? The Brothers often politely ribbed the few in Izril, or mugged them, but…Normen imagined himself riding around in a suit of armor. Would he speak in thees and thous?

Or—he looked at Erin, and she spoke.

“It wouldn’t be like a normal [Knight]. You need training. And armor. Demas Metal or at least steel. Pelt can forge a set. A lot of the time might just be here. But if I need something, if I think you can help…it’d be like resting at the inn and then going on adventures. Do you think you’d enjoy that life, Normen?”

Slowly, he took his hat from his head and stared at it. Normen looked at Erin, then at Alcaz. He wondered where Pivr was. He had resigned himself to perhaps seeing the strange Flying Antinium seldom. But he had wanted to see those Hives.

He wanted to go to the new lands of Izril. A Brother couldn’t hope to survive those journeys. Not even Wilovan.

But in a suit of armor…Normen whispered.

“I don’t know as I’d mind, Miss Solstice. If I could gain the class.”

“You can. Lyonette…?”

The [Princess] tried to hide her expression, but everyone saw the reservations on her face. She didn’t have to respond—Dame Ushar cut in swiftly.

“Lyonette cannot knight anyone, Miss Solstice.”

“But Brunkr—”

The female Thronebearer spoke carefully.

If Lyonette acted in…anonymity, that is one thing. Right now, she is a noted and recognized individual, even if her exact class is not on display. Anyone would be considered a Thronebearer of Calanfer. And as she has not the permission of the throne…”

She looked at Normen, and he bowed his head. He would doubt his candidacy too.

Erin Solstice’s eyes narrowed slowly. She stared Ushar down, and the Thronebearer refused to give way. The [Innkeeper] took a breath and spoke.

“Fine. In that case—I’ll do it myself. Normen. Do you want to be a [Knight]?”

She turned, and the Brother stood, looking down at her, because yes, she was shorter. But he felt like he was looking up at someone staring at him with two burning flames behind her eyes.

Like a ruler of Khelt, perhaps. Or just a strange [Magical Innkeeper]. Slowly, he closed his eyes, then opened them and nodded.

“If—”

His voice caught. With his helplessness. With desire, with a boy’s dream of being more than a piece of filth on the street who had to steal. With the crooked honor of a Brother who lied to himself that he wasn’t the worst in the world, that he might sleep.

“—If you think I could truly be one.”

For answer, Erin Solstice turned and found Bird, standing there among the crowd. She walked over and patted Bird’s shoulder.

“I knew a Knight. Long before Ylawes. He didn’t have the class, but I thought—he could have been one. He was an Antinium. Who you are doesn’t matter. If you are a [Knight], you are a [Knight]. Rabbiteater is a [Knight]. Normen. You can gain the class. Do you want to?”

Every Brother of Serendipitous Meetings in the world would later listen to those words, or the meaning. They would look up and think, even Wilovan and Ratici. For Normen Callesn slowly put his hat on his head and nodded to Erin as he tugged it straight.

“It would be an honor.”

 

——

 

So she took him out of the common room of the inn, but not out of the inn itself. Erin Solstice walked up, slowly, through a garden, taking her time because she was still weak.

But she walked…up a hill with glowing Sage’s Grass and yellow, brilliant and terrible flowers. Past a napping bee who crawled out to see what the fuss was about.

Up a hill, into the mist and statues. Normen had only been there once before, to her grave. He had felt—he didn’t have the right.

Someone was waiting for him there. More than just one person, but it was Crimshaw that Normen saw first. He stood idly, slouched to one side, as if he had been waiting for a while. But almost like he knew why he was here.

Those stone eyes found Normen as Erin Solstice accepted a sword that gleamed like red crystal from a Hobgoblin. She held it awkwardly and put the tip in the grass as she spoke, leaning on it slightly for support.

Four [Knights] watched from below, in disbelief, confusion, acceptance, and awe, as she spoke. The Thronebearers lined the edge of the hill as more guests watched from below. Erin’s voice carried to them in the breeze.

They gathered, faces turned up, like a memory. Moore looked up and remembered a frozen bier. The rage and despair that had haunted him—and now filled his veins like poison?

“Calm down.”

Seborn took Moore’s arm gently, and the half-Giant started. He unclenched his fists. He saw Mrsha turn and wave down at him, and he found a smile as he lifted his hand. Ulinde took Moore’s other hand, and though she wore a corpse’s body, the Selphid’s grip was reassuring to the half-Giant.

A loud sniff made the Halfseekers look over. Jelaqua was already crying again. This time, she was joined by Drassi, who was trying to speak to a camera-Gnoll.

“Jelaqua, stop crying. T-this is Drassi, reporting to you live…”

She was allowed to be here. The people at the doorway were pressed up, demanding to be let in, pleading. Klbkch came to a stop with Relc and looked up. Grand Strategist Chaldion glanced at him, and the Slayer regarded one of the leaders of the Drakes.

They both turned and looked up, higher, as the sunlight from an autumn sky filtered down through the dome’s center. Yet both Chaldion and Klbkch stayed where they were. Relc walked higher, and he found his boots crushing the soft grass. So he paused for a second and took them off.

The statues on the hill waited for him, like everyone. The most frightening and beautiful things of the garden. They stood for each person who knew them. Bird came to a halt and put a little flower behind the antennae of one of the Antinium. Then he pointed.

“See? Someone else wants your name, Knight. It was a good one.”

This was the place for such a moment. The air was still, but it hummed with expectation. Regrets…Erin looked at the statues, and she knew all of them.

Numbtongue stood next to Shorthilt and Headscratcher. Watching. If only there had been six Hobs. Six hundred.

A lifetime of regrets. A memorial. Erin stared at Numbtongue, and he nodded. For this moment might mean one less statue. They could only dream.

The voices, the people talking, all were a kind of background to the heart of a storm. A hurricane of gazes and desire and expectation, swirling around a calm void where the man knelt in the grass. Normen felt as though each second took an eternity and passed in a flash as he and Erin looked at each other.

An [Immortal Moment]. Enough so that the odd apron, her weak muscles, the entourage of a grinning Hob, a silly Gnoll girl with a bee on her head, and all the others felt grander.

Erin was burning. It was in the pupils of her eyes. Pink flame in one, and something else in the other.

Glory…and a second fire, slowly breathing itself into existence. Light green, like the open fields of the Great Plains. The endless horizon. But something else as well.

A Goblin’s smile. A figure in armor. The flash of green, holding a shield.

Flame like a Goblin’s honor. Burning bright. The [Innkeeper] spoke softly.

“Normen Callesn. I am no [Princess]. Nor am I royalty in any class.”

Lyonette started guiltily, but Erin went on without looking around.

“We don’t need such titles. Nor do [Knights] need a throne. They are traditionally associated with such things right now, but the old ways knew times when all that there was were memories. Shattered thrones. Dark skies and no kingdoms. A [Knight] is an idea. It is honor and duty and valor. It is a calling and a responsibility. In the ways of the oldest [Knights], I ask if you are willing to be a guardian of those in need. A protector of the small.”

Her smile was slight as she uttered a kind of heresy for the Terandrians. An idea for everyone else. Especially the Antinium and other peoples who watched.

The four [Knights] from farther lands could have objected here. Ruined the dignity of this moment. Protested with word, if not deed in this hallowed ground.

But they couldn’t. Not even Dame Thuile. They looked up—and the [Innkeeper] stood there, flanked by ghosts. No—the Hydra Knight’s eyes widened.

“Statues?”

They were different for each person. You saw only the ones you knew, most of the time. Some people saw nothing.

For a second, Thuile saw a gathering of figures upon that hill. Proud [Knights], their bodies stitched together, Garuda who flew through the skies. Even a Djinni with a helm.

Ghosts, in the company of an [Innkeeper]. Try as she might, Thuile could not make herself climb that hill and interrupt. The statues were just that. But she feared to interrupt their silence. As if they might come alive and judge her. They gave weight to every word the [Innkeeper] spoke, and the Hydra Knight put her head down and—listened.

The Brother was speaking haltingly. Terror was in every word. Not a terror of death, but something else. Failure. His head rose, and his hands clenched helplessly as he met the [Innkeeper]’s eyes.

“I…I am willing. I fear I’ll fail, though, as it were. And that would be a disgrace.”

Normen blushed at his poor response. He hung his head, but Erin waited until it came back up, searching.

“Everyone fails, Normen. The question is—can you try? Can you try and stand alone against a thousand foes? Will you run when you stand before monsters?”

He knew the answer to this one. Normen stared at Crimshaw, and his chin rose.

“I can stand until I fall forever. No. I would never run.”

The young woman nodded. And if you looked at her, maybe you saw how it was done. A weary warrior, bleeding on a battlefield, raising a sword before one who was worthy. That was all it took.

Ser Lormel, Ser Sest, Dame Ushar, and Ser Dalimont looked at Normen as Erin spoke, and they began to see it.

“Normen. Have you lived a life of honor?”

“I’ve…tried. I truly have. I’ve done things I wasn’t proud of, but there was always a line. There were rules. Or else I was a beast.”

The Brother of Serendipitous Meetings whispered. Erin nodded. Slowly, she lifted the sword.

“No matter what you do. Or where you go—will you vow to stay true to a dream? A dream of honesty, of doing what is right? Even if that dream drowns, will you reach down and lift it up? Will you fight when you must, and protect what you can? Will you be a Knight of the Order of Solstice?”

Normen looked up. He hesitated, and then his lips moved and a dry tongue tried to speak, for a second.

The [Innkeeper] waited, and across the world, a watching Hobgoblin wearing armor spoke. He spoke with a laugh of joy and said the same thing as the Brother—his brother in arms.

I swear.

Erin Solstice brought the flat of the crystal blade on Normen’s shoulder and tapped him on both sides. She managed not to decapitate him with the razor-sharp blade, then she gave it to Numbtongue and threw her arms around Normen.

There was no flash of light, no thunder—save for the sigh that came from every lip. They gazed at Erin Solstice and began to stir, dreamers in a waking vision coming back to life. Erin Solstice embraced Normen fiercely and spoke as she let go.

“There. It’s done.”

“Are you sure? Does anyone have [Appraise]…?”

Mrsha’s flying kick of rage made Thuile stumble and go tumbling down the hill. Erin whirled around.

“If anyone doubts Normen—step up. A [Knight] is a [Knight]!

There was no doubt in her eyes, and somehow, Normen didn’t doubt it himself. He looked up at her and rose, slowly. He felt lighter, not heavier. He felt as if he could run a hundred miles and lift five hundred pounds—okay, maybe three hundred.

“I won’t forget this, Miss Solstice. Ever. I’ll live up to this. I will, I promise.”

She turned to him and then Alcaz.

“You have time, Normen. And whatever you and Alcaz—or anyone—want to be?”

She looked at the guests, her new employees, and nodded.

“Yeah. I’ll make sure you get it. You need a trainer. And armor. And a whole lot of things—I don’t know. You know, Normen. This was easier than hiring someone to clean dishes.”

She gestured at all of the staring people, glanced at the new [Knight], and he nearly burst out laughing then and there. With exasperation as much as anything else. But then his breath caught as an Antinium fanned his wings and Pivr saluted him. Normen lifted a hand as Dame Thuile stared up at Pivr’s underbelly and shouted in horror.

Erin laughed. She motioned Normen down to greet his friend. The [Innkeeper] looked around and spoke to Mrsha and Lyonette and the others.

“It really is easier.”

“You mean—forming a Knight Order to solve all your problems abroad?”

“Not just [Knights]. We’ll recruit a bunch of people.”

“What, we’re not good enough, Erin?”

Jelaqua Ivirith scoffed, or tried to as she blew her nose messily. Erin eyed her.

“I assume you have your own life with Maughin, Jelaqua. I need my people. And I will make sure they have the best equipment! The best! Invisibility potions. Invisibility cloaks. Damn squids. That takes money, supplies, and someone organizing things. I just can’t do that, but I’ll [Knight] everyone. Not you, Mrsha. But anyone who wants it—or other classes.”

She looked about. Erin took a deep breath and felt that fluttering uncertainty again. But she knew what to do with it this time. She bent down, went to pick up Mrsha, and groaned.

“Mrsha, you’re heavy! I think the bisque is wearing off. Someone get my chair!”

Erin flopped into the grass, and Mrsha hopped into her lap.

“What can I do for you, oh mighty granter of classes? I would like to be a [Wizard], please.”

She held up a note, and Erin rubbed Mrsha’s head with a laugh.

“No, silly. Not yet. Plus, you only need a wand and a few other things for that. Can you help me with something? I want to offer Yelroan a job at my inn. Can you tell him there’ll be free room and board and maybe some of the Gnolls can make a living in Liscor or north? So—”

She hesitated. And the words caught on her tongue. Erin lifted a finger as Mrsha excitedly began to write and Lyonette looked concerned at this unknown Gnoll.

“Wait. Tell you what, Mrsha? Give me an hour. I need to work up a proper job offer. With numbers and everything.”

An actual job offer? Mrsha went tumbling down the hill in surprise. Erin sighed. Lyonette put her hands on her hips, but she was actually smiling.

“And how are we supposed to attract all the talent that even a Walled City wants, Erin?”

Chaldion was watching her. Erin blew him a kiss and winked. She looked at Lyonette and then gestured around.

“Tell him…I’ll do this for him. Tell him we’ve got a laptop and more math than he could ever dream of. Hexel will need help, and there’s trigonometry and algorithms and logarithmic numbers. But most of all? Tell him that I think we could do a lot of good here. I want…”

 

——

 

…to send people to help anyone in need. But she needs your help. Please say yes. 

—Mrsha

 

Yelroan looked at the [Message], then turned back to the scrying orb replaying the [Innkeeper] making a [Knight] out of someone. He thought of a laptop and…began to write his refusal. He was so busy trying to word it right that he didn’t notice Merish was there until the Gnoll read over his shoulder.

“Dear Mrsha, I’m afraid that I cannot in good conscience leave Merish and the others while—hrr. I see.”

Yelroan jumped. Merish calmly picked up the piece of paper and tore it in half.

“Merish!”

“You should think about it. If not there—then Pallass, or anywhere you always said you wanted to go.”

The other Gnoll looked tired. The new [Chieftain] met the [Mathematician]’s gaze, and Yelroan shook his head. But guiltily.

“I don’t—I cannot leave the tribe, Merish. You’re going to need someone helping you out.”

If he left, who would be there? But Merish just took a seat.

“A lot of the other tribes are willing to take some Plain’s Eye Gnolls who weren’t part of the Doomslayers and had no notion of anything. The ones who follow me will know what I’m getting into. It will be a hard winter. But I have spoken to Chieftain Akrisa, Chieftain Feshi—they are far kinder than they need to be. Do you know, Yelroan, what Silverfang did nearly two decades ago?”

“They sent Gnolls to Liscor. To earn gold.”

Yelroan spoke slowly. Merish nodded.

“They made a foothold in a city in case they failed or ran into trouble with their main tribe. They looked ahead to where Gnolls might flourish, and look at Liscor now? They send gold back and forth, to help start the city, and then support the tribe. You can earn more money somewhere safe behind walls, Yelroan. North of Liscor, white fur might not matter to Humans. It’s not a bad idea.”

“But you need me here.”

Merish didn’t deny that. However, he looked at Yelroan and shook his head.

“You are doing this to help me, Yelroan. Me and the tribe—but you’re not part of Plain’s Eye, are you?”

“I’m right here.”

“Yes. But look at this.”

Merish reached out and tapped Yelroan’s blonde fur. The [Mathematician] bit his lip, but Merish just shook his head.

“Xherw, Ulcreziek, and I never really understood you were so gifted, Yelroan. Take a job offer. Send money back if you want—but for once? Don’t let our tribe hold you back.”

Slowly, he stood, and Yelroan rose with him. He didn’t know what to say. He grabbed Merish’s shoulder and embraced his friend. Merish leaned on him for a while. But then he let Yelroan go and removed the last shackles on his friend.

You could be anything. Join the Order of Solstice. Become a [Knight]…and while the only member in Liscor had a lot of practicing to do and needed armor to fit, it was the first step. Perhaps only the [Innkeeper] saw it now as she tip-toed up on another recruit, a drunk and babbling [Swashbuckler], but she hoped everyone might one day see the inn abroad.

Wherever it needed to go.

 

——

 

[Conditions Met: Courteous Mugger → Courteous Knight Class!]

[Courteous Knight Level 27!]

 

[Skill Change – Brute’s Swing → Knight’s Riposte!]

[Skill – Knight’s Riposte obtained!]

[Skill – His Hat Held Wrath obtained!]

[Skill – My Cause is Just obtained!]

 

——

 

[Magical Innkeeper Level 47!]

[Legacy: Garden of Sanctuary, authority recognized. Key of Reprieve granted.]

 

She woke up with something under her pillow.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: This chapter was rough. I was deleting sections, struggling, getting frustrated—

And these are the hallmarks of burnout or just being tired. Well, burnout is long-term. I think I’m just tired. So I’m taking a break after next chapter! I’ll have an AMA on the 26th and do the Volume 1 rewrite after I come back. Then I’ll write about another chapter and uh…take another break.

I have a vacation with family I’m planning early August. Like August 8th? Thereabouts. My plane tickets keep getting CANCELED.

Wish me luck. However, I’m letting you know I’ll be taking a longer and irregular break and hope you understand that I want to go on a vacation. At least one this year, possibly more. I’ll try to write if I have time (and heck, I’ll probably want to), but I’ve gotta also have fun.

Anyways, one more chapter. I hope this one was fun and I’ll make the next one short if I have to. Thanks for reading and stay cool! It’s a hot summer.

 

Puppets by Brack!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

Erin by Stardust!

Tumblr: https://stardustswirldreams.tumblr.com/

 

Kissing Booth by Vescar, commissioned by Linnet!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/vescar

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.08

[The author is on break until July 30th! See the Author’s Notes for more things. There is an AMA on r/progressionfantasy on the 26th too!]

 

She did not appear in dreams often. Never for Mrsha before now, in fact. Which suggested that perhaps even dreams were afraid of Belavierr.

There she stood, in what might have been the inn’s hallway. Only—the wooden walls were decayed, rotten, the boards giving way to mold and the gnawings of termites, exposing black cracks in the wall.

The kind of gaps that you were afraid to go near. Infestation lay beyond. Something rotting—or worse still.

The Stitch Witch stood in the facsimile of the inn, her eyes glowing. Held at bay by a single door. Darkness lay all around the little Gnoll girl. Just like before.

Mrsha du Marquin stood there, shivering with terror. Too afraid to run and be tricked into leaving the garden. Sure that if she stayed long enough—she’d wake.

She knew this was a nightmare. But there was no laptop and silly movie to use. No Rufelt and Lasica. Just the Stitch Witch.

The [Garden of Sanctuary] protected Mrsha. However, even its power, which could foil Grimalkin, was not foolproof. It could not stop Belavierr’s illusions nor her Skills. Nor could it stop [Druids] who entered under peace and pact.

There were rules. Rules so old that even Belavierr didn’t know them all. Yet the Stitch Witch had been here before. So she mocked Mrsha, just like last time.

Rings of shadowed immortality, beckoning Mrsha deeper. Creatures that called themselves Belavierr, reaching out. Layers of methods to defy death, some only a madwoman would use.

The longer Mrsha looked—the more she saw. So she hid her face. But the [Witch]’s words were not so easy to block.

“You trust to this garden to hold me back. Yet it is not your Skill. The owner lies dead, and the true owner died long ago. You don’t have the full power of this place.”

The [Witch]’s eyes glittered and those words came back.

“You don’t even have the right door.”

Why was Mrsha dreaming of this now? She looked for Lasica and Rufelt—or her dream of them, because what happened next was visions and fighting—then angering Belavierr so much that she broke her own Skill. The Gnoll girl waited, and the specter of Belavierr beyond the door frowned.

A dark, puzzled frown. A gleeful—no, wait. It was just a frown. It twisted over her face for a second, and then she spoke, and the…aura of fear and despair around her faded.

“I broke no oaths. You summoned me here. Or a fragment. But why? How? Are you a [Dreamer] now, silly little girl? That would be unwise.

She turned, and Mrsha’s hair rose higher as she realized the dream Belavierr wasn’t staying to script. The [Witch] peered around. The groaning hallway seemed less terrifying now—mainly because she was here.

“A strange dream. A silly nightmare. Why now? I cannot be lured into a dream. Unless I wish to be.”

Her eyes swiveled around crazily, with what Mrsha realized was sudden paranoia. Then—an analytical insight. The Stitch Witch backed up and produced a piece of chalk. She began to draw a door on the hallway walls.

Black chalk—flecked with brilliant gold Mrsha had seen before. Truegold? Belavierr whispered.

Little door, little door, in dreams bore a hole. Darkest depths I yet not dream. Let me out, let me out, I whisper, before the nightmare shouts.

She drew a simple doorknob and had her hand on the door, glancing around with what Mrsha felt was unwarranted fear. Because if Belavierr were looking over her shoulder, peering into the depths of the hallway—Mrsha wanted to be awake right now.

The Stitch Witch was about to yank the chalk door open when her hand froze on the doorknob. She turned slowly—and with evident relief as something oozed from the depths of the hallway. Mrsha backed up as the nightmare appeared.

A mass of bone and ghastly slime, more like toxic green ooze, crawled forwards. It had two glowing purple eyes and a familiar skeleton’s body fused with what an undead slime probably looked like. 

The Slime-Toren monster groaned as one of Mrsha’s regular nightmares crawled forwards. Shield Spider legs from the Defenders of the Cave made it scuttle, and a bunch of wiggling rat tails stuck out all over its body. Belavierr stared at the nightmare as it groaned for Mrsha. It reached for the [Witch], making a rattling-chittering sound.

Belavierr let it grab her as she calmly reached for Toren’s skull embedded in the horror. She ripped it out, neck vertebrae and all. The creature squealed like a rat, and like the nightmare-monster it was, reared up—

The Stitch Witch’s hands cracked the fake Toren’s skull into pieces, and she opened her mouth, wide, wide. So wide it dislocated, forming a black hole in her face. She dumped the fragments of bone into her mouth and chewed.

Mrsha and her regular nightmare backed up. The Slime-Toren monster began to flee, and Belavierr whispered.

“No. This is neither trap for me, nor you. A dream is a dream. But why this one?”

Mrsha watched her nightmare flee Belavierr, back into the hallway. She saw Belavierr’s mouth moving and then saw ivory teeth moving in the hallway.

Vast teeth, closing around the Slime-Toren nightmare which made one last squealing sound before—

Belavierr swallowed. Mrsha nodded to herself.

Yep, she wasn’t going to wet the bed about Slime-Toren ever again. She was fairly sure, in fact, she would never have that nightmare again. Giant teeth hallways, now? Lyonette was going to be walking Mrsha to the outhouse a lot more often.

Belavierr turned back to Mrsha. She stared at the girl, but whatever promise she’d made, it was apparently enough to protect the girl even here. Belavierr stared past Mrsha. Then she recoiled.

The door. The owner’s changed. The key. You found the key?

She looked at Mrsha in disbelief. The Gnoll peered out of the doorway. She didn’t see the wood door with bands of iron that always appeared for her. Then she realized—the doorway looked different. Belavierr’s eyes widened.

The half-dead [Innkeeper] found a key? She was—worthy? Unlikely. Promising. Symbolic? What will it change? What will it do? Everything old is rising. Did Califor have something to do with this? Of course she did.

Belavierr’s eyes flashed rage as Mrsha raised her paw. She couldn’t say anything or—wait.

“Hey. What’s going on?”

The Stitch Witch turned to Mrsha as the girl found, to her delight, she could speak! It sounded like the faux-voice she and Gire had made. Mrsha waved her paws in delight.

“I can talk! I can say something! I’ve always hated you, but you have a great hat! F-forsooth! I can speak! I can—

The [Witch] ignored Mrsha. She was tapping her lips. Then she shook her head.

“That one has Califor’s mark on her. A different kind of [Witch]. For now. All fire and dreams. However—even my own need my help, my advice, my craft. Recommend me to the owner of this garden and I may reconsider my vow of vengeance, girl.

She reached for Mrsha, pressing one hand against the garden’s door. Mrsha gaped at Belavierr.

“Me? Help you? Go fuck yourself! Yay, I can say it! Go swallow a Creler egg and take a rusty shovel and—”

The [Stitch Witch] was no friend to Mrsha, but as one mother to another, she supposed that it was well for the child’s guardians that she could not speak normally. She snapped her fingers.

“I have no time for dreams. Another omen. Another mystery. If this owner finds the truth behind the door, won’t you dream of me, Mrsha? Such secrets are worth far more than even all the luck I stole. Now. To waking for you and my task for me. But a bit of revenge, first.”

She leered at Mrsha, her lips curving up in a toothless smile, like a black void. Mrsha backed up. She shook a fist at Belavierr.

“You don’t scare me! I have the door! You can’t get in you—stinky—person!”

Her insult game got bad when she was scared. Belavierr’s smile widened. Then that horrible thing in nightmares happened. You know, when you thought you were scared beyond belief? That moment when you were lying paralyzed in bed, sure a monster was around the corner, ready to leap out?

Just when you thought the nightmare couldn’t get worse—it did.

Belavierr’s eyes began to weep. Black, dark tears began to ooze downwards in a trickle, then a stream of water in umbral shades. Bits of seaweed, even a dead fish slowly poured out her eyes, then her mouth as she began to sink into the floor. Belavierr’s voice gurgled as she spoke, as if coming from…somewhere deep and wet.

The door protects you even in dreams. I have sworn my oath to my first daughter. But tell me, silly little child. What happens when you wake?

Mrsha stared at the waters rising in the hallway. She put one paw out as Belavierr kept sinking, and the water pressing at the Garden of Sanctuary was too wet. Too…real. Mrsha hesitated.

“What happens when I—oh—

Then the [Witch] snapped her fingers, and Mrsha—

 

——

 

—Opened her eyes in her bed as Lyonette yawned and shook her.

“Mrsha, stop thrashing! Mrsha—”

The Gnoll girl sat up and began to howl a second before a wave of water poured out of the air. Lyonette’s scream was accompanied by the door to their room bursting open and a deluge of saltwater, a dead fish, seaweed, and other ocean debris knocked Normen and Alcaz flat as they headed downstairs for their morning workout. Mrsha lay at the bottom of the stairs, soaking wet, and shook her fist up at the sky.

She hoped Belavierr drowned down there. Wherever she was or whatever she was doing. Or got really, really pruney.

 

——

 

[Legacy: Garden of Sanctuary, authority recognized. Key of Reprieve granted.]

 

…And then she woke up. As sometimes happened, the level ups and announcements seemed to echo the moment she went to sleep and the moment she woke.

Actually—Erin realized that when she leveled up, she never dreamed. It was just the voice.

She woke, lay in bed for a moment, heart picking up speed until it was racing, and her eyes shot open as a spike of excitement ran through her heart.

Magic.

That was the feeling. Like the first time she had gained a unique Skill, [Immortal Moment]. The feeling of seeing the Winter Fae before they spoke, looking outside at a new world—making something beautiful like flame or food.

Wondrous moments like these were the things Erin Solstice wanted from this world the most. They made up for some of the bad, the ill.

Key of Reprieve? What the heck was that? Her authority, recognized? Did that mean she’d just been a…a…?

“A squatter? No, wait. Does that mean someone else owned it and they died? That sounds dark. Maybe it means I proved myself. Does every Skill like this work this way?”

Erin knew of a bare handful of examples. Ryoka had mentioned Mihaela Godfrey, the Guildmistress of First Landing, had a legacy Skill. Erin had thought it was cool—although the idea of an oxygenless road sounded awful to her.

Now, Mihaela was on the top of Erin’s list of people to meet. The young woman lay there and realized two things:

I can’t let Chaldion/Niers/Grimalkin/someone else know about this right away.

And secondly—

There’s something under my pillow.

Erin’s heart pounded harder as she stuck a hand under her pillow. Just like the tooth faerie, just like, well, a story…she froze when she actually touched something hard and cold.

A key. And larger than Erin had thought! It wasn’t a modern key, but one of those old ones as long as her hand.

She gasped when she pulled out the Key of Reprieve, because one look told her that this was a magic key.

It was the subtle things, like the cloudy, rusted iron metal that looked plain—but revealed some glittering, blue, amber-like material within, clouded and laced with pearl. The handle of the key was shaped like a feather. Like…well, Erin didn’t know feathers, but it looked distinctive, flared at the edges in an odd cut pattern.

The teeth of the key were also different, not simple at all. It looked like someone had taken a square of metal and cut a series of tiny, wavy shapes out of it such that the teeth looked like twined grass, plants—and nigh impossible to use in a regular lock.

It wasn’t that heavy, and as Erin held it, she felt something rush through her hand. A kind of expectation.

A key for a door. Erin Solstice’s breath caught, and she tried to push herself out of bed. Then she remembered she couldn’t walk and groaned.

“Oh, come on!”

But nothing could deter her from crawling over to her chair and inserting herself into it. Erin rolled towards the wall. First bisque, then she’d tell—no, she needed to be careful.

New Erin. New [Knights] like Normen—new inn. She had to actually think, so Erin slowed down a second.

“…Don’t make a fuss. Play it cool. Everyone’s gonna talk about Normen. No one knows—”

Unless my new chess set is bugged.

Erin’s eyes narrowed as she turned her head. An innocent Fraerling stared back at her from her desk. She had asked Palt, and he said it wasn’t enchanted like that to his knowledge—but that if anyone could fool an Ullsinoi Mage, it was Niers.

“—about the Walled City of Shields. I could post that quest, but Chaldion makes just too good an offer. Damn. I’ve gotta tell him.”

Erin amended her statement. And if that doesn’t get Venaz bothering me within the hour, it’s probably not enchanted to listen to me.

The [Innkeeper] continued her planning mentally, since, to her knowledge, telepaths didn’t exist in the—in Izril at this moment, at least.

Okay, play it cool. The Garden can’t be entered, so I can explore with a crew. Normen needs his gear, and damn—I told Jewel I’d offer her some opportunities. Rabbiteater might have written me back! Or Ryoka! I’ll do all that and make a mess in the kitchen and pretend I’m tired.

Erin had big plans for the Order of Solstice, but this clearly took priority. She hesitated as she put her hands on her wheelchair.

“Oh—come on! I’ll work on it later! This is special!”

She lowered her head as her conscience nagged her.

“This Yelroan guy better be good at his job. Okay—do some important work before midday. Perfect.”

Maximum distraction-Erin. She rolled forwards determinedly and crashed into the wall. Erin jammed her knees straight into the wood before bouncing off.

Ow! What the heck?

She stared at the wooden wall, which should have opened into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Erin Solstice rubbed at her knees—then tried again.

“Door!”

She pointed. The door did not appear. Erin’s jaw worked as she stared at the key in hand.

“Uh—door?”

The young woman jabbed the key into the wall a few times. No obliging keyhole appeared.

“Oh no. That’s not good.”

Suddenly, Erin realized that this might not be a wondrous moment like a new Skill. She had never, ever heard an announcement like the one that had given her the key, even for the quests.

This might be…a gift under fae rules. Erin gulped.

“I’d better get some iron. And a helmet. And some acid.”

She had to actually open the door to her room and go into the hallway, and Erin realized she’d need help getting the wheelchair down the stairs. Well, someone could help her down and pull it after—

Erin stopped as she emerged into the second floor hallway. Only with the door open did she smell the fishy, nasty odor of seawater and see the fish scales, the absolutely flooded hallway, and Liska, staring at everything with a mop and an expression of dismay on her face. Erin stared at the Gnoll.

“What happened here? Liska, did you do this?”

“No! It was Mrsha. Again. You’d better take the garden down—and better not go to the common room. Or the basement. All the water drained down there, and a bunch of Antinium came up to complain we flooded their Hive.”

Erin was trying to process a response when someone else woke up. Ulvama opened the door to her room. She took one look outside, peered at Erin, and snorted.

“More [Witch] magic. Stop summoning water! It wakes me up.”

She slammed the door.

It was another day in The Wandering Inn.

 

——

 

This was a grand day. A beautiful day.

Eight Antinium were wearing suits. Yes, suits, the kind of thing you might see at a funeral or wedding. They had been awkwardly tailored and adjusted at first—before an Antinium who knew how to sew had created a far more suitable version that captured ‘suit’ without having to cover the back shell or being uncomfortable or unfashionable.

Each suit was fairly cheap; cotton, nothing finer. Yet they had a lot of gentle style, like the two silver antennae painted on the chest over the image of a mop. A kind of crest.

The Workers all had a bucket and mop. They raised the mops overhead and did a little twirl.

That wasn’t part of the process. It was just style. In fact, it was so much style that Ser Sest was conscious that he hadn’t buffed his armor for a few days.

Silently, the Workers twirled about. Then they stepped past each other, and the audience’s jaws dropped. The Workers were waltzing. Moving around in a coordinated pattern, like two lines of dance partners interweaving. Only—their partners were the swirling mops and the buckets they swung around as they moved.

Terandrian waltz music. That was what this scene called for. The Hobgoblin had his guitar, but he couldn’t replicate the feeling of a full quartet of strings and some brass. To his credit—Numbtongue didn’t even try as the maestro of this moment, the Antinium with silver antennae, smiled.

Silveran was smiling. No, he was beaming. This was a wonderful day. Here he was, with his best team, cleaning the inn.

And it was a mess. Oh, how wonderful! There was water everywhere, it was salty and would dry horribly, and it was already threatening to bloat the floorboards, warping them. Time was of the essence.

The entire inn needed cleaning, deodorizing—the basement was flooded, and a lot of the stored goods had water damage.

All of it required professionals. Ishkr had taken one look at Liska mopping water down the stairs and made the call.

Silveran’s Cleaners were here, and they danced like the [Princess] had once shown them. In fact, some of the larger shops and places where they worked had requested that the Antinium do this.

It wasn’t always efficient, but eight Antinium swirling around the inn’s floor like waltzing [Cleaners]—well.

Even Erin Solstice was staring. Even for The Wandering Inn—

“Wow. Silveran is amazing. Did you know he could do this, Lyonette? Did Pawn teach him? Lyonet—”

The [Innkeeper] turned her head, and the [Princess]’ bulging eyes were her answer. Pawn beamed as he took her hand.

“Silveran is very profitable. His business, like Garry’s, is one of the ones the Free Queen has approved.”

Dame Ushar’s eyes darted to the Antinium, and Lyonette jerked. She patted Pawn’s hand and gave him a warning smile.

“Thank you, Pawn. I—it’s so elegant. Calanfer would have [Cleaners] doing this with the Eternal Throne if we’d thought of it!”

“By Marquin’s sword—I shall recommend it at once!”

Ser Sest shot to his feet, and the Thronebearers were distracted. Pawn sighed, but then turned to Mrsha.

“How did you conjure so much water, Mrsha? I can only do two cups. Although mine is drinkable.”

She glared at him. Mrsha was wrapped in towels and grumpy. She wrote on the only good paper she had left; Belavierr had ruined a lot of her writing supplies.

The stupid Belavierr! She was in my dreams!

“Do we need to take precautions against hexes or dreams?

Lyonette was horrified. She turned, and the Horns looked up from watching the entire event. Ceria scratched at her chin.

“…That’s not something Wistram teaches. I doubt even Ullsinoi knows how. But then again, Belavierr is a legend. So yes. If Mrsha’s not dead—maybe just ‘yes’ in a general sense for all of us. What a way to start the day, eh? Alright. I’ll have two sausage hot dogs to start off with all the condiments. And then we’ll see how I feel.”

She turned to Ishkr, and Yvlon looked askance.

“Ceria, really?”

Even Ishkr hesitated.

“…All nine toppings, Miss Ceria?”

“Nine? I thought there were seven. Let’s see. Ketchup, mayonnaise, relish, fish paste sauce, acid flies, that’s five—pork shavings, and, uh—sour cream?”

“—And honey and mustard.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, put all nine on there. Let’s see what happens.”

Ceria rubbed her hands together as some of the other guests of the inn turned green despite themselves. Hexel broke off from inspecting the water damage.

“—It’s just as well we’re changing the inn, Erin. I have you for your ‘big plan meeting’ in two days, but I would have bumped it up if only to help you sort drainage. Happily, there’s an Antinium tunnel to their Hive which did all that. As for that breakfast, I think I need mine to go. I’ll eat with, oh, Councilmember Elirr since the inn is wet. May I see what you have? Before Miss Springwalker gets her food, or I’ll be regurgitating mine.”

“Of course, Hexel! Sorry.”

Erin waved at Ishkr, and Yvlon folded her arms.

“Ceria, there’s no way it’ll taste good.”

“Complementary flavors, Yvlon. Name one thing that doesn’t go well together.”

“Acid flies and honey?”

“Delicious. Honey goes well with everything.”

“Sour cream and fish paste?

“Double sour.”

“But with the honey…?”

“Contrasting flavors. Pisces, you want in? Ksmvr—”

The Antinium [Skirmisher] opened and closed his mandibles, for once not leaping at the opportunity to show group cohesion.

“I—I will participate in this shared trauma, which I understand is a unifying force, Captain Ceria. Despite my clear reservations.”

Pisces instantly refused, but Kevin leaned over seriously to talk Ceria out of it.

“Ceria, you can’t do this.”

“Oh, come on, I’m paying for it, I like weird food—is it because it’s two? That’s a lot for my stomach. Tell you what, Pisces, Ksmvr, Yvlon, everyone takes one bite. Mrsha? You too? Excellent.

Ceria rubbed her hands, but Kevin forestalled her.

“No. Listen—”

She turned to him, surprised by the look on the easygoing young man’s face. Kevin glowered.

“—you can’t have a hot dog without chili. Cheese! How are those not toppings? Baked beans too! Onions, avocado—wait, have we discovered those yet? Um. Coleslaw? Mac and cheese I’ve seen, too. Put all of them on, and I’ll have one too. Minus the flies.”

Ceria looked at him with delight, and Kevin raised a hand to high-five. Mrsha nodded excitedly, and Lyonette tried to remove her daughter from the equation.

“I don’t believe Mrsha needs to eat that. You two are welcome to your…food. But she—”

“She nearly drowned, Lyonette! She deserves a treat. You only live once.”

“Yes and I want her to survive breakfast!”

 

——

 

That was the kind of quality conversation you heard at The Wandering Inn. A Centaur shook his head as he trotted out of the inn.

He was still staying here. Mainly because Imani was—and that might soon change. Not that they’d sleep at Timbor’s inn, though the Drunken Gnoll was fairly nice.

No, they were thinking of a studio apartment over her kitchen. They had to build it first, but the Antinium had offered very lovely rates, and Hexel had said he’d do some personal designing and use two of his Skills if Imani gave him some exclusive dinners for a small company.

Everyone liked the best [Chef] in the city. It opened doors. To Palt, the veteran of Wistram’s secrets and politics, Liscor was easy-mode. He was Imani’s helper—and romantic paramour—which was how he liked to introduce himself, much to her chagrin.

But he was also the horseshoe behind Imani’s rising star. Namely, the horseshoe that played other, rival [Chefs] against each other. The ones looking to sabotage Imani or smear her name.

Palt was no amateur in the world of underhandedness. Culinary underhandedness, now? He’d had to call in a few favors, but Ullsinoi were full of rogues. Even their membership had a few cooking enthusiasts, and they’d taught him a few tricks for a few recipes.

For instance, one of them bore fruit as Palt did a daily check. He was in Barehoof Kitchens, the place he and Imani were running, when he halted a Street Runner doing deliveries with a bag of holding.

“Oho. Hold on. Your delivery’s been sabotaged.”

“What?”

The Drake girl looked alarmed and nervous. Palt was inspecting some of the basic cooking goods that Imani had ordered.

“Did you get this all from the same supplier? Or was it through the Merchant’s Guild?”

“I—I don’t know. Believe me, Mister Palt, I would never—

“No, of course not.”

Palt had already checked the Street Runners. But he showed her what he’d found.

“This bag of flour? Someone’s mixed a bunch of salt and sugar into it.”

“How can you tell?”

The Centaur smiled knowingly.

“Diffusion spells. It’s calibrated to detect if there’s two materials mixed together. Handy for an [Illusionist] or someone doing quality-control. Interesting—I don’t think the Merchant’s Guild is behind this.”

“Why not?”

Palt indicated the bag.

“…Because it’s too much work. Normally, they just add some weight to the bag to claim they’re giving you more than they are. Enchanted sacks with [Leadweight], optical illusion spells—I even heard of a [Crooked Supplier] who had a teleportation spell wired into the basket so everything he poured out of it lost twenty percent in a hidden compartment. This? This is to foul Imani up, hopefully when she’s making something. She’d taste what she made, obviously, but maybe flour will be ‘out’ if she needs it. Interesting. Well, it’s not powdered glass. If it were—I’d have to get unpleasant.

The Drake Street Runner was at a loss for words, but Palt’s ominous chuckle made her scales crawl. She had heard other [Cooks] she ran deliveries for muttering insults at Imani, who had managed to keep some of her recipes secret and eclipsed their own fame.

She hoped they didn’t escalate beyond pranks, because Palt, who was very genial and offered her some Dreamleaf for after work, was looking fairly dangerous.

“What—what should I do, Mister Palt?”

“Just one second. There’s some kind of worm or something in one of the produce. [Detect Life] is picking it up. Someone’s creative. How about this? I slip you two gold pieces and you swap this with another cook’s delivery.”

Mister Palt! I couldn’t—

“Four gold and I’ll show you how to change the Merchant Guild’s tags. And you find who could have messed with the delivery, and if we find who’s working for the competition, I’ll throw in twenty gold pieces.”

“—Let me run this back.”

The Centaur shook hands with the Drake, and she was just tucking the gold pieces away and heading out the door when Imani poked her head out the kitchen.

“Was that the delivery, Palt?”

“Yes, but she got a few things wrong, my dear! Oh, and you may wish to stay away from The Wandering Inn this morning unless you want to witness a crime against nature.”

Palt trotted over and gave Imani a kiss before relating the hot dog incident. Imani sighed.

“That’s Erin’s inn for you. Although, some fancy hot dogs would be fun to showcase. It’s the presentation—there’s this Japanese custom where you cut hot dogs into cute little octopi. They put them in their bento-boxes. As for poor Hexel—Palt, what are you thinking about?”

The Centaur had lifted a finger. He inserted a cigar into his mouth and puffed furiously.

Lunch.

“…Yes?”

Imani waited patiently, but Palt’s mind was working overdrive with sudden innovation. The Earthers weren’t the only ones who could do it.

“Hexel asked for a breakfast to-go, and we do that with our kitchen. Bags of holding make transport easier, but you know who never gets lunch even at our restaurants? Hexel again. He’s always too busy. He gets a burger from a stall or a snack. So…”

Imani’s eyes lit up.

“—We should corner the market on boxed lunches! Delivery as well!”

Palt hesitated.

“I was more thinking delivery. Your world does both?”

“Yes—but Palt! I can do boxed lunches for adventurers or people who have to leave the city. We can do in-city delivery.”

Imani began writing notes furiously as she took a pad of parchment out of her apron.

“What if I took an hour to work out a prototype bento-box? We need something good. It’s this stacking box which locks together—a bit of clever woodwork. But it needs to be lacquered or something beautiful, elegant. Not tacky. If we had chopsticks as a culture—we can pack wooden tableware, maybe?”

He pointed at her. This. This was why he’d fallen in love with her over, well, even Erin. The [Innkeeper] had graduated to food tasting good, but Imani understood a truth that made her a [Chef], not a mere [Cook] or [Innkeeper].

Presentation. Feed the eyes, then the mouth.

“I’ll see about woodworking. I may have to go to…Invrisil, I think. Woodworking, a deal with the Runner’s Guild…”

Get me some of Wailant’s produce if you’re going via door, would you?

Palt trotted out of Barehoof Kitchens, puffing happily. Yes, life was good.

 

——

 

The Centaur stopped by the Drunken Gnoll to let Timbor know that Imani needed a small bit of flour; their morning delivery was delayed. The [Innkeeper] didn’t curse—he just checked his own breakfast diners.

“I’ll run it over right now myself. We’ve got enough breakfast set in the preservation cupboard for a good amount of customers. I wish I had an entire preservation field, but your kitchen’s better.”

Palt chuckled, and the [Innkeeper] nodded to his [Comfortable Barmaid]. His second-in-command, a cheerful, matronly Drake who put you at ease and quelled arguments by her sheer presence.

He could afford to do this himself, you see, because Timbor’s inn could run if he never showed up. That he did, and put in his time, was because he respected his class. But he had what Erin’s inn lacked—a trained workforce.

Anyways, it was also why Timbor’s inn got a lion’s share of the new customers in the area, and even adventurers, one of the most lucrative, if troublesome, types of guest. His food was excellent, the service was fast, and this inn was a friendly one to Gnolls, who comprised a lot of the staff and guests.

Humans gravitated towards it for that same reason but Gnolls still constituted most of the guests, which was why you could find Vok, Hickery, and a few Gnolls eating with Senior Guardsman Relc, who was paying for breakfast after their morning drills.

“Nah, don’t be an adventurer, Vok. You’re too young, and it’s too dangerous.”

“But if I level up to Level 15 in [Spearman]…”

“Try Level 25 or your parents’ll kill me. If you’ve gotta do it, hunt rats in the sewers.”

“Ew, Relc! Can’t Vok fight Corusdeer or something? Or Shield Spiders? There are still some nests the farmers want gone, that’s what I heard.”

Relc pointed his fork at Vok.

“One. Corusdeer will set your spear on fire with their horns. You try blocking antlers and you’re dead. You have to spear them like a boar, and that’s dangerous as hell. Two, Shield Spiders cover you and eat you alive. Screaming. Spears are really hard to kill them with.”

The Gnoll kids went silent, and Relc picked at his teeth.

“…This is how a lotta Bronze-rank teams go out. Join the Watch. Or do a bit of guard-work. Even [Merchants]’ll hire a young Gnoll who can hold a spear right to guard a warehouse. It’s more looking good and blowing a whistle so no one tries anything. Oh, hey! Klb! My partner’s here, guys.”

Klbkch walked into the inn and halted as all the Gnoll children stared at him. He raised a hand and spoke.

“Hello, I am Senior Guardsman Klbkch. Are you Relc’s…trainees? I am pleased to meet you all.”

He looked disconcerted by Relc’s popularity. And slightly awkward around the nervous Hickery. Klbkch tried to be friendly.

“Hello, young Gnoll girl. What is your name? Here, have a mint cracker.”

He handed over what had been a traditional treat in Liscor before ice cream, cake, and cookies had blown it out of the water—a mint leaf-infused semi-sweet cracker. Relc chortled as Hickery sniffed the cracker nervously.

Klbkch was so taken aback he never noticed he was being watched. Of course, it was pure chance he’d walked in here, but the young woman realized that he might be stopping by regularly.

Which meant this was her new favorite breakfast, lunch, and dinner inn. A crystal hand brushed a loop of red hair crossed with faint streaks of coral-blue. An iconic hair color to match the hand—which even the [Barmaids] stared at.

That was actually somewhat deliberate. Put on a glove and rub some dye gel in your hair and you were different. Was advertising her true hair color and hand dangerous? Yes, well…it was necessary. The young woman made no move, just watched and listened.

One did not trouble the Slayer of the Antinium. Not yet. The crystal hand that moved as perfectly as a real one was proof that a careless mistake would cost you forever. And this game was for keeps.

There was, in fact, a third unusual guest of Timbor’s inn as well. Although, in Jewel’s case, the only unusual thing was that she was sober today.

Her two teammates, who were part of Glitterblade, were glad to see it. Jewel had been, well…the laughingstock of the Adventurer’s Guild was putting it lightly. Accordingly, she’d fallen into depression.

Everything had been going so well hither to. They’d killed two Wyverns in the High Passes and had reaped a considerable profit, even for the amount they’d spent getting out there and camping out. They had survived the Village of the Dead raid, and while Jewel had nearly died—they had reaped the rewards.

But add offending Erin Solstice into the mix and having her name on the quest? That had been the biggest embarrassment of a lifetime, and Jewel had thought she had seen the worst when meeting Captain Todi after finally becoming Gold-rank.

Apparently, teams in Chandrar and Rhir had asked who ‘Jewel’ was. Which was name recognition, as Toimt pointed out.

Jewel, the [Swashbuckler], hadn’t wanted to hear it. But she’d come out of her funk, so she was eating and talking with the other two.

Toimt, Jewel, and Hilten. They were all mobile melee combat classes. To be precise, an [All-Range Duelist], a [Swashbuckler], and a [Spellblade]. Hence their name.

Toimt and Jewel knew each other from growing up and learning from the same old [Duelist]. Hilten was Toimt’s friend, and Jewel had gotten to know them, as fellow experts in rapiers and Terandrian fighting styles did. Few people preferred the lightly-armored style more known to the Human kingdoms of the northern continent. They disparaged the seemingly-flimsy blades that couldn’t penetrate real armor.

Which meant they’d never seen a fencer lunge and run someone in plate armor through the heart in a single move. Needless to say, the members of Glitterblade were the King of Duels’ biggest fans for showing the world the excellence of fencing.

Toimt carried a wand and épée, a heavier version of the fencing foil. He was quite capable of hitting a target while dodging and fighting in a melee.

Jewel used a rapier and a classic buckler shield and was capable of leaping across the ground and moving as fast as any [Skirmisher].

Hilten used a foil, the lightest and weakest of all blades and seldom used outside of practice. True, it was closer to the pariser, an actual sword, but the trick was simply the tip, which had been enchanted with a [Jolt] spell.

Low-level and far weaker than regular enchantments a Gold-rank adventurer carried, but Hedault himself had worked on it because the novel design meant that Hilten could tap you two dozen times with the nimble blade. And you would not be laughing with your arms numb when he ran you through with it.

…Did this matter? Well, only if their team would become famous. Right now, they were new to Gold-rank. They hadn’t emerged with a bang like the Horns, but they’d earned their certification well enough, mostly from their levels.

They had not yet made their mark, but they were going to. The eternal refrain of teams who weren’t world-famous. Now, it seemed like their ship had come in. Erin Solstice, the same person who had turned Jewel into a daytime alcoholic, had suggested Jewel talk to her about a kind of contract like the one Todi had with Selys.

Or even, perhaps, joining the Order of Solstice? They had a chance to become part of the news, and not as a laughingstock.

However, Jewel was relaxed this morning. She ate and reassured her two teammates she was out of her funk. But—surprisingly—she was reticent about visiting The Wandering Inn.

“Listen, you two. I appreciate Miss Solstice snapping me out of my silly mood. That was embarrassing. But it reminded me, once I sobered up, that we are Gold-rank adventurers.”

“New ones. We’re not even a year in, and the Horns are world-famous. We’re not, Jewel.”

She waved this off from Hilten. He was as cautious as his class and fighting style indicated.

“Yes, but we are Gold-ranks, Hilten. One of the youngest teams to get here! Erin Solstice is important, but think about it—do we want to work for coppers on gold just for her fame?”

Hilten and Toimt exchanged looks.

“—I think she’s pretty important, Jewel. Everyone in Liscor knows her inn, even if they don’t know her.”

“Yes, yes. If she wants to make a serious offer, we’ll hear her out. I just don’t want her to think she can embarrass us and offer us bad rates. We’re a Gold-rank team. Just remember that.”

Jewel leaned back, projecting reassurance to her teammates. That was right. No more being pushed around. She was reaching for another devilled egg when someone spoke up.

“Hey, Jewel! Mind if I scoot by for a sec?”

Jewel looked up. She was about to glare at whomever was speaking to Gold-rank Jewel when she saw Captain Jelaqua Ivirith of the Halfseekers.

“Oh! Captain Jelaqua! Sit—good morning. Anything up?”

Jelaqua sat down with a big smile. She was actually joined by Seborn, Ulinde, and a more cheerful Moore this morning.

“Hey, guys, we just came through Pallass. The door’s a bit odd right now—Erin’s apparently gonna raise rates. Ouch, and she’s renegotiating with the cities. But we’re friends of the inn. I’m heading back for a hot date with Maughin, but I wanted to catch you all. Are we taking your time?”

“Not at all. What do you want to order? We’re almost done with breakfast, but we have these nice eggs—”

Did they want to talk business? Pool gold to buy one of the artifacts? Jewel didn’t know as Jelaqua waved that off.

“Nah, I’ve got to get going soon. Just a word. Hot date. Maughin. Me.”

The rest of their team rolled their eyes as she emphasized that. Seborn leaned forwards.

“By hot date, she means she’s keeping him company while he works.”

Jelaqua elbowed him hard, and Jewel laughed politely. The Halfseekers sat down as Moore smiled.

“Have you been to the inn this morning? I saw it was flooded.”

“Flooded? But the door still works, right?”

Jewel’s nightmare would be being stranded and going back four hundred miles to Invrisil. Jelaqua waved this off.

“Nothing destroys that damn door. Not even Crelers…and that’s one of the perks of being a friend of the inn. Easy transit. Which is why I wanted to talk to you. Don’t worry, Erin didn’t send me, but I heard from a birdie called Typhenous that she was going to offer you a job.”

Jewel stiffened. Her teammates looked up. Word was already spreading? But then Jewel relaxed. So this was it. Erin was sending in a team to vouch for her. Classic upsell. Well—

She wasn’t prepared for the Selphid to glance around conspiratorially.

“Listen, Jewel. I think this is great for your team. A new group like the Horns? Wonderful. Just don’t mess it up, okay? And by that, I mean, don’t mess it up for her or for yourselves.”

“…Huh?”

Jelaqua looked more serious than Jewel thought. A good act—but then the Selphid nodded at Seborn.

“I just don’t want you to die. Seborn, you had a speech, right?”

The Drowned Man nodded.

“Yeah. Think of it like this. The Horns were Erin’s friends. A good Silver-rank team on their way up. Calruz, their leader, was low-Gold already, unofficially. Within a year of knowing her, all but one of the original team was dead or in prison. They killed an Adult Creler, and they’re now walking around with Relics after surviving a death-zone. That’s the odds. Us? We ‘only’ survived a siege, the Raskghar appearing for the first time, uh…”

“Moth attacks.”

Moore whispered. Ulinde waved a hand.

“Oh, and I joined up after I attacked you all!”

Jelaqua snapped her fingers.

Exactly. And we had a reckoning with our traitor, Garen. He died, and we put years of vengeance to rest. I’m going to include killing and looting Wall Lord Dragial as part of that. Speaking of which, Lehra had better get here and divide the shares up or I’ll get suspicious, huh?”

She laughed and looked around the table. Jewel’s mouth was open slightly as the Selphid grew serious again.

“That’s what I mean, Jewel. Be ready for danger. Really think if you want to do this. Now, I know you’re Gold-rank, but Saliss of Lights nearly got killed doing something Erin-related. Think about that. A war with the King of Destruction wasn’t Erin’s fault—”

“—that we can prove—”

“—But that’s the thing. Don’t be Vuliel Drae. Have you heard about them?”

Glitterblade had, but only in the vague way that things got around. Jelaqua related the story of the Face-Eater moth disaster.

“I feel like they’re the other side of things. Well, grandmother’s tits, everyone’s lost a teammate except for the Silver Swords. Griffon Hunt—it’s a chance. That’s what I’m going to tell you. Named-rank or death. Believe me, Erin doesn’t try to get you killed, but even her ordinary missions?”

Moore was nodding with the rest.

“If she asks you to take Mrsha to the playground, you could be fighting [Rogues] to the death in the street. That happened once. Not our team, but a gang.”

“It—it did?”

The half-Giant patted Jewel gently on the shoulder as the Halfseekers rose. Jelaqua tossed some coins down.

“Let us get the bill. You can pay us back, but like I said—if she makes you a [Knight], insist on some enchanted plate armor. Mithril. Pelt can probably make it. That’s the perks. But I don’t know if our team would go on retainer. I’ve said my piece. Erin will kill us if Jewel refuses.”

She turned, and Seborn nudged her.

“I’ll back you up.”

Moore nodded.

“I will too. It was something you had to say, Jelaqua…”

In silence, Hilten and Toimt looked at Jewel. She spluttered as she stared at Jelaqua’s back.

“That—was exaggeration. A bluff. Erin just sent Jelaqua to say that.”

“Why would she warn us off?”

“Reverse…reverse psychology! It’s mind-games. Listen, I don’t think Erin can pay us to work for her. Not as a Gold-rank team.”

Jewel was just getting up when someone else sat down at the table. He appeared so suddenly that the odds were he’d been camouflaged by a Skill, or invisible.

After all, there was no mistaking Grand Strategist Chaldion. Jewel jerked back in her seat as four big Drakes wearing Pallass’ armor stood next to the table. Chaldion twisted his ring, and Jewel’s ears popped as he deployed a privacy spell.

“This may be true. However, Pallass and I, personally, are willing to pay you a considerable sum to accept Miss Solstice’s offer, Captain Jewel. ”

“I—I—Grand Strategist Chaldion?”

The Drake knew her name. Not only that, he nodded at her teammates.

“Hilten Coroes and Toimt Ironvell. I trust I will not have to repeat myself that this conversation will remain private, even if not all of you accept Miss Solstice’s request.”

“We haven’t agreed to do that! We cannot be intimidated!”

Chaldion raised one brow as his gemstone eye gleamed at Jewel.

“No indeed? I trust, however, that you would not mind reporting anything and everything you hear for due recompense? I am prepared to be exceptionally generous. Per valuable secret, I will pay you ten thousand gold pieces if you bring me back something actionable.”

Jewel’s mouth went dry.

“Wh—are you asking us to spy for…?”

Chaldion waved this off at once.

“Nonsense. Spies have a limited lifespan in The Wandering Inn. This is above-board, and I believe Miss Solstice surely expects this. The difficulty is that pre-existing agents are difficult to acquire.”

He pursed his lips, and Jewel could not understand his frustration. Money was no object, and Pallass had many levers…

…Few of which worked on the inn’s permanent staff. Mrsha could be bribed with sweets, but she lied like she breathed. Lyonette was a [Princess] and difficult to cajole. Goblins didn’t really value money or threats, and Bird was an enigma.

As for Ishkr, well. He had proven far more difficult than Chaldion thought, and the adventurers were equally tough. Chaldion didn’t tarry long.

“I have quite a lot of business to attend to. Please go to Pallass and ask to speak to a Watch Captain or other official in the military if you choose to accept. I am not exaggerating your fee.”

He rose, and Jewel’s ears popped again as he deactivated the spell. This time, her teammates just watched her with folded arms.

Before Jewel could rally, before she could even scream or protest one last time, a third party moved over and sat down.

Grand Strategist Chaldion actually turned in the doorway, but Wil Kallinad just smiled and bowed to him. He didn’t even bother to use a privacy spell or lower his voice as he spoke.

“Excuse me, Captain Jewel. I would just like to introduce myself. I am—”

“Lord Kallinad. The Titan’s student.”

Jewel had had a bit of a…he had been the [Strategist] she’d rooted for at Daquin. She stared at him as Wil nodded politely.

“That’s correct. I won’t take up your time. I would just advise you to reconsider taking Grand Strategist Chaldion’s offer. It would be, in my opinion as a [Strategist]—unwise.”

“Is that a threat?”

Hilten looked alarmed, and Wil considered the question.

“…No. More like a simple statement or warning. Not from me, you understand. The Titan of Baleros simply wishes it to be made clear to everyone. Grand Strategist! Could I beg for a game of chess later?”

The Drake glowered as Wil rose, and Jewel sat there. Her teammates avoided her gaze as Jewel looked around. She licked her dry lips.

“…I—I think, before we do anything, why don’t we get a round?”

A tipsy team left the Drunken Gnoll, and only when they were gone did Timbor poke his head out from the back and stare at the table where Jewel had been.

So that was the damn reason why he kept levelling up! He wondered if he could offer Jewel free room and board.

 

——

 

In a vacuum, it sort of looked unfair. It might have seemed like bullying, what was happening to Jewel.

Or, conversely, a lot of handouts that were entirely undeserved. And that was fair, especially if you looked at Mrsha’s smug face and considered a lifetime of pancakes for breakfast, Gold-rank friends, and a magical inn.

However, all children had it good. Except for the ones who didn’t. Some adults might indeed work a difficult job with little thanks and pay. They did not dream of Belavierr.

The point was—if you were going to do this? This time, for The Wandering Inn, there was no excuse. Do it right or the next statue was your fault alone.

Erin Solstice knew that. That was partly why she was afraid. Afraid, because this time she had, with full knowledge of what might come, put the first piece in front of Skinner, in front of an Adult Creler.

How did the Pawn feel when it was promoted to the Queen piece or, rarely, the Knight piece and saw the sacrificial play?

Normen felt like he was dreaming. A dream where someone looked at him, the boy who only the Watch paid attention to, the petty thug, and pointed at him. Then the [Innkeeper], eyes burning with flame, told him he was worthy to be a [Knight].

He was honorable, after all. It wasn’t an act.

The dream became realer when Ser Dalimont took him aside. The Thronebearer was brisk, and out of all the [Knights], he alone didn’t really question what he’d seen. The others were uncertain, because a [Knight] was a [Knight].

And Normen was now a [Knight]. In fact, the graceful [Cleaner] Antinium aside, the inn had a lot of guests this morning. Now that the door was back, they were far more regular. And the usual crowd had returned for the spectacle.

However, no less than two whole tables were packed with men who paid for their breakfasts up front, tipped their hats but didn’t take them off at the door, and wore plain clothes, sometimes stained or patched in suspicious places.

Rough men. Honorable men. Dangerous men—but not to the little Gnoll girl currently trying not to throw up her first bite of the everything hotdog. Men who eyed Ceria taking a huge bite of a hotdog with more apprehension than they would a [Brute] with a serrated knife at night.

…They were still men of principle.

“It seems to me that this inn has excellent food, as it were. A fine play for Normen. No one ask for one of the ‘hot dogs’, though—it’d be a pity to be abed the rest of the day.”

One of the leaders, an [Enforcer], advised the others. He glanced sideways as Typhenous slowly tried to sneak out of the inn. The hatman’s eyes glinted as Erin turned.

“Typhenous, don’t run off! I need to speak to you!”

Every Brother turned and politely stared at the Plague Mage, who winced and gave her a pained smile. The Plague Mage would, of course, have preferred not to be in plain sight.

However, the garden door wasn’t working, and Typhenous was wondering if he’d upset Erin. Or if he were being trapped.

In fact, Mrsha had run face-first into a wall, along with Numbtongue, Lyonette, and a number of guests of the inn. Something was up, and everyone was glaring at Erin and wondering if she was holding the door open somewhere. However, the penny hadn’t dropped for them yet.

Normen was the center of attention, and all the men with hats turned back to Ser Dalimont. The [Knight] was doing something odd.

He’d taken a braid of rope and tied it into knots at set intervals. Now, he was wrapping it around Normen’s shoulder at the armpit, his legs, even his chest.

It was something any [Seamstress] or [Tailor] would have recognized instantly. Measuring rope—but all the hatmen listened intently as Dalimont spoke.

“Looks like you’re well within standards, Ser Normen. Here are the exact measurements—anyone can use it to adjust armor, but you wanted this, Miss Solstice?”

Ser Normen. The men sighed, and they looked at Normen like…

Well, Normen understood those eyes, filled with the kind of longing there were no good outlets for. You couldn’t equate that feeling with any other desire. Not even the burning desire to impress a lady, the need to swing a fist, or the fury of a good fellow who saw something wrong to correct.

This was deeper. He took a shuddering breath as Erin turned.

To her credit, the [Innkeeper] knew what she’d done, and she repeated the words.

“Ser Normen! I like it. Thanks, Dalimont. Pelt says he’s ‘busy’ and that I need to get an ‘order’ in. That’s fine. We had some ideas about armor, anyways.”

“Isn’t there some good Shield Spider armor on sale in the market? Silver-rankers use it. Smith Raekea also does very good iron for cheap. If you go to Pallass, Maughin’s steel is unbeatable for Skills.”

Yvlon turned, rattling off the different types of armor you could acquire, if only to distract herself from watching Ceria eat. There was more topping than hot dog.

Pisces was already down. Ksmvr’s mandibles shook as he hesitated over his bite. The [Necromancer] was trying not to puke as he clutched at his stomach. Erin shook her head in response to Yvlon’s question.

“No, we’ve got a plan. We need the best armor. Not even good—Mrsha. Weren’t you gonna—Mrsha?”

The Gnoll girl ran, covering her mouth, and slammed into a wall. The garden door wasn’t open, so she turned, realized she had no time, and—

Ooh. Everyone looked away. Lyonette closed her eyes as Silveran glanced over and gestured. This required some fast-drying alchemical powder, some dedicated soap, a few drops of deodorizer, and…

Ceria was still eating as Mrsha the Vomitous sniveled and wiped at her nose. At this, Ksmvr made a judgment call and hid his hotdog piece in his bag of holding before pretending he’d eaten it. The half-Elf looked around.

“Yeah, this isn’t great. But hey, food is food.”

The hatmen nodded at each other. The [Enforcer] chuckled.

“Gold-rank stomach. Now there’s a lady deserving of her level, I dare say.”

Everyone nodded judiciously and turned just as Ishkr bustled out of the kitchen with a loaded tray of food. Liska followed him, grumpy, but Ishkr served out the breakfast plates to the less-than-hungry guests.

However, a curious scent caught each fellow’s nose, and Mrsha looked up from crying to Lyonette and blaming her for not stopping Mrsha from her bad decisions. It was odd, slightly burnt, and Kevin whirled from trying to take another bite of his hot dog.

“Wait. Is that…?”

“I know there are a lot of morning tea drinkers here, but would you all care to take a sip of our complimentary drink this morning? We have, ah, coffee, from Oteslia. Freshly brewed.”

Lyonette nervously clasped her hands behind her back as she presented the first batch of something new. Liska showed around the mugs, steaming, as Ishkr offered them about.

“There’s free milk and sugar with them. We’ll be offering it here, exclusively, for breakfast. Or whenever you wish, but it, ah, wakes you up.”

The Brothers eyed the drink with a lot of reservations given what they’d just seen Ceria eat, but the [Enforcer] grimaced.

“I’ll have one, sir.”

“You sure, Beytoc?”

The man nodded.

“A fellow does not turn down free drinks from a lady. Do I add in the milk or…?”

He consulted with Lyonette, who helpfully advised him to try it black, and then moved on. Beytoc hesitated, because it was a peculiar smell coming from the mug, and he worried it was burnt.

However, one look to the side and he saw Kevin almost shoot out of his seat. Kevin took a mug, looked around, and shouted.

“Coffee? We have—Joseph! Where’s he? Joseph, Imani—coffee! Sugar, milk—lattes. Iced coffee. Frappuccinos. The only damn good thing about home—”

He was almost crying as the coffee-drinker used to a Starbucks or similar drink every day found his habit once more. He expertly swirled some milk and sugar into the cup and took a big sip. He sighed—then his eyes bugged out.

“Whoa. This stuff tastes strong. Good, though. Ishkr, how much do you have? Can I take a canteen? Two? I could store it on my desk.”

The Gnoll hesitated, but that encouraged Beytoc to take a drink. He swilled the bitter drink around and decided no, it wasn’t bad. Peculiar, but unique. Could use some sugar if they were offering it, but he could see it being good straight—

And then the [Enforcer] realized why Kevin had wanted the coffee so badly. Because that rush you got from tea? The energy of caffeine?

This was Oteslian-grown coffee. Whatever Rickel had found to form the basis of the coffee plants had benefited from the magic in this world. In short—this coffee was stronger than Earth’s average bean.

It didn’t overload the man’s system, but his eyes opened, and he took another sip.

“Now this is a fine way to wake up without a fellow putting a hammer to one of your toes. Try it.”

The other Brothers sat up and all requested a mug. Ishkr realized he’d need another tray. He looked for Liska and saw she had a mug and was sipping at it.

Liska! Go get another tray!”

He glared, but she kept drinking as she trotted into the kitchen.

Coffee in the inn. It wasn’t for everyone. Mrsha took one sip, spat it back out onto the floor for Silveran to clean, and handed her cup to Numbtongue to try as Lyonette grabbed her ear and scolded her. But then she turned to Erin and remembered Normen.

Oh! Right! She took Dalimont’s measurements and wrote, a huge frown on her face. Today was just not Mrsha-day. All these petty annoyances…

Ulvama sniffed the coffee mug, but didn’t like the scent. First witchy-magic—which she conceded Erin might not have done but that damn spider—now what?

Ulvama was a regular of the inn, but she hadn’t really seen Erin as much as the others. She had witnessed yesterday’s knighting and was in some shock. The [Innkeeper] could do that?

She was rapidly reconsidering Erin’s value. Her exile from Rags’ tribe was still a sore point. Technically, she was their [Shaman], but Rags hadn’t exactly rushed a Wyvern out to bring Ulvama back. The Hobgoblin had decided a life of pure hedonism wasn’t a bad thing, especially with Mrsha to tease. Now, though…

She read over Mrsha’s shoulder, and the Hob’s mouth opened. The [Shaman] stared at Mrsha, but the girl didn’t seem like she was lying like usual. Mrsha was writing a letter.

 

…and though it pains me, personally, to request anything in the way of personal debt, it would behoove you to send one of your suits of Demas Metal™ to the care of The Wandering Inn for one Ser Normen, [Knight]. Enclosed are his measurements.

You did promise me you’d help, and he needs armor. Please send it forthwith. Hoping you are alive, vaguely,

—Mrsha du Marquin.

 

And she’d get it. Ulvama pointed at Mrsha, but no one else seemed to notice. Numbtongue was going to take some coffee to Octavia. She was ranting about the Eir Gel shortage. Ulvama poked him.

“Hey. Little girl has Demas Metal? She gets a suit of armor? Like…”

Ulvama snapped her fingers. Disbelieving. One did not just ‘get’ a suit of armor! She was well aware of how valuable that was—no one else seemed to be! Numbtongue just wrinkled his nose.

“Her father makes it. Important Chieftain.”

“The first set is free? I know your…biological dad makes the stuff, but is it really okay, Mrsha?”

The Gnoll girl waved Erin off. Mrell owed her one suit of armor. And just like that—even the Thronebearers were glancing at Ser Normen. He was going to be wearing the new Demas Metal? Wasn’t that akin to a set of mithril armor…?

“Great. We’ll see about enchanting it later. Now, what kinda weapon are we gonna get? Actually, if Normen uses his club, we can get, like, an enchanted one. But if he needs to practice with a sword?”

Erin looked around and hesitated over a cup of coffee herself. She reached out, and a bleary, red-eyed Drake lifted it out of the tray. Saliss took one huge gulp, then two.

“Mm. Sorta weak. You don’t want a sword. Maces are good. Give the man a shield. That’s what he needs training in. Or something in his off-hand.”

Saliss!

Erin hadn’t seen the [Alchemist] in forever! The Drake turned to her.

“Looks like you’re on your feet. Magicing your way out of the problem, huh? Hey. What day is it?”

He looked awful. Mrsha exclaimed as Octavia practically bowled Numbtongue over as she shot out of her shop.

“Master Saliss! How are you?”

“Hey. Whoo. Look, it’s a naked Drake. Someone’s ancestors, I’m tired. Is this supposed to be waking me up? It’s not working.”

The yellow-scaled Drake looked far less annoying than usual. Erin wavered as Saliss sat down.

“It’s supposed to. It’s caffeine.”

The Drake eyed the coffee.

“Not stamina-replenishing, then? Just caffeine? It was better in Oteslia. But I had more sleep in me then.”

He sat down in a chair, groaning, as Octavia fussed around him.

“Master Saliss, you should have called me in to help! How are you? I haven’t seen you in a week!”

Saliss opened one eye.

“Some things I can’t get you to do. You’re not high-enough level, and I’m not scraping you off the walls. I’m nearly done with enough battle potions, and I’m poor. Wait. Did you say a week?”

Octavia nodded. The Drake stared at the coffee.

“…I thought it was only two days. Yeah, this might not be work—”

He put his head back, groaning. Everyone stared at him, but the Drake just lay there, head tilted up at the ceiling. Only when they heard the rasping snore coming out of his mouth did they realize he’d passed out.

“Was he awake for seven days? Don’t you die if you stay up for five in a row?”

Erin looked aghast. Lyonette just hurried over and threw a blanket over Saliss. He actually dodged the blanket. Saliss’ eyes shot open, and he whirled out of the way.

Damn you assassins—oh. Thanks.”

He lowered the vial, grabbed the blanket, wrapped himself up in it, and then hit the floor, already asleep again. Shriekblade stared down at Saliss. She crawled over the rafters and whispered down to Pisces.

“See? Named-rank. He knows about Roshal, too. They’ll stab you in your sleep.”

Ulvama kicked Saliss gently as he lay there. A Named-rank Drake, Numbtongue the [Bard]—who was at least Goblin Chieftain in level, if not authority—the [Innkeeper]. She folded her arms.

“Lots of power. None for me.

She was a [Shaman of the Old Ways] thanks to that meddlesome little man. However, Ulvama was a practical Goblin who had served under Tremborag. She knew that power was a tribe, not any one Goblin.

She had watched Tremborag die alone. The [Innkeeper] had figured out the basics of power in making that [Knight]. If Rags was never going to take her back—Ulvama figured she might as well begin consolidating power here.

It would be tricky with non-Goblins, but she figured she could at least get things she wanted, if not create a tribe. Numbtongue gave her a look of deep suspicion.

“Don’t cause trouble.”

“You have Stitch-girl. Shut up, fool. Go practice kicking each other between legs with [Farmer]. I don’t have relationship problems.”

She looked around. What she really wanted was maybe a bicycle. But you had to choose who had the most power. She eyed Erin.

Numbtongue gave Ulvama a sidelong look and laughed in her face.

“No chance with anyone here! This isn’t Mountain City tribe.

His derisive tone made Ulvama’s eyes narrow. She turned to Numbtongue and tugged at the Drake shirt she’d made Mrsha buy her that she’d adjusted, mostly by removing most of the upper section.

“I am an expert. Silly little Goblin. Anyone can be mine.”

…Which was exactly the reason why Rags was still not exactly welcoming her to Goblinhome. Numbtongue made a scoffing sound and turned away. The [Shaman]’s crimson eyes narrowed. She turned, put two fingers to her lips, and blew a kiss. Then she flicked a red, sparkling orb through the air.

It curved slightly across the room, and Kevin, talking excitedly with Joseph, yelped as it struck the back of his neck. He turned and felt a warm pair of lips on—Joseph blinked at Kevin’s neck.

“Whoa. Kevin, did she just—?”

Numbtongue just snorted in derision. That wasn’t high-level flirting. It was just magical flirting—he’d seen more poetic overtures in the Redfang tribe, like combing someone else’s Carn Wolf. Ulvama sneered at him.

“Easy is easy. Anyone. I know them.”

Kevin was, apparently, easy. Numbtongue raised his brows. This was a challenge? He thought—then grinned wickedly and pointed at the figure slowly hanging upside-down from a beam overhead. Shriekblade snatched one of Liska’s coffee mugs and scared the Gnoll so badly the rest of the tray went flying. Silveran bustled over. Oh dear, more cleaning? He might be here all day.

Ulvama laughed in Numbtongue’s face. She fished around in her belt pouches.

“Hmm. One second. Need silly Centaur’s leaves and other things.” 

Leaves? Dreamleaf? Then Numbtongue saw Ulvama pull out some distinctly powder-like stuff that made Octavia’s head snap around. The [Shaman] trotted over to Tessa, calling out.

“Scary adventurer girl. Want to have lots of mind-crazy things and—”

Oh no. Numbtongue dragged her back.

“Bad idea. Don’t do that.”

Ulvama hid the small pouch of powder as Tessa found yet another substance she enjoyed. She smirked at Numbtongue.

“Would work. See?”

She hid whatever it was so fast that Numbtongue suspected she hadn’t been serious. She was mocking him. His teeth bared furiously. Numbtongue looked around. What about…?

One of the [Knights]? Ser Solton, Dame Thuile, were all watching Normen. Ulvama scoffed.

“Takes time. Duh. Have to get behind armor. Under armor. Then—easy. Rich [Knight] is easiest. Likes money. All [Knights] are serious until armor comes off.”

Exasperated by her confidence, Numbtongue looked around. He felt like he was arguing the wrong thing—he didn’t like Ulvama’s surety that there was a way to push everyone’s button. Then he pointed down at Saliss.

“Aha!”

Ulvama peered down at the Drake, and her confident expression…flickered. She developed a huge frown and walked around the Drake. She nudged him with a toe—he twitched out of the way a few times—as Numbtongue smiled triumphantly at her.

Then Ulvama brightened up. She grabbed Mrsha’s notepad, tore off a piece, and stole a quill as the girl punched her leg. Ulvama’s eyes were triumphant as she wrote, then stuffed a bit of folded paper into Saliss’ mouth.

“There.”

The [Bard] gave her a disbelieving look as the [Shaman] walked off. Saliss woke up and spat out the piece of paper. He glanced at Ulvama, unfolded the paper, and his face didn’t change.

“No, I’m not selling you anything.”

He called out after Ulvama, and the Hob laughed. Saliss tucked the paper away and went back to sleep. Or at least, he closed his eyes. Numbtongue sneered at Ulvama, but she still claimed triumph.

After all, she’d written—

 

Want to come back later with me, pretty lady?

 

Which was a Relc-level line. And an Ulvama-level read. Saliss closed his eyes. There was just one problem. The one mistake Ulvama had made as an expert [Shaman] was this: she had read how to get to her target.

But now her target, Saliss, was seriously considering killing her.

 

——

 

The one person the [Shaman] was secretly glad that Numbtongue hadn’t pointed at was the young woman currently welcoming Jewel into her inn. Because if he had pointed at her, Ulvama would have obviously lied.

But, like a mountain climber staring at a glass wall, she would have had a really hard time finding even the beginning of a foothold. Everyone—in that reductive way Ulvama saw things like intimacy—could be gotten into. You got them mad, interested, and that was the first step.

Erin Solstice? Well. The [Shaman] would have had to really work out a plan. Nothing was impossible, though!

Except maybe Bird. But he was also a child, and a good one. He gave her all the eggs she wanted in exchange for stories about birds, made up and real.

Speaking of Bird, the Antinium was the first one to notice Erin’s big secret. Jewel was sitting in The Wandering Inn, drinking some coffee to sober up and not being pressured by Erin—just by Erin’s inn and everything else.

However, he was the only person not caught up in looking at Normen, watching Jewel’s colorful expression, or Ceria’s competition to find the most horrible food ever. By now, people like Menolit were challenging her, so she was spreading honey on some fermented sauerkraut. The smell was…

And yet, amidst all the chaos, Bird’s cheerful gaze fixed on Erin as she paused a second to stare at a tiny thing she took out of her pocket and hid in one hand. He peered at her—then walked over.

“Alright, alright! Stop bullying Jewel! Is that Wil? Man, is everyone gonna come in today? Welcome, welcome! Don’t step on Saliss.”

Everyone wanted a piece of the [Innkeeper], and Erin smiled to see the [Strategists] and Chaldion—and why not? She had just started a Knight Order. This was the day to talk to Erin, to see her wondrous moments in action.

It was just gonna make it really hard to explore the—Erin felt a hand tugging at her pocket. She whirled and shouted.

Who the—Bird! No, no—”

Bird had something in his hand. He fled away from Erin, waving his hands as she tried to chase after him, cursing her weak legs.

It is beautiful! I just want to see it!

“Bird, give that back!”

No one else noticed, even Chaldion, assuming Bird was just being a silly Bird. But Erin’s eyes opened wide, because he had just seen and taken something out of her pocket.

The feathered key. Bird. Feathers. He ran upstairs.

“I just want to look at it! It is so beautiful. I have never seen something like it before.”

“What did Bird steal? Mrsha, go get it back, would you? Erin, we are being swamped here.”

Silveran had stopped cleaning to help serve tables. Lyonette barely noticed Erin’s look of alarm. The [Innkeeper] pointed up.

“Bird just stole—Mrsha, go get it back. Put it in my room and don’t take it out, alright?”

Mrsha nodded. She scampered upstairs and hesitated.

“Wait, what am I getting?”

Erin waved her hands. It might be dangerous letting Mrsha do it, but if she went upstairs, people would watch her, and she didn’t want Bird showing it to anyone.

“It’s…just a small key. It looks like a feather. And it looks—”

She was trying to describe the bright metal under the rust when Mrsha’s face turned confused. Lyonette stared at Erin.

“…Like a feather handle and a strange, magical key?”

“Yeah—huh? How’d you know—?”

Then Erin Solstice felt that prickle on the back of her neck. She turned her head to what Mrsha and Lyonette were staring at. A little key was lying on the table next to Erin.

Erin’s mouth opened. Accordingly—there was a wail from upstairs. Bird came running down, all four arms flailing.

“Erin! Erin, I have lost it! I was looking at it, and I did not want to make it disappear, but I did! I have the ability to make things vanish! This is not a lie, I promise!”

Erin grabbed the key as a few heads turned her way. Okay—this was a new level of crazy. Bird calmed down.

“Oh, you have the—”

Lyonette slapped a hand over his mouth, and Erin bit her lip. Oh no.

There was a problem with her clientele. And that was ever since Grimalkin, they had been growing increasingly wise to her methods and, sometimes, even her act. Post-Grimalkin guests were sharp.

So sharp, in fact, that Wil and Peki, who had both come in after Jewel, instantly, casually, turned. Wil began writing in a [Message] scroll, and Peki leapt out the door to find her teammates.

Chaldion’s eye gleamed as he removed it and inserted his [True Sight] one. Even Saliss’ head rose slightly. Erin Solstice cursed.

How many had seen the key? No, they hadn’t even seen it; Lyonette had been standing in the way of it, but it was Bird’s commentary. They were pressuring her timeline. But—Erin Solstice blew out her cheeks.

“Alright. That’s it. Employees, huddle in the kitchen! You too, Normen, Alcaz!

Numbtongue looked around, and Bird, Lyonette, Mrsha, Octavia, even Ulvama, drifted in after Erin. Ishkr was already there with Liska—and Erin pointed.

“Oh no. Not guests!”

That included Gothica, a snooping Fierre, and a crowd of others. The Thronebearers blocked the doorway as Normen and Alcaz ducked in.

“Erin, what’s going on?”

The [Innkeeper] waited until Ser Dalimont raised a thumb and deployed a privacy Skill. Even then, she talked quietly, twisting her own ring.

“Alright. This is sort of related to Normen’s new class. Guess what? I leveled up too! Not to detract from your big moment, Normen, but—”

“You did? Erin! You’re so close to Level 50!

Lyonette gasped, and Ulvama’s eyes bulged. Numbtongue’s jaw dropped, and Mrsha danced around in delight. Cake! This called for cake, dead gods damnit! Yet Erin wasn’t done.

“Yeah, but this was the weirdest level yet. Just listen—I didn’t get a Skill. I got something to do with the [Garden of Sanctuary]. I got…”

She showed them the Key of Reprieve, and everyone stared at it. Bird took the key.

“Ooh. So pretty.”

“Bird! This is all your fault! Don’t just take the key!”

The Antinium looked stunned at the accusation from Lyonette.

“I just wanted to look at it, Lyonette. It is not stealing if I give it back.”

Lyonette had cottoned onto the problem of the guests. She pulled at her hair in exasperation.

“Yes, but now Chaldion and the others will make a scene—although how bad would that be, Erin?”

“I dunno! I can’t open the Garden! I’m sure the key’s changed something. I was gonna investigate it, but I don’t want the others crimping our style.”

“So that’s why it’s not appearing. I thought Mrsha was just keeping it open somewhere.”

Octavia slapped her forehead. Erin nodded. She didn’t mind sharing the garden, but in truth—it was just so fun and wonderful that she didn’t want someone to ruin the experience by talking about ‘worldwide ramifications’ and essentially commodifying her new Skill. Like the [Strategists]. And it seemed like she had some agreement.

Bird still refused to give the key back—until it vanished. It just disappeared from his hand, and Erin blinked at it in hers.

“Whoa. See—that’s magic.”

“I just want to look at it!”

Bird pouted and snatched it back a third time. Lyonette covered her face.

“Bird, it’s not even a bird. It’s a key with a feather handle. Can’t you just…? I’ll get you another feather.”

“No, no, no! This key is special! Because I have never seen this feather before!”

Bird shook his head rapidly. The exasperated look on Lyonette’s face faded.

“Huh? Don’t be silly, Bird. It’s just a regular feather. Or an engraving.”

“You silly [Princess]. This is a fully-functional feather. I would know. I am Bird. I have never seen this…tapered end. It is actually shrunk—the pinion feather would be far larger. Perhaps even twice as long as the key? Yes, a wing-feather. One of the largest ones on a wing.”

Erin’s mouth opened. Bird expertly showed the others the key.

“See how tiny the actual fibers of the feather are? It should be about this big.”

He gestured with his hands. And that was a big bird it came from. Erin hesitated.

“What—are you sure, Bird? It could just be art.”

“Most artists who are not [Bird Watchers] cannot draw birds well, Erin. This is anatomically correct. But why the diagonal edges? I don’t know what kind of bird this came from. It must be a super-bird. A…”

“…Harpy.”

The word dropped into the kitchen, and Normen and Alcaz turned. Numbtongue blinked and then looked at the speaker.

Ulvama was staring at the key. The [Shaman of the Old Ways] blinked, and the slightly clouded expression in her eyes vanished. Mrsha’s head snapped up, and Lyonette stopped protesting anything. Erin’s head slowly rose, and she recalled something.

When Eldavin had walked in the garden, hadn’t he said that it belonged to someone he knew? 

Sheta, an [Empress] of…

“Harpies. This is a harpy-key. Or feather. For a Legacy Skill. I have never seen a Skill with a key.”

Ulvama’s eyes gleamed as she looked at Erin. The young woman took a deep breath, and her heart was fluttering. Bird whispered.

“Harpies? Are we going to see Harpies today?”

Erin shook her head.

“I don’t know, Bird. But I need to find the garden, find out what’s going on—”

“And find the right door. Belavierr realized you found the key. That’s why she flooded my rooms. Erin, this is big. Super big.”

Mrsha held up a notecard solemnly, and Erin saw Lyonette’s face grow tight with worry. Everyone looked towards the door, and Normen cleared his throat.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Erin. Maybe we should distract the others while you do what’s needed? That seems like a knightly thing to do.”

He smiled. Erin looked at him and then waved a finger in front of his surprised face.

“Oh no. You’re employees of the inn! You, Alcaz, Ishkr, Liska—”

“Me?”

“And me?

The two Gnolls were surprised, but Erin folded her arms. She glanced out towards the curious guests. So the [Innkeeper] sighed—then smiled.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do. We unlock the garden. We go in and find out what’s new. No one else. Maybe friends—but none of the nosy nosers. Think we can do it?”

Mrsha developed the biggest smile in existence. Numbtongue chortled, and Octavia grinned, pleased to be part of it all.

The game was afoot. Outside, the opponents looked at each other. Oh, so we’re competing, are we? 

Bring it on.

 

——

 

Oh, to be there. Not during the boring, exasperating parts. That was the trick. You had to be willing to put up with the disgusting hotdogs, the [Innkeeper] panicking to no point. The boring mundanity of it all.

For the moments when magic ran through the floorboards and crept up out of the tower to rain down like mystery and adventure. For the wonder.

When the [Innkeeper] turned to you with the glint of mischief and excitement in her eyes—that was when you were called forwards.

Some of them hadn’t even had the chance to experience it. The Titan of Baleros had only gotten to fight a war against a living legend.

Not once had he seen that smile. Erin Solstice’s look of mischief made his chest do funny things as she made shooing motions towards Venaz.

“Nothing’s going on, Venaz. Wait a second, is that a scrying orb?”

She looked into it, and the Titan froze—a second before Foliana put her face in the way.

“Mm. Thank you for the snacks.”

Oh my gosh. It’s a giant squirrel!

“It’s a short Human.”

Foliana threw up her hands lightly, copying Erin. The [Innkeeper] laughed in delight as Niers swore and tried to edge around her.

“Hello! Are you Three-Color Stalker? I mean, Foliana? You’re so beautiful.

The Squirrel Beastkin smiled.

“I like you. You should work for me. We’re spying on you. Look, here’s Niers.”

She picked him up, and the Titan struggled wildly until he hung from his coat. Erin’s first true eye contact with Niers was sudden, undignified—and her eyes lit up.

“Hello! It’s you, isn’t it? Nice game yesterday. I loved that improvisation near the end. But ooh! You got me. I hate losing. Game tonight?”

His heart was thundering out of his chest. But at her casual words—Niers Astoragon felt himself being lowered onto Foliana’s paw. He looked at her and was reminded—this was also his chess opponent.

“I—good morning, Erin. It was about time I took a victory off you. A game tonight, indeed. What are you doing?”

Her eyes twinkled.

“Nonya.”

“Nonya?”

Nonya business! Gottem. Relc, high-five!”

The Titan stared blankly as Foliana began to twitch and crack up silently next to him. Erin high-fived a Drake who spotted Foliana and then froze. The [Innkeeper] whirled away from the scrying orb.

Alright, who else is spying on me? Nothing’s going on! Nothing at all! And if there was—what are you going to do about it?

Go with her, obviously! The people in the inn were watching Erin like a hawk, but Ser Dalimont cut in front of Wil Kallinad smoothly, and no one could tell what was happening. Yet.

But the newly knighted Ser Normen was heading out of the back of the inn with Mrsha and a bundle of cloth, and Bird was hurrying up to his tower. By now, the [Spies] were treating this like a training exercise or a grand game.

 

——

 

“I don’t think our agents have had this much fun in Calanfer or Taimaguros.”

Earl Altestiel of Desonis was amazed. Kiish wasn’t even back yet, and the Sleeping Queen herself eagerly awaited the <Heroic Quest> that Erin had offered him. They were mobilizing a task force—and Erin just kept coming out with—

Well. He stared at her much the same way as the Titan, but also differently. The Earl could at least admit when a campaign had gone wrong. Or rather, he’d launched his attack and hadn’t even claimed a beachhead.

Even so, Erin-watching wasn’t just for romantic interests. If it had been, Altestiel didn’t think the man who sashayed across the room with a bowl of the new popped corn would be here.

The Lord of the Dance, Belchaus Meron, could not help but try the new ideas in footwork that he’d been hearing about. Obviously there were other elements, but he cared about the more individualistic dances of the modern century paired with whatever insights Earth had come up with.

Nothing for four legs or with people with tails or wings, but—well.

He’d leveled. Twice.

Nothing was scarier for his foes. Nothing was more astonishing for his allies. The Lord of the Dance was leveling.

“This is her?”

Like Niers, he stopped a second to take Erin Solstice in. Altestiel turned from his scrying mirror.

“This is Erin. What do you think?”

The Lord of the Dance saw Erin walking somewhat awkwardly around the inn.

“I can see she’s been injured. That looks like improper healing potions to me.”

“Potion of Regeneration on a frozen body?”

Lord Bel frowned and slid the popcorn bucket over between the two men.

“I suppose…does she have any galas-muscle? Nevermind, if she’s walking, then she’ll continue to heal naturally so long as she doesn’t continue applying potions. She looks mischievous. I would love to see how she dances.”

Altestiel rolled his eyes. A hammer saw the world in terms of nails. Similarly, the Lord of the Dance always asked that question.

“What do you think she’s—”

Dead gods, what’s that?

Belchaus had seen a merrily spinning Antinium whirling around with a mop in the background.. Altestiel saw him shoot to his feet.

“A dancing Antinium?”

“No, focus on Erin. She’s up to something—Bel. Lord Bel, I swear to Desonis—

The two [Lords] fought over the scrying orb, shouting at their poor [Observer] to focus on Silveran, Silveran. A poor servant watched the two leaders of their nations squabbling like boys.

But that was the thing. Lord Bel looked at the inn and threw up his arms. He copied Silveran.

“He’s waltzing. A Calanfer—I should have gone with you! I want to go there!”

And that was it. They wanted to be there, even if they had never gone before. That was the magic.

Even Fetohep of Khelt, perhaps. Not to dance, but to just be there and speak to her in her land. Walk with her and see what happened next.

The Lord of the Dance, Altestiel, Niers Astoragon, Fetohep—and many more people watched The Wandering Inn. Warily, as friends or foes.

Longingly.

The difference was that some said nothing, just watched because they were rulers of a land and could not leave. Not now, no longer.

Others? Lehra Ruinstrider stood up in the rocking cart as Suxhel shielded her scrying orb.

To Liscor! We’re missing all the excitement!

She began to run ahead of her team on the wagons. For about ten minutes, until she got tired, flopped down, and crawled back into the wagon.

Some people were on their way. Others, like Niers, had missed his chance. Altestiel watched with a kind of longing nostalgia. Lord Bel stopped whirling about telling his subordinates to get on the scrying orb and came back into the room.

“Alright. It’s settled.”

“What’s settled?”

The Lord of the Dance gave Earl Altestiel a peculiar look.

“My vacation, obviously. We won’t be able to take your land-route, but I’ll get there faster. Hopefully to see something else as fine.”

He smiled as the Earl of the Rains spluttered.

“You can’t be so—casual?”

“Why not? I don’t intend to go a-courting.”

So said the greatest [Lord] of Nadel, who had swept many a person off their feet with that casual confidence, married or not. Before Altestiel could say anything else, the [Innkeeper] whirled on camera. The twinkle in her eyes was still there.

Mrsha! Don’t drop the—oh no!

 

——

 

Half the guests were outside the inn, wandering after Normen and Mrsha, who had that suspiciously bulging bundle. The Gnoll girl was urging him onwards, and she got in front of Normen such that he tripped.

The cloth bundle went tumbling to the ground, and Erin appeared in the doorway to her inn. She pointed and shouted.

The Helm of Fire! Don’t let anyone grab it!”

The what? Everyone whirled to the glowing helmet. Jaws dropped as the flaming helmet—a bright pink flame—burned in Normen’s hands. Then he and Mrsha began running.

Inside the inn, Ceria Springwalker had two mugs in hand, and she was laughing herself sick. The regular guests of the inn, even the talented newcomers like Venaz, didn’t rise to the bait. They had seen Ser Dalimont’s helmet suddenly go missing and Ulvama head into Octavia’s shop with a brush. A bit of fire and hey, presto, distraction.

“Oho. You lot aren’t bad. Well, I guess you all get to stay.”

Erin Solstice smirked at the guests left in the inn. She walked over to the door and locked it from the inside. Ishkr was securing windows.

Mrsha and Normen were the distraction play. They would come back through one of the windows.

“So, Miss Solstice. Which is it? Quest, something to do with your garden, magical fire?”

Chaldion sat at one table. Erin eyed him.

“Nothing! Why don’t you all go back home. Nothing’s happening.”

“I believe I’ll sit.”

“Okay. Suit yourself. I’m going upstairs. Food and drink is downstairs. Anyone who wants to follow me can. At your peril.”

The [Innkeeper] skipped upstairs, whereupon Menolit, Relc, and a host of other guests hesitated. It was entirely conceivable she could pull one over on them and disappear up there. Sitting was Chaldion’s play—he refused to get up.

The Titan took the bait. He sent Wil upstairs with Relc and the others. They saw Erin heading into her room.

“Hey, private!”

“Aw, come on, Erin. Don’t leave me out of this! You need a Relc.”

“Oh no, buddy.”

Erin wasn’t going inside the garden, so everyone followed her through the door. Was it in her private room? Relc hurried through the door with Menolit. Erin’s room looked—different from what he remembered.

Bigger? No, just less furnished. He called out.

“Come on, Erin. I know you said family or employees or whatever, but I’m part of this inn!”

Which was true. He was just an unfortunate casualty. Some people like the Horns had every right to join in, but this was a game. Relc looked around as a dozen fools followed him through the door. Then someone shut it.

“Wait a moment. This isn’t Erin’s room.”

Relc realized something suddenly. There were no chess sets in here. He looked around. Then he saw someone snatch a glowing stone from the door. He looked up as Alcaz tipped his hat.

“I’m afraid we’re all out of luck, gentlemen.”

Relc’s jaw dropped as Alcaz flicked the mana stone into a bag of holding. Then—he looked around. They had gone through a door. The wrong door.

They were, in fact, in—

Timbor Parithad came upstairs and saw nearly a dozen people in one of his guest rooms. Wil bit his tongue as Merrik laughed in delight. This was as good as the games at Daquin! Relc raised his fists to the sky.

Erin! Eriiiiiiin!

 

——

 

Poor Alcaz. He’d be making his way into the inn if he could shake off an angry Relc. Erin smirked—and then Ishkr closed the portal door. He and Liska hauled it up and his sister grumbled.

“This thing is heavy. Do we have to drag it down to the portal room now? It took eight minutes to figure out how to get it out of those stupid clasps!”

“Liska…just lift your end higher.”

Ishkr growled. Erin waved at both of them.

“Sorry, guys. I appreciate it!”

The portal door was an old trick, but it required moving the door itself around, which was getting harder and harder these days. Still, in the name of annoying guests, no cost was too high. Erin peeked downstairs and saw Venaz and Peki hadn’t fallen for the trap.

Neither had Chaldion, Saliss, nor a number of the smartest guests. Altestiel’s agent was a Gnoll who hadn’t left, and Erin counted.

“…Twenty-three. Do you have two scrying orbs, Venaz?”

“Wil had one. I have another. Backups exist for a reason.”

Niers had the numbers to cover all bets. Chaldion, by contrast, had been so sure Erin was playing tricks that he hadn’t ordered any of his bodyguards after her. Erin saw him glancing her way. Her smile grew wider.

“Alright. Time to get serious.”

What did that mean? The guests hesitated as she headed back upstairs. Chaldion waited a minute as a few guests hesitated, wary of another portal-trap. Then he stood up.

“Saliss, what is she doing?”

“Making the world’s top [Strategists] look like complete idiots? I love this inn.”

The Drake was smirking from his table. Chaldion hesitated—then began to summit the stairs slowly. He looked up, cursed, and called out.

“[Forcewall].”

Venaz strode up the stairs—but not onto the second floor. He blinked.

A shimmering [Forcewall] was blocking the way. Behind it? A frozen wall of ice. He could vaguely see, behind that, a wall of bone. Chaldion pointed at it.

“Break it down.”

“It could be a trick, Grand Strategist.”

The Drake glared.

“She’s going into her garden. Break it down.

 

——

 

Sometimes you just used a hammer or a wall when you needed time. Erin Solstice heard the first people pounding on the wall, but unless Saliss helped out, she counted only some burly [Bodyguards], Venaz, and Peki. Ceria’s ice spells could stop even the [Martial Artist].

Chaldion had, in fact, fallen for a classic fork maneuver in chess. Either he went up and maybe got teleported or he missed the real ploy—

Namely, Lyonette, Bird, Numbtongue, Ulvama, and the other employees emerging from upstairs rooms. Erin peered out her room’s window.

“Mrsha!”

“Let her in and shut the window!”

“But Normen—”

The [Knight] was running up the hill. He threw Mrsha up, and she landed on the roof and scampered up. Just in time—a [Spy] leapt up after her, slammed into the window a second after Erin closed it, and tried to open it.

Locked. And Bird’s door was closed. The second and third floors were now closed off, and Erin shouted.

Break my windows and Shriekblade will poke you with her knives. Alright, guys. We’ve done it.”

She looked at her squad. Numbtongue, Mrsha, Ulvama, Octavia, Bird, Erin herself, Lyonette, Ishkr, Liska, Ser Dalimont, and Ser Sest. The others had sacrificed themselves for this.

“This is such a silly game, Erin.”

Lyonette looked exasperated as she checked to make sure Chaldion wasn’t breaking anything other than the magic walls. Erin shrugged.

“Eh, it’s funny. Now, um…did anyone find the [Garden of Sanctuary]’s door?”

That was the plan while they all searched. Liska raised one paw.

“It wasn’t in the basement.”

“Damn. Kitchen? Outside?”

“I walked all the way around the inn, Miss Erin. No door.”

“Second floor? Third?”

“I looked from the roof, but nothing, Erin.”

“It’s in no one’s room—I couldn’t open some of them, but Erin, you can’t just call it?”

The young woman’s face fell.

“No. And I’ve been trying. All I have is this key.”

She waved it around, annoyed. The garden’s door should have been there!

Mrsha stared at the door and then eyed the thumping on the magical walls. They weren’t lasting long.

“The door’s the wrong one. Belavierr said the door had changed.”

“It did? I mean—I don’t have another door besides the portal one. Maybe I have to summon it? Come forth, the real door to the [Garden of Sanctuary]!

Erin spoke grandly, pointing at the hallway wall. There was a shout, muffled by Ceria’s ice.

She said the garden! Erin, let us in!

“Ah, heck. How’d Relc run back so fast? Wait, how’d he get into the inn? Darn. I thought we’d find the door and—”

Erin was panicking slightly as everyone thought. If they had a Ryoka Griffin here, the expert in fae rules, Erin was sure they’d have figured it out.

And credit where credit was due…Ishkr peered at the unique key. Lyonette inspected it as she turned to Ser Dalimont.

“That key looks like it fits a very magical lock. I can’t imagine it would work unless it was magic. Maybe the motif—it looks sort of like plants. It needs something to do with plants? Garden? Plants?”

“Maybe. Or maybe you need a [Druid]? Mrsha, what if you—”

Click.

Everyone turned. Ishkr looked up and blinked. The key was sticking out of Erin’s door. He’d closed the door, inserted the key, and turned it in the lock.

There was no way Erin’s key should have fit that door. Especially given the size. Yet, as Erin’s eyes bulged, she saw the key was smaller in the lock than before.

“Ishkr?”

“I…wondered if it would fit any door. The garden’s door was always there. So if you had a key to no door—”

The sensible, logical [Head Waiter] gestured. Ulvama slapped her face.

“Duh. Everyone is stupid but Gnoll. Including me.”

“Ishkr! You genius!”

Erin reached for the handle as Ceria’s ice wall cracked and someone began kicking down the bone wall. She hesitated.

Then looked around.

Wait a second. This was really silly. Why was she making a game out of this? Erin supposed that she just didn’t want a crowd to invade whatever the garden was. She wanted something of the discovery, like when Mrsha had wandered into it the first time.

“But this is really silly, even for me. Maybe I’ve gotten a bit too pranky, guys.”

“No, Erin. The last thing we need is a bunch of scrying orbs. Just open the door.”

Lyonette looked exasperated. Erin looked at her, then blinked and nodded.

“You’re right. Alright, [Garden of Sanctuary]! You’d better have something impressive to show us or I’m gonna be mad!”

Venaz was putting his shoulder into the cracking bone wall with a Drake as Peki backed up for a flying kick. Erin stuck out her tongue at the glaring Drake. Then she put her hand on the doorknob as the key gleamed in the lock.

…And…froze.

“Erin? What are you doing?”

Lyonette spoke urgently as the Minotaur kicked the pieces of bone aside, snorting. Numbtongue prodded Erin—but then he stopped.

The [Innkeeper]’s face had frozen. Her eager smile stopped dead on her face. Because as Erin went to twist the doorknob, she heard something she hadn’t for a long while.

A…ringing. Like a bell. It was ringing in her head. Slowly, the [Innkeeper] let go of the doorknob. The sound stopped. The moment she put her hand on the door? It returned. A ringing in her head no one else could hear. Her heart began to thump again.

[Dangersense].

 

——

 

Jewel hadn’t been paying attention to the games at the inn. One look at the Titan of Baleros and she was ordering a second round.

She missed the commotion, ignored the noisy smashing of magical barriers on the second floor. Only when people began being ejected from the inn did she look up.

“Okay, everyone out. Sorry, game’s over. All spies, non-critical guests—out. Back it up! Mrsha, you’re going outside with the Thronebearers.”

No. Noooo! NOOOOOO!

A thrashing Gnoll girl holding a series of notecards flailed in Dame Ushar’s arms. Jewel raised her head as a [Princess] strode past her.

“Get her out of here. Tell Zevara, Dalimont, and if you so much as hear a sneeze—”

“You will be able to tell the Watch Captain yourself, Princess. You are coming with us.”

“Absolutely—let go of—Erin! Apista was in the garden! What happened to her?”

“We’re gonna find out.”

Erin Solstice reappeared, and Jewel’s own internal sense of danger spiked. The [Innkeeper] was back—and she had a knife and jar of acid in her hands. The Hobgoblin had a sword, and Erin was looking around the room.

“We could use you, Venaz. Chaldion, you in or out?”

“I would ask you to wait for a squad from Pallass.”

The [Strategist]’s eyes were glinting with excitement and wariness. Erin frowned at him.

“Are they better than Gold-ranks?”

He hesitated. The Horns of Hammerad were getting up, wary. But a Drake just pushed past both.

“How loud’s the alarm? Minor? A loud bell? Screaming?”

“Uh—uh—low ringing, Saliss.”

The Drake nodded.

“That’s okay, then. You’ve got me. Who else?”

Erin jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

“Normen, Alcaz, Numbtongue, me—”

Absolutely not.

Half her guests chorused. Erin glared about.

“It’s my garden! Okay, here’s the plan. Who goes in first?”

“Me.”

Saliss stretched. Chaldion snapped back.

“Absolutely not.”

“Ignore the old idiot. I go in—Horns on standby. Halfseekers here?”

“We could send in a decoy skeleton—”

“Ice elemental?”

Ceria suggested. Erin looked around, and her eyes fell on the [Swashbuckler] and her team.

“Jewel?”

So it was then that the Gold-rank adventurer found herself sobering up twice that morning. Normen, Alcaz, two Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, the Horns of Hammerad, Numbtongue…Saliss walked down the line, completely naked.

“Alright. What an oversized crew to take on the garden. Where’s the door?”

Erin pointed to the key, still in the lock. Saliss eyed it. He produced a single, tiny vial that set off everyone’s [Dangersense] again.

“Got it. Give me five seconds. You open the door, keep it a crack open, and if I don’t say anything, send the expendable ones after me. Dungeon rules.”

“What about a minion—?”

Pisces gestured to a pile of bones. Saliss raised his brows.

“It’s the garden. I am playing it up a bit. Whatever’s in there probably isn’t the worst if Erin’s dangersense is just ringing. So, on three. Erin, I think you have to pull the door open.”

He was jiggling the handle, which would have really ruined the suspense if he’d gotten it open. Probably just as planned. Erin caught her breath. Now—she felt apprehensive as she reached for the doorknob.

“Erin, if you need backup—”

Niers Astoragon’s voice warred with Chaldion snapping from below.

“Adventurer Saliss, [First Forwards, First Out]!”

“Wonderful.”

Saliss rolled his eyes, but he hopped from foot to foot, a claw on the vial’s cork. Erin gulped. She grabbed the doorknob.

“Let’s just pull it open a tiny bit, Saliss.”

“Nah, throw it open. I leap in and you close it if I start screaming. Death or glory! For the Walled City of Inventions!

“Stop that! Stop making me nervous! I’m gonna pee. Shriekblade? I forgot you were there!”

“…My [Dangersense] is going off too. Not from Saliss’ kill-vial.”

Tessa spoke quietly. She was staring at the door. The Gold-rank adventurers looked up. Jewel nearly swallowed her tongue. Ceria adjusted her circlet and narrowed her eyes.

“Something’s weird. Erin, I’m sensing—”

The [Innkeeper] turned and looked around uncertainly. Her hand twisted the knob slightly.

“Should I—?”

The door to the [Garden of Sanctuary] opened. Erin felt something kick her, and she went flying across the hallway. Something heavy, cold—wet

Saliss of Lights and Tessa dodged. Tessa clung to the ceiling, and Saliss did a flying backflip, looked back, swore and laughed, and ran.

Ksmvr was tangled up trying to shield Pisces. Numbtongue stabbed his sword into the ground and didn’t move far, but all the others were knocked flying. Jewel looked up as a white wall of powder hit her.

For the second time that day, the inn’s hallways flooded as an avalanche of snow came pouring through the door. Erin Solstice tumbled down the stairs, screaming and slashing with her knife.

The guests on the bottom floor stared as a howling vortex of wind poured out of the door. Saliss whirled just in time to see Tessa drop. She stared through the garden’s door and then nodded.

Shriekblade drew her daggers as Saliss popped an ice-resistance potion. He saw the other Drake’s claw flash to her belt, draw a glowing dagger, and throw it. She said two words before she sprang through the doorway, more knives appearing in her hands.

“Snow Golems.”

 

——

 

Erin wondered if this was what it was like being dead and frozen. She flailed around in the snow until someone hauled her out.

Venaz kicked through the snow, looking disbelieving as people shouted.

“What is going on? Venaz, status report!”

The Titan was shouting as Chaldion spoke rapidly into a stone.

“Send them through now. I want ice-resistance gear and flame weapons. Where are the Flamewardens?”

Ice was packed into Erin’s ears. She had to dig it out and felt the horrible sensation of ice lodged deep into her canal. She spat out snow—she could have suffocated! A terrible way to die.

What the hell was—

It’s snow!

Jewel poked her head out of the snow, dazed. But a half-Elf exploded upwards, sweeping it away from her team.

“It’s not just snow! There’s a damn blizzard up there.

“And Snow Golems! Get your asses in here!

Saliss roared from above. Erin saw Yvlon charging up the stairs, arms morphing into spikes. The inn was in chaos, but somehow, Erin was relieved.

“It’s not Crelers! Wait, did he say snow? Apista’s in there!”

She struggled to get up, but Normen was hauling her back.

“Miss Solstice, it’s not safe—”

“You’re a [Knight]. This is my inn! Let’s get in there!”

She shouted at him. He hesitated, but the Horns were already up and the shouting was excited—not alarmed. Erin didn’t wait. She tried to climb up the stairs and found that climbing through chest-high snow was hard.

“One side. Peki, Merrik, on me!”

Venaz charged into the snowdrift, trying to unsheathe his greatsword in the tight hallway. Peki followed him with a warcry.

Both slammed into the snowdrift as the snow compacted into a wall. The Horns had swept it aside with Ceria’s magic, but more kept pouring through.

Merrik stared as Venaz flailed wildly, trying to bulldoze forwards. Then he and Peki backed up, spluttering. Calmly, the Dwarf turned.

“We’re gonna need flame spells. Or another [Cryomancer].”

Erin hopped anxiously from foot to foot. All she heard were muffled shouts from above. The Horns, Saliss, and Tessa were up there. Oh—and Numbtongue, who hadn’t been swept away.

“Flame spells! Flame—Bezale, Palt!”

The two Wistram [Mages] came forwards and began melting the snow into icewater. Erin realized she could conjure her own—but decided to let the two do the work.

Icewater and snow ran down onto the floor, and the flames were scorching the hallway.

It was going to need some buffing out. And more water damage. An Antinium with a bucket happily sloshed water out of the basement. Silveran might be here all week!

By now, the people outside were realizing that the situation was not Creler-critical. But Lyonette’s greatest fear as she clutched a struggling Mrsha was the same as the girl’s and, surprisingly, Niers’.

What about Apista?

 

——

 

Apista the bee had been feeling weird all day. Of course, she didn’t fly as much, so she put it down to ground sickness.

She was getting used to being a lot slower around places. Crawling, not flying. Of course…she was sad about it.

But the little white Mrsha girl was back, and the inn was alive, and so she considered it a worthwhile trade. After all, one did not simply fly into the Meeting of Tribes, sting the greatest Gnoll [Shaman] in the eye—and Belavierr—and pay no cost.

She had been napping a lot in the garden, because all the feet were now life-threatening hazards. So of all the inn’s guests, Apista was the first to notice no one was coming through the garden.

She had made a little nest with Bird’s help in the jungle section. He had made her an actual bird’s nest and added a lot of fluff from his pillows for her. Apista had been waiting for Mrsha to run in to go to breakfast with her.

Sometimes the silly little Gnoll forgot, but then Apista just had some flowers. But Mrsha didn’t appear. And Apista realized—no one was coming into the garden.

It had confused her greatly. She had tried to make the door appear—and she normally could, yet nothing had happened. Then—then had come the click that rang through the garden. And the bee realized that it wasn’t her that was off.

Everything was. The [Garden of Sanctuary] was humming. Apista looked up, and the bee would have shouted if she had but a voice.

What was that? What was THAT? And what was happening to—she spun around and then crawled rapidly back to the safest spot in the garden: the hill with the statues. Because—the garden was going crazy!

The dome overhead had been faithfully reflecting the sky over Liscor. Mildly cloudy with no chance of rain, autumn, cool. The water mist that swept around the garden had been slightly chilly, but the bee avoided getting wet.

Nothing in Apista’s admittedly limited knowledge of climatology had suggested a snowstorm.

It was howling through the top of the garden, although the freezing cold wasn’t permeating that far down. But it was clear that outside this shelter, a new ice age had come! Fat snowflakes drifted down, dissolving, and Apista realized she and everything in here might freeze if the temperature dropped.

She had to—find shelter! The bee hesitated. The hill with the statues was no safe place. Maybe she had to dig a hole, use her limited ability to make fire to set parts of the jungle ablaze? Oh—oh—the bee rotated and then decided to make a beeline for her nest instead.

It took her nearly ten minutes to climb back to the jungle section, whereupon she realized two things.

Wait a second. Firstly, the snow coming down from above kept melting before it reached the ground. Second?

It wasn’t getting colder. The laws of thermodynamics meant that heat should be escaping the dome, but it wasn’t freezing. The bee expected the temperature to drop, but it hadn’t changed at all.

Ergo, she might not be about to freeze to death. The bee poked her head out of her nest, fanning her good wing.

Even so, what the heck was going on? She crawled over to one wall, staring up at the hole in the dome. Absently, Apista wished she had a view of the outside. Or wherever this was.

A loud whumph and flash of flame and heat blasted the bee from behind. Then she felt a terrible, biting cold. Apista rotated slowly and saw…

“Snow Golem? That’s not a Snow Golem! These are Snow Titans! Saliss, you liar—”

“Shut up and kill them! They’re just snow and ice!”

“They’re made of ice—”

A screaming Gold-rank [Swashbuckler] dove as a fist made of snow and ice pounded the ground. She could barely move in the snow that came up to her head—only her lightfoot Skills kept her mobile. An Antinium flashed past her, cutting at the arm as Apista looked up into a familiar…domed…room.

Only this one was filled with snow. Filled with it, and the towering Snow Golems, three of them, accompanied by lesser Golems, were currently fighting a naked Drake, multiple adventurers, and a Hob.

Play your damn song, Numbtongue!

Saliss shouted as he threw another vial, which exploded in a jet of fire that raced up one of the Snow Giants’ arms. Ceria raised a wall of ice as a fist came down, and Yvlon punched, her metal arms slicing wildly into one of the Snow Giants’ sides—

Where are our reinforcements?

Leave ‘em! If they can’t make it through the snow, they’re no help here! Don’t get smashed flat! Don’t get—

Apista couldn’t actually swing the door closed, but the [Garden of Sanctuary] was very obliging. The door swung closed for her. The bee stared at the sight of Jewel fleeing an angry Snow Golem and then the door shut, and the sound was gone.

…Today was a weird day. Apista wanted nothing more than to go back to the inn, have a smoke, and tell Mrsha that the garden was on the fritz. And suddenly—the door was back. Apista’s antennae waved wildly as she saw an [Innkeeper] pointing up at a hallway running with ice and snow.

“—gotta get Keldrass up there! Pisces says they’re huge Snow Golems!”

“In your garden? But I thought it was safe!

“Me too! But these ones look like they formed due to all the snow!”

Lyonette and Erin were shouting amidst the chaos as a group of Drakes, one wearing the Heartflame Breastplate, came storming up the stairs. Venaz followed, and Captain Todi’s squad secured the lower floor, looking nervous. Lyonette pointed upstairs.

“What happened to Apista? If she’s up there, freezing—Mrsha, I said it’s not safe!”

Ser Sest ran after Mrsha as she raced around the common room. Erin waved a hand at Chaldion, directing more of Pallass’ [Soldiers] up after the others.

“It’s sorta safe. I just don’t get what’s happening.”

Mrsha came skidding to a stop. She froze—and bent down. Apista crawled forwards, and the girl put her on her head. Then she stared through the door at the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Mrsha turned her head to the stairs.

It’s a world of ice! Fall back! Fall—

Jewel came skidding down the stairs. A whumph and half the fighters came crashing down the stairs in another wave of snow. Saliss shouted back down from above.

Cowards! Get back here and fight!

Mrsha patted Apista urgently, seeing if she was okay. The bee fanned her wing reassuringly, and Mrsha trotted into the garden and looked around, Apista on her head. She felt the grass, sniffed the air, then looked up as Apista pointed a feeler at the odd, snowy landscape above. Mrsha’s eyes narrowed, and she scampered back into the inn.

“Miss Mrsha! Come with—”

Ser Sest found her, bent down to snatch her to safety, and froze when he saw the garden. Mrsha padded over to the two young women and tugged at Erin’s pants.

“Not now, Mrsha. We—whuh.

Erin glanced over distractedly, and then her mouth fell open. Lyonette turned, and they stared at the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Then they looked upstairs where Yvlon was leading the charge back into the fight. Erin’s mouth opened wider.

“Two [Gardens of Sanctuary]? What?”

She looked from Mrsha to the door, and then it hit her. Erin Solstice closed her mouth.

“I unlocked the door, so we must be able to use the garden again! Door!”

The [Innkeeper] turned, and a door opened in front of Todi, who recoiled with an oath. Erin turned back.

“Door! There, the garden’s back. Then where the heck did Saliss run into?”

“What did you do, Erin? Is that—some kind of other garden?”

Erin threw up her hands.

“No! I mean, I don’t know! It’s supposed to be a [Garden of Sanctuary], not a garden of dying in the snow!”

“Did you…do anything different when you unlocked the door?”

Erin shook her head.

“Absolutely not! I just said, I wanted to see something impressive. Like—”

This time, she went deaf. Chaldion had been turning to the garden, having realized what was going on in part.

He was just in time for the bolt of lightning to touch down through the doorway. The thwoom of lightning and the flash of light took out two senses for quite some time. When Erin was done stumbling around, hands clapped to her ears, she saw the door was open.

Only this time—it was rain that came pouring down in that domed room. Rain without end, and lightning bolts hurling around the garden. Erin stared in disbelief at a room filled with a raging thunderstorm.

Exactly the same size as the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She even saw the domed roof stretching around the room, but everything was…different.

It was flatter, with a few cliffs built along the edges of the dome. What had once been plants was now running mud and debris, but there was still something in there.

Pillars of metal? Or—Erin peered inside, but Lyonette slammed the door.

What is going on here?

And then Erin had it. She spoke slowly and pointed at the wall as everyone turned towards her.

“Show me the ice room that Saliss is fighting in.”

The door opened, and Erin looked into a winter wonder-world, the snow piled so high it had cascaded into the inn when the door opened. More fell through again, but Erin looked at a Snow Golem a second before Saliss finally removed the icy truesnow in its head. It was hard to make out, but the dome, roof, and everything else was there.

…And what looked like a stone keep of some kind. Standing tall, all but buried under the snow that kept falling. Erin Solstice looked around, and a simple conclusion came to her. She whispered as her guests looked at her.

“They’re not my gardens.”

 

——

 

The Snow Golems were innocent. They were, admittedly, semi-sentient pieces of nature akin to elementals, dedicated to enforcing the tyranny of ice upon the world. And yes, they happily tried to murder the warm-blooded invaders.

But how would you feel if someone walked into your home, which had lain undisturbed for ages, and suddenly began blasting a flamethrower around then tried to cut off your head?

Two of the giants were down, and the third was throwing chunks of its body at the adventurers. And yes—they were not your first choice for diplomatic ventures either. The Hob was probably a better choice for meeting new species.

Credit to them—giant Snow Golems were a Gold Rank+ threat. These three hadn’t been able to grow forever in the limited garden. Big ones erased cities. Even these ones could have eaten countless Silver-rank teams.

To destroy them, you had to find their truesnow centers, and, often, you had to destroy a lot of their body mass. In short—compacted snow and ice. If you were a melee-team, you would need shovels. Your greatsword? Unless it was enchanted or you could cut boulders in half, it was useless.

Saliss beat the first one. He was packing his jars full of truesnow as the second went down. Not to Tessa. She had been stabbing for twenty minutes when she sneezed, got cold, and decided she needed more coffee.

The second fell to a combination of an annoying [Cryomancer] locking down parts of its body, an [Armsmistress] slicing apart the lesser golems and trying to tear it apart from above, an annoying [Necromancer] and [Skirmisher] slashing and blasting it with flame—

But finally, mostly, to a tactical mistake: swallowing a screaming [Swashbuckler]. She went into the grinding maw, and that was a death sentence if the frozen rocks and ice ground her up.

Someone save Jewel!

“[Farcast: Stoneskin]!”

Bezale’s scroll flashed as the Minotauress unrolled it. Merrik turned.

“[Granite’s Armor]—ah, damn. We overlapped.

Peki launched herself past Merrik in a flying kick that exploded another Snow Golem’s head into a shower of powder. She flapped around, wiping water out of her face.

“Weird. Snow sucks.”

She was used to Sand Golems. Wil himself had got a faceful of snow—one of the smaller Snow Golems was copying the largest one hurling chunks around. Venaz was dodging them as they tried to take down the second giant.

The problem was—even the smaller Snow Golem loaded up its snowballs with chunks of ice and pebbles. Wil wiped blood off his face and lifted his shortsword. He had a sudden, nostalgic memory of a few older bullies as a boy. He had a sudden desire to stab the Snow Golem dead.

Relc beat Wil to it. The [Spearmaster] extended his spear out, caught the end as the tip shot through the Golem’s head, and whirled it back, blocking another trio of snowballs.

“Yeah, this is what I’m talking about! Weird monsters! No Crelers! Erin, this is why you include Relc!

He screamed at the sky. But then a swell of crackling chords drowned out his screaming. It turned into a second melody—a kind of glam rock. Relc turned as he saw a Hobgoblin playing, one leg braced on a rock.

Numbtongue’s eyes were gleaming as the [Bard] began a familiar song he’d been working on. Numbtongue needed to record a few vocal lines. But it was silly, energetic, sad, and brave.

[Ballad of the Horns of Hammerad].

A [Necromancer] sliding past him turned his head and blinked. He slammed into Ceria, and the two caught themselves as the [Bard] did the first bard-like thing in combat in an age.

“Bard music. [Strategist] Skills, a [Spellscribe] on enchanting, and Gold-rank support. Add in a master [Alchemist]…”

Merrik abandoned his hammer to jot down a few notes with excitement. Was this his ultimate strike force? Actually, the question was—

What did the ballad do? Even Numbtongue didn’t know. He was playing frantically, because the ballad wasn’t done. But his Skill was humming at him, telling him he had—

Four choices? The [Bard] glanced around, and he saw the Horns of Hammerad fighting. Of course! He hesitated, but he still didn’t have Ceria or Ksmvr figured out. That left Pisces—or…?

He pointed at Yvlon as the [Armsmistress] staggered back, eating a punch from a block of ice. Numbtongue’s playing picked up in speed. He shifted low into bass—and the pop song took a turn as the electricity picked up. Accordingly, the genre shifted—

Straight into metal. The Hobgoblin had no lyrics pre-written, but as Kevin had assured him—you could make up for that with sheer emotion.

“RAAAAAAAAGH—-”

He howled, as if he were part of a Redfang warband on the attack. Peki turned appreciatively, and Yvlon looked over in horror.

[Ballad of the Horns of Hammerad: Yvlon’s Fury].

The Skill activated as Erin Solstice peeked into the garden. She saw a furious [Lord] sprint past her and bury his sword in a Snow Golem’s chest.

Berserk! Berserker charge! Get them!

Relc was already a huge Drake. But his muscles bulged, and he leapt across the ground and brought his spear through a Snow Golem’s head, haft first. Jewel was thrashing around in the Snow Golem’s mouth, slashing around with her rapier, and half the people fighting had gone mad with rage.

“Anger! I am so angry! Aaaah! I am screaming for psychological effect!

Ksmvr slashed around him as he charged at the Snow Golems. Surprisingly, the song stopped the fighting in several areas. Peki had become a whirling storm of punches and kicks until she suddenly backed up, shaking her head. She put her wings together and exhaled.

“No.”

She stared ahead, focusing, and Venaz did the same. He caught himself, panting.

“I’m better than this.”

They backed off; Saliss was already hopping out of the first dead Snow Golem. He didn’t seem affected by the song.

Erin stared into the winter wonderland turned warzone as the second Snow Golem died. Jewel emerged from its head, cleaving out with her sword.

I am invincible!

She screamed at the sky, blood and icewater running down her face. Erin stared up at her.

“So she is a Gold-rank adventurer. Um. Numbtongue. Numbtongue—

She poked the furiously screaming Hobgoblin in the side until he reluctantly stopped his Skill. The [Bard] was annoyed as all hell—he was finally doing his thing, and he really liked Yvlon’s effect. The Redfangs would have torn a path across Izril if they’d had this.

“What? Stay back, Erin!”

He pointed at the [Garden of Sanctuary], Erin’s garden, where Mrsha and Lyonette were watching from a double-line of guards. Erin peered past him at the fighting as Keldrass’ team charged the final Golem.

“Um. Numbtongue, you can stop playing. My [Dangersense] isn’t going off anymore.”

She looked up at the final Snow Golem giant as it groaned. The Hobgoblin stared at her and then at the giant ice-monster which could, honestly, turn Erin into a bit of red paste with one punch. It was definitely attacking the adventurers.

But Erin just stared up at it, then stamped her foot and shouted.

“Everyone—freeze.

Her aura doused the last rage-effects from Numbtongue’s song. Even the Gold-rank adventurers slowed. Keldrass’ momentum came to a halt, and the Snow Golems backed away. Because they were inside Erin’s inn. Here, her aura was unmatched.

“Erin! That Golem’s going to—”

Lyonette shouted as the [Innkeeper] walked forwards. She stared up at the final Golem pressed against the wall of the dome. Snow cascaded around it as two eyes of frozen stone stared down at her. The jagged teeth of ice gleamed as the hulking amalgamation of snow bared its fangs.

Erin held something up. The Key of Reprieve shone in the air. She felt no [Dangersense]—she only had when the avalanche had knocked her flying. The Snow Golem stared at the key, and the lesser ones moved slowly. They backed away from Erin. No—just ignored her.

But the giant golem, which had formed here, against the purpose of the original [Garden of Sanctuary]? It hesitated—then it turned away from Erin. She smiled sadly.

“Oh no. Did I—”

The Golem punched Keldrass so hard that he hit the far wall of the garden. But for the Heartflame Breastplate, he would definitely have broken all the bones in his body. Erin’s mouth stayed open as everyone scattered.

“Okay. It’s just me.”

 

——

 

The second garden was a mystery. What was clear was this: the Titan of Baleros was running a rapid-fire analysis that he was not sharing with Chaldion or the others. But they had probably come to the same conclusion.

“There are now multiple of these gardens, Foliana. I’ve never heard of that. But we do have records of this Skill—it’s appeared for [Gardeners], [Queens], leaders…get me a list. Anyone who comes from a snowy landscape.”

He watched as the fighters trooped back into the inn for hot coffee. Also, some hot cocoa—the inn was serving hot food, and there was nothing like fighting Snow Golems to work up an appetite.

The last Snow Golem giant was dead. Saliss was collecting the truesnow, but the lesser Snow Golems were harrying the last adventurers as they left the dome. Keldrass spat some smoke out as he turned.

“We could wipe out the rest, Erin. So long as there’s that much snow, more will keep spawning. That much snow and magic…”

Erin shook her head as a snowball struck the Heartflame Breastplate and melted. She looked back, and the Snow Golems backed away.

“No. That big one definitely wanted to kill everyone. But the other ones are…less dangerous. And not to me.”

She looked sad. Unaccountably sad. Niers glanced up at Erin as he halted his rapid extrapolations. He understood—a giant Snow Golem protector was an asset. But frankly speaking, if it endangered Mrsha, it was completely understandable to exterminate it.

He did not consider relocating the Snow Golem giant viable, unless you wanted to dump it in hostile territory. Which would be useful—but—

“Lord Astoragon. How long does it take for a Snow Golem to get that big, naturally? Miss Erin, I think we’re due some explanations, at least.”

Merrik trooped over to the fire, his armor frosted with ice. Erin nodded as she glanced at the scrying orb. Niers spoke, and everyone listened in.

“Not the right question, Merrik. Good instincts—but Snow Golems can get that large in one winter. They have one of the fastest accumulation rates.”

“Ah, well then. Did you say that garden probably belonged to someone in the past, Miss Solstice?”

Everyone turned to her as Erin nodded to the Dwarf.

“Yeah. That was someone’s…[Garden of Sanctuary]. It’s not mine.”

And there it was. Mrsha stared round-eyed at the key Erin held. So that was what it meant. The Key of Reprieve was granting Erin authority over…

All the [Gardens]? Niers’ mind was racing with the implications, but he kept his face straight.

“It’s either Terandrian or Balerosian. It could be Izrilian, but I’m thinking Cenidau, one of the permanently frozen norths. No one would call that sanctuary unless they liked the cold.”

“Did Chandrar ever freeze over when it was green? It could be old beyond belief, sir. I saw something like a keep—Miss Solstice, could there be artifacts within?”

Merrik wondered aloud.

The [Innkeeper] hugged Mrsha as she accepted a towel from Ishkr. Apista crawled onto her shoulder and waved a feeler at Niers, who nodded back, as Erin replied.

“I don’t know. I didn’t know you could build things in—well, no. That makes sense. Anything the original owner left might be there. Like, if Mrsha left a ball or—”

If someone left treasure. Every adventurer’s eyes gleamed at the idea, but Erin just glanced back, troubled, as the door let in freezing air. It closed—much to the disappointment of the non-fighters who wanted to see.

She didn’t think you left treasure in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. But maybe. Niers was pulling up the limited records of people who had the Skill in the past, and Wil spoke up.

“Professor, don’t bother trying Terandrian nations. It’s Izril or Baleros, I think.”

“What are you basing this on, Wil?”

“…The snow tastes different.”

Everyone turned to Wil. The [Lord] shrugged self-consciously, but he’d gotten a few good mouthfuls from the snowball attacks.

“Sorry, it just does. You know how some people say the soil’s changed continent to continent? I just felt like it tasted different.”

“Do you…eat snow that much?”

Peki wanted to know, but Merrik nodded thoughtfully.

“Miss Solstice, can you open the door again?”

She did for him, and he took a handful of snow and tasted it.

“…Huh. He’s right. It does have a different taste to it. But that’s not down to climate, Wil. It tastes like soot. Soot and metal and stone. Almost like foundry runoff. Very mild, but it reminds me of Dwarfhome. Or…”

The Titan of Baleros looked up. His eyes glinted, and he swept all the files aside and spoke one word.

Baleros. The frozen north of the Dullahan lands. Specifically—the great forge-city of the Iron Vanguard. Invictel.

Everyone turned to him. Merrik raised his eyebrows, but waited as Niers held up a single file.

“It may not be accurate, but one of the famous skill-holders of a [Garden of Sanctuary] was a [General] of the Iron Vanguard. Dolost the Adamantine. In keeping with their traditions, the Dullahans made their [Generals] adamantium armor whenever it was plentiful.”

Everyone turned to Erin, and murmurs turned to stares of greed or shock. Erin? She didn’t miss Niers’ excited gaze, nor the call of adventure or stories of the past. But Niers missed the way her lips moved, her teeth biting one edge quietly before she smiled and spoke.

Foliana saw it. She glanced at Niers and saw, well.

A difference.

 

——

 

The new garden was the subject of endless discussion. In fact, within thirty minutes, Relc and sixty people were in the frozen area, trying to excavate the keep.

It was going to take a while. Erin estimated the entire garden was full up on the falling snow. That was…a lot of snow and if the keep were as large as she thought it actually was…

“This garden’s lower down than mine, guys. So the keep’s big. They’ve gotta dig down further than Liscor’s walls. Good news? Unlimited ice. Bad news? Snow Golems.”

“Why do they attack people? You can’t even fight here, Erin.”

The inn’s family and closest employees were not taking part in the action. All the [Strategists] were—and watching each other to make sure no one ‘accidentally’ got a look at something fascinating.

In that sense, they were slightly silly. Peki, who did not mix well with cold, was wrapped up in a blanket and watching Erin through the original door to her peaceful garden. Erin could now generate two doors at once. Peki could not enter, but Foliana had told her to watch.

A few other spies were well aware they couldn’t follow Erin into the garden, but their employers had directed them to watch Erin. Because…

She was winning the game of distraction. Ironically, Chaldion, Altestiel, Niers—they were all focused on the snowy garden. Because what they valued was not what Erin valued. Wall Lord Ilvriss, even Magnolia Reinhart and a few others, understood.

Erin glanced at the other garden. She put her hands in her pockets and turned to Numbtongue, who was sipping from a hot cup of honey and milk with a blanket over his shoulders. He was too damn cold to continue digging in that garden, even with Erin’s magical warming soup.

“I know a few things. I know how deep that keep is buried. I know those golems won’t attack me. I know…I think I know why you can fight there. You can’t here, still, right?”

“Let me see.”

Ulvama did a run-up and tried to kick Mrsha. Her foot stopped, and the Gnoll tried to punch Ulvama’s leg—both turned into weak taps. Erin nodded slowly.

“Yeah. [Garden of Sanctuary] rules are in effect here. They’re not there. You could probably die.”

“Because that Dullahan [General] wanted to train or something?”

Liska frowned as Ishkr tried to shush his sister, but Erin shook her head.

“Nope. I think, Liska, everyone…it’s because it’s no longer a [Garden of Sanctuary]. Or rather, the owner isn’t alive. It’s only safe as long as the Skill-holder lives.”

She looked sad again. Mrsha felt Lyonette squeeze her gently, and the [Princess] spoke the real question. The question the others hadn’t cottoned on to yet. Ironically, Octavia Cotton had.

“Erin. Um. How many gardens do you think you have access to? Everyone thinks it’s just this one, but…”

She had seen the raining garden. Erin slowly looked up, and a shiver ran around the group. Slowly, the [Innkeeper] walked over to the door leading back to her inn.

“Hello. I’m Peki. I’m very responsible and a [Martial Artist] and a [Drop Strike Lieutenant]. You want to be my friend. Can I come into—”

Erin closed the door. Peki kicked the wall, but she had never gotten good marks on her negotiations classes.

Inside the garden, Erin Solstice turned. Her friends and family looked at her, and she raised a key.

“Guys. Do you want to go on a little adventure?”

They all stirred, and Erin smiled as she looked around.

“Hey. Can we see somewhere nice?

A door opened, across the garden. Mrsha raced for it, and Lyonette scooped her up.

Oh no, missy! Numbtongue, Ulvama, Bird, Normen, and Alcaz in front! Erin, your [Dangersense]—”

“Nothing, Lyonette. It’s wide open. In fact…”

Erin ‘knew’ what was beyond the next door before it opened. She had a sense of the room, what it contained, but even so…

 

——

 

Tears sprang to Erin’s eyes. She was staring at a vision of home that the Gnolls of the Meeting of Tribes might have recognized. A few of them, who had access to [The World of You and Me].

Erin herself recognized this scene. She had never been anywhere like this, physically, but it was familiar.

So familiar that Kevin rubbed at his eyes as he walked through a door meant for him and Joseph. The young men from America and Spain joined Erin.

“Did one of us make…?”

“No. Lyonette says it looks—Drathian.”

A breeze blew across Erin’s face, a warm spring breeze unlike the biting cold of before. The [Garden of Sanctuary] only had a single opening in the roof, but Erin realized that she could do far more to it than she had dreamed.

The other owners had understood you could change it, from the weather to the garden itself. Now she understood—they had all had the same garden to start with.

She saw the influences in this one. One corner—the rocky ground filled with pebbles—was almost identical. Yet the owner of this place had taken as much effort as the Dullahan. To move that pond, to add more water around the edges of the garden—

To remove the hill and create, in its place…a picturesque scene. That was it—the breeze blew the fragrance of flowers into the air. A spring day—where pink flower petals fell from the trees across the red-lacquered wood of the bridge.

Erin knew those trees. They were from Earth, the horticulturalist’s dream because of how striking they were. She thought they were sakura trees, some variant if not the exact ones.

A bridge over water, leading to a grove of the cherry trees that produced a gentle rain of pink and white, like a lovelier snow. Erin could just imagine spreading a picnic blanket and sitting under the trees.

Mrsha was doing just that with Lyonette, then getting up and running around as Octavia excitedly told Numbtongue about different alchemical uses for the petals. He just looked up, catching a flower petal in his clawed hand.

Numbtongue turned back to Erin as Kevin put his hands in his pockets. Joseph walked forwards, staring down at the water running around the entire garden in a slow pattern.

“There’re fish in here. Oh, wow. There are hundreds.

Colorful fish infested this garden. Erin hadn’t realized it, but living species like the Fortress Beavers had remained. As with Snow Golems—the fish, koi breeds, had filled this pond to capacity. It seemed like their population had stabilized just enough to survive in this self-contained environment.

Erin had wondered what they ate—until she saw hyacinths, lilies, and other plants blooming underwater. This place was a vision to the eyes.

A terribly sad one, if you thought of who had been here. Numbtongue turned to Erin as Octavia sidled over to the water. She reached down, picked up a koi fish, and nearly dropped it; the fish didn’t even try to get away.

“Erin. Come explore.”

There was more to this garden as well. If not any structure aside from the simple features like the bridge, wooden gates, and so on—Erin looked at the Hobgoblin’s open hand.

“Okay. But I’m getting tired, so you have to help me walk.”

They walked across the bridge as Mrsha stared into the water and licked her lips, then begged Lyonette for lunch now. Erin Solstice wondered how long each garden had laid undisturbed as Numbtongue walked with her under the trees.

“I feel sort of bad for the fish, Erin. Are we going to eat them and harvest the Snow Golems?”

Octavia caught up on Erin’s other side and held the [Innkeeper]’s arm. Erin looked at Octavia and saw she wasn’t just thinking of selling all the fish and strip-mining the garden. The [Innkeeper] smiled at that.

“I think the fishes—we may eat some, but we’ll leave what we can. Sometimes the garden might have something dangerous. We don’t have to go in. At least—I think I’m safe. But we might eat some fish.”

Numbtongue grunted. The [Bard] stopped to admire a sculpture among many planted along the neat pathways. Somehow, the plants hadn’t overgrown them—it was as if the garden stayed as the owner had wished. He bent down and admired a little stone fox, carved so beautifully Erin’s heart hurt. It was curled up, resting by a cluster of four-leaved clovers.

“Good. I like fish. This isn’t like silly rats again, is it?”

He glanced up and gave Erin a challenging look. She put one hand on her hip as she gave him a mock-glare.

“No, but we’re not gonna wipe ‘em out, Numbtongue. I think the fish do die of old age, and some might eat each other. I dunno. But we’ll be respectful. Okay?”

He thought about that, then smiled.

“Sounds good.”

“Numbtongue. Numbtongue, there’s an archery range over there. Targets and stuff! There’s even a bow—well, I think it was a bow. It’s so old, Joseph broke it when he touched it. Sorry, Erin!”

The Goblin brightened up as Kevin ran around the trail.

“Let’s see. I have crossbows everywhere. How many targets? Octavia, come, come.”

He pulled at the [Alchemist]’s hand and gestured at Erin, but she had spotted a bench.

“Give me one sec, Numbtongue.”

“You want me to…”

He stopped, and Octavia turned to help Erin, but she just motioned them on.

“I’m tired. I want to sit. Go check it out. But I’d better not catch you and Wailant and Viceria here in the middle of the night, naked!”

She had a sudden suspicion about why the Hobgoblin was so interested. Numbtongue bared his fangs.

“Okay, not at night. Got it.”

They ran off, and Erin watched them disappear and then exclaim. Mrsha went rolling down the slight incline as Lyonette chased after her.

“Come here, you silly girl! Oh, Erin, this place is elegant. We have to have a picnic here. But please—let’s not show the other guests? Not right now. I love Relc, but you know he’ll cause a mess. And Ceria? She’ll probably start eating the fish raw.”

“Not yet, Lyonette.”

The [Princess] smiled, and she looked—peaceful. Filled with wonder. Erin watched her run after Mrsha as Bird sat by the water.

“Bird? Are you having fun?”

The Antinium guiltily started. He hid something behind his back.

“I am doing nothing, Erin. And not having fun. At all.”

Erin stared at a familiar sight: a bunch of gaping koi mouths. And then she saw Bird tossing bread crumbs into the water.

“You’re feeding the fish?”

“No. And it is not very funny, and I do not enjoy it. I am loyal to birds. Fishes are stupid.”

Bird lied. His mandibles were open and raised, and Erin laughed. Bird went back to tossing crumbs into the water and giggling at the fishes eating. Erin looked around and saw Normen and Alcaz watching her.

The two Brothers were, like Ishkr and Liska, employees. However, even the Gnolls had stopped work for a moment to tour the garden, eyes wide with wonder.

Normen and Alcaz were sneaky fellows, though. They tipped their hats.

“Do you want an arm to lean on, Miss Solstice?”

She smiled at them.

“Can I go for a little walk, guys? I’ll be safe.”

Both hesitated—but then Normen gave her a bow. And that was why she liked them. They knew, unlike Lyonette’s Thronebearers—

Sometimes a fellow or a lady had to be alone. So Erin walked out of this garden, leaving the door open to the first one.

She was alone, for a moment, and felt the strength magic leaving her. But she had twenty minutes before it fully wore off, so tiredly, she hobbled up the hill. Then she realized she had one last person with her.

“Apista! Sorry, I forgot you can’t fly. Do you want me to bring you back to Lyonette?”

The bee was perched on her shoulder. Apista fanned her wing vehemently. Take me away from those evil fish! 

Erin got the message. The [Innkeeper] laughed, and she and the bee climbed the hill. Then, Erin was almost fully alone. But Apista was good company, and so Erin looked around.

Two gardens and more. Her guests were in one, her family, another. She didn’t mind that, really. But Erin Solstice played a game against everyone, whether they knew it or not.

She held the Key of Reprieve up and stared at it.

Just a tiny bit of its true color, poking through all that rust. So old that magic had rusted? A key with a Harpy’s feather.

Empress Sheta, a Harpy, had been the first owner of this Skill, so Eldavin had told her. She had owned this key.

Had the other owners of the gardens? Or had they received a copy of the first garden and never realized the truth? Why had Erin…?

“Maybe it’s the statues. Maybe it’s because I was dead. Maybe it’s more. Apista—can you keep a secret? Even from Lyonette and Mrsha?”

Apista fanned her wing and used one of her remaining legs to pat Erin on the shoulder. She could keep great secrets! Like Belavierr’s eye or her honey. Not even the Titan would know.

Erin smiled and patted her gently on her head. Then she looked around and raised the key.

“…There are a lot of doors around here. But there’s only one true one, isn’t there? Garden? I’d like to open it now.”

Erin waited. From the top of the hill in the middle of the [Garden of Sanctuary], Erin could see the dome covered with old vines, circling this peaceful place. And now, instead of a single door—she saw many.

Erin stood on the hill, amidst yellow Faerie Flowers growing taller, awakening next to the glowing Sage’s Grass. The door to the sakura garden lay to her left. Erin could feel her family within, wandering it—and she could hear Bird’s laughter and Mrsha splashing around in the koi-infested waters from where she stood, a glimpse of two men standing on the bridge.

The [Innkeeper] looked around, and for a second, another door opened across the dome, showing a bunch of people throwing snowballs at the Snow Golems, digging energetically. Two doors at once—as if this garden was now a crossroads of the inn. Relc lifted a snowball and, without mercy, hit Wil in the back from six feet away. Erin laughed as the [Lord] went sprawling, but with sympathy too.

She continued turning, and the door to the inn was there, laughter and arguments pouring forth. Peki did a running leap, slammed into the invisible barrier, and Erin waved apologetically. A scrying orb on the floor reflected a single Squirrel-woman, peering at her, and Erin winked at Foliana. Even from so far away—she was sure Three-Color Stalker winked back. Then the [Innkeeper] turned all the way around.

—And there it was. She recoiled as a door appeared in the hill in the center. As if it had been there all along.

Apista fanned her wing excitedly as Erin backed away and looked up.

This was no wooden door, aged wood secured with plain iron and a brass handle. That door sort of fit Erin’s inn, but Erin realized…it was the door she wanted to see. A door for her. The others had owned doors that made sense for them.

This…this was the original door. Erin looked up and up and saw it was ten feet tall and twice as wide as a regular door. A frame of grey stone surrounded a door made of ancient marble, something worn with time.

—But unlike everything else, Erin saw enough to see the wings carved across the marble. And indeed, the door was engraved with the image of the very garden she stood in.

A hill surrounded by lands, each different. A vision of a meeting of places. Cold winter, jungle’s humidity, the arid grasslands—Izril’s plains.

Now, Erin understood why it had looked like this. Each owner had made their garden how they wanted it. The first owner—she wanted no cramped spaces. Just something to remind her of all the places she had been.

And she had been to every place you could fly. Her empire had reflected that. Erin reached out and slowly touched the door’s engravings.

For in the middle of that picture of the garden was the one thing absent from Erin’s copy—a single Harpy, wings folded, resting as she lay on the hilltop.

“Oh. It’s you.”

The Harpy lay there, looking relaxed, though Erin could not see her face, just the folded wings and the peaceful way she rested. Away from the world.

Then, Erin looked at the door. The sigils of an ancient empire ran above it, and words she didn’t understand.

The language of a species no longer present on Izril. She traced the door with her eyes as Apista saluted the last true Empress of Harpies.

Then Erin saw the keyhole waiting for her with a handle, not a doorknob, of faded metal. Scratched slightly—by a Harpy’s talons. Of course. Harpies would hate doorknobs.

Erin slowly inserted the Key of Reprieve into the lock and turned it. The door made no sound at all, but when she slowly put her hand on the handle, it swung open with a sound like dust ten thousand years old moving.

Like a sigh that ran through the inn. A whisper like relief—then Erin did see what even the Witch of Webs had wanted to glimpse.

And it came full circle. Though Erin could not have known that—but what she beheld beyond that door in the center of her garden was a hallway.

No nightmare hallway. No wooden walls. Rather…Erin Solstice slowly walked out onto cold marble. She turned her head left and right and saw there were no walls. Nothing but a long stretch of space in the void.

And doors. Oh—the doors.

Each one was different. Each one…familiar and not. Erin passed by the first, and it was her door. A humble inn’s door. She hesitated, and it swung open and showed her the garden once more. Her garden. She turned to her right, and another door was made of the same lacquered red wood, written with words she didn’t know in a beautiful script. Characters, not words. A single rose stood out on the woodwork, stylized and faded pink.

Each door was different. Erin passed by another and noticed the austere pattern, the metal, and the frost which clung to it.

A door you slipped into on the outside of a building, perhaps? A hideaway to lose your followers and soldiers?

Some doors were like that. Humble, disguised. One was actually made of sandstone and looked like you were meant to walk over to a dune and just open it there, concealed by the ever-changing desert.

However, other doors showed exactly what they contained. Erin shuddered as she passed by a door with padding and gilt.

“Wow, some people have no taste. And that’s me saying it. Look at this, Apista.”

Open it, open it!

The bee urged her, and Erin took the handle shaped like a Griffin’s claw and turned the door. She and Apista peeked into…

Well, it wasn’t a garden so much as it was a landscape of upholstery. The world’s most fabulous boudoir—and no other word would surely do; parlor was simply insufficient—stared back at her. Erin stared at a couch and had the urge to do a dive-bomb onto the pillows.

“Lavender. Mrsha should definitely see this. We could have the pillow fight of ages. Lyonette…maybe it’s good she never sees this, Apista. Or she’ll use this for furnishings.”

The bee nodded sagely. Erin was tempted to make another mocking comment. Then her eyes fell on something, and her teasing tone faded.

“Oh no.”

She closed the door quickly—but not before the little stuffed animal, a cute Griffin sewn by an expert, lovingly placed on a table with a tea cup in front of it, burned itself into her eyes.

Then it hit her again. Each and every owner was…

Erin walked on. No, she didn’t think many people had owned the Key of Reprieve. The doors stretched on, and Erin felt like there were not truly hundreds. She didn’t count, but she thought there might be less than…

Forty? It was a surprisingly low number. Erin wondered how many people had ever earned the right to this place. The requirements…she thought it was more than being important, especially since she wouldn’t have gotten the garden if that were the case. It wasn’t levels. It was something you wanted. Something you needed.

And it was not perfect. Erin stopped only one last time on her slow walk down the hallway.

One door was already open. She and Apista turned and flinched from what Erin saw inside. This garden had—once—been a true sanctuary. Erin thought she saw the remnants of some great throne-like chamber. A regal place, perhaps, for someone to sit in their own ego.

…The door was gone. And the burnt remnants of whatever had shattered it still lay within, along with naught but destruction.

Someone had broken this garden. Erin shivered and knew, then, that the door was not impervious to harm. She patted Apista. The bee was nervously hugging Erin’s shoulder.

“One last stop. Then we’ll go back. See?”

It was waiting for her at the end. Past all the other doors, which led to memory…Erin came to a stop at the end of the hallway.

There were no walls. There was no…structure to this place. But there were doors and rules. That was clear. Cleverer people had come here, to this place built of Skills or desire or something else, and found there were things you could do.

Like write upon the air itself. Erin halted in front of the door paler than chalk, and thought the surface, the substance of what it was made of, was smoother than glass. Yet even so, she felt like there were things she couldn’t see.

It unsettled her, and the hair on the back of her neck rose as she stared at the lock in the center. Not to the side—and there was no doorknob on this one.

She tried the Key of Reprieve in the lock, and it would not fit. Erin tucked the key away and then read what someone had written to the side of the door. Her lips moved, and Apista wished she could read. So Erin read it out to the bee, in a voice that shook slightly.

 

“To those that follow after me, I was the last Empress of Harpies. My name was Sheta. This [Garden of Sanctuary] is the last thing I will ever leave. Only the immortal will remember my name, I hope, across these endless ages.

The gardens welcome you, wherever and whenever they are needed. But they are not the only remnants of my legacy. I built them upon the rest. So, if you are worthy, find what came before me.

This door leads to the [Pavilion of Secrets]. If you continue, if you choose to explore onwards, understand this. It is not necessarily a gift, these Skills.

Sanctuary provides. Secrets empower. Fate illuminates.

But remember:

Sanctuary can never shelter enough. Secrets grow vast unspoken. And Fate mocks us all. But I was glad of it. May my key help you protect what matters.”

 

That was all she wrote. Erin rubbed at her eyes. The last words from a long-dead woman, the first of them all, hung in the air next to the door. Apista hugged Erin’s neck.

“Thanks, Apista. But wait…there’s more.”

There was? Apista wasn’t sure she could handle more, but Erin pointed down to two more scratchings, less precise, below the first. And she realized this:

Two other people, at least, had held the Key of Reprieve. They had added to the messages so simply. Erin read, her voice a low murmur.

 

“I was worthy of Secrets. But what lay beyond I never achieved. I was truly honored; upon Secrets and Sanctuary, we built a House. May it endure proudly forever. Aleieta Reinhart.”

 

Her fingers trembled as they traced the last line. Erin pointed out the shortest message yet, written in red like blood. Like bitter tears, almost furiously dashed there.

 

“Secrets broke me. I gained this, as none of my kind ever have. It was no kindness. Cormelex, the Infernal Court.”

 

Erin looked at the words, the warnings, and then held up the key. She gazed at the mystery behind the door and wondered if it would come to her soon. Or if ever. Slowly, the [Innkeeper] exhaled.

Before she returned to the others and let them show her all the things they found—before she went into the inn, and later returned to see the tragic and beautiful things in each garden…

Yes, before that. Erin Solstice went into her garden and bent low upon the hill. She walked down that long hallway one last time, before her legs lost their strength. The bee watched as Erin bent down. She laid a single flower beneath the writing. Then she turned away.

When she was ready, if she was ever ready, she would be back. The key gleamed in Erin’s hand as she went to explore the gardens. When Erin stood in her garden, she looked up.

It could be anything she wanted. The [Innkeeper] spread her hands wide.

“Darkness.”

The light faded from her garden. It turned pitch black, and the bee looked up in alarm at the only light: that of the fading evening sky, a spotlight shining down on Erin in a world of darkness.

But not as fearful as Belavierr’s magic. The key gleamed with Erin’s authority. The [Innkeeper] raised her hand higher as she sat, too tired to move. She spoke.

“Falling lights. Like rain.”

Then—came drifting colors. It looked like glowing motes of color, each as vivid as only Erin understood them. Honor rained down like the green of a Goblin’s smile. Pink fire, flashing across mundane reds and oranges.

Light, like rain. Fire, like memory. Erin Solstice sat there a second. But it was too beautiful not to share. In a moment, she’d go get the others. To sit that night and watch. For now, she smiled.

“Now that is beautiful.”

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: And there it is done. I ran out of energy a chapter ago. Parts of this chapter may be confusing—parts may be good because I didn’t feel the need to do a hugely complex narrative and plan it all out.

Sometimes that’s what you want. Part of the joy of writing is discovery. The issue is that as a story gets more complex, the stakes get higher.

However, I did enjoy this, and I am now on break for a while. As I said, I’m taking an early August break to go on a vacation in the wilds of…Canada.

But that’s all I’ll say for now, and I’ll let you know what happens. Thanks for reading. Oh—and if you’re on Patreon, check out that store. See you later. Go watch some cool things in a garden if you have one.

 

Pirate breakdancing by Placeholder…yes, this is happening. Pirate isn’t me, by the way, it’s a character I wrote but pirateaba is me and that’s my avatar so we get confused. Anyways, the point is that I can definitely, 102% breakdance. Just wait until the next image.

 

pirateaba Breakdance by Brack! I can totally do that. Yes. Fanart gets weird but in a completely authentic TWI-way.

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

Erin’s Knighting, what Normen sees, by pkay!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Interlude – Mundanity and Memorials

[Firebrand is a new story by a friend of mine, Quill! It’s about elemental spells, a magic school, and a journey to become the Firebrand. Consider giving it a read here! https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/56176/firebrand]

 

“Let me in.”

A Drake stood like a [Beggar] in front of a [King]’s treasury. In every sense of the word, because the gates were open. A rich paradise of…content lay beyond. A trove, if not in exactly gold, then information, knowledge, and spectacle.

Yet the unjust, uncaring tyrant couldn’t part with a single gold coin in this analogy. Not a copper penny. The Drake pressed his hands up against the blank air, as inviting as the open doorway it was—

As solid as stone. He pleaded again.

“Let me in. Please.”

“No. Go away.”

The voice from the owner of the inn was slightly vexed. She had figured out that if she tossed something out of her [Garden of Sanctuary], it could hurt. The Drake had to duck out of the way. His dusky red scales, flushed darker with embarrassment and anger, were already covered with a bit of muck.

It did not go well with the cream-colored suit, highlighted by yellow. And yes—it was a look. He’d tried it on, and it was not flying with his audience. But being disliked was almost part of Noass’ appeal. And this moment was television gold.

Let me in! Let me in! The world deserves to see!

Noass howled as he clawed at the opening to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Erin Solstice’s aggrieved sigh was her only reply, but she stayed well out of sight; even the [Cameraman] couldn’t get a view of her.

“Go away! This is private property!”

“Miss Solstice, you cannot deny the entire world the right to see inside—”

Noass’ refrain was cut off by an [Unerring Throw]…of a mudball to his mouth. He gagged and spat as Erin high-fived a delighted Mrsha.

Go away! No one gets in here! Drassi’s already in here, anyways.”

“Then let her report on—”

“No.”

Here was the thing. The [Honest Reporter] was having a moment of journalistic struggle. She was part of the audience watching Noass try to talk his way into Erin’s garden. That wasn’t the struggle; Drassi was all too pleased to watch him eat dirt, and she’d let him eat shit if Erin could find some lying around and were willing to throw it.

Yet—she had to admit, Noass had a point. He often did. It was just that he and Sir Relz could find a way to package that point in a quintessentially Drake and often elitist tone. However, the scowling [Innkeeper] throwing mudballs from the side was Drassi’s friend.

More than that—she was Drassi’s former employer, and she’d helped Drassi get this very job. The Drake felt…an odd compulsion to mention that. Should she say it if she ever covered a story with Erin? Or just let Noass do that?

Then again—Erin would never let Noass in her garden. But she wasn’t keen on Drassi reporting on it either. However, Drassi wasn’t an idiot. The Drake coughed and then whispered loudly to Erin as the [Innkeeper] called to Mrsha.

“Mrsha, get a really yucky mudball. No, a snowball! No, a snow-mudball! With worms! Are there worms in…?”

“Erin, maybe you should let me take a look around the [Garden of Sanctuary]?”

The [Innkeeper] looked astonished. She was washing the muck off her hands as she stood in her garden after all the excitement of yesterday. It was early morning, and the excitement was still palpable. However—even Drassi didn’t know where the staff of the inn had disappeared to, and Erin had ejected everyone out of her frozen garden soon after they’d identified it.

The [Strategists], the crowds, and yes, even Wistram News Network were here after word had spread. Yet Erin wasn’t having it.

Mind you, she looked better than she had for the last three weeks. No more wheelchair, and the blotchy skin, coughing, and her weakness had faded. Thanks to magic, she could now walk and dress herself, so she’d actually put on some comfy pants that Drassi and Selys had bought for her.

Erin talked a lot about jeans and the fashion of her world. There weren’t always the same fabrics, but Drassi had found some wonderfully matte, dyed black pants made out of a thin leather layer and cotton composite. The leather she thought might actually be Wyvern, from the raid on Pallass. It was apparently ‘jean’-like, and Erin had put on one of the light Silverfang shirts that had some silver hemming. Just a fairly light green cotton, aside from that with Liscor’s logo of a city over water, but it looked good.

Interview-ready. Drassi herself had clothing to fit a possible [Reporter] job—unlike the tracksuit she’d been gifted to interview and keep up with Joseph and athletic people in, she had on a dress that looked simply austere, a deep rose-red to compliment her sun-yellow scales. However, if she moved or whirled, you could see that the folds were actually yellow—it looked like a flower opening.

If you did it right. Which Drassi had practiced in front of a mirror and Selys for nearly two weeks before debuting it today.

Intention. The reason why Erin had clothing that nice was because Selys had bankrolled a shopping spree. Drassi was far more deliberate. So was Selys, at least, lately. But Erin was in the camp that Mrsha, Bird, and a few others occupied.

Then again—Mrsha was a child. Octavia was closer to Erin, because the [Alchemist] would forget to change her clothes, and neither one would like that comparison. Mrsha might be pleased to run around with no clothing, but she was growing up.

She wore that kilt more often than not when going into the city, and she was now fairly nimble on her two legs. She was…growing up. And whether it was Visma, age, or anything else—Drassi saw the Gnoll girl notice her dress. She was getting an appreciation for clothing, even if she didn’t bother.

Erin—didn’t notice. She scowled and pointed at Noass, who was out of dirtball range.

“Drassi! I’m not even letting Niers’ students into the garden right now. I don’t even trust them—let alone Noass or Chaldion!”

Hah! You hear that, old man?”

A naked Drake danced through the garden’s door and waved at a scowling old Drake outside. Drassi sighed. There were magic censors since Wistram’s broadcast was on a ten minute delay, but the [Mages] complained about having to censor Saliss since someone had to stare at the image.

That was someone else who didn’t think about clothing. And if Erin had thought in clothes-language, she would have realized Drassi’s intention. That was the point; the Thronebearers and Lyonette surely had.

At any rate, the [Innkeeper] gnawed on one lip as she turned to Drassi.

“The Gardens are…sort of secret, Drassi. I don’t want to show everyone, like, everything, you know?”

And there it was again. Some kind of—instinct? Or just her conscience? The talks she had with Rémi Canada? Journalistic conflict. Drassi hesitated, but she stepped forwards and lowered her voice.

“That’s true, Erin. But if we show everyone a look—just a quick look at the new [Garden of Sanctuary], they’ll be satisfied. It’s mostly buried, anyways. Just give us…forty-five minutes? It won’t even be full coverage. You can let a few Drakes in with shovels or Jewel or someone else. They’ll probably waste time.”

Erin hesitated, and there it was. The [Honest Reporter] watched her expression carefully.

Drassi. Not an idiot. Unlike Noass, she knew how to talk to people. And she had realized something after listening to the inn’s family. Even if Mrsha couldn’t speak, she had a big, big mouth. Drassi wondered how many other people had noticed—

There was more than one [Garden]. Drassi was a resident of Liscor. Unlike Chaldion or Altestiel, she knew what kind of flowering trees surrounded Liscor or were in the garden—and none of them had pink petals.

However, Drassi didn’t need to report on this. She was an [Honest Reporter], and that cut two ways, she was realizing. Erin’s gaze flickered as she thought of the same thing Drassi did.

“The new garden? The other one?”

“Just one look, Erin. It’s not even the biggest piece. You’re famous because of the <Quests>. [Innkeeper] has two gardens in a famous Skill. The Dullahans will have commentary—it’s a one-day piece.”

“I guess. Because yeah, it’s my new garden—and the one I want to explore first. But a quick peek, this once—I guess I can let you in. Forty-five minutes?”

It was actually amazing. When Erin lied, it was usually obvious. Unless she was lying. And she was concealing the other gardens quite well.

Drassi was curious, but she instantly agreed, and she held out a clawed hand. Erin shook on it and, sighing, went over to the doorway.

“Alright, Noass. You win. Come on in.”

The beaming Drake strode towards the door and face-planted into the wall as Drassi watched. Erin cackled as the [Reporter] snorted. The [Innkeeper] pointed to Drassi as the Drake grabbed the magical microphone.

“Drassi Tewing, taking over for an exclusive look into a famous Skill. I believe we have commentary from the Iron Vanguard and Archmage Blackwood waiting. I’ll leave that to you, Sir Relz. Now—let’s just wait for Erin to open her garden and we’ll see what’s happening. Erin, by the way, actually employed me as a [Bartender]. I’m—disclosing that? And she helped me get this very job, so let me just say, I’m very biased in her favor. And a friend. And we’ll be respectfully entering the garden—”

 

——

 

Some days, it really did seem like it was all about Erin Solstice. But then, if you watched the news or just listened to the town crier, you got a very small snapshot of the world.

To listen to the streets of Liscor, the war with Hectval had been the only thing happening in the world for a long time. The north was still buzzing with the fallout from the Circle of Thorns being unveiled, although they’d moved onto the war with Ailendamus and Magnolia’s scandalous proposal.

Narrow views—slices, really—of reality were how you learned about the rest of the world. The trick was…knowing it was a snapshot, a single point on a grid.

And when it was done right, that moment was indeed magical. The reason Erin had a presence on the news was because she could provide that.

That was why every eye was on Drassi. In the scrying orb, the hilarity of Noass’ antics faded away. The [Honest Reporter] checked herself. She accepted a heating spell since it would be cold and she was wearing a dress, but the audience got to see the camera-crew for once.

“No, no makeup—we’re going in. No one kill any Snow Golems if you can…who’s coming in? Adventurer Jewel?”

“On bodyguard duty. And excavation work for Miss Solstice. I’m Captain Jewel of Glitterblade—”

The Human woman was trying to get some camera-time, but Drassi stared at the closed door. Erin had shut it, yet some cold air was leaking around the frozen handle.

Stone. The door had changed. It now looked out of place. It would have fit…somewhere else. A frozen fortress. Perhaps a door set into the side of a keep, and it was larger. Fit for a [General]. Drassi’s words were quieter now, and a Gnoll backed up as she turned to the camera.

“I—to give you all some clarity, I believe we are about to enter the [Garden of Sanctuary]. A legacy Skill inherited from person to person. This is not Erin—the [Innkeeper]’s. She has apparently gained access to an older garden. This was the domain of the leader of the Iron Vanguard over seven thousand years ago. Before the Creler wars, Dolost the Adamantine was said to have this Skill.”

A visible shiver ran down Drassi’s scales. She breathed out.

“They called that age the Wars of Complacency—before the Crelers emerged, Rhir was left mostly barren. There were no Demons. [Archmages] were common, and if my research is right—so were even Dragons, although the times of Dragon-empires were long gone. Think on that. The Iron Vanguard was there. And their leader wore Adamantium armor—he had this Skill. We cannot confirm this is the very same garden, but the stone and design matches that of Invictel, the capital of the Iron Vanguard. We may be walking a place untouched for seven thousand years.”

Her voice trembled, and her eyes were locked on her audience. That was magic. And—whether Erin liked it or not, that was the value of The Wandering Inn.

It was so gripping that no one was speaking. Even people in Liscor were watching the scrying orb—or hurrying to crowd the inn. The Dullahan audiences were just as rapt. Maughin had abandoned his love—the block of Adamantium he was trying to learn to forge—although he’d taken his other love, Jelaqua, to join the crowds in the inn.

However, even though he could have been there—even though he had every right, and more than most—one person watching the scrying orb was not fighting to get a peek.

He had no doubt it was magical. He wanted to see it all.

But Garry the [Baker]-[Chef] had a stall to run. And Garry’s Antinium Edibles was open every day of the week. Count on it.

His audience wasn’t purchasing his goods. They were all staring at the scrying orb. None of them could afford one, Garry guessed. He based this on the fact that they were here for his deals on bread—and they were regulars.

And that half were children. Children were not fiscally wealthy in his observations. Except for Mrsha.

But they were not children like Mrsha. So as he watched and listened, Garry got their orders ready.

“Look at the door. She’s opening it! Look at the snow! It’s at that inn. The one that kills people.”

The children were whispering. Garry interrupted them gently as he pushed a loaf of bread over the counter.

“It does not kill people directly. Here you are, Hisnis. One loaf of bread. I have included a new idea this time.”

One of the Drakes might have been fourteen. He was at that stage where they shot up, or so Garry had been told, but he was shorter, yet to really climb.

He was also not going to purchase anything like Garry’s scrying orb any time soon. Which was why he often came to watch. He had on cheap hide clothing.

Cheap clothes here weren’t cotton—cotton was imported. Corusdeer hide was one of the most common commodities from [Hunters], so if you were strapped for coins, that was what you had. His was old and handed down. And it didn’t fit properly.

The Drake boy stared at Garry’s loaf with great apprehension. He knew what that usually meant.

“Does it have…maggots? Live maggots?”

“No.”

Garry saw the Drake boy poke the loaf as the others stared at it. One Gnoll girl stood on her tiptoes and sniffed it very suspiciously.

“Smells good.”

She informed Hisnis. The Drake hesitated. He wouldn’t have associated with the young Silverfang girl a few months ago, but she was a regular like him. Even so, he didn’t take it.

“Does it have anything alive in it?”

“No. Maybe yeast, but it is fresh and baked. It has no bugs.”

“Does it have bug parts in it?”

“No.”

“…Dirt? Slime? Monster organs or anything they make?”

“No, no, no, and no.”

The Antinium [Baker] was being very patient. The young Drake was almost convinced.

“So what does it have?”

“That is a secret. You must eat it and see. Please tell me if your family likes it. Oh, and here is the rest of your order.”

Garry added a pie he’d been keeping warm and a small box of his newest project. Erin had shown him how to make dumplings, and he’d finally managed to make them stick together. The Drake repeated his questions, but his stomach growled, and he almost snatched the food.

More than enough for a hungry young man. And enough for a family of three. Garry politely indicated his jar where he held coins.

“That will be three copper coins, please.”

Hisnis fumbled with his pouch, but he had three copper coins. One for each item. He put them in the jar, embarrassed, but Garry smiled, and they knew him enough to recognize an Antinium smile.

“Thank you for your business. Would you like to buy anything else?”

“No. Thanks…wait, we missed the door!

Hisnis pointed, and everyone spun around to Drassi ducking an angry Snow Golem hurling snowballs at her team. They crowded around, but Hisnis grabbed the food and hesitated.

“I’ll—get this home. I’ll be back. Don’t let her do anything interesting!

He shouted at the others as if they could stop Drassi. Garry nodded and watched the Drake run for it. He had to bring the food back to his mother and his younger brother. It might be breakfast.

It probably was breakfast. And the other guests of Garry’s stall, reminded of their stomachs, began asking for their orders. He delivered them, and his prices were fairly consistent.

One copper coin. One copper coin bought you a canteen of soup—so long as you brought back the canteen to refill—a loaf of bread filled with jam—that was what Garry’s secret ingredient was, Prelon jam—or half a duck roasted in fat.

The older Drake lady looked dismayed when Garry offered it to her.

“That’s my special today? Duck? Wherever did you buy that?”

“Invrisil, Miss Biscale. They had a sale on ducks. I had to use half for a project, but the other half is quite tasty.”

The other half of the project was a duck fat glaze and cuts for some potatoes au gratin. Mind you, that was just for taste and a bit of variety—Garry had made a huge, huge tub, and his helpers, Pisca and Runel, the Flying Antinium, had peeled two hundred potatoes.

Half a duck wasn’t much. But it was all he could save from the seventeen he’d used. Add in to that some tasteful Shield Spider cuts, pan-fried, a lot, a lot of goat’s butter, all the cooking in the six ovens he had—

Well, it had been a project. Miss Biscale tried to offer Garry a silver coin, but he politely asked for his copper.

“It is a copper for good customers, Miss Biscale. Thank you.”

She gave him such a…strange look. A familiar look. Garry felt like he looked at Erin the same way.

“Thank you very much, Chef Garry. I will bring you some recipes tomorrow. I’ll write them down.”

He beamed.

“That would be most welcome, Miss Biscale. I will see you tomorrow. Have a good day.”

She had no family, but he hoped that would be a lot of food, and she did have friends. That duck might be part of a potluck.

Drassi was exclaiming over the keep as Garry handed a young girl a box of meatballs—big ones for eating while you worked.

“Does your family have that mining job now?”

“Yep. They’re all making the new district. We can pay you more, Father said. There are lots of Silverfangs in the city, and they say we’re a tribe now, Mister Garry.”

“Well, I would prefer to be paid the same because it is easy to count. Why don’t you take one of my experimental candy-sticks? See? It is strawberry flavored, and there is an acid fly inside. Miss Imani and I have been making them.”

“Ew! Okay, I’ll take them. Do I tell you how it tasted?”

“Yes, please. There is no need to pay for them. They are experimental.”

Four red, slightly gelatinous lollipops went with the meatballs for breakfast. That was received…less well by some of Garry’s patrons.

Mind you, they ate it. When he’d first run Garry’s Antinium Edibles, the Worker had been very surprised to see people buying his food even with bugs.

Given his prices, it had made sense. But Garry, as a new stall owner, hadn’t realized why until a month later. Then he’d begun offering his specials and taking the bugs out of them.

It occurred to Garry, as he watched Drassi navigate the [Garden of Sanctuary], that he didn’t visit as much as he should. He had been far too sad when Erin was dead, but he and she hadn’t had a lot of time to cook together.

Why, she might not know how successful Garry was. He believed he sometimes, on a good day, broke even with his shop. Which was far better than the gold it tended to bleed week-to-week.

The Free Queen didn’t care. Neither did Garry. He leveled up, which the Free Queen told him was infinitely better than the gold that the Free Antinium had little use for. Moreover—Garry thought that his food was feeding a lot of people for very little.

And this…this was a good thing. Because Hisnis, without Garry’s food, might have to spend a lot of the money he managed to make—or steal, as when Garry had first met him—on worse food.

It was a strange thing. Garry had never set out to do this, but he knew most of the customers who came for his special deals at one copper each, and he listened to them and sometimes gave them more food.

He could not help them with their large troubles. Which concerned Garry greatly, like how Miss Biscale had been about to be evicted due to the soaring rent prices until the rent had been cut by the Council. Or how Comrei, the Gnoll girl, had been worried about her family’s situation, and Hisnis being arrested by the Watch for theft.

All he could do was give them food. Which he did. And sometimes food made it so you didn’t have to worry about coins. A fresh pie—without bugs—made a [Landlord] forgo the rent for a month. Or make a [Guardswoman] more inclined to let Hisnis off with a warning.

That was Garry’s Antinium Edibles, and it had a very select customer base. It did business with the occasional passerby who was often dared to eat something he made, but those who had his food were often surprised by the lack of bugs and quality on display.

Garry quite enjoyed taking orders. He had begun offering birthday cakes to his regulars, which mystified some people, because the rare confectionary, even in Liscor, was something Garry had no problem making. Nor did he count the cost in sugar, and again, his budget was backed by the Free Queen.

He thought of his stall, in fact, like Erin’s inn. Garry hadn’t realized it at first, but Hisnis was like…Garry had been to Erin. Sometimes you needed somewhere to eat food and not be worried about Mister Soot’s minions or whomever was in charge now.

Garry’s shop was right outside the Free Antinium’s Hive. He didn’t have a problem with crime. Crime had a problem with eighteen Soldiers who would charge out of their Hive. Garry had begun adding seats, and the scrying orb kept his crowd busy.

“Does anyone have a special order for tomorrow? I am going to order from Miss Krshia, and if she is to send a Street Runner to Invrisil, I must know now.”

The new cities had really opened up Garry’s markets. He listened as a Drake boy shyly asked if Garry could make something special for a Level 10 celebration and decided he’d make a variation on Erin’s bisque, perhaps. He ran it past the Drake boy and sighed.

“…Lobster bisque? They are very socially acceptable water-borne insects. No? A cake? A lobster cake? No? Just a sweet cake. Very well.”

He wrote down the order and happily went to order some food. Garry was glad Erin was having so much fun on the scrying orb. What he didn’t realize was that if she had knowledge of his humble stall, she would have been quite, quite proud of him.

But that was the city of Liscor. It was changing, and Garry, more than Erin or Lyonette or even Relc and Klbkch, could see how much it was changing.

 

——

 

The Antinium Worker trundling around the city with a basket and a list of groceries for Krshia’s shop, dubbed the Silverfang Emporium since she was so busy she could seldom run it—and hadn’t been in Liscor for months—was not an unfamiliar sight to Liscor.

Antinium had been in the city for over a decade now, but their role was changing.

Selys’ grandmother, Tekshia Shivertail, often sat with some veterans and old Drakes and sipped spicy tea in the morning. It was a bunch of grousing old scaleheads who complained and argued.

Funny. When they’d first started getting together, they didn’t play chess, but cards. And whenever one of them saw Antinium, they’d spit or argue about the decision to let them in. In those days, Workers moved around in a group and often out of sight, at night.

After that, Senior Guardsman Klbkch had started his routine, and people would stop him just to hear an Antinium—the Slayer—talk. But after he’d captured a [Killer] on the streets and slain several monsters on patrols, and after years, he’d actually been a welcome sight, especially if you wanted a competent [Guardsman].

Later…the patrols had started, and everyone would clear the streets when they came by. Tekshia was just one of the Drakes staring at the Antinium show of force…until she noticed one with Yellow Splatters and saw more colors day by day.

Then Hectval. Then the siege and so much more.

These days, the Antinium marching by the Drakes sipping tea was how they started their day, and if they didn’t march by exactly at half-past six, the group would be off-kilter for the rest of the morning.

“Where’s the gemstone fellow? I told you to bring that one. The one with the gemstone on his forehead.”

One of the Drakes harangued the patrol leader as they passed. He was being crotchety, but the Worker turned and actually spoke.

“I apologize, sir. I am Archer E41, and I was not present yesterday. Gemhead is likely on guard-duty. I will report this failure to Strategist Belgrade upon my return.”

“Oh—I didn’t mean you had to. Just so long as I see him sometime this week.”

Tekshia snorted as the Drake tried to clear things up. Antinium were entirely literal. They were also getting more and more interesting.

First paint. Then some decided accessories were as much their personality as paint, like the one which had no paint—save for a gemstone they wore like a kind of tiara between their antennae.

That was just as much an indication of Liscor changing: the fact that people spoke to Antinium and didn’t seem as mistrustful. However—it was still a huge change in one year.

Erin Solstice or not, there was more at play to how fast Liscor was changing. One reason was the Antinium themselves, but another was a power even Tekshia realized most were beholden to. From her Guild to Liscor’s Council—

It was the power of economics. Specifically?

Antinium economics. The patrol of Antinium often took this route, and, as a result, they were not halfway down the street when a panting stall owner wheeled up, smoke and a meaty scent wafting from the stall.

“I’m late! I’m—oh, Ancestors. Good! Hello! Can I interest your patrol in some hamburgers? Antinium-friendly cornmeal buns! See? Hot and very reasonable! Only one silver and two copper per!”

Tekshia’s snort made the Gnoll hesitate, but the Antinium leading the patrol twitched his antennae and then counted the Antinium present.

“The inn is very busy. How many here have had a hamburger?”

He counted the five hands raised out of the entire patrol and decided that it was a good purchase. The Gnoll stared at the gold coins avariciously as another stall owner hurried down the street—too late.

Antinium economics. The Free Hive had a lot of gold, and until now, The Wandering Inn had been getting most of it. It had taken a bit for the restaurants and other sellers of food to realize what they were missing. Only when Pawn had approached a few and bought huge amounts of food at their prices did they realize the Antinium were a literal goldmine.

You might not like them at first, but if you sold to them…none of the Antinium seemed to care that they were being overcharged. They ate happily—and it was good food they wanted. They would not ever say if it were bad food—but Tekshia noticed they were getting pickier and pickier with whose food they bought. Before, anyone offering food would get a sale, no questions asked. Now? You had better know the Antinium were intolerant to gluten or you’d be passed by.

She wondered if she should tell the patrol leaders not to pay so much. Then again—Tekshia also knew about Garry’s stall, and she considered that a boon for everyone in no small way. With the Humans and new parts of the city under development, Liscor really was feeling…new.

For instance, an older Silverfang Gnoll was pondering his next chess move, a tentative addition to the Drake group. Tekshia wondered if she’d get along with some Humans. She sipped at her tea cup and decided they had to try this ‘boba’ thing that Imani’s kitchen was offering via Timbor’s inn.

It was hard to get Imani’s new treats, but Tekshia had a granddaughter, and Selys was going to get it for her.

 

——

 

What even the canny Guildmistress, Spearmaster Tekshia, didn’t know was that the Antinium’s over-expenditures were being noticed by the one authority who could make it her concern. Yet the Free Queen didn’t care.

The Antinium Queen had a giant…cup. It was more like a vat, and she had tea to start her morning too and a huge amount of potatoes for food. Garry’s ‘boba’ were more like chunks in the giant wooden straw he’d had to commission, but the effect was mostly the same.

“The patrols are doing well.”

That was the Free Queen’s comment to Klbkch as he watched the scrying orb. He glanced up.

“What? Yes…indeed. The Hive is doing exceptionally well. I believe there is nothing more to discuss. I shall take my leave.”

“As far as I am aware, you have no [Guardsman] duties at the moment. We are reviewing the Hive’s performance, Klbkchhezeim. Unless something takes priority?”

The way Klbkch hesitated for just a second. And his response.

“No—not at all, my Queen.”

If Antinium could smirk…she saw him glancing at the scrying orb. The Free Queen, Xevccha, took a long sip of her tea.

“How much do we expend on the Antinium—activities, then, my Queen? Perhaps we can curtail their budget.”

Klbkch fidgeted, so unlike him, but he tried to direct their meeting to business. The Free Queen nodded to him.

“You are in possession of our written ledgers. We accumulate more gold via our construction work.”

She had a very…simplistic view of currency. The Free Queen, upon moving to Liscor, had realized that her Hive needed gold for some expenditures. She had obtained it over a decade of Antinium working menial tasks for literally no expense to themselves. Now, she was spending it. She had a fortune in gold and often let Klbkch buy artifacts—but she didn’t really care if it was all gone.

The benefit of people selling to Antinium, or Garry levelling for his work, was all she needed. She wanted gold only so he could buy more food for her. And as long as more money came in than went out, everything was well.

That was about how much the Free Queen thought about finances. She was far more deliberate when she had an accumulation she wanted—and she had broken into Liscor’s market very, very deliberately.

The Free Queen had made her Workers act as laborers and shown Liscor how cheap it was to have Antinium-made goods. She even dabbled in imports these days.

“Klbkchhezeim, I am meeting with the Armored Queen later today. She is sending me two hundred trees of wood. Do you have anything else the Free Hive needs?”

“Two hundred trees of wood? May I ask…why we require that, my Queen?”

Xevccha waved an idle feeler.

“We will sell it to Liscor for building materials. The Armored Queen agreed to locate suitable trees and has even begun an attempt at a forest of her own.”

“Why would she go to this amount of effort in her own Hive, my Queen?”

Klbkch actually looked away from the scrying orb. The Free Queen raised her mandibles.

“Because I offered her two hundred pounds of Garry’s cooking.”

“Ah.”

The Free Antinium Hive was in a wonderful position. It could sell many things it could acquire cheaply that Liscor wanted thanks to its route to the Hivelands and Antinium labor. And it could also give the other Hives what they wanted. Food, resources you could only buy from an [Alchemist], magic, and so on.

Everything was wonderful. Save for one thing. The Free Queen actually turned her head, but somehow—the other Centenium in her Hive had cut her off. Then again, one of her antennae was gone.

“Klbkchhezeim. How is Xrn?”

The Slayer hesitated, and he rested his hands on his swords. He was far more mobile, more at home in his new body, but that just made his old form shine more brightly in his memory. Three left—and one was now wounded.

“—I do not believe the Grand Queen will be satisfied if Xrn returns to her Hive. Despite her repeated requests. Xrn is—focused.”

And that was the most evasive answer Klbkch had ever given her. The Free Queen had no skin to crawl, but she sucked down the last tea, and the loud rasping, bubbling noise filled the room.

“I believe I will have a refill of tea. Continue informing me of her condition, Klbkchhezeim. Whatever she wishes…you may go.”

He was halfway out the room as the Free Queen sighed and let one of the Flying Antinium hurry over with a team of Workers to fill her cup. It was all going well. So well…she wondered if she had spare time.

To work on the project the Grand Queen had abandoned? If she had so much time—a part of her longed to do what the Grand Queen had confessed to and create her own statues. But that—that was a luxury. The Free Queen did have work.

“Keep my drink chilled. I will return in two hours.”

She moved herself over to the work rooms, and the Antinium backed away. The Free Queen stared ahead.

If only they had the knowledge of old. They had levelling even the True Antinium had lacked for in such abundance. If only…she brushed the thought aside. It was better than it had ever been. But oh, the dead did weigh on her. A hundred heroes.

They all deserved statues. Yet no matter how hard he looked…she whispered to Klbkchhezeim.

“They will not be in that garden. They deserve to be. But who will remember them save us?”

 

——

 

It was about memory. It was always about memory. The [Gardens of Sanctuary] were on the nose, but everything that made Liscor better, all the gloriousness of now was built on what was lost or would never return.

Even—no, especially immortals knew that.

Ryoka Griffin tried not to stare. She didn’t have a fetish. But even so—she leaned on the railing, then sprang into the air to show off. Just so the [Sailors] looked up and waved and laughed. She gazed down at a sea of faces as she flew overhead.

Half-Elves. Two ships were sailing the treacherously unknown seas to Izril’s north. Ryoka flew around them only for a few minutes, calling out greetings—but she couldn’t stay.

The Pride of the Wellfar was that fast. It didn’t rely on natural wind or currents—it cut the waves like a shooting star. And besides, they were almost back from Terandria.

It was quite amazing how fast they’d returned, actually. Nevermind Tyrion Veltras being able to ride at speeds unmatched—House Veltras had headed south from Ailendamus’ borders, embarked on the greatest ship of House Wellfar, and sped to Izril.

Yes, they had a Citadel-class ship that could scare the Illuminary if it came to a pursuit at sea. Yes, Tyrion was the famous [Lord] of speed. And yes, they wanted to be home.

But mainly they had gotten back to First Landing so fast because Tyrion had conveniently ignored every diplomatic overture from Calanfer and the other nations trying to host and celebrate him. Or at least pin a damn medal to his back.

Ryoka hadn’t realized how many offers he’d snubbed until Jericha had brought it up—delicately. The [Lord]’s response was simple:

“We have been away from home too long. Sammial is waiting for us in First Landing. Hethon is with Buscrei’s family. We shall return with no delays.”

And that was that. Honestly, from watching Jericha’s face, Ryoka thought even the rowdy and irreverent Veltras’ would have made Tyrion at least greet Calanfer’s [King]. Even Lord Swey and Buscrei, let alone the others, were conscientious of diplomacy.

However—Ryoka also guessed that Tyrion’s loss of levels was a reason his House wanted him away from nosy appraisal Skills. He was warded with the best magic they had, but that couldn’t hide the fact that he’d lost countless levels—even his old class.

That Tyrion had told her was shocking. And another sign of his bad judgment abilities. Ryoka was on deck as First Landing came into sight. There she stood, as Buscrei waved a final time and loosed a magical arrow into the air in the half-Elves’ direction. The faint explosion and glittering colors made Ryoka start.

“Courier Griffin. Do you have need of…?”

Someone appeared like magic and offered her a towel in case the ocean air and spray had gotten her wet. Ryoka glanced at the livery of someone from House Veltras and looked around.

“Oh. I, uh—thank you.”

She scrubbed at her hair and the seawater. She was going to drape the towel around her neck until she realized that she could hand the towel back. The servant bowed and backed away, and Ryoka almost went flying after the half-Elves to beg them to take her with them, slower journey or not.

Here she was again. House Veltras surrounded her, and the servants treated her like a guest or worse—as a member of the nobility. She had almost forgotten what she’d been so worried about.

This time, do it better, Ryoka. Just—a bit better? Please? 

If she went two months without killing someone, she’d call it a win. Ryoka leaned on the railing and tried to exhale. But no sooner had she leaned there than someone strode up.

Tyrion Veltras was not a man who had a casual stroll. He strode like someone who did not want to waste a second getting from point A to point B. He came to a halt at the railing, and Lord Pellmia Quellae covered his face.

Tyrion had no tactical approach. But he was doing his best, and amazingly, Ryoka didn’t jump into the sea to avoid him. She owed him far more than that.

“I almost feared you would land on the half-Elves’ ships and sail to Baleros. Or the new lands of Izril. I would have had to spend another month in pursuit.”

Ryoka almost choked as she began to take a sip of water. She looked at Tyrion.

“I wouldn’t do that! I was just saying hello to them.”

As mentioned—as he was famously depicted in most images or even verbal accounts—Lord Tyrion Veltras was like a statue. Straight-faced, his beard usually trimmed to exacting fineness, and almost always wearing armor, or, as now, the green and whites of House Veltras. ‘Casual’ clothing looked like old military-style attire on him.

Ryoka, by contrast, had the Runner’s loose clothing, bare feet like a lot of House Wellfar on deck, actually, and a belt festooned with pouches and tools of the trade, not least of which was the Faeblade.

They cut an odd duo, especially given their personalities. Well, they were closer in height, which was one similarity. Their ability to insert their own feet into their mouths was another striking commonality. Tyrion Veltras hesitated with Ryoka’s reply. He glanced at her and then stared at the city coming into view, a massive harbor flanked by two gigantic gates emblazoned with five seals of each noble house.

First Landing. Tyrion had seen it—Ryoka had not. She stared at the massive city, the largest in the north, as he responded.

“…That was a joke. My attempt to be humorous.”

“Oh.”

“I can see it has failed. Comedy is not my forte.”

Ryoka heard a snorting sound from the side. You wouldn’t know that to see Buscrei’s red face as she laughed into her arm.

Now, Ryoka was not immune to embarrassing situations. She was positively an infinity-generator of them. However, she was exceptionally grateful when someone else moved in—smoothly—to join the conversation.

“Miss Griffin, it never fails to astonish me to see you fly like that. I’d caution you to beware doing it in First Landing, though.”

Lord Pellmia Quellae, the [Lord of Love and Wine], was the kind of person you liked. He was, in the world of social parlance, a net positive to most situations, be they formal or simply casual. Both Tyrion and Ryoka relaxed around him.

“Why’s that, Lord Pellmia? Anti-air spells? Something else?”

The [Lord] waved that off.

“We’re not at war, and there are a few domesticated Griffins about there. Hawking is a very noble sport—not at all. Simply that if you fly once, every noble from here to Invrisil will demand to see you do it and try your glider. Which is entirely its own problem.”

Ryoka winced at the idea of a panicking member of the nobility doing a nose-dive by accident a hundred feet up.

“Very well advised, Pellmia. I’ll try to—lower expectations.”

“I’m sure we could ride together. It would be pleasant conversation, I trust.”

Lord Tyrion interjected, and Buscrei, Swey, and a few of his cousins oohed in the background. That had to be Pellmia’s influence. Buscrei held up a piece of parchment.

6/10.

Pellmia glared in their direction, but for some reason, that made Ryoka feel vaguely better.

“I—wouldn’t actually mind that. I really want to see my friends—”

“Of course. We can arrange your transport southwards as fast as—”

Tyrion shut up as Pellmia pointed a finger behind his back at him. Ryoka wasn’t done.

“—but I, uh, wouldn’t mind staying in First Landing a few days. If you and Sammial don’t need to get to House Veltras right away. It’s the biggest city in the north. I’d love to just—see what it has.”

Were pigs flying? Buscrei was staring up at the sky in awe, but Pellmia leapt on the suggestion.

“A wonderful idea! Lord Hethon may be travelling north already—and it’s true, how many chances does one have to see First Landing? There are countless wonders there.”

“Really? Like what?”

Ryoka knew more about the Walled Cities’ fame than First Landing’s. It was so remote that, frankly, she felt like Drake customs and attractions were more familiar to her. For instance, public bath houses were a very Drake thing.

Not so in First Landing. But Lord Pellmia instantly began counting off attractions.

“Aside from your usual run of pursuits—you could do hawking or anything of that kind in House Veltras, who arguably have finer animals and better wilds. However, there is famously a racing course for horses. Griffins—domesticated Griffins, Miss Ryoka—are available to ride. For buildings, perhaps the House of Altreidva would be a stop? That is the gallery of some of Izril’s greatest [Artists]—Drakes, Gnolls, and Humans. You know, I wonder if the Players of Celum are there? But you’d know them. Let’s see. Colousa’s Relics is up there. Izril’s best [Enchanter].”

“Really? The best [Enchanter]?”

Ryoka was surprised, but Pellmia instantly nodded. He raised his brows.

“Save for a Walled City or another major city—why would the best and most high-level individuals not be present? I believe First Landing can lay claim to the highest-level [Enchanter], [Sculptor]—never the [Bard] with Barelle so mobile—oh!”

He snapped his fingers.

The Adventurer’s Haven! We must pay a visit to the highest-level [Innkeeper] on the continent. She’s moving her inn, and if you have not visited already…”

“She’s moving?”

Even Lord Tyrion raised his brows at that. Pellmia nodded seriously.

“I heard from home. It must be a huge scandal.”

“Why? I had no idea an inn could move.”

Ryoka had heard of that inn in the vague way she knew of First Landing and famous Archmages, but Pellmia elaborated.

“It has always been…mm, fairly mobile. It often changes crossroads, but it is a famously attractive inn. Couriers and the nobility flock to it. They must be in uproar—as entertainment goes, The Adventurer’s Haven is one of the best, Miss Griffin. Someone of the owner’s level has so many—fascinating abilities. She was a Named-rank adventurer before she retired, you see. A famous [Mage].”

Really?

The only [Innkeepers] of note that Ryoka had met besides Erin were, er, Agnes, Mad Medain, and the [Reader]. She wanted to know what a Level 50 retired Named-rank [Innkeeper] could do.

“If you’re going, we’ll join in! It’s pricey at times, but I love to visit the inn. Something for everyone—although I’m no longer a young woman, so I can’t have all the experiences. Quite a lot of lucky nights can be had there. It’s a feature.”

Buscrei winked at Ryoka. The other nobles from each family knew the inn too and, apparently, all thought well of it and wouldn’t mind another visit.

“It is certainly a spectacle, but I don’t care for the Adventurer’s Haven.”

…And there came in Tyrion, with such blunt honesty that even Pellmia’s new class couldn’t stop it like a mallet to the face. He amended his statement after a second.

“…But I’m sure it would be excellent for Hethon and Sammial to see it, as well as you, Miss Griffin. Before it leaves.”

“I shall take it upon myself to show you all around. And celebrate our survival of this war! First Landing awaits!”

Pellmia rescued the situation as he pointed to the harbor. The gates were open, and as The Pride of the Wellfar came in, even the harbor slowed to see the greatest ship on the seas come into port.

Frankly, Ryoka thought that the people in the city got a better show than she did. Even the ships inbound and outbound stopped as the Pride signaled the docks. Amazingly, there were berths for even her class, and she slowed to maneuver into port.

Etril Wellfar, the [Captain] of the vessel, only emerged as they were heading straight in. He looked around, and his eyes fixed on Ryoka’s. She started—because here was someone else with a claim on her time.

He was Gresaria Wellfar’s son. They hadn’t been able to speak long—he’d wanted to get away from Ailendamus because they were still technically at war until peace was declared. But here was someone else she had a debt to.

Him and the rest of the world. He bowed slightly to the other nobles waving at the crowds gathering on the docks. As Ryoka had been told, there was a high population of the nobility in the city. She wondered if there were even Reinharts, the most reclusive of the Five Families.

She wanted to explore this city, but she was also in the eye of the storm. Etril spoke.

“Lord Tyrion, House Wellfar has taken you to Terandria and back. The war isn’t at an end, and it may be Ailendamus will damn the seas with blood if they refuse to make peace.”

Ryoka had thought they would sign a deal, but Rhisveri hadn’t officially made peace—perhaps because he couldn’t. The other nations saw this as Ailendamus’ moment of weakness, and despite the ghosts, were pushing on the borders. Etril continued briskly.

“—But we’ve succeeded at the task you swore to me. Veltras and Wellfar ever stand together, forest and sea. I hope I can call on you if ever we need to.”

Tyrion reached out and took Etril’s hand.

“By House Veltras, we will. Whenever and whatever the odds. I will not forget this, Lord Etril.”

From another man, the short address might have sounded cheap given all that had passed. From Tyrion…he meant it. Etril almost smiled, but he glanced towards the people on the docks.

“—And it’ll be Krakens at sea once we dock. The things we’ve seen beggar belief. I must report to my House, but I hope I can speak with you before you fly off, Wind Runner?”

“A-absolutely, Lord Wellfar. Should I call on you here or…?”

Ryoka didn’t know where he’d be going, but the [Captain] smiled wryly.

“I don’t doubt I’ll find you. If I need to, I’ll just sail towards the nearest war.”

Her expression was so colorful that Buscrei began guffawing with Swey. But to Ryoka’s surprise, Etril threw his head back and laughed.

“Peace! Don’t glare at me so, Lord Tyrion!”

He had a sense of humor. She really didn’t know him. But he was Gresaria’s son and…Ryoka didn’t know her much at all either. Only that she was one of the people who’d died when she challenged the Assassin’s Guild. But as First Landing came closer…she realized something.

The city remembered Gresaria Wellfar. It had not been long since the Circle of Thorns was unveiled. And if—

If the theme of the day was television, or a changing city, or just the Free Queen’s wish—this moment would be the catalyst for all of it. For as they landed, Ryoka saw the first signs of how much her reputation—or everything that had happened had changed abroad.

Because fighting for position at the front of the crowd were a bunch of [Mages] wearing those damned robes with Wistram’s admittedly splendid insignia. A television crew, and a Human man was speaking excitedly into the camera.

“—going to have to break in, Miss Drassi! The Pride of the Wellfar has landed, and the victorious House Veltras is disembarking with the famous, nay infamous Wind Runner!”

And while Ryoka Griffin had not seen Erin Solstice’s antics, what with travel and the rest—it was an [Innkeeper] hucking snowballs at Noass from her garden who looked up and saw Ryoka.

 

——

 

First Landing was founded in a time before even General Dolost. Not that much farther back, actually, in the grand chronology of this world’s history—which admittedly had gaps.

Humans were ‘new’ to Izril. New enough that they hadn’t spread across all of Izril’s wilds.

Then again, the reason there were more wilds was because the wars of invasion had scorched Drake and Gnoll lands already fractured from their long war that had seen Walled Cities burn. However, the Five Families dealt the final blow to Drake superiority in the north. The first scions of Veltras, El, Wellfar, Reinhart, and Terland destroyed the last northern Walled Cities.

First Landing was the product of the same hands that had razed the greatest cities of Drakes. And the Five Families had been at least as good at building as destroying.

The harbor should have still been, well, a harbor. No matter the achievement, harbors were inherently messy, busy places where [Sailors] and crew would be fuelling the lifeblood of a port city.

…It was just that this harbor had some, um, differences. For instance, First Landing was flanked by two gates bearing the crests of all five families. Wellfar’s sigil was split in half and would only be centered when the two metal gates closed. And when they closed, the tides themselves would change, because the gates were fifty feet tall over the waves.

They had some kind of greenish tinge to pale silver, which was apparently what happened to mithril-alloy over thousands of years. However, the details were barely faded; mithril didn’t age much.

The docks themselves could hold fleets of ships. The Wellfar’s berth was one of five—fittingly. And that was for the largest ships in the sea. Ryoka had to rotate just to see the rest of the harbor, and that was when the irregularities began cropping up.

Firstly? No bilge water or filth on the docks. No barnacles, no understandable wear from constant water. The stone—the docks were stone—looked fresh, rather like sandstone, and tiled with brighter walkways. She put it down to enchantments to block that kind of thing, but then she saw the real cause.

Ryoka Griffin had never been to Wistram Academy in truth. If she had—this would have been a slightly familiar scene. As it was, her skin chilled a second as she saw House Terland’s great gift to the north.

Golems. They were uncannily humanoid, many of them. Some were the giant, bulky laborer-types slowly dragging cargo from their ships, but others looked like, well, servants.

To Ryoka, Magnolia Reinhart’s servants had seemed uncannily familiar to a certain era in Earth’s history. Now she realized Magnolia had based the dress and style of her servants off of Terland’s Golems.

They had been carved into their clothing, and they tirelessly pushed mops or maintained the docks. In fact—all of First Landing was more magical than any city Ryoka had seen save Pallass.

She watched as an experienced crew of [Sailors] stepped back from unloading their cargo ship. They’d piled a lot of crates up high on what looked like a dais of stone, a rectangle with a glowing gem in the center. As Ryoka watched, it levitated slowly, and a regular-sized Golem began to pull it on a short tether.

“Mage lifts. It must be priority cargo like Reinhart’s damned sugar. We don’t have as many—mostly the unloading is manual these days. Or simpler.”

The comment came from Etril Wellfar. He nodded to another ship, and Ryoka saw a giant clay Golem being tethered to a unique harness. It had to pull a wheeled cargo container towards a warehouse. In fact, Ryoka saw a primitive rail system to make sure that the wheeled lift wouldn’t slip into the ocean.

“How far we’ve fallen. But this is House Terland’s efficiency at work. With Wellfar’s help. I hope you will visit our lands where you might see the true potential of Golems unleashed.”

A [Lady] with a fan idly spoke, and Ryoka jumped—one of Terland’s representatives was watching the docks with a slight frown.

As if a semi-automated dock were something to scoff at. But then—she had grown up here. And the floating archer-Golem capable of miles-distant bombardment was calmly waiting to return to House Terland’s custody.

So Ryoka understood. She understood this city was going to be wild.

Already, she could see landmarks across First Landing. What was notable—well, aside from the docks—were a few elements Ryoka quickly chronicled for later questions.

Firstly—the city was not all old buildings. Some was mundane stone and wood, which fit a city constantly expanding. It had that old inner city with sturdy walls and had progressively gotten more sprawling as it had grown.

Ryoka saw the largest and most impressive towers and buildings were mostly in the center, near the docks, but a few outliers appeared later on. Each one tended to belong to one of the Five Families.

House Reinhart’s sigil was the only one that Ryoka knew by heart along with Veltras’, but they weren’t exactly hard to guess.

Reinhart’s was twisting vines and a single flower—but the vines sometimes looked like snakes. More ornate versions of the sigil included falling petals. House Veltras, by contrast, was of a tree that a bow and lance had been placed against, leaning across the trunk. Like Reinhart, sometimes there were variations.

One of the sigils that Ryoka had seen in the keep had a tiny, tree-like figure half-hidden behind the tree and a Unicorn resting on the grass.

At any rate, she picked out House Reinhart’s sigil from one of the towers. It was…er…glowing. A hazy blue-grey light leaking from the crystalline heart of the tower. She pointed it out to Etril and Tyrion.

“Ah—is that a magical tower?”

Both men glanced over, and Tyrion grimaced.

“Tower Tuell. Reinhart. I believe it was first home to an [Archmage]. I don’t believe it is open for general visitation. I could petition House Reinhart to visit. However, not all their structures are…”

He looked at Etril for the right descriptor. The [Lord] raised one brow.

“Safe?”

Lord Pellmia frowned.

“Pleasant. Most of the greatest structures are ruled in some way by one of the Five Families, Ryoka. They were funded or claimed after their owners passed. Tower Tuell was a famous laboratory of magic. Now, I believe it fulfills many of Reinhart’s wants magically.”

“Such as?”

“Spying.”

Everyone in earshot chorused at once. Ryoka actually saw House Terland’s [Lady] smile, before hiding it behind the fan.

It seemed that the Five Families got along much like, well, an extended family. Grudges and prejudices. Ryoka turned back to the city—there was a huge crowd at the docks. And someone with a scrying orb. But they had moments to look while the shouting and swearing [Helmsman] brought them in and anchored.

The second thing Ryoka noticed was that the outer walls looked…odd. She pointed them out and saw that entire sections had been—vaporized. Blown in. An eighty-foot gap was visible from the harbor—but someone had erected a hazy barrier of light magic there. Other sections were covered with blooming vines and flowers.

“Was that from—?”

“The Second Antinium Wars. The Goblin King broke First Landing’s walls in many places. Those are the repairs. We have not commissioned finer.”

Tyrion’s face froze up again, and all the nobility fell silent. And again—Ryoka remembered that the Sacrifice of Roses had taken place here.

Classic Ryoka. However, Pellmia shook himself with a slight laugh.

“—We might as well replace all the walls, then! Those ‘repairs’ are stronger than the original, Ryoka. See the vines and plants? That was from the Crown of Flowers. They bloom with each season, flowers even in the winter. [Alchemists] love them.”

“People with pollen allergies hate them. Like me.”

Lord Swey announced, pinching his nose. Ryoka nodded slowly.

So even First Landing had seen foes to bring it to its knees in the modern era. And as if that thought heralded something else, Lord Tyrion calmly pointed to something close to the harbor. A black patch of street, a blasted building and rubble.

“There is the Assassin’s Guild. What remains of it. No more of them. No more rot within First Landing.”

Etril’s head rose, and his teeth bared. Ryoka looked at him, and then she saw that rubble and her skin crawled. The scars on her back itched.

There it was. No one had built over it. The Five Families had dug up the very firmament, ensuring no hidden passages or secret tunnels remained. Like a rat’s den, they had purged First Landing of the Assassin’s Guild.

But that had come at a great cost. Ryoka hadn’t been here. But she knew the tale. Her eyes slowly travelled from the Assassin’s Guild to an edifice along the harbor’s docks. A bell stood high above the ships, silent despite the wind that tried to move it.

The Bell of First Landing. It waited, never rung except for war or the death of one of the leaders of the Five Families.

It was right there, on these docks while Maviola El, Saliss of Lights, and the Wind Runner were racing for Tyrion Veltras, that someone had rallied the Five Families. Maviola El had flown the banner, but it was her great friend and rival who ignited those flames in First Landing.

Gresaria Wellfar. The [Harbormistress] had charged the Assassin’s Guild and paid for it with her life. That had been the catalyst that had doomed the Assassin’s Guild here and across Izril, as the nobility broke their fear of them.

“…it wasn’t the Five Families who charged over those docks and killed the [Assassins]. I was there, Tyrion Veltras. I watched my mother and father die like tempests at sea.”

Etril Wellfar spoke, and Ryoka turned and saw his strained expression. He stood on the docks of the ship from where Regein Wellfar had launched every magical spell at the Assassin’s Guild. He pointed, and Ryoka’s shivering grew worse.

Gresaria Wellfar stood there, spear in hand, atop her chariot. She called down to the frightened nobility, challenging an army of faceless figures waiting down the street. 

She charged them, alone. They watched as she surged into the [Assassins] and fell, never striking a blow. 

Then—it wasn’t the nobility who came to her defense. Not at first. It was a [Captain] from Cenidau, then the crews of the ships.

[Pirates] and [Sailors] avenging the [Harbormistress] of First Landing. 

Only then did the Five Families move. Then came the reckoning. But what Etril remembered, what the seafolk remembered, was that it had been them. Not for a noble house, but for the [Harbormistress].

Ryoka’s eyes stung as she listened to the retelling of that story. She hadn’t known.

She had…known the [Harbormistress] was one of the people who’d died, but never met anyone who had known her. Etril was her son. Now Ryoka understood why he wanted to meet her. She searched for something to say as he looked at her. His ruffled clothing was like an older ship’s captain, practical and ornate. But he seemed more like a [Sailor] than [Lord], sometimes.

“I…Lady Gresaria…”

“Harbormistress. She was a Duchess, for whatever it was worth. The Duchess of Salt, they called her. But she liked being called Harbormistress.”

Ryoka hesitated. She looked at Etril, and eyes like the salt-grey skies waited.

She died because of my arrogance. I’m sorry.

No. Those were entirely the wrong words. She died because of me? Ryoka had said something like it before and been reminded of her arrogance. What else?

I wish I could avenge her? I won’t forget this?

No, and no. At last, the Wind Runner gulped. She looked Lord Etril in the eyes and nodded.

“…I wish I could have met her. She sounds like she was a hell of a woman.”

Tyrion blinked, but Etril’s eyes widened slightly, and he threw his head back. He laughed once, almost in relief.

“She was! A hellion worse than her children. She always told us we were too calm and mild. She tore up Izril with Maviola El. A hell of a woman. I like that.”

Ryoka exhaled, and Etril shook his head, chuckling. She had gotten it right this time. And Etril…he turned and pointed, and Ryoka’s breath caught again as the gangplanks were being lowered.

“Don’t worry. You can still see her. Look there. It went up two months ago. I’ve sailed so constantly after the Circle of Thorns I barely saw it myself. But there she is. Our famous [Sculptor], Haeis of Marble, did it.”

And there she was. Ryoka Griffin saw, next to the Bell of First Landing, a smaller statue.

Still life-sized. That was how big the bell was. Someone—a true master—had taken a block of marble and carved…

Gresaria Wellfar. She stood there, spear in hand, pointing outwards, head thrown back, white hair tinged the faintest green blowing in the wind. Even her skin seemed weathered by the sea, but her eyes were flashing as she stood atop that chariot.

It was so lifelike that, but for the right color, Ryoka expected the woman to move at any second. In fact…Ryoka’s heart raced as Lady Buscrei spoke softly.

“Has she changed postures since last I saw her?”

“She has. That’s Haeis for you. His works change posture—like how some paintings change. Do you know, he put it up in secret?”

“House Wellfar didn’t commission it?”

Even Tyrion was interested. Etril’s eyes lingered on his mother as he sailed home.

“No. We didn’t pay him a thing, and I would have—he put it up in the middle of the night. I think it caused a stir. It—damn. Are they still arguing over the statue limit?”

His smile became a frown as they pulled into harbor. Ryoka saw a commotion at the docks. And—she noticed something else—there was another crowd around the statue of Gresaria Wellfar. They had ropes, tools to winch something heavy, a number of horses, and two Golems.

But the [Laborers] took one look at the oncoming Pride of the Wellfar and Lord Etril and backed up fast. He strode towards the gangplank as Ryoka heard the shouting begin. Cheering from the people at the docks, calls to Lord Tyrion, the news crew—she stared around and felt hundreds, thousands of eyes on her.

She hoped this wouldn’t be a scene. But then Ryoka realized her first mistake. Even without the Ryoka special—everyone else here was quite adept at causing a mess themselves.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice had no understanding of First Landing’s cultural heritage or even most of the people with Ryoka. But she didn’t need to know that right now.

“She’s alive! She’s alive, and she hasn’t lost any fingers. Mrsha, see? See?”

Drassi wasn’t being broadcast at the moment. She was still digging towards the keep in the frozen garden, but the fickle news had switched over to The Pride of the Wellfar coming into port for a bit.

They hadn’t really figured out that they could delay broadcasting the news for later yet. So this live event was showing the gigantic ship as it came in, and there was a familiar head of raven-black hair. Of course, she was so far away it could have been a number of people, especially since you couldn’t see the bare feet.

The real clue was the way she kept shifting awkwardly and the wind that was furiously blowing around her despite the more placid breeze elsewhere. Mrsha stared at Ryoka and smiled. Well, well, well. You made it again.

Everyone else in the inn was less happy to see Ryoka, or her company. Noass was waiting to get back to Pallass, but he spat.

“Tyrion Veltras. The hound of the Five Families himself.”

Erin stared at the spit on her floorboards. She pointed at Noass accusingly.

“Clean that up.”

Then she went back to watching. Ryoka was keeping bad company, but what else was new? Well, apparently a lot of things.

Whoever this reporter on the ground was, he was fairly energetic and a good speaker. Candidate for an actual [Reporter] class and employment by the Five Families.

—this is the triumphant return of The Pride of the Wellfar, Sir Relz. One of two Citadel-class ships out at sea. As you well know, House Veltras fought against Ailendamus alongside the Dawn Concordat, and Tyrion Veltras himself is returning, covered in glory—and far younger! I would be, of course, remiss to not mention that House El, House Wellfar, and House Terland also contributed to the war effort. House Reinhart is typically absent, but the others will no doubt be claiming some of the glory, and I expect the celebrations will shake First Landing!

Sir Relz was on the splitscreen broadcast. As Drassi had said, he really could be clever, but right now he had the bemused expression of a foreigner trying to show mild interest in something he really didn’t care about. The Drake adjusted his monocle.

“I, ah, see, Mister Wetiole. I assume there’s a custom of celebrations? You do seem to give the Five Families a lot of credit.”

The Human man didn’t seem deterred by Relz’s attitude, which endeared himself to his viewers, Erin included. He beamed as he gestured towards the gangplank being lowered.

“One has to, in First Landing, Sir Relz! The Five Families or nobility in general take offense, and their fighting is to the north as the Walled Cities squabbling is to the south!”

Relz huffed.

“I don’t think that’s an entirely appropriate analogy. Can you get an interview with this Wind Runner or Lord Tyrion?”

We will try! Although Lord Tyrion is infamously aloof—oh, but there’s Lord Etril Wellfar, the [Captain]-appointed head of The Pride of the Wellfar. A very prestigious position after the passing of the late, irreplaceable Gresaria Wellfar, who died challenging the Assassin’s Guild. In this very spot—I think there might be some trouble. It looks like they were trying to remove her statue again, and Etril Wellfar is not going to take that well. Oh dear.

The camera swung back to the statue, and Erin’s head jerked up.

“Gresaria…?”

The name reminded her of someone. Her eyes locked on…that old woman who’d come after Maviola! But Erin remembered someone else. Someone she had met in the lands of the dead, who had helped save her.

Gresaria Wellfar. And then she saw the crews about to do something to the statue, and Erin felt a pulse of anger in her chest. That was nothing to the look on Etril’s face as he stormed down the ramps.

The cheering and the crowd of nobles prepared for some kind of ceremony stopped as his voice began to sound off in the background. The wincing Wetiole gave commentary.

It’s, uh—a First Landing problem, Sir Relz. You see, the greatest [Sculptor] in Izril, Haeis of Marble, pulled a Sellme the other day. I think that’s a Drake analogy you can understand? It’s a wonderful tribute to the [Harbormistress] and a work of art—she moves and changes posture, you know. But it’s interfered with First Landing’s statue-limitations law, and it is a problem.

“I don’t know if ‘greatest [Sculptor] in Izril’ is an appropriate claim to make. Have we compared his levels with Drake—or Gnoll artisans? But do go on about this statue argument? I wonder if we could check in with Drassi again? I don’t think we need to delve into civic details, Wetiole. You are live.”

Sir Relz inspected his claws. At this, the energetic man’s smile faltered.

I think it’s a bit relevant, Sir Relz. I, uh, could I talk to Drassi? I feel like there’s a bit of hostility here, and she is my inspiration.

The monocled Drake’s brows drew together in outrage.

“Drassi’s busy. And I think we can all appreciate some unbiased coverage from another species who understands that, from an outsider’s perspective, the minutiae of another nation’s customs are not—”

Erin was about to chase after Noass and shout at him. She was just turning when Sir Relz’s viewpoint disappeared and Drassi appeared in his place. She was pointing at the ramparts of a keep buried in snow; the garden was so filled that the top of the keep was being excavated by Jewel and some others.

“—I think I see a door. See if—what the heck?

She jumped, looked around, and then listened to something in a speaking stone in her earpiece.

“That idiot did—ahem. Hello! Who am I speaking to? What’s going on? Oh, Ryoka Griffin! Personal acquaintance of mine. Distant friend. Friend is, uh, putting it generously, but I’ve met her. And is this First Landing?”

“Reporter Drassi! Wetiole here—”

The man beamed and introduced himself as Drassi found herself acting as news-anchor from the garden. She nodded rapidly as he did a recap.

“I see—so what is the statue-limitation law? I’m interested. Petty people are tons of fun.”

The people in the background of Wetiole’s feed laughed. He smiled and went on.

“Well, this is as petty as it gets—in a sense, Reporter Drassi. Basically, there is an old law on the books in First Landing that none of the Five Families are allowed to have more statues of each other than any other. This unauthorized statue of Gresaria Wellfar has put House Wellfar ahead, and the other Five Families want it gone—or to all have another statue of themselves. And between you and me, no one wants more of the nobility enshrined!”

“Ancestors, that is petty! So they’re trying to remove it? And Lord Etril…uh oh. Bad taste?”

And bad timing!

Lord Etril was having a heated argument with House Wellfar’s leadership, an affronted [Lord Admiral], as the other members of the Five Families watched. A [Lady] of the Reinharts was watching with a delighted smile as House El looked resigned and House Terland horrified at this breach of decorum.

“—not going to take down her statue.

“The law of statues, Lord Etril—this is not the moment. Lord Veltras is waiting to disembark.”

“Then move your work teams back, or I’ll toss them into the surf myself!”

Etril barked. Erin saw the camera moving slowly towards him. In the background, she saw a telltale pair of bare feet.

“Ryoka! Ryoka—oh, wait. That’s not Ryoka. There are more people with bare feet? Oh no. It’s spreading!”

Erin pointed at the second-in-command of the ship, another of House Wellfar’s folk, a [Lady Navigator]. House Wellfar apparently had its nobility serve as actual members of their ships, hence their…down to earth or down-to-sea natures.

However, there were clearly differences, like the [Lord Admiral] who really did not want this argument right now.

“Her statue will be removed to a private space. Perhaps to Wellfar lands. It will not be destroyed. Nothing can be done right now, Lord Etril. You know the laws on statue-limitations. We already have three statues in radius of the harbor. Lord Shellac, for instance.”

He pointed at another statue standing proudly on a huge park looking down over the docks. It was one of those plazas you could walk around. Etril’s eyes narrowed as he stared up at it.

“Indeed we do. One moment.”

He turned and stormed back up the gangplank. The nobles muttered, looking offended, and Erin felt like Etril’s political stock was probably dropping. However, that wasn’t what drew her attention.

“Hey, did he look weird to you just now?”

She turned to the others watching with her. Mrsha scribbled furiously, but Lyonette beat her to the punch. She gave the image a wary look and then turned to Erin.

“I fear he’s going to do something stupid, Erin. He did indeed look off to me. Rather like you do whenever you lose your temper.”

Erin squeaked.

“Me? What does—”

Then everyone saw Lord Etril Wellfar appear on the railings of The Pride of the Wellfar. He called down—calmly—to the nobles on the docks.

“Lord Admiral Deinol, I hear and understand the issue of statue limitations. Allow me to rectify the issue.”

“Rectify the…”

The mustachioed man caught on a second too late. He began waving his hands as Lord Etril turned and pointed.

Don’t you dare! Krakens damn you, Etril! Don’t you—

Fire!

And then Erin went blind for a second. The person holding the camera actually had the wherewithal to aim it at the distant statue on the plaza.

Erin didn’t know what it was made of or which [Sculptor] of antiquity had created it—but whatever it was, it wasn’t proof against a bolt of lightning as large as the statue blowing it to pieces.

The Pride of the Wellfar was a magical ship. It had magical artillery that had forced Ailendamus to flee it on land as well as sea. The first bolt blew half of poor Lord Shellac’s head off and sent an arm spinning into the sea. Two more lanced the statue with pinpoint accuracy, and then a pair of legs and a ruined pedestal were all that was left. Right until the molten fire landed on it and clung, burning, to the base.

When the ringing finally stopped, Etril Wellfar turned back to the stunned crowd.

“There. Problem solved.”

Ryoka’s mouth was open as wide as everyone else’s in the background. Erin gazed at Lord Etril, and Mrsha applauded her new favorite [Lord] ever. The [Innkeeper] heard Lyonette exhale loudly.

“Well, that has put the cat in the royal coop. Of course Ryoka associates with people like him.”

Then the shouting really started.

 

——

 

Ryoka had seen Etril snap. She was familiar with snapping. He had the opposite of chill. However, he was not blind with fury, either.

He had a list of targets he could have erased with the Pride’s firepower. Any statue, really. But he had chosen a Wellfar statue, because he wasn’t stupid.

Exploding another House’s statue seemed like a really good way to start a feud. This? This only got him in trouble with his own House.

Mind you—it was a lot of trouble. Lord Admiral Deinol. Ryoka didn’t know his exact rank, but she had to assume he outranked Etril and was probably one of the leaders of House Wellfar. As she recalled, they had a kind of shared authority unlike the other Five Families.

Etril Wellfar, you fool! You’ve destroyed Lord Shellac’s legacy!

“He only invented the sailor’s telescope! And he got that from Drowned Folk! He was a damned landsman politician, not a hero of House Wellfar! He commissioned his own statue!”

Etril bellowed back. Another [Lady] of House Wellfar sporting a noble dress, delicate brocade—and a huge tattoo that Erin was pretty sure Mrsha shouldn’t be seeing—howled up at him.

And he’s been standing there for three thousand years, you salt-headed fool! Come down here, and I’ll spank you like I used to, you brat!

Wellfar…was fairly casual. Which was hilarious, because the other noble families were watching this spat with horror or amusement. Erin saw a [Lady] and [Lord] laughing so hard on the ship they could barely stand upright.

This was definitely good televised content. Drassi was chortling—until Wetiole spoke.

“Oh dear. Can we move the camera crew back? I think this might get ugly.”

He was more prescient, knowing what the Five Families were like. The purpling Lord Admiral Deinol had had enough. He shouted, and Erin thought she saw his aura manifest for a second, like the roar of a crashing wave silencing the humor.

Enough! Lord Etril Wellfar, you are stripped of command! Remove him from The Pride—he has no right to captain her!”

He pointed at the ship’s crew as Etril folded his arms, grimly satisfied. The [Sailors] on board stirred—and then that barefooted woman came striding along the deck. And it got weirder.

 

——

 

[Lady Navigator] Heis was not someone Ryoka knew. She was just one of the crew, but she was a member of House Wellfar and placed highly enough to navigate and essentially run second-in-command to the entire ship.

If anything, she was arguably more competent than Etril; captaining this ship was supposed to be mostly ornamental since Wellfar did not risk their Citadel-class ship and Etril had already been in trouble for taking it into a warzone.

However, Heis barked down the length of the ship at the [Sailors], [Soldiers], and at the people on dock alike.

Lord Admiral Deinol! I must respectfully decline your order! Circumstances have arisen that require a full Conclave of Ships! Lord Etril Wellfar is to be [Captain] of this vessel!”

“What? What? I gave you an order!”

The man looked incredulous. As well he should—Ryoka saw even Pellmia raise his brows in surprise. Noble families might squabble, but Wellfar had a hierarchy. But Deinol didn’t wait for an explanation.

[Sailors]! Remove both the [Navigator] and [Captain]!

He pointed at Wellfar’s people. They knew the score and who was in charge, at least, locally. The [Sailors] looked at each other—and leaned on the railings. One of them, a wild-looking ship’s officer with a half-shrimp face, called back.

“Ship’s spoken, Lord Admiral. No can do. The first man or woman who tries to remove Captain Etril I’ll throw into the waters myself.”

Deinol’s eyes bugged out. Ryoka looked around wildly, and she heard a murmur from the crew.

“The ship spoke.

“Will of the Wellfar.”

“Shh—keep it quiet ‘till they convene.”

Then she realized—something had happened on this ship. Ryoka could not know that this ship had been visited by one of the ghosts—but it wasn’t a hard realization to make for a certain [Innkeeper].

It was definitely not the way that either side wanted this to be revealed, though. Etril glanced around, surprised by the defiance, but Lord Deinol was currently freaking out. He whirled.

Take the entire crew into custody!

The noble escorts were quite plentiful. Wellfar soldiers looked up at the giant ship and exchanged glances, but Deinol howled.

“Summon the Watch! Anyone who resists will be mutinying before the entire House! Tell them to lay down their arms, Etril!”

“Deinol! Give us a chance to tell you what we saw and heard! Don’t be mad—”

Exasperated, Etril called back, but the first Wellfar [Soldiers] were coming up the ramp. They’d almost reached the deck when an arrow sprouted in front of their [Captain]. The man leapt backwards, hit two more, and went sprawling into the waters of the harbor.

The shouts and screams were followed by a second flight of arrows. The nobles shouted in alarm—and then looked up.

Who dares—

Deinol had reached for a sword, but he froze as he saw a man pointing a finger down at the ramp. Lady Buscrei lowered her bow and swore softly, but Lord Tyrion Veltras spoke.

“House Veltras. Draw arms. The moment to remember our debt to Lord Etril is now.”

Lest you forget—House Veltras had sent thousands of their finest soldiers to follow Tyrion Veltras to war. They were all ready to disembark. Instantly, Ryoka saw Jericha draw a sword and lift a wand.

Oh shit. The Five Families looked up as Lord Deinol turned white.

“Lord Tyrion, have you taken leave of your senses?”

Tyrion ignored him. He glanced at Etril Wellfar, who looked as astonished as everyone else.

“Lord Etril Wellfar will not be taken into custody. Anyone attempting to do so will face House Veltras. Withdraw your forces, Deinol.”

Now, the nobility were in full retreat and fighting with the common folk who weren’t giving them an escape route. Deinol hesitated—there was an army of guards at the docks.

But there was a real army on that ship.

“If you raise a blade against us—”

And again, Tyrion cut him off. His cousins were looking uneasily at him, and Pellmia had a grip on his arm.

—dead god’s sake, Tyrion! Don’t—

But the [Lord] just called out in a ringing voice.

“House Veltras. Sortie and clear the docks of hostile forces on my signal.”

He lifted his hand, and at that, everyone began running. Because it was Tyrion Veltras. And standing here, watching the train wreck—no, the train going off the rails, hitting the schoolbus and setting a gas station on fire—was Ryoka Griffin.

And she hadn’t done anything! She hadn’t said a word! This was—Ryoka was hyperventilating. How were other people so good at causing trouble?

They could not have a bloodbath. Not in Wellfar. Not between Wellfar and Veltras—not in general! She had to do something.

Ryoka was halfway towards Tyrion before she realized what was happening. Then she lunged and grabbed him as he half-turned. She grabbed his arms and put both in a bear-hug.

“Tyrion—stop! Just pull your forces back, please!”

He stared at her as Pellmia exhaled in relief. The [Lord] took Tyrion’s other side.

“I was just—”

Stand down! Just tell them to stand down and everyone relax! You won a war—you came back! Etril, do something!”

The [Lord] blinked at Ryoka, then raised one hand.

Wellfar, stand down! We’ll disembark in peace, Lord Deinol. Let’s settle this at the Conclave of Ships.”

“A-agreed! Peace! Veltras—”

But House Veltras was already standing down. Jericha signaled them as she eyed Ryoka. Tyrion wasn’t resisting much. He just blinked at her as she spoke rapidly.

“Tyrion, Sammial is somewhere in First Landing! You can’t start a war! Just—let Etril sort it out and help him later!”

He nodded fractionally. The nobility turned back, and everyone looked at Ryoka as Etril came striding down the gangplank, looking slightly…amused? He glanced up at Ryoka, and she held onto Tyrion—just in case.

“You may release me, Ryoka.”

“You’re not going to start a battle?”

The [Lord] exhaled slowly as Pellmia eyed him on his other side. He looked from one to the other and raised his brow. Quietly, very quietly, he averted his head and lifted a hand to whisper to them.

“I was not intending to from the start. That was a bluff. I am aware of the fallout.”

Ryoka’s mouth dropped. Pellmia copied her. They stared at Tyrion. Straightlaced Tyrion who—could indeed pull off a feint. It was just that no one expected him to deceive—

In fairness, it had fooled a lot of people on the docks. And in fairness—Ryoka had just watched a Dragon and Wyrm nearly fight to the death, so she was understandably jumpy about confrontations.

Then Ryoka looked down and saw the eyes of the Five Families on her. She saw a shining scrying orb and realized how it looked.

There she was, arms thrown around Lord Tyrion as she stopped him from launching an attack into First Landing itself. The Courier of the hour, who had perhaps been the very reason he went to war. Ryoka let go of Tyrion as if he were made of molten metal, but there it was.

Chaos on the docks. Infighting in the House of Wellfar. A statue burning, another under debate, and they’d barely set foot onto First Landing. A voice sounded in Ryoka’s ears, accusatory.

“This is all your fault. I don’t know how, but it’s all your fault.”

For a moment, she looked around to see if sock-Rhisveri had followed her across the sea. She didn’t put it past the Wyrm to have cursed her with it. But no. It wasn’t a sock puppet.

It was a young boy with pale blonde hair, staring up at Ryoka. His hands were on his hips, and he looked delighted. A familiar man with tattoos was grinning as an orangutan, which had swung them both onto the ship, happily patted the deck.

Seve-Alrelious, the Hundredfriends Courier, and Sammial Veltras looked at Ryoka Griffin as Tyrion whirled. Then Sammial launched himself forwards and hugged Ryoka’s leg.

“You survived! And you’re causing trouble! I missed you!”

He beamed as Tyrion froze up. Ryoka blinked and then bent down and hugged Sammial fiercely.

“You’re okay! Sammial! Did the voyage go well? And—”

She turned to the Hundredfriends Courier, and he lifted a hand.

“From sea to land, Couriers all. Greetings, Wind Runner.”

“Ook.”

The orangutan, Erek, waved as Ryoka, flustered, tried to bow, hug Sammial, and speak at the same time.

“You’re—the Hundredfriends Courier! Thank you. Is the Waterbear, I mean, Courier Worroar of Cerun…?”

“She’s alive and on her next assignment. I agreed to wait here—Lord Sammial Veltras refused to leave once he heard you were all inbound. I believe Worroar had to leave. For her own sake.”

Seve’s eyes twinkled with good humor, and Ryoka finally prised Sammial loose.

“Sammial—Tyrion. Lord Tyrion…”

The two looked at each other, son and father. Tyrion was still frozen up, but as Sammial turned to him, he cleared his throat, knelt down, and looked Sammial in the eyes.

“Sammial. You look healthy.”

“Hi, Father.”

Sammial’s beaming smile turned wary. Ryoka looked at Tyrion and then at Sammial. Tyrion searched for words—you could see it on his face.

“I trust Ailendamus treated you with all due respect while you were a hostage? I am sure you conducted yourself as a member of House Veltras.”

The young [Lord]’s face screwed up, and Ryoka kicked Tyrion. She didn’t mean to, but she just—kicked him in the side. He blinked at her, and everyone stared at Ryoka.

“What I think you mean is—hug him? You fought a war for Sammial.”

She stared Tyrion in the face, more amazed by this than anything else. He blinked at her, and the [Lord] looked at Sammial. Awkwardly. Then he nodded.

“…Of course I did. Why would I not?”

Sammial blinked at his father and then rushed forwards. He hugged Tyrion, and the [Lord] actually hugged him back and picked him up. Awkwardly, but Tyrion was carrying Sammial.

It wasn’t just Buscrei who sighed, or Jericha. Ryoka saw Tyrion holding Sammial, checking him, and in that moment…

Well, it was all well. She turned to Seve, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry. I’m so grateful—”

“Couriers help each other. Seve-Alrelious. I know it’s a mouthful. And you are Ryoka Griffin, the Wind Runner of Reizmelt. I wanted to meet you.”

Ryoka took his hand and felt a strong grip, callused, and smiled. She looked at Seve and then felt someone take her other hand.

“Erek! Sorry, that’s my companion.”

Erek held Ryoka’s hand and tugged her down the gangplank. Seve scolded him, but Ryoka’s smile was actually genuine. Sammial called out.

“Ryoka! Ryoka, I want to fly! I’ve been telling everyone here you can make them fly, and all the other kids want to do it! And you should see all of Seve’s friends! The Waterbear was boring. Courier Worroar didn’t want to fight an orca whale we saw, and she said I talked too much. Lord Etril, can I melt a statue with the ship?”

That was how they entered First Landing and high society. House Veltras, Ryoka Griffin, and scandal. But the key was—she wasn’t running away. Ryoka Griffin walked down the docks, hand in hand with a monkey and Sammial. Somehow, she looked better than before.

 

——

 

The Wandering Inn was in uproar. Hilarity, disbelief, resignation…Mrsha was demanding to know what Erek was. She had never seen a monkey before! She was confused why Ryoka was friends with the evil Lord Tyrion and who that annoying boy was!

Lyonette just scowled at Ryoka. Meanwhile, some of the other people who knew Ryoka were talking.

“House Veltras? Ryoka? That is the least—I mean, of all the Houses, she would choose them. But Lord Veltras? They looked—familiar, don’t you think?”

Yvlon was whispering with Ceria. The half-Elf was laughing.

“I think this is great. Let’s consider doing some work for House Veltras! Pisces, do you remember First Landing? Did you visit? I was too poor to do anything but walk the streets…”

“Me? First Landing? Hardly, Ceria. I too was mostly impoverished. I…imagine it’s something of a sight. Ryoka is looking well.”

The Horns were talking at their table. A Drake slid into their conversation.

“Ryoka? She’s looking good. What’s this about that [Lord]? She saved his kids, right? I guess that’s why they’re hanging around each other.”

Relc Grasstongue glanced at Ryoka’s image a bit too long. Then he sighed. Yvlon hesitated, but Ceria patted his arm.

“Better not listen to any rumors, Relc. But you know Ryoka.”

The Drake sighed.

“I do. She has a soft spot for weird fellows. Huge flaw. But I’m glad she’s alive.”

Even Ceria decided not to add to the rumor mill around Ryoka. For the moment. However, the consensus seemed to be that. It was good Ryoka was alive.

However, the news had hit at least one person in the inn harder than anyone could have guessed. And that person was—Erin Solstice.

She was peering at Wetiole covering the news, trying to interview Ryoka but being kept back by the [Soldiers]. And surprisingly, Erin’s attention was not all on Ryoka.

“Hey, what did they say about that statue? They’re gonna take it down? They can’t do that. That—that was Gresaria. She’s a hero. She—she saved my life.”

The words popped out of her mouth, and Lyonette turned.

“She did? We only met her once, Erin.”

The [Innkeeper] shook her head.

“She—I met her again. She saved my life. That’s not right. They can’t take that statue down. Will they? That Etril guy blew one up.”

Everyone looked around for someone who might know. That turned out to be Yvlon Byres. She chewed the question over.

“…They might. Wellfar will throw a huge fuss—they might relocate Gresaria’s statue, just because it caused the issue. But the [Sailors] and [Captains] might protest. She was beloved. But it’s about pride, and you know how that is.”

She looked around and realized her audience might not. Erin clenched one hand.

“No! Gresaria deserves more than one statue! She deserves, like, hundreds! If they don’t want it, I’ll take it. Liscor can put it in its plaza or—she deserves a statue.”

“Doesn’t she have one?”

The question dropped into the back of Erin’s mind like a splash of cold water. She looked around, and a figure leaned against the door to the original [Garden of Sanctuary]. He looked…bulkier, not leaner, actually. The armor had something to do with that, but he looked far older. His scales were still light blue, but he had changed from being bookish to being—

Well. A [Strategist]. A [Commander]. A [Strategos].

Olesm Swifttail raised one claw as Erin whirled about.

Olesm!

She ran towards him and threw her arms around him. He blinked as she squeezed.

“Erin. You can walk? I heard—I’m back. Sorry it took so long. I can’t leave command so—Erin?”

“Olesm! You look bigger! What happened? I heard there was a war and—it’s so good to see you!”

He gave her a weak smile.

Yayde re~. A lot’s changed.”

“What? What? Yayde to you too! Do you have a fever?”

He coughed.

“No, that’s how the Yoldenites—”

Relc groaned loudly. He put his claws over his earholes and raised his voice, suddenly distracted from Ryoka.

“No! No, no, no, no, no! Please tell me it’s not them! Not those yodeling idiots with their ponies! They walk around asking what everything is. And they sing at the crack of dawn, and their stupid helmets—”

Erin was laughing in confusion as Olesm grinned. She let go and beamed up at him. And noticed he was different. Olesm would have definitely been blushing and stammering, but this Drake looked—well, tired but smiling.

And reserved. And he’d been in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. As Mrsha raced up to get a low-five and Lyonette came forwards for a drink and a hug, Erin peered past Olesm.

“What do you mean, there’s a statue of…oh.”

Olesm jerked his claw-thumb over his shoulder.

“I came to say hi to Maviola. I was surprised because I didn’t recognize Gresaria for a moment. How do you…? No, why don’t you take a look yourself?”

 

——

 

Even if they were gone beyond being ghosts, Erin remembered them. And she wasn’t the only one. They were in her <Quests>. Something remembered them too, though they were erased. Eaten.

But someone…something had decided they still mattered. Even if their classes and identities were gone. When had they begun reappearing? Erin thought she knew the answer—days before she had been worthy of the Key of Reprieve.

It was as if what was lost was being restored. But there was no record. Yet stubbornly, piece by piece, the statues were reappearing. Because Erin had been there. So the gap was being filled from her. And that…that change in how things were done, had always been done, out of necessity, out of outrage perhaps at a flaw, an unfair lack—

Well, nothing else would come of that. Just statues. And quests. And…

The statues were there. Everyone that Erin had ever met and lost.

Not Olesm’s soldiers. He had walked the hill and seen so few of them, even the Antinium [Crusaders]. But a few were there.

The statue he had come to see should have had fiery hair. It trailed around her shoulders, loose and wild, like flames from a fire. Maviola El’s head was turned, and she looked exasperated, caught in the middle of an argument. A brief spark of exasperation and fondness in her gaze.

The young Maviola El. The one she’d always been. Her body had aged, but this was how she had always burned. The garden had chosen that, not the older woman. And…Erin came to a stop as she saw the plain wooden bench in the grass where the [Lady Firestarter] sat.

Apista was napping on the bench, between two statues. She fanned her wings lightly as Erin laid her eyes on the second statue and gasped. For there was a second young woman. Lyonette paused in confusion, and even Yvlon was dumbfounded.

“Is that…?”

There was barely a soul alive who could even tell if this statue was accurate. That it was here was proof—but only Erin knew for certain who this was.

Gresaria Wellfar looked like she had in the lands of the dead. The younger woman who had lived well, with her husband. Her hair was bright green and brown in Erin’s memory, though the statue only had grey, and Gresaria looked like a [Sailor] as much as a [Lady]. She was mid-laugh, in some kind of argument with the exasperated Maviola.

Two eternal friends and rivals sharing a bench. Erin covered her mouth as her eyes stung.

“Gresaria. And there’s Regein.”

She pointed, and everyone saw a fellow leaning against a tree, hands in his pockets, glancing at the two arguing young women from a respectful distance as he stared into the distance, at peace with the moment. Olesm’s brows rose.

“That’s Regein Wellfar? He’s…young.”

“It’s him. I didn’t realize they were here. Of course they were. There are just…so many.”

Lyonette looked sharply at Erin, and Mrsha stopped bawling long enough to look around. But Erin Solstice’s head turned, and she whispered.

“They’re here. They must all be here.”

Not just the Antinium. Not just the adventurers she had known or Goblins. But if there were so many statues…Erin glanced at Olesm, and he slowly sat down next to Maviola.

“This is the greatest Skill I’ve ever known, Erin. No wonder the world is talking about it. But it’s a painful one to have. I don’t know how any [General] could bear to have it if this is what it did. I’m glad you’re alive. So much has changed since you were dead.”

Slowly, Erin sat down. Olesm rested there in the grass, next to Maviola’s statue.

“What happened, Olesm? I heard you led an army…”

The Drake plucked some grass from the hill top and tossed it into the wind. He shook his head bitterly.

“I led one. And it was a stupid mistake. I got a lot of good people killed because I was a fool. Then Hectval came after us again and again. So I went to war. That was the difference. We’re still at war, Erin. Liscor has a second army, and I intend to take them to Hectval’s gates if we must. Ancestors, I’ll buy trebuchets and bombard the city for a month. If they want peace, they’ll pay for it. Then we’ll see what happens after that. But we’re advancing—slowly. The soldiers are getting a lot of time off. I think they deserve it before we get back to fighting.”

Erin heard him, but she didn’t quite understand. She looked at Olesm.

“But I’m—alive, Olesm. You don’t have to attack their city, right? Didn’t you win?”

He glanced at her.

“We won a few battles, but Manus intervened. They killed a lot of Antinium, Erin. And Drakes and Gnolls and Humans. Manus withdrew, but Hectval’s stupid alliance won’t quit. They’ll just attack or raid us. I will have a magical contract enforcing peace or I’ll ruin Hectval.”

“But I—”

“It’s not about you, it’s about everyone. They killed Maviola.”

Olesm gently touched the statue. Then Erin looked at him and saw a familiar look in his eyes. Not cold decisiveness. Not the impartiality of some kind of monster. Even Chaldion didn’t really look like that.

What made a [Soldier] a [Soldier], or a commander, was the way Olesm talked about it. Not a lack of emotion, not some vague hardness of the soul—you could have all these things. It was just in his eyes. The way he didn’t stammer or trip over his words or re-clarify.

He talked about the war with certainty. It would be done. Erin opened her mouth, and he looked at her.

“Let’s not argue about Hectval here, Erin. I’m glad you’re here. And if you wanted a tribute to Gresaria Wellfar—there’s none more fitting. This will last a lifetime.”

He nodded to the perfect statue of Gresaria, even more perfect in its way than the one in First Landing. Erin glanced up at it as she closed her mouth and had a thought. She shook her head and whispered.

“…No. I mean—yes.”

Olesm raised his brows. Erin pointed at Gresaria’s statue.

“It—it will last a lifetime. Mine. But I don’t know—no, I’m sure. It won’t be here if this [Garden of Sanctuary] passes from my hands to another’s. That [General] has no hill.”

Mrsha looked up from rolling around in the grass with Apista. Olesm nodded slowly.

“…I guess that’s how it is. This is a Skill. Unless you did something, it wouldn’t stick. At least we can come here to see…”

He gestured at the statues. Erin turned her head again. She stared into the mists around the hill, and Wil Kallinad, standing at a respectful distance, peered at what she was looking at.

He saw nothing. Nor did the Drake. The [Strategos] glanced his way, and Wil felt a slight shock.

Strange. Was he, the Titan’s student, intimidated by…?

Someone who had the class. Who’d led armies in battle himself. He nodded at Olesm, and the Drake dipped his head in reply. Olesm looked at what Erin was staring at and saw nothing.

She had to show him. One could not simply walk into this garden and find statues that didn’t belong to you. That was the…limitation of the [Garden of Sanctuary]. It was a weak one, but it suddenly bothered Erin.

She stood up slowly and took Olesm’s claw.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Olesm. I have a lot to say—and there are a bunch of chess-heads. I bet you want to play them.”

He smiled ruefully.

“I don’t think I can keep up Chess Weekly anymore. But I’d love that. Is there something you wanted to show me?”

“Maybe…I dunno. There’s a lot of secret stuff.”

Erin was thinking hard. Olesm watched her and spoke carefully.

“If you want to take it to the grave, go ahead, Erin. But that comes sooner than you think.”

She turned and gave him another look. He ducked his head after a second.

“Sorry, that really was insensitive.”

He had changed. But there was still some old Olesm left. Erin exhaled slowly.

“You’re right. I guess it’s just a balancing act. Here. Take my hand. Mrsha, do you want to see too? I need to find someone. Not just Gresaria. I wonder if I can show you…”

Mrsha raced over and grabbed Erin’s hand. Olesm took her other hand, and everyone drifted after Erin. But she just began walking into the mists. And suddenly—they seemed thicker, obscuring everything. Lyonette called out as she hurried after Mrsha.

“Wait, Erin, I’ll come with—”

She lost sight of them in a swirl of mists and then stumbled through right where they should have been. Lyonette whirled and looked around.

“Where are they?”

No one knew, nor could they find whatever Erin was heading towards. It was just Olesm, Erin, and Mrsha. They really had changed. And that was bittersweet but—

Ancestors! ANCESTORS! Dragon! Draa—

Olesm came screaming out of the mists, slashing with his unignited Kaalblade as Mrsha went tumbling backwards, fur poofing out in fright. He whirled, looked around, and Erin threw up her hands as she stomped out after him.

“Olesm!”

—not that much. The Drake sheepishly lowered his Kaalblade as Wil’s eyes bulged out of his head. Erin seized Mrsha’s paw, scolding Olesm.

“It’s a statue. Alright, he does look like he’s gonna bite you. No questions! Follow me. Who’s—oh. Hi.”

Olesm had a hand over his chest and was panting with a near heart-attack. He went for Erin’s hand with Wil, Peki, and half a dozen others, but Numbtongue elbowed him aside. Lyonette gripped Mrsha’s other paw as the Hob grinned at Erin.

“Can I see?”

She nodded and winked at him. Olesm saw Numbtongue offer him a claw, but hesitated a second too long. Bird happily grabbed his hand, and more people tried to form a living chain as Erin looked around, amused. She walked forwards and…

Thought of who she wanted to see.

“Who are we going to see? Erin? Erin? Who are—”

Lyonette felt something happen as they walked into the mists. She walked forwards, and the feeling of holding a little paw changed into—

Bird walked out of the mists with Lyonette in hand. Wil cursed as he realized he was holding onto Lyonette’s other hand. Mrsha, Erin, and Numbtongue were gone. Bird stared at Lyonette’s hand. He clacked his mandibles accusatorially.

“What have you done with Numbtongue?”

 

——

 

Erin walked onto the same hill, just with fewer people. Figures stood in the mists, which cleared away, revealing them as she passed through…

Perhaps even the [Garden of Sanctuary] had never had so many statues to hold. It seemed to be struggling to contain them all. Numbtongue and Mrsha looked around, wide-eyed, as they passed by statues.

The first one made Numbtongue flinch, and he nearly let go of Erin’s hand to draw a sword himself. But, forewarned, he didn’t blink as she pointed up.

“That’s the Silver Dragon-Knight, Yg—Yderigrisel. I think I got it right.”

“Yg-what? Dragons can become [Knights] too? Who can’t?”

Numbtongue’s jaw dropped. Erin laughed and tried to explain. She let go of Mrsha’s hand to gesture, and the Gnoll threw her arms around Erin’s legs.

“Don’t leave me in the mists to die alone, meanie! I’ll starve!”

“Mrsha! It’s safe. It’s just—hard to find the statue I want. Okay, stay close, you two. And be—respectful.”

It was so rare for Erin to say something like that, both Gnoll and Goblin nodded. So she led them forwards.

There were only a few statues Erin wanted to see. There were so many…but she passed by a few on her way to the one she sought.

The first was Zel Shivertail. He was standing next to a slimmer Drake, in the shelter of the tree. Very close. Intimately close, as if they had slunk away from some kind of official party and were having some quiet words. Mrsha saw Sserys of Liscor glancing over Zel’s shoulder as he stood, hidden by the Tidebreaker.

Erin passed by them with a sad smile for Sserys.

“He really messed up my body, right?”

“Um. In one way of saying that, yes.”

Erin gave Numbtongue a blank frown and a pointed look at Mrsha. He shrugged, grinning slightly.

“They would have laughed.”

“Yeah, probably. Because they’re guys. Come on.”

Erin walked around the tree as Mrsha clung to her pant leg. Next, they came across a strange figure. She was sitting cross-legged, fingers dancing as a beautiful crown of bone sat atop her head. Her cheeks and eyes had a kind of paint on them, highlighting her features. She was…a [Necromancer]?

“I’ve got to introduce Pisces to her. This is…Khelta.”

“Of Khelt?”

Mrsha’s jaw dropped as she met Fetohep’s forebear. She was so pretty! Nothing like Fetohep, who could have used some of that makeup. For his entire face. Erin stared for a long time at Khelta.

“She really was amazing. There are so many…you should meet Serept. And His-Xe. And…I’ll show you them all.”

One by one, they walked past the rulers of Khelt. And then a coven of [Witches]. Numbtongue’s eyes widened as he saw one shaped like a tree—and another quite fetching [Witch] who was half-Shark.

“Nice teeth.”

“Numbtongue! She’s the most powerful [Witch] ever to walk the sea floor!”

“Yeah. And she has nice teeth. They would like the compliments, I hope.”

Barsoijou grinned at Numbtongue, and Erin wiped at her eyes.

“Yeah. I bet she would. Come on. I don’t see…I don’t see Xarkouth. I hope I never do. He was the bravest—”

Who? The Goblin and Gnoll looked at each other. But Erin took something from this walk. Her back straightened. She looked around and called out.

“This is the statue I wanted to see. The statues, I mean. They’re all the ones I want to see. But not the one I’m thinking of. Show it to me. They deserve a place, or do they predate…you? They deserve a spot. Show me.”

The mists gathered so thickly around her that the [Bard] was afraid he’d be cast out of whatever was happening, despite everything. Mrsha was hugging Erin’s leg, no longer as excited.

“Erin…”

“I can’t see them. Where are they? Light. I need…”

Since she had one free, Erin raised a hand. She conjured a glowing ball of fire. It was blue. Blue like depression and sadness and this garden. It didn’t illuminate very far until a pink glow flickered through it. Numbtongue stared as the fire of depression and glory mixed, twin flames pink and blue.

“I should have brought that lantern. I need better fire. I need…this might do for now. Two flames beat one.”

Erin held the two flames aloft, and they burned fiercer. The mists began to part. But they still—struggled. So Erin hesitated. Then she lifted her burning palm to her lips. She closed her eyes and blew.

The flames burned outwards from her palm, impossibly far. Not like Dragonbreath—more like a billowing cloud of gentle fire, piercing the mists. They blew past a [Witch], a stern woman with spectacles that Mrsha was sure would pull her ear and teach her things. But Califor was half-smiling. With rare approval. The flames licked past her and illuminated a shape in the far distance.

Numbtongue’s breath caught. He didn’t know why. He just saw—for a second—something in the far distance that made his heart stop in his chest. Not figuratively. Literally. He clutched at his chest and let go of Erin’s hand, but he wasn’t ejected. Not yet.

The flames of nostalgia burned around a short statue. No—a lot of short statues. And one tall one. Numbtongue’s crimson eyes widened. He averted his gaze. Erin didn’t notice the way he held his chest. Confused—Mrsha peered into the distance.

Was it…a bunch of Mrsha-sized people? It looked like it. They even had facial hair. But Erin just sighed and smiled.

For the flames revealed a huge grin. A jester’s laugh. They chuckled, waiting for her, knowing she could do it. She’d tricked even the garden. So there they were. She pointed.

“Look, Mrsha. Gnomes.”

Gnomes? Mrsha peeked wide-eyed at a Gnome with flight goggles and an astronaut’s vest. Zineryr waved at her. Erin’s gaze was locked on him.

But that was not who Numbtongue stared at. He had stopped as Erin took Mrsha forwards, explaining who they were and what a Bongcloud attack was. She didn’t even realize he had stopped until he spoke.

“Erin.”

The Goblin was clawing at his throat and chest. Actually clawing—Erin saw him tearing at his shirt. He was trying not to see, but his eyes were locked on the tallest figure. She looked back in alarm.

“Numbtongue? What’s wrong?”

“Who is—who is that?

His voice cracked. The mists were still obscuring her—that was the only thing keeping him sane. He didn’t want to see. Something was screaming at him—a roar of so many voices, so deep down he feared it. Like the background noise of his soul. Erin turned. Then she saw what he was staring at.

“Sprigaena. The last Elf—”

 

——

 

The people in the inn not allowed into the [Garden] were trying to see the hill, but they couldn’t look into the mists. Those in the statue-area were waiting for Erin, but they couldn’t follow her.

It was a lot of standing around hoping to be let in on the mystery. Which was all very well if you craved it, but some people had their priorities straight.

Ulvama had taken three blankets into the rec room. She also had eight snack dishes, four drinks, and pillows on the couch. She could watch the enchanted scrying mirror at her leisure.

Because the [Shaman] had such a nice setup, a few others had decided to join her. Since they were still eating for free, Rasktooth and Infinitypear were chomping down. Ulvama hadn’t chased them off, just grumbled, but she did keep nudging Gothica for space. The [Goth] just poked back, and the [Shaman] was grumpily happy.

—Right until she heard the howl coming through the [Garden of Sanctuary]. It was like something primal, something deep in Ulvama’s core. She shot up, spilling popcorn everywhere as Rasktooth drew his dagger in a flash and Gothica leapt up with a shriek.

Every Goblin felt it. Numbtongue came hurtling out of the [Garden of Sanctuary], screaming murder. Ulvama raced out of the rec room after him. It sounded like—the [Shaman of the Old Ways] reached for memory and felt a chill.

It almost sounded like the way Velan the Kind had screamed when he became a Goblin King.

She was ready to cast a spell to knock Numbtongue into oblivion. But he did the job for her. He couldn’t harm anyone—including himself—in the [Garden]. He came crashing out into the common room and hit the far wall. Then he fell over backwards.

He—cracked Erin’s wall. Ulvama came skidding to a stop and stared as Erin came panting after him.

“Numbtongue! What happened?”

“What you do? What did you do?

Ulvama put Erin in a headlock and was screaming at her when Relc got Erin free. Then she checked on the [Bard].

He was lucky he had a hard head—he hadn’t broken a bone. She was worried he’d concussed himself, but he woke up after a few minutes.

“Bad statue. I don’t want to see it.”

That was all he said. Erin looked just as shaken by what had just gone down.

“I swear, I had no idea that would happen. I was just showing him a statue—”

“Which statue, exactly?”

Chaldion called out from his table. One of his [Bodyguards] threw himself forwards as Erin actually tossed a drink at him. Erin panted.

“I’d show you, but you’re not allowed in. Anyone else got a smartass question? Because I’ll ban you. Bring it!”

She stared around, and Venaz lowered his hand. Erin was shaken herself, that was obvious. She gestured at the garden.

“I just wanted to…show people a statue. But I can’t even do that without nearly killing someone! And they won’t stay, and not everyone can see them. I have to let people into the garden just to…”

She sat down as Numbtongue got up and let Ulvama check him over. He didn’t remember what he saw. He didn’t—want to remember.

He wasn’t ready. Ulvama listened to Erin, more furious than ever because the [Innkeeper] kept surprising her. Did she know what she had nearly…?

Numbtongue wouldn’t have become a Goblin King. Ulvama was sure he had no capacity to do that. But Erin had triggered something. Something only Goblin [Shamans] were supposed to know, like the trick she’d taught Palt to wake Numbtongue up from his depression. How much did she know about…Goblins?

Erin bent down, feeling at Numbtongue’s forehead. She helped him up as he rubbed at his skull.

“Numbtongue? Are you alright? I’m so sorry—”

“What did he see?

Ulvama seized Erin’s shoulder with one claw. The [Innkeeper] looked at her, glanced around the room at all the keen eyes, and hesitated only a second.

“…A clue to one of the world’s biggest mysteries. I think. But I didn’t realize they were part of it. Of course you are. I need—”

She bit her tongue.

“I need to speak to Rags. She can’t get here fast enough. Numbtongue, when she comes back…”

“Yeah. Let her. Not—not me. What was—who was—? Later.”

There was genuine fear in the [Bard]’s eyes. Ulvama looked at Numbtongue, then Erin.

“What was it? Tell me.

She wanted to know. Wanted more than any jewel or artifact Tremborag’s people had fought over. Erin glanced at Ulvama.

“I could. But…are you part of the inn or a guest or what? Rags’ Goblin?”

Ulvama blinked at the keen look. The [Shaman] realized she was dropping her act and smiled widely.

“Me? Just [Shaman]. Very curious.”

Erin sighed.

“Uh huh. Well, when you want to choose—let me know. Or wait for Rags. Numbtongue, you don’t remember exactly?”

He shook his head. He was pushing away the memories. Erin bit her lip as she helped him into a chair. She turned and looked around.

“So what did he see?”

Menolit looked very curious. Erin threw up her hands in exasperation.

“I wish I could show them. Mrsha, you remember what you saw, unlike Numbtongue, right?”

The Gnoll nodded. She began to write, saw Peki and Merrik staring over her shoulder, and put down her quill and began to fire off middle fingers until Lyonette scolded her. Erin sat down.

“…I want a statue of them to last. I want—hey, who did that statue of Gresaria in First Landing? Could I, like, hire them to do some for me? I’d put them up in the inn. In the actual inn, or in Liscor if they’d let me. Can I donate statues to the city?”

Every head swung towards her, and Lyonette rolled her eyes.

“Hire the most high-level [Sculptor] in Izril? I don’t believe we can afford that, Erin. Do you know how much a sculpture costs? A good one? And you do need an expert.”

“Well, I—I know that! How much does it cost? But I want one. I’ll save up. Heck—if there was ever a favor I’d ask—it would be for a statue.”

Chaldion had no ears to perk up, but at least one other [Strategist] did. However, Erin was thinking. Lyonette pointed out the obvious again, too-patiently. She knew statues; Calanfer had lots.

“A [Sculptor] can’t design something they can’t see, Erin. Gresaria Wellfar is easy enough because there were paintings of her, but an [Artist] has to use their imagination or a reference.”

“I know. Does anyone have a [Sculptor] class in Liscor?”

Someone slithered forwards and cleared his throat.

“There are few experts in Liscor. There is a [Silversmith] among the Silverfangs who does excellent work, but that’s not exactly what you want. I’ve dabbled in sculpting, but only as a hobby. If you want an expert, Invrisil or Esthelm would be your best bets. And that will strain any budget, believe me. But I can certainly redesign your inn with that in mind. Am I late for my meeting?”

Hexel, the [Architect], looked at the stunned Numbtongue, the crowds in the inn, and then at Erin. He raised one brow as Erin turned to him.

“Of course, you remembered we had a meeting now? I’ll take that as a yes if you need a moment. For some food.”

 

——

 

Erin had forgotten all about her appointed visit with Hexel. However, it was almost as well she had gone into the [Garden] today; it had refreshed her memory.

She had a lot of foolscap blueprints, which surprised everyone, including Hexel. He stared around the inner Earther-rooms that Erin had rushed him into. Lyonette and Ishkr carried out a blackboard with some diagrams he eyed, but his attention was mostly on the blueprints. The [Architect] murmured as he delicately ate some roasted pheasant bites.

“I knew you had secret interior rooms. Quite sensible and mostly [Rogue]-proof, although the higher-level ones will just teleport or phase through your walls, you know.”

“They can do that?”

The [Architect] smiled politely. The Lamia was curled up with a workman’s vest—no lower garments. Not that he needed them, scales glittering bright, yellow flecked with browns and reds. His scar that Drakes had given him shifted when he smiled, but he seemed more at ease after being in Liscor for a while.

“Countering [Rogues] is an entire game for certain specialists, Miss Erin. I’m not one of them, but it’s quite difficult to create something totally impenetrable. And of course, if you have a delicate system with a hundred subtle counters, it might not stop a battering ram. Design to the client’s needs. And it seems like you have—an amazingly ambitious inn. What is…who made this?”

His interested look turned to one of confusion. Erin was hardly good at laying out blueprints, nor was she trained, but she had captured most of the ideas, by dint of someone repeating the instructions a few thousand times.

The [Innkeeper] smiled sheepishly as Lyonette hovered behind her with some tea. Ostensibly to facilitate the discussions, but also because she was intensely curious.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Hexel.”

The Lamia glanced up, and his slitted eyes narrowed on Erin for a moment. He looked down, sorting through a complex layer of blueprints, and spoke.

“…Drevish the Architect?”

Erin’s spray of tea nearly hit the blueprints until Hexel swept them away. Erin gagged as Lyonette nearly dropped her teapot.

“How’d you—?”

“I’ve studied Drevish’s work. There’s not an [Architect] alive who hasn’t. This—fastidiousness. This obscene backward-design and complexity? Even the way he lays out the ideas is quintessentially him. Did you get this from some project he had? Khelt—I’d assume. But this…this is tailored to your inn. How did you do it?”

Hexel was shaken. But he was also intelligent enough to wait for Erin’s response. The [Innkeeper] hesitated. Then she remembered what Olesm had told her earlier. She took a deep breath. Could she trust…?

She looked the Lamia in the eye and thought about how long he’d been here. Also, Elirr liked him, and Mrsha said Hexel was good. She had to trust someone, so Erin leaned forwards.

“Keep it a secret, Hexel?”

He nodded. Erin whispered.

“G-ghosts.”

A one-word explanation. Lyonette rubbed at her forehead. But the Lamia? He looked at her with disbelief, uncertainty, sat back—thought about what everyone had seen—and then exhaled. He took a long sip of tea.

“—Please tell me he can’t haunt the living. Or he’ll drive half the [Architects] to their deaths.”

Erin laughed then bit back a sob.

“No. He’s not coming back. No one is.”

“Oh. I see.”

Hexel stared at Erin and then shook himself. He opened his mouth, shook himself again, and then grabbed the foolscap.

“I’ll scream about that later. Let me just focus on—he wants four floors. Inner courtyard. He’s designing around your [Garden of Sanctuary]. Dead gods, reinforced magic stone? Fire magicore for heating in the wall insulation. Is that—is that a ballista on top?”

Lyonette’s head snapped around to glare at Erin.

“A what?

Erin was nodding, a huge smile on her face. She watched Hexel sort through the foolscap.

“Mhm. Oh yes, this is by the late Drevish. None of his earlier-stage experimentation. He’s refined all his old processes and done more experimentation. Which he always does, to be fair. It generally works. If I do it right—and he’s laid it out as if I’m an idiot—I love how there are actually ingredient lists for the versions of mortar he wants.”

“He was really insistent about that. He said people often cut corners or get it wrong.”

Hexel snorted.

“To be fair, they do. But I wouldn’t make that mistake. How complex. He’s even included a lot of magical inlays to enhance your inn, assuming you’re going to need them. Okay. If I did this, your inn would have walls most castles would envy. It would have a guest-occupancy of one hundred and twenty, which assumes you’re not piling people into rooms. I’ve seen bigger inns, but this one would be a complex mostly self-contained for defensive reasons. It would have an entire alchemy suite, indoor bathing, a proper cellar complex—warded from Antinium sapping—”

He flipped through the notes.

“…And specific designs incorporating your Skills. Including hidden areas only you can enter via your garden door. It’s wonderfully overdesigned.”

“Can you build it?”

Erin and Lyonette exchanged a glance. Hexel took a moment to sip from his tea cup.

“Oh, absolutely. I can even add a few places for a statue. Although he has one in the inner courtyard, and I think the note says to have him there.”

“He did that? That—that—okay! You can build it?”

Hexel smiled. The Lamia flicked his tail at the blueprints.

“Absolutely. I would do it for the levels alone! We can source a lot of the materials on the market, and despite Drevish’s objections, Demas Metal and the Dwarves coming to the north will really help with the prices.”

“We’ve got Dwarves on Izril?”

Erin hadn’t heard of that. But Lyonette was watching Hexel’s placid face. She coughed.

“Um. Architect Hexel, I notice you haven’t brought up any fees. We have a consulting fee, though you didn’t mention that. Do you want to discuss installments or…?”

Hexel laughed lightly and shook his head.

“For Miss Solstice, I will gladly waive the consultation fee. If I level up from reading these notes, I will pay you. But I don’t believe an installment plan is necessary. You cannot afford this. Frankly, until I see even a—no, half of the budget, I won’t even consider beginning work. There would be no point.”

Erin gulped. She looked at the plans and thought of Drevish. Great guy. Grumpy, but great…and used to designing things for Fetohep, the King of Destruction, and monarchs.

“H-how much do you think this would cost?”

Hexel stared up at the ceiling. His lips moved for a while.

“Let’s assume I have Antinium labor. And that costs on some of the rare materials go down. Oh, and I can prevail on Master Pelt and Master Hedault and other mages in the area.”

“Uh huh.”

“I will also assume I’m trying to get this done quickly, not in four years.”

“Yep.”

“Well then, advance me roughly three hundred thousand gold pieces, and we’ll see how fast it runs out.”

It was Lyonette’s turn to begin choking, but Hexel just indicated the designs.

“I’m not being facetious before either of you two object. Drevish wants magicore insulation. As in, magicore? That substance that [Mages] love? He wants enough to fill the lining in entire rooms. Entire pipes of the damn stuff. Oh, and he wants a plumbing system in copper throughout the inn. He seems to think you can have dedicated toilets in each room.”

“Oh no.”

Erin had told him about modern hotels, and she saw that Drevish, up to the challenge, had designed a lot of guest rooms with an inbuilt toilet and shower or bath. Hexel tapped the blueprints.

“Let’s say I take that out. Make everything out of wood and stone. I don’t know if some of the building would collapse, even with reinforcement Skills. Drevish was a picky bastard. He used to make plans such that if you cut corners, you’d watch the entire building implode under the weight of inferior materials. You do know he’s calling for mithril-alloy in some of his metals?”

Erin covered her face. Lyonette’s smile was waxy. Hexel glanced at both of them and shuffled the foolscap together.

“So. Once you advance me the gold, I’ll begin work. We’ll have to find a foundation if you don’t want me redesigning the inn over your heads, but then again, I could easily just have the Antinium raise the hills next to this inn. By the time this inn is done, no one will be able to dig it out or use [Earthquake] to ruin it. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

Erin’s head rose.

“What, in ten years? Twenty? Fifty? I can’t get that money, Hexel!”

The Lamia gave Erin a polite smile.

“I am not going to disparage your claims, Miss Erin. But I do have eyes. Chaldion of Pallass, Earl Altestiel, and Niers Astoragon are all sitting in or around your inn. I also hear that delightfully precocious Mrsha is penpals with Fetohep of Khelt. Whenever you have my budget, let me know and I will make time for you. Now, did you want to talk about statues?”

 

——

 

A statue cost anywhere from a few hundred gold pieces to tens of thousands. On average. That precluded exceptionally expensive ones made with Skills or with the artisan or materials jacking up the price.

The reason was that a few hundred gold coins paid for a good [Woodworker] to sculpt a statue for a few weeks to a few months. Depending on how cheap you wanted it, the majority of the price could be just finding enough wood of the right material.

But a whole damn statue quarried out of the right marble or granite? Thousands. Start at thousands and move up—just for the effort of finding a block of stone in that condition and transporting it. Even with chests of holding, few devices could hold something of that size.

Obviously, you could get someone else to finance it. And depending on the size, the price scaled down a lot. But if you wanted larger-than-life, the kind that could adorn a plaza—tens of thousands.

That was the simple economics that Orreh, the [Silversmith] of the Silverfang Tribe, knew off the back of his paw, and he wasn’t even a [Sculptor]. He said as much to Krshia Silverfang as he followed her out of the gates.

Somewhat nervously. Everything was strange to Orreh. He had not been at the Meeting of Tribes. He’d worked hard, sent some of his best pieces out to fetch good coin or be gifts for the other tribes, begged for news of their great gift…

And then heard Shaman Cetrule was dead. Heard that Plain’s Eye were ruined, Drakes were marching on the tribes, Doombringers were Doombearers…

It was hard for him to take in. Liscor—just heading to Liscor was enough to make his head swim, but the Drakes were friendly here.

The Wandering Inn scared him. Krshia Silverfang had come calling, though, and [Architect] Hexel himself was paying social calls?

Orreh had been finding work not smithing silver but doing clay models for the Lamia, who liked them because they could demonstrate his work so his teams understood. His Skills let him model in three dimensions, but [Builders] liked a permanent frame of reference if the [Architect] wasn’t personally overseeing them.

“Why me, Honored Krshia?”

The Gnoll [Councilwoman] looked tired, but she spoke respectfully enough to Orreh, who had some standing of his own.

“Because, Honored Orreh, you are an expert in sculpting silver. You have done wonderful little sculptures.”

“Foxes, yes. Even adventurers—custom work. Vanity projects. A [Sculptor] does the same before making their piece in large. But I’m no [Sculptor]. I don’t enjoy stone or clay.”

He protested, but Krshia just grinned.

“Perhaps that’s enough. Erin is a bit—”

—Depressed. The first sight of the [Innkeeper] that Orreh got was a young woman lying on the floor. It could have been a murder scene with a bit of ketchup. As it was, a white Gnoll cub was poking her repeatedly in the side, and Orreh had to restrain himself from shouting ‘Doombringer’.

“Eh. Eh. Ow. Urgh. Oooh. Stop poking me, Mrsha.”

Erin was contemplating the realities of money as Krshia ushered Orreh in. The [Silversmith] wanted to make a good impression, but the first thing he blurted was completely accidental.

Tribes of old! Is that silverflesh? Men—women of metal?”

He saw Yvlon Byres and did a double-take. She blushed and almost tried to hide her arms, but Krshia stopped the blushing woman.

“Apologies. This is Orreh, Yvlon. A [Silversmith]. Orreh, you know her arms?”

“Silverflesh? It’s just a rumor. Metal like skin that moves and has feeling…Silverfangs used to replace their missing teeth or cap them with silver. I heard Iraz Steelfur had a Skill similar to that, but I’ve only met a few Steelfur Gnolls. True Men of Metal had bodies of metal that could change shape.”

Ceria smiled and gestured to the embarrassed [Armsmistress] as the Gnoll tried to apologize.

“That’s Yvlon alright. What, was there something special about silverflesh?”

“It’s—useful in combat. I don’t take offense, Smith Orreh. I’m used to it.”

She waved his apology off, and Orreh hesitated.

“Only that it was immune to most diseases and could…regenerate? Oh, and there was some great weakness it had to extreme heat and cold—but that could be said of regular skin. Flesh like metal. I don’t remember. Does yours change from silver to iron or…?”

“No, not at all.”

“Ah, then I’m mixing memories. I could ask those I talked with, but my master only brought it up as legend. One arm gold, the other brass, a [Smith] who forged his body piece by piece. Stories like that.”

Yvlon raised her brows.

“If I, um—start losing more body parts or getting golden arms, I’ll ask you. Thank you, Master Smith.”

Flustered, Orreh turned to Krshia and back to Erin. The [Innkeeper] had sat up and was talking to Krshia.

“I’m just depressed. I know I can’t even afford a statue—Lyonette says ‘we can’t use all our money on a statue right now, Erin’. And even a small one would be super expensive.”

“We already have statues in the garden, Erin!”

“Yeah, but I can’t take them—you see?”

Erin gestured as Lyonette called out of the kitchen. Krshia pulled up a chair, produced a comb, and began running it through Mrsha’s hair as the Gnoll leapt into her lap. Orreh sat, trying not to stare at anyone too long.

“I am well aware, Erin. But I thought to offer you a [Shopkeeper]’s answer, yes? If the size is the issue—Orreh is a [Silversmith]. He does figurines. He could at the very least do a small version, hand-sized, and you could have that to show, yes? And if you make a larger statue, these could be the basis for those.”

Erin’s eyes lit up.

“Figurines? Like chess pieces?”

“Or tabletop games.”

Someone muttered from the side. It was, in fact, Troy, putting in a rare appearance from Pallass, his new home. Mostly because a certain Chaldion had wanted to see if he could enter the garden and report back.

Joseph punched his shoulder.

“Nerd.”

Troy punched back, and the squabble passed completely over Orreh’s head. He had a sample for Erin to see, and she gasped as he showed her a beautiful little Shockwoolie sheep. It was done in such wonderful detail you could see minute curves on the wool.

“I do the fine work with an actual needle. And an enchanted glass to see better. They are made of silver-alloy, but they are quite affordable compared to even a small statue. Architect Hexel has my time, but for a friend of Honored Krshia, I can do a few statues.”

“Would you? I—I’d want a few. Gresaria Wellfar, Maviola, even Khelta and…”

Everyone was listening in, and Erin clamped her mouth shut, but Orreh shifted uncomfortably.

“I, er—could do my best, Miss Solstice. But I am no [Artist]. If you give me a picture, I will try, but I often work based on my mind as well as what I see. It is hard to take a single picture and create a person.”

Especially because a picture had few references of how large their head was and so on, and the artists took their own liberties. However, Krshia’s eyes danced as she turned to Erin.

“I don’t think that’s a problem, yes? Erin can give you a wonderful reference, Honored Orreh.”

Erin’s eyes lit up with delight. She laughed, clapped her hands, and took Orreh’s paw.

“That’s right! Come with me!”

 

——

 

Orreh stared at a life-sized statue of Gresaria Wellfar. From every angle. He touched the stone and pulled his paw away—it felt irreverent. You needed reverence here. This—this wasn’t a statue. This felt like a person encased in stone.

A memory.

“Can you use that?”

“Hm?”

He looked up and remembered to breathe.

“I—yes. I could copy this. This is far, far easier than any picture. I could copy this far more easily than coming up with—it is just copying, yes? What—what is this place? Why do you need a figurine if you have…?”

He gestured around the garden, which was a far more fitting tribute than he could even dream of. Krshia answered softly as she looked around. There was no Cetrule. There was no…

“Because even Skills fade. And she cannot show this to everyone.”

Erin nodded solemnly. She walked over and showed Orreh another famous Drake, and his knees went weak.

“I’d like a lot of them. Sserys, Gresaria…even Kishkeria.”

Krshia and Orreh’s heads snapped around so fast Krshia clapped a paw to her tendons and howled in pain. But she was howling louder at Erin.

“There is a statue of Kishkeria, the Archmage of the Eternal Grasslands, here? Show me! Did you think that was not important, you—you—”

Of all Erin’s friends, Krshia was one of the few who’d grab Erin’s ear and pinch it. Not hard since they were in the garden, but the yelping [Innkeeper] showed them more statues. She leaned into Orreh as he stared in awe at Kishkeria and Seru’nial.

“I think I have a lot of statues if you want the work, Orreh. But there’s one I want more than all of them, and I’m willing to pay you for priority work. And I’d like it to be big. Like—big enough to be placed on a table, maybe. You’ll need to use your imagination, but I’ll pay top coin and help you do it.”

He looked at her with a frown. So did Krshia. Because Erin’s eyes had a kind of gleam, a kind of half-twinkle they recognized.

She had an idea. Which had been building on her since seeing Gresaria’s statue. It was, perhaps, the same thing all owners of every [Garden of Sanctuary] came to. The garden was finite.

But…Orreh followed Erin through the mists. It was not as long or as hard as before, but when he saw the single, short statue waiting for him, his heart pounded so hard he feared he was having an episode like older Gnolls were. He pointed with a shaking paw.

“Is that…a Gnome? It cannot be a Dwarf. Is it…”

“Yep. This is Zineryr. I want you to make a perfect replica of him. A bigger figurine than that little lamb. Silver doesn’t cost that much, right?”

That was a hilarious question, but Orreh was willing to cut her some slack. To carve the likeness of this Gnome…he shook his head absently.

“I can do it. But where…where is the part you wanted me to do myself? This is no harder than any other statue. Less than some, in fact.”

He turned, and Erin Solstice’s eyes twinkled. They sparkled. They danced and laughed almost as hard as the Gnomes. Even dead. Even in memory, she looked at Zineryr and spoke. It wasn’t a prank. A prank was harmless.

This was a trick, a jest, and a move on a chessboard as crazy as the Bongcloud attack. But it was also effective. So Erin Solstice showed him a crude sketch that really, really sucked. But Orreh got the picture as she described it.

“Okay. I want Zineryr standing here on a pedestal. Like this, you see? But he has one hand raised. And—you don’t need to draw many details, just make it up—have a Human man right here. He’s holding him by one hand, and the guy’s all beat up. He has a beard. And then he’ll be standing on top of this stupid guy in robes. There are six of them. You can have one, like, running away in fear.”

“…He’s beaten all six? What does this Human look like?”

Orreh pointed at the one being choked out by a four-foot Gnome, already a difficult scene to envision. It’d have to be a high pedestal. Erin beamed.

“It doesn’t matter. Make him, uh—bald. With a beard! He has to have a beard. Don’t worry, I’ll give you descriptions for each one. Only a few details matter. You’re gonna have a really hard time with one of the women and this—shadow thing, but we’ll make it work.”

She was invested in this project, and even Krshia noticed how fast Erin was gesturing.

“We’re gonna have to have an insignia too. So it has to be big. A plaque. ‘Zineryr’s victory over hair loss, bad dancing, um…’ I’ll figure out the rest. Or maybe names. Tammyroon, Emmerwho, and so on.”

“Erin, why so much effort?”

Krshia was bewildered. She recognized a vendetta when she saw one, but Erin Solstice just smiled. And there was a flinty look in her eyes that few had ever seen before. Few people, even monsters, were her enemy.

But this?

“I want it done, Krshia. And I’ll pay to put it up all over the place if I ever get lots of money.”

“But why?”

The [Innkeeper]’s eyes glittered.

“Because it matters. Because even if the memory isn’t one I can show Orreh exactly—that’s how I’m going to remember Zineryr. Holding down six idiots with one hand tied behind his back.”

Orreh gulped and nodded, and after receiving an appropriate downpayment, he began to work out some prototypes for The Wandering Inn’s first actual piece of art aside from Mrsha’s drawings.

When it was done, Erin promised it would be shown in the common room, for all to see. And if they asked, she’d gladly tell them a story about the tale of the last Gnome.

 

——

 

That was how you remembered them. In any city, however they changed, there were still memorials like that.

Often, only for the rich or influential. The people like the [Baker] named Garry would not get a statue that lasted whereas a rich noble who stole designs from Drowned Folk might have a statue that lasted three thousand years until someone blew it up.

However—the unfairness of who got a statue was not the point. It missed the mark that everyone should have one.

If they mattered to you, and you would die, perhaps the true way to remember them was to make sure they’d last forever in words or stone. The [Garden of Sanctuary] was a gift, but it was also painful and heavy.

It would only last as long as you, and then another garden would come to the person who needed it. Who was worthy.

One last city was having an unusual day. And that was Invictel. The largest capital of the frozen north, the Iron Vanguard’s stronghold.

Dullahans living in this city sometimes claimed that the smoke from the foundries could keep the city warm alone. However, the founders of this city hadn’t wanted to risk it.

In Baleros’ north, the snap-freezes could make trees explode with the cold. And blizzards could rain down so much snow that they’d bury a building in dozens of feet of it over weeks.

It was a harsh place. However, that was why Invictel was built the way it was—that was to say, enclosed.

Unlike the Drowned Cities, it had no bubble-shield which would have protected it against snow. Nor did Invictel fear armies climbing its walls, so it was no Walled City. Dullahans were distinctly against copying Drake culture.

Invictel was like a giant shell of metal and stone, from which the only openings jettisoned steam or smoke or were windows into the white landscape. Only during the brief summers would the city open much.

Bleak iron and grey stone from the soot against the landscape. Invictel looked like a misshapen piece of metal in the distance. A city as armored as the folk inside.

However, inside Invictel, the Dullahan city was as bright and extraordinary as any city—just like Dullahans could be so reserved to strangers and outsiders.

Right now, Invictel, never booming with wild and raucous sounds, was quiet. Quiet…with that kind of held breath. Many Dullahan cities probably were like this at this time, but this city was especially silent.

For they were still watching a lone Drake slowly opening the door to a keep in a [Garden of Sanctuary].

The [Honest Reporter] had forgotten her promise to Erin. It was long past forty-five minutes. But to be fair to Drassi—she had almost forgotten she was reporting at all.

“I think…I think the door is open enough for us to enter. Jewel? Jewel, do you want to…?”

The Drake looked around and saw a Gold-rank adventurer stumbling towards safety. Jewel’s hands were red with cold, and she was shivering nonstop—they must have been digging for two hours. The snow had turned to ice. Jokingly, Jewel had called for Keldrass.

…After twenty minutes of blowing fire, the Flamewardens had to retire, and the melted ice water froze almost as fast. The only reason the team had gotten the door to the keep excavated, some rooftop exit, was because of Maughin. The Dullahan had volunteered to help crack and shovel the ice, and he had worked tirelessly for two hours. Drassi herself was so cold her voice quavered.

“This might be dangerous—but I think we’re close to Erin’s limit. I—I think we have to take a look. Master Maughin?”

The Dullahan had frozen the moment he cracked the keep’s door open. He stood there, his personally-forged armor complementing his huge frame, but every Dullahan could see his expression change to naked apprehension. He turned to Drassi.

“I—dare not. I cede the first steps to you, [Reporter] Drassi. Please.”

The Drake was so cold she didn’t notice the way he spoke, just motioned the cameraperson after her. If she did…

Dullahans had such a complex culture of meaning and gestures. Even Kenjiro had trouble keeping up, but they didn’t expect as much from him. If you read into Maughin’s words, you’d see how embarrassing it was for him to countermand her offer. It was rude, especially since he had asked to be part of this. It was rude to General Dolost, perhaps, to let a Drake walk his keep first.

And yet—the entire garden was a kind of scandal. No—not quite a scandal. This was a complicated feeling.

It was like looking at a Dullahan without their armor on. Intimate. Embarrassing because of that. This was his personal Skill. A place so sacrosanct no one had seen it, possibly not even his closest companions.

But every Dullahan wanted to see what a legend of their people had created. They also feared it. Tulm the Mithril, the Seer of Steel—

The very existence of a [Garden of Sanctuary] for a [General] of their people implied…secrets. It implied there was something that was shameful that he couldn’t share with his people. At the very least, it implied he couldn’t trust the Iron Vanguard of that era with it.

So attention? Drassi might not have known it, but an entire species was watching her slowly trail through the keep. No wonder Maughin feared what he might find here.

“It’s…warmer inside. I don’t know how to describe this if you’re watching, but the air is just—warmer. I can’t even feel the cold from outside. I guess this is controlled magically somehow.”

Drassi’s shivering stopped. Her footsteps trailed through stone corridors. Not poor, lumpy stone, but there were no rugs. This really was like a hermitage; even for Dullahans, it was austere.

Everyone in Invictel watched as Drassi walked forwards. What had Dolost wanted to hide?

You see—it wasn’t going to be a flower garden. It wasn’t going to be his passion for woodworking. If you had something like that, you would show your lover, a friend—the most significant act for a Dullahan was to show the inner beauty or passion they had. The value was in the trust of that.

This was something never meant to be seen. Or if it was—it was something Dolost would never reveal to anyone but the closest people in his life. Drassi trailed past rooms, shining a wand into them.

“…I think we’re passing by a library. You see?”

She stopped, and the camera caught Maughin as his breath inhaled sharply. He raised his head and gazed into a ruined library. Books, frosted over, and snow. Drassi exclaimed.

“Oh no. The window—”

It was open or the snow had burst through. Despite the temperature inside the keep—no, because of it, the snow had frozen and melted, ruining most of the books. The ones that looked intact were covered by a sheet of ice.

“Books from before the Creler Wars.”

Maughin whispered. Tulm the Mithril and half the [Librarians] in the world began sending [Messages] demanding someone—carefully—inspect the library.

But the [Innkeeper] might never let them in again. To this garden. Of which there was only one other. Drassi knew the truth, but even this garden…

There was a simple staircase, so wide that Maughin could navigate it with ease. Dolost must have been closer to a War Walker himself or this place was meant to let them in. Down, Drassi went, and the camera, following her, heard a voice.

“The keep’s not that complex. I think it’s three floors. Four if there’s a base—oh. Oh…oh my Ancestors. Um—I don’t know what—M-Maughin?”

She came up the stairs, and countless hearts skipped as everyone craned their necks to see. Drassi whispered to Maughin, and the [Smith]’s face was apprehensive—then confused. Then he put his head on his shoulders.

“Let me see. I think I…excuse me.”

He navigated around her. Drassi stood back against one wall, and the camera captured the slow movement of Maughin’s metal form.

Tromp. Tromp. Tromp…

Footsteps in the dark hallway. The faint, pale blue glow across cold stone. Melting ice. Maughin’s voice echoed from below as he reached the second floor, the one where Dolost’s secrets lay.

Everyone heard an intake of breath—then a cry. What emotion was in his voice? It was sharp—then there was a thump. Metal on stone.

“Maughin? Come on—”

Drassi hurried down, and the cameraperson hesitated. Was there danger down there? In a dead garden?

Down the steps. Twenty-eight, in the winding staircase. Then they saw a hall faintly illuminated—each window set into the keep packed with snow.

Despite that—Drassi’s wand was not the only thing illuminating the room. It had fallen next to Maughin. He was on his knees. The Dullahan’s head lay on the ground.

But the candles still burned. Everburning candles, spaced around the room, their faint light giving the room a quiet ambiance. Illuminating each and every…head perfectly.

For a heart-stopping moment, those watching thought they were real heads. Then, as the candlelight flickered and Drassi exclaimed, they realized what they were seeing.

“Carved heads. What does it…Maughin, are you alright?”

He tried to speak. Then they saw it. And more than one watcher collapsed or made an unseemly display of emotion. Tulm the Mithril blinked, relaxing as he took his hand off the spell to cut off Wistram’s scrying spell to the city.

The Seer of Steel was shaking. He was having a far more emotional reaction to…Drassi pointed at something sitting at the far end of the room.

It was just a pillow, where you could sit with clay, stone, or wood in hand. There were simple tools for each. And upon that pillow you’d sit and with a table—carve.

Carve the details of a face into being. Not the rest of the bodies. Because they were Dullahans. Your armor was something you showed off, but you couldn’t change a head. So the heads, thousands of them lining the walls, were the people Dolost had known.

Soldiers. Officers, perhaps family or civilians. There were no names. He might not have known all the names. But the Dullahan knew one thing:

He knew the statues he saw in the falling snow. So he carved them. Each and every head, and placed them here.

They stared down at Drassi and Maughin and the audience, smiling, frowning, weeping—silent in judgment. So this was what the great [General] of the Iron Vanguard had done.

“…Beautiful.”

Tulm the Mithril wondered if Maughin said it. That was what the [Strategist] thought. The perfect example of a hero. Tulm had been…afraid. Very afraid of what they might find. A [General]’s confession. Some sin to make the Iron Vanguard tremble.

Maughin was overcome with emotion as he knelt there. He understood, like Drassi’s audience, what this meant. The effort of a Dullahan who had so little time to himself.

Drassi broke the silence after a long time. Her voice echoed slightly in the vast chamber.

“I think…I think I don’t have the words for this. Nor do I feel like we should intrude any further. I will ask Maughin what he would like to say—but this was the [Garden of Sanctuary] the great General Dolost resided in. Now, it is a memorial.”

“It should be seen by my people.”

Maughin whispered. Drassi tried to help him up, and he rose mostly of his own power. She shook her head slightly.

“It was bequeathed to the current owner for a reason. I’m sure—she’ll be respectful, Maughin. But it is hers.”

Erin Solstice’s. Tulm had not missed those books. Maughin shook his head.

“One more moment. Please…”

He looked at the walls of heads. Now that the camera swung around, you could see the way the room was laid out. The heads looking down from each side—the far wall had a banner, tattered by battle. A kind of altar to make the heads at. A workshop.

It would scare a little Gnoll or most species to death. Which was why Drassi had been so unnerved at first. But it was a Dullahan place, and it meant something to them.

This…let no one touch this, at least. Maughin looked back one last time, and they turned. Dolost’s memorial kept burning in the darkness as, quietly, Drassi led the group back out of the keep and gave a little speech with Maughin before leaving the [Garden of Sanctuary].

She closed the door behind her, and the snow was already piling back up. Not that anyone could get into the garden without Erin’s permission. That was their one look into the garden.

When the keep’s door was closed, there was a finite amount of air in the keep. And darkness—oh, lots of darkness. But it beat letting more snow in like the poor library.

A hand slowly closed the window at last. The falling snow reburied the keep, but a footstep echoed overloud in the keep.

From the inside. A figure turned to the closed door. It was well that Drassi and Maughin hadn’t tried to go to the first floor. Or else something would have to be done.

The other hand lifted something, and a light illuminated the dark keep. It glowed pink and blue, the flames twining together in the lantern the [Innkeeper] held. She exhaled, then returned to the door leading to her inn. She inhaled; the fresh air was welcome in the keep.

Slowly, the [Innkeeper] descended to the second floor. She shivered, as she had the first time she had seen Dolost’s memorial. She understood—but it was not how she had done it.

Her door followed her down.

It led out of her room, and no one knew she was using it. It was late, and she had gone for a lie down. Nor did they realize that she could make the door appear wherever she wanted, wherever there was a wall.

She had the Key of Reprieve. She had hoped Drassi would give up, but she’d let them get to the second floor.

Erin wondered if she should have turned the snow off. However, that was how it worked, wasn’t it? She wandered down to the first floor of the keep and sighed. Erin raised her lantern higher, and the twin colors illuminated Dolost’s home. His private place. Tulm was wrong to fear something scandalous from Dolost in an—intimate or untoward sense.

However, everyone had secrets and failures, and the Dullahan had put his on display. Erin walked from room to room, but not for long. She heard a faint chiming sound in her room in the inn and hobbled over to the nearest wall. She collapsed into a chair and scowled faintly at the pile of objects on her desk.

Chessboard, Go board, a speaking stone inscribed with ancient magical encryption runes on loan from Kevin, letters from the Runner’s Guild—and [Messages] transcribed. Oh, and the thing that had made a sound, like it was copying home—

Her [Message] scroll from Niers Astoragon. Had he added that feature? The little quasi-ding sound?

“You damn Fraerling. You’ve doomed the world.”

Erin grumbled, but she moved a piece on the chessboard, slapped a Go stone down, then exchanged a few moves with Niers as her mood—and extremities—warmed up a bit. Only then did she read his [Message]. Erin snorted and rolled her eyes.

If Niers could have seen her face…Erin glanced around suspiciously. Scrying spells. The inn wasn’t warded, even if she was. Another, longer sigh as she picked up a quill and wrote a response to the question. Just like Drassi—Niers was smart. It was just that one of them kept needing to prove it. He had written:

 

N: So how many Relic-class items did Dolost have in his keep? Spare sets of armor? Asking for Foliana and all the Dullahans in my command.

 

The [Innkeeper]’s response was slower, and she noticed a few telltale dots of ink—he was definitely about to write, and so the conversation was slower on her end as she took her time replying.

 

E: That’s not the point, you know. 

N: Of course…until you need to arm your [Knights]. Even if he left armor and weapons fully sized for your friend, Normen, you need potions, amulets, gear. I also wonder how much Architect Hexel asked to redesign your inn? We’ve got gold. Can we trade? As I keep saying, I really would like to help.

E: I believe you. There’s not as much as you think. But again, that’s not the point. 

N: I don’t follow. You press your opponent and solidify your advantage in chess. I don’t know if anyone could lecture you in sound strategy there. But leaving an item in a vault is just Drake-like. Treasures, gold, works for you only when utilized unless you have a [Hoarder] class.

E: Mhm. 

N: So…

E: Who’s worthy of wielding a magic sword that shoots thunderbolts? No one in my inn is ready for Adamantium armor. They won’t level. I don’t want gold for my inn, either. It’s something I have to earn myself. It’s super hard, but I’m going to do it. Because I have to do it.

N: Ah, I see. But you don’t have to refuse help. I’m sorry, it feels strange to talk to someone who isn’t looking for something. My students have the opposite opinion.

E: Probably. They’re your students.

N: Hahaha.

E: We all have our tasks, Niers. I need to do more, I know. This is part of that. I’m answering my debts. You helped so much—do you want a <Quest>? There’s so much to do. Should you be wasting so much time talking to me?

N: Now that you mention it, I’ve only been following along the last few days. Things are picking up here. I’d actually confess I have no time for a <Quest> unless you have one relating to The Dyed Lands…?

E: Nope. Too new. Sorry. That’s good. I’ll let you know if I need a favor, but it’s like that. Let’s catch up tomorrow? Good game.

N: I see, now. Just one more thing. Have you seen Paeth on the news?

E: Yes! They were so cute and cool! If I ever get to Baleros or if I can meet those Fraerlings—I’ll have something to give them. I was working on it today.

N: What is it?

E: A great joke.

 

Then she put aside the message scroll, but kept up the sporadic, quiet clicking of pieces on the chess board. Erin played for a long while before she picked up the second object on her desk. Her heart pounded harder, but when she triggered the activation rune and spoke, it was easier. And she smiled almost instantly, after the heart-wrenching moment of…

“Um. Hey. Is this thing on? It’s me.”

“Erin Solstice. I trust the vultures have not unduly troubled you of late? I have made subtle intimations to keep them away, but the most arrogant of the lot are baying dogs, some too close to remove, such as Grand Strategist Chaldion.”

Fetohep of Khelt spoke so casually, it was as if they were back in his palace and she was just a voice in his ears, a floating ghost. Erin stopped to wipe at her eyes.

“I—it’s just like we’re talking again, Fetohep. How are you?”

His voice was soft. Kind. Tired, she thought.

“Khelt trembles with all that has come to pass, Erin. I have spent half a month restabilizing it. I grieve. I work. It gladdens me to hear tidings of your inn. A certain Gnoll child pesters me from time to time.”

“Mrsha?”

“She is—more precocious than most of the Gnolls who have come to Khelt.”

“You took them in? Of course you did. That’s…I think Khelta would be proud. All of them would. Serept especially.”

“I believe…you are correct. Queen Xierca was the one I thought of. You knew her as much as I. This is something she would have done, I think. Stood upon the borders and welcomed them with open arms. For the deeds and what they have done, nevermind the friction.”

Erin’s eyes stung, but she was nodding even though he couldn’t see it.

“Yes. Absolutely. Fetohep, it’s so hard here. But I’m levelling, and I remember—can I help you? Do you need a quest?”

And again, the ruler hesitated as much as Niers had.

—Khelt is not ready for such tasks. Khelta has left me with her own designs. We have been weakened by the battles and losses of this world. All have, but I will say no more, even between us. You surely understand. In time—yes. I merely hoped to exchange words with you.

“Anytime. Do you—do you really talk to Kevin regularly?”

“I…had exacting designs for my bicycles. He is something of a conversationalist. This was when Khelt was largely untroubled.”

“You don’t hafta explain it to me, Fetohep. Kevin’s great.”

I-indeed. On that topic, I have one thing to ask you, Erin Solstice. And it is pressing. I believe I know your answer given your class has not changed…

A slight sound that made him stop. Erin clutched at her desk.

“—They all vanished, Fetohep. All of them. There was no one to give the classes.”

He was silent so long that Erin knew he understood as much as she did. Fetohep’s voice was level, without tremble or variation. But it did still change.

“Then that shall be factored into the reckoning due. I will ask you in fullness, then, Erin Solstice. I have appointed my successor, a child who is of Khelt, but has seen the world. Brave and wise in her youth. She knows as well as I that I may choose another. Would you be Khelt’s heir apparent? If so—I will grant you that class.”

Would you be Khelt’s [Queen]? Erin thought of Khelta and her vow when she had just woken up. Her response was softer, but she did hesitate.

“…No. And not because I don’t think it’s an honor, Fetohep. I’m too far. I’m not as good at ruling as this. The [Witches] and the rulers of Khelt knew I was an [Innkeeper]. I’ve gotten nearly to Level 50 this way. I don’t…I don’t have time to do it another way.”

Fairly stated. Then let us talk of more pleasant things a moment. I have oft-described the Quarass of Germina to you, though she is one of the few individuals you have never met, only heard tales of, I am sure.

Erin shuddered.

“The Quarass? Ooh. That scary lady. Or guy? She’s got a lot of enemies. Had—what’s she up to? I mean, she’s a possible ally. If you don’t mind checking your food for poison.”

This one is more responsible. I had the strange privilege of watching her act as an [Innkeeper] for a day to obtain the class.

The [Innkeeper] laughed so hard she knocked a few chess pieces over. It was okay; she was fairly certain someone else, another Fraerling perhaps, was challenging her, so she was wiping the floor with them with one hand.

“No. Way. That’s so—what was it like?”

“I believe the mortals were slightly nervous of poison. I myself considered the option. How is the Mrsha-child behaving?”

“Um…let me tell you about Ceria’s breakfast challenge. You know Ceria, right?”

“I have met her. Is she—well?”

 

They talked—gossiped, rather—for another thirty minutes. But Fetohep left Erin as soon as she began yawning. Reluctantly, she put his stone down.

He didn’t offer her Khelt’s riches. He got it. But Erin wasn’t done. Now that she had begun, it was easier.

The next missive she pulled out was a bit florid, mostly because it was transcribed. It had to be, but the gist of it was that the sender was extremely apologetic and hadn’t read her request until now. Erin skipped down the page until the ending.

 

…His Majesty, Laken Godart, wishes you to know that your missives will immediately reach his presence at earliest convenience. Once again, he extends his relief for your recovery on behalf of the Unseen Empire. A personal note from the Gold-rank team, Griffon Hunt, also add their congratulations and desire to visit your inn at earliest convenience.

His Majesty dictates verbatim: ‘This missive will only be read by myself and my most trusted advisors, Erin. Lady Rie Valerund is transcribing my words. I hold her in my closest confidence. May I ask why you’re inquiring into Nanette’s whereabouts? It is agitating some of the [Witches] here. They seemed quite curious of you when they saw you on the scrying orb, but they weren’t certain. What is your plan, and can the Unseen Empire help you or Ryoka?’

His Majesty’s confidence in the sanctity of the words exchanged with Miss Erin Solstice and the Mage’s Guild are tempered by his knowledge of such methods. On behalf of the Unseen Empire, please consider any responses…

 

Whomever Lady Rie Valerund was, she had a style of writing that Lyonette would appreciate. Erin just stuck to Laken’s words. Her quill stayed dry a long time before she penned her response.

 

Hey, Emperor Laken, I know you were one of the people who helped save my life. I am in your debt. And in debt to more people than I can count.

I am going to repay all debts. At your earliest convenience, if you would like to tell me when is acceptable—I will come to Riverfarm. I would like to meet and speak to Nanette—that’s all I can say right now, and the rest should be left for her.

It seems like it’s been a long time since I was going to go to the Summer Solstice party. However, if you are willing, I will visit you in earnest with my friends and family. I know you have…friends of mine. Not just Griffon Hunt. 

Let’s meet in person. I would like to greet you and thank you. We’ll reckon with the consequences of our actions in full. But I’d like to meet and leave as friends. Best, let me know,

—Erin Solstice

 

Her hands trembled a bit as she put the letter aside for Alcaz to bring to the Mage’s Guild tomorrow. But so it went. Erin Solstice kept glancing at the wall, where the garden showed her more rooms. More gardens. In a bit, perhaps she’d sit in the flower garden to relax.

But she forced herself to keep writing, pausing to think. However difficult…the next letter she pulled out made her think for a long time. Then she wrote her response.

 

From: [Innkeeper] Erin Solstice, The Wandering Inn, Liscor.

To: Archmage Feor, class unknown, Centrists Faction, Wistram Academy.

 

Dear Archmage Feor. Thank you for your letter and offer. It is exceedingly generous, but I have to decline. I don’t believe I can help you yet. I do have <Quests>, but I would like to tell you this:

Everything you want lies above. You may not be ready. Zelkyr was a petty guy from everything I’ve heard. However, you will never get there by staying in Wistram.

[Archmage] Kishkeria roamed Chandrar from her home in Izril. [Archmagus] Tolleve-beis, the Archmage of Dragonfire, another legend of old Chandrar, roamed the world as an adventurer. They did not become [Archmages] in Wistram. 

I would invite you to leave Wistram Academy. Maybe go to the new lands? Maybe elsewhere. They said of [Archmages], once, that a true [Archmage] had gone to a hundred different nations and cast a different spell in each one. 

Come to my inn and I’ll give you a free meal and we can talk about magic. Not that I’m an expert, but as it is now, even with Archmage Eldavin, there’s more to learn outside Wistram’s walls.

Sincerely, 

—Erin Solstice.

 

She was getting a bit grumpy. Erin debated trying to write the letter again, but she decided against it. She had to roll her wheelchair over to the garden’s door.

“Excuse me? Can I get a snack from—? Silveran…why are you still working here? Okay, pass me something munchy.”

She came back with a bowl of lovely crackers and some dips including the silkap dish. Silveran himself offered Erin a lovely Prelon juice. She sipped at it suspiciously, then sighed, smiled, and put the letter aside.

What next…? She picked up another letter, read it, and began to write.

 

To King Itreimedes of Avel, I apologize, but I’m not giving out <Quests> upon request. If I can say so, though, the royal line of Avel never became the finest archers in the world by sitting in their palace. 

Princess De-ra, the greatest archer of Avel, even more than King Avel himself, famously went from nation to nation challenging every archer in the world. Which really annoyed them, but she became the world’s most renowned archer without even becoming the [Queen] of Avel.

Have you considered going on a trip? Did you know that there are a lot of dungeons and secret places left to explore? The Crossroads of Izril let people travel across the continent far faster than normal. Terandria has no fewer secrets I’d guess, but I don’t know many of them.

We have delicious food in Izril. But even if Your Majesty—sorry, I forget titles and such—doesn’t want to go exploring on his own, maybe consider sending your subjects or expertise abroad. Even Gnolls love your bows. Could I ask about buying something from Avel, maybe? The Bow of Avel is famous. By the way, have you been upgrading it?

Shooting respect your way…

 

Nah. Probably leave the last part out. Erin wavered, but Avel’s people had a sense of humor. She sat there, smiling, and thought of the statues. Tears dripped onto the desk now and then, but she kept writing.

Ghosts. Glorious ghosts. She knew their names and wrote them down and sent their legacies scorching across the world like fiery comets. So long as someone remembered them.

In statue, in word, in deed—

That was something.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: I’m tired. It occurs to me you hear this every time and as stated in the AMA, I’m realizing I need to vary things up a bit.

But what was supposed to be 18,000 words, a lighter break after a 16,000 word AMA has turned into this…

I made this an interlude because I wasn’t ready for the Volume 1 rewrite I had scheduled. Well, I’ll try to do the rewrite next chapter and a short half-chapter on Saturday.

This is because I’m taking my August break earlier and longer. I think I mentioned it but I’m going on a family vacation and I’ll be back around the 16th. I’ll have the dates up but I hope you understand it’s a hectic week with a lot of demands in that dreaded real world for me.

Despite it…I somehow wrote a longer-than-average chapter. So there’s that. I hope you liked the AMA, and whatever I come up with. We do have obligations, but meeting them shouldn’t always be a chore. If Erin can write a letter, I can sit in an airplane who loses my luggage and cancels my tickets. Something like that. Thanks for reading!

 

Dragon by Lanrae!

 

AI-Generated Mrsha! Cleaned up by Magma. Look at what technology can do.

 

Lights in the Garden of Sanctuary by Miguel!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/cmarguel

Twitter: https://twitter.com/cmarguel

 


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Interlude – The Competition

[The author is on an actual vacation for once, until August 20th! I’ll be out of contact until then.]

 

In an age of ghosts and reviving legends, in a time of uncertainty after the Goblin King and Antinium had struck Izril low, it seemed as though the world was once again poised to shift.

He felt it. Like a wearisome paranoia in the blood. A throbbing prelude to a migraine in the back of his mind whenever he dwelt on the subject. He had said that same thing as a boy. He distinctly recalled it.

Velan the Kind, the Goblin King. Not that he had been more than…twenty four? Which would make him, dead gods, thirty-five years old. Where had his youth gone?

He was a boy of fourteen, then, when the Antinium Wars had first rocked Izril. And Calidus distinctly recalled questioning his tutors about that when the Antinium had begun surfacing and pushing the Blighted Kingdom’s borders. Everyone acted so surprised when they left Rhir and tried to colonize a new continent. But why would a hitherto unknown and highly powerful species not invade another country…?

In the same vein, Velan the Kind? Predictable. Goblin Lords became Goblin Kings. In what scenario was a Goblin company led by a Goblin Lord often challenged by unhappy parties not going to level and become a Goblin King?

The entire…situation came, historically, out of a more tempered age of complacency.

Not the King of Destruction, mind you. Nor Ailendamus, or the Meeting of Tribes, or the Walled Cities and their interminable shenanigans, or Demons…damn it, it was perspective.

Not a hundred years or even two hundred. All the recent shakeups came out of what the Gnolls aptly termed the Waning World. Where they perceived how older institutions grew lax and unwary. Then the Forgotten Wing company appeared and destabilized the Jungle Tails company, upsetting a Great Company predating the Creler Wars.

Now, it didn’t matter that Jungle Tails was back and clawing for power. History had some kind of lesson about complacency here. The cyclical nature of how the world tended to surge in levels and power after a world-shaking calamity like the Creler Wars, before entering into periods of decline, revitalization, and damned turmoil.

Calidus was about to chase down the unhappy realization in his mind that he was living through one of those shifts in history when he managed to stop his brain dead in its tracks. Namely, with the application of two shots of Djinni Essence, the good stuff, bacedel—which was a spirit akin to rum, whiskey, tequila, or brandy, all of which he enjoyed.

Djinni Essence was just the closest bottle, and he slightly regretted taking down both shots so fast, because it cost the earth, even for him. However, then he was in a good mood.

So Calidus sat up in his bed and stretched. A happier man, because his brain no longer remembered…what it remembered. He looked around the rumpled sheets and felt distinctly unclean. Dirty, in fact. Positively disgusting.

“Fantastic. It must have been a night to remember. And I forgot it? We have to rectify this situation…”

He had a languid feeling that told him he had not only been lucky, but fortunate multiple times. The lack of memory didn’t really bother him. He’d indulge in some good memories as soon as he found a way to restore them. Spells, tonics…a good time should never be forgotten.

Calidus realized that his company for the night had long since departed, though. That was the only pang; they didn’t stay. Not that he blamed them. Their transactions were often straightforward, even if no gold changed hands. Gold changing hands for an expert, he’d found, often guaranteed more fun, but amateurs were interesting.

Help, though…Calidus stumbled out of his rooms and knew the latest [Servant] had quit. There was just a…a sheen you got of too many hands on a dirty wall. The opposite of luster; the unbuffable effect of too much sweat and germine substances between cleanings.

The carpet had things in it. Since they weren’t moving or large, he ignored them in search of food. Calidus found it by walking into the kitchens, naked, and having the [Sous-chef] swear at him and push a plate of a handsome breakfast into his hands.

“Ingon, how was my night?”

“Finer than mine, Your Lordship. And finer still if you put something on. And breathe elsewhere—I can smell your breath.”

Calidus rather liked Ingon. He was not as friendly or gifted as some [Chefs]; in fact, he was average enough to make food taste better and provide mostly what you asked for, so long as it wasn’t exorbitant. He tended to burn seafood, having accidentally given food poisoning to former clients.

But he was very loyal. Loyal in a way only a man with a loving daughter could be. A daughter who motivated him to be wealthy enough to be the doting father—but not three daughters or sons that might make a man look for the quick payout.

And a daughter who lived in safety under Calidus’ authority—well, his noble family’s—far away from Calidus himself. Ingon was a hard fellow to get and the only servant that Calidus liked.

“Where’s the [Head Servant] or whomever it is I hired? C—Ane—Dorim…?”

Calidus couldn’t remember, which was a sign the shots were going down well. Ingon replied carefully.

“If you mean Master Dorim, he was in fine company last night. So fine he hasn’t woken up.”

“Oh. Well, if he’s not up in an hour, I’ll fire him. Unless I’ve fired my last head of staff this month…?”

“Not yet.”

“Then there’s time for a fine morning!”

Calidus departed with that, eating the plate of breakfast without the need to use the utensils. A man could eat a fried egg with his bare fingers. In fact, he had six. Today must be egg-day.

His entire life, he worked hard to be this poor. There was room for improvement, but it was hard to get there to start, so he was happy with this.

For instance, Ingon was a good [Cook]. You had to have a good cook. Calidus had found, with experimentation, that you didn’t need to have a good head-of-staff. If you fired one every month for embezzlement, laziness, or sheer incompetence, you could keep your household more or less running. They didn’t have to be actual [Chamberlains] either; far from it. Your average [Manager] could do the job for one month poorly.

And poorly was good enough. They just had to manage the servants, hiring new ones who turned over almost as fast as their boss. But the system worked. The new manager, as long as they weren’t completely corrupt—and Calidus did make sure they weren’t—hired mostly trustworthy people. Who did their jobs and tried hard to restore the mansion and holdings to a semi-decent state.

The parties, messes, and excessive workload would break their spirits within months at most. Calidus had a few servants who’d been working here years, but the new ones tended to quit within a three month span.

Especially when they realized they would not become permanent fixtures of his workforce, there were no benefits—and there wasn’t anything to steal.

To be precise, there were things to steal, and they were all a pain or useless. The carpets had long since lost a lot of their value, and unless you had a supreme bag of holding, good luck in rolling them up and hauling them out of here. The only bedsheets that were silk were Calidus’, and he got them [Cleansed], so if you were walking out of here with them, the guards would grab you.

Oh, and his guards were smart enough to do their job. They were paid well but rather mindful of the consequences of failure. Which was generally just losing a cushy job where you could relax and steal food and drink from the parties. But if you stole something, really stole something from Calidus, said object generally returned to him within a week, a month at the most.

And the person who stole it was only seen once. Generally very pale, with a dagger in their backs or some kind of drink or food on their laps.

Reputation. Deliberation. System…Calidus found a pair of pants and stood there, chewing as he wore them around his neck like a scarf. He had to own, he got why Ingon wasn’t too happy at seeing him.

“You’ve gained a bit of weight, there, old fellow.”

Where had his youthful, sublime…okay, he hadn’t really ever been svelte. He was amiably wide, not too heavy, just like ever. And unlike his fair, famous cousin, he didn’t have anyone to take his weight for him.

Which was fine. Calidus rather liked himself. Not his mind, damn the blasted thing, but his body was fine. Slovenly, but lovely. Naked was not a good look for most, though.

But—he swung his lower half around and felt an unexpected weight there. No wonder he’d been stumbling around.

“Dead gods, that’s a fine potion. But I’ll never get these pants on.”

He dropped half an egg tart, and there was actually enough surface area for him to pick it off his nether regions despite standing upright. Then a new servant came in, screamed, and ran.

And that was why the help rotated. Mind you, the servants were mostly female whereas Calidus had found his judgment worked best with men as his head of staff and so on. A good fellow could probably clean up just as well as a lady, but that was just how it was. [Maids] cleaned…not that he hired more than generic [Cleaners] or [Scullery Maids] at most.

Anyways, Calidus had a good laugh over breakfast, and he put the plate down, two-thirds finished. If he were hungry and no one took it, he’d come back to it, but that was egg-day. He had come up with a rotating schedule of dishes, you see, such that even if he gave no orders, Ingon would go through a ninety-day cycle calculated to appease Calidus’ interests. Another ninety days would pass before this particular variation on egg-day arrived, and by that time, Calidus would enjoy it again.

The menu of foods was one of those rare things Calidus worked on zealously, inebriated or not. The worst thing would be to lose the enjoyment of food by eating too much of it. He’d heard that the older you got, the less everything appealed.

Terrible thought. Calidus expected he had another thirty years in him and then hoped he’d die quietly in his sleep—or in vigorous activities of a fun kind, not war or anything else so horrible. He’d be quietly buried, the entire mansion disinfected, and if he got that far, Calidus thought he’d die with a smile on his face.

Because that meant it would be sixty or seventy years of fun. Fifty some, really—he hadn’t gotten the memo until his teens. Then he’d realized the grand secret his mind kept arguing with him about:

The purpose was to enjoy yourself. He had the means. He had the system. Let the Gnolls and Drakes kill each other. If Tyrion Veltras called for war, Calidus would send what he needed. If there were another King of Destruction, Calidus would pledge support and unhappily give some money to the cause.

But he, personally, would do nothing until a Goblin Lord was within a hundred miles of his position. In fact, Calidus’ worst nightmare was a huge intercontinental war. Another Goblin King, for instance.

He didn’t have nightmares. He hadn’t been there. But he didn’t want to be there, ever. Not then, and not in the future. Calidus wanted to have a supply of that damned ice cream. He wanted to see the Players of Celum—and he wanted this to continue. In no small way thanks to his favorite cousin, his benefactor, and the woman to whom he owed his entire lifestyle and class—[Hedonist].

Magnolia Reinhart. The Deadly Flower Blooming in the North and all that. Leader of his house and, to Calidus Reinhart, the insane woman who was welcome to the responsibility and hassle of leadership. She had his support. Not that he’d ever said as much.

Not that she liked him.

 

——

 

Calidus had the vague impression Magnolia Reinhart hated his guts. The clues were hard, like her never telling him what she was up to. Never visiting him. The curtailment of all his actionable authority in some senses, and the inter-family order—do what you want in private, but don’t cause trouble.

Or else Magnolia’s [Maids] and [Butlers]—the really well-trained staff Calidus could have used some of—would come knocking. But that was only if you were a prat. Unfortunately, a lot of his cousins were, and so they got in trouble for crimes.

Calidus didn’t get into trouble. He had his parties, his affairs, and yes, even his private problems resolved in such a way that they never got back to Magnolia, so she left him alone. In return? He got a generous stipend from the Reinhart family wealth each month, added to his own holdings, and she dealt with everything.

Wonderful. Beautiful. Calidus would have kissed her quite chastely if he had the chance—except that he knew what his cousins like Wernel and Damia got up to in private.

Disgusting, really. Even Calidus wouldn’t go that far—mostly because it would have been like bedding a Creler, knowing his family’s personalities. And he preferred his encounters to be pleasant, not with any long-term consequences.

After breakfast, he sat with his somewhat rumpled head-of-staff, Master Dorim, who was a former [Innkeeper]. He looked embarrassed at being caught with company and aware he was not making a good impression on his employer.

It was the first party in which he’d really let himself go and realized he could lean on his position and no one cared if he was unfaithful to…whatever. Calidus didn’t recall if the man was married, had been married, but he knew the type.

Master Dorim had pulled the doors of libations wide open, and there would be no going back. Until Calidus fired him.

…Probably six more parties. Then he’ll be more interested in currying favor from the guests. Calidus kept his face stern—if Dorim didn’t think he was upset, it would be three more parties at most.

“Again, I am deeply apologetic, Lord Reinhart, and I have the staff cleaning everything up.”

“Lord Calidus, I said. Did my…paramours of last night leave? Adequately satisfied, I trust?”

Dorim hesitated. He was not on top of things, but his expression cleared after a second.

“The ladies? Yes, I believe they left with your—associates?”

He referred to the friends, hangers-on, and crowd that normally found their way in each time Calidus did this. The [Lord] nodded.

“Good, good. How many were there?”

“F—five?”

The [Lord] of House Reinhart smiled and sat back in his chair.

“Excellent.”

Dorim tried to hide his expression, but Calidus happily ignored him. After all, [He Felt No Shame]. One of the perks of having his class.

[Hedonist]. Some said it was a bad class, and it was true…Calidus had virtually no Skills he would have termed good for the betterment of anyone, even himself. But they did make him feel good, and they protected him from the worst of his antics.

Including headaches, which Dorim was clearly suffering from. Calidus glanced over some [Messages] and realized the shots were wearing off. At least, the initial discombobulation.

Because that damned brain of his was working again. He tried to hurry along this part of the day, which was checking on things.

Everything. Politics, the news, his holdings—he had to do it. He queried Dorim as he watched a recap on that scrying orb with the news. Something about a garden…aha.

“Tyrion Veltras is back?”

“Er—yes, Lord Calidus! First Landing. Did you wish to ride out and visit…?”

Calidus was not at First Landing, but a private Reinhart holding. He could, with an enchanted carriage, get there. The question was…was there anything fun there? Calidus tapped his lips.

“—Do I have a ticket to the Players of Celum?”

His head of staff fumbled around—Calidus had given him access to the organizational system the last [Manager] had used. It had lists of servants, every item he had to pay attention to laid out in detail such that any idiot could see what he needed to do, like check the aviary for certain messages—Calidus knew it was a good system because he’d designed it himself so he could rotate managers in and out. Even so, Dorim was slow, especially since he was an [Innkeeper]. Why had Calidus hired him?

Oh yes, the <Quests>. So fascinating, but exploiting the mechanics of how they worked had seemed like a lot of work. Calidus had wondered if you could create an infinite-loop of quests that rewarded more than you put in. Maybe he’d try that later today. Unless…

“No, Lord Calidus. No ticket.”

“Damn. Then, has Miss Jasi responded to my letter?”

“N-no, Lord Calidus.”

“Lady Wuvren? Miss Esbell? Er…damn. Who else? Any letters like that?”

“No, milord.”

Calidus nodded gravely.

“Any day now.”

The former-[Innkeeper] nodded back, as if hypnotized. Calidus was sure, positive, that he would get lucky one day. A [Lord] was a [Lord], and he could guarantee a grand time.

He wasn’t looking for a relationship unless it was very fun, and nothing like a wedding. No arranged marriages for him, no thank you. A marriage into House Reinhart was so…Terandrian to begin with. Let someone else make a poor girl or boy’s life a misery. He just wanted—

“I’d think about visiting the city. House Veltras must be leaving the city aflame. How fast did Tyrion Veltras leave? Anything else happen?”

Dorim hesitated.

“Lord Veltras hasn’t left the city yet, Lord Calidus.”

The [Lord] was overturning bottles on the full banquet table, looking for a drop of wine or something else. He paused, genuinely surprised for once.

“No? What, did all his horses throw a shoe? What’s keeping him?”

“As I understand it, House Veltras is resting for the moment. Lord Sammial Veltras has reunited with his father, and they are enjoying the city in the company of the Wind Runner of Reizmelt.”

Aha! So that’s why he’s still there. Wind Runner. Wind Runner. She’s the one who ended the Assassin’s Guild! So she survived Ailendamus?”

Calidus was interested about that. He’d heard that Courier’s name a lot of late. Seldom charitably, but he was more fascinated by Tyrion’s antics. Dorim showed him a few summaries of the entire affair in the newspaper, and Calidus chuckled his way through it as the table was cleared.

“Etril Wellfar blasted a statue of…? Won’t that be funny. Upset Wellfar. Upset Wellfar…internal politics…they’re convening a Conclave of Ships? Why? That’s not for Etril to be stripped of rank. Odd. I wonder if they’ve had an encounter like those ghosts that popped up everywhere.”

The blank look on Dorim’s face made Calidus elaborate.

“Revelations. It’s not a stretch to assume all the Five Families had one. I heard my great-grandfather was hiding in his hole for a day—but that’s unique to us. I wonder if that will change what they do. But angry Wellfar means they’ll be throwing bilge water at each other from ship-to-ship. It’ll hurt trade if it comes down to a leadership dispute. Make a note in the ‘Opportunities’ file.”

“Yes, Lord Calidus. Whatever you say, Lord Calidus. What—what do I write?”

“Hm. Opportunity, disrupted trade Wellfar squabbles if Etril stays in command. Post it for two weeks. I’ll know what it means.”

It was then a problem for later Calidus to decide whether he wanted to earn some money. Which would be, namely, waiting for an actual fight at sea before swooping on whatever trade goods were disrupted or supplying vessels of ships in the interim. He had all kinds of notes like that.

For instance, he’d bought every bit of Eir Gel he could find the instant he’d heard it was a rare commodity. He’d trade it back when supply was critical.

But that was work, and Calidus did not like how his mind was spinning. If Wellfar did have a visitation, I wonder if I could find a way to get into the Conclave of Ships? They’ll be locked down tighter than Lady Zanthia’s pantaloons, but I bet Magnolia will want to know. Get one of the younger [Lord Captains] talking who’d been invited and they might spill it. Lord Toysh might spill it if…

No, no. What was he doing? Did he need to know? Calidus looked around.

“Dorim, get me a cup of wine. Anything.”

The [Innkeeper] hesitated, but he was getting into the flow of things. He watched as Calidus took down the wine, then smiled.

“There we go. Now, to more pressing business. Tyrion…his idea of a good time is riding about in something strenuous. Is he doing a public hunt?”

“No, Lord Calidus. He is meeting with some of your peers. Would you like to meet with him…? I believe he may be attending at least a few public receptions in First Landing. Should I list your name on the guest lists?”

The odds that Tyrion wanted to meet Calidus were remote. Even if Calidus had some authority and power—well, he could bull his way into most public events by authority alone. But the question was, did he want to do that?

Calidus put his two forefingers together and hmmed. His class whispered to him, and he listened to it with a smile. That was the thing—if he were in a good mood, and he tried to be, people did like Calidus. Reinharts had their charm, and he told them what he liked, and many people got on board with that.

“There is one pressing, quintessential question I need to ask you, Dorim. The only question I need to ask, and it is about this Wind Runner.”

“Ryoka Griffin? Yes, Lord?”

“…How attractive is she? On a scale of one to Wuvren? Her…figure. Is it worth seeing like a work of art? And how interested would she be to a charming suitor, or is she romantically involved with Lord Tyrion?”

Dorim’s mouth stayed open until he mustered a response.

“I—would not know aside from the scrying orb, Lord Calidus. Would you like me to find a broadcast with her? I think gossip has her involved with Lord Veltras romantically. He did join a war for her.”

Calidus abandoned his train of thought at once.

“Forget it, then. I’m not even risking the thought of a duel. Very well, very well. Last question before I’m of a mind to strike First Landing’s markets. What news of the new lands?”

That was his curiosity of late. Calidus listened to reports of more half-Elven ships setting sail for their colony, Drakes planning expeditions—and the private movements of powers who wanted to be circumspect for the moment.

Even drunk, he was fascinated. But he was also…curious.

“And House Reinhart has said we’re doing…? I mean to say, my cousin, Magnolia has proclaimed…?”

“Nothing yet, Lord Calidus.”

The [Lord] nodded, but dissatisfied.

“You checked the dovecots? The [Messages] from home? All of them? The private…?”

“Yes, Lord Calidus. All of them. I assure you—she has said nothing.”

Calidus’ frown grew wide for a second, then he flicked his fingers with a sigh.

“…She’s probably just keeping it hidden from us. Magnolia never fails to miss her mark. She saw the sugar market—put a note for tomorrow for me to check.”

Because, obviously, the new lands were a huge opportunity. A large amount of trouble, but…Calidus put it from his mind. Trust Magnolia. Don’t trust her to do something for him, but trust her to be intelligent. What helped House Reinhart helped him. He spent the next thirty minutes happily trying to find the most evocative shot of Ryoka Griffin as his carriage was readied for travel into First Landing.

…Right up until Calidus Reinhart’s gloriously uncomplicated day, uncomplicated month…uncomplicated last nine years, really, suddenly developed a hitch.

He received some very unwelcome guests.

 

——

 

How were you supposed to say it? Oh, yes. ‘A man has to have certain…acquaintances. Who do him favors. To get ahead, one must incur…debts.’

And then you added a significant pause and a wink or meaningful look. Mostly, the person got what you meant, but a few idiots still needed you to explain it.

What that all meant was criminal contracts. Unsavory ‘associates’. The underworld, in brief.

Calidus didn’t really care to put a fancy name on it or make excuses. He worked with shady people. It made life easier. The Watch and your militia, if you wanted to bother with something like that, was useful…to a point. But he was no Tyrion. He wasn’t going to spend all day—and a fortune—making a private army. For one thing, Aunt Magnolia frowned on that.

For another? You could hire professionals for most problems. Yes, they were gangs or whatever, but most were reliable in their way. If you were some kind of newcomer to the scene, you might hire a lice-infested [Bandit] gang who’d take your money then rat you out to the nearest law enforcement once captured.

However, if you were Calidus, you paid for a gang to sort out an issue. Mostly just an [Assassin], actually.

It had all been so convenient a few years ago. The Circle of Thorns had really messed up the Assassin’s Guild. Or had Aunt Magnolia? They were a useful, discreet group, and now they were gone.

Problem, that. Calidus had kept thinking how bad it was to not have them around. The Drakes had their own [Infiltrators], and foreign nations loved their spy-games. The Assassin’s Guild had been necessary. Not even a necessary evil for him. Just necessary; the instrument of Izril’s noble families.

Then again, the Assassin’s Guild had made some stupid decisions of their own. He had been very unhappy to see them essentially shoot themselves in the face with poisoning Tyrion Veltras’ sons. So in that sense—their collapse might have been for the best.

However, you could never stamp out a rat infestation, even if you blew up most of the bases. Calidus knew that too, and so he had guessed the Assassin’s Guild might return, if they found a way to reestablish their credibility—or fear—and especially if they were needed.

…The problem was, he realized that in lieu of a safe haven, the surviving [Assassins] and members of the Guild, not all of them practicing [Assassins] but support staff, needed a place to go. And, desperate, they might look for the nearest hospitable person of sufficient influence and friendliness to support and shelter them.

Why that was him, he didn’t know. But Calidus’ first premonition of his coming headache was the Unmarked Coach rolling into his domain.

Nothing normal came from the Unmarked Coach. Calidus got a warning about it from a [Blackmarket Contact] he had cultivated a relationship with minutes before he felt it.

A powerful coach rolling into his domain. It didn’t even try to hide, so it was akin to knocking on his door rather than sneaking in. He closed his eyes, canceled his visit to First Landing, and swore.

“Dorim? Get me…two of my private [Message] scrolls, the good ones. And food; another banquet.”

“Already, milord? But we’re not even cleaned up from—”

“Just get the food out. Tell Ingon to make good, straightforward food. Oh, and put all the silverware away. It will tarnish. We have guests coming.”

Calidus hurried Dorim around, mostly just telling him to put out food and refreshments as the Unmarked Coach came in. He felt…more intrusions in the back of his mind. Probably people coming in on horseback or more conventionally.

Wonderful. He’d already figured out what they wanted—it was obvious, he just hadn’t expected he’d be the one chosen. But Calidus just waited for them to present themselves at his mansion.

He did not bother telling the head of security to do anything. His [Guards], mercenaries though they were and decent, would be like children fighting Minotaurs. If he had a problem, there was only one solution for that.

[Message] scrolls, keyed to House Reinhart’s private networks. Magnolia or the real head of their family in some senses. Probably the old ghost himself; Calidus knew Magnolia had taken some of her best south.

But if he sent for reinforcements, the odds were he, Calidus, would already be dead. Or would later be dead.

No, no. That was the rare play, the unhappy one. Calidus was chewing down on some delightful fruits from Oteslia when his guests were admitted into his mansion. Watermelons from Oteslia, with salt of all things on top.

His first impression of his guests was a single Human woman, dressed all in black. So predictable. She even looked like an [Assassin], cloth wound around her limbs, a scar along her throat—so it had been cut at least once. She came into his banquet hall flanked by eight of his guards, all of whom looked nervous and at their most professional. She spoke with a slight Chandrarian drawl that he wanted to place as Roshal, but might be any nation on the western coast; he was no expert.

“Lord Calidus Reinhart. I hope we haven’t disturbed your morning?”

Calidus was focusing on his wedge of watermelon. He glanced up, but he immediately nodded as he put his snack down.

“Immensely. You lot know I don’t like headaches. But here we are, and I’m sobering up—again. Sit, sit, and let’s get to your offer so I can break out the wine. Actually—let’s all have some now. Pour a glass, don’t wait on me!”

He tossed the rind down and picked up a cup and pitcher. Calidus filled it airily, took a drink, and wished he could go straight to oblivion. But the pitcher held water, damn the stuff. He did need to use his mind.

Still, the [Lord] had some kind of effect on the female ‘Assassin’. She hesitated, and her eyes flickered to his table. Calidus pointedly ignored her. He glanced at some of the set cups and plates at his table. He’d had the room set out like a formal dinner, which he almost never had; he preferred informal parties. But he needed to prove something, so he gave one of the empty, worn-velvet chairs he’d gotten from a deceased uncle or aunt or something a pointed look.

“…Or is wine not to your tasting?”

With chuckles, the Faces appeared. And it was showy enough, even if Calidus had ruined their moment.

A shadow from the early morning sun against a drape stretched, and a figure walked out of it to sit down gracefully in an open chair. Another simply appeared, shedding an [Invisibility] spell. A third person slithered out from under the table and into a seat. Calidus counted.

Eight. Either that meant eight Faces were left and there were a few more they hoped to invite or rejoin their number, or there were less and they were inducting some of their Ranks to make themselves seem stronger than they were.

It didn’t matter. He nodded as they filled their cups and sat. The female assassin, their spokesperson, caught herself and bowed.

“Lord Reinhart, you live up to your family’s reputation for cunning.”

“No, I don’t. I live up to my reputation for having a fine time. I just know [Assassins]. One of you lot was my nanny. Family tradition. Old Ressa actually stuck around, didn’t she?”

Oh, they twitched at that. Ressa was probably not in their good books, but what were they going to do about it? She had been one of their most talented graduates back when they were friendly with Magnolia.

“—We have had a fond relationship with House Reinhart of all the Five Families, Lord Calidus. Bearing that in mind, we hope you will consider our offer now.”

Calidus lifted a hand, cutting off the obvious-assassin.

“Before we begin—I’m going to be distracted all the while you’re talking if I don’t settle this. Are you an instructor or just a [Scribe] or something?”

She was no [Assassin] proper. Calidus based that on the fact that she was doing the speaking. Proper [Assassins] sometimes lacked, uh, tact. Since they learned how to deal with their problems very directly. Secondly, she was playing into the look so heavily. The woman bit her lip and replied after glancing at the seated figures.

They were watching him. Calidus felt that wonderful crawling on the back of your spine, but he solved it by continuing to eat. If he died, well, what a waste of everyone’s time, eh? They didn’t need to do that. They needed him.

“—[Instructor]. Roshal-trained.”

She admitted after a second. Calidus waved cheerfully at her.

“Have a seat, then! We have food—I’m not sure what my [Chef]’s made. Try the watermelon. So you lot want a place to stay. I’m not going against my aunt. No offense to the Guild of Assassins, but I fear Aunt Magnolia more than you lot. If you’re going to stay, you need to give me a real incentive—or make peace with her. Or both. But you knew that. So what’s your offer?”

Again, the impressively-deadly figures slowed a moment to imperceptibly communicate. Calidus just leaned on his armrest, drumming his fingers. All of this was obvious. But they went with threats. They always had to go with threats.

“The Guild of Assassins does not have many enemies, Lord Calidus. Ours tend to decrease over time.”

One of the figures spoke, hooded—and Calidus peered in fascination at a Gnoll, perhaps, sitting with crossed arms in their chair. Was this the non-Human arm of the Guild of Assassins?

Maybe that was exactly it. Either they had been operating too far from home to be killed or join the fighting or these were foreign [Assassins], trying to revitalize the guild and rise where they hadn’t been as famous in Izril. More and more interesting.

However, the bluff just made Calidus laugh. He saw them stirring and poured himself another cup.

“Oh, have another drink. It’s good wine. Decent. It’s wine. I’m well aware any of you could kill me. The difference between you and Aunt is that she can kill a [Lord] or [Lady] of Izril and survive. She’s been our executioner, and I doubt any Face of your Guild can match her body count for my peers.”

He leaned forwards, eyes glittering with amusement. If he died here—well, Calidus didn’t expect any tears from his family. Except maybe crocodile tears. But there were consequences.

The [Assassins] were silent as Calidus kept drinking. He put down the cup and wiped at his mouth.

“If Aunt Magnolia finds you here, we’re all dead. Reinharts follow her. You know she’s banned us from causing trouble. So it’s a bribe or deal with her—or both. Which?”

He waited. His guess was that they wanted him to intercede with Magnolia and let them off the hook. She might go for it, but it was going to be a hassle, and Calidus suspected it still might end with his mansion in flames and her staff fighting the [Assassins] while he sat in his safe room and got rip-roaring drunk. Which was purely annoying.

However, Calidus was surprised for once by the response, and because of that, he was gratified. For the spokeswoman did not do either at first—she just handed him a single letter.

“This is for you, Lord Calidus. I trust you can verify it. It is our—commitment we hope you will extend to this cause. As you can see, it exonerates your part in this affair. As for reward, we hoped to discuss that revolving around your contributions to our rebuilding…”

Calidus half-heard her. He stared at the letter—and the seal—and his heart began to pound as he cracked it, checked the trim of the letter, the edgework, even stabbed it with a dagger and tore the paper slightly to see the interwoven fibers. Then he uttered an oath and tossed it down.

“Ah, kissing Wellfars. Kiss the Wellfars and slap a Veltras. So that’s how it is?”

He didn’t even read the letter’s contents. Not really. The instant Calidus saw who it was from and confirmed the identity—though he’d have to make triply sure by an in-person visit—he knew.

“The old man wants you back? Does Aunt Magnolia know?”

Regis Reinhart’s letter lay on the table as the [Assassins] smiled. Calidus drummed his fingers faster. So that was the play? Regis didn’t usurp power, but he could issue orders. He didn’t overturn Reinharts…or did he? The family history had a lot of holes.

Either way, he probably saw the same gap Calidus did. Izril’s north needed an Assassin’s Guild. And he had to shelter them?

The [Assassins] saw Calidus’ scowl, and their spokeswoman spoke quickly.

“Lord Calidus, we will be an asset, we trust, in all your personal affairs. We have a number of goals as well as attention on Izril’s new lands.”

“You and everyone else. Why me? Let Aunt Magnolia deal with it. Offer your services to her, and she’ll make use of you after she spanks a few bottoms.”

Calidus snapped back, genuinely vexed. He really didn’t want an Assassin’s Guild headquarters in his lands, even if they never bothered him and made it far on the borders. They lingered around. However, the [Instructor] of assassins raised her brows.

“Lady Reinhart has made no overtures to the new lands, Lord Calidus. Unlike the other Five Families, she has made private pledges to Oteslia to abstain—in return for their cooperation towards her peace agreement.”

The reply shocked him. Calidus’ hand slipped, and he nearly knocked over a pitcher. One of the [Assassins] gestured, and it froze, mid-tip. He took the handle, thinking that was a nice party trick. Maybe they would make the parties better if he had to suffer them. But Magnolia?

“She’s not going after the new lands? But the opportunity—even if we don’t settle the damn stuff and it’s filled to the gills with Crelers—not one move?”

Transportation, protection, new trade, speculating on events—the [Assassins] assured him Magnolia Reinhart had not made any moves. All for her Drake alliance.

What was she doing? Calidus wished he had a vineyard’s worth of wine in his cup. And as if they noticed that, the spokeswoman produced something else.

“Lord Calidus, consider this a token of the Guild’s esteem. If you would like to use our services or support our task—this is but a small token of our appreciation.”

She presented him with a vintage that made Calidus stir. He accepted a bottle, blew some dust from the label, and read—

Silvarian Umbral, C.O.T 319. 

That predated the King of Destruction. He’d have to check the dates, but he guessed it might be a century and a half old, around the time when Perril Chandler had been famous. Calidus hesitated—then uncorked the bottle with a speed that made some of the wine-appreciators wince. He took a sniff, poured an experimental cup, and stared at the glowing white wine.

Magical wines. He took one sip, and his expression lit up. Calidus glanced over the rim of the cup at the watching [Assassins]. And then…all the worries and thoughts milling around his head went away. He sailed serenely in a world of intoxication and sighed. Then Calidus threw his arms wide, beaming.

“My dear friends. Where would you like to stay?”

 

——

 

More [Assassins], their trainees, and staff were waiting for the signal. Not to flood Calidus’ mansion, but to find somewhere unoccupied—a field at worst—and dig.

Underground protected them from scrying spells, and they had to lay low at first. But they’d be rebuilding their client lists, training up a new generation—and earning money.

They had the support of House Reinhart and the Circle of Thorns. Calidus wasn’t to know everything, of course, but he would be a useful ally. The man was simple, and if they kept the enticements coming and did him favors, he would probably let them conduct their business in peace.

That was their perspective on it, at any rate. Calidus did quite enjoy the feeling of magical intoxication as he walked around his mansion.

Purely delightful. He felt like he could cast some spells—drunk—which was the best way to do it. And he wondered if some of those lovely [Assassins] might not want to share some company when they weren’t stabbing people?

Ah, the possibilities. [Assassins] were sometimes more trustworthy than you thought. Good help! Hard to find. And all of this…all of this…

Sounded like a whole lot of damn work. He did not want opportunity to drop into his lap. Damn the old man. Damn Magnolia for not doing what she should be doing and squeezing gold out of rocks. And damn…damn…

“Damn the Gnolls for being the target of Drakes and raising new lands! Yes, damn them too!”

Calidus kicked open a door and nearly scared to death the man sitting and working on a complex magical gadget or something. The man had white in his hair…what he had left of it.

“Calidus! Do you want to get us killed? I told you—don’t bother me when you’re drunk! Or did you contract another disgusting disease?”

“Not at the moment, Zeom, old fellow. Come on, take a break. I’ve got some fine wine, and we have guests.”

“What kind of nobility or party-loving wastrels are they? And address me with respect. I’m the greatest [Enchanter] in all of Izril.”

“Zeomtoril, Zeomtoril—look at what I have. A Silvarian Umbral.”

“A what? And you just—without delicacy or even a glass to—give me that.

The greedy old man instantly dropped what he was doing. He checked the bottle, then poured himself a generous cup and sniffed the bouquet before taking a sip and sighing in pure exultation. Which went to show he knew something about wine.

Then again, he was a fine [Enchanter]. ‘Finest in Izril’ was not something that Calidus could back, not so close to First Landing. But Zeomtoril was good at enchanting. And alchemy. To look at it, he might be working on some gadget for the black market. Then again, he might have made the metal parts of the orb-like device himself because he could also smith—even if he didn’t really have the physique for it.

Of course, Zeomtoril could have bought the metal himself since he could haggle. And read every written script every species had invented. He could speak Drathian—multiple variants—and Goblin, which had really interested Calidus when they’d met, years ago.

Zeom was, in fact, very good at a lot of things, which was why he had rooms in Calidus’ mansion normally locked and warded from the parties Calidus threw. Only the [Lord] could gain access here, as part of his sponsoring of Zeom’s everything. It was a good deal, even if Zeom complained about making Calidus potions to increase his libido or curealls for nasty venereal diseases.

Zeom was a [Polymath]. In fact, he was a [Genius Polymath], which Calidus suspected made him practically unique. Why he wasn’t a [Sage] was probably because Zeom had had bad gambling debts and other problems he got himself into. Wisdom and Zeom…not exactly bedfellows.

Intelligence, however? Zeom was, like Ingon, one of only two members of Calidus’ entire employ the [Lord] felt should remain permanent. Not for loyalty in Zeom’s case, but unrivaled—if tricky to manage—talent.

“This is fine stuff, Calidus. It almost merits you interrupting me. Who are my guests, and what do you want?”

“Oh, just a bit of research, Zeom. We’ve got the Guild of Assassins setting up shop here. You’ve done work for them.”

The [Polymath] raised his brows, not afraid, just surprised and intrigued.

“The Guild? They’ve hired me before, but they don’t like paying my rates, and their jobs were boring. Are you consolidating your power? That would be interesting. I thought you hated entanglements, though. And the Guild isn’t always trustworthy.

Calidus heaved himself into a chair and sighed as Zeom glared. The [Polymath] would throw a fit and [Cleanse] it later, Calidus was sure. He hated unclean things and had built everything in this room, from the door to the chair. In fact, he’d even hand-sewn the spider-silk robes he wore. And he wore no underwear, an unfortunate fact Calidus had learned.

“I know. I don’t trust them. I want you to check for poison or manipulation spells.”

And here was the thing. Zeom’s face instantly turned hostile. He hated being given orders or work he considered beneath his time. Which was everything.

“Why should I do that? It’s none of my business if you keel over. How much are you paying me? Give me a number and I’ll think about it. I could use some more materials.”

Calidus smiled broadly.

“I should think it’s in your best interest, Zeom, old chap. Especially since you’ve just drunk the wine the [Assassins] gifted me. I think we’d better know if we’re poisoned or addled by nightfall, eh? Or you might lose some of that keen intellect you’re boasting about.”

He had the pleasure of watching Zeom perform the old Winebreath Blaster across his room. The [Polymath] looked at the wine bottle in horror, then screamed at Calidus.

“You idiot! If it’s a bad poison, I could suffer the effects for the rest of my life!”

“I know. But don’t worry—if we’re going to be killed, the poison will finish us off by nightfall. If they’re slowly drugging me into compliance, it’s slow-acting!”

Calidus raised his voice as the man stumbled over to an alchemy table and frantically began trying to identify any hostile or magical compounds. He relaxed in his chair.

The odds they were doing either were remote, which was why he hated doing this. Precautions, ensuring loyalty, and so on…Calidus rested his fingers on his forehead as Zeom worked.

“…Settlers to the new lands. Yes, I guess. Anything that’s found needs to get back to who owns it. Dig up a relic? That’s where the Guild makes its mark. What you need is—hm. I think it’s [Builders].”

“What are you on about?”

Zeom turned, half-wrathful, half-curious as the [Lord] sprawled there. Calidus opened his eyes lazily.

“Builders over explorers. Zeom. I need to hire a bunch of people, and I need a [Secretary] or someone. Maybe the Guild can help me. They’ll have explorers and adventurers, but you need to build to keep what you want to hold. Good ones. The settlers rushing to the new lands—they’ve brought food and healing potions which are in short supply, but did they bring [Healers] and mortar? Damn, damn, damn.”

He sat there, aimlessly playing with the cup of wine but not taking a sip. Then Calidus sighed.

“I guess that’s where the Assassin’s Guild comes in. I’ll get them to back an expeditionary force tomorrow. Now I need to talk to my relatives and get them to back the funding…and they’ll send out stupid forces that will need my help…I’m in for it now, Zeom.”

Calidus Reinhart’s expression was the resigned look of a [Hedonist] realizing he’d have less time in the day for inane pleasure. He hoped this wouldn’t take him into conflict with his aunt, but he brightened as he had one thought.

“…But I bet you the [Assassins] have the kind of drugs you can’t get on the black market. When assassins party? Now there’s a sight to see.”

Then, reluctantly, he got to work.

 

——

 

Opportunity. Calidus was not the only person to see it across this new world. The seas were still all wrong, for one thing.

Part of the trouble with the new lands was that seafaring experts or those with magical vessels had a far, far easier time getting to Izril’s shelf. Izril’s boot?

Izril’s buttocks. Which the laughing Lizardfolk had called it right up until they’d tried to take the regular sealanes to Izril and found themselves sailing in a circle, pushed far from the route that should have taken them right past Wistram or to Chandrar.

They’d barely been able to tack back to shore before their food supplies ran out. Two weeks of fighting what turned out to be an obstinate current that moved back towards Baleros. Right where the regular shipping routes should be.

To say this was having an effect on coastal cities and trade was an understatement. However—famous ships like Shell Bazaar, The Four Winds of Teral, and so on generated their own thrust, be it a giant lobster or magical winds.

In the same vein, most half-Elven ships had enough [Mage]-power to make it to Izril. Terandria had it easiest; they had just a hop and a skip across the open sea whereupon they could use the coast to head south.

The half-Elves were moving fast. Ironically enough, the most long-lived peoples had stolen a march on even the notoriously impulsive Lizardfolk and the continent’s own Gnolls and Drakes. Like the Drowned Folk, they had the means.

Everyone else had to either figure out how to get to Izril—safely—without running into an awakened Kraken or head to the new lands on foot. However, the Gnolls and Drakes were not happy with each other. As for the Five Families…they’d have to head south past the Bloodfields and a bunch of Drake cities while skirting the Hivelands, crossing literally half a continent.

Or they could sail.

They were going to sail. And so The Watery Roots and Waterlily were sailing wide of the High Passes, and were about two more days from the landing point if the winds held.

The [Captain] of Waterlily was happy about that. It turned out whatever phenomenon had altered the ocean’s currents was providing a rather strong current south along the coast. It’d make the return trip miserable, but he wondered if he couldn’t sail all the way around Izril.

The eastern side of Izril was underused due to the westward side facing, well, the rest of the world. However, if the currents were changing, a savvy [Captain] could sell a new current to the Seafarer’s Guild or exploit it for his own gain.

He was thusly a mercantile half-Elf and slightly looked down upon by his passengers. They were very friendly, but Captain Gaoelos could tell they thought he was in this for the coin.

Yes, he charged them for passage. He was not going to lease his entire ship to a bunch of colonists for free. He’d given them a discount, and he hoped to continue working with his people. But he didn’t really like being accused, even implicitly, of greed.

All these naturalist half-Elves wanted was to create an old-fashioned timeless city or more villages where they wouldn’t clash with Human kingdoms. A different kind of greed, but…

Well, The Watery Roots was a fabulous old colony-ship, and Gaoelos was honored to sail in her company. In fact, she was part of the reason he’d so readily agreed to this trip. She was projecting an aura of calm that had saved them, or so he felt, from any angry maritime monsters.

He was used to stabbing horrors crawling up his ship, like the sea-Ogres, the Dorhmin, who had spears and even rudimentary tactics of their own—scaly, slimy eelish-reptile humanoids with bulbous eyes. They made a ss-loughing sound as they tried to breathe regular air, which was sometimes your only warning before they tried to drag you overboard.

His guests thought he was making that up, just like Crelers at sea. If that were so, why did The Watery Roots have an aura spell to calm monsters?

At any rate, it was a beautiful ship, all graceful beams of wood streaming through the waters, half again as large as his galleon. He followed in her wake, marveling at the way the water failed to lap against her enchanted hull.

And they said The Watery Roots was a poor ship compared to some of the other ships that had founded colonies. His people loved to brag by putting down anything in the modern era.

“Captain Gaoelos! Heading starboard 155º! Treespeaker Cortimaelas wishes us to steer wide of the Hivelands and Izril until we reach Izril’s new lands.”

“Starboard 155º, aye.”

He confirmed it and watched as their ships turned, heading further out to sea. Now there was a bit of paranoia. He’d sailed past Izril’s Hivelands ever since they had first been founded. The Antinium didn’t attack vessels at sea; they sank, and only the Flying Antinium would have even a chance of catching most vessels.

However, his passengers, some of whom came from Terandrian kingdoms, others from the village, shuddered and sighed in relief as their ships angled away from the coast.

“Captain Gaoelos, do you have a spyglass? I should like to see these dreaded Hivelands if we are to share any continent with them. As long as it is safe.”

“Safe as Treant waters. Feel free to use my own.”

The [Captain] produced his own enchanted spyglass and let his guests train their gazes south, although he knew it would be hours still before they cleared the High Passes. However, that was half-Elves of the old ways for you.

He had been the most courteous captain he could be. They had free reign of the deck unless they got in the path of the sailors, and many were younger half-Elves who worked in the real world. Gaoelos had woken up twice for a nighttime check on the decks to see them stargazing solemnly and breaking open a vintage of wine they had brought purely to sample with the sea breeze.

…He wondered how well they were going to fare in their destination. Then again, they had the coin and resources to have a stock of sea-wine.

Gaoelos spent his time on deck charting notes about how fast this current was going and watching the scrying orb. Dead gods, but this had been an interesting voyage so far.

First, they ran into The Pride of the Wellfar and the Five Families, next they met a flying Human! The Wind Runner no less! She’d flown over his very ship, and he’d been damn near tempted to ask her for an autograph.

Next, he heard yet another species, the Minotaurs, making a claim on Izril’s new lands. Which was not making that odious Sir Relz happy. Go back to the Dullahan’s [Garden of Sanctuary] yesterday!

“…Wasn’t that inn on the news before, [Captain]? I hear it’s in the middle of Izril. Hard to make a port landing, but hey, we could head to one of the port cities north and make a jaunt out there.”

His [Helmsman] was a funny fellow. A [Storm Sailor] who considered himself a wit. Gaoelos rolled his eyes.

“When I can spare a few months to make the voyage on foot, Corbbin…”

“No, no, Captain. You’ve not heard? There’s a land-route that has you in Liscor or Pallass in weeks from a port! You just head to Invrisil and teleport there!”

“No. Teleport?”

Gaoelos, like any seafarer, kept some tabs on landfolk business, but he hadn’t heard of the magic door. It rang a lot of bells, and he spent the next hour talking with Corbbin and a few of the experienced [Sailors] who had a moment. It beat joining the half-Elves surveying Izril’s shores as they passed the High Passes and went back out to sea. They could probably only see a bit of the Hivelands, but it was still making them shudder.

“Strange happenings around Liscor of late, Captain. Good thing Roots wanted us at sea away from the Hivelands.”

“Corbbin—did you have too much of that wine last night? Antinium don’t attack ships.”

“Until now. You heard about that ship that one of ‘em attacked, right?”

“Myths.”

Gaoelos had heard the same rumor, but people claimed it was a Drowned Vessel that had been attacked by a flying insect. He suspected it was one of those misunderstandings. No doubt the ship had just sunk after being attacked by some other monster that was insectoid.

[Storm Sailors] were a superstitious lot, though. So was Gaoelos in his way; if he saw a Treant walking the deeps while heading to Izril’s new lands, well, he’d sail the next colony of his people down to Izril for free. That would just beat all, and he’d toss a gold coin down for good luck and sing all the songs, even the bawdy ones.

They didn’t meet a Treant at sea. In fact, after six hours, when his guests had stopped murmuring in horror and recounting tales of the Antinium Wars as if they’d been there, the only interesting thing Gaoelos saw was a single ship ahead of them.

“Looks like she’s becalmed or in trouble, Captain! Roots is already bearing down on her.”

The flag and lights system that ships used varied depending on species, but anyone could see that this ship was in distress. Many flew their nation’s flags, so the key was that if you saw one hanging upside-down or red or orange flags hanging from the ship, something was wrong.

Black flags for [Pirates]—or their own unique flags, but they were pretty damn obvious. Gaoelos had worried over running into the Illuminary or some Drowned Folk pirates, but their sea-city had promised visitors safe passage.

Dead gods, Nombernaught! He’d have to visit. It had almost slipped his mind; Zeres was the major port you went to. But he could go to Nombernaught, see if they had any trade goods, and figure out how to get back to Terandria. Or sail down to the Claiven Earth?

Wild times, wild times. At any rate, this new ship was no Galleon-class ship or even the modified Man-of-War sized ship that The Watery Roots technically fell into. It was…a Brigantine?

Two-masted, with a square foremast and a fairly generous, nigh squat hull for its size. Too wide in Gaoelos’ opinion, but some [Merchant Captains] loved to add enchanted space for lots of cargo.

Lovely, pristine white sails. It must have just traded them in, because he didn’t see a speck on them. They were all furled, and he couldn’t tell what was wrong. The ship must have been an antique, though, because it was made of old, costly black wood.

“Where did those trees that made it come from, d’you think, Captain? Guests?”

The [Helmsman], Corbbin, asked the wrong question. A lot of the half-Elves looked patently offended by the question, as tree-lovers did.

“I wouldn’t venture to say, er, [Helmsman].”

One half-Elf huffed. Gaoelos sighed. He’d apologize later. It was a rare kind of vessel, though, and he drummed his fingers on the railing as he saw The Watery Roots coming alongside. They were shouting questions, and he ordered his ship to slow and drop anchor while they waited. He had no doubt that the other ship could help with whatever was wrong. They were faster in the water too; they’d accelerated to inquire what was amiss, and he envied that casual speed.

Perhaps he was the one being escorted and allowed to watch this rare voyage of such an old ship. Gaoelos admired The Watery Roots, even as he eyed the other ship.

“Doesn’t look like they’ve damaged those sails. Maybe they hit something and their keel or rudder’s taken a blow? Or they’re from Baleros and the first Lizardfolk to make it. No, wait—that’s no Lizardfolk. Dead gods, it’s another half-Elf!”

Captain Gaoelos saw Corbbin shading his eyes. He needed no scrying glass thanks to his [Hawk Eyes] Skill. Gaoelos glanced towards the half-Elves with his spying glass.

“A half-Elf, you say? We’re rarer at sea.”

“Not the rarest, [Captain]—there’re more of you than most landfolk see aside from a half-Elven nation.”

That was true, but Gaoelos straightened slowly. He glanced towards the other ship—it seemed like the Treespeaker was lowering a gangplank to come aboard. Another colony ship?

Yet suddenly, he had a pressing desire to retrieve his spying glass.

 

——

 

The half-Elves on board Waterlily weren’t quite as haughty as their [Captain] supposed. He did charge a steep price, but they had quite warmed to him over the voyage. They were [Colonists], some of them, to their delight. They’d leveled in the night. Others had their old classes, but whomever they were and wherever they had come from, they had come to see Izril’s new lands.

Never let it be said even half-Elves didn’t crave adventure, and this? This was something no one, not even their people, could remember. This was new. So they were still looking southwards as the [Captain] came striding down the ship. He was always so…busy. There was always something to do, unlike home for most of the half-Elves.

Gaoelos trotted over as his [First Mate] signaled to the other ship, which sent back a few greeting flashes from their lantern on the stern of the ship.

“Some trouble at sea? Should we draw closer, Captain?”

“Mm. Perhaps.”

The half-Elves were idly watching Izril’s coast, but one handed him a spyglass, and he walked up and down his vessel, trying to see…no, The Watery Roots was in the way.

“Did anyone see the ship’s name from afar?”

“Nary a one, Captain.”

One of the half-Elf passengers smiled; they liked the nautical terms and experience. Captain Gaoelos didn’t return the smile, a rarity for him. He frowned at the ship.

“—It could be Balerosian. Dark wood from that continent? Or Rhir? The Blighted Kingdom…?”

“Neither.”

One of the half-Elves from a traditional village assured Gaoelos airily. He blinked at the other man.

“You can tell? But you said—”

“I said, I wouldn’t like to speculate, Captain. I’ve not seen wood quite like that—ever. It’s a fascinating ship. Crewed by one of our own. Would you oblige us by moving your ship over? I would assume we’re all headed to the same destination.”

Normally, that was a slightly risky idea because two ships in close proximity would inevitably drift closer and hit each other, hence the anchors being dropped. But Captain Gaoelos suddenly stiffened. He kept the smile on his face, but he turned on his heel so fast that one of the [Mages] from Gaiil-Drome wondered if she’d offended him.

“Some nautical custom, perhaps. Pay it little mind. Possibly bad luck to have three ships all together if it forms a triangle.”

A half-Elven [Duelist] joked, and the others shushed him, hiding smiles behind their hands. However, the tree-expert watched as Gaoelos strode—and then walked over to where the anchor was dropped. He leaned over as a boy, a Drowned Lad, listened attentively to him.

Then Gaoelos walked back, smiling to [Sailors], and had his [First Mate] do another complicated lantern sign, another greeting, according to a [Storm Sailor]. He walked over to his [Helmsman], and that was when the watching tree-expert sensed something was wrong.

Corbbin’s face stiffened up, and he straightened and almost turned to the new vessel in the waters with a look of such horror—for a moment—that the [Mage] stirred. However, then he relaxed, slapped Gaoelos on the back with a hearty laugh, and turned back to his wheel.

Too heartily. Corbbin was a half-Elf who moved with the times and crewed a ship, but he had never slapped anyone on the back before. However, the [Captain] just laughed back and waved at the other ship.

Too visibly. And when he walked back down the deck, the [Mage] realized that the crew was moving a bit faster about their tasks. Faster—and slower. Some [Sailors] were gathered around the masts and the furled sails. More were standing next to the weighed anchor, glancing towards…

“Captain Gaoelos, is something wrong?”

The [Captain] took the [Mage] by the arm and steered her back.

“Not at all, Magus Yerwite, isn’t it? Did I ever ask you if you were experienced in more than nature-magic? Do you know any wind magic? Water spells? Come, stand with me at the railing.”

He stood with the spellcaster, and she felt a vague sensation in her stomach. She glanced at the other ship where the Treespeaker was greeting what looked to be a fellow half-Elf quite amiably. The other one was old, grey in his hair, and Gaoelos had trained his spyglass on the other person.

“Do you know that ship, Captain? What is this about?”

“Wind spells. Do you know…no, he looks completely ordinary. Blonde and grey. Not—no scars. But that ship. Are you sure you don’t know whatever wood that damned hull’s made of?”

“Scars…? I know basic wind magic, why?”

Gaoelos straightened abruptly.

“I need you to pour all the wind spells into our sails that you can. And put the wind against the other ship. Who else on board could cast a spell like that?”

Mage Yerwite floundered a second.

“Here? Most of our oldest members are on board The Watery Roots.

Because it was nicer. She turned to the other ship.

“I could [Message] them if we need magic. Or—”

She was just about to wave and project her voice, but Gaoelos caught her hand in such a grip she yelped in pain.

“No, don’t do that.”

“Captain! I protest!”

The [Duelist] had noticed the mood on the ship at last. He had a hand on his own rapier and was staring at the other crew with concern. But he noticed Yerwite’s wince, and her skin was actually beginning to bruise as Gaoelos let go.

The Captain turned to the offended [Duelist].

“My apologies—I am going to ask all guests to wait a moment. Something has come up. We are…going to raise anchor, now. And head over to the other ships. Signal them, [First Mate]. Corbbin? On our heading.”

The [Helmsman] nodded, and his hands were white on the steering wheel as the anchor rose. Too quickly, Yerwite thought. And the sails came down in a flash.

As for the [Helmsman]—he held the wheel straight ahead. And she saw him whisper something and felt the ship jolt slightly as it picked up speed.

None of that felt like sidling over to the other ships, which were less than two hundred feet away to Yerwite. The other passengers agreed.

“Captain, shouldn’t we be turning…?”

The [Duelist] was watching Gaoelos as if he’d taken leave of his senses, but Gaoelos didn’t reply. He was watching The Watery Roots and staring at the [Sailors] on board. They were turning to him, but he said nothing. However, nearly a dozen [Sailors] were standing on the railings with him. And as Yerwite turned, she saw his hands flashing in a complicated signal, close to his chest.

“Captain—”

“Hush. Something’s wrong.”

The [Mage] stopped an angry [Lord], and they saw that signal repeating across the chests of every [Sailor] facing The Watery Roots. The sailors on the other ship looked blank—then jerked back in alarm. They turned around and then began striding along the deck.

“Dead gods. Krakens below and red skies above. If we’re wrong—”

“If we’re wrong, I’ll buy everyone a distillery. Shut up, Corbbin. How many fighting soldiers are aboard The Watery Roots? Anyone? It’s an enchanted vessel. Does it have any magical shields?”

Magic shields? Yerwite stammered that she didn’t know. The Watery Roots wasn’t as venerable as some of the oldest colony ships. But now, she saw the same kind of—alarm spreading across the crew.

The crew, not the passengers. They’d realized something the other half-Elves hadn’t. But now that she saw it, it was clear that whatever had seized Gaoelos and his ship was spreading. Then—one of the half-Elf guests focused on that stranded ship and let out a long cry of—horror.

“No. It can’t be. It can’t be.”

Every head turned to her. She pointed at that ship, flying the flag of distress at sea. By now, both the Treespeaker and the half-Elf aboard that ship had realized Waterlily was accelerating with no signs of turning to join them. Gaoelos saw the Treespeaker staring at him in confusion and waving his way.

“What? What is it?”

The female half-Elf had recognized that ship. She looked around—and then fled across the ship. She ran downstairs, shouting at the others.

“Grab your bows! Grab your bows and wands and—”

She darted back up on deck in a flash. She had a spear, not a bow, but a shortbow appeared in her hands as the [Sailors] shushed her. Then Gaoelos motioned them back.

“Captain! It’s not that ship? It can’t be. He’s supposed to be dead. A bounty on his head!”

Slowly, the [Captain] turned. Now, the passengers were watching him, and the [Sailors] too. Gaoelos never took his eyes off that half-Elf on the stranded ship, pale blonde hair and grey, a smiling face, or the puzzled Treespeaker.

Yerwite thought she knew what had alarmed Gaoelos. Her blood chilled as she looked at the black hull of that ship. But that was the only thing that fit. That—and the half-Elf.

There were lots of half-Elf [Captains] at sea. Well, a few. And the captain of the stranded ship was whole. He didn’t have scars. If it was who she was thinking of, he should have had so many scars he wore a mask. And grey hair streaked with soot. And his ship…

Only then did she realize how few people were on the deck of that other ship for a vessel that size. And…how they all walked around, tugging on rope, loitering or sitting—not at all like what the trained crew of Waterlily did, even off-duty. They had such blank expressions on their faces.

“Crew, guests of the Waterlily. I hope I am not raising the alarm unduly. If so, I will apologize to all present. However, it is my intent to take Waterlily far out of range of this unknown vessel until her name can be found and identified, and I have signaled The Watery Roots to immediately weigh anchor and move to a safe distance.”

It was doing that now. In fact, Gaoelos saw the Treespeaker shouting in the distance, waving at his own ship as it began to move sluggishly. And that smiling half-Elf never moved. Gaoelos looked back.

“I fear we may have just sailed into a trap. I do not know what ship that is or who that [Captain] is. But—aspects—match the description of a famous [Pirate] vessel. I am acting out of an abundance of caution.”

Now, the crew was moaning. And it rose between the guests too. Others looked around blankly, but with rising concern. Perhaps they had never heard this story. It wasn’t a bedtime tale. But there was only one ship at sea that half-Elves feared more than regular [Pirates]. More than Bloodtear Pirates.

“He’s supposed to be dead. Dead and hunted! Never to sail under the open sky! He’s not twenty miles from Izril’s shores!”

Corbbin shouted, and every head turned to him. But Gaoelos just pointed back.

His finger pointed at the mysterious half-Elf’s chest. Just that—an accusation. A question. Got you. The finger trembled as the sun shone down along the pale blue waters lapping along Izril’s coast. And then the [Captain] of the stranded ship threw his head back and began to laugh.

He laughed and laughed, a thin sound on the waves. From their increasing distance to the other ship, it was faint. Like a whisper. But even from this far—it was hysterical. It wasn’t a normal laugh, and the Treespeaker jumped back.

Now, two ships were moving away from the third one. Black hull in the waters. A squat ship—but with pristine white sails.

As if they had never been used. And the longer Yerwite looked, the more she realized she couldn’t see anything wrong with the other ship. Why would they be in peril so close to Izril’s coast? Why, it was almost like that was just an excuse to have the other ships stop. As if…this ship had known they were coming and had been waiting for them.

The half-Elf was laughing. Laughing and laughing, doubled over, then bending over backwards, a hand on his forehead. Ruefully. And the laughter didn’t stop, although he should have run out of air. The hysteria was turning to something else. A manic cackle of malice. An outrage. No…venom in the air.

The half-Elf put his hands on his blonde head as he stood there. It was all unveiling like a slow nightmare as Gaoelos watched the other ship. Now, the Treespeaker was backing away, and the crew and passengers of Waterlily saw the stranger put his hands to his head. Then—he began to tear at his face.

He reached up and yanked at his hair. His grip was so strong it pulled his entire forehead up. Then—his skin began to tear. Yerwite saw his features distort—and then his face began to rip, revealing red blood and flesh.

The cries of horror began as the half-Elf started removing his face. He tore his scalp off, and then—then she saw another face below the bloody mask. A grinning pair of eyes. But what she saw—what made Captain Gaoelos sprint to the wheel and scream—was the hair. Bloody, smeared as the dye came off.

Stained red with blood. Pale grey and sooty streaks. Then the half-Elf’s ruined face came into view, and he reached down and produced a pale, expressionless mask of porcelain. Then they began to shout his name. And his ship started moving. It groaned in the water, and Yerwite screamed the name with a hundred voices.

“Shifthold. Shifthold! The Alchemist of Horrors! Irurx the Alchemist!

The traitor of half-Elves. The hunter of his own kind. The monster on the sea—who hated his people more than anything. Right there under those lovely skies.

Run! Send a [Message] and run the sails! Wind spells! Southwards, now, now! Signal The Pride of the Wellfar—signal the Five Families, Zeres, anyone!

Gaoelos ran down the deck, howling as everything turned into chaos. Yerwite only turned her gaze away from the laughing half-Elf, the [Alchemist] and his dreaded ship, when someone seized her.

“Magus! Wind spells! For the love of Elves, we need to run!

The Captain screamed in her face. She nearly dropped her wands, and ran over to the sails. She produced the best wind spell she knew—[Gale Winds], a Tier 3 spell. The sails, already full, inflated as Corbbin chanted his Skills like a mantra.

“[Up To Speed], [Waves Rock Me Not], [Sleekwater Advance]—dead gods, dead gods, dead gods. Not him. Not here.”

“Captain! We have to turn the ship and land! Go for shore! Go for—”

One of the [Lords] shouted. He pointed, and then when no one listened, he tried to wrest the wheel away. Corbbin knocked him back with a fist, and a [Sailor] tackled the [Lord] flat.

Belay that! We’ll never get to shore and live! They’ll be on us like a storm even if we run aground! We won’t get a mile before we’re doomed, not without horses! We—the deep’s calling.”

Gaoelos’ shouting turned into a whisper suddenly. Yerwite, pouring more magic into her spells, turned back. That was when she heard it.

It was faint, at first. Just a sound obscured by the shouts of alarm. The Watery Roots was accelerating, and it had a much higher top speed than Waterlily, but the other ship had been moving at close to full speed for minutes before her larger sister.

If they could keep accelerating, they would lose Shifthold. Surely—the sails were actually being taken down as the ship lay in the waters, like a pulsating…slug? Like a creature. Was the hull rippling? The sails were being taken down, and another kind of sail was quickly being raised by masked and hooded figures.

But then Yerwite realized something. The Treespeaker was gone. And then the sound grew louder and louder, and she heard screams from The Watery Roots. It was…a buzzing in the air.

A humming, a thrumming like wings. Skittering. So loud that it ran over the water. Shifthold was moving. It had no sails. It had no oars she could see.

But it was moving. Pursuing The Watery Roots. Faster and faster as some unknown force propelled it. Then she saw something pouring from the decks. Into the water. Into the air. Buzzing and chirping and chittering.

Insects. And the sky—the sky was no longer bright and sunny. A shadow began to fall over the waves. It passed over The Watery Roots as the first arrows began to fly from both vessels.

Aim at Shifthold! Aim at—”

At what? The insects? They descended over the other ship in a wave. Yerwite saw the first blooms of fire rising upwards, panicked spells from Level 30 spellcasters. They destroyed the insects, blocked them with magical barriers as warriors and [Sailors] slashed around desperately.

But that wasn’t what they were after. Corbbin swore, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Yerwite followed his gaze and saw the sails were covered in insects. One fell down as they ate into the cloth, into the ropes—

The Watery Roots began to slow down. But if anything, the fighting grew more vicious. Half-Elves on deck began throwing fire and magic, battering Shifthold. But the other ship just kept advancing, eating the incoming spells and arrows. And that [Alchemist] was on deck, pointing at the other ship. And at Waterlily. And he kept laughing and laughing—

Minutes passed as Yerwite poured her magic into the spells. Ten minutes of shouting, of the roar of magic. Then—five minutes of screaming, of passengers arguing with Gaoelos to go back. Then silence. When she looked back, trembling with fear, there was silence.

Silence but for the buzzing. The Watery Roots was a distant ship now, at a stop on the waves. It looked like it was…moving. And the hull kept rippling in patterns of black, showing the wood. And Shifthold was following Waterlily.

“All hands. If those swarms come after us, they cannot reach the sails. Do everything you can, crew, passengers, but do not let Shifthold catch up to us. Put a bow in everyone’s hands not sailing the ship. And issue everyone a dagger. First Mate? I want eight in the hold. Guests, it doesn’t matter. Give them a [Fireball] wand.”

Gaoelos’ voice was the only sound above the humming. Someone asked the obvious question.

“Why there?”

The [Captain] looked back once as the [Alchemist] came on in the storm. When he turned, his eyes reflected a terror they all felt.

“To scuttle the ship. We’ll burn in flames before we’re caught. Keep a dagger or an arrow. Don’t let him catch you alive.”

They were in full flight, and the wind had their backs. But the storm the [Mages] were calling was nothing to the one closing in behind.

Insects were buzzing in the skies, and they began to billow forwards in waves of chittering wrath. They went for the sails, crawling on the sides of Waterlily. All the while, Shifthold came on. The masked crew stood at the railings, changing, revealing their distorted bodies with each passing second.

A thin figure eight feet tall began to reveal extra limbs, each one reaching down to its knees. Each limb carried a blade grafted into the skin. Another was slowly belching crawling bugs that joined the writhing decks.

“Such horrors. They don’t belong here. This is something of Rhir.”

Someone whispered. Many of the crew and passengers were screaming—those not grimly throwing fire into the air or trying to add to the ship’s flight.

Captain Gaoelos was looking for the architect of all this madness. The [Alchemist].

There he stood, piloting his ship himself. His eyes were fixed on Waterlily—then Gaoelos. He truly didn’t belong here.

Shifthold had attacked half-Elves along the coast, and he preyed on ships like many infamous [Pirates], but he had never been this bold before.

The sight of half-Elves trying to colonize Izril had enraged the [Alchemist]. Now, with the seas in chaos, he had sailed from his regular haunts where he hid.

Irurx’s gaze was like fury. Gaoelos didn’t understand it—he held a cold horror and all the will in the world to burn Shifthold and the poor victims of its ilk. Given a chance, he would purge it with flame and steel.

Yet somehow—his rage felt like it was being swept back by the sheer animosity in the [Alchemist]’s eyes.

On and on Shifthold came, and now the storm of insects and howling wind began to fly with lightning. But not from the skies; Waterlily began opening up at range.

They had no Minotaur or Drake siege weapons, but their vessel had a single Rune of Projection. [Lightning] bolts stabbed at Shifthold, but the enemy vessel barely creaked with each impact. However, there were dozens of [Mages], and Irurx was alone—[Fireballs] began striking his sails, battering his ship.

Gaoelos hoped that would force the [Alchemist] back or at least give him some caution—right until he saw a flicker from Shifthold’s prow.

Take cover! They’re firing something!

The legends about Shifthold never mentioned it had weapons. Just the crew. Gaoelos looked up and saw cheap catapults launching…glittering alchemical flasks.

Barriers! Get the barriers—

The first jars exploded in midair, and the mists drifted down across the ship. Instantly, Yerwite began to blow the mists away, but they clung to the deck and the people.

Then the screaming took a different pitch. Gaoelos saw one of the sails glistening with liquid that smoked and saw the cloth beginning to dissolve.

Acid mists. Then a dark, violet haze drifted across the deck, and one of the [Storm Sailors] kicking bugs off the deck coughed and began to hack. Gaoelos lost track of the [Sailor] as he ordered replacement sails put up, but the cries of alarm made him turn back.

“She’s lost her mind! Aiellos!

A screaming [Sailor] was trying to behead her crewmates. Her eyes were wild with blank fury, and she slashed forwards, heedless of them battering at her and trying to grab the sword from her. She stabbed a screaming Lizardfolk in the leg—then the [Duelist] disarmed her. He cracked her head across the deck once—then recoiled as she kept trying to bite at him. She finally fell over as Yerwite cast [Sleep]—but more of the berserk haze and acid was drifting down. Then—explosions as Shifthold changed the alchemical weapons they were throwing.

Outgunned and losing ground as their sails kept coming to pieces, Gaoelos looked around and realized they had nowhere left to run.

The shores. Maybe some might make it if they split up and ran. A Drake city. There was no help coming at sea. He snatched a [Message] scroll and saw words appearing.

 

City of Zeres: Waterlily, confirm your location. Confirm Shifthold?

First Landing: The Pride of the Wellfar is sailing, Captain. However, they are hours from your location. Do not challenge Shifthold to a battle.

Zedalien: Our ships are headed north. They are arriving in four hours…

 

Hours. They wouldn’t make it. So Captain Gaoelos tore away from the [Message] scroll and seized a half-Elf’s shoulder. Yerwite looked up as he stuffed it into her hands.

“Captain? What—”

She began to read, but he shouted in her ears over the buzzing.

“Tell them where you are. Divide into three groups and run the instant you get to shore. Corbbin, the boats! Send them straight to shore! Port, now!

“Port, aye!”

The [Helmsman] took them towards the shore. The very same Hivelands that the passengers had been staring at in horror were now the backdrop to Izril’s western coast. The few Drake cities that remained in the face of the Antinium invasion…southwards or past the Hivelands.

This was desolate terrain. Gaoelos watched Shifthold coming up behind them and saw a second mast practically dissolving.

“We’ll be adrift soon. Landing craft down! All passengers aboard! Fill them up as much as you dare. Get to shore. Corbbin—take us about.”

The [Helmsman] looked up. He began to spin the wheel, but hesitated. Gaoelos pointed at Shifthold as his passengers turned to look at him.

“Captain?”

“Aim us straight at Shifthold. Then bring us up to speed. We’ll ram the damned [Alchemist] and take up his time.”

Gaoelos was shivering. And for the first time—he actually feared a mutiny. His mouth kept moving.

“All passengers and as much of the crew—get on the boats and get to shore now. [Storm Sailors] remain!”

The [Alchemist] saw Waterlily coming about. The bombardments actually slackened as Waterlily deployed the landing craft—Gaoelos watched with a sick feeling as the [Alchemist] came on.

He feared neither collision nor the boarding. The madman was actually inviting them!

“Captain, abandon ship! This is sheer suicide!”

“Not if we can slay the [Alchemist]. Go now, Magus. Someone must avenge the Treespeaker and our kin.”

To Gaoelos’ amazement, the [Duelist] had chosen to stay. He was calmly applying poison to the tip of his blade. Then he pointed his sword at Irurx. The [Alchemist] laughed at the challenge as his crew waited. The [Duelist] caught Gaoelos’ eye.

“I took a lesson from the King of Duels. Can we rid the seas of that monster? I’ve heard he is nigh unkillable.”

“Then behead him. We’ll head straight for him. There’s no chance of taking his crew.”

The last [Storm Sailors] on deck were hurling bottled letters and valuables, even their gold, into a chest. Corbbin heaved it overboard with four others. Wills and mementos.

“All boats headed to shore. We need to give them twenty minutes if they’re to make it into hiding, Captain. There’s a poor forest miles ahead—they might be able to hide there or just outrun Irurx. Stay ahead long enough for your folks to chase him off.”

Corbbin looked sick as he saluted. Gaoelos offered him a hand, and the [Storm Sailor] took it grimly and shook his hand.

“An honor to serve with you, Corbbin.”

“[Storm Sailors] die at sea.”

That was his only reply. Then Gaoelos turned back. Shifthold was coming, and the crew called encouragement to the desperate rowers headed to shore.

Go, go, and don’t stop running!

“Tell them to find the Sailor’s Locker! Tell them to find—”

“Run, you idiots! Tell that dingy to turn around and run!

An aggrieved shout from one group at the stern of the ship made Gaoelos turn. His heart sank. Another ship?

A tiny craft was bobbing along the coast. Some poor damned Drakes. It was beginning to turn; the ship must have mistaken the storm as a regular one. Then he heard someone draw in a breath—sharply.

The [Duelist] looked back again and did a double-take. He muttered as Corbbin aimed a wand at the crew of Shifthold, almost in range of small arms.

“That’s no Drake ship. Those aren’t Drakes. Or Dullahans.”

Now, why would he think they were Dullahans? Gaoelos’ head spun around, and he fixed on the small ship.

He would have barely paid attention to it regularly. Only to avoid smashing it; he’d never have to worry about such a ship unless he was doing a sailby of the land or heading into port.

It was barely seaworthy. Essentially, it looked like some kind of coastal fishing boat. A bad one. It had poor lines, and whoever had built it had made it almost as squat in the water as Shifthold. Perhaps they’d tried to make it circular in the hopes that that would spread out the mass and float? That wasn’t how the sea worked, but it still had some basic nautical design.

What made Gaoelos do a double-take was the crew. The ship could barely hold thirty figures, and they were all clinging to the sides, those not rushing around and trying to adjust the sails and rudder in the choppy waters. They had oars out, too.

And they were Antinium. The half-Elf stared as his horror became disbelief. Antinium didn’t sail!

But they were sailing. Against all odds, a terrified Antinium was gripping the wheel. He had—to Gaoelos’ compounding confusion—an equally terrified Drowned Person standing next to him.

Mostly because of Shifthold. But the Antinium vessel didn’t even seem nervous of Shifthold—more of capsizing. The winds the [Mages] had called were blowing them in a circle; they had no idea how to tack into the winds, and the Antinium were visibly panicking as their Drowned Person tried to tell them what to do.

Irurx hadn’t seen them. He was coming in for a full-on collision between the ships. Gaoelos tore himself away from the strange sight. Then he felt his skin, already burning with faint acid and sweating with cold fear and wet with the spray—prickle.

The shriek in the air overrode the chittering of insects. It drowned out the buzzing, the roar of blood, even Irurx’s laughter. The fleeing half-Elves and the crews of both ships looked up, and the buzzing? It grew into the thrumming of wings. The insects in the sky, buzzing from Shifthold’s decks, turned as one. Then they began to flee back to Shifthold as fast as they could. For here came a shape, dropping out of the skies faster and faster, half as large as Waterlily. Such a monster that even Irurx froze up a second—with delight and horror.

Gaoelos just felt the horror as Wrymvr the Deathless of the Antinium came soaring down the coastline. The Centenium had been in the air, tracking the Antinium vessel’s maiden voyage. Now—it was headed straight at Shifthold.

Alchemist Irurx’s look of delight at once turned to one of concern. He slowed his advance as Gaoelos seized the wheel and spun it away from both Antinium and Irurx. The [Alchemist] stood on deck as Waterlily began to flee.

Hail, great Antinium! I come in peace before your Queens and beg—

Wrymvr’s mouths opened wider—it had so many mouths! So many limbs! It—opened two shrieking maws, and the scream that was making Gaoelos’ inner ear vibrate suddenly turned into a rippling that was physical.

Instantly, one of the [Storm Sailors] puked. Gaoelos looked up and thought he saw the air shimmering. Or maybe it was the insects of the [Alchemist]. They dropped out of the air like rain, dead, splashing into the ocean and raining across both decks.

What was it doing? Some kind of—sound attack!

It was extremely effective. Half of Irurx’s crew fell, shrieking, clawing at their heads. The [Alchemist] himself clapped a hand to his ears, but he threw something—and a void of sound swallowed whatever the Antinium was doing. Wrymvr passed overhead, mouths still shrieking, but Irurx had neutralized the sound.

So the Centenium opened another maw and spat blue liquid straight down onto Shifthold’s decks. Gaoelos saw it cover the horror with eight arms. The creature keeled over as the blue liquid froze in seconds, literally melding it with the deck.

Great Antinium!

Irurx ducked as a second glob of the frozen spit came his way. He threw something, and the fiery explosion turned into steam as he defended himself. Then he stopped talking and threw his wheel around.

Shifthold turned as the Centenium banked, turning for a second attack run. Wrymvr passed over Shifthold and then Waterlily, but watched both vessels fleeing the Hiveland’s shore without attacking. Gaoelos stared up as Irurx fled and felt disbelief—and even gratitude.

Were they alive? He had never heard of a [Captain] being assailed by Wrymvr outside of the Antinium Wars—but no one had been stupid enough to land on the Hivelands! Were the Antinium patrolling their shores now? They had boats?

Then he realized he had just sent his people to their deaths. Because the Centenium was heading to shore where the half-Elves had disembarked—just in time to meet the Antinium vessel and the Centenium. Gaoelos ran to the railings as Irurx fled.

 

——

 

The [Alchemist] had disappeared into the ocean, swearing vengeance, by the time the half-Elven navy and Wellfar ships arrived.

Vengeance—upon his kin. Not the Antinium. He would be back. And so long as he was there, any half-Elf in Izril or at sea was in grave danger.

Monsters at sea. The half-Elves were terrified of Irurx, the [Alchemist] of Horrors. He had slaughtered the crew of a powerful ship, and despite Waterlily and her people surviving mostly unharmed, his people feared him more than they feared even the Antinium. A master of insects and bodily horror who held a grudge against his entire species after they had failed to burn him to death. Multiple times.

Anand thought that was fascinating. At least, he did after he stopped throwing up.

That was something Anand wished the Antinium were incapable of. Why could they throw up but not weep? After lying on the wonderfully solid ground and expelling all his breakfast and lunch for thirty minutes, he got up and saw all those amazing ships.

Wellfar ships. Half-Elven colony ships. Anand began taking notes. He had a really good view of their broadsides, and he decided they would be the next iteration of the Antinium ship experiment.

Torthe, his Drowned Folk instructor, looked like she might want to jump into the ocean and swim to one of the ships. But she had remained—possibly because, as a Drowned Folk [Pirate], Wellfar or the [Storm Sailors] might well have executed her sooner than give her shelter.

There was also Wrymvr to consider. He stood, watching the Humans and half-Elves beat a fast retreat. The Centenium didn’t pursue them, nor did he slaughter the half-Elves who’d landed on shore as they rowed back to Waterlily and fled.

“Centenium Wrymvr, you are showing diplomatic tact? But you chased off Shifthold. I thought you might insist on taking the half-Elves prisoner. Or letting the Flying Antinium kill them. Which I would have objected to.”

Anand looked up from his rapid sketching. Indeed, one of the reasons the non-Antinium peoples were fleeing so fast was because of the thousand Flying Antinium who had come leap-flying their way as the Queens detected the intrusion. Wrymvr’s reply was, as always, a mixed-voice reply, staccato and brief.

“Half-Elves. Non-neccesary conflicts. [Alchemist] danger. Half-Elves danger.”

“Ah, to you? It would be risky to fight so many high-level half-Elves and their wonderful ships.”

Anand nodded. Wrymvr made a krtching sound.

“No. Danger to each other. Alchemist hunted. Half-Elf colony. Drake conflict with half-Elves inevitable. Divide them.”

“Oh. Oh. That is sound strategy. I did not realize that you…understood strategy on this level.”

The Centenium shuffled around so he could stare at Anand. Torthe hid behind the [Strategist], but Anand was fairly sure Wrymvr wouldn’t do anything. If anything, he suspected the Centenium was most amused by his replies. And the most ‘relaxed’ of the three Centenium, compared to Klbkch and Xrn. He did not kill irreplaceable assets.

“No. Yes. I am not Queen. Same strategy. Demons. Blighted Kingdom. Opportunity.”

Wrymvr’s tone was amused, just as Anand suspected. Or was it his…mental tone? He didn’t exactly act like a Queen, but Anand kept picking up emotional tones that weren’t there in Wrymvr’s voice. Maybe that was what the Centenium was so excited about? Bird’s big discovery?

The new lands of Izril meant a new chance for everyone, it seemed. Anand shuddered as he gazed southwards.

“Maybe we can go there instead of building boats? After being in our ship, I do not know if this is a sound strategy.”

“Keep building boats.”

Anand sighed and lowered his head.

“Yes, Centenium Wrymvr.”

 

——

 

The longer he stared, the more offended he became. And he had woken up furious at everything and everyone. But the Antinium were especially indelicate. If they were truly a worthy people, warmongering aside (and that was by way of being one of their few redeemable features), they would have surely produced some art.

Some culture. Perhaps they had lost that too. But if they had any worth, they would have ended up in regal Khelt as citizens, for all true peoples aspired to that paradise as the worthiest end-all.

The Vizir Hecrelunn was angry at them. However, he was also enraged at Fetohep’s weakness, at the contemptible flaws in the modern nations—

And enraged at his own weakness.

Khelta was gone. Heris likewise. He…was alone. And they would never be brought back, in an era where a [Necromancer] to surpass even Khelta might bring all back to a world where the dead and living had no distinction or end.

Now, even the wearisome—brave and broken—Salui had chosen oblivion over existence. Khelt’s lineage of rulers was gone. The ghosts of their people, devoured.

And he did not even know by whom.

So, Hecrelunn was mad with grief and loss and indignation—

Because they had forgotten about him.

[Vizir] Hecrelunn. The same man who had made Khelt a superpower in Khelta’s day. The treacherous dagger to the undead hordes that had plunged into nation after nation! The unpredictable schemer, the—

[The Vizir of Treacherous Majesty].

His magic matched the so-called Archmages of this age. And that was but his magic. He could ride a horse, dictate law, and compose poetry while conducting himself in a duel with a [Blademaster].

And he refused to serve Fetohep. Khelt, the old Khelt he knew, had gone the moment Hecrelunn went to sleep. Now Khelta was gone—

“There was nothing to protect. Yet I am Khelt. So: rejoice. For Khelt shall always be made anew. If I must carve it out of the very sands, we begin again. And that poor fool on his throne will acknowledge me.”

He monologued, addressing his new subjects as they stared up at him. Hecrelunn floated past the screaming attendants of whatever local noble-king had just been sitting on the dais.

Yes, a more bountiful nation, here. Too exposed to the coast along Chandrar’s east, but far enough from that ‘King of Destruction’s’ influence and Khelt itself for him to build something worthy.

Hecrelunn stared down distastefully as the mortals gazed up at him. One raised a bow, and he turned his head slightly as an arrow froze, quivering in midair.

“I forgive trespass once. As a ruler does to servants yet to learn their place. Mercy, temperance, kindness—Khelta was always kind. She chose a land, you see, where no one would contest her. Worthless land. New Khelt shall be made on richer bones.”

The coastal province had lovely roads. It was clearly a minor trading hub; affiliated with larger nations, but easily conquerable. The proof was, after all, the lack of anyone over Level 40 in the entire worthless state.

Surely, the other city-states would object to their neighbor and Hecrelunn himself. He would need to instill the appropriate amount of awe and fear in his subjects. But he didn’t worry overmuch.

He had his levels. And an army without champions was an easy target for meteors. The Vizir took his seat on the throne at last and adopted a regal pose. He spoke to the mortals kindly. As kindly as he could.

“I am Vizir Hecrelunn. I remain the [Vizir], though I shall be regent and ruler of New Khelt. For my [Queen] could never be surpassed. Rejoice, for you will never want for anything once this land has reached its true potential. If you would squander this moment, bear arms against me, flee. Flee and grovel before any power. For my armies and my reach will come soon enough. I am Hecrelunn. AND I WILL NOT BE IGNORED.

He waited for applause. An arrow was his only reply. Hecrelunn looked pointedly at a pillar, and his eyes flashed. The [Archer] keeled over with a cry. Then the first of New Khelt’s undead protectors began to rise. Hecrelunn sighed faintly.

He had to admit—Khelta had always been slightly more charismatic.

 

——

 

Undead had a long life-span. Well, a fascinating one. Even in the deeps of the oceans, they could spawn. From whale carcasses—and that was a horrific zombie to face.

However, they had an actual ecological place in nature; undead tended to make enemies of the living, so they were, often, held in check by other forces. Much like an invasive species, they could become a horde, but they evolved, changed, even developed sentience.

Wasn’t that fascinating? Were they a new kind of ‘life’ in a paradoxical sense? A zombie could become a Ghoul, Wight, then Crypt Lord, and even progress from there. They either subsumed themselves into a gestalt will or grew stronger individually.

Revenants were, if anything, the aberration in the process, binding a soul to a body. However—she had heard even Revenants could change.

Undeath fascinated Silvenia, and she had thought many times she might well be served by letting herself die and reanimating as one of them.

However, she only dabbled in necromancy. Silvenia giggled as she popped into existence. [Greater Teleport] spells took a while, and she noticed the other plane they travelled through always seemed subtly different.

This time, it had been—odd. But the world was odd. The half-Elf, the Death of Magic, let the rest of her contingent spread out warily and do…well, the things a non-flying, non-all-powerful being would do.

‘Set up camp’. ‘Secure the area’. She just flew off in search of the closest thing that interested her. Which was undead.

There were some zombies, rotted and infested with seaweed and actual life, shambling about. How long had they been wandering the seafloor before magic had brought them up into the new lands? They were practically unique; were those mushrooms filled with death magic? Had she found a self-sustaining creature that generated more death magic than it consumed?

“Deathless, please, stay near the camp.”

Someone came after her. She rolled her eyes as the anxious Demon implored her to run protection.

“This is why I said to bring Czautha. She has time for this. Hold on. Let me just—[Stasis Box]. There. I am adding these to my collection.”

The zombies froze mid-shamble towards the Demon. Not her; undead sometimes seemed confused as to whether she was alive. She didn’t blame them.

Her face was semi-transparent, magical flesh replacing wounds yet to heal. The same for part of her stomach, her right arm, and numerous other parts of her body.

And she’d gotten off lightly! Czautha couldn’t rely on magical prosthesis as a Djinni. As for the Death of Wings—

Well, they were alive. So Silvenia chuckled, because the Blighted Kingdom was trembling at them not yet back to their health. But she was also annoyed.

Annoyed—because of all the people taking up her time.

‘Silvenia, can you teach us how to make better healing potions?’

‘Silvenia, can you construct new buildings for us to live in?’

‘Silvenia, something about saving lives instead of erasing them…’

Which she understood. When you had an actual [Archmage], you tended to want to use her for the betterment of all.

But she wanted to see what Wistram was made of. Especially Archmage Amerys and Archmage Eldavin. They might be interesting…challenges.

Especially Eldavin. Silvenia had some pride in home left, despite having long-since been exiled and her rank stripped for the ‘crime’ of allying with Demons. Eldavin…she was bothered because she felt like she remembered an Eldavin.

And that would completely skew the numbers he claimed. She suspected trickery. Either he was part of damned Ullsinoi or he was one of them. She had her bets on him being a Dragon—or an actually semi-immortal [Mage] like herself. A half-Elf benefited from time spells.

She hoped he was a Dragon. That was a foe that might be better than her, yet.

Vizir Hecrelunn. The King of Destruction. The Titan, the Stalker—and now she got to add A’ctelios Salash, the new lands of Izril, and all the rest of this to her fun.

Silvenia’s smile knew no end, but it soured soon enough. She couldn’t stay in Izril. Every second, even concealed, was like trying to hide a lighthouse’s brightness.

She was old. Too powerful. She couldn’t fly off and conduct her own affairs without abandoning her role entirely. So Silvenia flew back, sighing.

“Damn it. Yes, yes. I’m watching. No one’s been eaten, have you?”

Demons. That was what they called the many species in Rhir’s other kingdom. Demons…just because of the horns? Because of the mutations of the blight? Demons—when some had belonged to Izril before Drakes.

Like the Harpies. Not that there were any here. Nor the more ‘obvious’ demons like General Bazeth, who was practically a new species in appearance, with his horns and red skin, like a Minotaur crossed with a Human in some respects.

These Demons looked like, well, the other species. Humans and Drakes and Dullahans and so on. If they had—peculiarities—you could put that down to magical quirks in their ancestry. Right now, they were working hard at securing their spot. There was some wiry shrubbery one of the big Dullahans was trying to yank up.

“Base camp looks rough.”

Silvenia floated overhead. She pointed idly, and the earth sank in a huge circle around the base. Stone began rising upwards until a Demon begged her to stop.

“Deathless! Please! We would like this to look natural—if anyone so much as detects your magic—”

“Oh, fine. I suppose you don’t want any magical food, then? No scouting? I just get to fly on back and let you lot have all the fun.”

Silvenia scowled petulantly, but she knew it made sense. She looked around longingly.

“New lands. Can’t I just fly over there? I see this wonderful valley—”

Deathless.

Silvenia actually pouted. But the point was that the few thousand Demons here were ‘regular folks’. She lingered because the moment she went back, she’d have to teleport an entire ship, put another group on Chandrar’s northern shores…that was a tiring amount of spellcasting, even for her.

But if it worked, they got to spread outside of Rhir. Perhaps even find allies, which would be a diplomatic coup unknown to the Demons. The Blighted Kingdom was very good at keeping them contained, but this land-rush…

Every single Demon here might be dead within the month, and that was excluding their identities being revealed. So Silvenia praised their courage and envied them like hell.

She gave their leader an idle salute as she rolled over in the air.

“Fine, fine. But you’re taking a mighty risk. If I were you—I’d worry more about your comrades here. You think I’m impetuous? Czautha’s kin don’t play at being slaves well after being freed. Stay away from Chandrarians.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder, and a few figures who glowed with magic straightened and watched her impassively.

Djinni. They wore chains, collars, and bracelets that looked quite realistic. But they were no longer slaves. Now, whether that held up when they met more of their kind…

Well, it was inevitable. Not all the Djinni wanted to stay and fight the Demons’ eternal war, so they’d volunteered en masse to join this. Especially…Silvenia’s eyes flickered to the most interesting being of the lot, who had spoken with her at length.

Coutei gave Silvenia a fine salute and grinned. He had a near-perfect Stitch-folk guise, so much so that she could barely tell he was a Djinni.

“Ah, great and lovely [Archmage] of old, I, Coutei, will teach my kin how to blend in such that they won’t need to even act in time! Never you fear.”

“Flatterer.”

He actually called her [Archmage]. She blew him a kiss and then began to teleport back. She thought this entire idea was foolishness—but the Djinni were adamant. Everyone wanted a part of the new lands. Everyone wanted hope.

Silvenia couldn’t fault them on that. She watched the colony begin to lay down new roots. And privately—she wondered how long they’d act as a distraction. Once they were uncovered, the Blighted Kingdom would wipe them out.

She gave them five months. Five months of buying the Demons time. Or—a new Deathless might emerge from their ranks. And that was a bet Silvenia could get behind.

 

——

 

One last group of schemers was hatching a plan in light of recent events. However, this last group did not care about the new lands, for once.

The new lands seemed damned dangerous, and they did not do dangerous, as a species. Unless said danger was a calculated risk. Even then—they tended to outsource their problems.

Nor, contrary to some people’s beliefs, were they that organized. They had been—at times—but despair had ruined their species more than once.

The Goblins could emphasize, if the hungry bastards were able to understand—or were amenable to persuasion. They were one of the few species not infiltrated, and frankly, they didn’t have much value either.

No, it was safe to say that they were just…existing. Just scraping by, in a hostile world. It was then rare for a call to be put out. But when it was put out—their kind would listen.

Listen, and make use of a tool that had fallen into their collective laps. They had tried, again and again and again, to make something for all. And failed. However, this time might be different. And yes, their oldest minds recalled that being said before. But this time—

Ghosts, a rising of new lands, all of it was portentous. None of their ghosts, mind you. They were not worthy. Yet. But perhaps…

Perhaps she could help. Yes, her.

Ryoka Griffin.

She wasn’t just a Courier, already useful. She wasn’t just unusual or lucky. She had the representation of multiple powers. The Wyrm-King of Ailendamus. A mysterious ‘Faerie King’. The [Emperor] of Riverfarm. Even the Archmage of Memory and the Lucifen and Agelum.

More than that? She was a useful proxy. A willing dupe. She had all the qualities of the perfect agent, if they could put a hold on her. So—the call went out.

Very, very carefully, the group who had decided to gamble once more secured a communication method to their comrades abroad. They had a contact in First Landing, so one of their number carefully relayed a message.

“Baah. Bah. Mrhn. Maaaah. Baaaaaah.”

The Sariant Lamb mewling into a speaking stone repeated itself twice before a pair of hands picked it up. It wiggled furiously, but then relaxed and smiled innocently upwards as a [Servant] recovered the speaking stone.

“Lord Uziel, I found your speaking stone! Lady Sarathine had it, the little rascal.”

“Did she now? Those little lambs love all kinds of artifacts.”

A chuckling Agelum wheeled over, followed by a herd of other lambs. They stared up at Lady Sarathine and got the wink. The lambs dispersed as Uzine recovered his stone.

The message was out. It was no longer their concern unless Ryoka came back.

First Landing. A Sariant Lamb in one of House Wellfar’s noble houses shot to its feet and clattered across the floor with tiny, ornamental ‘shoes’. Ryoka Griffin? They were trying again?

The futility of it all! But if Ailendamus’ herd vouched for her…then they had to make waves. Which went to show how Sariant Lambs took on some of the idioms and personalities of their owners.

The Sariant Lamb herself couldn’t leave this self-adopted prison, of course. But she didn’t need to; she had access to speaking stones, and she knew there was a group with a lot of mobility with that [Emperor].

All she had to do was tug at the hem of a young [Lady] who saw her burst into tears. And with a few nudges, the lamb would get a playdate with her friends because she was lonely, the poor thing.

There was a [Merchant] with two Sariant Lambs in his household. One could cover for the other, and the other would have to make the perilous journey outside. If caught, he might be returned or sold, but all he had to do was contact more of his kin in pet shops or a [Beast Tamer]’s employ.

Word would reach Riverfarm’s herds in time. Or any Sariant Lamb group. And then…well, then they’d see. Ryoka Griffin, eh? She didn’t look that intelligent. But she might do nicely after all.

It was almost funny. Almost. But while it was true they communicated, they had a will—no one really knew what drove the Sariants. And that was a desire that had seen their deaths by thousands. A despair not unknown to other creatures. From Gargoyles to Trolls to…many species. The Sariants were just the newest to struggle in vain, and hope hadn’t yet been ground out of them.

All species like theirs ended up this way in time, if they lived long enough. Except for maybe Eater Goats.

They were just insane. But if they ever rose above it—well, then they would know true despair.

 

——

 

Calidus Reinhart.

Alchemist Irurx.

Vizir Hecrelunn.

Silvenia.

Lambs.

Heck, even Grand Magus Eldavin, and the Blighted King of Rhir. Any number of people, including the Emperor of Sands, the King of Destruction…

Did you know what these people had in common? Among other things—if you said the name ‘Erin Solstice’ to them, they would know it.

Not directly, necessarily. But even Silvenia of the Demons knew that name. Because of <Quests>. And other rumors.

For instance, Calidus Reinhart came up with Erin’s name as he did his due diligence researching the new lands and the Assassin’s Guild. Erin Solstice was a persona non grata—but a difficult target. Plus, she’d already died.

Alchemist Irurx knew The Wandering Inn as Ceria Springwalker’s current residence and Liscor as a home of the fascinating Antinium.

Now, how many of these people considered Erin Solstice a threat? Silvenia, for instance, regarded Erin Solstice more as a target—a probable Earther. As a threat, she might laugh until she threw up part of her stomach.

But then again—she was different from being an unknown. She was, perhaps, if not a player on the board, a rather curious piece. Someone to reach out to or consider an enemy.

The age of the unknown [Innkeeper] was over. Only a complete fool would discount her; you could no longer rely on ignorance as an excuse.

Of course, even then, there were people who still didn’t care.

It was all about ego. When you had been called [Archmage], you developed an ego, especially in the Waning World. That explained the attitude of the Death of Magic, for instance. Levels beyond all. More than that?

Watching your foes turn to dust. Laughing over their graves. And yes—actually laughing over their graves or digging them up to mock them did something to the ego over time.

When you held the world in the palm of your hand and crushed armies sent against you like glass…even for something new like <Quests>, the [Innkeeper] was inconsequential.

This entire world was. A fragment of how it had been—and there was some irony in that, because even thousands of years ago, the old guard had said the exact same thing.

So perhaps…this was what it meant to be old. This was what it meant to be humbled, as well, to have all that earth-shattering power and still—lose.

To still be bereft, to still grieve—that was immortal hubris. After aeons, humility snuck up on you and gave you a tap on the shoulder.

So, arrogance and humility tempered by loss. Despair, for the days that might never occur again. A very immortal perspective. Was he immortal? He’d never really thought of himself like that. A servant, yes. Now, a foe, but a poor one compared to the true master of magic and all things.

But this servant, this remnant of glory still exceeded everything and everyone who had come before. More than this ‘Archmage Eldavin’. More than even some former [Archmage] gone to—what? Demons?

He predated ‘Demons’. He had walked the time of Dragons and sucked the marrow from the bones of the ones he’d killed.

He was named Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer. And he knew arrogance well. He breathed it. And yet—he could recognize how arrogance had killed his master.

His arrogance. He shouldn’t have toyed with the Putrid One’s guests. He haunted himself, tortured himself with the memories of them.

Pathetic adventurers. He’d assumed Silver-rank at most, lucky to reach the center. How it had outraged him to learn they were called Gold-rank in this day and age.

A bug-person, a—a half-begun Woman of Metal, a half-Elf too incompetent to even restore her hand, and a [Necromancer] on the first steps to true power. A toddler, no, a newly-born infant in the face of the Putrid One.

And yet—they had broken the stasis. Murdered his master…

“No. No tears.”

The half-Elf caught himself. And he was a half-Elf, when he chose to be. When he wanted, his body was fair, even nude—though he had dressed himself in robes the color of blood. They blew, now, and he lifted one finger and dabbed at his eyes. The first streaks of wetness were absorbed by the black fur of the towel he was using.

He ignored the sounds and commotion around him. The air whipped at Tolve’s hair and blew across his robes as he stood casually amidst the rocky terrain on a peak of stone exposed to the elements. His eyes sought the sky, and he stared up at the High Passes. His flaxen hair blew behind him in a single ponytail, like a field of wheat over a river of blood, his clothing. His robes blew around him, exposing his bare chest.

Never let it be said that Tolve didn’t know how to look good. Once again, Tolve dabbed at his eyes. His towel made a faint baahing sound, and he regarded it.

Oh, yes. Arrogance. He saw it in front of him. Two slightly-wide, rectangular pupils. Slightly orange irises—and beautiful, black fur. Midnight fur, in truth, so unsullied and pristine compared to most of the animals which scraped on by with blood and tooth and claw.

Like the Eater Goats, who surrounded him, bleating in terror but frozen in place. Most had scars all over their tough bodies, and their mouths of incredibly sharp teeth had holes missing—they ate and reproduced like the savage things they were.

The same for the kneeling, trembling Gargoyles, led by their huge leaders, the Bossels. Superiority was embodied, for them, in size, viciousness.

But true death in the High Passes changed the higher you went. In some, it was size—but look at this.

A rare species. The product of all-consuming hunger. Something you had to work for. You ate, and ate, and were so lucky and talented and…everything that you transcended the rest of your kind.

Then you shed your size, your teeth, even the defensive hide and skin. You became cute, almost as much as a Sariant Lamb.

But the hunger…the hunger remained. And if you became the height of consumption—at least in your mind—you learned how to eat not just just flesh, not just grind bone, but everything.

The Void Eater Goat kept trying to open its ‘mouth’. Create a void into which it would suck everything. It baahed again. Tolve patted it on the head, and it squirmed, confused. Fearless like its kind, but confused as to why it couldn’t eat this strange prey.

“You are such a lovely, stupid creature. I am almost tempted to pull out an eye to give you something to remember me by. You know, each part of you is prized by [Alchemists] and whatnot? Look at you. You think you’re untouchable. But what about this?”

He lifted the Void Eater goat and flicked it on the nose. It recoiled, confused by the unexpected pain, and tried to bite him manually. He laughed and held its mouth shut.

Now there was a look of faint outrage in its eyes. Like that yapping Silver Dragon when he was bested. Oh yes, you see? You’re not the greatest.

One of the Bossels moaned in fear. Tolve glanced to the side, and they froze up.

They were kneeling, and the Eater Goats, despite the dead corpses of Gargoyles and their kin, weren’t devouring the dead. They were too afraid to.

Dead bodies got up sometimes, yet Eater Goats could eat zombies or even Crypt Lords. But these undead?

A goat with blazing black eyes was noisily devouring a corpse. The undead Eater Goat looked up as Tolve mocked the Void Eater Goat.

“Yes, you’re such a terrifying monster. Oh yes you are! You have no notion in that mind of what lies above, do you? But you’ll all do.”

He looked around at the Eater Goats. Thousands of them. The Void Eater Goat, their advanced kin, was a kind of spiritual leader to them. A terrifying omen of death who would happily eat them if it got hungry—but they respected it as a symbol of power.

The same with the Bossels. They led their clans of Gargoyles. Now, the leaders of every group he could find knelt in front of him.

It was, in fact, the fault of the Frost Wyverns. Because of their fight with the Lightning Dragon, they had destabilized the balance of power. Bossels had begun fighting Eater Goats, and everyone had fled the Void Eater Goat, and the Frost Wyverns had been occupying the territory they’d seized after coming down from the higher areas and losing to the Goblins.

Territory. Food—the High Passes could not support too many. So what did live here was very dangerous, but seldom organized. Tolve patted the outraged goat on the head again, then withdrew something from his bag of holding.

The collar went click around the Void Eater Goat’s neck, and he put it down. Instantly, it tried to open a wormhole again and found it couldn’t. Tolve attached a leash to the goat’s neck and turned.

Then, to the disbelief of the largest, shaking Bossel staring at the corpses of its kin that Tolve had slaughtered when he first arrived—the half-Elf handed him the leash.

“A present for you. Go on, take it.”

The Bossel stared at Tolve—then grabbed the leash in terror. Tolve smiled.

“They will follow it. I know you’ve leashed Eater Goats before. This one will go wild when you release it. I would save it for later.”

“Gr—Grdsh? Kethn.”

Tolve’s head tilted left and right. Was that language? The Gargoyle was intelligent enough to make itself a club and lead a clan. The undead didn’t really care.

“Yes, Grdsh. Or whatever. Now, listen closely. Take your clan and head down the mountain. Down the mountain. And kill…oh, everything.”

The Bossel listened, uncomprehending. But it got the message as Tolve did a visual diagram. Its eyes, orange, focused on Tolve with curiosity.

But why? Why are you sparing me? Why give him the Void Eater Goat and…?

It had no perspective. Tolve made a shooing motion. But he did tell the Bossel why, as it backed up warily and the Gargoyles made sounds, corralling the Eater Goats, forcing them down the slopes.

“It’s because you do things in order. You test yourself. How fast can they beat you? Mortal armies? The Humans of the north? Are they as organized as the Drakes? If they’re not—how many cities burn? How many the first time? How many the second? How fast can you raze a city, and how fast can they build them?”

He stretched, laughing to himself at those old questions.

“It’s a game. And if that team comes—how will they die if they meet that lovely little goat?”

What could stop that arrogant goat? And if this failed, so be it. Tolve dangled his legs off the cliff as he sat.

“Nothing and no one remains worthy of my respect. No one remembers his name, even. There is no reason to stop, but slowly. Slowly…”

He raised his hand, and his fair skin mottled. A plague, living mushrooms, sprouted along his arm. Growing out of flesh, rotting, buzzing—Tolve blew it over the Eater Goats, who looked up blankly as the spores grew on their coats. The half-Elf chuckled.

“Oh dear. I think there’s a monster plague. A plague of monsters, I mean. Send adventurers.

They streamed downhill as Tolve looked for another location, another opportunity. He stood and stretched and walked off. A day later, the alarm was sounded.

The High Passes were unleashing monsters. Thousands of monsters.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Notes: If this is a shorter chapter, then I apologize, as well as the longer break, but as mentioned, I’m going on a vacation.

Although, and I’m going to complain for just a second—the airline canceled my flight the first time. Then changed the date of my flight yesterday. It’s been delayed a bit.

Travel sucks. However, I hope I’ll have fun when I get there and the getting there and packing is the hard part. Which is what I’m going to do right after this.

I hope you understand—it’s one of the first big vacations I’ve had for a long time since something about a pandemic. I don’t know how restful it is since I’m going to that wild, untamed land of Canananada. But I won’t be doing much writing (I think), and I’ll hopefully come back ready to write!

Thanks for reading and waiting until then. Wish me luck and a non-cancelled flight. Or rain. Or forest fires. Or…you know what? Just wish me not an Eater Goat attack. Thanks!

 

Az’kerash Family Dinner and Trey’s Homecoming by Lanrae!

 

Grumpy Boba Tekshia by Brack!

 

Solstice Crest, Foliana, Cire, and more by Gridcube!

 


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9.09 P

Vacation Report by pirateaba —

Let me paint you a picture. Although I’m not much good at painting, I’ll try. I was once told that the United Kingdom in large and London especially was a miserable place (in some ways) purely on the weather.

In that it rained constantly. I have been to London—once—but I don’t recall that. Or much of anything. Scotland, now, I’m told, has the same problem.

The Nova Scotia region, Cape Breton specifically of Canada is wet. And it has that alpine nature that combines the coast with a lot of highlands that you can ride or hike through, as yet untouched by too much civilization. It can be a great place to go through a national park and Canadians are reportedly friendly and the entire thing would make a great few weeks off. Which is why I went for a vacation with my family.

Then everyone got sick. It was the virus. It was COVID and it struck them down one by one. But we were a day into the trip and then figuring out how to not spread it around and rebooking—then we headed straight back to the city in a 7 hour drive. I got to walk on a beach with no one on it along a marvelous coast for about 2 minutes then I went back and sat in a hotel room for three days.

…I think about it. There were fish in the waters and an otter was poking its head out of the sea. But was it an otter? I only saw it then we sat in a car then I sat in a hotel.

Not that I read much in car, hotel, or the 16 hour trip via airport with delays. Or on the trip back when I was awake for 29 hours before I slept. You don’t really enjoy reading books—or playing video games. And the family time was sort of stopped because I was trying not to get sick with COVID.

Ironically, I was the only person not to get it who hadn’t already contracted it. So yay. But I did a lot of existing. Existing in hotel rooms. Not thinking of writing. Not…reading or relaxing. Just existing. What is the meaning of all this? How is life going right now?

It was not a good vacation, obviously, but I may have rested a bit by sheer inaction. I did no typing and of the 6 books I brought, I read one—and another I hadn’t planned to read. That’s not atypical I’m told. Reading goals and whatnot.

I read Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy, a well-written book I cannot recommend. And Thunderhead by Neal Shusterman, the second book in the Scythe series which I thought was quite nice. I don’t think I’ll waste your time with book reviews, but I had a realization coming back from the trip, and it is this:

I can do better. I can write even better in the future, and I think my pace and the web serial nature of this is taking a slight toll in terms of fun or energy or creativity after seven years. I don’t think I can work harder, but I can do better.

All this to say, I appreciate you all waiting for my vacation. It was not fun, but here we go again. The virus does still ruin things, but I was glad we didn’t (to my knowledge) start a plague and just did mostly responsible things and kept away from everyone else. But yeah. Canada is a cursed vacation…nation. In my limited experience.

Ironically, I just disembarked and slept about 15 hours two days ago and now 6 + 4 hours since I had a weird night terror and then a nap after I got up for a bit. So I won’t jump right into the hardest stuff or even the side story. Getting back in gear. I did hope to plan some chapters while walking and enjoy nature, but no such luck. So here we go. I will say, the one highlight of all that is that I enjoy the calmness now I’m back.

 

 

 

 

They said a class changed a person. Whether by levels, Skills or necessity—like a piece of wood trapped in a vice or shaped by a clamp, a person could curve or grow—or twist—into something marvelous and wild, wondrous or glorious or wretchedly mundane.

For proof of that—look no further than Garia Strongheart. Yes, Garia. That lumpen, clod-footed coward who was only good for long-distance hauler jobs had lost over a hundred pounds and changed in literally every conceivable way.

Although if you shed that much weight from her face, one supposed there would be a positive change. It still was astounding and offensive. Because Garia didn’t deserve her toned body or her apparent popularity in Celum. Much less being considered for her Courier trials!

It just went to show that the world was unfair and people got away with being, well, worthless, until someone bailed them out, even if it was the system of levels and classes itself. But then, Persua had already known that.

Persua Alcherie Mavva was her full name, but to most everyone she was just ‘Persua’. Or should it be, Persua of the East? No, too generic. Persua Fleetfoot? She’d been considering that until she’d heard that Perorn Fleethoof was a famous Centauress in Baleros.

The fact that some [Strategist] from Baleros had stolen her nickname had outraged Persua for a month. Now, at this point, Raich had needed to point out that Perorn was not only twice as old as Persua, but a famous commander of the Forgotten Wing Company and thus, possibly, conceivably, a little bit more famous than Persua.

The look Persua had given Raich had made the other City Runner flinch, despite them both being Courier-candidates. Not because the other girl was frailer than Persua.

It was hard to be frailer than Persua and be a Runner. Raich, like many who ran, had long legs, hair in a single ponytail, and her hair was as black as her skin except for where she’d dyed it, so it looked like a single shining line stretching down her back as she ran.

It had given Raich her nickname, as it had reminded a few people of an illusory path in the darkness if she was ahead of them and running just right. Which was the point, and the City Runner had dyed her hair after hearing of Mihaela Godfrey’s famous Legacy Skill.

Raich ‘the Path’ was her nickname. A basic one for, as Persua reminded her, a basic City Runner. Even if you got a different nickname in time, where you started was important. Which was why Persua had no nickname, and Fleetfoot was such an incredibly uninspired nickname that she hadn’t really been considering it.

When Persua was angry, her face pinched. Another City Runner had described Persua’s face as ‘sallow’, but she had really meant that, despite Persua having fair skin, long brown locks of hair she paid attention to no matter how dirty the run, and athleticism—she always looked hungry, as if underfed.

Not even physically underfed, but a dissatisfaction with almost everyone and everything she saw. Although Persua was quite thin. She also preferred fashion over form, which, for a Runner, sometimes meant that she would be wearing the latest styles from Invrisil despite them not really working for a Runner’s lifestyle. She had once, famously in Toremn’s Runner’s Guild history, nearly died when a bit of lace in the Terandrian fashion had snagged on a wagon. The oblivious [Driver] hadn’t noticed the City Runner slowly being choked to death as the wagon towed her for a good ten minutes.

All of this had been an accident, and it had amused Toremn’s Guild to no end, mocking—and sympathizing—with the poor City Runner who’d come north from that distant, remote city of Celum. Second day running and she’s nearly killed by lace? She might not survive to Courier, hahaha, and so on.

…That was until it transpired that the [Driver] lost their job after Persua complained to the Merchant’s Guild about the negligence. Which seemed harsh. But when she had explained it, it was clear the [Driver] had either been drunk or a fool, because she had been striking the wagon and they had even looked back once and possibly, maliciously, ignored her.

Which was terrible, and a good reason to fire the [Driver]. In fact, as the City Runners of Toremn would soon find out, Persua had known many unkind and unfair people before. Why—she might now be a Courier-candidate thanks to her [Double Step] Skill, which allowed her to literally run twice as fast, but that was a reward for years of work.

Unlike, say—Ryoka Griffin. Unlike Garia Strongheart or the egomaniac, Fals, all of whom had conspired together to take over Celum’s Guild in a combination of treachery, working together to take the best jobs, and exaggerating their own abilities.

Who, the Wind Runner of Reizmelt? No, wait, Courier Ryoka Griffin, one of the newest stars of Izril? The person who had defied the Assassin’s Guild? Someone would ask if Persua was serious, and she would tell them a story about Ryoka Griffin.

Such as the time Ryoka nearly killed everyone in the Runner’s Guild with an avalanche and got away scot-free because the Guild was terrified of her. Or the time she ‘allegedly’ went into the High Passes but conveniently didn’t report any proof to the Runner’s Guild, or even a seal.

Or how everyone that Ryoka knew died, like the original Horns of Hammerad. In fact, had she really saved Tyrion Veltras or was that more of her getting a Named Adventurer and a host of other high-level people to do the fighting for her?

Ryoka Griffin might have—and Persua had no proof, only suspicions—‘leveraged’ some connections in an unprofessional manner. In other words, she had slept and bribed her way to where she was.

“I can’t prove it. Not entirely. But I know Ryoka, and I know she’s never honest. She always has a convenient bit of ‘help’. That Kaalblade she somehow obtained? Her ‘Windsword’? Where do you think she got it?”

“But the wind magic…”

“Where do you think she learned to cast that? She had this—thing. Barely more than a horrible pet. A Winter Sprite. Ryoka tends to befriend people who help her. Then she runs off. Don’t believe all the rumors about her. I knew Ryoka, and she was so thoroughly unpleasant she turned Celum’s entire Runner’s Guild against each other.”

At this point, Raich checked her truth stone and blinked at it. She glanced at Herove, and he raised his brows, but Raich just showed him a white glow from her stone and hid it while Persua was telling the other Street Runners about Ryoka. Again.

She never ran out of tales about her nemesis. But what amazed Raich was…she never managed to catch Persua in a lie. And she felt like Persua was lying, sometimes. But the truth stone always showed Persua as being honest.

“Persua—what about this Garia, then? What’s gotten you so angry?”

The City Runner, Herove, was one of three City Runners in Toremn who wasn’t local to the region. Like Raich and Persua, he was the newcomer, the person to beat, or haze, and the Courier-prospective.

People didn’t come to Toremn, or this region of Izril east of Invrisil, along the winding coastal roads and interspersed villages and lesser-used port cities and towns, because it was the place to be.

Invrisil, and even Celum these days, ironically, were the emerging hubs. Or First Landing, or…most places besides Toremn. However—this was the place where Runners came to train.

Consider Celum. Celum, like many cities in the area, was often twenty miles from another settlement, more or less depending on where you went. It was reasonably safe, not being directly near the High Passes, and got enough business to be called ‘average’, if such a phrase applied. The Ruins of Albez were a local, inactive dungeon, and its one claim to fame was that Magnolia Reinhart had a mansion in it.

By contrast, Toremn’s claim to fame was a seagull population that had migrated about sixty miles from the coast and annoyed the heck out of people. It was a quiet town…right along one of the major highways. So its real claim was that the Runner’s Guild in Toremn was the place every runner in the eastern coastal region would stop by eventually.

On average, each settlement might be three times as far apart as around Celum. Which meant that prices went up, and a Runner operating hereabouts had to be a long-distance runner. In short—if you were going to be a Courier one day, you might well come to Toremn and prove you could handle deliveries.

That was why Raich, Persua, and Herove were here. They had all leveled up beyond the normal standards of City Runners, hitting around Level 30, and they were on that cusp of being a Courier. To level further, their Guildmasters had told them to go to Invrisil, where they’d been assigned to Toremn. In a few years, they might gain another Skill that would warrant a full test to become Courier.

Or—the legendary Mihaela would pay them a visit, and if she did, you’d probably not get your Courier designation since she was infamously, horrendously tough. But if you did pass her trials, well, no one in the world would ever deny your right, not even the Sea Couriers and their odd ways.

However, it wasn’t fun being a City Runner in Toremn. The local runners were well aware it was the hotshots and rising stars coming here and would be helpful in misleading you. Oh, Invol? Horrible run, just head left at the crossroads and up into the hills.

…Whereupon, if you didn’t check your map before heading out, you’d spend two hours on the road before you realized you were going the wrong way and fail your timely delivery. Not just that—someone had sprinkled crumbs in Raich’s pack, and the damn seagulls had gone after her on her first day.

Herove had taken off his shoes after two days on the road, and someone had walked off with them while he took a nap. It was malicious, unfair, and the two City Runners had been prepared to grit their teeth and bear it until they hauled off someone they caught in a prank and settled it in a quick-and-dirty fight.

That was until Persua had come along. She had seemed, well, an easy target after the lace incident, with her clothing all fresh from Invrisil’s stores, friendless, looking for tips and help from the experienced Runners here. Raich had winced when she saw a Street Runner slipping a wet bit of seaweed into Persua’s shoes. She puts on the shoes, everyone laughs, right? Persua had even chuckled along ruefully and asked who got her.

The next day, the Street Runner who’d slipped seaweed into her shoes had been surprised to see Persua waiting as they descended from the rooms a Runner could pay for in the guild. She had calmly, and without breaking eye contact, sprinkled some glass shards into the Street Runner’s shoes.

“Just a prank. You caught me!”

She laughed and walked off. The Street Runner had checked their shoes, emptied them of the glass…shards…and run off, laughing about the weird new City Runner.

That lunch, they had come back, and Persua had given them a bowl of tomato soup, hot. She smiled as they tried to refuse it, politely, and watched as they ate it. The Street Runner had checked quite thoroughly for glass, and there wasn’t anything fishy about the soup.

Of course not. What kind of a maniac would have put glass in…? It was Persua being nice. Like when she bought a drink for the same Street Runner when they went to a bar two days later with a bunch of Runners.

Even months later, Persua would occasionally buy something for that very same Street Runner. A free drink, a meal—and, of course, there was never anything wrong with it. Never. She had replied to the pranking by being nice and shelling out some coins.

So, interestingly—Raich and Herove never saw anyone prank Persua again. No snotty Street Runners, no older City Runners—no one. And when she attached herself to their group as the ‘new Runners,’ the tricks slackened off on them very quickly.

These days, her two friends were used to Persua’s quirks, and they were often found together whenever they were in the area. They were friends.

Friends…the outsiders. That was how Persua had termed it when they were all new to Toremn. They had to stick together, and naturally, they’d fallen in as Courier-hopefuls. It was a natural thing. So they did some runs together, delivered things, shared tips, and Raich would accompany Persua on a run even if Persua was the only one doing deliveries, or Herove would cover for Persua if she was exhausted but let her claim the delivery and have her pay him back.

Raich had never done that before coming to Toremn, but Persua had insisted, insisted on doing a run for Raich one time when the City Runner had been fairly tired. Raich had felt guilty about letting Persua credit her, but then she’d done it for Persua in return. It wasn’t wrong, it was Runners covering for each other.

Then Persua had suggested a good way to get back at some of the Street Runners—kids, really, some only thirteen years old—would be if they went on a vacation when she knew all the other City Runners were out. Leave the Street Runners to do a City Runner’s job and spend five days on the road just getting to their destination and come back footsore and quiet.

Even now, as Persua talked to everyone about Ryoka Griffin—again—here Raich was. When she could have been…doing something else in Toremn? She hung around Persua constantly, and it bothered the other City Runner a bit.

“Raich? Raich, tell them how I felt when I heard Ryoka was in Reizmelt and what I said.”

Persua took Raich’s shoulder, and the other City Runner started. She had only a sleeveless shirt on over some modified leather armor. Very light—and again, nothing on her arms. Which seemed like a bad move, but the [Repeat Sprinter] had found that most arrows went for your center of mass. By the time a [Bandit] got another shot lined up, she was already using [Thousand Foot Sprint] to get out of danger.

She did have a tattoo of Mihaela’s Skill on one arm, though. Just the words. Raich grinned weakly.

“I think you said—‘oh dead gods, that’s another city she’ll ruin?’ Or something like that?”

Persua smiled, and Raich sighed in relief.

“That’s right. Thank you, Raich. And look who Ryoka hangs out with. That nag, Charlay, and Alevica the Witch. Heard good things about either, have you?”

The Street Runners looked at each other and shook their heads. Dustrider Charlay was notoriously difficult, and Alevica had been known to be the most unethical Runner possible. They clustered around Persua, young Street Runners and some of the City Runners—all young, looking up to her.

Persua gathered people to her. Not the older Runners, but she was always giving people advice. Helping out. Raich just wondered why…

It felt off. On paper, it looked like everything was great, but Herove had sometimes said—

Well, he was a [Knight]’s son. One of the rare [Knights] on Izril, and he’d inherited a few tricks from his father. Not that his father was dead, but Herove, or Shield-Runner Herove, carried an actual shield that he could use a number of Skills with. For all that, he was the fastest long-distance of all of them.

The as-yet unnamed Persua had the fastest and most enduring Skill in [Double Step], in theory, but her stamina and speed weren’t there yet. She, uh…also wasn’t much of a combat specialist. She could use a knife, but she just carried standard defensive tools.

But she had a dream. And that was to become a Courier, and well—she was going to do it. She just had to find her next step, and she would get there. Ryoka Griffin had cheated her way up, but Persua just needed…equality. The world was not fair to Persua.

 

——

 

“Only one Skill. One Skill, and I just don’t have a focus. Raich, you sprint from place to place. If you could do it for miles, you’d be a Courier—well, that and you need to look the part. Herove, you need to be a bit faster, but you have that shield. You could be Shield-Knight Herove. How about that?”

“I’d have to run with armor, and I don’t think I’m there.”

“Maybe not. I could help you pick some to practice with? Just let me know.”

The Street Runners were dispersing as Persua turned back to her friends. She sat very close between Herove and Raich, enough for them to be brushing shoulders despite the table being wide open now.

Herove flushed again, and Raich’s hand went up self-consciously. But Persua saw Herove trying to remove himself and threw her arms around both of their shoulders.

“Don’t you run off! We’re all getting there, guys. Raich, I told you, we will make sure you are radiant when you debut as a Courier. And you can pick out some armor, Herove—we’ll debut together and do a three-Courier run, like Hawk and Tritel and Salamani. I told you that I met them, didn’t I?”

She kissed Herove’s cheek lightly and rubbed at Raich’s hair, which she did for ‘good luck’, and the male City Runner turned red.

“You do meet people, Persua. I’m envious. I couldn’t get a word in.”

“Eh, Tritel was arrogant. Which is probably why he ended the way he did.”

Persua scowled, and Raich recalled how Tritel had been rude to Persua…but it felt rude to speak of the dead like that. She said nothing, just checked her appearance in a pocket-mirror she’d bought.

If Herove was distracted by Persua flirting…or just being close to him? Raich was reminded of her appearance.

Her nose was a bit off from being broken once in a bad fall, and a bit too big. Persua assured her it wasn’t notable and had given Raich a lot of tips. It hadn’t bothered the other City Runner before, but a Courier had to look, well, good. Persua kept pointing out how striking most looked, and Raich was profoundly grateful for Persua’s advice.

“Together, Couriers!”

Herove repeated Persua’s old adage. Raich nodded.

“Courier in three years!”

Persua’s scowl emerged, and her two friends hesitated. The City Runner deliberately looked from Herove to Raich and spoke.

“Courier in a year. We’re only young once!”

“Then should we train or check more deliveries?”

They’d all done a run already. Persua pursed her lips and looked at the board, but stretched lightly. Then she rocked back and shot out of her chair. She was nimble.

“No, I think we should check out that travelling fair. Together. Then, maybe, we’ll check out the Courier-deliveries. That’s how Ryoka Griffin did it, remember?”

“Waking the Archmage of Izril. But that was so risky—”

“Yes, but we can do it. Three City Runners? We just need a big break. After all—”

Persua turned lightly, balancing on one heel and the other leg out as she spread her arms. A single ring flashed on her hand. It was brass and solid and didn’t fit the rest of her clothes, but she never went anywhere without it.

“—I’m lucky.

 

——

 

The Ring of Minor Protection that Persua wore had saved her life over thirty times. Everything from a pot heaved out a window by an enraged wife as Persua fled to an arrow in an ambush by [Bandits] had swerved or missed just enough for her to survive.

It, along with Persua’s [Double Step] Skill, were enough to put her on the path to being a Courier. Unfortunately, much to Persua’s regret, her backers had disappeared after the Circle had vanished. She had the ring, but the chance to rise in the Circle’s esteem and be granted further artifacts and favors was now lost. Thanks to, once again, Ryoka Griffin.

It was amazing how much Ryoka had dogged her life. In fact, Persua had even charted out the many ways Ryoka had ruined her future.

She should have done the High Passes run, not Ryoka. Then she would have leveled. It would have been Persua who ran the Bloodfields, Persua who saved Lord Tyrion—and it was just like Ryoka to hop into bed with the man.

Of course, you did what you had to in order to get ahead, sometimes. But Ryoka just had to get in Persua’s way. In fact—it was because of Ryoka that Persua had to rely on her ring.

And therefore, Ryoka’s fault that Persua had never leveled beyond her current class of Level 26 [Nimble Runner]. Also Ryoka’s fault that Persua had lost her friendship with Fals and never solidified her friendship with Garia. The girl had potential, but she’d been so…so…insipidly slow. Even when Persua reached out, Garia backed away.

Now, of course, she, along with the rest of Celum, was probably poisoned against Persua, which was why Persua hadn’t gone back even after hearing about the renaissance happening there. She had better friends here. She just needed a chance.

However, the truth was that when Persua looked around the quiet Toremn and stared at the seagulls calling as if they were on the coast, not surrounded by woodlands and sweaty [Lumberjacks]…she felt adrift. Empty.

Helpless because she had lost her way. She had thought she’d be a Courier by now, but she just…didn’t know what came next.

Faster, stronger? A combat class? A talent in…in magic? These things set Couriers apart. Even when they had been City Runners, Persua knew that Salamani had been a talented [Mage]. The Hundredfriends Courier had already had his Orangutan buddy, who’d pop out of a tattoo and beat up a [Mugger].

What was Persua’s thing? Hence her desire to come up with a worthy nickname. Her scheming to take on a Courier-level request. And thankfully, Toremn’s Guildmaster had barred her from even looking at them. Raich and Herove listened to Persua, but the truth was that they had leveled on time to make Courier by three years, both having hit Level 30 already. They just needed a few more good Skills. Persua had been saying the same thing for months. She was willing to take a risk—but keenly aware of how dangerous some of the risks that would propel her forwards were.

And that might have been Persua’s entire life. Aging from the new Courier-prospective into one of the jaded City Runners who moved on from Toremn or settled there and realized they might never really become the Courier they dreamed of.

So few did. And then Persua would find someone—perhaps Herove or someone with the right potential or position—and settle down. One day, one of her descendants would receive a mysterious ring in her will and find it was actually a powerful artifact.

Except that Persua, on the 12th day of Norium into the first month of fall, decided to go to the local fair. As such things went, it wasn’t a bad meeting of fates. Especially because for the person, the class which she would meet—

Travelling fairs, markets, bazaars and whatnot, even the corner of an inn by midnight, that was where he belonged. The [Soothsayer] passed his hand over the crystal ball again and one of the [Performers] leaned over the counter, looking amused.

“More tricks? You can’t just put on a [Scrying] spell these days. Everyone’s onto it, oh great and All-Seeing Rastandius.”

Rastandius the All-Seeing glanced up and looked away from the young woman after a moment. Then the [Performer] blinked, because this was no scrying spell she had ever seen. Would Wistram News Network feature some boring City Runner?

Rastandius chuckled and covered the ball with a cloth.

“It’s a paltry trick indeed, and damn Wistram for all their scrying orbs. It puts honest crystal balls to shame. But today, I think I’ll break out the real stuff.”

Not the ‘real magic’, but the real stuff. The [Performer] laughed lightly, but with uncertainty as she fiddled with her juggling pins, of which she had ten.

“Oh, come on. The last time you tried that, the [Lady] nearly hung you, and they ran us out of Ulta lands. If the [Caravan Master] hears you’re up to your tricks…you told me it’s mostly chance, even with your Skills.”

“Fate is never certain. But it is certain when it is uncertain. I may be old, but I have enough wherewithal to know when we come to a crossroads of fate, or when the strings of destiny pull taut.”

That was all Rastandius’ faded glory and faux mysticism. He shuffled open a deck of cards, and the [Performer] rolled her eyes…until he flipped a card up. The old man, who put on a white beard and whose mysterious robes were mostly ‘mysterious’ due to lack of washing, winked at the woman. Then she saw his one wooden eye gleam, and his gnarled hands move gracefully, twirling the card up and making it disappear and then appear on the counter of his wagon.

“Care to guess?”

“Every card means whatever you want it to mean.”

She scoffed. The [Performer] had known [Fortune Tellers] and [Charlatans] and sometimes never identified one from the other. She had been in the company of [Hedge Mages] and [Mystics], even a [Warlock], all of whom had a rare bit of magic or Skill that the towns and smaller places would pay a few coins for.

But Rastandius claimed he was the real thing, and sometimes…the [Performer] picked up his card. It was a standard tarot card deck—but when she looked down, she dropped the card with an oath.

The other [Performers] looked around, and a man swallowing swords nearly cut himself as he tried to see whether one of the [Firebreathers] had lit themself on fire again. They just saw the juggler striding away from Rastandius’ wagon and put it down to the old man again.

Chuckling, Rastandius picked up the card. Yes, part of fortune telling, the tricks and laughter, at least, was just a bit of showmanship. Knowing something about the client and using that to draw a connection. Any regular card in the deck might mean anything.

Tarot cards. You could have up to twenty-one in a deck. Or as many as seventy-eight. Minor and major arcana, as they were organized. Each card had many meanings, like The [Archmage], card number eighteen. Or—The Dragon, card fifteen.

The Dragon could be wrath—or a challenge—or a symbol of might—or wisdom—and so you were right for skepticism, especially if you let Rastandius draw three cards and palm the one he wanted and you were paying gold to hear your future.

In this case, he’d drawn the first card from his deck. The [Fool], a standard across many worlds. The first card, the zero card, actually. But what had unnerved the [Performer] was…

Instead of the japing fool, the card was of a young woman mid-stride. Pinched and hungry as it was, never quite content, thin but nimble.

Persua stared up from the painted card as Rastandius shuffled her back into the deck. His eye, his good eye, seemed to glow.

“Ah, yes. Today might be an important reading after all.”

 

——

 

The carnival was as dreadful as Persua had feared. A woman juggling flaming pins into the air caught them and bowed as a few dullards applauded and some children gasped, but it was a poor thing in a world where you could literally levitate and fly about.

Then again, Raich, bless her heart, seemed fascinated. She pointed out the [Juggler] to Persua.

“Isn’t it amazing, Persua? [Mages] can’t do that so—gracefully.”

“I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself, Raich. Herove, can you get us something to eat?”

“Right away. What looks good?”

“Um…let’s have that corn. Why is it on display? Oh, it’s red!”

There were little red and blue corns, and much to Persua’s vague amusement, someone was touting the crisped corn as if it were the greatest thing. She heard the vendor shouting.

“Lupp’s Corn! Get some corn from the famous [Farmer]! Eldertuin himself eats the stuff!”

“Eldertuin the Fortress?”

And predictably, there were some buyers. Persua herself drifted over, although she let Herove buy what were apparently spicy and sweet varieties of corn. He was just coming back with some hot and steaming when Persua’s ears perked up.

“All the way from House Imarris! Lupp’s Corn from around Reizmelt! The Wind Runner herself came from there!”

Persua’s face soured so fast that she didn’t even have time to take a bite before the corn was as appealing to her as dirt. She handed it back to Herove, and he winced.

“The Wind Runner? How many places has she…?”

“It doesn’t matter. Find me something else. That—popped corn? No, um—go check over there.”

Herove walked off, handing the baby corn to Raich to eat. She was engrossed in the next act, someone eating a sword, and Persua folded her arms. The night’s air was brisk and cool, and the smells of a lot of good food were mixing with the less-pleasant smells of nature, horse manure, and whatever was in the tent that was making some children scream.

Goblins, a monster, or even something as ‘spectacular’ as a slime, Persua guessed. She had hoped for more. Still, the City Runner had thought it would be at least pleasant to treat her two friends…until Ryoka had ruined her mood.

So she took two steps back and grabbed a family heading for the stall.

“Are you having that corn? I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

A mother looked concerned at Persua’s serious face. The young woman looked around.

“I saw the owner picking some of the corn he dropped out of a horsepat. Just…maybe wash it if you have to eat it?”

The horrified look on the family’s face and the way Persua had not really lowered her voice was enough to stop the people heading towards the stall. Persua watched, satisfied, as the vendor looked around, confused by the sudden lack of interest.

“Persua, did you find anything to eat? This is good. Maybe try one?”

Raich looked around as Persua walked back, whistling. The City Runner glanced around and shrugged.

“Not yet. Oh—fine. Let me take a bite.”

There was something like sour cream and a bit of cheese on the spicy red corn, such that it was dubious whether there was more condiment than baby corn. But Persua took a bite, and her face lit up.

“Oh, it is good! Give me some. No—actually, let’s have some more. You buy it. I’ll pay you back for a basket of each.”

The [Vendor] perked back up as Raich marched over, and Persua savored the snack. By the time Herove came over with a ‘ham burger’, both women were eating, and they traded snacks with him.

“I want to know what’s in that tent. It’s only three copper to enter. Want to bet on what they have inside? I bet it’s a Griffin.”

“It screeches like one, but there’s no way they can feed and hold the thing. It’s some aggressive, smaller monster. I bet…a Goblin? I saw some in another fair. Persua?”

“Let’s find out. I don’t know monsters well enough.”

They were on their way to the big tent that was admitting people with vaguely-satisfied faces and heading along the mercantile wagons set up in the small fair. The caravan knew their stuff—they placed all their wagons together such that if you wanted to get one thing, you would have to endure the mild Skills of the vendors hawking bits of magical charms and so on.

“Anyone want a charm against bug-bites? Only a silver piece!”

“Healing potions too expensive? We have an ointment from the north! A [Witch] brewed it up for—”

“—Enchant your shoes, Runners? Horseshoes, shoes—I’ll add some magic and a ritual for luck!”

Persua did stop when she saw the [Hedge Witch] beckoning to her, but Raich tried to pull her on.

“Come on, Persua. She’s not even a real [Witch]. Like we’d find one here.”

“There’s always room for more luck in my life, Raich. Maybe…”

Persua loved lucky charms and curses, not that she’d ever done more than buy a few hexes and drop blood and hair on them. And they didn’t seem to work, but she didn’t mind spending a few silver on a dream.

She was just walking past a wagon that seemed to have no customers, the curtains drawn over a faded sign with a crystal ball and deck of cards on either side of a name.

Rastandius.

No class, no other title. But as Persua passed, the curtains flew open, and she jumped. A man was sitting there. As if he had been waiting for her.

The other pedestrians turned to this new entertainment, but the old man sitting just inside his wagon called out.

“Young City Runner! You there! Would you like me to read your fortune? I am Rastandius, a [Soothsayer] of great renown! And you, Miss Persua, are my first client of the night.”

Raich and Herove oohed a bit and looked at each other. Of course, they thought he had just looked up Persua’s name, but the City Runner halted and smiled.

“I am, am I? And who are you, old man? A…what did you call yourself? A [Soothsayer]? Is that like a [Fortune Teller]?”

He chuckled at that.

“Of a kind. But I don’t just ‘tell fortunes’. I look at more. My name is Rastandius, and I am the greatest [Soothsayer] left to this world. I have told fortunes for [Kings] and [Queens] and visited every continent upon this world. But for you—I will read your fortune for a single gold coin.”

Now, Persua did laugh. She had to admit, this person played his part well.

He was incredibly thin and incredibly frail, and she doubted he left his wagon much. Some kind of disease had worn his frame thin, and if he had been a powerfully-built man once…no longer. He was old. It was hard to tell if he was seventy or eighty, because his beard was obviously fake, bushy and white as fox’s fur, which was what it probably was.

His face was all lines and harsh divots, but what made him magical was a wooden eye with a bit of gold painted in the pupil in his left socket. The right was pale pink and red, like a sun dying in the east, and it was unnervingly clear.

Rastandius wore robes that were more filthy than fabulous, but as Persua peered closer, they had a sheen to them. Silk? Was it worn silk? Then she noticed the last interesting thing about the man.

He had only two fingers on either hand, excluding his thumb. Two on each hand had been cut off, but only the tips, so the stumps still moved about. The [Soothsayer] grinned at the look, and he had all his teeth, barely yellowed.

“What say you, Miss Persua?”

“I say—you just opened shop. Why not invite anyone else to do their fortune and I’ll come back later?”

She called his bluff, and the [Soothsayer] chuckled.

“Ah, but if I did that, I’d have no customers. You will be my first—perhaps only client of the night. I don’t know. But I would dearly like you to step up and enter my wagon.”

He nodded behind him and kicked something, and the door slid open to his actual wagon. Persua thought she saw a sleeping quarter, untidy, and an entire wagon of, well, someone’s possessions and home, but she folded her arms, smiling a bit.

“How about you tell Herove’s fortune? I’ll even pay a gold coin first.”

She just wanted him to have to tell someone else’s fortune first. The [Shieldbearer Runner] looked uneasy—he didn’t like this kind of thing, but Persua glanced around.

“Anyone else want to get their fortune told? I’ll pay for it—although I doubt it’s a gold coin per person or you’d never get work.”

“He never does, anyways!”

The [Hedge Witch] did a passable cackle, and there was laughter, but a few people drifted over. Rastandius never looked away from Persua.

“Miss Persua, step inside. Are those your friends? I seldom offer my services in truth anymore. But once again, for you? This is an opportunity you do not wish to miss. Tonight could change your life. Have you been feeling lost? Do you seek…inspiration?

He was good. Persua wondered if he had a speaking stone hidden somewhere in the fair. She was half-tempted, half-annoyed.

“Give me one reason I should pay a gold coin for all this.”

Rastandius considered Persua, and then he smiled. Then he leaned forwards and whispered, and Persua jumped.

“…Because, I’ll tell Mister Toyle you ruined his corn-selling business otherwise.

He grinned again, and Persua’s heart raced. How did he…? Rastandius’ eyes twinkled as he glanced around.

“I saw you. But then—I warned Toyle that he’d not sell well tonight. It was just a small reading. Now, do you want me to continue with the tricks or will you let me work my real art?”

He challenged her, tilting his head left to right. Persua was on the cusp of accepting, but she had to perform one last test. She’d met enough people claiming to be the real deal and ended up falling for their tricks. Rogue [Necromancers], confidence [Tricksters]—that was ironically how she’d ended up in the Circle of Thorns, hunting for real occult power among bad magic.

“You could do all this with tricks, [Soothsayer]. Do you know the future or the past? And if you’re so good, prove it. Something everyone can tell is real or not.”

Rastandius exhaled slowly. He looked at Persua, and she thought he might give up, but then he spoke in a slow, solemn voice more at home for a court where all listened with each breath bated upon his words, not the noisy fair full of chirping insects and laughter.

Yet for all that, those listening were drawn in, because his voice sounded so confident. So certain that they ate away at the tricks and charms of the rest of the fair.

“Soothsaying is an old art. Like [Sages], like [Oracles] and [Fortune Tellers] and even [Witches] and [Diviners]—the future from weather to omens is something all peoples wish to know. Yet I am no [Oracle] to receive inspiration. I do not rely solely on luck and the draw of cards like a mere [Fortune Teller], nor do I read only signs or the conduits of power like [Witches] and the rest. I go further. I look at if and when. Say yonder man trips as he walks the fair.”

He nodded at Herove, and the City Runner jumped and felt at his shield on his back uneasily. Rastandius smiled.

“I can tell you what will happen in both cases. And if I tell him—will he trip on purpose or never walk that spot? I do not predict the inevitable. I change the world when I speak.

“And you haven’t spoken any prophecy yet.”

Persua pointed out to chuckles. Rastandius just looked at her, mildly exasperated, and reached for a deck of cards.

“Card reading. Fish entrails. The flights of birds—I met a [Witch] once who divined portents in tea leaves. I have a crystal ball, but I can do it all. You want a demonstration? Very well. Here. And here.”

He held the deck of cards, then flung something out from the wagon. Hanging there, Persua saw a map of Izril. Rastandius fastened both ends, then offered her a dart.

Just…a dart. Although she noticed the wings were made of metal, not feathers, and each was written with a tiny symbol. One looked like an eye, the other lips…

“Throw it at the map. But close your eyes first.”

The [Soothsayer] challenged her. He was shuffling the cards, and they made that pleasant sound as he ruffled them together—then flew up into the air and back into his hands in a complex pattern.

“And what will that prove?”

“Nothing. It will prove nothing. The dart will go wherever it pleases. And then I will draw a card—and tell you something true. You challenged me.”

Persua glanced at the old man uncertainly and then shrugged. She closed her eyes, lifted the dart—and tossed it straight down.

The point sank into the road, and Persua smiled mockingly as she opened her eyes. Now, the [Soothsayer] gave her a blank look.

“Come on, Persua. Just humor him.”

Raich murmured, half for the old man’s sake—he had to earn something—half because his attitude was making her uneasy. But Rastandius just called out as Persua bent down.

“Do not move it. You’ve thrown it where you please. Look. We have our destination.”

He pointed down, and Persua stared blankly at the ground. She saw the dart had landed among a lot of pebbles, kicked up no doubt by all the travellers. It was just above her shoes, which were placed together almost like…

Izril’s midsection. Was it just her or did she see some of the dust kicked up vaguely in the shape of Izril’s north? And along the bottom, Herove had dropped a piece of corn and some of the sour cream, and it looked like—

Slowly, Rastandius pointed to the map and touched a spot. Persua’s skin crawled despite herself. The map was old and didn’t have the new lands. But where the dart had landed, he pointed to.

The High Passes.

North of Liscor, slightly. Without looking away from her, Rastandius drew a card and held it up for all to see. He showed them a riding Stitch-Man, upon…

“The Chariot. It betokens movement. Among other aspects. War and trouble. In a broader sense…something moving quickly. What next? And why?”

The second card he pulled made him grimace. He showed them a grinning skeleton, eyes aflame.

“Death. Odd. A death caused this? Or…hm. An aspect of death. Not an omen of what is to happen, but why. And lastly—ah. Interesting.”

The third card he pulled he blinked at, and despite herself, Persua leaned forwards with all the others. The last card was simply a pair of scales like a [Merchant] would use.

“Judgment. Something…some equalizing force, some great weighing of the odds that will upset things to come. So there you have it. From the High Passes comes the Chariot at the behest of Death. Judgment waits.”

He looked around, and his audience blinked as the three cards, each one old and possibly magical, glittered in the light, ancient paint refusing to flake, as the map fluttered in the wind. Persua held Rastandius’ gaze for a long time—then she burst out laughing.

“Nice trick! A nice trick, Master Rastandius! And with that—I think I’ll see what’s in the tent. Come on, Raich, Herove.”

She turned and walked off. The old [Soothsayer] was left sitting there as Persua left the dart in the dirt and headed off in a good humor. He watched her skip off and then do a cartwheel, laughing. She was quite nimble, and Raich had been impressed to know that Persua could even do a backflip.

Ruefully, the old [Soothsayer] looked around as his audience looked at each other uncertainly.

“Well now. Would someone else like to get their fortunes told?”

 

——

 

Persua was still laughing about the old man after they visited the tent and found—of all things—a screaming bat-monster terrifying children, but tame enough to feed bits of fruits to.

She was laughing right up until a Street Runner came racing into the festival and shouted.

The High Passes are unleashing monsters! Thousands of Eater Goats and Gargoyles are rampaging! They’re calling for adventurers—all of ‘em!”

Herove choked on his drink, and Persua fell silent. Her first thought was it was a prank, but she ran to the Mage’s Guild—then realized the Mage’s Guild was truly afire.

The [Mages] inside were shouting and helping to send warnings, issuing clarifications, and bouncing [Message] spells. Persua stared at the pandemonium and heard bits and pieces.

—Inform the Five Families at once. Any landed nobility in—

“Wistram is suggesting a full evacuation, Mister [Mayor]. This is not a joke.”

“—Any Gold-rank Adventurers or Silver-rank be advised, the Adventurer’s Guild has issued a mass-bounty for—”

“Dead gods. Eater Goats? Have you ever seen them, Persua? I heard they’re horrific. They’ll eat everything and—”

Raich looked for Persua, and the City Runner was already pushing back outside. Not to the Runner’s Guild or the High Passes. They were far, far too far away for whatever was going on in the High Passes.

No. She wanted one thing, and now she was hoping he hadn’t closed up. Her eyes were alight, and her breath came quickly.

Fortune and fates. If he could do that with a dart and three cards…she felt it.

This was her moment.

 

——

 

The festival was packing up in light of the greater drama. The workers were grumbling, because the scrying orbs ate their business. But one wagon was still waiting for Persua.

Rastandius had done poor business and earned a few silver. But he smiled when he saw Persua.

“Aha. I hoped you’d be back.”

“You—you didn’t know?”

She was panting from having run back, and Raich and Herove were right behind her. Rastandius shrugged. Now that he wasn’t performing to everyone, his tone was more conversational. Yet no less certain.

“My work is like that. It’s not magic. Nor is it as certain as I would like it to be. I told you—I change things, and fate is a funny thing. For instance, I knew today would be bad for Irove, not why. In the same way—I knew you would be my first client of the night. It didn’t occur to me you’d walk off. I knew you might be important, as important as any reading, so I hoped you’d come back.”

He gave her a wry smile, and Persua blinked. Now that he mentioned it…technically that was true.

It only made her more excited.

“So you are the real thing?”

For answer, he just looked at the map, then gestured at the wagon.

“It will take some time for a proper reading. Your two friends are welcome, but I’ll take advance payment in that corn Irove sells. Buy me a dinner. Oh—and mind the ceiling. It’s cramped.”

It was indeed cramped inside Rastandius’ wagon. He sat at a small table, and Persua wrinkled her nose at the mattress in the corner and dirty bowls and, well, everything. He had all kinds of things hanging up—quartzite necklaces, charms for sale, all the things he could make a living off of.

But it seemed to her that the real things in the wagon were his deck of cards, the crystal ball, far larger than normal, and Rastandius himself. He gestured at them, then showed her a pair of lacquered sticks, an old cup, all of which looked more expensive than she might expect a regular [Fortune Teller] to own.

“Most of my tools of trade I’ve sold or given away. Or lost. These chopsticks came from Drath, a gift from the emperor before the current one. This cup I would never use to drink out of—I read from it in Terandria to a [Lady] and told her what her future might be. Three—no, four decades now—she read my fate in it for me as a [Witch].”

Unlike last time, there was no scoffing from the three Runners. Rastandius had proven something, and Persua leaned forwards eagerly.

“So you really have been to all the continents? What level are you?”

For answer, the [Soothsayer] just smiled.

“High enough so that, once, I was able to find clients across the world and dined with royalty. Famous enough so they knew me by a different name. But those days are gone, and I don’t believe I would enjoy the attention if some of my previous clients remembered me.”

Herove made a faint scoffing sound, and Rastandius swung his gaze over.

“You have your doubts, City Runner?”

“It’s Herove. I think you could have looked that up too, Master Rastandius. If you were so good—why quit? Or why remain here? Levels don’t decrease. You should still be world-famous.”

At that, the old man laughed and picked up some of the corn as Herove flushed.

“Soothsaying doesn’t allow me to predict everything! For instance—do you think I would have only one eye and be missing four fingers if I could help it? I don’t know many certainties, and the ones I do tend to trick me. For instance, I have learned how I will die. I have seen the portents of safety and danger—but I don’t know what dinner will be. Corn was a pleasant surprise, I suppose.”

He chomped down on it, and Persua spoke up.

“You know how you’ll die? Isn’t that impossible?”

Rastandius chuckled.

“If it was—what would the point of my class be? I checked my destiny, and it has not changed for fifty years. It could—as I will explain, by my work, the future changes. But I know how I will die, not when or where. It’s some comfort.”

“How, then?”

Raich looked unsettled by all this, and Rastandius grinned at her with all his teeth.

I don’t know!

At their looks, he clarified.

“It will be a complete surprise. I won’t see it coming. See? Somewhat comforting. But don’t worry, it’s just hard to see one’s own future so clearly. I can only do vagaries. For instance—this wagon, this sorry piece of trash, I know it will never be destroyed in an accident. More’s the pity. I was told I’d never have food poisoning, so I never bothered to wash my hands or all that nonsense.”

“Ew.”

All three Runners instantly checked where they were sitting. Rastandius grinned harder.

“Yes, you see? I doubted it, and while it’s true I’ve never felt ill a day in my life from what I ate—you could say it’s coincidence. You could…and most low-level people in my class can only do vague omens and hints. But you, Miss Persua, asked for the immediate future, and I predicted something within hours. Tonight, I will show you something far, far more concrete.”

His eyes flickered to the crystal ball, and Persua nodded. She produced a single gold coin, but he held up his hands.

“Ah—the price has changed.”

“I knew it. This is all a scam.”

Herove almost got up, but Rastandius interrupted him.

“The price is something Miss Persua will pay me back for. Depending on how the reading goes. If it goes poorly? Well—I’ll take your gold coin either way, but I have had great omens and poor tellings. That was how I lost this.”

He pointed at his eye. Raich looked at it warily.

“H-how did you lose that?”

The old [Soothsayer] smiled tightly.

“…When I was at the height of my craft, I predicted something on the sands of the greatest desert of the world. To a dead man, I told him that his ambitions would mean little, for they would be swallowed up by a boy who would do everything he wanted. Rule a continent. Set a world ablaze with his name. He threatened to have me executed, but I told him how he could escape his fate.”

“Does he mean…?”

“How?”

Persua saw Rastandius grimace.

“I told him to slay the boy and inherit the destiny. But I could not tell him how—only that one would die and the other would take that fate. In hindsight—that was what began the King of Destruction’s rise, when the neighboring kingdom of Hellios and their [King] made war on him. He could have abdicated his throne, left well enough alone and lived in the shadow of Flos Reimarch. He refused, and we all know what has come of that.”

The three Runners looked at each other, not sure whether or not to believe this. Rastandius tapped his wooden eye.

“The error in my reading…well, that man did not have time to exact vengeance. Unfortunately, those that loathed the King of Destruction blamed me. Perhaps—rightly. If I had never said that, would the King of Destruction have risen the way he did? I had made a prophecy with all my power, and the world suffered it. Or maybe it was destined, but for my arrogance, the Quarass of Germina, the one before the current, plucked out my eye. To give me perspective, she claimed. Myself, I think she just disliked me.”

He spread his hands and showed them his fingers.

“More bad readings. When I was a desperate man, I gambled fortunes. As I said, I am not certain. I can see—chance. Each time, I bet a finger upon steering someone to glory or fame, for a cut of what they received. I did it five times. The fifth time, I was allowed to rest and enjoy two decades of happiness—indolence.”

“And then? What happened?”

Rastandius gave them all a bitter smile.

“Well. Would you believe I had learned my lesson? I thought I had, because I made few prophecies. I enjoyed myself. I…did not take chances. And as a result? I failed to predict the Goblin King.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, indeed. If I had done readings, I would have known he would come to Izril. As remote as he was…no. I fled my very gracious employers the day he landed. Let’s just say that afterwards, I’ve been keeping my head low. I have made a few other prophecies, but my interest is finding…someone.”

He looked at Persua hungrily.

“Someone who makes the dice of bone rattle in the cup. Someone for whom I can do them a great service. Something—pivotal. Reveal something and rest my last years in peace. I tried to, with others, but few love knowing their futures. Lady Pryde did not. Neither do many of the Five Families. Magnolia Reinhart, nor Tyrion Veltras. As for Lady Ulva Terland…”

He grimaced.

“Well. Suffice it to say that I have pondered going south to the Drakes, or to other lands, but I am cautious of failure. I have very few chances left.”

Again, he held up his hands and showed them his face. And Persua—Persua loved it. Because all this, his grand hints, his story—it all meant that she was the one he’d waited for. It confirmed what she’d been hoping for all her life.

She, Persua, had a future.

“So, how does this work? Will you just tell Persua what’s coming and…? There’s not me or Raich in your visions, is there?”

Herove looked at Persua uncertainly, and Rastandius raised his brows.

“There could be. I believe your fates could well be intertwined in Miss Persua’s since you are in her company. However, for you, I will gladly spin your fates out. A Crossroads of Fates, perhaps?”

“What’s that? And if your Skills can only do one person, I think I should be the one.”

Persua interrupted urgently, worried. However, Rastandius just shook his head.

“I only know that our encounter might matter, Miss Persua. This could be what matters. It could not happen. Let me show you one of the services I offer. It’s often chosen, not always welcomed. The Crossroads of Fates…are visions of your future, Runners. But I caution you—do not chase them, but learn from them. For each one I show you?”

He lifted the crystal ball onto a pillow.

“—Will never come true. At least, not in this world.”

Raich sucked in her breath, and Herove struggled with the idea.

“So, you mean they’re not certain?”

“Oh, no. They’re as certain as stone. They just won’t come true in this world. In this…reality.”

He was trying to explain something to the Runners that another world’s grasp of times and reality would barely encompass. Rastandius clarified for Herove again.

“This could happen to you, what I will show you. In fact—if you learn from your possible futures, you may well inform your own future. But it will never happen exactly as I show you. When I predicted the King of Destruction’s rise, it was to the King of Hellios, Treland. But he thought he could simply avert it. Learn. Do you wish to see?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Herove blustered, but his face was slightly pale in the lantern-light hanging from the top of the wagon. It was getting late, and Persua wondered if it would be midnight when they got to her.

Well, good. Wasn’t that for the best? She sat impatiently, but willing to watch as Rastandius passed a cloth over the ball.

“Many people regret what they see. Lovers…lovers especially. I have a scar from a man who did not like seeing the many ifs of what might have been. These are not light tricks. The Crossroads of Fate is a term any true oracle knows, and one of the ways to make sure is to ask if they can read them. So, Herove Canidus. If you are willing—look deep and I will show you a glimpse. I passed the greatest capstone of any class three decades ago, but even since then…it is hard to show you the crossroads in their full glory.”

The greatest capstone? That meant he was over Level 50. But before Persua could speak, the crystal ball changed.

One second, the cloth was passing over fine crystal, not glass, but semi-transparent, even cheap-looking, perhaps, until you realized how fine the material was and that the sheen that reflected other lights never truly touched the depths. The next, an image appeared as the cloth whished gently over the surface, in a moment.

It was no scrying spell they saw. No…cheap magic.

A television screen from Earth, even the best ones, had pixels. They had—by their nature—a bright glow, that of electricity, that was unmistakable. Scrying spells, by contrast, could ‘fuzz’ and be indistinct, but never pixelate, because that wasn’t how they worked. They were still almost always unmistakably slightly slanted or angled or just—compressed, because they came through a mirror or a pair of eyes. When they blurred or defocused, it was like eyes did.

The picture in Rastandius’ orb was different. It was crystal clear, and despite the pun, it hurt Persua’s eyes and made her lean forwards, because she felt like she could see every detail, but the crystal orb was too small. Even if she pressed her face against the sides, she wouldn’t see, and it frustrated her.

Like staring up at a cloud or a distant object and being aware of the fine detail—it was a perfect image. A perfect image of Herove.

He was wearing armor. Or rather, putting it on, piece by piece. He looked—nervous. A few things instantly made Persua’s eyes widen.

Firstly? The armor was blue. But a strange kind of blue, brilliant, clearly magical, and it had an odd…engraving. She kept tilting her head to see, but Herove was fidgeting, standing in—what? A room? It looked like it. Some kind of guest room in an inn.

He jumped in the image as the Runners—even Rastandius—held their breath, trying to make sense of this. Someone had just knocked on the door and entered.

“Sir!”

Herove shot to his feet, and a low voice chuckled.

“You don’t need to call me that.”

“Er—Grandmaster?”

“Not that either. How’re you feeling? Don’t worry, it’s a simple ceremony.”

“I—I feel fine, sir, grand—Ser Normen. Am I—am I prepared? I know it’s simple, but I hope it’ll matter for me.”

The other figure spoke in a casual accent, which Persua associated with the street. He, too, wore armor, and he checked Herove over.

The City Runner was older. Older—in his thirties, not twenties. And the other man looked to be in his forties. He wore the armor like a glove, whereas Herove was clearly unused to it.

“Good. It might take on some water. We’ll teach you the rest of how to use it later. And don’t worry. I meant—simple for us, but she’ll make it matter. She’s waiting in the garden, now.”

“I should go—”

“In a second. Catch your breath. Have you gone to the outhouse?”

Ser Normen!

“Better now than thinking on it the entire time. An [Immortal Moment] of having to go to the toilet is not a pleasant one. When you’re ready—we’ll give you a little procession. Ser Solstice himself arrived for the first Runner to join our ranks. Courier, rather.”

Herove checked himself, flushing with pride. He straightened, turned—and for a second, Persua saw his look of nerves change to one of confidence. Of delight. Of pride and…a certainty that scared her.

Then the image blinked out of existence, and the crystal ball remained, and Herove sat there as if someone had split him from top to groin. He shook—because he had seen himself. He had seen truth and the future, and when he looked up, he feared Rastandius more than any man he had met.

The [Soothsayer] breathed in heavily, but not with much exhaustion. He nodded.

“I thought that was enough for a demonstration.”

“What? No—bring it back. Please. That was—I looked—complete.”

His voice was stuttering, he was so unnerved. Herove stood up and smacked his head into the wagon’s roof. He looked at Rastandius.

“Was that true? Where was that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know—but that name sounded familiar. Normen. Normen…interesting. So he could become a Grandmaster of…ah! I saw it on the scrying orb!”

Then the [Soothsayer] looked cunning, and he hunted around for a piece of paper to scribble this down on. He glanced up and addressed the Runners casually.

“You understand my warnings? This is not certain. This will never happen exactly like this. It could happen almost exactly, but what we can take from this is…if. Perhaps it would benefit Runner Herove to visit Liscor.”

“Liscor.”

The young man whispered it with uncertainty. And—again, his eyes looked at the scrying orb. Rastandius had shown him a future, and that was a terrible thing. Something to live up to. Something to fear he might not achieve.

Something in his darkest days to measure himself up against and always come short. So when the [Soothsayer] looked at him and asked, ‘do you want to see more?’

Herove hesitated. Persua knew her answer, and she began to wonder what made her so exceptional. For Herove might have become some kind of Knight-Courier.

If so—what was her deserved claim?

“Show me another, then. Just another…possibility.”

Rastandius smiled. He passed a hand over the orb, and everyone leaned forwards. The next thing they saw was…

Well.

Highly pornographic.

Raich slapped a hand over her eyes, and the sounds coming from the orb made Persua stare until she saw what was going on. Herove jerked back, and Rastandius laughed.

“I’m sorry, this does happen. I—oh, would you look at that?”

A couple were, in very graphic detail, consummating what was possibly a wedding. Persua based this—once she saw it—on the attire. Or rather, the dress hanging up since one did not toss it to the ground even in a fit of lust.

Then she focused on the two people in the orb. One was, predictably, Herove. Younger? Younger than his first appearance, maybe. Rastandius was getting a good look in, and Herove was about to demand he stop—when everyone realized who the second person was.

“What? No. No. That’s…”

Raich looked at herself in the orb, and Persua saw, instantly, why Rastandius did not offer this service to lovers that much. The future of what might be drew increasingly far away from present as Herove stuttered to Raich.

“I—Raich—I didn’t—I mean, I haven’t even—I’d never—”

“Oh, you’d never?”

She glared at him, cheeks dark with embarrassment. Herove tried to cut himself off, and Rastandius decided to end the crossroads.

“I believe you can see the dangers already. Perhaps it was a mistake to offer it to the three of you. Er—shall I do you next, Miss Raich?”

“Only if you don’t show us—you’re not going to cut back to that, are you?”

Rastandius smiled, a bit offended.

“Hardly. I can differentiate the crossroads…in a sense. For you, I can show you something with a different criteria, but at the very least, I won’t show you that. You could ask me. Who will I marry? Or…”

The City Runner pressed her hands to her cheeks. She thought for a second and shook her head.

“No. Show me…show me…”

She looked around, caught sight of herself in the crystal ball, and saw her dyed hair, the tattoo on her arm.

Show me if I’ll ever meet Mihaela Godfrey.

Rastandius’ eyes gleamed, and Persua sat up. Herove turned back, and the scrying orb lit up. Raich looked into it…and then froze.

For all they saw was a grave.

It was a neat block of stone, unweathered, the letters fresh-cut in silver. A grave…with Raich’s name on it. There was no wind that blew across it, nor even a breeze, as someone bent down.

Mihaela Godfrey was not someone Persua had ever met face-to-face, but the old, weary Guildmistress of First Landing looked the part. Her mouth was closed in a thin line, and she laid a bright blue flower down on Raich’s grave.

Then she straightened and inhaled. But not…with her mouth. Not with air, because there was none.

Not in [The Courier’s Last Road]. The Courier stood and lifted a glass jar to her mouth, but the wind, the stored air blew at her hair slightly as she inhaled. Then she walked on.

No words, not in this place. Raich was frozen as Herove and Persua looked at her, but then everyone’s head swung back to the picture. Because Raich’s grave, simple and plain, but cared for, set across that road that led across the world…

Was one of many. Again, Mihaela bent down and placed a flower down. The next grave’s letters were hard to read—until Persua caught the name.

Fals Lenestre, City Runner.

No class, no age, nothing else. A single flower for another tombstone cut out of marble. Then Mihaela stood and waited a second. She took another step. Produced a flower.

And the graves stretched on. On and on, until—

Until Rastandius cut the image and looked gravely around the wagon. He spoke, a bit too quickly, the memory of what he had seen about to be transferred to paper.

“As I said—these are all possible timelines. I have seen many that have not come to pass. Terrible visions of the Demons overrunning Rhir, for example—I saw those decades ago, and they have not come true nor will they as I saw them. It is random.”

“I—what happened? That was [The Courier’s Last Road]. Why were so many Runners…?”

The [Soothsayer] rubbed at his forehead.

“We can only keep watching for clues, but it seemed unlikely we would get many. I apologize. I can only do this for so long, and I am holding much of my power for…”

He glanced at Persua. The City Runner sat and shivered. Raich looked at the old man and then raised her voice.

“At least give me one more! One more…”

“Of course. Would you like to see a happy future? I can find those.”

“No. No—give me something close in the future. Can you do that? Something within a year?”

Rastandius hesitated, then nodded.

“Of course. I can show you alternate pasts and presents. Something close, in the future…”

He closed his eyes. Everyone watched the orb, but hesitated. The cloth passed over it. Once, twice, three times…

Then it showed a Runner. No, a Human. No…

A body. It might have had black skin. And black hair…Persua saw a bit. And it was probably humanoid. What was left.

Perhaps she hadn’t been dead long, but all Persua saw was fungi growing on what remained of a corpse in unfamiliar dirt. Raich stared down at herself. Then she covered her mouth only for a thin trail of bile to leak from between her fingers.

 

——

 

Herove had to take Raich outside and help clean up. Persua did not. She stood, outside of the wagon, trembling in the night air. She paced left and right. She muttered to herself and rotated the ring on her finger.

When Raich tottered over to her, she found Persua stretching. The City Runner might not have had a Level 30 class or a…a great class, but she was a [Nimble Runner].

She could stretch and do a split almost without pain. She stood up and put her hands up, then did a run and a backflip.

“How did you learn to do that, Persua?”

Raich was still shaky, but Persua shrugged.

“I’m flexible. I saw a [Tumbler] do it one day and said I could do it too.”

“I—I envy you. Persua, are you sure you want to see what this [Soothsayer] is going to show us? You can walk away. I don’t believe—I mean, it’s just a drop in the bucket that anything will happen, right?”

Persua had seen the good of Herove’s futures and Raich’s frightening ones. But she still looked at her friend as if Raich were mad.

“I want to know what I’m going to be. Or who I could be, Raich. I’m…”

Persua clenched her hands. She struggled for words, trying to express what was in her heart. At last, she looked at the wagon and the quiet caravan, now devoid of all but the latest-night people, and came out with it.

“I’m Persua. Whatever it is, it will be great.”

In that moment, Raich saw Persua’s eyes lock onto the wagon and realized Persua had never asked about Raich or how she was feeling. She often told Raich how Raich was feeling. In silence, the City Runner stepped back.

Persua, and Persua alone, entered Rastandius’ wagon. Herove was helping Raich go back; he was interested in Persua’s future, but she had suggested he leave. Raich didn’t want to be around Persua, even to see what her future might hold.

“Are you prepared, Runner Persua?”

“I am. What am I going to see? What makes me different from…those two? From everyone else you’ve met?”

For answer, Rastandius just raised his shoulders, which made her frown, but he spoke.

“All I know is that, whatever I show you—your two friends might well change greatly from what you’ve seen.”

Persua thought about that. Herove and Raich might end up together. That would destabilize the careful balance she had between them. She’d flirted with Herove and considered sleeping with him, but only because they were all partners.

Well, good for them. Just so long as they don’t forget how much I’ve helped them. Too many people did. As for Raich, she might need someone to make sure she could handle seeing two deaths.

“It could change their lives quite a bit.”

Rastandius nodded.

“And change the world in some ways, too. A [Knight] and a Courier…but when I saw you in my tellings, I knew you were connected to much, much more. A single thread can, somehow, alter the course of a war. A hero in a siege. But you, my dear—in so many futures, you matter.

Persua shivered, and a smile sprang to her lips. It didn’t reach her eyes. Not yet. She scooted forwards.

“Then show me. Show me, and I won’t look away.”

Rastandius was almost as excited. Like a younger man who had breathed fate and glory into the ears of the rich and powerful—he wanted to see it all himself. The voyeur. This was how he glimpsed the future, why he did this. He spoke, his voice trembling a bit.

“I can show you many crossroads. Some—some call to me brighter. Which ones should I pick?”

Persua laughed.

“Do you have to ask? Show me when I—when I was or will be my most glorious.

And so the [Soothsayer] put his hands on the crystal ball, and he closed his eyes. Persua leaned forwards until her breath cast a fog on the sides, opaque and dark as a mirror.

Until an image swam out of the blank facade, like a dream.

 

——

 

If. Persua’s eyes focused hungrily on the truth until they grew confused. Outraged. But she never stopped watching. What she saw was Persua.

The same Persua of now. The same age. Even, funnily enough, the same clothing that Persua had once worn. The ill-fated costume of lace and Noelictus-style black-and-white hung around her like some kind of macabre doll or maid.

It certainly made the people passing by her give her a second look. In the scrying orb, Persua smiled at the people passing. She waved, blew a kiss at a fan, and scowled when they got her name wrong.

“It’s Persia, right? Persia the W—”

City Runner Persua. Thank you. Look me up, tell your friends you met me. Excuse me, I’m waiting for someone.”

She snapped at someone, tucking the autograph card she’d been about to hand out back in her bag of holding. Persua went back to folding her arms, a huge scowl on her face.

The watching Persua, the now-Persua, was confused. Was this her glorious future? Or maybe she hadn’t reached it yet. This alternate-Persua didn’t seem much better off.

True, she hadn’t nearly died by self-garroting herself on a wagon if she were still wearing that dress. But she looked neither richer nor…well, wait a second.

The other Persua was missing something. She had no Ring of Minor Protection on her finger. The greatest artifact that the real one had was missing. Was she then—better off without it? Or had she never gotten it?

Then the watching version of herself spotted something odd. This other Persua had terrible boots.

Just—awful. Scale-hide, lime green, and completely mismatched with her current dress. She had on a terribly tacky sunburst amulet and some mismatched leather gauntlets. She would never, in any reality, have matched that clothing with those colors.

Unless they were artifacts. In which case, this Persua was wearing one, two, four—two rings, amulet, boots—

No, five artifacts. Because as she shifted, it became clear the young woman was wearing something under her outfit. A flash of color revealed actual chainmail. Oh, and she had a long shortsword strapped to her side.

Magic. She had enough gear to be called an adventurer! Silver-rank at least! Not only that, this Persua’s bag of holding looked very fine. She had more potions on her belt and a pair of wands strapped to her side.

More than that…people did recognize her. True, without the name, but in this busy street, even with the dress to help, some people saw her and knew her name.

Why? Persua was hungry to know. She watched her other self stand on her tiptoes, then smile and wave. And then every head was turning, pointing at someone coming down the street. A commotion—voices. But Persua, the waiting Persua, just spread her arms for a second, then put her hands on her hips.

“Took you long enough. I was getting sick of babysitting that brat.”

“Where’d you put him, then? Please tell me he’s alright.”

An unfamiliar…no, a familiar low voice spoke as someone halted just out of frame. Persua’s skin crawled. Her ears rang. Because she knew that voice, slightly husky, worried, but familiar, even relieved. Even happy.

Ryoka Griffin paced forwards, her bare feet walking down the streets of First Landing as Persua tossed her head to the side.

“Inn. I left him in Adventurer’s Haven.

“Dead gods, Persua…Tyrion is just getting off the ship. You couldn’t have brought him here?”

“Nope. I had to sit on a ship with him for a week.”

Persua was completely unrepentant as she looked Ryoka Griffin up and down. Now, people were pointing. They pointed at Ryoka Griffin. And Persua.

“It’s the Wind Runner. From Ailendamus. The one who…Archmage Eldavin…”

“The Wind Runner and Persua. Persua the Weasel.”

At that, Persua’s head snapped around, and someone decided to hurry off. Ryoka covered her mouth, and Persua kicked her in the shins. Ryoka swore and then went to cuff Persua. In response, the City Runner took two steps back and flipped.

She did a backflip completely out of the way and landed, arms raised like a gymnast of another world. The people watching oohed, and Persua beamed around and stared challengingly at Ryoka, who declined to do anything like that. They held each other’s gaze, and then Ryoka threw an arm around Persua’s shoulder.

“I made it. Let’s get Sammial. Then I’ll tell you what happened in Ailendamus.”

“Sure. Did Tyrion mention me on the ship at all…?”

They began to walk down the street. Talking. Elbowing each other until Persua skipped sideways. Laughing until the Persua watching them nearly smashed Rastandius’ crystal ball.

 

——

 

What is this?

She nearly shrieked it in Rastandius’ face. Only the bile in her throat kept her from properly screaming. Persua felt sick, confused, betrayed. She went to seize the [Soothsayer]’s robes, but he looked as surprised as she did.

“The Wind Runner of Reizmelt herself? You would have known Tyrion Veltras. My, how—”

You faker. You charlatan.

Persua hissed in his face. Rastandius blinked at her and then realized she was truly upset.

“Do you know Ryoka Griffin?”

“She’s a fiend! That monstrous bitch, that—murdering, whoring—she’s the reason everything has gone wrong for me! Are you telling me we were supposed to be friends?

Persua struggled with the mountains of injustices, but Rastandius knew none of this. He just gave her a solemn, even amused look.

“In the reality you wanted to see, your glorious one—you two were clearly friends. I warned you, Runner Persua, you might not like what you saw.”

“This is impossible. There is no way we would ever be friends.”

Her denial was flat and instant. If anything, Ryoka Griffin would have agreed. Yet Rastandius’ pitying look followed him passing a hand over the crystal ball. The image vanished, and he placed his hands on his haunches.

“I can tell you that it absolutely happened. Or could have happened. Perhaps you could mend—?”

“No. No, this is wrong. This is—perverse. Twisted! I cannot believe it would happen. There was nothing glorious about that. Persua the Weasel? How is that my most glorious future?

She raged at him, but the [Soothsayer] simply raised his hands like a shield.

“That was now. I can focus on your moments of glory—which I was about to do. Yet the Crossroads of Fate showed us, clearly, the difference between the you of now and then. A friendship.”

“It couldn’t happen. We hated each other. From the very start. I can’t believe a thing you show me.”

Rastandius sighed.

“Then—would you like me to show you how it happened?”

Persua, about to pace in the small wagon, looked sharply at him. She hesitated. You can do that? But that was a silly question. So she wavered, bit her lip until it might bleed, and sat hard.

“If I don’t like what I see, I’m taking my gold coin and leaving. If I don’t believe it—”

“Just watch, Miss Runner. Watch.”

The [Soothsayer] frowned at her. He passed a cloth over the ball once more, and Persua sat, angry and confused. She stared into the ball as a different Persua appeared. This one…younger? By a bit, perhaps. Certainly less well-equipped. Her eyes flickered and narrowed. But then, Persua realized this was just one scene of many. Not just one moment flickered across the ball, but dozens. Little snapshots that mattered.

Rastandius was showing her everything. Her promised glory. But he began it—like a tale she didn’t want to hear—from the very start. And the first thing that he showed her that rattled the young woman to her core was something she rarely saw, even in a mirror.

 

——

 

Persua Alcherie Mavva was smiling. No facsimile of a smile, the lips stretched back, the teeth in the right place and the smile there everywhere but the eyes and the heart—a real smile.

She wasn’t good at it. It looked awkward, but perhaps that was fine. Because if misery liked company, awkwardness abhorred it. And so when joined by another smile like a cringe painted across a face—well, Persua grinned, panting, and the other young woman gave her much the same odd smile.

The other young woman. Not quite an adult. Not yet. That was as much her age as how she looked at herself. But she was getting there. In time, she would get there, step by step. And change. Like someone paying dues for each bit of age. Two fingers, scars, friends lost—

She had none of those scars yet. Just a wild impatience with everything, including herself. A challenging look in her eyes and grudging respect. Also—her hair was frizzled up and scorched. If you could have smelled the two, they would smell like sweat and dirt and burnt wool and hair.

“See? I told you we could do it.”

“You’re insane. I’m insane. I did it. I—I’m amazing.”

Persua’s reply was gasping. The other young woman’s smile widened. And then they both heard a shout, a whumph, and the roar of a [Fireball]. They dove for cover and hid behind a piece of rubble.

Get the damn Lich! Someone draw it off—not you, Calruz!

A female voice that the watching Persua recognized. A half-Elf went skidding around the corner for cover and nearly tripped over the two Runners.

“You two—get to safety!”

“We’ll just run out. Are you okay? Did you get all the potions?”

Ryoka assured Ceria, and the half-Elf gave her a strange look. She glanced over her shoulder at the undead warparty in the Ruins of Albez, and Persua yelped.

“We will? You’re mad.

“We got in, we’ll get out. You want to sit here for ten minutes?”

She really was mad. Both Ceria and Persua gave her the same incredulous look, but Ryoka was already gauging her exit. And when she started running—the other City Runner went with her.

Persua, panting as she tried to keep up with Ryoka’s longer stride. Screaming and ducking a crackling bolt of lightning as Ryoka laughed like the insane City Runner she was. And all the while, Persua was cursing Ryoka, spewing invectives as she ran.

I never should have come with you! You’re crazy! No run for Magnolia Reinhart is worth this! You crazy bitch!

“You said you could keep up! I thought you said you were a real City Runner!”

And there it was. Ryoka’s needling, arrogant smile. The same smile Persua hated. The superiority that oozed off her when it came to everything from running to being so aloof, like someone condescending to talk to their inferiors.

Wild confidence. Combined with the attitude that said quite clearly that Ryoka would do anything she wanted, from taking the best requests to ignoring the Runner’s Guild conventions.

Almost, almost—Persua had debated showing Ryoka what happened to City Runners who wouldn’t play nice. But she’d relented, traded a delivery to Magnolia Reinhart for a crazy dare with Ryoka Griffin. Do an emergency-run for a group of Silver-ranked adventurers.

The Persua running for her life, half-scorched by spells the undead Lich kept throwing, regretted all her choices. She and Ryoka hated each other, rival City Runners in the same guild. Yet unlike another time, Ryoka Griffin’s leg wasn’t broken. And unlike then—Persua watched herself smile. Unwillingly, panting with fear, but risking her life.

Rivals, not enemies. Despite that, Persua cursed Ryoka all the way back to Celum. She told Fals, and every other Runner, how insane, brash, and frankly arrogant Ryoka was. Then she flopped into a bed and leveled up.

And that was how it began.

 

——

 

“I’m going on a run to, uh…Liscor. The Horns are heading that way. I might as well. Who took the request to Esthelm?”

Ryoka Griffin was standing in Celum’s Runner’s Guild, checking on the deliveries. She had a frown on her face and was addressing a shy City Runner. Garia Strongheart murmured, her voice low and hesitant.

“Oh. I thought we could do that run together—”

“Sorry, Garia. Maybe later. Who’s got the request?”

Ryoka Griffin was impatient to go. She hopped up and down on her bare feet. Then she looked around, and a resigned scowl crossed her face.

“I should have known. Persua. You don’t run to Esthelm.”

A familiar head of brown hair rose among a gaggle of laughing Runners. Some glared at Ryoka, but most looked amused. Especially when Persua put her hands on her cheeks, looking mock-horrified. Her voice was no less sarcastic.

“Oh no. Did I take your delivery request, Ryoka? What a shame. I’m so sorry I got in Ryoka Griffin’s way. No other runner could hope to do what she does. It’s not like I don’t know the Horns of Hammerad either.”

Ryoka’s jaw clenched, but she gave Persua a big smile.

“Why don’t we run down to Esthelm together, then? If you can keep up.”

Persua lost her smile.

“Go to Rhir, Ryoka.”

However, they did end up leaving the Runner’s Guild at the same time. A resigned Garia watched as Persua began to head out and Ryoka went after her. They weren’t halfway through the door before Ryoka ‘accidentally’ shoved Persua into the doorway. An enraged Persua chased after Ryoka.

…She never caught up. Ryoka was taller, came from a background of running herself, and had been far more fit than Persua when she came to this world. At her level, back then, Persua had been, oh, Level 15.

Although she had leveled up from running with Ryoka. Even so, the Ryoka of back then had never been the most pleasant. For instance, she stood over Persua, nudging her with a toe as Persua lay, panting at the sky, having lost all her energy in the last hour of off-and-on sprinting trying to attack Ryoka.

“Hey Persua, what’s wrong? We have to get to Esthelm in two days. No time for lying down.”

Persua stared up at Ryoka’s mocking grin, her face drenched in sweat. She whispered.

“I hate you. What’s wrong with you? I thought you were just an arrogant freak, but you’re just—insane.”

Ryoka lost her smile.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Persua struggled to sit up. She panted as she stared at Ryoka.

“I thought you were trying to be a hero at Albez. But then you did the High Passes run. You’re not a wannabe Courier. You’re just insane. And you’re going to kill yourself.”

The other young woman put her hands on her hips. She scowled and suddenly looked ready for a fight.

“I’m just living my utmost. You should try it, Persua, instead of cowering behind doing the popular things in the Runner’s Guild. I thought you wanted to level up.”

Silently, Persua stared at Ryoka. So long the other young woman grew uncomfortable.

“What? Spit it out.”

“Who did you meet in the High Passes? Why are you in a tearing hurry to get to Liscor?”

Ryoka’s eyes shifted south. She clenched and unclenched her hands.

“I’ve got…a delivery. I have to go. Unlike you, Persua, I have more I want to do and see. Keep sitting there if you can’t do the run. I’ll take your delivery and ‘credit’ you, even.”

She tossed her head, and Persua’s face screwed up with frustration and dislike. And envy. And…she looked at Ryoka’s back and shouted as the Wind Runner began to jog off.

“I may not be as fast as you, but at least I don’t loathe myself like you do!”

Ryoka Griffin’s shoulders hunched. She slowed and looked back at Persua. The two Runners locked eyes for a long time on that long road south.

 

——

 

They fought in Esthelm. After Ryoka Griffin broke Yvlon Byres’ nose in a duel, she egged Persua into a fight despite the weight difference.

Persua was no hand-to-hand expert. She went flailing after Ryoka as the Wind Runner jabbed and kicked her onto the ground, and Ceria called for them to stop. Right until Ryoka planted her foot in Persua’s face.

Then Persua snapped. Calruz never had his chance to see what Ryoka was made of. Gerial, Ceria, and two of the other Silver-rank adventurers had to pull Persua off Ryoka. They had to use half a healing potion for her bruised face and the pummeling she received.

On the other side, Ryoka had mostly scratches. But Persua had taken a chunk out of her arm. With her teeth.

When they left, Ryoka was flipping Ceria off, and the two glared daggers at each other. Persua sat there as the Horns milled around discussing Ryoka Griffin.

Then—

 

——

 

Weeks later. Persua sat in the strange inn she’d found, sipping blue juice. She barely reacted as someone halted at the table.

“Persua?”

The young woman didn’t look up. She stared pointedly at the back of an [Innkeeper] arguing with a [Necromancer]. She didn’t know if she liked the inn, but she did like the sweet drinks. The current guest made her itch to go, though.

“I’m…Persua, it’s me.”

“I’m aware it’s you, Ryoka.”

Persua didn’t look at the other City Runner. But she did notice Ryoka looked more—hesitant than before. She stood uncertainly, and some of the fire that burnt everything had gone.

Had she really run the Blood Fields? Persua didn’t know. If anything, Ryoka looked defeated.

“Can I sit down?”

“It’s not my inn.”

Persua deliberately turned and faced the wall as Ryoka sat down. She didn’t so much as look at Ryoka as the other young woman fidgeted. Persua was on the brink of drawing her belt dagger, until Ryoka spoke.

“I’m glad you survived. When I heard about the crypt…did anyone make it besides Yvlon?”

Persua’s shoulders hunched. She looked around, and Pisces Jealnet stared at a glowing butterfly made of magic on his fingers. She wondered what it meant, but she only glanced at Ryoka out of the corner of her eyes.

“No.”

Ryoka’s head hung low. She stared at her hands, and Persua herself stared blankly at the wall. It wasn’t like she’d liked the Horns. Not at all. She’d just saved their lives.

That was it. They owed her a favor, and they’d never had a chance to become Gold-ranks. She’d thought they might. Then she’d be friends with a Gold-rank team, even if Calruz claimed she lacked ‘ample muscles and mammaries’. That idiotic Minotaur…

“I’m so sorry.”

Ryoka interrupted Persua’s blank staring at the wall. Persua glanced at Ryoka again, and the young Asian woman clasped and unclasped her hands.

“I’ve been terrible to everyone. And now—”

“Took you long enough to realize it.”

Persua snapped back. She saw Ryoka’s head duck lower, and a dozen things she could say to really drive Ryoka into the dust popped onto her tongue.

She held it. And she and Ryoka sat there until an [Innkeeper] exclaimed.

Ceria’s alive?

Slowly, Ryoka’s head rose, and she turned, a disbelieving look in her eyes. A little Goblin raised her head at a table as Erin Solstice shouted. Persua bit her lip as Pisces showed them the butterfly.

They argued, the few guests of the inn. There was the creepy skeleton, Ryoka insisting they had to go now. Persua found herself on Rags’ side, arguing not to get killed going after them.

But just like last time—just like every time and the times to come—when Ryoka Griffin went into the Crypt of Liscor to rescue Ceria and Olesm, Persua went with her.

 

——

 

Time passed in Rastandius’ crystal ball in jumps and leaps. Not every moment was about Persua, and many events passed her by, regardless of how her decisions had changed things.

Not all of it mattered. Though Persua couldn’t have known it, not much had changed from her different relationship with Ryoka Griffin.

Like Fals, like Garia—Persua kept running around Celum, though she did run to Liscor now and then. She was a higher-level runner, but she was no rapidly-evolving legend.

If there were a difference, it was that in this timeline, in this reality—

Ryoka Griffin sat with Persua’s friends, an uncomfortable smile plastered on her face. Instead of Garia and Fals, Persua sat there, retelling when she had led the expedition to save Ceria. Sniping with Ryoka when they got on each other’s nerves. And, oh, they did fight.

“You’re too focused on being popular and fashionable, Persua.”

“And you love standing out with your bare feet and ‘I don’t care how I look’ attitude, Ryoka. I can at least play nice.”

“To everyone except Garia. You bully her.”

“I don’t bully her—”

“You bully her.”

Ryoka stood with her arms folded. Persua tensed up, getting angrier by the second. She knew how this was going to end, but she kept snapping back.

“Well, I don’t think I’m too good for Magnolia Reinhart and that I know everything and I’m the [Moral Philosopher] of this age!”

Whereupon Ryoka put Persua into a headlock. But she didn’t fight Persua, because if Persua snapped, she would draw a dagger or fly into a fury, regardless of how badly Ryoka kicked or punched her.

It was that kind of relationship. Mutual distaste at times, but they had common friends in the Horns, even the inn where Persua had developed an addiction to blue fruit juice.

When did that change? Perhaps—with that subtle manipulator that even Persua took notes from. The [Innkeeper]. She and Persua didn’t really like each other, but even back then…Erin Solstice meddled.

 

——

 

Winter’s snows were already falling, naturally, across Izril when Erin Solstice beckoned Persua over. There were no Winter Sprites. There had never been Winter Sprites. Not here.

But there was still the request. There was still the job that was going to carry Ryoka south, past the Bloodfields. She was cagey about the details, but Erin whispered to Persua.

“Psst. Persua. Will you go with Ryoka and make sure she stays out of trouble? I’ll give you a blue fruit drink every day for a month. Two months.”

Persua didn’t know if she was being insulted or not. She opened her mouth, closed it, glanced at Ryoka.

“You want me to run with Ryoka past the Bloodfields? For free blue juice.”

“Um. Yeah? She makes it sound like it’ll be hard. Ryoka could use some backup, y’know? And you’re, like, her only friend.”

The [Nimble Runner]’s mouth worked silently for a good minute.

“…I’m not her friend.”

Erin gave Persua a blank look.

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“Well, if you’re not, who is? Come on, I’ll give you a blue juice for three months. Assuming I still have enough fruits.”

Persua turned her head to look at Ryoka. She glanced at Erin and had to confess, she really wanted to know what Ryoka’s secret client was all about. She bit her lip, hesitated—

 

——

 

Flicker.

The [Soothsayer]’s eyes were focused on his crystal orb. He frowned. Persua, sitting silent, thought she saw a flash of something. A momentary voice.

Ryoka. It’s him. It’s—

Two young women stood petrified in front of…some kind of figure? A floating mass of something in the air. They were terrified, panting, in a room of…?

“Strange. I can’t—”

Flicker.

Rastandius tried to hold onto the encounter, but the moment skipped by. To—

 

——

 

“…anyone else make it? Did anyone…?”

Ryoka’s voice was choked. Persua was staring at Ryoka’s missing fingers. The runner bled onto the snow. Snow, as pale as the little Gnoll’s fur.

Some things never changed. Behind them, the Goblin Lord’s forces advanced. Persua just dragged Ryoka onwards.

They would have never made it but for that tribe slowing the Goblin Lord down. Perhaps—without Persua—Ryoka might not have escaped them.

Or perhaps she would have. Persua kept looking back. Snow was covering thousands of Goblins, who were struggling out of the freak avalanche.

What had that been? Just luck? A Skill? A spellcaster? One of the Drake’s Skills? Neither girl knew. But the little Gnoll howled as her tribe perished. They didn’t know it, but a bargain was a bargain. Even if the ones who had struck the bargain weren’t there, fate remembered.

Always, and always, Ryoka Griffin carried Mrsha away through the snow.

 

——

 

Thereafter, things changed slowly. From Persua idly tickling a little Gnoll’s tummy to try and get her to laugh, to following Ryoka into the High Passes.

What transpired there was lost between Rastandius’ projection, but it was a shared secret that left Persua visibly annoyed—and in Ryoka’s company more than ever.

Instead of a prickly Frost Faerie keeping Ryoka company, there was a Persua, and it was hard to tell which relationship was more acrimonious at times. From evading Magnolia Reinhart to meeting Laken Godart—there was Persua Mavva.

But a hanger-on. The unwilling accomplice to some of Ryoka’s antics. It kept her levelling.

By the time she and Ryoka arrived in Invrisil as ‘guests’ of Magnolia Reinhart, Persua could keep up with Ryoka. Her Skills meant that she could beat Ryoka in a quick dash for safety, but she still got winded too quickly. She wasn’t much of a fighter, either. If anything, Ryoka Griffin’s dubious hand-to-hand combat abilities, which were of little use against monsters, were only eclipsed by Persua’s weakness at fighting.

They ran away a lot. And then Ryoka Griffin felt the wind begin to call to her. She began to develop a kind of magic that no one, not even Ceria and Pisces, had a proper explanation for. As if she were meant to learn it.

Somehow, despite her levels and Ryoka’s lack, Persua found herself falling behind. And—were they even friends?

“Of course I’m not friends with her. She’s crazy. I just run with her because I level up. That’s why I haven’t been around Celum.”

Persua was defending herself to her former clique of runners. She was getting a lot of skeptically raised eyebrows. She kept glancing towards Ryoka, who was listening to Garia. The farmer-girl didn’t look at Persua once, and her face fell as Ryoka gestured energetically at Persua.

“Sure, Persua. You two just seem joined at the hip.”

“We’re not friends. We just—I—wait a second. What is it now, Ryoka? Can’t you leave me alone for one…?”

Persua jogged over, exasperated, and her group broke up, watching as Persua heard about Garia Strongheart inviting Ryoka—and by proxy, Persua—to the Wailant’s farm.

And wasn’t that an unpleasant encounter, with Wailant meeting his daughter’s bully? Garia wasn’t as close to Ryoka. Fals? Fals had gone north to try his luck as a Runner.

Small changes. Important changes. Mrsha still sat in the Wailant farm, gobbling down food, only it was Persua instead of Ivolethe.

But it was that moment that mattered the most. On a winter day—Rastandius felt it. He saw it. The crossroads never lied. They showed him, and the young woman in front of him, how long ago the seeds had been sown for Persua’s glorious fate.

 

——

 

“Tricking?”

The Wind Runner kept brushing at the wind blowing around her, wild and untamed. She was still learning her powers, but both Garia and Persua were fascinated by what she’d shown them.

Mrsha was doing backwards somersaults in the snow, trying to leap up like Ryoka had. But Garia was slowly making a fist and copying one of Ryoka’s punches.

Persua, though, was agog with how Ryoka had just moved. Ryoka grinned.

“Haven’t I ever shown you, Persua?”

“No! I knew you could do a backflip, but what was that?

“Tricking. It’s a kind of…movement. It’s pretty complex. See, take a look at this. It’s called a flashkick, but you’d call this a standing flashkick…”

Ryoka leapt up and did a backflip where one leg shot forwards, until she landed—a bit too hard on her front foot—and swore as she hobbled around with one hand on her back. Mrsha patted her anxiously, and Ryoka waved a hand at the other two City Runners.

“See? It’s dangerous. Let alone parkour or doing this. Frankly, most people aren’t, uh, flexible enough for this to evolve naturally. The basis for athleticism like this—”

She broke off as Persua did a running start, did a backflip, and messed up the flashkick. She landed with her butt in the snow, blinked at Ryoka, and then smirked.

“What was that?”

And there it was. Ryoka Griffin stopped, her mouth open, and she looked at Persua. Really—looked at her.

The young woman had never been the most outstandingly built Runner, even naturally. She had more of a sprinter’s build, and of the two, Garia was more suited for long-distance runs.

But what did suit Persua was—well, suddenly Ryoka Griffin imagined Persua wearing a flashy gymnast’s outfit. Standing on a mat, possibly with an angry sports-mom watching her in the background as a bunch of judges held up cards. Did that fit?

It definitely fit. Persua was born to be a gymnast. Or a cheerleader? Or…slowly, as Garia began practicing some kicks and Mrsha rolled around in the snow and ate some of the fine crystal powder, Ryoka began showing Persua more tricks. And Persua’s eyes opened wide as she found something she not only was good at—but liked.

 

——

 

The Persua of now, sitting in the smelly wagon watching Rastandius’ crystal glow from scene to scene, was slowly losing her temper again.

Like a bull slowly going insane until its eyes rolled up in its head and it smashed through the steel gates of reason, regardless of the damage to itself—she was losing her mind.

“Tricking? Flips and stretches?”

That was her talent? Rastandius looked patently amused as the other Persua began working a routine, mostly for fun. Mostly—just to show off.

She did a cartwheel to cheer up a crying little Gnoll, turned it into a handspring, and evolved it into a roundoff, a kind of variant where a cartwheel turned into landing on your feet with your back facing the target. She could do a spinning tornado kick, a move that looked exactly like it sounded, and with practice, do frontflips standing, as flexible as a Drake’s tail in oil.

…All of it useless in a fight. Or running.

 

——

 

Persua sat under a table, trying to hide as the consequences of Ryoka’s run caught up with her and Regrika Blackpaw smashed through Celum after the City Runner.

She was still a coward who watched her knife turn on the Named-rank Adventurer’s fur and hid, shaking with fear. So much so that Regrika went after Ryoka instead of Persua.

Was she any better at fighting? No. Was she that much faster?

She had never learned [Double Step]. Instead, Persua was a [Gymnast], a class unique only in that it was green. She was not much richer than before, and she had come close to death so many times.

There was just one difference, and it was a strange friendship. Such that when Ryoka Griffin left The Wandering Inn, left Liscor after all the death and trouble she had brought—Persua went with her. North, far past Invrisil, to a city called Reizmelt.

What made her different in those days? The Persua of now, this Persua, watched the other one. She saw…similarities, and differences. The same woman, but altered imperceptibly. Rastandius’ eyes were locked on the crystal ball, but they turned to his audience, gauging her reactions.

Watch.

 

——

 

“You’re not as cool as the Wind Runner.”

So spoke a twelve year-old girl, a local of Reizmelt. She pointed accusingly at the City Runner watching as Ryoka blew a bunch of kids on their parasailing landboats about. Persua…twitched.

“Persua.”

Ryoka noticed and tried to forestall Persua’s temper tantrum. But her…friend…had a horrible temper.

Almost as bad as Ryoka’s. The difference between the two of them was that, while Ryoka was prone to wild fits of fury—Persua was petty.

“Oh, and you think you’re as good as a City Runner, you little brat?

The twelve year-old looked mildly disconcerted to see someone half again as old as she was picking a fight. Then again, she was in her puberty, and Persua wasn’t that tall. The other children oohed as Ryoka covered her face.

“What can you do, huh? Run fast?”

The girl challenged Persua as Ryoka blew around a squealing boy with a resigned air of watchfulness. In reply, Persua did a perfect handstand. She held herself perfectly upright, then grinned mockingly at the girl.

“How about this?”

In reply, the girl hesitated, then motioned some of her friends back and…copied Persua. Her handstand wasn’t as perfectly balanced, but she did it a good ten seconds before she fell back onto her feet.

Ryoka covered a smile as the other children oohed again. The girl gave Persua an arch look.

“If that’s what it takes to be a City Runner, I’ll join up.”

Persua turned beet red. Without a word, she regained her feet—and then did a standing backflip. This time, she tucked in and rolled around with such grace that Ryoka was impressed.

She’d be perfect on a gym’s mat. The fact that Persua was doing this with cobblestones beneath her was a testament to her bravery.

Unfortunately—Persua had forgotten something that Ryoka had begun to learn. Which was that children could be incredibly talented. And they were all innately far more flexible than adults.

The girl had, perhaps, never seen someone perform a backflip in her life. But she was in good shape, possibly from helping at whatever job she was apprenticed to or running around all day. She gave Persua a narrow-eyed look, then did a running start and pulled off a backflip. She landed, wobbled, then raised her hands to the wild cheers of her friends.

“That’s great! Come on, Persua…”

Ryoka tried to let everyone come away a winner, but Persua was now turning red as the other children mocked her. Red—when white. Then icy-calm.

“You’re not bad. Why don’t we have a proper match. The first person who can’t copy the other loses.”

She smiled sweetly at her opponent, who was, by now, getting overconfident. Thus began the most petty battle of tricking that Ryoka had ever seen.

What was amazing to her was that this newcomer kept up with Persua as they slowly escalated moves. She had some natural talent—perhaps more than Persua herself. Persua did a front-flip, then a hand-spring, then a tornado kick, looking exasperated as the other girl copied her, if not perfectly, then well enough.

However—Ryoka hadn’t been trying to stop this impromptu trick-off for Persua’s pride. She had been doing it for the child.

Persua, oh, Persua. Unable to beat a Goblin. Nearly killed by a rogue slime—a big one, but still. When it came to fights in Mad Madain’s bar, she threw things behind Ryoka.

But if there was one thing Ryoka had observed—it was that Persua was invincible when it came to beating people weaker than she was. Which was mostly Street Runners and children.

A cunning look had appeared in Persua’s gaze. Blandly, she pulled off a double handspring and webster jump, a kind of single-footed frontflip. The beginning of a tricking routine.

Her opponent managed almost all of it, although she used both her legs for the webster. The audience hesitated, but Persua smiled.

“Oh, not bad!”

As if she hadn’t noticed the other girl slipping up, she folded her arms, looking stuck for a moment. Then she turned, winked at Ryoka as she spun—and performed a genuine 720-degree kick. She spun so fast around in the air that her audience’s eyes bugged out.

But Persua wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. As she was landing—and by now, Alber had lowered his gloves to watch in frank amazement—Persua cartwheeled onto her arms.

On the street’s ground, she began to break dance. Persua landed on her elbows, swung her legs up, and rotated. Her legs spun around like a reverse top, and Ryoka hoped her shirt wouldn’t fall, but Persua swung out of the elbow air flare into a ‘classic’ flare, where her legs swung around in the air as she held herself up on her arms. Not once did her body touch the ground—it was all entirely core, back, and upper body strength.

Her opponent was watching, trying to figure out what Persua was doing until Persua flipped back into her handstand. She raised one hand until she had both legs and hand in the air.

“Dead gods, Persua. Really?”

[Perfect Posture]. The City Runner was laughing. Then she began doing one-handed handstand hops. Ryoka was covering her face, trying to pretend she wasn’t part of this bullying. And Persua kept going.

Her new Skills. [Redirect Balance]. Persua’s arm tensed—then she threw herself up and did a one-handed handspring. She began doing handsprings around her opponent, twisting in midair, switching to back handsprings, doing a hurricane that carried her into a circular cartwheel as the children screamed and applauded.

…Against a twelve-year-old girl. Lest anyone forget. But by the time Persua was done, her opponent was begging to know how she did that. And Persua, wiping sweat from her forehead, gave Ryoka a triumphant look.

“They’ve got to respect me too, you know.”

Ryoka Griffin rolled her eyes. But she didn’t argue with Persua. Even if she was rough around the edges—well, Ryoka was all sandpaper. They were working on it. And if Persua quietly complained about Ryoka’s wind powers, about falling behind—

Something was growing. Something was changing.

 

——

 

It came one night when Persua was sleeping over with Ryoka at Fierre’s castle-home. She still wasn’t quite over Fierre being a Vampire, but for some reason, Persua felt like she and Fierre got on almost better than Fierre and Ryoka.

It was all challenge and grandeur between Ryoka and the Vampire girl. Persua was, somehow, the intermediary. Perhaps it was because Ryoka claimed she had met an immortal Dragon.

“He’s not that impressive. All pretentiousness.”

Persua whispered in Fierre’s ear as Ryoka demonstrated a handspring for the interested Vampire; although, by now, the apprentice had long since passed whatever mastery Ryoka could claim.

 

——

 

Not that Persua knew who Fierre was. She wondered why the girl had such long canines. Rastandius was eying Fierre with a knowing look, but he knew better than to say anything. You kept your mouth shut most of the time.

Doing otherwise was a quick way to end up without a drop of blood in the sewers. He listened as Persua kept referring to…

“Why is it making that sound?”

Every time Persua told Fierre about the unimpressive individual, the scrying orb emitted a jet of what might have been static or a screech. Rastandius sighed.

“Someone important who knows how my Skills work. Fascinating. We may get hints later—but keep watching. This is important.”

 

——

 

Fierre was showing off her amazing flexibility as Ryoka watched. Like Persua’s legendary battle against the twelve year old, already enshrined in Reizmelt legend, Fierre could pull off most tricking moves without practice.

It just wasn’t fair, and, unlike with the twelve year old, Persua was having trouble beating Fierre. It was making her increasingly upset until Fierre pointed down the hill. Her home was on a steep plateau, and the hill was so lovely that some of the sheep would roll down it for fun, like Fluffles the Fifth.

“Can you do a handspring-thing down that? Or a cartwheel?”

Ryoka eyed the steep gradient.

“I’m not going to break my arms, thanks. Persua?”

“I—I could do it. What about you, Fierre?”

“Let me try.”

The Vampire girl, challengingly, did a little run up and tried to do a handspring down the hill. Halfway, she realized a cartwheel would carry her down. She did one handspring, slipped on the steep slope, and—

Ooh!

“Oh, dead gods!”

Fierre missed, hit her neck, twisted, and began slamming down the hill. She landed in a heap of limbs and got up, cracking her neck shamefacedly. But then she called up to Persua.

“Well—you have a class! You do it! I bet you’ll level! Do it and I’ll admit you’re better than me, Persua! Three handsprings or you cartwheel to the bottom!”

“Healing potions don’t fix broken necks, Persua. I wouldn’t.”

Ryoka whispered, but the City Runner looked down the hill and glared at Fierre’s mocking smile. Fierre blew her a kiss.

“I’ll kiss any wounds you get.”

“I’ll kiss—I can do—three handsprings? I can do that.”

The Wind Runner whispered urgently to Persua, but her eyes were locked on Fierre. The [Gymnast] backed up and took a few deep breaths.

“Persua—don’t—”

Persua did a running start and began to do handsprings down the hill. For the first two, Ryoka saw her form was excellent, a rapid rotation backwards, hands, legs, landing as she spun.

—But Ryoka had seen this before. She had seen a video of someone doing this down a beach slope. And what she knew was that no matter how good you were, what you couldn’t stop was gravity.

Persua began to speed up. And the handsprings became quicker. She began screaming not ten feet down the hill.

I can’t stop! RyokaFierresomeonestopme—

“Wipe out! Wipe out, Persua!

Ryoka shouted at Persua as Fierre watched with her mouth open. She meant for Persua to wipe out—it would be bad since this was grass, not sand, but the longer Persua went, the faster she’d end up wiping out.

But Persua was too terrified to stop the handsprings. So down she went. Ryoka was running after her—until she realized Persua was accelerating to a speed faster than Ryoka’s downhill run.

“Oh no.”

Like some kind of crazy toy-person, Persua flashed down the hill, still doing handsprings. She passed by a disbelieving Fierre, who reached out for her and jerked back.

Ryokaaaaaaa—

A screaming City Runner was headed down the hill. No—down the plateau. And somehow, moving at a full-blown runner’s pace—she was still doing handsprings. 

Down she went, past startled sheep, flipping over rocks, flipping past a road and a [Farmer] who stared at her along with the horses on the wagon he was driving. Persua’s screams began to recede down the hill as Fierre and Ryoka watched. But they’d halted going after her, because they were laughing too hard.

Not just with malice, but with sheer amazement. Because there she went. Persua eventually tumbled to a stop and lay sobbing on the ground three thousand feet away. She had gone down the entire slope without stopping, doing handsprings all the way down. Ryoka came sliding to a stop and offered her a healing potion for her hands, which had been cut on some of the rocks. Fierre just sniffed at the blood and then lifted one of Persua’s hands. She licked delicately at the bloody cut and made a face.

“Eugh. Grassy.”

Persua gave her a wide-eyed look, and Ryoka raised both her brows. Persua bit her lip as Fierre caught herself and blushed.

 

——

 

What was that about? She’s so—

“Um. She might be gay. I have a tiny bit of intuition there.”

Ryoka and Persua had a quiet conversation on the run back from the Lischelle-Drakle home. Persua gave Ryoka a blank look.

“What, happy?”

The Wind Runner gave her a suspicious look and realized Persua was actually serious. She blew out her cheeks in amazement.

“Are you serious? No, wait, you are serious. You’ve never heard of…this world. I swear. There have to be—but it’s not in the public consciousness, is it?”

“What, what? Is this another stupid Earth-thing like your ‘cars’ and ‘airplanes’?”

 

——

 

“Earth…?”

Rastandius’ eyes were gleaming, but Persua almost missed that. She was staring at Ryoka, who had halted and was trying to explain a concept to Persua. But the Persua sitting in Rastandius’ tent kept clenching and clenching her hand, and she had a strange tingling in her palm, though it hadn’t been cut open.

She was watching her own face. And what she saw—no. But yes.

The other Persua looked at Ryoka, purely shocked. Then she began asking questions. Then—the Persua covered in grass, filthy from sweat, but levelling, able to flip down a hillside and come out standing straight, if dizzy?

Once again, she smiled.

 

——

 

There was no Ivolethe to save. No Summer Solstice to plan for—yet. But Ryoka Griffin had been looking into her strange powers of wind. She needed someone who knew magic. And, well, they both had great ambitions.

It was Persua who suggested it and Ryoka who eventually met Lady Ieka Imarris and was asked to meet the Archmage of Izril. Although that wasn’t what Persua took from the meeting.

“She was in to you, Ryoka.”

“No, she wasn’t. You’re just seeing it everywhere now that I told you—”

“Excuse me? I can tell. A [Lady] doesn’t just ask a smelly, barefoot savage like you to have dinner to ‘discuss’ the request. You should have accepted.”

Ryoka squirmed.

“I’m, uh—that’s not me. I’m not opposed. Or bigoted, but Ieka? I don’t even know her.”

Persua turned back to Invrisil in the distance.

“I’ll go back and have dinner for you. And I’ll take Fierre.”

“Dead gods, Persua. Weren’t you just eying Alber? You and Fierre—there’s such a thing as being unfaithful, you know?”

At this, the [Gymnastic Runner] gave Ryoka such an arch look that the Wind Runner blushed.

“We’re not a thing. Plus, Fierre likes Alber too.”

“For his blood.”

“Yes. And I’m fine with his body. What’s the difference?”

Ryoka opened her mouth and threw up her hands. Persua was laughing as she jogged with Ryoka back to the carriages that would take them north. From the Unseen Coach all the way to Valeterisa’s island.

When they dared her mansion, it was Fierre, Ryoka—and Persua.

Did you see it now? A screaming Persua fighting her dopplegangers, emerging bloody, collapsing as Fierre and Ryoka poured healing potions on her. Her cheering on Ryoka with Salamani and Fierre in the prison cells?

Was she necessary? Did she change things or could Ryoka have done it all without her? Persua hefted a pair of lime-green boots out from the treasures of dead Couriers and adventurers, and Fierre helped her put on the chainmail. She snagged an amulet like a sunburst, eyes wide, and turned.

Then, she was a City Runner among City Runners. 

But not a Courier.

Not yet.

 

——

 

Mihaela Godfrey stood over Ryoka Griffin.

“Get back up, Wind Runner. And you? Artifacts don’t a Courier make. Your friend is at least brave enough to stand up.”

Persua hid from the Courier of First Landing, begging not to be hit with a punch as fast as lightning. Mihaela dragged her up, stared at Persua’s terrified face, and turned as Ryoka lunged.

“Get off—”

Down she went. Persua scrambled back and then lunged out with a knife at Mihaela’s leg. Without missing a beat, Mihaela kicked her so hard Persua’s eyes rolled up in her head.

“Persua!”

Ryoka heard the crack. One of Persua’s teeth cracked. The City Runner spat out a bit of a tooth. She stared at it, the blood, and then she charged, screaming, swinging the knife. Mihaela’s brows rose as she punched Persua.

Once, twice—she backed up and dropped Persua after eight punches.

“Now there’s a rabid rodent. But a Courier doesn’t get lucky or backed into a corner. You both fail.”

She jogged off, leaving Ryoka to collect Persua with Fierre’s help.

 

——

 

Not yet. Persua was depressed, angry, snappish with Ryoka for a long time afterwards. Ryoka went off to the Unseen Empire with Charlay and Alevica. Persua, geared up, did runs that had been difficult for her before.

Now, with Boots of Speed, amulets, and rings, she showed off, doing a backflip as she entered a town, laughing, but trying to get people to remember her.

Persua! As now, so before. Persua the Flipper? No, that’s terrible. Persua the Inspiring? No one would call her that. Persua the Gymnast just sounded…bad.

She wanted a name. But her acrobatics weren’t on par with even Lancrel the Leaper. And always, always—

When Ryoka Griffin challenged the Assassin’s Guild of Izril, the Wind Runner’s name struck a continent. When she ran on that death-defying mission…

Persua didn’t go with her.

Garia Strongheart, now the [Martial Artist], glared daggers at Persua as she helped Ryoka win free of Invrisil. The Black Tide marched against [Assassins], and an [Innkeeper] led an army for her friend.

But it was Maviola El, Saliss of Lights, and Ryoka Griffin who made that long run across the continent.

Twice, now, Persua watched the Wind Runner shining. Flying high, battling [Assassins]. The Named Adventurer turned a river’s crossing into a lake. Maviola burned across the lands.

And Ryoka…faltered.

Higher, the winds took her as she unleashed her magic and flew into the magical hurricane. But this time, her mastery was not so perfect.

It blew her wide, wide of House Veltras’ lands, and she landed with [Assassins] and Couriers making for her position. Ryoka Griffin staggered to her feet and faced the last Faces of the Guild within a hundred miles of First Landing.

This time, Mihaela Godfrey found Ryoka Griffin lying with crossbow bolts in her front and back, clawing at a broken vial. She bent down and wondered why Ryoka was laughing.

“I did it. Are they dead?”

The Guildmistress stared into Ryoka’s laughing face as she coughed up blood. She looked around and saw in the trickling liquid the hopes of Lord Tyrion Veltras bleeding into Ryoka’s wounds.

“They’re dead. But the vial—?”

Ryoka’s unfocused gaze drifted upwards as a [Healer] ran towards them. And she smiled with a confidence the other Ryoka had not possessed. Relief.

“No. No. My friend has it.”

Then—Mihaela’s head rose. She turned, and as Lord Tyrion Veltras knelt by his sons’ sides, a City Runner jogged into House Veltras’ keep and proffered a vial to a stunned Jericha. Unnoticed—she’d even taken a carriage part of the way here.

Persua delivered the cure.

History changed so slightly. Or was this how it was meant to be? Instead of a trick by the Circle of Thorns, Persua tricked them for the Wind Runner. She basked in the glory of Izril’s attention for one minute.

Until someone pointed out that Persua hadn’t done much. Ryoka Griffin, the Wind Runner, had taken on the Guild of Assassins directly.

Noass leaned on the desk, tapping one claw meaningfully as he turned to Sir Relz.

“Really, Sir Relz. Do you think just…sneaking by all the assassins is worthy of being named a Courier? Ryoka Griffin, I can see. The Wind Runner of Reizmelt; it’s a fine name for a new Courier. But this ‘Persua’—I just can’t see it. She did deliver the cure, plaudits to her for that. But it was such a sneaky, underhanded way of doing it. Like a—a—what am I thinking of? Some kind of animal?”

“A weasel?”

That’s it.

In her room where she was watching Ryoka recover, Persua threw the bowl of soup at the scrying mirror.

No! No, no—

Persua the Weasel. The City Runner. Not the Courier. Forever in Ryoka’s shadow? Persua had to reckon with that. But she didn’t have much time. Because…

As the summer was reaching its midpoint, Hectval pulled off their raid. And Erin Solstice died.

 

——

 

Full stop. Ryoka Griffin came running into The Wandering Inn with Persua. They saw Erin’s bier. Searched for something that could be done.

The same things happened, just differently.

Archmage Valeterisa was there early. She inspected Erin’s body, and there was nothing she could do. But in her research for Ryoka Griffin, she had come across an old ritual that made use of the Summer Solstice.

All it might take was the right place. The right offerings. Members of the Five Families. Persua saw Ryoka turn and call in Lady Ieka and Lord Tyrion’s debts.

But something was different. Something was off. 

The [Soothsayer] felt it, though he had no idea what had transpired at the Summer Solstice, only felt the fates changing along with everyone else. He watched hungrily, piecing together a puzzle—but not with clues so much as more gaps. He saw what was missing.

There was no banquet. There was no challenge of fae, no shining Melidore. There were shadows, but no six figures. Even the Crossroads could not encompass them.

But there was a door, and even now, Persua followed Ryoka Griffin into…

The Lands of the Fae?

Yes, and no. Even the crystal ball had trouble showing the confusing perspectives and lands the two young women went across. But what it did show was—odd.

A deserted forest, trees withered, only strange creatures dogging their steps. An ominous, broken city, where the buildings lured them into the darkness where things lurked and tried to consume them.

An empty field, a mountain with hundreds of holes fit for giant worms. All—empty. The only people they met, the only people, were a group of alien folk as lost and unnerved as the two. Travellers, exploring dead lands.

Dead—except for the center. The two had no guide. So they walked to the heart of these strange lands until they came to a ruined court. There stood a handful of strange, beautiful folk. But faded. But shadowed. Almost like ghosts or memories.

“I’ve come to find a cure for death.”

Ryoka Griffin’s voice shook as she spoke to the last remnants of the court of…who? A figure with blue skin turned to her and replied in a high voice wracked with…regret? No mockery. Just regret, even sympathy.

 

“Not here. Not you, mortal.”

 

“What? But I—what do you mean? Aren’t we in the right place? Aren’t you…?”

Those eyes flickered over Ryoka, the lost aliens, and then onto Persua’s face. The City Runner shivered as the person who was half-here raised one hand. She almost smiled at Persua, sadly.

 

“No. This isn’t the right one. I am sorry. What you seek was never here.”

 

Then she turned her eyes up and to the side and stared hard at the air. At something neither Ryoka nor Persua could see, but the figure narrowed her eyes, almost as if she was staring at an invisible…watcher. An invisible camera. She turned back and sighed.

 

“We cannot help you. Go. Play out your fate, child. Seek—yes. Seek Ailendamus. They have what you want. Be thou well.”

 

And like that, in plain language, she bowed and turned away. The rest of her kin gave Ryoka and Persua strange nods and looks of regret.

A mystery. They would never quite know what that moment meant, but the outcome was the same. In part.

This time, Ryoka Griffin performed a seance with [Witches] to beg a ghost for knowledge of what the vaults held, and a Wyrm kidnapped her out of paranoia.

This time, Persua went after her and brought Sammial Veltras back instead of the Hundredfriends Courier and the Waterbear.

 

——

 

And here they were. Back to the present, where Persua the Weasel and the Wind Runner regarded each other, one below the other.

On the same day that Persua met the [Soothsayer] in one world—another Persua walked down First Landing with Ryoka, speculating on whether Tyrion would be interested in her now he’d gotten to a fine age.

“You’re not marrying into House Veltras, Persua.”

“And why not? You’re giving poor Pellmia a headache.”

Persua was teasing Ryoka. The Wind Runner laughed, turned the corner, and walked right into a group of three [Knights].

I have you now, you knave!

Dame Thuile dropped Ryoka with a boot to her knee. Ryoka Griffin was lying on the ground as Persua screamed.

Ryoka—

She dodged sideways with a scream as another [Knight] tried to grab her. Ryoka was being pinned by another [Knight] and Thuile.

“What’s going on? Get a scrying orb!”

Dame Thuile was standing over Ryoka, a beacon of fury.

You thief and treacherous saboteur! I will bring you back to Ailendamus in chains and have you tried before the throne!”

“Oh no. Dead gods—”

Unlike in her other timeline—there was no Faerie King to make Rhisveri reconsider. Nor a huge war of the ghosts. Fetohep had sailed to the Meeting of Tribes with only mortal wrath—although that was enough to humble three Walled Cities.

But not raise new lands. Because of that, Ryoka Griffin had resurrected Teriarch, but the Archmage of Memory was dead.

Because of that—she had escaped Ailendamus with the Lucifen and Agelum’s help, and Rhisveri had declared her an enemy of state.

And because of that, Dame Thuile was triumphant as she prepared to capture Ryoka. Persua drew her wand, and it vanished as one of the [Knights] broke it with a single quick chop of their gauntlets. She tried a Tripvine bag, and the [Knight] drew a sword and cut her belt in an expert slice.

“Persua, run! Get Tyrion! Get—”

Ryoka’s head was ground into the dirt. The Ailendamus [Knights] ignored the lashing wind as Thuile called out.

“Capture the other City Runner. Quickly—to the ship before House Veltras arrives!”

She was looking around nervously, but Lord Tyrion was off to see his son. Ryoka groaned, but Persua was backing away from the [Knight].

“Don’t—don’t—”

She drew her sword, and he pointed at her.

“[Disarm the Foe].”

Her dagger clattered to the ground, and Persua found herself empty-handed. She backed up, shaking; she was no good at hand-to-hand combat.

“Persua—”

The City Runner was backing up to the exits when the Drell Knight accompanying Thuile pointed, and two walls of earth blocked off the streets. She was trapped, and the Hydra Knight was fast.

And he was threatening her.

“Surrender now or I will cut you down as an enemy of Ailendamus, Runner. You have one chance.”

Persua looked at Ryoka, and Thuile called out as Persua wavered.

“Capture her already, Ser Yoint. She’s no Courier.”

Oh, dead gods. Ryoka closed her eyes with familiar regret. Persua’s head snapped up, and she lost her temper. The Hydra Knight recoiled right before Persua punched his jaw through the open-faced helmet. Then Persua saw him raise his sword—he hadn’t even staggered.

She ran, screaming, as someone brought a scrying mirror up and began to broadcast the affair. There was Ryoka Griffin, the makings of a second international incident…and Persua the Weasel, running for her life.

Such glory. Persua was trying to circle the [Knight], but he knew how to corner a faster foe and was boxing her in. She squeaked, screamed, pleaded for her life—and as he swung, her back against one of the earthen walls, Persua looked around—and then leapt up, kicked off the wall, and did a front-flip over the [Knight]’s head.

The Hydra Knight, greatly surprised, swung around as Persua landed. Even Thuile looked slightly impressed, but the [Knight] was too well-trained to let a foe’s antics get to him. He lunged forwards in a stab—and Persua, squeaking, did a backwards handspring.

Straight out of range. So fast that the jabbing sword missed her belly. The [Knight] blinked, and Persua blinked too. Quick!

Ser Yoint. Time is running out!”

Thuile shouted. The [Knight] lowered his other hand, gripped his shield, and rushed forwards in a charge. Persua, who had been staring at her feet in astonishment, moved before her mind caught up.

She cartwheeled left, but not a slow cartwheel. She did four rotations in a second, so fast she nearly slammed into a bystander. Ryoka’s mouth was open, and she was inhaling street dirt.

Persua was fast! Since when had she…?

Since the lands of the not-fae? Since going to war? Before that, with Fierre on the hill? Persua caught herself as the [Knight] swerved his [Shield Charge] and tried to advance on her again. Then—a cocky look entered Persua’s eyes.

A familiar look. The look she got when she was sure she was better than her opponent. Like the twelve-year-old girl. She faced the [Knight], and he came at her in a charge, plate armor or not, a dead sprint.

Persua waited until he was almost on top of her, and then she did a standing backflip. Straight up and back. The [Knight] swung—but he was just too short. Because Persua landed on top of the earthen wall, nearly ten feet up. Ryoka heard gasps as Persua waved down at the [Knight]. Then—she began doing cartwheels along the wall.

“Come and get me!”

“Dispel the—”

Thuile growled, and Persua landed, spinning into a hurricane as she did. She looked up, saw the [Knight] coming at her, and yelped. She rolled backwards, turned it into a handspring, backflip, and then kicked herself back. A popflash, and Persua rotated in the air, both legs coming up before she landed like a gymnast, arms spread. A dozen paces away from the stunned [Knight].

Was that when someone began applauding? Or did the laughter start first? Not mocking, not at first, just in sheer surprise. Persua’s eyes were sparkling, and the [Knight] actually looked around for help.

“Dame Gatris—with Yoint. Capture the City Runner.”

Thuile was shackling Ryoka’s legs and arms, and the other Drell Knight rose. The two tried to capture Persua, flanking her on either side.

Tried, because now…the Djinni was out of the bottle. Ryoka saw Persua’s eyes light up. She was breathing hard, her pulse racing in her veins. But there was something in the way she looked at the two [Knights]. They charged at her, trying to box her in—and she did a simple backflip.

High, high, a [High Jump] Skill carrying her up impossibly high. But they were waiting for her when she came down.

No—Ryoka almost cried out. Then something impossible happened.

Mid-rotation, Persua’s momentum changed. She swung herself around an invisible point in the air and went soaring backwards. As if she’d suddenly caught something and redirected herself in midair.

How did she—?

The [Knights] went scrambling after her. Everything according to natural physics told them what Persua had just done was impossible. But like a [Tumbler], like a magician…

[Redirect Balance]. Ryoka’s eyes were wide. Her friend had just anchored herself in midair and used that to defy gravity! And Persua landed, kicked herself up into a gainer, and flipped backwards, laughing at the slow people in armor.

“Come and catch me! I’m just a City Runner! Come on!”

She landed, beckoning, and actually let them get within a sword’s reach of her. But no sooner did they lunge and swing than she performed a dazzling series of handsprings, just like she had going downhill. The two [Knights] ran after her now, not even trying to attack, just catch her.

And they couldn’t. Persua kicked off walls, she tricked, pirouetting, spinning through the air, even using their armor to bounce off of them as the audience watched and began to applaud. Dame Thuile grew redder and redder.

You two are a disgrace to Ailendamus!

She abandoned Ryoka, trussed up, and joined the pursuit. And even then—

They couldn’t catch her. Persua cartwheeled past Dame Thuile in a blur, leapt up onto a rooftop, and her spinning roll carried her out of the way of a wand’s spell. She was laughing. She landed on the ground, and the three [Knights], panting with disbelief, spread out.

“She can’t be caught, Thuile. She’s like an eel.”

The Hydra Knight opined. Thuile just made an inarticulate sound of rage. She went for Persua, but the young woman jumped up, and again—

It was like magic. She could move through the air just by redirecting her momentum. Her Skill had virtually no cooldown. Why not? Who could imagine you could fly by flipping?

And then—it was on the scrying orbs. On the news. A laughing City Runner evading three of the finest [Knights] in the world, literally mocking them as she flipped and kicked and twisted out of the way for ten minutes. Ten minutes, until House Veltras apprehended all three for their dignity more than anything else.

When it was done, Persua checked on Ryoka and helped her to her feet. The Wind Runner was staring at Persua, and the City Runner was speaking so loud and fast that she barely noticed anything else.

“Ryoka! Did you see that? I can fly! It’s like magic—what if I could keep flipping through the air? Could I actually keep going up? They couldn’t even touch me! I feel like I could cartwheel to Invrisil!”

“Persua—”

“It’s like I’m free! I could probably climb a castle or Liscor’s walls like this! I’m untouchable, I’m amazing!

“That’s something others say of you. But I’ll admit—even Lancrel couldn’t do that.”

A voice coughed in Persua’s ear. The City Runner froze. She turned her head, then squeaked and tried to hide behind Ryoka.

For there was Mihaela Godfrey. The Guildmistress coughed into her hand and looked Persua over.

Then she turned, and a veritable crowd of Runners, from the famous Hundredfriends Courier to City Runners, were all watching Persua. Mihaela addressed the crowd and the scrying orb, and only then did Persua realize she had been on television the entire time.

“What we just saw was a City Runner humiliating three [Knights]. Which is impossible, because no City Runner I know can do that. A Courier is untouchable.”

Persua’s mouth was open wide. She looked at Mihaela, and Ryoka’s breath caught as Tyrion Veltras came riding back, a lance in hand.

“Does that mean—?”

The City Runner was caught between elation and dismay. Just from dodging three [Knights] for ten minutes? Mihaela glanced at her, and one brow lifted in amusement.

“Not yet. But you’re getting there. When you do—think of a better name than ‘the Weasel’.”

And with that, she strode off. Persua looked at Ryoka, and then she picked up a piece of broken cobblestone and tried to brain Mihaela with it.

But that—that was the start.

 

——

 

They called her a City Runner for a long time after that. Not quite a Courier, but in most people’s eyes…it annoyed Persua to no end.

However, the gap that had opened between her and Ryoka began to close with a speed that was only possible for someone with levels. The flying Wind Runner was still one of the fastest Couriers and hard to catch.

But Persua—Persua showed off. Not just her tricking routine, which had begun a movement similar to Kevin’s damn skateboards or Joseph’s football, but the way she, well, bullied people.

Or just made a point. Like when she challenged a Street Runner in Reizmelt to a race and cartwheeled faster than them all the way to Lupp’s farm. Her Skills were varied—and odd.

“How are you doing that?”

Fierre snapped in exasperation as Persua demonstrated her new trick. Namely, a cartwheel that picked up speed as she went. Persua winked.

“[Springtoes]! And [Ten Second Routine]. See? [My Stunning Performance]!”

She cartwheeled straight into a perfect 900-degree kick, as if she’d had ten seconds to figure out how to execute the next move from the instant her toes touched the ground. Then she burst into a wild series of flips and kicks that she’d decided to make her performance.

“Show-off.”

Ryoka commented as she sat under a tree, watching Persua. To which Fierre and Persua gave her the longest stare imaginable. But it was true—Persua leapt up onto a tree-branch and held herself horizontally, one arm holding the branch.

“That’s physically impossible.”

The Wind Runner shook her head—Persua was doing a superman pose, yet somehow she was perfectly balanced. When Ryoka climbed up to figure out how, she found Persua wasn’t frozen in place or using some kind of intense strength to do that.

It was just that Persua’s weight had shifted until it was all in her hand. At first, she just thought it was a neat trick that allowed her to perform more confusing tricks in combat or for fun.

Then came the day that an exasperated Persua, watching Ryoka soar effortlessly over a hill, went running after Ryoka. The Wind Runner looked down and saw Persua run straight up a near-vertical cliff face. She redirected all of her weight so that each step carried her higher, leaping into the air with each step.

…Right until she wiped out near the top and nearly broke her neck on the way down.

 

——

 

Persua watched herself twisting and leaping across a continent’s stage. She was trembling.

This other Persua—she couldn’t fly, but she was untouchable on the ground and could climb and go anywhere. On a dare, she climbed up Pallass’ sheer walls from the outside and was arrested for three days.

“Remarkable.”

Even Rastandius hadn’t seen this kind of ability. He glanced at Persua, but his eyes flickered over the crystal ball. And then he did reveal his avarice.

Not just for the secrets. Not just for the potential of his clients. Persua didn’t miss how he watched her assignations with people in private, or how her Skills worked.

Could she be that laughing Courier, content to while her days away with the Wind Runner? Persua stared at the confident Courier, who even looked taller, signing autographs, posing with the Players of Celum.

Persua.

“This isn’t glorious. Where is my glory?

Her fingernails were cutting into her palms. Rastandius heard her. His eyes lit up like filthy lanterns, painted wood and flesh.

“Impatient, are we? Very well. It may lack for context—but you want glory? Here it is.

He grinned at her, and the scrying orb changed. It revealed a panting Persua, a cut on her cheek, filthy from grit and sand, stripped of her gear, wearing revealing rags, and the roar of a crowd. Jeering as she stared up.

 

——

 

“Here is Persua the Courier! Persua, the Weasel! Of Izril! Will she do better than the Silver Killer of fame?

Boos. Howling jeers at that hated name. The [Announcer] mocked her as Persua felt at the shackles on her hands. Not her legs, but she had no weapons. And she was never much of a fighter.

There will be no pity for her. Already—the signal is given.

A veiled figure watching the coliseum’s floor from above had raised a hand. A thumb, pointed downwards. Persua stared up.

 

——

 

It was not Queen Yisame. Who…?

The panting Courier in the scrying orb looked around the Coliseum of Monarchs in Nerrhavia’s Fallen as [Gladiators] began to file through the gates. The crowd’s howling had reached a fever pitch.

This was no pretense, no act. This was an execution. The mocking [Announcer] was shouting.

Weaponless? Will someone give this Courier a weapon?

Even if they did—what would it do? Persua closed her eyes. She felt light, even now, but this was an arena. She could not run forever, and the [Gladiators] were nimble and quick. They had nets and worked in teams.

A few jeering guards hurled weapons into the sands after her, rusted swords, a crossbow, even a half-broken wand, a spear—

None of these things had ever worked with Persua. Even before she had learned she had wings on her feet, she had found them all so heavy. She didn’t have the muscles of a trained warrior, and even chainmail slowed her too much.

She waited, breathing in the rust and sand in the air as the crowds cheered her death. Persua stared up at the sky and thought she heard a voice on the wind. The Courier opened her eyes wide.

“Ryoka?”

She looked around, but her friend was being hunted the length of…where would she be? Persua stared around the crowd. Then she realized where and looked straight up.

A dot in the sky. A few [Gladiators] followed Persua’s gaze and pointed up. The figure on the throne pointed, and a furor rose from below. But the Courier was just staring up. Up, her eyes straining for something. Anything.

Trusting in her friend. Then her eyes caught it, like a falling star, a glint of foreign metal. Plunging down as the winds howled. Persua’s eyes widened, and she took off running. Leaping, building momentum as the [Gladiators] surged after her.

Nets and tridents raised. Bows aiming. The greatest [Gladiators] in Nerrhavia’s Fallen and a lone Courier. Her arms reaching up, her body straining as she flew for a falling gift from the Wind Runner.

A weapon from another world, from travellers sympathetic to their plight. Persua’s hands reached for the weapon only two people in the world were allowed to use. A blade with no weight. A weapon as light as a handle of alien metal.

The Windsword. The Courier caught it, and a bright, pink blade of light cut apart her shackles as the [Gladiators] halted, uncertain. They recognized that famous blade.

Then, Persua turned. Nerrhavia’s Fallen was on its feet. The figure on the throne pointed down and lowered their thumb once more, and Persua looked up as her friend flew overhead. Alone, touching the Faeblade as it turned from a bright, painful glow to a burning torch, Persua looked at an arena of gladiators. Guards.

She leapt into the air, holding the flaming blade aloft. Spinning like a comet of pink fire. She set the Coliseum of Monarchs on fire. A burning flame sweeping across stitch-flesh and armor and even stone until the audience fled. Until she stood alone, sword held overhead.

Not a cut nor scar on her body. That was when they changed her name. When they started calling her Persua.

Persua the Untouchable.

 

——

 

“So long as I have space, no one can touch me. Unless I want them to.”

That was the Courier’s boast. Which she followed by putting an arm around the Wind Runner’s shoulders and planting a kiss on Ryoka’s cheek. Then spinning away and laughing as the embarrassed woman tried to fend her off.

Courier. In one moment, in the crystal ball, she was giving an interview to an older Drassi, the next—holding a letter over her head. A black letter, on black paper, which seemed to eat at the light.

She walked through a throne-room and offered it to a [King] with red-gold hair. He regarded her with more interest than the letter itself and rose to greet her.

Of course—Persua recognized him as the King of Destruction. So her lungs were so tight in her chest that it felt like she couldn’t breathe as the Courier walked from story to story.

From Izril to Chandrar, and then to Wistram, to witness a true [Archmage] being ordained. Someone she knew. From Wistram’s halls to Terandria, where the ruler of a kingdom greeted her by name. Even to Drath, to take a request from their emperor.

Drath to Rhir, running across a battlefield where spells screamed down like rain, desperately dumping potions from a satchel as she looked up and saw Demons. And behind them—the last Giants.

A Courier running across the world, even places neither Persua nor Rastandius knew. A panting Persua looked up and came to a rest. She collapsed, red liquid—blood?—all over her pants. She stared up at a sign, covered by ancient, red mold.

“So there you are.”

Persua reached up with trembling hands and wiped away at one of the signs. The Courier exhaled—and the [Soothsayer] and Persua read the name down one of the long roads.

Mershi, City of Stars.

“The Crossroads of Izril.”

Rastandius’ good eye shone like a moon with wonder. He looked up, and Persua was caught. Watching herself, resting under the aegis of that ancient signpost. And seeing herself in the reflection.

It was everything she’d dreamed of. A promise of glory. No—beyond glory. Rulers greeted her like friends or someone they wanted to know. Wherever she went, she was either at the heart of an adventure or the herald of one for her fans.

Persua.

Persua the Untouchable. Persua, the Courier of Zeikhal.

Destruction’s Courier. The Runner of Pallass. Guildmistress Persua.

Persua of the High Passes. The Discoverer of the Crossroads. Drath’s Esteemed. Persua, Hell’s Warden, Persua—

 

The Windfriend.

 

Yes. That was it. No matter how many accolades. No matter how many stories…she was there.

Like cancer. Like poison, running across all of Persua’s triumphs. The Wind Runner.

The worst part was that the Persua in the crystal ball didn’t push her away. She welcomed her, laughing, and their story was intertwined.

From Chandrar, running across the Great Desert together, Ryoka Griffin hopping in agony as she seared her feet raw on the sands.

In Wistram, tears in her eyes as she attended the ceremony, until someone handed her a handkerchief to please blow her nose.

Terandria, as awkward and happy as a stuffed pig at a formal banquet, teeth bared in sheer discomfort.

Running across Rhir as the greatest war unfolded like thunder around them.

Ryoka Griffin.

“Stop it. Stop showing me this. Show me something without her. Show me—another time.”

The [Soothsayer]. She thought he had perfect, pristine teeth, but now it seemed as though there were gaps in his teeth, thin cracks, so it looked like a gap-toothed smile.

Mocking her as the scrying orb shifted again. This time—Persua saw herself bending over, trying to kiss a protesting Ryoka.

Stop it!

She screamed at him, but Rastandius laughed.

“I am only showing you likely possibilities. Don’t you see? Your life and hers are intertwined. Look. See what happens?”

He showed her another image—this one of Persua and Ryoka, younger, rolling around the Runner’s Guild of Celum. But not, as Persua first thought, in a lover’s embrace. Ryoka pulled herself away, and Persua stared up at her as trails of red dripped away from her. Strings of life’s blood. The knife that Persua had tried to plunge into Ryoka’s chest was buried in her stomach.

Another. Persua saw the culmination of multiple Persuas’ dreams. She wed Lord Tyrion Veltras.

The older man, not the young one he had become. He looked as stiff as a board, but she looked—happy? The Persua wearing the wedding veil turned and scowled a second. But then the barefoot Courier gave her a sardonic salute and a bow, and she nodded at Ryoka with grudging respect—

“Stop it.”

Rastandius’ hands hovered over the ball. He was panting now, sweating, but he watched with a note of triumph in his eyes as Persua clutched at her head.

“This is all a lesson. Do you truly want to look away?”

Persua’s eyes were rolling. She was…going mad. She whispered.

“…Impossible. Impossible. It’s her fault. Not mine. Not mine. It couldn’t happen.

“That you could be friends with the Wind Runner? Are you really so blind? Are you so mad? Stare again.

He challenged her. Now, his voice was deep and wide, like a man twice his size booming at her. The [Soothsayer] seemed too large for the wagon, yet he pressed at her, and she shrank back.

“What are you doing to me?”

Rastandius was grand and imposing, like a prophet. He was twisted and grinning, enjoying prying into lives. He was wretched and desperate, trying for one last great truth.

Persua was cowering against the wagon. A hundred lifetimes were flashing in front of her, and she felt like something was breaking in her head. Rastandius pushed—but Persua kept whispering.

“Impossible. Show me. It’s impossible.”

You two could have been the best of friends.

His whispers were undeniable. Whatever was happening—Persua felt it pressing on her like a brand, forever changing. But one part of her kept repeating the word. It rose out of her mouth and spewed out like hatred.

Impossible. Then—show me my greatest days. Show me how I died. For I will never believe it. Not once, not ever. Prove to me there is a way Ryoka Griffin does not ruin me.

Then the [Soothsayer] froze. His eyes clouded over with uncertainty. He backed up, and Persua rose.

“I don’t know—”

Neither do I. But I know, nevertheless. Show me.”

She advanced on him, and the [Soothsayer] looked at her. He hesitated, one long moment, and then passed his hands over the crystal ball. Persua, teetering in her mind, stared down.

Like Raich—she felt a mortal fear. For it was a terrible thing to behold your end. And it painted itself in her gaze like—

Glory. All the glory in the world. In a moment, she understood why this would be her most glorious death.

 

——

 

They would sing her name. Yes, sing it—but in this moment, the chorus was only wails of horror. A chorus of faces blind with grief and rage and…denial.

But free. Liberated. Even so, how had they come here?

Ryoka Griffin knelt, breathing hard. Sweat stood out on her brow, and she gasped. Only now did it seem like she felt her wounds.

Her arm. Something had torn it straight off her body. She was bleeding to death, but she barely noticed. She only bent down.

“Is he…?”

Persua rose, spitting blood. She was no less wounded, but she bent down and yanked something up. It came away with a tearing sound.

“Yes. It’s done. And he—he’s coming.”

They both heard it. A howl like vengeance, echoing through the corridors of this rich place. Torn silk, fleeing figures. More kneeling, weeping with relief or regret. Ryoka looked back.

“He’s free, but he doesn’t know it. He’s mad—we’ll never stop him.”

Persua laughed. She bent down and held up the head as the body collapsed. It was charred around the Faeblade’s cut. She showed it to the figure in the distance, to all those who looked up.

How had they come here? The younger Persua stared in horror at what it meant. But the older one simply uttered a phrase as if it had long since become commonplace.

Let all those who hold chains beware. He’s dead. He’s dead!

And then she threw Yazdil’s head across the room. Ryoka started laughing. But then she slipped.

“Get out of here. Do you have a way out?”

Persua calmly held out a teleportation scroll. She coughed as she opened it.

“Hold it a second for me? I need to activate it.”

Ryoka nodded dumbly and held it clumsily with one hand as Persua traced the words. The Wind Runner was gasping.

“Persua. Tell them…tell them I…”

She saw the other Courier step back. A look of familiar, uncomprehending stupidity crossed Ryoka’s face, then she realized Persua had taken the Windsword back. And the scroll was glowing.

“Persua? Persua!

“Tell them yourself. I’ll be right after you.”

Persua lifted the glowing blade and grinned at Ryoka. The Wind Runner shouted, trying to reach for her, but Persua’s scroll was bearing her away.

“Persua, don’t—it’s me he wants.”

The howling Gnoll, the servant of the Naga, Iert, was coming. Blades bared, like a storm across the marble floors, each step cracking marble. Persua whirled, the familiar blade in her hands. She looked back once.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it. I’m Persua. I’m—”

A flash. Persua’s smile was wide and bloody and triumphant. Relieved. She breathed the rest of it out, for she had no boast. Not untouchable, not invincible or immortal.

I’m your friend.

Then she turned to meet the howling servant.

 

——

 

Rastandius had seen many deaths. Many foul ones, and some so horrific or graceful they had scarred him.

This was not the worst he had seen by far, so he watched the younger woman’s face. And what he saw, amidst her jagged confidence breaking, her warring soul—amidst the last of his hopes and ambitions—made his heart sink.

For the young woman had seemed as though she might vomit or scream or collapse. But when she beheld her end, she did none of those things. Her tears stopped. The bloody gashes she had clawed on her own face stopped as her hands clasped together. She looked at her death and smiled like broken glass, as sweetly as someone tasting water after drought, or feeling land underfoot.

Like a constant of the world was back. Persua stared at her death, then looked up at Rastandius. And she said:

“I knew it. Even in my best life, she ruins it.”

He calmly held the gaze, although there was something there that made his own stomach twist.

“It is one vision among many. Do you want to see one where you die happy? Look at what it has shown you, Persua.

Slowly, she rose, and she seemed neither tall nor grand, not the Courier of legends, nor the young woman freed from the ground. She seemed…small, thin, and hungry. But Persua’s eyes gleamed.

“I’ve seen everything. Thank you for your prophecies, Soothsayer Rastandius. You truly are a man of great craft.”

“I could show you—”

“No. I think I’m done. I’ve paid you my gold coin. I’m going to lie down, now.”

Slowly, Persua turned and began to shuffle away. Rastandius tried to rise, but he was tangled in his robes, and his power was receding. He was old and weary, but he called out, desperate.

Come back tomorrow! I will show you dozens more lifetimes! As many as it takes!

She never replied.

 

——

 

Persua left the old [Soothsayer]’s wagon and stood in the darkness for a long time. Rastandius came rushing out a minute later, but she had already walked into the distance of the fair and sat in the shadows.

She saw and heard him cursing himself, his Skills, her—and returned to his wagon, but it was a long time before the lantern light guttered out. Far past night, into the dawn.

That was fine. He had to sleep, and she…

She sat there, barely thinking. What she had seen replayed itself before her eyes, all of it. She shook occasionally, her face staring straight ahead.

She almost felt like she could taste and smell what she had seen. It was so real to her. A smile, an awkward smile, a friend’s embrace.

Glory.

Presently, Persua rose. When she was certain no one was moving, in that clear minute between the last sleepers and risers, she walked back over to the wagon and found something in her bag of holding. She uncorked a vial, poured it over a handkerchief, and looked around.

Aha. A flag from the travelling fair. She had it down and bundled it with the handkerchief. Then she drew a Wand of [Sparks] and lit the oil-soaked handkerchief.

Calmly and carefully, Persua stuffed the burning cloth along the edges of the wagon and watched the old paint burning. Then she produced a bit of [Stickywebs] contained in a vial, an alchemist’s creation, and lined the bottom of the door with it.

Then she walked off. Persua stood, far in the distance, watching as the faint smoke began to drift upwards. Then a flame, growing.

It was conceivable, of course, he might sense it all, but it was hard to open a door like that, and she doubted he could get out one of the tiny windows. The flames grew, and she heard not a peep from within the wagon.

Only when they had begun to engulf the door, part of the wagon, did someone hear and see the flames. But by then, even when they rushed out with buckets of water, it was too late.

The old wood wagon burned fast and bright. The rest of the caravan began to hurl buckets onto the wagon, and someone called for a water spell. Anything! They were shouting at Rastandius to get out, but it was a bake oven inside, and even if he had tried to get out the door…

When the door was thrust open, the explosion of heat and flames inside nearly killed two of the wagoners, and they stared at the sea of flames and backed away in silence. Persua watched the wagon burning without a trace of emotion on her face.

She was turning to leave when a figure hobbled out of the darkness, saw his wagon, and fell to his knees.

My home!

Rastandius wailed. Persua spun around, a look of terror and shock on her face. Rastandius’ absence became clear as the shocked caravaners took him in. His robes were bunched around him, and he had some unfortunate leaves and, uh, toiletry paper still tangled around the hem of his robes.

He had gone into the forest, lacking an outhouse, and it seemed he’d really had a bad time. Not as bad as burning to death.

In dead silence, Persua’s heart began to race as people exclaimed and pointed out the freak fire. Only now did she recall something he had said off-handed as the [Soothsayer] watched his wagon burning.

“I know my wagon will never be destroyed by accident.”

He was looking around, searching the dawn for…Persua’s blood ran cold. Now, she began to shake, almost close to vomiting. She was terrified—but she held herself still, peeking out at him from behind a tree.

—later. I need to rest. Just lend me your wagon. Later, I said.

Rastandius was talking to the [Caravan Master], who was rightly upset by the prospect of losing not only one of his workers’ homes, but means of earning a living. Rastandius stood there as the other wagoners disappeared into their own wagons for a tiny bit of rest—or breakfast.

Now. Persua’s head darted around, and then she ran. She ran around a wagon and then slipped on a patch of mud. Persua nearly went tumbling, then she threw her hands out. She…

Cartwheeled. Clumsily—and then caught herself up right. In silence, panting, Persua stared at her hands.

Mine. And that sword! And…her eyes rolled. Emir Yazdil? Even she knew that name.

All of it she’d seen. But so had he. Persua almost tried to do a backflip there and then, but she hadn’t practiced. She…she knew she could do it.

But first. The [Soothsayer] was staring at his charred home. He was muttering to himself, but grinning. A terrible grin of someone making plans. He clenched and unclenched his hands and never saw the young woman sneaking up behind him. She raised the dagger, aimed for the base of his neck, and stabbed.

Persua’s blade skidded left. It was like an invisible hand seized her wrist and moved it. The blade still cut the back of Rastandius’ neck, and he yelped. Persua stared in horror as he whirled—and then the [Soothsayer] was staring at her.

“There you are. I thought you’d try that.”

He grinned an insane grin as Persua backed up. She almost dropped the knife in horror.

“How—how—how—”

Rastandius was laughing. Now, he sounded like the stage magician, the purveyor of fates. He contemptuously rubbed at his neck.

“I told you I’d die without knowing what killed me? Foolish Runner. I am allowed to lie. And you…you’re not that Persua we saw. But you could be. You should be. You’ll pay me back for my wagon, first. And then—and then we’ll see.”

Persua wasn’t able to speak for horror. His eye was boring a hole into hers. But how had he avoided her knife? Was it a Skill or…?

Then she saw the brass ring around his finger on his left hand. And she felt at her hands and realized—her ring was gone.

The [Soothsayer] laughed at her stupefaction. He put one hand in his robes and scratched at his stomach as he stared at Persua.

“The first thing we’ll do is find some rooms. Then—then we’ll see what my future holds. Our future. Aha. You burned my home, but you couldn’t have burned…”

He hurried over to the burnt wreckage of his wagon and began to sift through the ashes as Persua stood, transfixed with fear. She didn’t know…what to do.

“Why are you doing this to me? You’re just like Ryoka. I have done nothing wrong.”

Her voice trembled. Rastandius turned with a sneer towards her. He had the crystal ball in his hands. It had weathered the fire untouched.

“Idiot. Do you think you’re the first, the greatest of my projects? You have more potential than most. I could have been the King of Destruction’s most trusted advisor! I could have been—look at you. Do you think I want a murderous, pathetic chit like you?

Spit began to fly from his lips as he pointed at Persua, striding back towards her. She backed up a step, but Rastandius held up the ball.

“Look at how your life could have been but for your pettiness.”

I don’t owe Ryoka anything. I refuse to believe she—I—I can be a Courier without her.”

Persua’s voice rose in a shriek, but she flinched as Rastandius passed a hand over the crystal ball. He snapped, his eye flashing.

“You think so? Then let me show you your future now. Not an if, Persua. You—I will drag you to greatness if I must. But this is what will become of you, you pathetic waste.”

His hand passed over the orb, once, twice, three times, and Rastandius glared grimly into the ball. Persua stared at the dark interior and waited.

But no image ever came. Rastandius’ face, though, grew puzzled. He held the ball away from him and stared at it—then Persua.

“Who is…who is that?”

“What are you talking about?”

Persua’s voice was quavering, but she was trying to find an opening to steal her ring. She could deny burning his home. Truth spells, though—did she run? But he’d find her, and if he really was that famous—

Yet Rastandius kept staring into his blank crystal ball. He looked confused. Then unnerved. He held it away from him and stared at something.

“She’s staring at me. Just like those strange beings. Who is this? A Dragon? A greater being? A Demon? Who—no. Stay back!

He dropped the crystal ball suddenly. Persua jumped, but the [Soothsayer] was backing up. He was rubbing at his arm. The man shrieked and tore his robes back. Persua saw a pale, dead white patch of skin on his ruddy flesh.

It was pale, the imprint of something. Like—a hand? The [Soothsayer] backed up further, tearing at it. As if trying to remove the pale brand. Then, as Persua watched, the pale white outline began to spread.

“Stop! Stop! I didn’t mean to offend—

He began screaming at the sky. Then he seized Persua’s dagger. The man began sawing at his arm. Trying to cut the pale spread of flesh off. But the paleness travelled up his arm, and then—Persua saw Rastandius’ mouth open wide in horror.

He fell backwards. Clutching at his heart. Persua stood over him, looking around wildly, backing away from the crystal orb.

“What was that? What’s going on?”

She shouted at Rastandius, but feared to touch him. The [Soothsayer] focused on Persua. His lips moved, and he croaked as the color drained from his face.

“But I was supposed to die somewhere else. I didn’t predict—”

His eyes rolled, and he whispered at Persua as gooseflesh erupted on her arms and a cold chill ran down her back.

“You will meet her if you walk down this path, Runner. Persua Mavva. She has three faces.”

Then his face turned into a rictus of terror, and his eyes bulged and his mouth opened wide, wide—

And he was dead. Persua stared down at Rastandius’ body in dead silence. Her eyes only began to dart around when she heard someone calling out Rastandius’ name.

She hesitated—then stopped, tore her ring from his hand, and fled, leaving the dead man, the crystal ball, wiping her own hands on her shirt. She ran, panting, terrified of whatever he had seen.

 

——

 

Persua never spoke of that moment. Not to Raich, nor Herove, although both had heard about the freak fire. Yet the [Soothsayer] dying without any true wound…

Raich still avoided Persua as the City Runner returned to her rooms. Persua’s eyes were too wide, and she panted, even now. But she stopped at Raich’s rooms and tried to smile.

It was a poor smile. Probably because it was trying to be genuine. It was afraid, nervous. A hungry smile, but most of all—uncertain.

Like someone who had suddenly lost her comfortable place in the world. Come adrift. Raich saw Persua, normally with a comment, at a loss for words.

“Can I help you, Persua?”

At last, the other woman stopped smiling and spoke.

“You look quite pretty, you know, Raich. Anyone would find you attractive.”

The other Runner turned red with embarrassment and began to get angry. But she hesitated as Persua smiled wider.

“Maybe we should train together.”

“Train? You?”

Persua turned her head left and right, as if searching for something. She looked at Raich.

“I think I know how I want to improve. Later today, maybe? If you want. Have—have a good morning.”

Then she was gone. Raich stared blankly at Persua’s back. She went to Herove’s room to speculate, but he was looking at a map of Izril and a city in the High Passes so thoughtfully she left him be. Raich herself stared around Toremn’s Guild and wondered if her time was running out.

 

——

 

Alone, Persua wandered down to the Mage’s Guild. Then she reconsidered and found an Opener in Toremn who served Runners. He patiently waited as she inquired about pricing and told her it would cost her no less than six gold coins.

Six?

“Six minimum. Sixteen if you want me to keep it silent. Given who you want to send a [Message] to…”

The man licked his lips.

“…I’ll waive the fee. Who knows, you might earn more back. If it’s important. It should be. That’s your warning, and I can only get it to him.”

Persua took a long time with her letter. She kept it short. In the end, she looked at a short missive. It read:

 

Someday, Ryoka Griffin, the Wind Runner, will be your death. The great [Soothsayer], who called himself Rastandius, foresaw it.

 

The destination was the Emir Yazdil of Roshal. Persua stared at the message for a long time until the Opener asked if she wanted more time. She looked up, and her eyes flickered uncertainly.

“…I’ve changed my mind.”

She looked as surprised as he did, but she tore up the pieces of paper, then burned the ash. Then she glanced at his carefully-neutral expression and blew the pile of ash outside.

He cursed over that, but he made a little note anyways and sent it to Roshal. Because even a secret unspoken was worth something.

Persua Alcherie Mavva wandered out of the private Opener’s basement in a daze. She looked around, and began to run. But no matter how far she ran, across the shop windows, in a passing shield of a [Warrior], the reflection from a puddle, she kept seeing her there. Haunting her.

A Courier, leaping through the air, laughing and spinning and dancing from point to point, her feet barely touching the ground. She smiled so gracefully it hurt.

 

Author’s Note: And we’re done. Like I said, the vacation had less of the rest I wanted, so I decided to go with this. I know it lost the poll, but it has a time limit for what it can be written.

Honestly, it was about having a character everyone ‘knew’ but didn’t know that bothered me. I hope that in one chapter you understand more about Persua. Regardless of whether you like or hate her, understanding sometimes matters.

Well, that and having entertaining chapters. Entertaining, not fun. I think there’s a big difference.

I’ll get back into the groove of things soon. For now, we’re back to it and I want to do better, as I said. This chapter…I can do better. I can do better in general, but my schedule doesn’t always produce the best content. Consistency? Nailed that. Let’s work on improving the rest, and see how it goes. Thanks for reading!

…I’m still holding a grudge against Canada. All of it.

 

Erin Adventure by dydreamr!

 

Tolveilouka’s Forms by MrMomo!

 

Spice Goblin by Spanner!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.10 W

After so long, she was coming here. There was more than a bit of fate in it, but fate was such a fickle thing. As immutable as belief and mountains, and as fragile as both before will, chance, and magic.

Even so, like belief, like a dream or a mountain, only the most foolish ignored such things, and so she took notice.

The omens were everywhere. The very earth muttered it, whispering in toadstool rings, and she felt it in her blood, in her hat—a hat was a very sensitive thing, and hers seemed to shift about on her head more than it should—and the deep ways of her kind. Her class.

[Witches], you see, listened to thought and omen. They listened to the fates, and some wove threads, others looked into tea or the flights of birds. Some listened to the wind.

Especially when an [Emperor] told you that Erin Solstice was coming. That was a very useful trick [Witches] had picked up, listening to people. Even the new generation hadn’t forgotten that most ancient of magics.

…But she, Wiskeria, woke up with a tingling in her toes and saw a line of ants marching in a concentric spiral that slowly looped across one of the newly-built walls of her home. She walked to the window and reflected that building a home for strange friends was not always wise.

For, in the lack of cold iron nails or other fittings came a little, natural slime made of water rolling across the windowsill. It was trying to devour a little stone with a hole in the center of it, a natural, if rare piece of geology, and as she watched it glide past, it slipped and splattered onto the ground. The water of its body flew up and landed, and she read the odd, unnatural pattern as it began to reform.

All these things Wiskeria, the daughter of Belavierr the Stitch Witch, saw. She saw a great flight of Mavika’s crows cross the air and split three ways down the center across a cardinal point where land influenced sky. And those were just the things she exposed herself to by looking. The tea leaves clumped in her morning pot of tea, and she had to shake it gently until they came out in a rush.

A meaning in each sign, a divination into the future. Wiskeria sipped at her tea and listened to the old man sobbing in the distance. She heard the land muttering Laken’s name and tasted a dire warning on the air blown far from the obscured heights of the tallest mountains in the world.

And Wiskeria calmly, deliberately, and intentionally ignored each and every one. She had some tea, blew her nose into a handkerchief because it was getting colder and she’d been out late last night, and munched on a bit of toasted, day-old bread with some of the [Beekeeper]’s honey she’d purchased last week in a lovely little blue ceramic jar.

After all, an ordinary [Witch] paid no attention to such things. She was oh so ordinary. Yes. Wiskeria carefully adjusted her hat and robes, then, humming, walked out of her house and started her day. She’d been dreaming her mother was drowning in deep waters as black as a midnight squid’s ink.

That did put a smile on Wiskeria’s face and a pep in her step.

 

——

 

At the same time, quite far away—over four hundred miles at least as a crow flew—another [Witch] started her day unnaturally. She opened her eyes as her inn clattered about with people getting dressed and checking their things last-minute, and a [Princess] loudly marshaling a few [Knights] into packing up a lunch—and decided to try breathing fire.

“Fooh. Fuuf. Wait. What did they say in that game? Fuuuuus Dooooh…um. Peh!”

Quite why she wanted to breathe fire was beyond her. If she had really thought about it, the act of exhaling fire didn’t seem quite as practical as conjuring it in her hands. But if she had actually thought about it, she wouldn’t have tried.

It just sounded cool. No, she had a vision of breathing a stream of fire like a firebreather, and that was such a tantalizing image that she chased it. The young woman lay on her back, making odd sounds at the ceiling and pursing her lips. She nearly spat, then realized she’d hit herself in the face.

Plus, gross. She tried to conjure an emotion, and that was difficult.

Because she had to feel it. Fire was no light thing, and Erin Solstice hesitated. Then she thought of Laken Godart and visiting the Goblins. Her face fell—then she thought of Pebblesnatch, and her eyes widened with determination. Only one fire fit them, when she met the Goblins.

And that fire was pink like few things in nature. Like that rare color—of Glory.

Fooof! Whoa!”

A Hobgoblin holding a morning bisque and wondering if you could get tired of the stuff knocked and opened the door when he heard the shout of alarm. He was just in time to see a young woman, lying on her back, exhale a plume of pink fire straight up.

Not a firebreather’s concentrated stream of it, mind you. More like…a little expanding mushroom cloud of pink flame. Numbtongue’s eyes opened wide. He beheld Erin’s beaming face as she stared upwards.

Then—sudden alarm as the fire of glory did what regular fire did not. It hung around. And it landed in a burning swath of expanding glory.

Straight on her and her bedsheets.

Aaah!

The young woman flailed about as the [Bard] covered his face. He almost threw the bisque on her, but she scraped the fire off like it was trails of gossamer.

“Numbtongue! Don’t just stand there! Get some—water? Get some help! I’ve set myself on fire!”

Erin tried to get up, realized she was too weak, and shouted at him.

Bisque! Bisque me!

She had the wadded bedsheets gathered up, currently burning with the faint pink flame. As mildly-horrifying statements to hear in the morning went—

Yvlon Byres paused with a toothbrush in her mouth. She had just heard, ‘I’ve set myself on fire! Bisque me!’ followed by a clatter, then an exasperated Hob running with flaming pink bedsheets downstairs.

To her credit, or perhaps as a sign of how the inn was, Yvlon just stared a second, then kept brushing her teeth, because dental hygiene was important.

That was how Erin Solstice started her day. Staring glumly at her slightly-burned bedsheets. Glory burnt fast, but it didn’t scorch and blacken the cloth in the same way. It had…more evaporated a good amount of the cotton cloth, exposing the innards and thinning out the material.

Lyonette was patently exasperated, but her guests expected nothing less of the [Innkeeper]. No, the [Witch].

A strange [Witch]. A poor one, half-trained, half-made.

After all, she had no hat.

And what kind of a [Witch] had no hat? It wasn’t that she had an invisible hat or a hat full of sky, which was an obviously acceptable and practical kind of hat. She had no hat.

She had no craft.

She didn’t even think of herself as a [Witch] at times. She obviously had qualities, but qualities did not a full [Witch] make.

Coal had the same qualities as diamond, but one was not the other. And yet…soon she would be heading to a place with many [Witches]. On a task from one of the greatest [Witches] of her era. The signs were everywhere in the inn. A swirl of salt knocked over by a little Gnoll’s paw. Soap suds in the bucket of water the [Head Server] patiently dunked dirty plates into.

Even the way her maple syrup drizzled out of a bottle. Erin stared blankly at the plate.

“Hey, lookit the weird syrup, Mrsha.”

Then she took a bite. The Gnoll girl barely looked around. She was racing around so much that Lyonette was having trouble keeping track of her and checking her list.

“Okay, we have a lunch packed. Burritos to go. Who’s allergic to what? Ser Sest—put an ‘S’ there. Ah, ah—Mrsha refuses to have sauce in hers. ‘M’. Is that all? No, wait. Why does it say ‘no tomatoes, Tkrn’?”

“…Because Tkrn is coming?”

“Tkrn? Inkar? We’ve forgotten to make them lunch! Where are they?”

Lyonette threw up her hands in exasperation. Ser Dalimont, marking the burritos in their paper bags, sighed and glanced at the kitchen. Erin’s head turned at her table.

“Inkar? Tkrn? Who’s—oh, Inkar!

She had barely seen the young woman from Kazakhstan. Mrsha gave Erin a highly offended look and was scribbling when Erin poked her.

“Don’t you insult me! She’s been with the Silverfangs, Mrsha. I wondered why she wasn’t at the inn.”

“Probably in mourning. Honored Krshia has been absent too. I will make two burritos. Without tomatoes, Lyonette. You finish packing.”

Ishkr whizzed past them into the kitchen, and Lyonette finally exhaled.

“We need a [Chef]. Okay. Mrsha, are you packed? Don’t give me a blank look, missy! Do you have your clothes? Don’t point to your bag of holding! You pack, not throw everything in higgledy-piggledy last minute!”

Mrsha sighed long and loud, but she was still excited as she raced upstairs. After all—

She was going on a vacation! Erin herself scarfed down her food. It was still funny to her.

“You sure you want to come, Lyonette? You look like you, uh, might be stressed.”

The [Princess] gave Erin an arch look.

“I’m fine, Erin. It’s true that we could use someone to run the inn…but I don’t foresee as much business with you gone. And frankly, after all these ‘adventures’, if Mrsha is going, so am I.”

And no one’s getting into trouble this time. That was the unspoken promise, and Erin shrugged guiltily.

“Who’s on the final list?”

“A small group.”

Lyonette assured her. She read from the list.

“Let’s see. Erin, Lyonette, Mrsha, no Bird because of a certain potential issue with a ‘Mavika’…and Antinium abroad, sadly. Numbtongue—can Octavia make it, Numbtongue?”

“No.”

“Good, then—”

“But Garia can. She’s coming. Maybe write that down.”

Lyonette threw up her hands and went on rapidly, as if afraid of being interrupted.

Inkar, Tkrn! Sest, Lormel, Dalimont, Ushar, Typhenous, and the Horns are…?

She turned, and Ceria raised a hand.

“Not coming.”

“There we are, then.”

Erin turned in her seat. It was a large group, really, but it was far smaller than you could have asked for, given the inn’s population. No Halfseekers, no close friends.

No Normen and Alcaz either. She waved at them.

“Sure you guys don’t want to come?”

“I have practice, Miss Erin. And it occurred to us that someone should be here with Mister Ishkr, as it were.”

The bulk of the security was going with them. Although, there wouldn’t be any adventuring teams, but if there was an issue that Numbtongue, Typhenous, the Thronebearers, and Mrsha the Great and Powerful couldn’t solve—

Well, Erin could probably find it. Lyonette did look slightly nervous as she turned to Ceria.

“Are you sure? House Byres is not that far from Riverfarm…”

“We’re lazy.”

The half-Elf gave Lyonette a smile and glanced at Pisces, who was looking nervous. Was he sorting through notecards? Erin’s eyes were fixed on him, but he glanced up and nodded. He had something to tell his friends.

“We shall do without. We have at least six fighters.”

Lyonette murmured. She gestured at Numbtongue, Typhenous, who was delighted at being able to return to Riverfarm with Erin, and the Thronebearers.

“Six? You mean eight.”

“No, I mean six. See? Unless Tkrn counts…? And Erin? Me? Oh, Garia.

Lyonette tried to add up the numbers as someone interrupted her. But the Hobgoblin just pointed at her chest.

“One.”

Then she pointed at the grinning little Goblin dressed all in black, like an edgy shadow in a pitch black room lined with charcoal. With two shining red eyes peering out of charcoal eyeliner and dark lips, although it wasn’t really lipstick.

Gothica and Ulvama. Lyonette gazed at them.

“But you—I didn’t ask you two!”

“Okay.”

The [Shaman] gave Lyonette a blank look, then she fished a burrito out and sniffed it.

“Put beef in mine. Also, you forget scary stabby Drake.”

She glanced around, and Lyonette realized she had missed Tessa, as usual. She covered her face with her hands and screamed silently into it for five seconds.

Then she got back to work. Mrsha rushed down, beaming, with a little rucksack along with her bag of holding. She didn’t need it, but she wanted the look.

She was going on a vacation! Not an adventure. A proper vacation, and she would get to see [Witches] and meet an [Emperor] and add him to her collection of contacts, and Typhenous said that Riverfarm was fun, and, and—

It was fun. Erin beamed as Mrsha scribbled on a piece of parchment.

“You want to take Moore? Aw…sorry, Mrsha, he has to stay with his team. Plus, he said he visited Riverfarm briefly. But we’ll take him on the next vacation! We’ll go to tons of fun places, just like I promised. Like—a beach! That’s better than some village-place in a forest, anyways.”

“A beach?

Mrsha gave Erin a dubious look. She had expressed the disillusionment she had with sand, but Erin’s smile grew wider. And if a [Witch] could have seen her then, through one of the windows, per se, what would she have seen?

A young woman gesturing excitedly as she stood up with magical food in her veins. Her inn replete with the most strange and outlandish of guests.

“A beach! We could go surfing, Mrsha. You’d love that. Surfing and swimming and—we’ll do it. First Riverfarm and Nanette and the Goblins—the next, beaches!”

“And the inn.”

“Right, right, and the inn.”

Erin turned guiltily to Lyonette, but she didn’t focus on that long. She stared ahead, if not always physically, then with eyes alight when she talked about the future, like the fire she had conjured. A strange [Witch].

But even she noticed something, at last, and turned to the window with a puzzled frown. She put a hand on her head—and then looked outside. Then Erin’s eyes widened, and Ulvama glanced over sharply and saw it too. She hissed—

And a raven cawed loudly. It beat its wings, and Erin blinked. Numbtongue glanced over casually.

“That’s one big raven. Bird didn’t shoot it?”

“That’s…no normal raven.”

Erin muttered after a second. She felt a tingle down her spine, and then it lit up her face, a bit worried, a bit nervous—but she waved at the raven. She should have tipped her hat, but she had none.

Then she threw up her hands in alarm and ran upstairs.

Bird! Don’t shoot the raven! Don’t shoot the—

She found Bird sitting glumly in his tower and staring at the huge bird. The Antinium looked up as Erin rushed out an explanation about the dangers of hunting certain creatures.

“I know, Erin. I am not a silly Bird. That raven is a bad bird.”

“You didn’t shoot it?”

For answer, Bird sulkily held out his bow. The string was snapped. Erin blinked at it.

“Oh, well, don’t try to shoot it. Worse could happen.”

Bird tossed three broken strings down in front of Erin and folded his arms.

“I know.”

He shook a fist down at the raven arrogantly preening its feathers.

I will level up and hunt you down!

Then he turned back to Erin and spoke conversationally.

“The world of bird-hunting is very deep, Erin. I did not know this, but first I had to learn to hunt big Wyvern-birds, next, I learn some can snap your bowstrings. Others flash, and some have ‘owners’ who try to stop you. Do not worry, I will rise to the challenge.”

Erin opened her mouth. Then she patted Bird on the shoulder.

“Just, uh, just be careful, Bird.”

He waved as she left and was still waving as the group began to leave for Invrisil. Though they took the door downstairs for that. He called out cheerfully to the air.

“Do not worry, Erin. I know my level is not high enough yet. I am a cautious [Hunter]. I need twenty more levels at least before I hunt a Wrymvr.”

He rubbed his hands together.

“Heh. Heheheheh.”

He normally worried about the ethics of hunting people-birds like Bevussa, but Klbkch and Chaldion and Saliss had all told him he was welcome to try. Pivr was sadly more cowardly.

 

——

 

So, a [Witch] set out to meet a [Witch]. A classic. The journey was different, non-standard. She began her trip by stepping a single time and moving four hundred miles. She prepared little, and she gave no warning.

Oh, she gave warning to the [Emperor], but none to the [Witch], save by proxy. Nor to the other [Witches]. She strolled about in company, arranging a carriage ride to a series of stops over the next two days that would see them in Riverfarm.

Nor did she realize there was a stirring in the air. Grave worms amidst a fallow field. Not that Wiskeria paid attention to that either.

Or the old man sobbing as she walked over him. Each morning he whispered to her, and each morning she broke a tiny bit of his skin away. She walked over the wet ground tilled by farmers and found a father searching for food to feed his family.

He froze, and she snapped his neck. For a second, they locked eyes, then he turned, and she put a foot on his back and drove her other heel down as he writhed and began to scream. Her sensible boots struck the bone on his neck and snapped it. Blood rushed helplessly around as she ground the flesh down, and the head lolled, eyes blank, as she lifted him up.

His children watched as Wiskeria turned. She hefted the limp rag up, a bit of blood running from the nose, and met the children’s eyes. She would have had them too, but they fled, and the [Witch] simply exhaled.

She could have tracked them down to their homes and snuck upon them at night. A hammer to bash their brains out or a knife in the darkness. But that required more effort than she had. If she wanted, she could have followed them by day, using the father’s corpse like a dowsing rod. She could have whispered a name into the dark roots of the forest and heard an answer for a price.

She did none of those things. Instead, Wiskeria walked on, ignoring the signs of the worms. A farmer groused at them, then jerked in surprise as she offered the father’s body.

“General Wiskeria! What brings you here?”

“Just touring the farms, Mister Ram. Worms?”

“Odd bastards. Grave worms. Not natural. I think it might be—er, some of your folk, begging your pardon, Miss Wiskeria.”

He was careful around her. He almost said something else, and Wiskeria caught the not-words.

Might be unnatural magic. Tampering.

Witchcraft, or what the [Head Farmer] thought witchcraft was. She took no offense. A [Witch] could conjure worms or relocate them, but she had done nothing about it.

“I can ask about, Mister Ram. No doubt it’s just some carrion. Speaking of which—”

She showed him the body again, and the dead father stared out with glassy eyes, head hanging askew. Blood was drying, and his body was stiffening already in rigor mortis. Murdered moments ago by those sensible boots trodding over worms and pulping them into the soil.

Mister Ram stared at the dead body and smiled. Approvingly, gratefully. It was something Wiskeria had learned people did.

“Damn. A racoon by daylight?”

“He must have been hungry. Should I not have killed him?”

Wiskeria saw the man instantly shake his head and purse his lips.

“Not at all. You needn’t’ve troubled yourself though, General. Not you—we’ll put out some of Gralton’s dogs on night-watch. The last thing we need is them stripping some of the good crops.”

He nodded at the valuable crops, not mere wheat or barley sprouting up in vast fields, but even some aspiring grape vines and most crucially—a whole host of pumpkins.

“Are they growing…well?”

Ram nodded.

“We’ll be eating them for ages. Pumpkins in the bread, pumpkin pie—though we’re not growing sugarcane, as of yet—and have enough for Emperor Godart’s funny tradition. Carving faces.”

He laughed at that, like a man who saw only a funny image in a face carved. Not a curse. Not a place for a screaming soul to hide or eyes to watch. He accepted the dead body from Wiskeria.

“I’ll trot it over to a [Butcher]. Could be some good meat for the hounds. Thank you kindly.”

The [Witch] smiled and tipped her hat. She turned, stomping more worms to death as they writhed away—but so did he. She walked off, deliberately not worrying about what was coming. Because she wouldn’t know anything about that, would she?

She was a [General], a [Witch]—and most thought of the two classes as an odd combination. They forgot that [Witches] had led armies. A [Witch] could marshall a village. How hard was an army compared to that? If she could medicate wounds, settle disputes, make sure there was enough to eat, the animals were fed, the pests dealt with—a talented [Witch] could do that for a hundred thousand people.

It was only a matter of scale.

So, Wiskeria walked the farms. She checked on the people in the town—too large to be called a village now, even with the other outlying settlements being built—and listened for the sounds of disputes, people who might be unwell.

These were far more difficult for her to pick up than the man weeping and begging her to listen. Mortal voices were soft and—confusing. But they greeted her with smiles and called her ‘General’, ‘Miss Wiskeria’, or ‘Witch Wiskeria’, and she smiled back.

“How has your day been—Yesel?”

Prost’s wife was only too happy to tell Wiskeria.

“It’s been a night, Wiskeria. We had little Rulent up with a fever, so his parents came rushing to us. Nevermind that it was a spring fever—new parents get worried, so I was up halfway till dawn with tea and blankets until we all passed out.”

“Oh no. How terrible!

Wiskeria seemed shocked and upset. Right up until she noticed the blank look cross Yesel’s face.

“I mean—for Rulent?”

Then her heart was pounding fast in her chest, as fast as the dying father’s, with worry until Yesel’s expression cleared.

“Yes, the poor dear! He was so upset—I should see if he can take down some soup.”

Wiskeria smiled, and her heart rate calmed down. Oh, so that was how it went.

“It’s…tough for you? A nuisance?”

“Not too much, but thank you for asking.”

“Oh. I see. Well, let me know if I can help.”

Yesel waved it away, but her smile seemed to increase, and she patted Wiskeria’s hand.

“You are so thoughtful, Wiskeria. Not like—”

She caught herself, and Wiskeria read the other words. The [Witch]’s smile never changed. But she remembered this, remembered this and tried to figure out how to do it right next time.

Because this was hard. Not that Yesel noticed, aside from that one moment of uncertainty. They were all people. More than Humans—and Riverfarm did have a few non-Humans these days—people were well-trained. They ignored little moments like that, smoothed them over, and Wiskeria was intensely grateful for their forgiveness.

Yet if she passed by in the eye of many as an important person, but unseen—there was one group of people who did watch Wiskeria. Who looked at her oddly.

Who—saw her.

And they were also [Witches]. But they were not the ones Wiskeria was trying to fit with. So she ignored the straightening [Witch] with her sensible cardigan sweater—under the lightest of ‘robes’, more like a long jacket, all bright red over a linen-beige covered with little mauve flowers—and her non-threatening hat with a little embroidered crown like leaves. The green thread spread downwards until they bloomed into ‘flowers’ which were black cats and broomsticks, cauldrons and wands and stars.

A beautiful hat that took everything that was [Witch] and made it somehow less and expected. A terribly wretched hat, to some, which offended their eyes.

But a perfect hat for the friendly woman with a face that was welcoming and excited to tell you things as a teacher, for that was what she was. Witch Agratha carried sweet toffee she made in one pocket, sealed with bits of wax paper that she would give to children or her apprentices. She had a handshake that even a [Miner] respected, and her clothing was often the brightest among any coven of [Witches].

In her way, she was as noted and as separate as Wiskeria was. But even Agratha, who smiled in the face of scorn like a willow in the winds—even she looked at Wiskeria with a frown full of unease. Until Wiskeria turned and Agratha smiled as if Wiskeria could not see out of the corners of her eyes.

As if Wiskeria were as blind as a [Witch] like Agratha, who didn’t need to ignore the whisper of the winds and the old man’s sobbing. For she, who taught hundreds of apprentices, had never learned to listen.

 

——

 

A [Witch] was made by many things. Her craft, her personality, her deeds and experiences and if she was sick or well and her friends and…everything.

But she still expressed much of it in her hat. A hat, Emperor Laken had learned, was a [Witch].

…Which annoyed him no end because the blind [Emperor] did not have eyes, and even his senses, which allowed him to detect most of Riverfarm, did not do detail like hats. It was something he would have learned to live with—except that they sounded like wonderful damn hats.

Nor could he go around and lay his hands on and feel out each [Witch]’s hat one-by-one. Even an [Emperor] did not go around touching hats.

So, in his desperation, like a [Pervert] seeking intimate details of the goings-on in a bathhouse or restroom—that was how he felt—he summoned one of Riverfarm’s subjects to describe hats.

It was objectively weird. And not the thing he should be doing while Erin Solstice was headed this way. Durene had paused for the longest time when he confessed his hat-envy.

“…I think I’ll go fight those skeletons in that graveyard, Laken. Have fun?”

It only made him more uncomfortable, and the unfortunate hat-describer was no less awkward as he laid out his request.

“Why me, Your Majesty?”

To that, he only responded with honesty:

“You, Adventurer Revi, have the best sense of fashion and a way with words among everyone I could name. I also think a Gold-rank adventurer might be discreet.”

The [Summoner] huffed and tried not to sound pleased.

“Well, I suppose that’s true. A Stitch-Woman for a cloth job. Do you want a hat?”

“Me? I don’t think so. And I don’t think a [Witch]’s hat is that, ah, simply obtained. I am trying to learn more about [Witches]. Do you…know much about them?”

Revi hmmed.

“There’s not many in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. They were…more common with the Tyrant herself. I’ve met a few. Never partied with any—Wiskeria’s the first [Witch] I’ve really met in that sense. Do their hats matter?”

The [Emperor] thought about the question.

“Absolutely and not at all. But they do sound fascinating. Possibly fabulous or striking.”

Revi nodded slowly.

“In that case—that’s all the justification they need. Where do we start?”

 

——

 

They started with Hedag’s hat. The Hedag was, after all, one of the great [Witches] who had come to Riverfarm and among the greatest who remained.

Laken left the wide, vacuous ‘throne building’, which was an old storehouse they had converted into a place for him to take audiences, and walked down the bricked roads of Riverfarm. He could not see, but he could smell a morning’s breakfast on the air, hear excited panting as dogs ran up and Revi cursed at them and they danced away.

A wagon rolled past as he seated himself at an outdoor café and was brought a milk tea. Oh, the teas. It smelled of mild juniper, and if you so wanted, you could have a tea filled with a bit of saffron from Chandrar or something so hot and refreshing as to wake you up in Cenidau’s colds.

The great Tea-Witch, Eloise, was much to do with Riverfarm’s renaissance in tea, and the iron lattice of the chair and [Servers] fussing over Laken, very pleased at their modest outdoor café’s patronage, faded into the background. Laken had heard coffee had been discovered or rediscovered, but he had found tea was far better with an expert in Riverfarm.

Hedag was on the same street, hence them choosing one of Riverfarm’s new outdoor cafés where everyone could get a cup if they waited in line, gratis. Money was still something being worked out, but there were enough people and gold coming in that they had more than just the Unseen Empire’s citizens.

And somehow, Hedag picked out children of [Merchants] in the crowd. She, despite being an imposing figure, attracted children and younger people who sat about with her. She needed no toffee; she needed only to sit on the sidewalk and let a boy dangle his legs on her knee, perhaps wiping his nose on her dress, and whisper timidly in her ear until she handed him a coin made of wood and gave him a promise with a handshake as wide as his head.

Of such things was a Hedag’s craft, and Laken would not stop her even if he could. Of the [Witches], she stood out for what she did. More than that, she had a title from the days of old. Hedag. A word like the woman herself. A force of nature walking as much as a woman. Like old law given form. Arms like a woodcutter’s, a smile, or so Laken had been told, as broad and unassuming as could be.

As terrible as the axe she carried, which Revi claimed had the red of rust or blood on it, but an edge as sharp as a razor. Revi described Hedag as best she could as they had breakfast.

“She’s got…well, if there were workwoman’s robes, that’s what they’d be. I don’t think it’s cotton. Some kind of sturdy, twill cotton? Maybe another fabric like that?”

“What, it’s not a robe?”

Laken had assumed all the [Witches] were walking around with what he took to be classic [Wizard] and [Mage] robes, long and flowing, long-sleeved, a tripping hazard. But Revi, much amused, corrected him.

“Nope. Hers is more like…a riding dress? Have you seen—uh, nevermind. She’s got long socks underneath and trousers under her dress. Good thing too—the dress isn’t that clean. But it’s got some pockets, and it’s…brown. Like her hat. Which is nothing special, by the way.”

“Really. No unique ornaments? No…”

Revi studied Hedag, and her voice, often snappish, judgemental being the default state, grew uncertain.

“Well, no. It’s just a hat. Much the same material. Old leather, maybe, cracked as can be. I think it’s dirty, but not filthy, if that makes sense. Just travel-worn. It looks like it’s been on her head forever. Nice brim—and old. So old. It’s got tons of patches, but…that’s a lot of lines. It almost looks like it’s a hundred years old. Older. I don’t know why. It’s just a hat—

She laughed, uncertain.

“But it’s—it’s crooked, bent at the tip. It has all these creases, but I could imagine it’s been in the family ages. Passed on from mother to daughter or…”

Hedag to Hedag? Laken tried to imagine it. A hat as old as the name upon a smiling woman’s head. The hat would witness sins and pettiness, and yet for all it was bent and old—it was a proud hat.

For no evil it saw remained. The Hedag’s axe swung up and down, and the hat, stained perhaps, was the only memory left.

“Is there power in a [Witch]’s hat? Is it more than just a symbol, or are even the best hats—hats?”

The [Emperor] wondered aloud, and Hedag heard him. She strode over as Revi made an uncertain sound at this hat-voyeurism, but Hedag just laughed like booming trees.

“Laken, lad, you’re interested in hats? A fine thing for an [Emperor] to take interest in! More than a woman’s thighs or how gold shines! A hat is a hat. Some of us put things under them or make the hat well, but it’s no helmet a [Soldier] swears by.”

“But you can do magic with a hat?”

Hedag winked, and she lifted her hat up.

“Can a [Farmer] use an adze? Does a [Painter] benefit from a better brush? Of course a hat matters. If you go looking—would you like to know the [Witches] with the most interesting hats?”

“Of course. Would that be…Witch Eloise? Witch Mavika? Alevica, if she’s here?”

Hedag affirmed all the names, but added a few of her own.

“You might as well see Agratha’s, for contrast. Oliyaya…and Wiskeria. Though if you ‘see’ what she has, a blind man would see more than most.”

She laughed, then strode off. Revi glanced at Laken, and the [Emperor] tapped at his lips, much amused. He hadn’t missed the scorn in Hedag’s voice.

“It seems this hat-lesson will have more about [Witch] culture than I thought, Miss Revi.”

“Oh, goodie. Let’s go.’”

 

——

 

Eloise had no embroidery on her hat, which made Laken sad at first. He had passed by Agratha, who greeted him as she stood in the street teaching her apprentice [Witches] how to perform magic.

“Ward the street with the pellets, just so. Don’t scatter them like a [Farmer], Mavaise. An intention to each action. Place them like a [Hunter], but not to catch. Where might they go? Each pellet contains a bit of clover and onion, a hot pepper as spicy as you like, and some vinegar or other strong-smelling odors.”

“They don’t smell of anything to me, Witch Agratha.”

A young apprentice piped up, and she sounded nervous and interested. Laken wondered if she was one of the new ones from Riverfarm’s own. He noticed a number of people watching this lesson in the street.

Mothers and fathers, interested people watching a [Witch] at work. But Agratha spoke loudly for all, and he thought—to her audience as much as her apprentices.

Look at me, a [Witch]. Fear me not.

Revi had already described Agratha’s rather attractive-sounding dress and hat. Yet even in this lesson, Laken thought he understood why she was as much a rebel as a constant in the [Witches]’ loose network of covens.

Agratha was…well. Mundane.

“They might not smell to you, Mavaise, but trust me, a rodent will not enjoy biting into the rind of such pellets. One bite and they will have a very unhappy day. And you see, we’ve added a tiny bit of magic to cloak their nature. Run them around with pellets of grain and bits of cracker, or even seeds, until they all have the smell and taste. Borrow a [Miller]’s place, or do it in a bowl, but make sure it’s windless on the day. Then put them in a house or street, and the rodents will soon think twice about nibbling scraps! It won’t solve a bag of grain broken or a constant mess, but it will bother them.”

Her audience appreciated the lesson as much as Laken and the apprentices. It was so…straightforwards. A tiny bit of magic filled with clever-thinking. How practical.

“Haugidghpffle.”

“What?”

Laken heard the most ungodly sound from his left and jerked. Revi made a noise of horror, but he was distracted by the thought.

Ungodly. Oh, how wonderful. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face, but that sound—his stomach roiled just hearing it. It was the sound of phlegm and bodily functions, and by Revi’s reaction and his faint senses—it was Oliyaya expelling a lot of it onto the street. Possibly through multiple orifices.

It was like a curse made manifest. Someone gagged, and there were cries of dismay. Agratha raised her voice.

Witch Oliyaya! Do you have a problem with my teaching?”

For answer, Oliyaya, who was as much the old guard as Agratha was the new, tipped her hat in a way Laken knew was mocking. Her voice sounded, well, like a [Witch]’s.

Cracked and cackling at times, others, oozing with secrets and malice. Even when she wasn’t annoyed, Oliyaya could set your hair on edge with a chuckle.

“Not at all, Witch Agratha. Each Witch teaches their craft as they will. No matter how they explain every trick like a [Scholar] describes a [Charlatan]’s sleight-of-hand. ‘Tis amusing to watch the learned [Scholar] try to perform a true trick, though.”

Agratha replied in a clipped voice, and Laken knew she had spectacles she was fiddling with.

“It is my belief, Witch Oliyaya, that all magic should start small at the beginning. The basics are as potent as any great ritual, and our craft has suffered from disorganization, inconsistency.”

Oliyaya nodded as Laken whispered to Revi, asking what she was wearing.

“Fair points and fairer work, for the ‘Teacher Witch’. You have taught more apprentices than any [Witch] here. I tip my hat to thee for keeping [Witches] continuing. And I continue tipping it, never let a soul forget.”

“Thank you—”

“For as long as witchcraft endures with teachers like you.”

Oh snap. Laken tried to hide a smile as Agratha made a faint scoffing sound, which didn’t hide how vexed she was.

Agratha and Oliyaya had not been the coven who had come to Riverfarm to strike the great bargain, but they were as related—both had come to practice their kinds of witchcraft and raise a new generation.

They headed two kinds of ideas about what [Witches] were. Even their dresses and hats showed that. Revi did a running narrative on Oliyaya until Laken thought he could picture the woman.

She did not have tattered robes or decrepit clothing like some wraith-woman of the wilds. [Witches] were exceptionally practical.

Yet if Agratha wore friendliness and accessibility like the cardigan she’d knitted, plain thread she’d spun, know-how and a bit of artistry to make a piece of clothing that Revi claimed any decent clothing-shop would be happy to sell—Oliyaya wore magic.

Like their approaches to apprentices, perhaps. You could, with effort, mass-produce a hundred of Agratha’s sweaters, and they might not be so fine, but mostly as good. There could be only one of Oliyaya’s dresses for that much effort, if that.

Black was a color that few [Witches] wore. Even Belavierr hadn’t worn black, Laken had learned. Not that he understood the color by sight, but by symbolism, how it was talked about.

Oliyaya had woven her robes, or enchanted them, out of what Revi described as a shadow or piece of dusk. She had snipped it down out of the firmaments, perhaps, and then decorated it with her tools of work.

A skull resting upon one shoulder, a pocket from which hung dried stalks of fennel that never seemed to fall out no matter how she moved, the scent of toads and other animals, often poisonous, that the [Witch] found and squeezed or cultivated.

But the hat was ironically simple. And though Laken hadn’t known it—Oliyaya, of any [Witch], suited the Unseen Empire most. For her hat was as dark as that shadow, so that she could seem to step out of twilight like a [Witch] straight from Shakespeare or speak unseen, just out of sight.

Yet what made it unsettling were the eyes.

Two, stitched out of dark purple thread, which Revi, classically, had to characterize as ‘old lavender purple’ with complex pupils of cloud-grey and, faintly, a rotten acorn brown.

Just like Oliyaya’s eyes. They would pivot on her hat. Such that you might glance up and see the hat staring at you. The eyes moved. They might well see magic or help Oliyaya in her craft.

The two [Witches] seemed on the brink of fighting, and it was hard for Laken to see how Agratha would win this one. He might not have seen the two squaring off as more than shapes and vague figures, but he felt Oliyaya tapping the ground with a cane she carried.

“Oh, stitches. She’s building up charges in her cane.”

“Charges? Charges of what?”

“Looks like some kind of ranged spell.”

At this, Laken stood up in alarm, but Agratha raised her voice, sounding like she was trying to project calm.

“—And this, apprentices, is why a [Witch] does not invite malice. Although sometimes it comes to her. Witch Oliyaya, are you truly preparing for strife? Here?

“I am merely preparing to defend myself, Witch Agratha. I do not have a club in hand.”

Laken seized Revi’s arm.

Agratha has a what?

“A nice club. It’s got an embroidered handle, too.”

The other [Witch] had pulled out a tool of her trade. Which was, apparently, a club. A most…[Witchy]…weapon? Agratha snapped back at Oliyaya.

“I’m not building up spells in my cane. You go too far with words and deed, Oliyaya.”

A [Witch] goes farther by her nature. No pond exists that can contain us. Yet you draw lines in the muck and tell your apprentices it is a wall. You dance with words behind my ears, Agratha. I have heard you disparaging my craft.”

“I—may say things in private—”

Words be weapons. I am not a [Witch] that lets any hurl them against me unopposed. Shall we show your apprentices what a battle between [Witches] looks like? It shall be instructive.”

Oh no. The rivalry between [Witches] was threatening to turn into a full-blown conflict. Today of all days? Laken stood up in alarm.

“Witch Agratha, Oliyaya! Desist!”

They heard him, and both turned his way. But Gamel and Revi were the only combatants here, and Laken feared a spark might set things off. Oliyaya’s two apprentices were facing off the twelve Agratha was teaching. Laken knew one was one of the ‘scary children’, apparently the survivor of a terrible fire, scarred with burns. The other, allegedly, never spoke, a huge problem for him to get to know her.

“Emperor Godart.”

Both [Witches] tipped their hats at once. Yet neither desisted.

“Would you not permit us to entertain the folk of this land with a bit of strife? No harm to anyone watching. Just [Witch] blood upon the ground.”

“And let one of you two injure the other? I think not.”

“Behind closed doors, then. At a later time. This is a deferred battle. You see, apprentices, many things are best settled away from the standing authority—”

Agratha kept up a low monologue, and Laken snapped.

No one is battling anyone! I will know. If you have a conflict, settle it without violence. Settle it with…”

He hesitated, then, because he didn’t know what the proper solution was. But Laken Godart relaxed and turned his head, which confused Oliyaya and Agratha until they both turned and felt it.

A tickling on the back of their necks. A twist in their hats. What did they see?

A Wolverine pretending to be a badger? A lion who had taken its teeth out? No, that implied something else. They saw Wiskeria striding along, a hand on her hat to keep it on as she hurried to this altercation.

And Wiskeria spoke, answering the [Emperor]’s question.

“A competition, Your Majesty? Witch versus witch. Anything you please would suit. Be it baking or creating a potion, sewing or solving a problem.”

“Ah, a competition? Is that traditional?”

Wiskeria tipped her hat as the two [Witches] regarded her. She was a Silver-rank adventurer, but ironically, Wiskeria was less well-armed than the two bristling older [Witches]. She had a long dagger at her side, an adventurer’s belt, and a wand, but she did not seem as threatening as a witch carrying a three-foot-long club, carefully hollowed and then filled with lead and marked with a little witchy cat wearing a hat burnt into the wood. With an embroidered handle.

Or a [Witch] whose crooked cane seemed to smoke with dark ash near the tip, and whose magic charge was slowly blackening the bricks it was resting on with soot.

Yet Wiskeria defused the situation, somehow, with words as well as her presence. Agratha folded her arms, and Oliyaya made to spit again, much to everyone’s horror.

“A contest? What shall it be, then?”

They turned to him, and the [Emperor] did not hesitate long. Because he had learned that he could say, ‘what would be best?’, or ‘what would you do?’, and if he had the right person, they might offer an opinion, but if he asked for a decision, they would hem and haw until he said it.

“I believe Riverfarm lacks for suitable style.”

“Style?”

The [Emperor] smiled tightly. He touched his un-hatted head of mousey hair, whose color he kept forgetting because it didn’t matter. An inferior head, despite being an [Emperor]. Especially compared to all these magnificent hats.

“We have fine clothing from some of our experts, and we are growing cotton and importing style and fashion. We have wool for sheep, and I am told by Adventurer Revi that Riverfarm does not lack for style.”

Indeed, while a lot of the clothing was utilitarian, he had been informed that the symbols of the Unseen Empire had begun to appear sewn onto clothing like badges, or embroidered. A hat, a triangular pyramid, or a giant hawk riding a bear. However, Laken gestured to his head.

“Yet hats? We lack for good hats. Hats for [Farmers] in the fields, or [Scouts], or a hat for the coming cold. I, myself, have been fascinated by them of late. Why not a contest? Let the best hat win, [Witches] or [Tailors] or whomever wishes to compete. And I will wear the best one for a day.”

Now that provoked a furor. Laken was proud of himself—right before he heard Oliyaya’s cackle and got worried. But Agratha bowed instantly.

“A hat contest? I shall need to prepare. When will it be, and what will the rules consist of?”

Laken had no idea, and he didn’t like Agratha’s enthusiastic tone. But he had methods for dealing with this. He turned his head ever-so-slightly and nodded, and Wiskeria broke in.

“We shall announce it by the end of the day, Witch Agratha. For now—disperse, please. No more fighting, indoors or out.”

And there ended a fight. Laken exhaled, then turned to Revi as Wiskeria marched over, talking to the citizens, but going to both camps of [Witches] and having a word.

His [General] really was good at her job. Which was keeping the peace, being the arm that connected [Witches] to people.

For a Witch of Law, or so she had claimed, Wiskeria truly was efficient. He had heard she was diligent in making sure the new trainees and [Soldiers] drilled, and she listened to experts like [Instructors] and weapon trainers and delegated her command to the actual soldiers.

He trusted her, for all she was Belavierr’s daughter. He thought Wiskeria liked her job, but Laken had to confess—of Prost, of Durene, even compared to the changed Rie—

He did not know Wiskeria. Laken realized how much he did not know her the longer they were acquainted. It was not just the tests he’d had Gamel run in the past, where Wiskeria had performed all manner of unsavory tasks without missing a beat.

It was not even her relationship with her mother.

There was something off about Wiskeria, and Laken confirmed that by the reaction of the other [Witches]. He leaned over.

“Revi, what is Wiskeria doing? Oh, and what is she wearing?”

He had high hopes for Wiskeria’s hat, but Revi took a few seconds before replying.

“…She’s wearing some blue robes. I’d say midnight blue if that wasn’t being too pretentious, but more like a darker cobalt. Bog-standard [Mage] robes.”

“Standard? What about her hat?”

“The same color. It’s also blue. Fairly straight. I’d bet it’s some kind of sturdy cotton. Probably a stiff lining of something.”

“What about decorations? Some…magic?”

Revi scrutinized Wiskeria a second and shook her head.

“Uh, no.”

“No aura? No patterns? No dirt?”

“…Nope. It’s a hat. She’s got spectacles. Decent work-boots.”

Laken was crestfallen. He had never imagined what Wiskeria wore, but to hear it was so…so…mundane? He was disappointed for a second. Then he had a thought.

“Then, how do the [Witches] treat her?”

Revi paused a moment, and the [Summoner] sounded a bit uncertain when she replied.

“Just—politely. She’s talking to Agratha—I don’t know if many of the [Witches] like Agratha. But she’s civil. Oh, and now she’s headed over to Oliyaya. That young [Witch] apprentice is creepy. She’s staring at us.”

“Be polite, please, Revi. I’m aware she has—scars.”

The [Summoner] shuddered.

“Scars? That’s one thing. But she’s staring at us.

“So? She’s allowed to—”

“Her body is facing the other way.”

The [Emperor] hesitated. He twisted his neck about 90-degrees, but that was how far it went.

“What, all the way around?”

“Yep.”

“Ah. You may be creeped out, then. Is—is Oliyaya’s apprentice smiling?”

“What do you think?”

Still, there was something about Wiskeria that Laken noticed. And it was what Revi reported back to her.

“Oliyaya’s listening. Wiskeria is so business-like. Yep. Seems like she’s just lecturing or something. Can we go now or are we going to stare at Eloise and Mavika? I could tell you what Eloise has. Pressed tea leaves on her hat and lovely flowers embroidered in.”

“Thanks for ruining the surprise. Just tell me one thing. Do the [Witches]…like Wiskeria?”

Revi took a long time to answer that. She peered, frowning, standing on her tiptoes, and then replied in an odd voice.

“Now you mention it, neither one seems too keen to hang around Wiskeria long. The apprentices are staring at her. Even the creepy one. She doesn’t hang out with them much, not that I’ve seen. Why? Is that wrong? She’s mostly being your, uh, [General], Your Majesty.”

Revi might have remembered then that she was technically under his authority and he was an [Emperor]. But Laken only waited for Wiskeria to approach.

“Just part of the mystery. I suppose I’ll have to tackle it another way, Miss Cotton. You said her hat’s normal?”

“As boring as can be. Why? Did you expect something different?”

The [Emperor] smiled tightly as Revi shot him a glance.

“Yes and no. It’s more outstanding because it looks so boring. Did you know that her mother made it?”

“T-the Stitch Witch?”

Revi stuttered slightly. Laken Godart whispered.

“Yes. So what a normal, ordinary [Witch] her daughter is, eh?”

She was quite good at it. But Laken’s investigation into Wiskeria being Wiskeria was just a side-project of his. Something he wondered if she could even answer if he asked it to her face. He turned his head to the east on this day about hats.

Soon enough, he’d have far more to do. At last, she was coming. He wondered if she would bring a storm like Ryoka. After hearing tales of Erin Solstice, somehow, the [Emperor] expected nothing less.

 

——

 

Within the first day of setting out from Invrisil, everything went wrong. Like vacations did.

Erin didn’t get much of a chance to look around Invrisil. Lyonette was, stressfully, organizing the carriage-ride that would stop at two places she’d arranged for them to stay. Erin was busy defending the Goblins.

“They’re Goblins. There’re monsters! Someone call the Watch!”

“No, they’re not.”

“Wh—I can see them right there. I’m not having Goblins on my carriage!”

“But they’re not Goblins.”

“How are they not Goblins?”

A bug-eyed [Carriage Driver] was looking like he was starting to question his sanity. He was no Termin, and Erin calmly pointed to an amused Numbtongue, chatting with Garia.

“If they were Goblins and monsters, they’d be stabbing you. They’re just, uh, green people. They’ve got lime disease.”

“Lime what? Where’s the Watch? What’s…?

“How about you just drive us to our destination and not worry about your passengers. We’re paying, and I’ll sweeten the deal.”

That caught his attention.

“Sweeten how?”

For answer, Erin offered him a cinnamon cookie.

 

——

 

That went well. But then Erin was sitting in a carriage, and much to her disappointment, there was no Inkar.

Inkar! The one Earther that Erin had yet to really meet! It was so strange how she hadn’t gotten a good chance to talk with Inkar. Of course, they had all been busy, but Erin realized that the young woman hadn’t sought her out.

She had been with the Silverfangs, and it occurred to Erin only as they started their journey that Inkar really had lived among the Gnolls for a year. Erin lived in Liscor, but she still was, in many ways, separate.

Yet Inkar had lived with the Longstalker’s Fang tribe, even won the right to be called Honored Inkar. She was a [Worldly Traveller], which fascinated both Lyonette and Erin.

She had slightly tanned skin from days under the sun, but Erin didn’t see much of it for the dress that Inkar wore. It was one of those ornate, embroidered ones, travelling clothes covered by a beautiful pattern of thread. The kind of clothing you could wear for a long time, because you had nothing else nearly as fine in your collection.

Erin certainly didn’t have an equivalent, even with Drassi and Selys’ clothes to round out her collection. She had put on a light shirt embroidered with a Rock Crab at the hem, which was cute. Inkar had a hat lined with slightly yellow wool that sometimes crackled if it built up too much static electricity, upon which Honored Deskie had stitched, in gold thread, her flag and added Longstalker’s Fang’s so people would recognize it.

A cap, not a pointy hat, to match a long-sleeved vest of dyed red, a deep currant color, so better to stand out on the Gnoll Plains, which were often long with green and yellows of the grass or the blue and white skies. The clothing was lined, again, with fleece to keep Inkar warm or cool her off from the sun, and the lining was apparently so magical she could teleport herself and her horse.

Which was awesome. But what made Erin really think the clothing was something else was…the embroidery. Gnoll traditions that intersected with some Earth ideas said that your clothing should represent who you were and where you came from.

So, there was an orb of Earth stenciled in green and blue, and, to Erin’s amazement, Deskie had even done an entire solar system.

Which was…just a fascinating choice. If Ryoka Griffin could have seen it, how many blood vessels of anxiety would she have burst? But then again—who would realize the solar system for what it was?

It spoke to a different attitude. Even Inkar’s decision to journey out to Riverfarm, albeit only for a few days, said something about her.

Because Kevin, Joseph, and Imani—or the absent Troy—weren’t going. Each one had begged justifiable workload in their new jobs. Well, Kevin had said he could probably go since he could take Solar Cycles on the road unlike Joseph, who had a team, or Imani, who had a kitchen. But he’d refused.

“I already have enough monarchs, thanks. I’ll die for lack of sleep if I get another one.”

Which was an odd statement. Nevertheless, Inkar had asked to join them. Erin had really been looking forward to chatting with her.

…Right until she realized the conceit of her thinking. Which was assuming Inkar would sit in a carriage the entire way there. The reason Erin could admire Inkar’s clothing only from afar was because the [Traveller] was riding.

She was astride the long-legged mare she’d named Samal, who was joyfully galloping ahead of the carriage. Followed by a less-graceful but no less-willing Tkrn.

“What happened to that guy?”

Erin turned to the occupants of her carriage. She had also been unlucky in her seatmates. There were no less than three carriages heading to Riverfarm given the number of people. Each one had a Thronebearer; Lyonette’s had two. So Ser Dalimont, judged the best candidate for Erin, got to sit with Erin, Gothica, and Typhenous. Technically, the carriage could have fit six or even seven, extremely cramped, but this was the minimum for everyone not to go insane while sitting for hours at a time.

Unfortunately, there was no Mrsha, who was with Lyonette, and Numbtongue had decided to try running with Garia.

…He’d given up after thirty minutes. As for Erin’s fellow passengers, Typhenous glanced up from trying to bribe Gothica into spilling the secrets of her class.

“Who, Tkrn? I don’t recall him, but he looks fairly good, doesn’t he? A fine class. [Companion], I believe.”

“Yeah, but I remember Tkrn, and he was this silly…[Guard]. Not—”

Erin waved a hand out of the window at the Gnoll racing after Inkar. Tkrn! He seemed older. Certainly tougher. He had an enchanted sword, and while he’d given back the Demas Metal plate armor, he had replaced it with Liscor’s City Watch’s gear, and he had a shield with an eye on the back of it.

A [Companion]. Someone who’d fought alongside Gire and held their own in a war. Erin kept peeking at him. And Inkar and he were a thing?

“That’s so weird. Uph!

That was the sound of Gothica hitting Erin with a piece of her burrito. Erin spluttered as Ser Dalimont started. Gothica raised a finger.

“No judge.”

Erin stared at the [Goth].

“I wasn’t.”

“Was.”

“No, I wasn’t. Okay, a little, but I was just—don’t throw your burrito! I’ll kick you!”

“Try it. Bitch.”

Erin’s mouth opened. She thought this [Goth] class was going too far. She glanced around for help, but Typhenous was delightedly stroking his beard and hiding a smile, and Ser Dalimont was pondering the ethics of fighting a Goblin half his height. And probably eying her teeth.

It never occurred to Erin that Gothica was to her what she was to Chaldion. Or trying to be.

 

——

 

The point was that Erin spent the rest of the carriage ride asking Typhenous how Griffon Hunt was doing and getting a rundown on Terandrian kingdoms from Dalimont. The Thronebearer was good at storytelling, and even Gothica liked him retelling stories of Noelictus.

“…Overcast skies, always grey. I believe they get less than six hours of pure sunlight per day, and as you may know, the undead rise due to the concentration of death magic in the earth.”

“Ugh. Who would want to live—Gothica, I swear!

Erin blocked the burrito wrapper as the carriage swerved slightly. Ser Dalimont hesitated.

“It is slightly—gloomy. But Noelictus’ people are resilient, and they have their own methods, Miss Solstice. Not least, Noelictus is considered the great breadbasket of Terandria. Their fields are among the most fertile in the world. The Ashwheat I believe you wanted comes from there. Most of their produce is distinctive.”

“Oh, you don’t say. Gothica, would you want to live there? Really? I know you have a class, but do you really like stuff like that enough to live in an undead…gloomy place?”

Gothica considered the question. She bared her teeth.

“I want to sleep in coffin. You make. Coffin in basement with dead bodies.”

Erin threw up her hands.

“Forget it.”

 

——

 

She was slightly aggrieved, in short, when they disembarked for their stay at a local inn on their way to Riverfarm. That was when the next part of the bad journey took hold.

“No Goblins.”

“But they’re not Goblins. They’re—”

This time, the surly [Hostel Manager] cut Erin off.

“No Goblins.”

She barely emerged from behind the door she had only opened a crack. Lyonette took over before Erin could explode.

“We’ve already paid for our rooms. Surely there’s somewhere we could stay?”

“You can have your money back. You said nothing about Goblins. ‘Sides, there wasn’t any reservation. We’re almost full up.”

“But I sent you a [Message]—”

“We don’t do reservations. First come, first serve. That’s how it works.”

Both Lyonette and Erin were used to a different system of, well, tourism. However, Riverfarm was not exactly a populated hub—or it hadn’t been. Erin fumed as Numbtongue picked out a good spot to camp. Inkar was only too willing to find them a spot, but Lyonette came back with an offer.

There was a guest-house of sorts, not connected to the hostel itself, that the group could stay in. It would cost them extra, and the Goblins had to stay out of sight and not do Goblin things. Frankly, only the Thronebearers’ presence had gotten that much.

The [Hostel Manager] clearly thought Erin was insane, and she watched fearfully as the guests trooped over to the ‘guest house’. Erin was tired after sitting in a carriage all day, and even Mrsha was droopy. So they went inside and discovered why the guest house wasn’t being used.

It was run-down, had holes in the walls, and Erin discovered the beds had spiders living under them. She found that out after waking up, because she had a rash of bites on her arm.

Frankly, the people who’d elected to camp outside—Numbtongue, Garia, Inkar, and Tkrn—had probably enjoyed their sleep far more. When Erin got up, exclaiming over the itchy bites and having to wash with a bucket drawn from the well, she found breakfast was a bunch of cold porridge and milk someone had left them outside the cottage.

Lyonette was haranguing the [Hostel Manager] before they left. She had a little Mrsha clinging to her, oddly tired.

“—poor quality food, completely inadequate rooms, and I noted that your [Stablehands] were barely able to bed the horses down. My companions had to do it themselves! Completely inept.”

“That’s my son.

“Well—I—it’s still poor service for the price!”

The angry woman glared at Lyonette, and they argued as the carriages were loaded up. Erin Solstice just stared.

The [Hostel Manager] noticed the [Innkeeper]’s eyes digging into the side of her face after about three minutes of arguing. She turned and snapped.

“What—what do you want?”

Erin just spoke after a long silence. Eating cold bisque was not a fun way to gain her strength, either.

“Is it fun?”

“Is what fun?”

“Is doing this fun?”

Erin gestured at the hostel and the…everything. It wasn’t a rich place, and if the guests leaving were any judge, it only got a decent amount of travellers most of the time. The woman just stared back, hard.

“Not everyone comes from Invrisil.”

Then she slammed the door and locked it before Erin could say anything else. The [Innkeeper] stopped Lyonette from banging on the door, but she was angry enough herself to say something. She noticed Inkar glancing her way and waved.

“Maybe I could ride with you or talk to you, Inkar?”

She tried to look forwards to the next day of travel. Then Mrsha groaned and began to cough. She rubbed at her throat, and Lyonette felt at her forehead.

“Oh dear.”

 

——

 

Mrsha was sick. She had a cold. Probably from running about and being excited late into the night.

It wasn’t a bad cold, just unpleasant. She blew her nose, coughed, and stared around at everyone with the banked fury of a victim of the most unfair and unscrupulous treatment.

She was sick on her big vacation! This was all your fault! You! And you! And especially you! She wanted to have fun, and now she felt like a wet dishrag.

Curse you! She shook her fist at Typhenous, her seat-passenger for the day. He adamantly claimed to be innocent.

 

——

 

Sick Mrsha, bad accommodations, and another day of this. Lyonette was [Messaging] ahead, and she quickly realized that the same problem applied—her ‘reservation’ wasn’t much good, and the owners did not like Goblins.

It would be the height of unpleasantness to find a place to camp—without a tent—as they arrived at dusk or, alternatively, have to argue their way into a place to sleep, so Inkar volunteered to help.

“We will ride ahead. We can find out if there is anywhere to stay.”

“I’ll ride with you! I can ride a horse. I think. I’d like to try, if that’s okay?”

Erin offered, and Inkar gave her a long stare. Erin worried the [Traveller] was mad about Erin taking Tkrn’s place or unwilling to ride with her, but Inkar just nodded.

“How many times have you ridden? Let’s see.”

She got off her horse and helped Erin into another one. Erin had forgotten how big horses were, and how…

“Whoa. Whoa. Um…hey, buddy.”

She tried to pat the horse on the back of the head. The animal whickered, sounding as uneasy as Erin. He took a few steps forwards, and Erin grasped at the reins, but was too nervous to pull them.

“I, uh—stop! Whoa!”

Inkar made a clicking sound with her tongue, and the horse stopped. It gazed at her as she reached up and patted it on the sides of the head. Soothed, the animal turned as Inkar smiled.

“You’ve ridden a horse?”

Her English wasn’t bad! She had a lot of practice, but she had an accent that Erin noticed. It sounded a bit high-pitched? As if she didn’t follow through on the full breath of some words. Perfectly understandable, but interesting.

“I have—a bit. For fun. At, like, ranches and for that kind of thing. But I, um, don’t know how to ride one. Is that okay?”

“Erin, the carriages move pretty fast…”

Lyonette was clearly worried Erin would get left behind, but Inkar reassured her.

“It’s okay. [We Travel Together]. My Skills and hers…we’ll go fast.”

She smiled, and Erin looked delighted. She sat up straighter as Inkar swung herself onto Samal’s saddle with one move. So cool! Mrsha whined as she pointed, and Lyonette patted her on the head.

“Sorry, dear, but no. Absolutely not.”

“We could gamble, Mrsha? I have a deck of cards.”

Typhenous! Absolutely…”

The carriages began to pull away as Erin saw Inkar wave at Tkrn, who had elected to sit with Numbtongue. The Hob was already playing a song as Gothica poked him, demanding he work on her theme song. Erin kicked her horse.

“Gee up! Let’s go after them, pal! You and me! What’s your name? Bobby? Stanford?”

The horse ignored her. Erin was trying to be a confident rider, so she pressed her heel into the sides. She thought it was hard, but the horse ignored her. Erin flushed as Inkar trotted forwards.

“Want to go? I wanted to talk to you.”

She smiled with her teeth like a Gnoll, and Erin blinked.

“Sure. How do I…? Whoa!”

The horse began trotting after Inkar’s horse. It barely listened to Erin, but followed the other horse. Erin quickly realized that she had no control over her mount, but it was a well-trained animal. It knew to follow Inkar, and once she learned to adjust to the bouncy rhythm—it was fun.

Being on a horse was nothing like being in a car or on a carriage. It felt—close to everything and fast. Not least because Inkar’s Skills meant they caught up to the carriage at a canter!

Both girls had to get moving first, though, so Inkar’s first half-hour was telling Erin to hold onto the reins differently, relax in the saddle, and watch her tongue in case she bit it while riding. Erin felt completely out of her depth, but Inkar was a good guide.

“Sit back a bit. Good. Now we ride! Do you want food?”

“Food? We had some bad porridge. You have, uh, any snacks?”

For answer, Inkar pulled out what looked like…travel pancakes? They were a flatbread, fried up, and she offered some to Erin.

Shelpek? I made them like home. Gnolls have something like it. And silkap.

She offered a jar of the fine meat spread, and Erin found herself munching on a piece of bread covered in the rich food and perked up.

The world felt so much better with the good food in her mouth! Suddenly, she glanced around, and the bleh morning took on some color. Erin stared around and saw a dirt road winding ahead, passing by a huge field of Yellats being yanked out of the ground by a [Farmer] with tongs.

He had an odd hat with two crystals dangling off it and stopped mid-pull with the orange vegetable dangling off the tongs to see the three carriages, each one painted a gentle green, passing by.

Clairei Carriages, painted in a bit of bright yellow, with the advisory underneath: Protected by the Order of Clairei Fields.

The field of Yellats was huge! Erin saw dried and what she would have assumed meant dead stalks of faded yellow amid the dry dirt, but that was just how Yellats grew. Indeed, the [Farmer] didn’t need to wait on rain since the crops native to Chandrar were so hardy. He waved a hand, and the crystals dangling from his wicker hat shone as Erin realized they were cooling gems.

“Hello there! Headed to Riverfarm?”

How do you know?

Erin shouted back. He laughed in a huge voice, amused.

“Everyone’s headed there these days! Safe roads in the Unseen Empire!”

“Thank you! Who are you? Tell me, so plains can sing your name!”

The [Farmer] blinked as Inkar slowed and shouted back.

Farmer Geleit! And who’re you?

“Inkar of Longstalker’s Fang, and Erin of Liscor!”

The [Traveller] shouted and laughed at his expression. Inkar rode high-backed, staring up at the sky, where grey clouds were passing over the blue. Erin’s face fell.

“Aw, no. Not rain—

It began to shower, and it looked like that morning would be bad again as the damp smell overtook the vague spicy hint of the Yellats and the fall air. But Inkar just laughed.

“Rain! Do you want a jacket?”

It bounced off her enchanted clothing, and she didn’t look like she even cared about the drizzle. Erin blinked, then accepted a long hide-jacket. The instant she put it on, she felt warmer, and the rain slid off the oil worked into it. She still got wet, but suddenly, they were riding through the morning rain instead of suffering it, and Erin saw the horse open its mouth to the sky and drink some of the drops, and then—

And then it felt like an adventure. A travelling adventure, not some great journey, but no less exciting for all that. Inkar turned to Erin and gave her a smile, seeing how Erin felt. And Erin felt a big grin come over her face.

“Is it warm enough, Erin?”

“Yep! Thanks! This is great, Inkar!”

A carriage slowed as the two young women picked up speed again, and Lyonette called out the window, seeming worried.

“Erin, are you too cold? We can have Ser Sest trade with you.”

“I’m fine! Inkar lent me a coat! Let’s go, Inkar! Ride faster, Bobby!

Bobby the horse ignored her until Inkar made a whistling sound, and both horses began to move. Then, Inkar was riding alongside Erin, and they were watching the rain drizzle down, waving at riders and talking.

Not all the time, and not about everything at first. Sometimes, one horse would slow and the other would follow, or one of them would point at something and the other would agree—that was something to stare at.

But unlike the carriages, Inkar was only too happy to slow and exchange words with someone on the road or call out. Which was interesting, because Erin was the [Innkeeper] and Inkar seemed like the reserved one.

She didn’t speak as long as others. She didn’t chatter. But she did greet almost everyone who passed her by, such that Erin wondered who said more, her at length, or Inkar from person-to-person.

“So you were in Longstalker’s Fang? What was it like?”

Inkar considered the question as she cut up half a carrot with a knife and fed it to both horses. She did it while sitting astride Samal, as if there were nothing easier.

“A bit like home. I lived outside the cities. We rode horses, we travelled—”

“Oh, nomadic? I had no idea! Where’s, um, Kazakhstan? Where do they kazak?”

Inkar gave Erin a blank look, and then, to her credit, she tried to smile at the joke. Erin turned red, and Inkar tried to explain.

“South of…Russia? It—hold on. I have a map.”

“You have a what?”

To Erin’s amazement, Inkar pulled out a drawing she had once made for Chieftain Eska after a few minutes of searching. She showed Erin where Kazakhstan was, and Erin embarrassed herself twice in as many minutes.

“Wait, Kazakhstan is that big? Is this map accurate?”

She had no idea how big Kazakhstan was or that it was in central Asia…or, really, what central Asia was. Because if east Asia was China, Korea, Japan, and so on, Kazakhstan bordered the middle east, a large nation landlocked as you headed north into that vast expanse you marked as ‘Russia’.

And Erin had barely known it existed, much less anything about the culture or people living there. But as Inkar explained, it had a lot of oil, cities filled with emerging industry, but an entire culture of people who still participated in horse races and who mixed with urban landscapes before heading out into the wide flatlands.

“I was going home. On a train. Then…I was walking in a place I thought was in the middle of nowhere. Lost—I thought it was home at first. It was dark.”

She had been lost in the Great Plains of Izril for almost a week and had been forced to cannibalize her smartphone to start a fire before Longstalker’s Fang had found her. That had been the hardest moment of her life, aside from the battle at the Meeting of Tribes.

“The Gnolls did not all like me, at first. Because I showed Honored Deskie how to make a device to help spin without working hard. So many of the [Spinners] played tricks. One put a bug in my tent.”

“Those jerks! Did you get back at them? Did Eska punish them?”

For answer, Inkar just smiled.

“Not much. I helped them, and we became friends after I apologized.”

“Apologized for what?”

Erin was outraged, but Inkar shook her head.

“Taking their jobs. All their classes and levels.”

That was another difference of opinion, and Erin’s righteous anger on Inkar’s behalf got confused, because the [Traveller] seemed quite calm about everything. She had won over a tribe’s approval, and as she showed Erin—

“Honored Deskie made this for me. The most beautiful clothing I have ever worn. Longstalker’s Fang and I will always be friends. See?”

Then she teleported ahead of Erin, and the [Innkeeper] shouted in amazement and wonder and envy.

“That’s so amazing! Could I buy clothing like that?”

“Maybe. Deskie is old. But maybe for a friend. She has to make it out of Waisrabbit fur, and it is hard to get much of that. I promised to hunt any I saw. But what about you?”

And then Erin had to tell her about Liscor, and she felt like it was hard to explain how she’d started, with meeting Relc and Klbkch at first and fumbling around in her inn, but Inkar listened and asked a lot of questions, shuddering when Erin described Skinner and all the monsters she’d met.

“You’re braver than most warriors. You saw so much danger.”

More than Inkar had with a tribe in one of Izril’s wildernesses. Erin demurred and asked what kind of monsters Inkar had seen—but they weren’t nearly as prolific. Monstrous bulls, semi-vampiric hunters, slimes, occasionally a rogue Wyvern…

 

——

 

They were so engrossed by talking that they were almost at their destination by early evening. Erin hadn’t realized they hadn’t stopped for more than a few stretches of the legs and to pee—Inkar had kept sharing out snacks periodically such that Erin never really got hungry for lunch.

They had also made splendid time thanks to the [Worldly Traveller]’s Skills. Like everyone else, Inkar had benefited greatly from the Meeting of Tribes, and she had a number of unique abilities.

Going faster on horseback was just the basic stuff. She had ears like a Gnoll, and as they entered a village where Lyonette had intended to make their second day of rest, it turned out, a nose like one too.

“[Gift of Friendship: Sharper Scents]. There are a lot of good smells—and bad—and people that way. Let’s see if they will let us stay the night.”

 

——

 

Erin’s good mood lasted until she felt how saddle-sore she was, but then she drank a healing potion for the day and felt better.

Then it plummeted again when it turned out not only was the local [Tavern] full up, but the owner flatly turned them away when they mentioned Goblins.

“If you want somewhere to stay, try one of the farms. But good luck. Goblins? A damn Chieftain raided last winter. Tremborag, the great bastard of the mountain. He’s dead and all of them with him. Are you mad? Are you—

Inkar pulled Erin away as the [Innkeeper] shook her fist. The angry young woman turned to Inkar.

“Maybe we’ve gotta pay them. I’ve got gold. How much is a room? Let’s offer them…uh…four more gold. Sixteen? I just want a room.”

Inkar studied Erin’s face. The [Innkeeper] was still tiring faster than she would have liked, and she was fed up. Inkar glanced at the coins.

“He’ll toss someone out instead. Let’s ask the farmers first. You can rest if you want?”

“No, I’ll come with you.”

 

——

 

The rain was picking up as Inkar led Erin from place to place, asking who might have room for an entire party. They were directed to a farm twenty minutes down the road, and by this point, Erin was desperate enough to offer that much gold just to stop staring.

The [Farmer] wasn’t that wary of them when he saw the two wet travellers, and he welcomed them into a home with two boys, both young, and his wife, who was just offering them tea when Erin mentioned the Goblins.

“Let them sleep here? Even the barn—our animals are in for the night. What if they eat ‘em all?”

Erin bristled.

“Goblins don’t eat—my friends aren’t—they’re not monsters. Listen, I’ve got—”

She was digging in her money pouch when Inkar forestalled her. Instead of responding directly to the worried [Farmer] who had lurched to his feet, Inkar took a sip of the tea and smiled.

“It’s very good. Have you lived here a long time?”

The woman, Miss Veierne, shook her head, casting a worried glance at Erin.

“We fled the raids when the Goblin Chieftain from the mountain came. We kept most of our animals, but we came here.”

“Why here?”

Inkar was digging for something in her bag of holding as Erin watched the two boys staring at her as if she had antlers. She was trying to think of a way to convince the farmer. She had to introduce Numbtongue to him! But if he chased them out before she could get him to sit down…she felt like he was not an unreasonable man, but he looked worried, and she understood why.

But Inkar didn’t wait for Numbtongue. She was nodding and gestured to herself.

“I am Inkar of Longstalker’s Fang. I came from their tribe. I come from further away still, but I lived with them in the Great Plains.”

“Longstalker’s Fang? That sounds like—you mean a Gnoll tribe? All the way in the Great Plains? You’ve come thousands of miles! Were you there with all that—unpleasantness I heard about? Drakes and Gnolls and these new lands? Dead gods, but we felt that and heard out days later what happened.”

The [Farmer] broke off from his study of Erin. The [Worldly Traveller] smiled and nodded.

“Izril’s north is very beautiful. We have come to visit friends in the Unseen Empire—yes, I was there.”

You were?

The family looked at Inkar, astonished, and were about to ask a dozen questions when Inkar held something out.

“Here. This is Fang Brie. A gift for you all from Longstalker’s Fang. They make it out of their Shockwoolies.”

“Oh my. Really? But this is so generous—are you sure?”

Miss Veierne seemed uncertain, but Inkar’s eyes crinkled up with mischief. She leaned forward.

“Please, take it. It is my [Traveller’s Gift From Home]. My great Skill of Level 30.”

Erin’s eyes went round, and she beheld a Skill from a class unlike even an [Innkeeper], much less a [Mage] or [Warrior]. The round piece of cheese covered in wax paper wasn’t huge, hardly a comical wheel, but it was actual, real cheese.

And it tasted sharp! Even a bit electric, but it was also sweet, and Erin knew this because the family cut it open and shared it around as Inkar told them about living among the Gnolls and an account of the Meeting of Tribes.

This village had no scrying orb, so Inkar was the first and best account of the tale that Erin had thought everyone knew about. The family listened solemnly and fetched out handkerchiefs when Inkar began to describe the Doombringers and the terrible conspiracy.

“All that’s been going on for centuries in the south? Hold on, won’t you? We have—there’s some brisket from a goat and—”

The [Farmer], whose name was Oreth, hurried out. Erin was sipping tea and wondering about the Goblins when he came back with no less than eight people from the village and some of the brisket.

She found herself having dinner as Inkar told a number of villagers her story again, and the brie disappeared along with the meat as she brought out her flatbread and then a jar of jam she’d bought in Liscor.

At some point, Erin stopped fidgeting and trying to look for a moment to talk about the Goblins, and she started watching Inkar. She broke in, adding more details about the Gnolls and talked earnestly as the people of the Village of Alast reacted with outrage, shock, wonder, and confusion at what had happened.

“New lands. New lands…never seen before.”

That was all Farmer Oreth said as the rain began to really hammer down. Erin glanced down at a [Message] scroll shaking by her side. She unraveled it and groaned.

“Oh no. Lyonette’s here, and they went to the tavern.”

They had spent two hours, and no rooms were available! Oreth looked at Inkar, hesitated, and Veierne took his arm. They vanished into the kitchen as Inkar glanced up, and Oreth came back.

“It’s not that tidy, but I can shovel the hay around, and we’ve got linens. How many did you say there were? You can roll those carriages right inside, Miss Erin, Miss Inkar. As for food—we’ll see what we have.”

“Really?”

Erin fished in her money pouch, but the [Farmer] smiled, embarrassed.

“It’s just a farmhouse. We wouldn’t take coin for that.”

“Then—let us pay for food! And do you have a room for a sick Gnoll girl?”

“Of course! Bring her in right away. What does she have? There’s someone with a few Skills down the road.”

Veierne seemed appalled, and no sooner was Erin writing a response to Lyonette than the three carriages rolled in. The sick and cramped passengers looked ready for a terrible night, but Lyonette herself perked up as the [Midwife] came out to check on Mrsha and tell everyone they’d have food in a trice.

And that was Inkar’s doing. She smiled as Erin turned to her, and the [Innkeeper] narrowed her eyes.

“That was so smart! Did you know that would work?”

Inkar gave her a puzzled look.

“No. But I gave them a gift because it was polite. They are very generous.”

Oreth had halted as he saw the three Goblins standing in the rain, and the two boys hid in the doorway. But Numbtongue held the guitar in his hands, and he began to play a merry song. The [Farmer] blinked.

The [Bard] was a good student of Erin’s. But Inkar…there wasn’t any guile in her expression. Erin watched her and exhaled, then smiled.

“No wonder you’re such a good [Traveller].”

She liked Inkar in that moment as if they had known each other for months. And Erin thought—if anything, she could learn to be a little bit like Inkar. So that was their trip to Riverfarm. Erin feeling a bit like a lump, a bit like someone on an adventure, out of her element but enjoying the rain. Learning instead of telling.

But she had forgotten, perhaps, that the world didn’t revolve around her. Not that she would have ever said as much. Erin slept on a lovely bed inside the farmhouse while some of the guests camped in the farmhouse, but with pillows and bedding aplenty, her belly full of good food and a night listening to stories, both familiar and of living on Izril, from people who had seen the Goblin King’s rampage and spoke of the Five Families like distant, if erratic, protectors.

Then she slept, wondering if Inkar were levelling, and awoke to the news of the High Passes exploding.

 

——

 

It was the strangest thing. Erin felt the vibration in her bones, the beating of her heart. She glanced around and wondered if you could make a white flag out of a shirt and a stick.

She listened as Lyonette read out loud the [Message] that had been relayed to her by Selys.

Thousands of Eater Goats. Hundreds of Gargoyles led by Bossels—leadership, advanced monsters. They’re storming down the main pass.”

“Where’s that, exactly?”

“Northwest of Celum. Ryoka’s run it—it’s a lot of miles from Celum. The city’s probably safe. So is the farm.”

Garia was trembling as Numbtongue put an arm on her shoulder, a hand on his sword hilt. He was listening with as much insight as the City Runner. He knew the High Passes.

“Bossels, Numbtongue?”

“Big. Strong. Smart, for Gargoyles. Have weapons, armor—we fought some. Never hundreds. Each clan has Bossels. One dies to a Frost Wyvern but hurts it. Two can beat a Frost Wyvern, but one dies. Three always wins, and all three live.”

Erin gulped. Those sounded like a higher caliber of monster than even Liscor was used to. She began to pace.

“Eater Goats. They…they don’t stop.”

She looked at Numbtongue, and his head bowed. They both remembered Bugear.

“No. More of them—the more dangerous. Thousands? They won’t stop. Can’t kill them. Not with pikes, not with spells.”

“Surely a good pikewall would do it. No offense to Goblins, but…”

Numbtongue glanced at Dame Ushar and shook his head. He drew a finger alongside his throat.

“Nope. They run onto pikes. Then eat the pikes. Then eat the Humans. Too many. Overwhelming death. Bitey death.”

The Thronebearers muttered uneasily. Typhenous tugged at his beard.

“Indeed. As a senior adventurer, I can tell you that, as horde-monsters go, Eater Goats are entirely unpleasant. Only Crelers are worse. What caused this?”

“They don’t know. Only—Selys is telling me that the Mage’s Guilds have advised all the cities near the High Passes to evacuate. They’re already rushing people away, and the Merchant’s Guild and the Driver’s Guild are sending anyone they can to help…the Adventurer’s Guild has put out bounties on the horde, but it’s unclear how many will go to fight.”

“Even a Gold-rank team won’t go into certain death.”

Ser Lormel predicted darkly. Erin turned.

“This is terrible! Okay, we—it’s pretty far from Celum, right? But still closer than Invrisil? Can we make it back to Invrisil in two days or will one of the cities be under attack?”

“One is less than half a day’s ride from the High Passes. Why?”

Ser Dalimont was checking a map as Inkar listened to Tkrn explain quietly the threats of the High Passes to someone not native to this region. Erin put her hands behind her back, trying to pace.

“Then—then Grimalkin. And Chaldion! And who else can we get? Saliss? Does he have enough potions? We’ve got to turn around now. How fast can we get to—?”

“Erin. What are you talking about?”

Erin turned and saw Lyonette staring at her. She pointed back the way they’d come as Farmer Oreth gave her a strange look.

“We’ve gotta help.”

Lyonette spoke, as if trying to drip Apista’s honey into a jar of understanding.

“No, Erin. We don’t. You’re on vacation, and we’re days away. By the time we get back to Invrisil, all the evacuations and adventurers will already be on the way. Leave it.”

“But the monsters—”

Erin felt like she was being dragged back to Liscor, but Dame Ushar cleared her throat.

“My understanding is that the Five Families have long since been alerted to the issue. The local nobility and cities are mobilizing their militias. They’ll try to halt the horde at the first city they can, and if it can’t be stopped, House Veltras or another noble’s force will stop it.”

“If they head to Esthelm, Liscor’s army might sortie and hold the pass. Hells, they might let it go for Liscor and have the city use their wall spells.”

Tkrn offered. Erin looked around.

“But—what about Saliss? Or Chaldion?”

“Maybe they’ll do something. Send a [Message], Erin. But you aren’t doing anything.”

Lyonette folded her arms, and Numbtongue nodded.

“No craziness. Just do something here, and we keep going. Riverfarm is too far away, too.”

Erin cast around for support, but even Mrsha, Bane of Crelers, just sniffed and gazed at Erin with a vague sense of…expectation.

Were they going to do this? Turn around and race south to a battle they might be days late for? Erin…Erin…

What did you want us to do? So Erin Solstice took a breath and felt it in her veins. Like how she had felt when watching a tragedy on the news, far, far from where she was on Earth.

A vague sense of helpless unease.

It didn’t feel right. Not anymore. So she sat down, wrote [Message] spells as the carriages were loaded up, and ended up riding to Riverfarm on the third day, writing notes to friends and waiting for responses. She didn’t turn around to Invrisil. She had something else to do.

She was on vacation, and for once, The Wandering Inn would not march on the High Passes.

It wasn’t her fight.

 

——

 

The Horns of Hammerad were packing up while Ceria argued with Yvlon. She gave up in the end and sighed, but the inn was quieter than Ishkr expected.

He was almost as shocked as Erin when he got the [Message].

 

Ishkr. Stop. Will not be returning to the inn. Stop. Please tell any adventurers to take gear if needed. Stop. It’s their choice, stop. Hold down the fort. Stop.

 

“Stop?”

He held up the message and didn’t get the irony, but he understood the broad meaning. The humor…he wondered what her face had been like when she sent it.

A few Antinium, Menolit, a handful of regulars, and Relc stirred when Ishkr announced Erin wasn’t coming back. Ceria threw up her hands.

“See? Why are we joining the muster? Even Erin’s aware how far away it is.”

“Someone’s got to stop the monsters. Have you gone mad, Ceria?”

Yvlon glared at her, and the half-Elf scratched at her head.

“…No, but I’m aware of how many ‘thousands’ is. Fine, other teams are going. Let’s scope it out.”

And that was it. Ishkr saw a [Guardsman] get up and sigh in relief. Some of the Antinium looked around blankly, but only Relc sighed.

“Damn. No Solstice event? Come on! She’s losing her touch! Oh well, glad she’s safe.”

Ishkr got back to work. He didn’t believe Erin’s message. Oh, he believed she might not come back, but he was waiting. A few Antinium hires were on trainee duty, so he let them serve their counterparts, mostly the Antinium on break like Squad 5 had been or Pawn’s Painted Antinium.

That was a good portion of the business at the inn without Erin. The other part were guests who just liked it, like Menolit, and Ishkr was enough to hold down the fort for the remaining guests with Liska’s help. He sighed.

She was forty minutes late. But he kept working and occasionally checked the position of the sun. It took him only twenty minutes before he heard an exclamation, and someone came running into the inn. Ishkr nodded to himself as Relc came roaring back in.

She did it! I knew it! And I’m gonna miss it!”

 

——

 

<Mass Heroic Quest – Stop the Monster Hordes from the High Passes!>

Failure: Horde dissolves, destroys (8) settlements.

Monsters are pouring out of the High Passes! Eater Goats, Gargoyles led by Bossels—watch out! An army needs to fight them back. Any brave adventurers or people, stop the monsters and evacuate people! I can’t offer much, but please do what you can and stay safe!

Conditions: Destroy monsters, save lives in immediate danger, aid with evacuation or intelligence leading to the horde’s destruction. Higher value monsters rewarded proportionally.

Quest Reward Pool: 200 Gold Coins, flawed simple agate, half-pot of butter, iron butter knife, experience in <Combat>, <Aid> class categories.

 

For someone who was interested…well, it was all interesting. Firstly, that there were other elements to the quest that had appeared.

For instance, this was a mass quest. Second? There were conditions, a way to fail, as if it could be judged. Finally—the quest pool.

The morality didn’t come into play. Oh, it was interesting, but the keen minds who noted this phenomenon were concerned mostly about that last bit.

A simple agate? The gold…predictable. But why a half-pot of butter? A butter knife?

The answer became obvious over the course of a few hours as the <Quest> circulated. But in the opening moments of the day, when it was posted—only Erin Solstice realized what was going on.

Erin, stop putting things into the quest!

Lyonette stopped Erin from adding the farmer’s family heirloom to the <Quest>. Erin guiltily lowered her hand.

“I didn’t know I could do that! I’ll pay you back!”

“Did you just…post a pot of butter as a quest reward?”

Typhenous looked at the place where the butter had been and his hither-to unbuttered piece of toast, which would never receive any, as the butter—and butter knife—were gone. But that wasn’t the fascinating thing.

Once they got on the road, Erin was reading [Message] spells like the Horns telling her they’d head to whatever rally point was set up and do what they could. She wrote a reply, and was told by Selys not to come back, that Liscor was abuzz with the news, although they were far from danger, as was Celum, for now.

Then she received an update.

 

Quest Reward Pool: 1236 Gold Coins, flawed simple agate, half-pot of butter, iron butter knife, experience in <Combat>, <Aid> class categories.

 

“Hm? What the—”

No less than ten minutes later, as Erin was waiting for Ishkr or Selys to confirm what was going on, it happened again. It was like…she could always check on her <Quests>. The ones she had posted.

But if she thought about the one she’d just added, Erin realized something had changed.

 

Quest Reward Pool: 5236 Gold Coins, flawed simple agate, half-pot of butter, iron butter knife, experience in <Combat>, <Aid> class categories.

 

And it kept happening.

 

Quest Reward Pool: 5237 Gold Coins, 15 Silver Coins, 44 Copper, flawed simple agate, half-pot of butter, iron butter knife, experience in <Combat>, <Aid> class categories.

 

Then it began getting weird.

 

Quest Reward Pool: 6536 Gold Coins, 515 Silver Coins, 994 Copper, flawed simple agate, iron butter knife, 299 potatoes, goosefeather pillow, 5 pots of ink, steel sword, rusted buckler, 22 apples, 18 fake gold coins, pewter mortar and pestle, low-grade healing potion, full pot of butter—

 

And it kept going. The list, no, the quest pool began expanding so much that Erin began reading the world’s craziest laundry list. Then she heard from Selys what was going on.

 

Erin, they’re adding to the quest in the Adventurer’s Guilds! Lady Reinhart, apparently, added those four thousand gold coins, and she’s done that in addition to ‘regular’ bounties in the Adventurer’s Guild. What have you done? 

—Selys

 

You could add to a quest bounty. And if Erin was right…

“I bet you get a proportion of the rewards! So that’s how it works!”

She sat back as Numbtongue folded his arms, fuming.

“It’s not a flawed agate. It’s nice.”

That gave her some hope. More adventurers and people might go help just for a slice of that growing pie. She wasn’t stupid; some people would help purely for the money, but if it was more hands evacuating citizens…

She noticed something.

“Wait a second, did someone already get the pot of butter? So it’s already giving out rewards!”

Erin sat back and felt better. Not like she’d helped, not really, but better. But she wondered who would stop that many goats. Who cared enough? Magnolia, enough to offer gold? Or…House Veltras?

Who would care and do something? She didn’t, and it gnawed on her. But Erin turned ahead and also thought of a promise she had made. For a girl named Nanette. Her head bowed, and she exhaled.

Yes. She did have to keep on this path.

That was how, on another day with rain and monsters, a [Witch] came to Riverfarm. The instant she passed over the border where a totem pole decorated with eyes sat by the road, an [Emperor] felt it. Like a burning outrage, like instinctual hatred. Like—

He closed his eyes and smiled grimly. It was not his heart that beat for instant dislike. His heart surged against the other emotions foreign to his soul. So the mind and the heart liked her even more even as he felt it in his blood, like boiling contempt.

Erin Solstice had arrived.

 

——

 

A girl sat with locks of slightly curly, chestnut brown hair tangling underneath a hat fit for a child. Navy blue and dark, but not poor, not ill-made. Simply a child’s hat, because it had a little star on top.

Made of thin wood, painted silver, like an idea. A child’s idea of magic, and so simple, so innocent and thus so wonderful that it sometimes made people smile to see it.

In other days, she had been hurrying along, trying to match a longer stride, looking up, looking ahead, looking behind uncertainly but expecting in all three directions only great things.

That was the promise. Something scary, perhaps, or wonderful, hard work or daunting as it might be—her round cheeks would light up with a smile or a frown of determination, or she’d crumple a bit and look for guidance.

But such things were fine, because the world was solid. Where she stepped, the ground held firm, and in those days, her hair had been shorter and always combed, because such things were expected, and if it had ever become a nest, someone would have briskly produced a comb and lectured her about appearances as she gently untangled the locks.

There were other hands, now, and gentler words. Gentler words, but never kinder, never better, and never more welcome, so the hair tangled. The hat, with its silver star, no longer seemed to glimmer.

The girl sat under a tree like a doll with its strings cut. Her name was Nanette Weishart, and her mother was no more. It was a terrible thing to tell a child directly or confront. Yet she was a [Witch]. And Califor’s daughter should do nothing less.

On this day, she thought like a dream, hoping perhaps she’d wake and knowing that her days of daydreams were forever gone. But she still thought, as she sat, of children. Of mothers.

Ever since she had been old enough to walk and know, she had been a secret daughter of Califor. Not that her mother had ever left her side or been ashamed. Shame had met Califor and walked the other way down the street.

No, it was, as the great Witch of her time had told Nanette, purely practical. Nanette should not be favored. Whatever she was should not be done in the shadow of a name. So Nanette became Califor’s apprentice, already startling, for the Witch Califor had never had any, but a fair one, whom [Witches] held expectations of, but treated like any other.

By contrast, when she had heard of Wiskeria, even from afar, and especially when they had been preparing to visit Riverfarm, the other [Witch] had always been Belavierr’s daughter.

No…that wasn’t right. Nanette had never heard the other, older [Witches] say ‘Belavierr’s daughter’. It was more that Belavierr was Wiskeria’s mother. An odd distinction, only a change of words. But [Witches] paid attention to words.

Wiskeria had been kinder than Nanette thought. Odder too, but not in a way Nanette expected. She had feared an Alevica or someone who walked heavy in the old ways, like Mavika, or simply was, defiant of all whispers, like Hedag.

Yet Wiskeria was…normal. And when she had said that, her mother had looked at her and told her to find the true Wiskeria. Which was how Califor had always taught her daughter when she was wrong.

So Nanette had thought and listened and realized how [Witches] talked of Wiskeria was odd. They spoke of Belavierr’s legend and were glad Wiskeria was no monster to sacrifice all for a power so depraved it defied death. They were relieved she denounced her mother, and that, to all intents and purposes, she was naught but a credit to [Witches].

…But then they spoke of her, in the same breath, with a bit of disappointment.

Wiskeria? She’s talented, in her way, but she never took to my lessons. She is exceedingly practical, but I don’t know what to make of her.

So spoke Agratha, who praised Wiskeria’s lack of showing off, but found her disquietingly hard to read. She would, with Agratha’s encouragement, seek out others and try to befriend them or perform ‘good acts’, which would endear Agratha’s style of craft to the world.

But something made the Teacher Witch uneasy, and so she did not talk to Wiskeria much.

She knows every old way, and if I wore her face, I would sneer and spit in my own shadow for daring to try to teach her. I think she knows it all, but she practices no great craft. Never have I seen a greater failure of a [Witch] for what she should be. But is it failure if she is the Stitch Witch’s daughter? I can judge neither, but she is not mine.

And there was Oliyaya, whom even Califor respected for her views on craft. Oliyaya, who told the others that Wiskeria knew more than she.

Yet Nanette had done magic with Wiskeria and seen no great art. So, the little girl had realized, before her mother died, that something was off about Wiskeria. But she had thought Wiskeria was kind, and kindness was all Nanette needed to like someone.

Her craft was—had been—happiness. Happiness and contentment and good things. Califor had indulged it with a bit of exasperation and told Nanette it would not last. But for the moment, the apprentice had trundled along, tucking a smile for a meal into a hat filled with a passing compliment, an infectious laugh, and she had baked little tarts filled with mirth like sugar.

Now, her hat lay empty on her head, and everything she put in it drained away like water through a sieve. Only grief sat there, brooding and heavy. So much so that she could barely raise her head.

Only the other [Witches] knew what to do with her. So Nanette was like Wiskeria to those that remained.

A puzzle. Here were the daughters of two great [Witches]. One was too young, and grief might eat her whole, but she should be saved, must be saved, yet it was hard.

The other was older, a [Witch] on her own, and a [Witch] was a [Witch]. No one had forgotten.

…But a [Witch] of Law? Could she even have that as a craft? She did less magic and more mundane things than even Agratha. They were puzzles apiece, and perhaps that was why Wiskeria often visited Nanette.

Even if her mother had been the one to end Califor. Perhaps because of that.

They could have been great friends.

Nanette thought that and felt a lump in her throat, like a frog. A tingle in her toes, a creeping down her spine. A [Witch] paid attention to such things, Califor said. Sometimes, it meant you needed a massage or you were getting a chill. Other times, it meant something else.

However, how many [Witches] knew each stage of the two moons that hung overhead? How many could still speak the old words and not be laughed at by the trees? Nanette understood that when the older [Witches] saw Wiskeria and said, ‘what a shame’ without saying it, they wondered what she could do.

Nanette? She knew. Not that Califor had taught her the old ways. They were lessons at midnight or in the blazing sun, where dark things couldn’t listen or take note. And the lessons were sometimes just stories in a pool of crystal water, where Nanette tried not to splash about while she listened to a secret or a…a change of perspective.

That was how Califor had carefully taught her daughter, looking to raise a child as much as lead a [Witch] to her craft. But Belavierr?

Of all the differences between the two, and they were great [Witches], the one thing Nanette would always believe, always—was that Califor had been the better mother. For Belavierr had taught her daughter, in her strange love…

Everything.

The result was Wiskeria. Wiskeria, who sat with dark hair, closer to black, but the faintest bit blue—like her robes—if you looked hard enough. Her eyes were like a pale firefly’s yellow crossed with the wereflames in a swamp, a lurid green.

But she didn’t often meet your eyes long, so you might never notice how beautiful and eerie those eyes were. If you looked, you might never notice the roots of her hair tinged blue. Her dress was simple and ordinary to the point where it offended other [Witches], even Agratha. For where Agratha took her craft to be inviting and accessible and non-threatening, Wiskeria craved something else. She was a wonderful [Witch], with all the potential in the world.

Her hat was empty. She had no craft, no stored anything. So she was the least of [Witches], even among the youngest apprentices. Even Nanette.

She sat down next to Nanette, and she was so silent she might have been a corpse. She was so still that a butterfly landed on her shoulder almost at once. Nanette had been sitting there, a doll filled with grief, for hours.

Yet Wiskeria was somehow less of a presence than the younger girl. Nanette had to breathe and fidget, despite how she lay there against the oak. Wiskeria…she had to do all those things, surely. But when she spoke, the butterfly flew away in a terror, like an insect having a heart-attack.

“I killed a father today. I snuck upon him while he was searching for food, and I broke his neck. It was well done, or so Mister Ram said. Then I made a mistake with Yesel. Rulent was sick, but it didn’t matter, nor her lack of sleep. It mattered, but it didn’t. I suppose it was how she said it.”

She stretched her legs out in the grass, and Nanette listened. She looked sideways and saw Wiskeria staring thoughtfully ahead. It had probably seemed quite normal to everyone else, but it was the hardest thing for Wiskeria. Harder than fighting or resolving disputes between [Witches]. Harder than speaking to Laken.

Not for the reasons Nanette had thought at first. The younger girl spoke, coughed, and hacked out what felt like dust in her lungs.

“Who was the father?”

“I never knew his name. He was a racoon.”

That was what you had to ask Wiskeria. The first time she had told Nanette she had murdered sixteen people, the girl had almost gotten up and ran. Then she had realized why Wiskeria told no one, not even Mavika, her true thoughts.

“Where?”

“The fields. I gave Ram his body. Should I have killed his daughters too?”

To that, Nanette had no good response off the tip of her tongue. So she held it and thought, as a good [Witch] should. Then she asked a question.

“Did you have to kill him?”

It was Wiskeria’s turn to think. She adjusted her hat and peered up at the sky. In the distance, both [Witches] could see Riverfarm below the forest where Durene’s cottage lay. Across the swift-flowing river, past what had been burned land, the crops were growing and more and more buildings were springing up. Soon, the place where the old village had been buried in snow, where death still hung like tears, might be resettled or turned into a proper graveyard.

Laken Godart had killed Riverfarm as much as saved it. What sprouted here was, in some ways, anathema to [Witches]. It would become the seed of nations. It was that already. But they needed it as well, in this world where the wild was vanishing. The Gnolls had learned that as well. It was a lesson.

Someone was coming. They sensed it and saw it in the gathering of people, like a vast anthill turning upon an [Emperor]’s will. People were preparing an entire parade. Beniar and his Darksky Riders were setting forth, and was that a dot on the horizon, coming their way? Nanette felt an itching in her hair, but it might have been a bug. Wiskeria stared ahead, then ignored whatever she was seeing.

“Did I have to murder him? No. I did it because I thought I might be praised for it.”

Nanette waited for a larger reason, but that was it. What should terrify her was that Wiskeria meant it. There was little distinction between the racoon and another person. A Human person and the racoon she both called ‘him’ or ‘father’.

Nanette wondered if Wiskeria would be more bothered if it had been a Human or Drake. She thought she knew the answer.

But she tried. She had learned, and she carefully unpacked Yesel’s interaction.

“I suppose it was because the boy wasn’t that sick. Yet if he had been about to breathe his last, I would have been right, isn’t that so?”

“That’s right. Can’t you tell the difference?”

Wiskeria shifted, and Nanette did not mean to hurt her feelings. After a touch of awkwardness, Wiskeria replied.

“…He could have breathed his last in the night. A child’s lungs can close. A summer cold can be a parasite or rot in the lungs. He was still sick; these could be his last days.”

“But you don’t know that.”

“But Yesel couldn’t know he’ll live.”

“She hoped he would.”

“Hm. I think I see it.”

Despite her grief, the young Nanette stirred. If she had been well and not heavy with sadness, she would have laughed, or given Wiskeria a disbelieving look, or…instead, she asked a question that bubbled out of her like the curiosity it was made of.

“Wiskeria. How did you live as an adventurer? Was it this hard?”

For answer, Wiskeria tilted her head upwards and stared at the sky. She had begun weeping, nearly five months ago, for no reason. Not even she had known why until later when she had learned that the [Maid] called Sacra was dead. Wiskeria had known her as Odveig.

“It’s easier to be an adventurer. You smile at people, you tell jokes, and if you just do what you’re told, that’s called ‘professional’. People rather liked me, I thought. My team often told me I didn’t have to do ‘menial tasks’, but it made me liked. And I didn’t lead my team. Odveig did. So we went around and killed whomever we were paid to. A task as old as time. My teammates seemed happy. Murder and pay. Simple and easy.”

That was how she saw it. Then Wiskeria smiled sadly.

“…I guess that might have been too easy. Odveig was really Sacra. I wonder how odd she thought I was. I never knew, Nanette. Really and truly. I thought I had a friend. Oh well, I’ve been wrong before.”

The doll-like girl’s limbs twitched. She almost wanted to hug Wiskeria, to stand—but Belavierr’s shadow loomed wide, and Califor was dead. So Nanette didn’t move as a cry came up from Riverfarm.

It sounded like, ‘Goblin’. Wiskeria turned her head and hesitated, but she relaxed when she saw an [Emperor] raise his hand.

“You don’t sound mad Sacra tricked you.”

Nanette whispered as the other [Witch] began to stand. Wiskeria turned as she adjusted her hat and made sure she was looking proper. She gave Nanette a blank glance.

“No. She was probably told to trick me.”

“But you thought she was your friend.”

For answer, Wiskeria shrugged.

“Yes, but she had her job. And I do not blame Magnolia Reinhart for spying on Belavierr’s daughter. I would, if I was her. Something is happening below. I should be there, as Laken’s [General].”

Nanette peered up at Wiskeria, and she eyed the other [Witch]. Wiskeria had been a Silver-rank adventurer. Before that, she had apparently sailed from Terandria and worked as a sailor in all but class for two years. Now, she was a [General] for an [Emperor].

Did it feel more or less important to her? Did she enjoy it? What a mystery she was. Nanette spoke softly, as below, someone like a lighthouse, like a roaring flame, like a waving flag upon the wind, strode into Riverfarm. Nanette wondered who she was. Wiskeria turned her head once and then looked back.

“Wiskeria. Why don’t you practice the old ways? Why don’t you strive for your craft? Mavika says you could surpass her. Oliyaya thinks you could teach her. Why are you like this?”

For answer, Wiskeria thought for a long moment, then nodded down the hill to where her humble house lay and Riverfarm was in uproar. She spoke, though Nanette knew she would have to uncover the true meaning.

“There’s an old man around Riverfarm. Every morning, as I wake, and in the night, I can hear him weeping. He knows I’m here, and he whispers to me, begging for me to pick him up and carry him with me. He’s dying, and Mother ignored him because he had nothing she wanted. Maybe Califor could hear him. Perhaps Mavika can or only knows that he’s there. But if I bent down, I could lift him up and add him to my craft. Or strike a bargain for Laken or do many things.”

What old man? But Nanette saw Wiskeria adjust her hat.

“A [Witch] with no hat has walked into Riverfarm. I can sense her like a [Lady]’s fire, smelling of Goblins, and ghosts. I can hear…her coming. I can see it on the wind and in the ants. If I wanted to protect myself, aid or help her, or make good on my promise to end my mother’s evil, I could whisper down a well long abandoned into the deeps. I could journey to Chandrar and cut a piece of flesh that never rots and devour it. Or if I feared that, walk into the blood of this land, like Rie—though she’s also corrupted in her way—and offer to strike a pledge with the nobles of this land. Those are but options. I could bleed myself for a month and then offer it all up for a pact if there were anyone left to listen.”

All these things were secrets. Terrible secrets. Nanette felt chills as she heard rituals that Califor would never teach her. Some things should be forgotten. Yet Wiskeria knew them, and she could do them all, Nanette believed. Wiskeria turned her head, and her smile was no more or less bland with all the words that made the air darken. The promise of such acts and deeds…became a strange look in her eyes. It was the first true emotion she’d shown this day, and Nanette read it on Wiskeria’s face.

Slightly scornful. Slightly sad. Wistful and resigned, and…Wiskeria shook her head.

“I could do it. But how boringly predictable would I be? Mother taught me too well. It’s easy. That’s not my craft.”

With that, she turned and strode down the hill. An ordinary witch with a hat full of nothing. Wiskeria headed down to meet a [Witch] with no hat. Nanette closed her eyes.

If only they had met earlier. Indeed, they might have been such wonderful friends.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice had fallen in love with Inkar. Just like so many of her guests, over the course of only three days, she had seen Inkar’s way of travelling across the world and envied and admired how she was.

“I want to help you. Are you going back to Longstalker’s Fang?”

“Probably. I don’t know what Tkrn will do. Or what will happen. I like Liscor, but Eska might need me.”

The [Innkeeper] solemnly placed a hand on Inkar’s shoulder and patted it a few times, and the [Traveler] smiled at her. Erin looked ahead to the people waiting at the huge town and spoke to Inkar.

“I’ll do something. For you and your tribe. You helped Mrsha so much—I promise. It’ll be great.”

“Uh oh. Goodbye tribe.”

Gothica spoke up, and Erin turned her head to glare. Erin knew it was a wild promise, but she meant it with all her heart. Then she raised her head and turned, for she felt him across the middle distance. A blind man…with an aura so vast she had ridden into it. She felt as if there were an eye looking at her. But the person…Erin waved at Laken Godart and realized he couldn’t see her since he was blind.

But to her amazement—he waved back.

 

——

 

“Gothica. Why are you harassing Erin? She fought the Raskghar, and you helped bring her back. Stop it.”

Numbtongue hissed as he disembarked from the carriage. He poked the little Cave Goblin in the side, reminding her of everything. Gothica stomped on his foot. As if she had ever forgotten. She glowered up at him and whispered back.

“I am [Goth]. Goth doesn’t respect stupid laws or authority.”

“Right, but Erin is nice.”

“Erin is also biggest authority ever. No killing Goblins. Bullies Titan. I level up. Who bullies biggest bully?”

Gothica tapped her chest proudly. Numbtongue opened his mouth and thought about it. He folded his arms and nodded.

“…Mm. Good, keep it up.”

He gazed ahead at Riverfarm, and the [Bard] wondered if this was such a good idea. For the instant he was spotted—and he had to admit, he’d gotten used to this on the ride here—the first thing the people did was shout.

“Goblin!”

They pointed to him and Ulvama. Gothica, ironically, was harder to pick out since Riverfarm’s folk weren’t used to a [Goth]-style Goblin. Numbtongue smiled and didn’t reach for his sword; he unslung his guitar.

He didn’t want to call lightning down, but he was noting the armed [Cataphract] and the better-than-average fighters here. And the Troll. Was she wearing armor? He decided he’d let the Thronebearers fight her.

He had heard of Riverfarm, though he had never been with Rags. But Ulvama had said there were possibly captive Goblins here, a reason for Erin coming. And that this had been a bloody battlefield between Rags’ tribe and the Humans. So Numbtongue waited—but then he realized that cry of ‘Goblin’ was odd.

A man with his eyes closed had raised his hand at the furor, but no one had raised a bow, just pointed at him. Which was the most tame reaction that Numbtongue had had since leaving Invrisil.

Strange and stranger. Lyonette looked worried, but she advanced with the Thronebearers flanking her and Erin just as planned, and the welcoming parade seemed to kick off as planned.

His Majesty, [Emperor] Laken Godart of the Unseen Empire, Protector of Durene’s Cottage, welcomes the [Innkeeper] of Liscor, Erin Solstice! A friend of Riverfarm and ally of the Wind Runner!

Some fancy [Knight]-fellow was shouting the address as Numbtongue sauntered after Erin. Unlike the [Innkeeper], he could observe since he wasn’t in the spotlight. Erin had frozen up a bit at all the fanfare—literally, a group was wailing on some trumpets. A cheer began, and he wondered what Ryoka had done here.

But Numbtongue also got the juicy gossip from the rest of his companions.

“Ryoka was here? Oh, with that Centauress. Charlay. I heard she’s a character. Numb, they’re not aiming bows at you! Good sign?”

Garia hissed at Numbtongue. On the other side, Dame Ushar was whispering to Ser Sest.

“Lormel’s got his shield up in [Invisible Guard]. We should have had two Torchlights securing this area.”

“It can’t be helped. We are entering a foreign monarch’s presence. Is that a…a [Knight]? It surely is. Low-level, but…who is that half-Troll?”

“Politeness. That’s the [Emperor]’s consort, Sest.”

“No, I know. Durene Faerise. I meant—her class. Her class is making me…”

Achoo!

Mrsha sneezed all over Ulvama as the exasperated [Shaman] carried her. She’d fed Mrsha a little tonic, but now Ulvama responded by wiping her arm all over Mrsha’s fur. The Gnoll tried to punch her, but then sniffled.

This is so fun, and I’m sick! Curse you all!

All of this made Numbtongue smile. Because it was chaotic and silly, and if no one died today, he’d consider this a win. He was especially looking forward to seeing how Erin reacted to the welcome.

She had frozen up a bit at the grand welcome, which Numbtongue knew she did not like. But he also knew she was no fan of this [Emperor].

Laken Godart. He stood with an interesting cast of people. Numbtongue eyed them.

A huge bald man—a bodyguard, some kind of high-level brawler—stood at the back with the young [Knight]. Numbtongue saw what seemed like a [Farmer] wearing a kind of compromise between a suit and work clothes, but he seemed almost as authoritative as the [Lady] flanking the [Emperor] on the other side. She was quite attractive in a Human-conventional way, and Numbtongue only barely noticed her—until his eyes drifted back.

“Huh. Whoa.”

Garia punched Numbtongue lightly. She mistook his look for eying Lady Rie for bardic inspiration. Namely, the kind they got a bad rap for, like how they might sing of the ‘low-cut bodice, alluringly clinging dress’, or some such.

Numbtongue didn’t go in for that. Although the [Lady] was attractive and had a nice dress…he was eying her skin. And teeth.

Was there a faint ochre tinge to her skin? It looked fairly flawless, no freckles or scars. But that wasn’t what interested him.

He thought, even as she smiled and held a hand over her mouth—

She had faintly sharp teeth. Not just her canines like Fierre, but all her teeth, like a Goblin.

Which was hot. And probably justified the punch. More than that, Lady Rie was shifting, and Numbtongue saw, faintly, some muscle move along her arms and shoulder and even along her calf, exposed by the aforementioned dress cut down the sides. Ooh, muscle. She didn’t seem like she worked out.

What an interesting Human. She went up higher on the danger-meter. Then he paid attention to the half-Troll girl, Durene. Lady Rie’s unusual features or not—she was squashed by the Troll.

After all, it wasn’t often that Numbtongue had to stare up at someone only a bit shorter than Moore, with tough, grey skin and armor. It was faintly golden, with an authentic glow that beat the Thronebearers’ shiny armor. A giant wooden mace was propped beside her, and she was giving him a glare. He blew her a kiss, and her look of outrage made him laugh.

Oh yes, if Riverfarm was showing off, Erin’s group was giving at least a bit of what it got. People were pointing at Tkrn, who looked embarrassed to be so interesting. Ulvama glanced around with a vaguely interested expression because she had seen this before and eyed the crowd, then sniffed the air for the food set out. Typhenous waved grandly as people cheered him, beaming and winking into the crowd as a group of three pushed forwards.

The Thronebearers and Lyonette attracted just as much attention; Dalimont and Lormel flanked Lyonette, who had not been announced because she was incognito—but people cheered and waved her like, well, a [Princess]. She was even doing the graceful little wave.

But it was Erin Solstice who had locked eyes with Laken Godart’s closed ones. And it was harder to say whether they liked or disliked each other at once.

Or rather, which outweighed which.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice was smiling, but her eyes darted around the huge crowd with a clear dislike for the moment. Laken Godart was almost ignorant of the commotion, as if this were commonplace. Yet his smile was equally—strained.

She could not know it, but a bubbling dislike was warring with an intellectual appreciation that knew full well his animosity was not natural. Still, the feeling was hard to erase. And at the same time…Erin gazed at Laken.

Laken, whom she knew full well had participated in the siege of Liscor. Laken, who had kidnapped the Goblins; to save them, but also kidnapped them. And fought with Rags. Who had…saved her life. And he was Ryoka’s dubious friend or acquaintance. Also, Laken from Earth, who had become an [Emperor]?

She was eying Laken Godart in a way that Lyonette did not like. The [Princess] knew Erin’s moods, and Erin had the same expression she sometimes cheerfully gave to Zevara or Lism or…a lot of people.

“Erin. Erin, this is his welcome, and we need his cooperation. Be very polite. Erin? Erin?

The procession was coming face-to-face with Laken’s entourage, who had waited for them to approach. Like supplicants before an informal throne. Erin even smelled flower petals and a faint perfume in the air instead of sweat or anything else.

Such an orchestrated event, and people were cheering or applauding. Laken raised a hand, and the sounds died down instantly.

Erin tried. She really did. She twitched—then, as Gamel began to read out an official welcome, she lost control.

“Hey, Laken! Good to meet you at last! Put her there!”

The [Innkeeper] strode forwards with a hand stretched out. Lyonette screamed—internally. Erin halted a second as the half-Troll girl stirred, frowning. Laken had no eyes to blink, but he twitched, and Gamel faltered.

His M—er…

Undaunted, Erin took another step, holding her hand out, right before a woman’s arm shot out and the [Farmer] blocked her way. Prost and Rie gave Erin long stares.

“His Majesty doesn’t shake hands, Miss—”

“Emperor Godart is waiting upon a formal greeting, I believe—”

The two began until Laken coughed. They stopped, turned, and he walked forwards.

“Laken!”

Durene hissed at him, but the blind man continued. Erin blinked. He wore pale white clothing with flashes of color added to them along the sleeves and leggings around his ankles, an oddly austere look matched by the embroidery of that pyramid and eyes—his symbols, emblazoned on his chest.

Royal-casual clothing? It certainly seemed nice, and he had a few artifacts on. A ring like hers, probably, buffed walking shoes, but he didn’t dress like Altestiel even.

Yet never had Erin felt an aura as strong as his. Not even Magnolia had the…intensity. The power, maybe, but she felt like it was pressing all around her. Erin’s own aura was skin-deep, and she pushed it back, but she’d never been so conscious of the authority in the air.

But the blind man was casual, and indeed, he walked without a cane, as sure as could be across the newly-laid brick street. Erin had only half meant it when she held out a hand. Yet up his came, and he clasped hers with both of his. And shook it gently.

“Erin Solstice. You’re every bit as outstanding as Ryoka said.”

His grip was firm, even tight, but Erin saw him smile widely. Almost too widely. Did he…not like her? Was he offended?

For once, she had no idea. She had known—well, met people who were blind, a few times, but she couldn’t read Laken for more reasons than just that. Fortunately or unfortunately, her mouth was running on autopilot.

And there were people watching her. Erin felt a prickling on the back of her neck from some—feeling. But she couldn’t turn away from Laken, so she smiled and joked.

“It’s a pleasure, Laken. I’m Erin—you knew that! Oops, sorry. Can I call you Laken?”

Outrage and murmuring from people who could hear. Laken Godart’s brows just rose, and then an expression of amusement crossed his face.

“You can call me…‘L’, Erin.”

She blinked in confusion—then began to giggle and laugh as she remembered. Laken chuckled, and the expressions of anger changed to confusion. A joke only the two of them knew as Lyonette smiled desperately and everyone watched. And suddenly, Erin felt a little calmer.

She let go of Laken’s hands and looked at him again. Then Erin properly stared around Riverfarm, at the thousands of people, and whistled.

Whoa! This is amazing! This is your village? And you’re—and I’m here at last and—the Summer Solstice party happened? You, an [Emperor]!”

The young woman laughed in delight now, and Laken shrugged self-consciously. His head turned as if he was ‘looking’, but his eyes never opened.

“And you’re as striking as Ryoka said! You know, I felt the moment you crossed into the Unseen Empire? Are those three Goblins with you? And two Gnolls—I should love to meet them. No Drakes? More friends from home?”

“Oh, just one. Um, the others are sort of busy—but we brought you gifts! Sorry, I forgot you didn’t get Drakes up north…”

Laken’s smile changed, and the word ‘Drakes’ produced a rumble that Erin didn’t like, but she held judgment, or tried.

“It might be just as well. We have run into a few. From Manus.”

“Ooh. Manus? What…no, um, maybe we should do the introducing thing?”

Erin faltered, because Lyonette was staring at her out of the corner of her eyes. She was embarrassed, but Laken just turned his head. Cool as a cucumber.

“Of course. To whom do I have the honor of meeting?”

His head turned straight to Lyonette, and Ser Lormel stepped forwards and bowed smoothly. He performed a strange bow, deep, for royalty, perhaps, and spoke.

Your Majesty of Riverfarm, it is my honor on behalf of the Eternal Throne of Calanfer to extend the greetings of thrones from His Majesty, King Reclis du Marquin. I present to you Princess—

Lyonette was hissing at him, but Lormel had clearly decided that this was not the time to play incognito. Erin saw Laken turn and then greet Lyonette, waiting through five minutes of floral addresses.

He was so unbothered by the attention. Which was unlike Erin—she could generate it, but she always knew it was there. Laken stood with thousands of eyes on him as if he had forgotten they were there. True, he might be blind, but this was different.

It was all going better than you could hope, if less well than planned, in short. Lyonette was stepping back, eying Laken with clear interest and wariness, but he turned his head.

“May I meet the rest of your group, Erin, Princess du Marquin? I confess, I am powerfully interested.”

That was unusual, and Lyonette faltered, but Mrsha was squirming with a notecard in Ulvama’s arms, and Dame Ushar was trying to take it from her with clear worry. Numbtongue’s eyes lit up, and he produced another, worryingly toothy grin. But the person that Erin feared most was a Goblin spitting into her hand and cackling.

Gothica. 

They never got that far, and Laken was spared whatever Gothica had planned for one simple reason. Erin heard, in the crowd—which was murmuring, calling out, hardly silent during these proceedings now it was more casual—a familiar, caustic voice.

“Did we miss it? Did we miss—move it, please. Gold-rank adventurers, coming through! Come on, Halrac. Where’s Briganda? Dead gods, what are you, shy? Come on and—”

Then Erin Solstice’s head turned, and she saw a familiar Stitch-Woman tugging on a loose thread in her neck anxiously. Half-bullying, half-cajoling a taller man with a face set with lines that defaulted to ‘grumpy’, through the crowd.

He wore enchanted leather armor and a bow was on his back at all times. Or rather, the invisible outline of one. His grey hair was not an indication of his actual age, but added to the grumpy old man. He seemed far more tired than Erin remembered. As if someone else were weighing him down, and he had always seemed tired.

But right now—his eyes were lowered, fixed on Revi determinedly, as if he were trying not to look. His eyes were always roaming, but they were turned away from her.

Shyly. As if afraid to look. A [Shieldmaiden] was pushing through the crowd with a little boy on her shoulders, who was waving at a Gnoll who’d sat bolt-upright in Ulvama’s arms, sickness or not.

Typhenous hurried through the crowd and turned, delighted. But Erin turned away from Laken Godart and began walking, completely forgetting the [Emperor] was there.

Revi Cotton looked up as Halrac the Grim’s head rose. His face was set in that expression that had earned him his nickname before Named-rank. The face of a man about to take a wound or endure a sandstorm naked.

His friends and teammates knew it was fear. That of someone afraid of what he might see, or not see. His gaze rose, passing through people stepping to one side, sounding shocked.

He saw a young woman in travelling clothes, her brown hair flying in the wind a bit, hazel eyes on him. She was running forwards, arms waving, outstretched, flying past a surprised [Emperor].

Halrac! Halrac! Haaaaalrac! And Revi!

The Gold-rank [Marksman] had only a second to blink before she leapt and threw her arms around him. He froze up, and Erin laughed as she grabbed him.

“Erin! Emperor Laken—”

Revi was horrified, but Erin just grabbed Halrac, and the man stared down at her. His arms went wide, but hesitated, hovering over her.

“Erin?”

Halrac stared down at her, taking in her face, how she’d changed from being—dead. Those eyes seemed older, and yet, when she looked up and smiled—

“Hug me, silly! Or are you too cool?”

Awkwardly, flushing as Master Helm and Windrest’s folk watched, Halrac put his arms down and—patted Erin on the back. She squeezed him harder.

“You silly guy! I’ve missed you. You…you…”

“Erin. You did it.”

You came back to life. He had never expected to see her again. He had gone to the Village of the Dead for a dream, but never had Halrac thought to see Erin again. Ulrien…his friends in war and as adventurers.

He thought he’d known some things never changed. Now—Halrac, who kept his feet planted on the ground, felt as though he were floating. He squeezed harder as Revi made a gasping sound.

“You—you’re so—Erin!”

She grabbed Erin, and Typhenous gently placed his hands on Erin’s shoulders, seeming delighted. Briganda watched, looking at Halrac’s face. Stone was trying very hard not to crack. Erin squeaked as her feet left the ground. The [Marksman] realized she was alive.

Then—a laughing, snotting, sobbing little white blur leapt towards Halrac and slammed into his legs. He glanced down, bent down, and Mrsha was all over him. She hugged Halrac, clinging to him as he tried to say something.

“Halrac? You look like someone’s just slipped ice into your britches. Say something.”

Briganda teased. Revi glanced up at Halrac, and then her head spun around.

“Typh—Typhenous, get a scrying orb. Record his face!”

What did he—? Halrac almost let go, but then he saw Mrsha’s sobbing face. She was hugging him, and Erin gazed up at him. Her eyes were shining. She wiped at one and then began to hiccup.

“Oh no—hic—what’s going—hic—now? Come on, this is so embarrassing.”

She glanced around as an [Emperor] held up a hand and listened, smiling. As a coven of [Witches] halted and an ordinary witch caught her first sight of Erin. For there was Erin Solstice, Mrsha, Halrac, Griffon Hunt—and then Lyonette came hurrying over, and to the horror of her Thronebearers, flung her arms around the group.

At this, the little Goblin with the poofy hat issued a strangled cry and broke off from the cautious group who’d left their territory and ran, screaming, across the ground. A [Shaman] shouted and ran at her, but Pebblesnatch ran straight past Ulvama and launched herself into a flying headbutt that nearly took down the [Innkeeper].

And all through it, Halrac didn’t understand why Erin was hiccuping. Until he realized his cheeks were faintly wet. Erin was sobbing.

“Pebble—? Halrac, stop crying! You’re making me cry!

“I’m crying?”

Halrac felt at his face, and Revi looked up. Mrsha offered him a truly soiled handkerchief, and the [Summoner] pointed at Halrac’s face as Typhenous took a magical image for posterity. Just in case he needed to show it around, because no one would ever believe this.

“You’re crying and smiling, you idiot. Make up your mind.

Halrac’s fingers found his lips, and there it was. He bent down as Pebblesnatch and Mrsha sobbed and patted each other on the head and hat. Erin Solstice looked up at him, and the [Bowman of Loss] stood there.

His class was founded upon his past. It was informed by the wounds he took, wounds which would never close, not with a thousand Potions of Regeneration. He bled into the ground invisibly, in a way not even an [Emperor] could see. A [Witch]? Of course.

For the first time, Halrac Everam felt himself stop bleeding. A hole in his chest closed, and he bent down and hugged an [Innkeeper] a while longer. Though his wounds made him stronger, Halrac would have thrown it all away to stay like this a little while longer.

Because she knew that, the moment stretched. The [Innkeeper] asked him where he had been and thanked him, until time forgot it died and became immortal.

That was almost long enough for him. Almost.

 

——

 

The [Witches] watched her. Not one, nor a few.

All. All of Riverfarm had come—some called, others informed—to see this stranger to the [Emperor]’s lands.

[Witches], from Eloise standing in the shadow of Hedag to Mavika, perched upon a branch with her flock, to Agratha and Oliyaya, even Alevica, who had come to a halt as a Centauress, who was a local celebrity and runner for the region, frowned.

“Is that Ryoka’s other, second-best friend? I guess she looks okay. What do you think, Alevica?”

A herd of Sariant Lambs were sitting in people’s arms or watching out windows, warily appraising how much danger they might be in. They had recognized the Ryoka Griffin connection.

All eyes on her, and two last [Witches] saw Erin Solstice differently.

A little girl sitting under the shade of a tree wondered why her hat rustled when she saw the [Innkeeper]. Another stood almost unnoticed in all the hubbub, for all her rank. She listened to the [Witches] talking.

She has no hat.

She has no hat, but she was part of the deeds of Gnolls. Look, you can almost see the possession on her.

An [Innkeeper] and a [Witch]?

Why not? Yet she has no hat. Yet…she summons a prickling in my thumbs. A [Witch] this way comes.

Now, they saw her. Now…Wiskeria’s eyes locked on Erin Solstice. She looked at the [Innkeeper], the [Witch] with no hat, for a long moment. She saw more than most, even the blind [Emperor], and a dozen omens wrote themselves around Wiskeria in a moment.

She ignored them all. Then she turned away from Erin Solstice. Idly, as if there were other things to do and Erin was but one of them. Too bad.

“I don’t believe I will like her.”

The old man was weeping again. Wiskeria ignored him as he whispered, begging. Ignored him, but this time—

The [Witch] without a hat heard him.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

Whew. As you may realize, this is the poll chapter. And it is Part 1 of…at least 2. I decided to mix it with the Erin storyline because it’ll work better, but I split it up because I felt like I needed to.

And this is me, who normally expects to write 60k in one sitting. So I think I was wiser? I also worked harder on setting the scene up more, and doing other things.

Always improve, and always try new things. I’m feeling a bit tired, though, so I’m gonna rest.

…And play Immortal Empires on Warhammer 3! There’s a video game I want to play. Look, this is how I relax. I don’t watch the new um, House of Dragon show or whatever. I do something where I can use a different side of my brain.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Some slice-of-life as well as a completely unrelated vacation story. Ahem. Thanks for reading and stay healthy!

 

 

Pirateaba Baking Bread, Sugar Tea, Mrsha Ramsay and more by LeChatDemon!

 

Belavierr by butts!

 

Belavierr by pkay!


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9.11 W

Inkarr the Traveller was what Gnolls called her. She was, to ask the Longstalker’s Fang Tribe, a sociable, kind Human. Someone who got exasperated by their rolling ‘r’s in her name, a wonderful emissary for her people. Brave, fond of a silly [Guardsman]—and Lehra Ruinstrider’s paramour, among about a hundred others.

She didn’t…act like that since coming to Liscor. Tkrn had wondered if she was sick in their brief, private moments. Only then had Inkar told him she was fine.

“I am just being quiet. Because I am a guest of Liscor and this is new. And because of Erin.”

“Why? She likes you. She even puts up with me—and after what I did with Calruz and Mrsha…”

Tkrn looked guilty, confused, and he didn’t see. Inkar just looked thoughtfully into a hand-mirror as they readied themselves for the last day of travel to Riverfarm.

“She may like me. I like her, a bit. She’s very kind, and she cares for Goblins. And Gnolls. She promised she would give me something to help Eska.”

“And…?”

The [Worldly Traveller] looked up.

“I think she might. She scares me.”

“Who, Erin? She does weird things, and she’s chaotic, and Zevara hates her, but Erin? She’s so nice.”

Inkar looked at Tkrn seriously enough that he stopped eating cold jerky and glanced at her.

“She reminds me of Chieftain Xherw. But backwards. She broke a building by hammering a nail into it. She is friends with the Antinium who nearly conquered Liscor. Now, she is coming to meet an [Emperor] and maybe—maybe ‘set all his Goblins free.’”

Tkrn swallowed hard and wished he’d brought Relc along.

“S-she said that?”

The worst part was that neither one thought it was impossible, or at the very least, impossible for Erin to try. Inkar shook her head.

“Erin Solstice came back from the dead. She scares me.”

“She does like you.”

Tkrn pointed out. Inkar turned to Tkrn and patted him on the head, which became more affectionate as he craned his head left and right so she could scratch it.

“Yes. She does like me. Imagine…imagine a hill speaking one day and saying it liked you.”

“Ah.”

 

——

 

Today, no mountains trembled where Erin walked. People did cheer, but Inkar had seen the Meeting of Tribes, so it ‘only’ put Erin on the level of a famous adventurer or figure among Gnolls.

An [Emperor] greeted Erin, and Inkar smiled, touched, as Erin met Griffon Hunt and a little Goblin with a chef’s hat clung to her, sobbing, and the entire event turned into melancholic happiness. No, happiness colored by loss and regret and triumph, greater for it.

Like a beautiful flame, the likes of which Erin could conjure. A different kind of storm, passing over Riverfarm.

Not like the Wind Runner, who came in like a hurricane, building until she left amidst destruction and loss and great deeds.

Erin? She came in already burning, and it only grew hotter from there as more people met the flame. The [Emperor] was first.

Then came the Goblins, the [Witches]. Inkar saw it all and thought she was not wrong to try to get on Erin’s side, but stay away.

“Your Majesty, the Goblins have left the Goblinlands!”

Inkar’s head turned, and she saw Numbtongue straighten, eyes widening. Ulvama just counted, and Gothica spun around with a look of delight and relief.

For there came Goblins. Across Riverfarm’s tamed grounds, marching out of the wide forest and the mountain in the backdrop, past the double-layered walls, one slightly higher than the other.

Green folk. Some short like children, racing next to tall Hobs, round or lithe. But what struck Inkar was how they looked.

Goblins had always been described to her by Eska and Deskie as monstrous savages at worst, barely clothed and cannibalistic, to opportunistic raiders at best, predatory and cunning but uncivilized.

These Goblins put a hole in that idea, if Erin and the others had not already. Like Numbtongue, like Gothica—Ulvama played into the stereotype with how she talked and dressed—they looked like people.

They wore clothing, most of it simply spun cotton or wool, but Inkar realized, thanks to her acquaintanceship with Honored Deskie, that it came from the same [Weavers] as Riverfarm’s folk.

The colors and make were exactly the same. Some of the Goblins had forgone the Unseen Empire’s motif or added curious red stripes or other symbols of the tribes they had been part of, but a few looked identically clothed to the Humans.

More than that—they had a different air to them than even Numbtongue. Numbtongue was polite, well-spoken—but as cautious as Inkar was to Erin. He behaved like he expected someone to produce a mob out for his blood at any moment. Ditto for Ulvama.

But these Goblins strolled along, some scratching at their bellies or pointing. Many had weapons, but that was personality, rather than their fear of Riverfarm’s people.

And indeed, the Humans were drawing back, but not fleeing for weapons. Many glared, but Inkar noticed how many looked resigned or watched the [Emperor]. If the Goblins were disliked, it was as a bad neighbor was, rather than monsters.

Fascinating. How much did Erin realize? She turned, her eyes wide, and made a choking sound. Then she began to walk forwards as Pebblesnatch clung to her like an anchor, still sobbing.

In response, the Goblins pointed at her. Some waved. Others looked…well, they just observed Erin, much like Inkar. A few waved at Gothica or recognized Numbtongue and roared in delight.

Leafarmor and Raidpear raced along the ground ahead of the others as Numbtongue’s eyes widened. They met in an explosion, tackling each other, slamming hands on each other’s backs, chatting in their language of gestures and oddly fluid sounds to Inkar’s ear. She wondered what language it might be like—it wasn’t like Kazakh or Russian in many ways, the only two she knew besides English.

Ulvama got the least amount of reception. Some of the Goblins peered at her and shrugged. Oh, she’s back again.

But they had one thing that made Inkar do a double-take. She saw a Goblin raise a rectangular device in its hands, and a flash made Erin pause, mid-run. A Goblin held up the smartphone, cackled, and showed the others.

“Video, video, stupid. Me hugging her!”

One scolded the other, and the Goblin sighed and held the phone up in landscape-mode like a proper person did. Erin pointed at it.

“Wh—that’s—what the—”

Then a Goblin snuck up behind her and gave Erin a huge hug, beaming for the camera. The other Goblins clustered around, patting at Erin’s head, prying off Pebblesnatch, and pointing out Mrsha.

Hey, I knew that Gnoll! The Cave Goblins were especially nostalgic. And once they realized Gothica was one of them, they surrounded her, trying to take her parasol, asking questions—and getting kicks until they backed up to let the [Goth] assert her isolated rebelliousness.

For once, Erin was overwhelmed. She kept having Goblins pat her on the head or pose, grinning, and she was lost for words.

That is a smartphone! How the—you’re alive! You’re walking about? No one’s beating you with sticks?”

“No sticks. Unless for fun? Ulvama back. Probably more of that.”

One Goblin assured Erin in cheerful, if slightly stilted, English. Erin pointed at Riverfarm. Griffon Hunt.

Halrac was still overwhelmed, but Revi was pushing back Goblins trying to pat her head with a growl, and Briganda had backed up. Yet…Riverfarm’s people mostly watched. One, a huge man with a [Blacksmith]’s apron, called out to one of the Goblins.

“Hey, you lot got any of that iron ore? We could use more…”

“Yeah, yeah. Later. I’m busy.

A Hob snapped back. It was such a strange reaction as he posed with Erin for the next camera shot that Erin was lost for words.

Here was something that not even Liscor had. And then she turned her head and saw a blind man smiling as he leaned on a scowling half-Troll girl’s arm. Erin stared at him and thought the smile looked slightly smug.

Then—Erin’s head turned as the last group made themselves known. The final power of Riverfarm came strutting across the ground, heads held high. Like a group headed to a ball, they strode past the Humans, who moved aside respectfully. They approached Erin, haughtily sizing her up. The Sariant Lambs plodded towards Erin—until a boot nearly kicked one into a building.

“Oops, sorry about that.”

The lambs scattered, and people booed and made sounds of outrage, but Hedag strode forwards, aiming another kick at a lamb who fled, mewling. Erin looked up, and here came [Witches].

Agratha, Oliyaya, Hedag, Eloise, apprentices and adults. Even Alevica, side-by-side. They parted the streets like the Sariant Lambs, but the hats…

Hats of every color! Friendly and stern, some black as midnight, others brown, one even as red as an apple. [Witches] all.

Erin’s eyes grew wider, because she had noticed the [Witches], of course, but she had never seen any. Not since coming back from the dead. And here they were. Her eyes searched the crowd for a girl—but there were many girls, and none looked like…like…

A flapping sound in the air broke the slow advance of the [Witches]. A gigantic crow landed on a rooftop, perching, staring down at Erin—and then it was a woman. Mavika peered down at Erin, and she gasped in recognition. Lightly, the Crow Witch leapt to the ground, and she joined the line of hatted women.

They stopped, as Goblins turned, and regarded Erin. She felt dozens of keen eyes on hers. Dozens of…what?

It wasn’t like Laken, who was still a presence that defined this land, an aura like a vast eye watching her, although not as unfriendly as Sauron, but there. The [Witches] were more like…ideas.

Not even ideas, scenes. Erin could look at them, and it was like a movie began playing in her head, but replete with sound and smell. One look at the short woman with the pressed tea leaves and flowers sewn into her hat and the gentle, if inquisitive smile, and Erin felt like sitting outside and having a cup of tea and talking the older [Witch]’s ear off. Sniffing the tea, tasting it with the tip of her tongue until it wasn’t too hot and the gentle taste of sour green tea filled her mouth, sip by sip…

By contrast, the woman who had an axe on her shoulder and a build to match the [Blacksmith] put Erin in mind of striding through the forest on grim business. Going to…fell a tree? Not quite right. Something about that smile made Erin fear the axe’s downswing, yet it was necessary, like a [Woodcutter] removing trees plagued by blight.

The [Witch] with the cardigan sweater? Erin felt like she’d be in class, dozing a bit, and sitting up and answering a question, and you had to raise your hand or you’d get a scolding, but she was the kind of [Teacher] who wanted to be cool and was thus uncool—but she had candies on her desk that she passed out after class.

All of this passed in a moment for Erin, like a wonderful banquet where the smells alone drew you into a seat. But she could have savored it far longer, seen far more…

Yet what did they see of her? The [Witches] looked at the [Innkeeper]. And they saw a woman with no hat.

A woman, no longer a girl. To the woman who was as much crow as person in Erin’s eyes, Mavika, Erin still smelled of the battlefields. Blood and death clung to her, but she also was the scent of baking, ashwheat, rich and warm on the breeze. Tears baked into the dough.

To Alevica, Erin seemed like many of the clients she’d met; not the ones who shouted loud, but the ones for whom the Witch Runner did actual, quality deliveries. Power unseen, just out of sight, that didn’t need to brag…but only halfway. The other half was like Charlay, a loud, brash donkey who kicked up a fuss, the loudest person in the room.

However, what all of them saw was fire. It was so closely part of the young [Witch] that it defined her. A great passion, burning a myriad of colors, each one glorious and wonderful.

But mostly, she had no hat. So all these potentialities were strong in her, but untamed. Unfocused, like a gem that could be a prism, refracting light, but only showed strong, fuzzy colors.

The [Witches] and Erin were silent for a long moment. Even the Goblins watched, and Mrsha sneezed and coughed as she stared at the strange women, and Pebblesnatch looked around for Garry. Then, as one—the [Witches] did the quintessential greeting between their kind.

As one, young and old, dozens, possibly as many as seventy in this street alone—

They tipped their hats. Erin hesitated, looked from face to face, and started.

Her hand rose, but she had no hat, even an invisible one, so she waved weakly, a little waggle of the hand.

“Um. H-hi.”

She paused, glanced at her hand, and made a face.

“Okay, I get it. That’s why you have a hat.”

Giggling. Some of the apprentices covered their mouths, and Erin’s head snapped up. She saw the Tea Witch cover her mouth politely, but the woman with the axe threw her head back and laughed almost as loudly as Briganda. And then—the Crow Witch glanced around, irritated, and spoke into the second hush she caused.

“Witch of Liscor. Witch of the Wandering Inn. Innkeeper Witch. Witch Erin Solstice. We have been expecting you.”

“You h—I mean, greetings. Witch…?”

Mavika’s eyes fixed Erin with a disapproving look. She tilted her head unnaturally to one side.

“…Mavika. With me stand the [Witches] of the Unseen Empire, though we are no coven formal. A great pact has been forged across this land, and we gather. All save the Stitch Witch are offered sanctuary here. Yet the crows know your name. The wind whispers it. An [Emperor] welcomes you, as do we. Will you speak with us, Witch of Liscor?”

She was so formal. There was a ritual to this, and Erin felt it, she had been taught it. Yet she hesitated. She tried to smile.

“Me? I mean, sure. I was hoping to find a Nanette. I…I sent word. I have something to tell her. But I’d like to speak to all of you! Hello!”

Again, Erin smiled, but this time, it didn’t go over as well. There was no chuckle. There were some smiles, but Mavika was staring a hole into Erin’s face.

“You speak with none of the old ways, Witch Solstice. Though I feel them in my bones. I smell the grave on you, yet you speak like a child to our craft.”

Erin bit her tongue. She felt like Somillune or one of the other [Witches] was upbraiding her. Erin hesitated and spoke more carefully.

“I have been taught some of the old ways, Witch Mavika. But I am no [Witch] of years. I don’t even—I do not even have a hat. If I am informal, I apologize. But I have come here as a friend to all, and a friend to all I hope to be! I have come upon Witch Califor’s will to meet Nanette, and I have more to speak of—”

Califor’s name provoked a response within the coven, who turned their heads and murmured, but the sound was doused as the older [Witches] turned their heads. Erin went on, speaking into the silence.

“—But I am an [Innkeeper] too. A guest of Riverfarm and Emperor Godart, and I would like to be a friend. So I am sorry, and I hope to get to know you. After all—a [Witch] is a [Witch]!”

Erin beamed and winked at Mavika. The Crow Witch’s face never changed, but her beady eyes lingered on Erin’s face.

“Yes. Some are ruder than others. Some less a [Witch]. But you breathe like the oldest thunder still rolling from ages past. You smell of corpseblood of kingdoms, and I hear the horn in your voice like the greatest war. So I take my hat off to you and will listen to your words.”

With that, she removed her hat, revealing strands of grey hair, and bowed her head ever-so-slightly. Then she put it on her head. Erin saw Mavika turn away. The [Innkeeper] saw the other [Witches] break up and turned around. Goblins, [Emperor], her friends, and Riverfarm’s folk saw Erin smile uncertainly.

“Um…did I make her mad?”

And that was how Erin Solstice came to Riverfarm. But the two [Witches] who mattered most to her, in some ways—she had yet to meet.

Once again, Laken Godart approached, and the introductions began again, explanations and unpacking and more. But Erin, perplexed by the [Witches], slightly off-put by Mavika, still waiting to meet Nanette, and anxious and relieved by the Goblins, rubbed at her ears. It was faint, but still—she supposed it was a trick of her mind.

Because no one else had mentioned, behind the greetings and speeches, the talk and silence, the faint sound of someone…crying.

 

——

 

Wiskeria knew the old ways. She had been taught by the greatest [Witch] living. Erin had been taught by the greatest coven in existence.

Yet neither had been the perfect student. Erin had not been a [Witch]. And Wiskeria…

Wiskeria had been a girl. How did you teach either the old craft, the deepest ways?

The answer was that you didn’t. Nevertheless, when Wiskeria saw Nanette and her hat full of sadness, which threatened to crush her, she offered the younger [Witch] her knowledge.

“I could…teach you how to sacrifice it.”

“Sacrifice what?”

Nanette dreamily clung to Wiskeria’s hand. She had not met the [Innkeeper], but she was going to. Erin had asked to meet with her, and so Wiskeria was taking her into Laken’s throne room. It was the first time they would meet her up close.

“Your sadness.”

Wiskeria said it like it was obvious. Nanette looked up at Wiskeria’s bespectacled face as the [Witch] nodded to people, smiled and greeted them. Wiskeria. Belavierr’s daughter. The ordinary [Witch].

“What would happen?”

The younger [Witch] was curious. She knew her answer, but Wiskeria replied absently.

“You’d never feel sad again. Possibly only about your mother, but generally too. I don’t recommend it, necessarily, but the option is there. You might get something good for it. It’s just an option; stop me if you don’t want to.”

There it was. Like offering to cut Nanette’s hair. The girl pondered what kind of person she might be without sadness. Much less for her mother. It sounded like a joke.

But imagine it. Someone who was never sad. That was a frightening thing. Yet more than that, Nanette was curious, so she tilted her head up to stare at Wiskeria. Her hat hurt her head. To be rid of it…would be nice. But not like that.

“Could you really do that? Do you know how to sacrifice sadness, Wiskeria?”

“Mm. Yes. Sort of. Enough to get us started. I don’t know how to do a lot of the deep craft. It’s more like…my mother taught me the first steps. That’s the tricky bit, she claims. Anyone can keep walking, but finding the path? I have all the options, but I’d learn the rest.”

“I see. Califor never taught me that.”

Wiskeria nodded amiably.

“She was one of the great teachers, though. I don’t think she was wrong to hold it back from you. My mother was a poor teacher. A poor mother. I think even she’d admit that. She did her best, though. But she made a lot of mistakes.”

“How?”

The [Witch of Law] smiled brightly, like a white lie. A pleasant nothing on her face, disguising whatever she might feel. That was the thing—Nanette couldn’t read Wiskeria. A [Witch] could pull emotion out of a moment or person, even if it wasn’t their craft. Even Nanette could do that. She had sensed Ryoka’s sadness and guilt, just like her relief.

Yet Wiskeria was blank. Only rarely did some emotions seep through. Mavika, Eloise, Hedag, they were all guarded, but it was the difference between something being there but out of sight, behind an opaque glass wall.

Versus not being there at all. Still, Wiskeria had feelings. She had a past. So—the trick was this. Wiskeria tilted her hat up as she took Nanette through Riverfarm. And she said it all, plain as you like, for Nanette to hear.

“How was Belavierr a bad mother? I suppose…she spoiled me.”

 

——

 

Spoiled? The older Wiskeria had come to that conclusion long after being a girl. When she dreamed, it was almost always lucid dreaming.

She couldn’t help it. She slipped into consciousness and interacted with her dream, rather than being a passenger on the ride. Wiskeria always knew she was dreaming, so she was unfortunately never truly surprised.

It had some benefits, but like much of her life, it was a consequence of having been Belavierr’s daughter.

It was a famous story. An unprecedented thing. To hear Belavierr tell it, the moment was chance. She had found Wiskeria, a victim of some accident, dying alone. And unlike any other babe the Stitch Witch had sacrificed or abandoned, bartered or ignored…she had scooped Wiskeria up and made her a daughter.

The first in an immortal lifespan.

Why? The girl had wondered if it were fate, but Belavierr had always denied it, and she rarely lied outright. It was just…a decision.

Perhaps it was Belavierr sensing a need to change herself. But whatever the case, she had still been the immortal Witch of Webs. Then—Ser Raim had not yet burned her layers of immortality away. She had been more secure, more entrenched in her power than most points in her life.

So when the older Wiskeria looked at a dream of herself, she could see a girl with blue hair hurrying to keep up with a striding woman who had never truly changed. Only—the Belavierr of her childhood had a blank face. Even compared to the one of now, she was—distant. Sometimes, she forgot to speak or breathe, but whenever the girl spoke, Belavierr would stop and listen.

That was the first way in which Wiskeria was spoiled. Never, ever, had Wiskeria met someone else like Belavierr. Even the most loving parents had moments when a child’s questions became nattering or when a good friend lost focus of a conversation.

But Belavierr? Every time Wiskeria spoke, the Stitch Witch focused utterly and absolutely on her daughter.

“Mother, I am hungry. I have not eaten in a day.”

The little Wiskeria didn’t look thin, but she certainly did not have the fed look of some children in Terandria. She walked with experience, even six years old, and she seemed older, used to doing things.

Not that her mother hadn’t fed her or taken care of her with great fastidiousness. It was just that when she realized Wiskeria could feed herself or ask for food, she had abandoned the notion entirely.

Look at her. The older Wiskeria observed how, even as a child, she’d realized how off her mother was and how she needed to speak differently. Belavierr tilted her head left and right, then replied slowly.

“Eating is good for a child. You should eat more, Wiskeria. Why did you not ask?”

A flat question for a flat face, but not uncaring. Young-Wiskeria shrugged.

“I had snacks. May I have something to eat, Mother?”

“Yes, of course. What do you desire?”

And there it was. The older Wiskeria saw the young one’s face light up, and she closed her eyes, for this was bad parenting. She remembered it clearly—the young Wiskeria beamed with delight.

“I dreamed of eating a great fish from the sea, Mother! The [Sailors] said there are fearsome sharks as big as boats! May I have a fish like that?”

Now—to anyone else, that question would have resulted in a different answer. A kindly way to say no, or a version of that request. A fish with teeth, or a bit of one, or maybe a clever bit of cooking to put husks of cornmeal in a fish’s mouth, or cut up a bit of meat or…

But the child knew she could ask, and worse—the mother straightened at once.

“A fish with teeth as large as a ship? Do you care which it is?”

“No…but may I see you catch it?”

The Stitch Witch nodded. So, she let Wiskeria hold her hand as the child and mother walked differently and sped up, crossing the land like a blur, like a stroll. Until they reached the sea. Then her mother produced a fishhook as large as an anchor and tied it to a piece of hair that had come from a unicorn.

A fishing hamlet watched in silence and terror as the Stitch Witch took a tiny hook out and let Wiskeria whirl the little hook and toss it into the sea. The girl tried three times before she got it into the water.

Only on the third time did the great anchor-hook fly into the distance and sink in a tremendous splash. Belavierr whispered as Wiskeria hummed and laughed and waved at the village. Then—something began tugging, and the young Wiskeria pulled, and the water began to writhe and tear as something tremendous thrashed in the distance.

“Hold on tight, my daughter.”

The child wrestled with the little line as Belavierr carefully pointed at the great beast coming closer. Then a needle like a harpoon speared down, and five more—and Wiskeria was laughing and clapping her hands as the bloody side of a whale shark rose from the waters.

The older Wiskeria watched all this sadly. She had been a sailor on a ship when she left home and her mother. She had crewed vessels, eaten the day’s catch and the fine work of a [Cook] most nights.

She had never quite enjoyed it as when she had been a girl upon a beach, eating a whale’s heart as it still tried to beat. Belavierr had made some classic parenting mistakes.

A child should not have everything. If she ever had another child, she probably wouldn’t have made the same error.

But what a thought. Belavierr with a second child? She had never been…evil. No, she had been evil, but she had taught her daughter without lies.

 

——

 

One day, as Wiskeria was playing with an artifact Belavierr had bought which let Wiskeria hover and fly about, the Stitch Witch was watching her.

The girl was getting older now: she was eight. Eight…and Belavierr had begun teaching her the old ways. Bits and pieces, although the girl had no craft yet. She was already an [Apprentice Witch], but no full [Witch]. Not yet.

“Wiskeria. Come here.”

Wiskeria stopped floating about and landed. It was rare Belavierr told her to do anything, so Wiskeria stood with hands folded.

“Yes, Mother?”

Belavierr’s ringed eyes blinked slowly, and she regarded Wiskeria, touching her head, feeling at her cheeks, making sure she was well with a spell to check her health.

“Wiskeria. Are you happy?”

“Yes, Mother. I’m very happy right now.”

Belavierr nodded slowly. She gazed at Wiskeria and then spoke.

“Good. Then hold still, Wiskeria. I am going to slap you.”

The little girl’s face wrinkled with puzzlement. She opened her mouth and then held still, curious.

She did not expect the slap to be hard. Or if she did…Wiskeria opened her eyes and stared at the sky. She felt at her cheek and found it was swelling so fast that it puffed up under her fingers. She realized her mouth was bloody, but it didn’t hurt. Not yet.

When she got up, Belavierr was sitting there. The same face. She just watched Wiskeria as the girl began to feel the pain. Wiskeria gulped for air, and her eyes glistened, but she made no sound until Belavierr spoke.

“If you wish to cry, cry. Tears befit anyone when they are needed. I have a potion to heal your wounds, and I will give it to you after you learn the lesson.”

“I won’t cry, Mother. What lesson was that? There was no reason in it. No…”

Wiskeria held her cheek. The old ways had many horrible things, but they were all for a reason. That? Belavierr spoke calmly.

“That was no lesson in witchcraft, my daughter. I slapped you for a simple reason: you will never fully trust me again. I have betrayed every pact. Broken oaths sworn in blood. I have known mothers who devour their daughters for life, for power, for jealousy and greed. If I one day change, you must be able to slay me.”

“H-how could I slay you, Mother?”

The girl whispered, looking up at an omen as tall as a mountain. Layers of immortality. She was beginning to see, and a hundred mouths whispered back to her, safe from time and mortal blades.

“That, I must teach you. Enough to give you even a chance. Or what sort of a mother would I be?”

 

——

 

By the time the girl met the boy, she was twelve. Not that she met him on her birthday or any auspicious hour. She was doing perfect cartwheels along the side of a mountain when he swooped down on a young Griffin.

He was the boy who would be called the Griffin Prince of Kaliv, in time, and thirteen. Kaliv let their [Prince] fly with only a speaking stone because the Royal Griffin he had been raised with was better than any dog or bodyguard. As long as he stayed in sight of their capital city, he was allowed to roam.

So, the sight of a young girl, alone, doing cartwheels where monsters could appear had him curious. Even a feral Griffin could kill someone, and she was no Kaliv citizen.

Health above, so below! What are you doing, Miss? It’s not safe out here.”

The young Griffin Prince swooped down, keeping his voice low in case of avalanches. The girl looked up.

“Oh, health below and so above to you too. Hello, there. I’m cartwheeling and waiting for my mother to come back. I’m fine, thanks. Nothing will harm me.”

She was so confident that the [Prince] was taken aback. He was young, and she had the look already of someone who had a secret on the tip of her tongue. A too-old look of someone who had seen her mother bring down the moon and had listened to all the whispers of the ages.

At that time, Wiskeria was not old, and she still did not know her mother entirely. So she was arrogant. And it came off wrong on a [Prince] of Kaliv, so the boy spoke up, putting a hand on his sword.

“Even I’m not safe here. Even a full [Griffin Rider] would be wary, Miss. Let me take you home. My mother, the [Queen], can find your mother.”

The girl did another cartwheel, and only now did the [Prince] realize—she had a pointed hat on her head, blue as could be, but it never moved. There was no strap, but even when she rotated in a cartwheel and it brushed the ground, it never came off her head.

“Mm. No. I don’t think so. No one can find my mother. And nothing can harm me. My mother sewed a good-luck charm into this amulet, see?”

She showed him a cloth bag, and the Griffin Prince didn’t recognize it as an amulet. He grew angrier and spoke.

“I bet I could do you harm if I wanted to. Or Coalwing, here.”

He indicated his Griffin, and the young Coalwing cawed uneasily, a warning the Griffin Prince didn’t heed. Wiskeria’s head rose, and she looked at the boy.

“No, you couldn’t. At least, you couldn’t kill me.”

“I bet I could.”

“You couldn’t. Would you like me to prove it to you?”

“If you like.”

The entire conversation was getting away from the young [Prince]. It felt silly and childish like an argument with someone else, but also…he didn’t realize she was serious until Wiskeria was striding towards him. Then he put up his hands jokingly.

“I don’t want to punch you.”

“Okay. Then draw your sword. But I have your eye.”

The boy sat down, and Coalwing shrieked. Only after he felt the searing pain and began to scream and clawed at his sword did he realize she had poked out his eye.

He was afraid to cut her, despite that, but she drew a knife, and he realized his sword kept turning. Even his Griffin was screaming as she drew a wand and set fire to his feathers. He cut Wiskeria twice, and she cried out as blood ran down, but she kept fighting.

Do you admit it? Do you admit it?

He didn’t understand what she wanted him to admit. She was getting exasperated, and his eye was gone, and he was bleeding from two stabs. Wiskeria seized his head.

“Don’t make me kill you! Admit you can’t kill me!”

She stared into one eye running with tears, the other with blood, and looked confused.

“Why are you so sad? It’s not even that I’ve hurt you. You’re…sad. Don’t be.”

She dropped her knife and fished out a handkerchief. The boy was dying of blood loss, but she pulled out a potion and healed him. Then she sat, asking him why he was crying and why he wouldn’t just admit the obvious.

“My eye. My eye!

He screamed at her, and she looked more and more puzzled until her mother appeared. She came striding up the mountain, up a cliff face, and the boy froze when he saw that ringed stare, that hat.

“Wiskeria. What are you doing with a [Prince]? You’ve taken his eye. Did he attack you? If so, he dies.”

She drew a sewing needle, and his heart stopped, but Wiskeria leapt up.

“No, Mother! I poked out his eye because we argued, but he’s crying and he’s sad.

“People are sad when they lose their eyes, my daughter. Hm. This will not do. He is the son of a [Queen]. It should not be as much a fuss if he vanishes. Or I can remove you from his mind.”

Wiskeria looked back at the terrified boy and scuffed a foot on the ground.

“Don’t do that. I like him. Can you heal him, Mother?”

Belavierr tilted her head.

“As you wish, my daughter.”

So, she took the terrified [Prince] and found where his eye had run onto the ground and made him scoop up the dirt and press it into the bloody socket. Then, when the dirt fell away and he blinked with two eyes, she stitched up his torn clothing and listened as he exclaimed and talked with Wiskeria.

The young girl was powerfully interested in this crying boy and begged her mother to let him introduce her to his mother. So—Belavierr walked higher, and she walked into Kaliv’s courts and met Novakya, the Griffin Queen, and introduced herself and her daughter.

To say they caused a stir was an understatement. Every great warrior stormed into the court as the Griffin Queen swept her son behind her, but Belavierr tipped her hat and—because her daughter had no friends and liked the young [Prince]—offered the Griffin Queen a deal.

Thereafter, the Stitch Witch would visit, sometimes every day, sometimes once every few months, and bring her daughter to meet the [Prince]. Upon request, she would sew—for a discounted price—what was asked of her.

Some armor for a warrior. Sew an arm back onto a body. Sew a little charm into a tunic. And Wiskeria and the [Prince] would play, and she would slowly—slowly—realize why he had cried when she took out his eye. He, in turn, would speak with the Stitch Witch and her daughter and develop a friendship, or infatuation, that only grew the older they got.

When he was fifteen, she was fourteen, and two years had passed, Wiskeria was more like a person. But still, she loved her mother and sometimes asked the [Prince] if he wanted anything.

Anything? Your mother makes my mother worried, Wiskeria.”

“I know. And sometimes she says we might become enemies or she might eat me. But she hasn’t, and she gives me what I ask for. I have asked for Wyvern meat, to fly and touch clouds. I almost asked to pet a Unicorn, but she does too much, you know. But you’re the Griffin Prince. Isn’t Ailendamus worrying to your mother?”

He nodded, thinking back to the meetings he sometimes eavesdropped on or the [Advisors] and [Strategists] would tell him about, or his mother and his siblings.

“It is. I have to learn a lot. I hope…your mother will stay friends with Kaliv, even if some people call her a monster.”

Wiskeria smiled brightly.

“So long as I’m here, she will! But don’t you want something else? She’s so miserly, but if I ask her, she’ll do something for free.”

“But the cost…”

Wiskeria waved that away eagerly. She had never convinced the [Prince] of this much before.

“She’ll pay it for me because of love and complain about the cost of being a mother. Or I’ll help you pay it! What do you want? A sword? She’s no good with swords, but she can sew almost anything.”

So the young man thought and thought and then had a brilliant idea as he read stories of old. He was shy, but Wiskeria got it out of him, and nearly a month later, she bade her mother listen to his request. For Kaliv, for the future, the [Prince] asked if the Stitch Witch could make him a warrior who would never die.

What happened then, as Belavierr’s daughter watched and realized what it was to see a friend in pain, when she looked at her mother’s blank face and saw her, in the days after, when Kaliv expelled the Stitch Witch and the disgraced [Prince] lost his name and future—all of that came from a simple tragedy.

The Griffin Prince asked if the Stitch Witch could make him into a warrior who would not die. The horror, the tragedy of it was—she did.

 

——

 

Wiskeria’s past, her guilts, the failures of youth, of growing up and her mistakes that had driven her away from her mother until now, were old stories.

She had told Nanette some of them, but possibly only the Griffin Prince and Wiskeria knew them all. Even Mavika did not know Wiskeria’s childhood.

Yet, when Wiskeria met the Witch of Liscor, the [Innkeeper], Erin Solstice, they came back to her. A bland, normal [Witch] fiddled with her glasses as Erin Solstice turned with a white Gnoll who touched luck in her arms. With a [Princess] by her side, a Hobgoblin possessed by ghosts, a traveller with a dress woven by someone who knew thread in this day and age, and so many more.

Wiskeria looked at Erin Solstice and felt nostalgia as Nanette stopped and felt her hat shake slightly. But Wiskeria, ignored by Erin, and even most of the room, looked at the [Witch] with no hat. She nodded to herself. She was right.

She did not like Erin at all.

 

——

 

Before they entered, the voices coming from within were audible through a window opened for ventilation. Laken’s ‘throne room’ was, after all, a converted storage warehouse, and plans were being made for a far grander installation.

However, there were benefits to being able to listen in on conversations within, and Laken had done that more than once. This might have been coincidental, but even so—the two [Witches] listened to the young woman’s voice from within.

“…I owe you so much, and Ryoka does too. But you were part of the army that attacked Liscor. Goblins died there. I was there.”

“I know. So was I. It was not my choice, nor did I know what Tyrion Veltras had planned. That is not an excuse. Had I known he intended to siege a Drake city, I would have refused to go with him. But I will tell you this, Erin. The Goblin Chieftain, Tremborag, raided Riverfarm and destroyed many villages like Windrest. They murdered my people. I would not have stood in Tyrion’s way when he destroyed the mountain of Goblins or when he saved my people when they fought your Chieftain, Rags.”

She’s not my—Goblins are people!”

“Yes. And some of them are terrible. Some of them are not. That is the lesson I learned—later. Which is why the Goblinlands exist. I am guilty of my mistakes, Erin. But I did make them with the best of intentions.”

Silence, then. Nanette fidgeted, one of her rare movements, and she adjusted her hat. She was staring at the walls as if looking for something. The acrimonious discussion was petering out, and the [Emperor] seemed tired. It was not the first time he had argued this, and he had done it both ways, apologizing to the Wind Runner, defending the Goblins to others.

But the [Innkeeper] continued, and there was a tone in her voice unlike how she had met the [Witches] of Riverfarm. She didn’t raise her voice or speak faster, but it slid into the conversation like a pair of brass knuckles being gripped in a pocket.

“—Then. If the Goblins want to go, will you let them?”

The [Emperor] paused a moment.

“…They are my subjects. A Goblin can walk around Riverfarm without being murdered in cold blood. I don’t believe Liscor is that safe.”

“There are other places for Goblins. If they want to leave—Ulvama told me they might not be able to. If they want to leave with me, when I go…”

“You’ll take them, it sounds like. Are you telling me what you intend or asking?”

“I’m just asking.”

A low chuckle, but not a pleased one. Wiskeria tilted her head and whispered to Nanette.

“He sounds—irritated.”

It was rare for Laken to lose his patience after months of doing this. But there was definitely a hostile note in his voice, and just as clearly, he was holding onto his temper. The [Emperor] snapped back.

“You ask like a proper [Witch], at least, Erin. No, nevermind. That’s unkind, and I apologize. But if you won’t discuss anything that matters, ghosts, your quests? We’ll have dinner, later. Perhaps then. I understand Nanette and Wiskeria are waiting outside. I shall tour Riverfarm. Do let me know what you decide.”

Shuffling, then the [Emperor] came striding out the door with Prost and Rie behind him. No one looked happy, but Laken caught himself, turned to Wiskeria and Nanette, and smiled apologetically.

“Did you hear that?”

“I’m sorry I was absent, Your Majesty.”

Wiskeria tipped her hat, and Laken waved that off.

“I leave this as a matter of [Witches]. I am—a bit piqued at the moment. It’s affecting my mood. Just know that I will support your decisions, regardless, Nanette.”

“Thank you, Emperor Laken.”

The girl murmured without looking up. Laken smiled at her and turned his head back.

“—I hold Erin Solstice in the utmost of respect. The woman herself is somewhat difficult. No wonder Magnolia Reinhart herself had trouble.”

Then he was gone. Wiskeria adjusted her hat again, but she only waited a bit as Nanette stood there.

“Are you alright, Nanette?”

“No.”

A fair answer, so Wiskeria took her hand again, pushed the door open, and there stood Erin Solstice.

She was not alone, but when she saw Nanette, the rest of the world stopped existing for the two of them. She fixed her eyes on Nanette’s face, and the girl looked up and felt her hat trembling. Wiskeria was ignored, so she stood there, taking in the [Princess], the Hobgoblin, the [Knights], and the uneasy feeling on the back of her neck.

Wiskeria looked right, left, up, and then around, but she never saw Tessa. Yet she calmly put her back to the wall as Erin began to speak.

“You. You’re Nanette, aren’t you? I’m Erin. Erin Solstice, an [Innkeeper] from Liscor. I—I’m a [Witch] as well, a new one.”

She stumbled over her words slightly, and the tone that had rung throughout her voice when speaking to the [Emperor] was gone. She should have kept it, but the speech the [Innkeeper] had rehearsed had fled her mind. Wiskeria thought she saw it go, like vapor leaving the light brown hair, the uncertain, earnest face.

Erin licked her lips nervously and fidgeted as Nanette took her time responding. She looked nothing like the aura she had or the feeling in the air. Just a plain [Innkeeper] who would fit an apron, maybe making eggs in a frying pan or chatting with her guests.

Until those hazel eyes shone, until she stood in the center of an event like a stone with the waters rushing around her, influencing it all. Wiskeria did not like Erin. But she listened for the same reason Nanette looked up and made her dry throat, unused to speech, work.

“I’m Nanette. You have no hat.”

Erin put a hand to her head and tried to chuckle.

“I…haven’t found one I like yet. Sorry. I know it’s a witchy thing to do. But I’m new. I was just taught, when I was dead. I had—the greatest of teachers.”

“You were dead?”

Erin waved it off with one hand. Her eyes never left Nanette’s face.

“Someone shot me with crossbows. I got better. It’s a long story, but—Nanette. Nanette Weishart, I don’t know quite how to say this. Please, believe me. I was dead for a while, and I walked the lands of the dead. I had an adventure. A terrible, grand…sad adventure.”

Erin’s eyes became distant, and some of the people behind her shivered or looked at her, half-believing. But the [Witches] just stared at Erin in wonder.

Not even Belavierr walked with ghosts in this era. Yet Nanette’s hand had suddenly tightened on the brim of her hat. Erin breathed the next words.

“I only survived because I had a guide. I met a great [Witch] who saved my life—my soul—and taught me many things. She convened the last, greatest coven of dead [Witches]. And she made me promise that if I lived, I would find her daughter. Her name was Califor, and I have come to Riverfarm to make good on my promise. She asked me to find you, Nanette. And—and if you wanted, make sure you grew up safely, grew up as well as I could. I know this is a lot to take in—”

Erin was speaking faster and faster, like someone who was spinning the most incredible of tales and trying to reach the end before it all fell apart, a fantasy. And she was trying very hard not to tear up.

Yet Nanette just listened, listened and fixed her eyes on Erin. Not in disbelief, nor outrage. Nor even much sadness.

Her hat was too full. Wiskeria watched Nanette as carefully as Erin. The girl who had walked among the dead still smelled of the grave. There were flashes of light around her, like Dragonfire, and if Wiskeria listened hard, she thought she could hear someone blowing a horn.

She was so much like Belavierr that Wiskeria felt an itching in her back. Like Belavierr…but there was no grandness at times. She had no hat, no formality.

If it had been Belavierr, she would have walked into Riverfarm with a storm at her back. She would have walked straight to Nanette, ignoring the [Emperor], and spoken her promise before all and only one.

Wiskeria wondered which would have been more appropriate here. Neither, most likely. For Nanette listened to Erin until the [Innkeeper] trailed off, waiting anxiously for the girl to say something. When Nanette raised her heavy head, the girl looked at Erin with her brown locks curling around a face lost and blank.

“Okay.”

That was all Nanette said. Erin blinked. The [Princess] stirred and looked like she almost wanted to embrace the girl, but she held still. Erin half-turned, then focused on Nanette.

“Does…does that mean you want to come with me? It’s your choice, Nanette.”

The young [Witch] spoke almost instantly, her voice distant.

“If that’s what my mother said, I’ll go. You met Califor?”

“Y-yes.”

“Is she still there?”

Erin closed her eyes.

“No. No…no one is. The lands of the dead—”

“Okay.”

Nanette interrupted her again. The little [Witch] looked at Erin and then turned to gaze up to Wiskeria. The ordinary [Witch] bent down, and Nanette spoke softly, to Erin, to Wiskeria.

“I’m going to sit down again. Tell me when I should go.”

“Are you—don’t you have questions?”

Erin faltered, but Nanette just looked back at Erin. For a moment, her lips seemed to writhe and burst—then her hat weighed down her tongue, and she shook her head.

“I’m tired. Did my mother say anything to me?”

“I have…there are some things that…”

A third time, Nanette’s eyes flickered, and her voice went flattest of all.

“Okay. I’ll listen. Later. I want to sit down, now. Wiskeria?”

“Sure.”

Wiskeria took the hand and tried to draw some of the sadness out, but Nanette jerked her hand back and stared up at her. Wiskeria took her hand and nothing else and went for the door.

“But…okay. Okay, I’ll find you, alright, Nanette?”

Erin was staring, her face stricken, as she saw Nanette’s hat. Only then did her eyes find Wiskeria. The Witch of Law tipped her hat.

“Hello, Witch Erin Solstice. It’s good to meet you. I’m Wiskeria. Belavierr’s daughter. I trust we’ll speak again later.”

A little Gnoll made a sound of choking horror. Erin’s eyes opened wide.

Whuh—Belavierr’s—”

“What?”

The [Princess] shrieked at the same time as the Hobgoblin nearly drew his sword. Wiskeria pushed the door open and led Nanette outside. She looked down at the girl. Only when she was outside and the door had closed did Nanette fall over.

She didn’t collapse. Nor did she faint. She just keeled over, forwards, and would have slammed her nose into the ground had Wiskeria not caught her just in time. The older [Witch] grunted and lifted Nanette up.

The young [Witch] was still awake, but her face was pale and her eyes stared at nothing. Wiskeria gently carried her away from the throne room and to her home. She put Nanette into her bed, and the girl stared up at the ceiling. Wiskeria pointed at her hat.

“Sacrifice your sadness or use it, Nanette. It’s been too long. It will be your end.”

The girl didn’t respond, and it was her choice. So Wiskeria left. And she knew—knew that even when Nanette stirred, even when she went back to sit under that tree, and even though her mother had sent back a mortal agent to take care of her—even then, with her name hanging in the air—

The girl shed not a single tear.

 

——

 

The first day at Riverfarm was mostly settling in. Introducing themselves. Telling what needed to be told, like a version of Erin’s witnessing of the lands of the dead.

Whether or not anyone believed was up to them. Erin herself listened to the tale of Belavierr and Riverfarm’s rise to power and had to reckon with tales of a young Chieftain who had burned a path across Riverfarm and nearly destroyed the [Emperor]’s lands.

An [Innkeeper] met an [Emperor]. An [Innkeeper] met [Witches]. Erin Solstice stood before Mavika, Agratha, Oliyaya, Hedag, and a few other [Witches] and greeted them somewhat formally. Agratha was knitting energetically.

“You have no hat. Will you make one? There’s a contest, my dear. A [Witch] should have a hat. And you should apprentice yourself with one of us. Or we could find a suitable teacher.”

“A contest? I dunno, I’m no good at sewing and stuff. I’ll get a hat, don’t worry. But, uh, I’ve never been a hat-girl. But I am a [Witch]. It’s just, I’ll be my kind of [Witch], y’know?”

The older [Witches] exchanged glances, and not even Hedag laughed. Mavika leaned forwards, and Erin leaned back from the hooked nose and expression.

“You were taught by the greatest [Witches] ever to walk this world. Will you share their craft?”

“Oh—sure. I mean, they didn’t teach me huge things. More like the basics and some tricks. But anything I can. Absolutely. I want to help people. That’s part of why I came here.”

The [Witches] looked at each other and muttered. Another difficult one. Oliyaya cackled and shook her head.

“I will not teach her! Nor will I be a good apprentice. She has no craft, either. So. Let us listen and speak and learn each other. Welcome, Witch.”

She tipped her hat to Erin, and this time, it was like one of the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, a genteel gesture from a stranger to a stranger. Erin smiled uncertainly and gave everyone a thumbs-up. Mavika stared at the thumb like she wanted to bite it off.

 

——

 

However, it wasn’t all like that. Erin was assigned a house, and her entire group got no less than six guest houses between them. They didn’t even end up using them all, but such was Laken’s attitude towards his guests from Liscor.

They were to be treated like Lord Gralton or Yitton Byres. Any amenities within reason should be given to them, and if they wanted for entertainment, they’d have it. Erin had no timetable for her vacation, nor anything but two vague goals of ‘Goblins’ and ‘Nanette’. She was, in many ways, an exceptionally inconvenient visitor.

The next day, Erin’s group split up. They had a fine breakfast delivered to them in their very comfortable houses, and it began to feel like a vacation in earnest. Even Mrsha began to be a bit less snuffly, and so everyone agreed to split up and try to enjoy their visit to the Unseen Empire.

Unlike yesterday, it wasn’t standing around awkwardly making conversations or delivering news. It was, disquietingly, unbelievably—

Sort of fun.

Think about it. Unlike Liscor, or even Pallass, this was a land where a Goblin could walk around and not alarm people. Even the Walled City of Invention was not as safe as Laken’s lands where he saw almost everything.

It meant little Gnolls could not cause trouble, even if they tried. There was no inn to run, and they were literally out of range of a magic door that could deliver trouble to them. Even the Mage’s Guild wasn’t strong enough for Erin to really send rapid-fire [Messages] back home to worry about the High Passes.

Riverfarm was an oasis, a remote part of Izril. As vacations went, it might not have pristine beaches or magnificent cliff faces or even much water aside from the river, but it was free. And lest anyone think it was some place with nothing to do—

The interesting things found the visitors. In the case of Ser Dalimont, a hand literally pulled him out of marching behind Lyonette. He turned, looked up into a face like stone, and Durene peered down at the Thronebearer.

“You’re a [Knight].”

“I am. Er, Lady Durene?”

The half-Troll girl’s face crinkled up in amusement.

“It’s just Durene. You’re those Thronebearers of Calanfer? Your armor’s wonderful.”

She wore none of the armor of yesterday, but she had a huge mace strapped to her back and a tower shield as well. She was far taller than Dalimont, but she didn’t loom—and there was something about her that was uncannily familiar to Dalimont.

The other three Thronebearers were far warier, although they were studiously polite, but Durene just nodded as she looked Dalimont up and down. She checked her simple tunic and leggings and then pointed to the south.

“…Laken told me an undead horde popped out of some old cemetery. There’s about one to two hundred coming north, and I’m going to fight them before they get near a village. Let’s go together.”

“Wh—an undead horde?

Lyonette turned, but Durene hastily raised her hands.

“Shh! Laken said to keep it quiet. It’s a tiny one, and it’s thirty miles away. I’ll deal with it myself. You should come with me, though.”

“Us? Fight a hundred undead? What kind? Zombies? Skeletons?”

“Some Ghouls. Maybe more. I’m not taking my armor. You should take off yours.”

The Thronebearers of Calanfer stared up at Durene, and then Dalimont realized why she felt so…familiar. He had read a briefing report on her, and he knew the half-Troll girl’s unusual class.

[Paladin]. She stood before the [Knights], unarmored save for her skin and the shield and mace she carried. Durene flexed one arm and looked at them challengingly.

“Why not? Riverfarm’s peaceful. If we don’t take risks—how do we improve? Are you [Knights] or not? I’m a [Paladin] by the way. Sorry—um, Your Majesty? I didn’t mean to steal your bodyguard.”

“None taken, Lady Durene.”

Lyonette breathed faintly. She was definitely unused to meeting the consort of an [Emperor] who was both Durene and Durene. The Thronebearers were formulating a polite refusal when Dalimont removed his helmet.

“…It would be my pleasure, Paladin Durene. Give me five minutes to remove my armor. Princess Marquin, by your leave, I would like to request permission to accompany Paladin Durene on her mission.”

Lyonette turned, and Ser Sest gave Dalimont a look as if he were insane. But Dalimont looked up at Durene, and his past in Noelictus lay before him.

“It would be my honor. I have known one [Paladin] before you, Dame Durene. To fight by one’s side again is a privilege.”

Durene’s eyes widened and then crinkled up again with delight. Lyonette looked at Dalimont and made a vague shooing gesture.

“Er—very well. Riverfarm is safe. Why not?”

Of course, no Thronebearer would let Lyonette go completely unguarded, so Ser Lormel got to stay behind, but that was how three Thronebearers, divested of their armor, began jogging after Durene as she loped into the distance. Ser Sest loudly panted after Durene.

“I say, did you, uh, say thirty miles, Dame Durene? How shall we get there?”

“Run? We’ll get there by nightfall.”

“I see, I see—wait, what?”

However, then he just ran after Durene, who kept her head held high and smiled as she ran. She was changing too; this was not the first time she had gone, alone, to fight monsters.

 

——

 

Mind you, if Durene had wanted proper companions for a fight, she could have recruited far more than just the Thronebearers, but she still did not like Goblins.

And since Pyrite’s ghost had warned Numbtongue that the Troll girl was somewhat ornery and had a swing that could take his head off, the [Bard] decided not to run thirty miles and fight a few hundred undead. As fun as that sounded.

He was doing a [Bard] thing. Numbtongue had slept in a house the first night, but he decided he might spend the rest of the time in Riverfarm in the Goblinlands. He had seen the two walls that protected the Goblins from the Humans and vice-versa, and now he sat in their, well, village.

Not a town. They were behind the Humans in numbers and buildings, but they had homes. In fact, they had a well. They had a mine, and, as Numbtongue tuned his guitar, he watched some industrious Goblins hefting pickaxes, buckets, and even pushing a cart and going into the mines.

“You mine and sell with the Humans?”

He looked disbelievingly at one of the former Goldstone Goblins who led the mining crews. The Goblin picked at his teeth.

“Is good work. Humans want iron. They give us things. Pillows, gold, food—what, you not work?”

“…I’m a [Bard]. I live in the inn. With Erin?”

Numbtongue reminded the Goblin. This one had never been to The Wandering Inn, so he gave Numbtongue a toothy grin.

“Oh! So you don’t work. Is good for some.”

Numbtongue had forgotten quite how savage Goblins were. Verbally, at least. He looked around and saw most of the Goblins did actually have something to do. Even if they weren’t mining, there were all the tasks of a settlement to perform: cooking, like Pebblesnatch making pumpernickel bread, building a new home, but often, the Goblins performed jobs for a trading colony, which is what they were.

They didn’t have to have [Seamstresses] or [Tailors] because they could trade for clothing. Rather, you had Hobs like Raidpear who trained—and helped by making hide armor out of animals being hunted. Or, like Leafarmor, made armor. Out of leaves.

It was, to look at the Goblins, the most relaxed, idyllic lifestyle imaginable. And that begged the question—why had Ulvama left?

She was with Numbtongue, or at least, in the Goblinlands. She was wandering about, inspecting buildings, poking Goblins, but most answered curtly and shooed her off, and even when the [Shaman] tried to boss them or jab them with her staff, they ignored her.

“Hm. Ulvama was here? What was she like?”

Numbtongue directed his question to Leafarmor, since the other [Mining Foreman] had to get to work. The Hob grunted a reply at her Redfang brother.

“Bossy. Power grab. Keep Goblins alive, though. Wanted all leave. Didn’t like [Emperor].”

“Makes sense.”

Leafarmor gave Numbtongue a speculative look, then shrugged.

“He not worst one. Ulvama helped. Many Goblins not-dead. But…”

She waved a hand at Ulvama and grimaced, which said it all with the way that Leafarmor slapped a leaf onto her newest piece of equipment. Necessary, but not fun.

That was the Ulvama experience. She had helped hold the Goblins together…but none had followed her, not even Pebblesnatch. She stood alone in the Goblinlands, looking the most disconsolate that Numbtongue had ever seen.

He felt bad for her, a bit. She wasn’t evil, just Ulvama. The very qualities that made her dislikable at times were put in the service of Goblins. In fact…Numbtongue began to strum on his guitar, and Leafarmor’s ears perked up.

“She isn’t that bad. Ulvama came to The Wandering Inn, but did you know what she did next? Hey, Goblins. Come over here!”

He waved some over, and a [Rotter], Holdnose, dragged his pot over and was instantly shooed away at the noxious smell. But more Goblins listened or drifted over, and Numbtongue relocated so his voice could reach the mines. Thoughtfully, he began to play and felt an approving smile on his back.

Pyrite sat and watched his tribe working. Numbtongue swore he would introduce Pyrite for a minute, but first, the [Bard] did what a [Bard] should.

He told them stories. With a laugh, Numbtongue found the first one to tell.

“Ulvama fought the Witch of Webs, did you know? She went all the way to the Gnoll Plains for a silly little girl and joined a Fellowship of the Inn! Have you ever heard of the legendary, the unforgettable [Goblinfriend Bug-Captain]? Sit around, I will tell you her name!”

So the Goblins sat and laughed, and Pebblesnatch raced over to sit and listen—until her bread began to burn. And Ulvama watched as the Cave Goblin raced around, shrieking, and looked at peaceful Riverfarm.

“Is good. Is happy.”

She muttered to herself as Numbtongue strummed. Ulvama searched for the…the unease she had felt when she left. She didn’t sense it as strongly. But that just made her more worried.

If it was gone…why? She hobbled around, sniffing the air, and knew she would not stay. But for a little bit—she leaned over Pebblesnatch’s outdoor kitchen and patted the little Cave Goblin on the head until Pebblesnatch leaned against her. Then Ulvama stole half of Pebblesnatch’s bread because she was hungry.

It turned out Pebblesnatch had levelled up. It was halfway decent damn bread.

 

——

 

It was amazing how many connections there were between Riverfarm and Liscor. Then again, Ryoka had been to both.

Garia Strongheart did not go with Numbtongue to the Goblinlands. She’d thought about it, but she had to admit, she wasn’t that at home with so many Goblins. Numbtongue? Obviously, but Riverfarm interested her enough as a [Farmer]’s daughter.

“So you’re growing cotton, now? I hear it’s a pain to pick.”

“His Majesty’s got us to work on a way to pick it fast. Miss Griffin had some kind of tool—but it’s important to have cotton. Everything needs it, but yes, we’ll spin off a huge area for farming the stuff.”

“Are you irrigating or just relying on Skills?”

Mister Prost had introduced Garia to Farmer Ram when he’d heard Garia came from the semi-famous Strongheart farm. Now, the man was showing her around.

There was a bit of, oh, competitiveness. A kind of friendly rivalry between mundane and magical farmers. Ram laughed as he pointed out the many [Farmers] working the fields.

“Don’t need no fancy magic, Runner Garia! We’ve got nigh on at least thirty farmers pushing up around Level 30, and we can combine our Skills. Frankly, we’ve got more farmers than farmland at the moment, but we’re sowing new fields every day. How much, er, Sage’s Grass does your farm produce?”

Garia grinned as he shot her a competitive glance.

“More than all of Riverfarm will. If you want to see a plague of gnats eating your Sage’s Grass, be my guest. Or a hundred moles going after a single field of thirty plants?”

“Dead gods.”

The man shuddered, and Garia laughed.

“My dad’s careful about how much magic we have. He has nullifiers so animals can’t detect it, and he harvests them before they get big. But he has other plants! I heard you have pumpkins for the fall? Ever seen an invisible pumpkin?”

“No, I’ve never seen—hah!”

Ram laughed and elbowed her, and Garia giggled.

“I’ll get you some seeds. My dad’s also got some sour fruits that spit liquid.”

“Well, in that case, we’ll get him some of our seeds, how about that? We’re buying some of the best plants, but we’ve got some lovely carrot seeds—let me get you a packet.”

It was all quite fun, and Garia did like touring Riverfarm. It would have been even more fun if it weren’t for the loud, slightly braying harumph from the side. Garia turned her head, and Ram looked sideways.

“…Something wrong, Miss Charlay?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking back to when me and Ryoka were here. That’s how I met her, did I ever say? Riverfarm. Charlay and Ryoka. I’m amazed it’s not part of her story. I mean, it’s practically how she mastered wind magic and became the Wind Runner. Have you, er, heard from her recently, Garia?”

Garia, the [Martial Artist] City Runner, eyed Charlay. The Centauress was a somewhat familiar face in Riverfarm. Not only was she an esteemed guest, she often ran the region for work.

“I…haven’t.”

“Really? She disembarked from First Landing, you know.”

“I know. It was on the scrying orb.”

“Yes, well, I know because I’m her friend. And I got a letter from her. She writes, now and then. How…many letters do you get?”

The Centauress was getting on Garia’s nerves. But Garia smiled politely. She knew what Charlay was doing. It wasn’t a competition. Mostly because Garia had known Ryoka far longer than Charlay.

“I don’t get many letters.”

“Oh, too bad!”

“I’ll catch up with Ryoka when she visits Celum or Invrisil or Liscor. We always meet, so I don’t need to stay in touch that way.”

Mister Ram saw Charlay nearly miss a step and decided to move to the other side, out of range of a flying hoof or a punch, per se. Charlay harrumphed as the Witch Runner, Alevica, rolled her eyes. All Alevica wanted to do was size up the competition. Garia…Alevica nodded to herself.

Seems like someone not to hex. Charlay snapped back, coming out with it directly.

“Well, I’m Ryoka’s best friend, just so you know! She and I are both foreigners. We have a connection.”

“I’m not saying you two aren’t friends! What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m her best friend. Best. Friend.”

“You’ve only known her for a few months! I knew her when she first came to Celum!”

“Yeah, and she left Celum. She told me all about how bad your Runner’s Guild was. Persua. I bet you’re one of her people.”

Persua? You take that back.

Garia’s fists balled up, but Charlay just danced around her, kicking up some dirt.

“Prove you know Ryoka better than I do. Tell me her favorite food! Or—how many adventures have you been on with her? Or—”

“What’s her middle name?”

Charlay paused, mid-taunt, and Garia turned. Mister Ram eyed Alevica, and the Witch Runner smiled nastily.

“Er, what, Alevica?”

Charlay coughed, and Alevica grinned.

“What’s her middle name? Surely her best friends would know it.”

Ryoka Dawning Griffin’s best friends exchanged a look. Charlay harrumphed, but her tail swished uncertainly.

“I—of course I know it. I have it written down. In my diary. But who remembers middle names? Just give me one second—”

“Me too. I’ll just—”

They both began to walk, then run, then sprint back to Riverfarm. Then they began shoving each other—right until Charlay kicked dust into Garia’s face. An outraged [Martial Artist] launched a flying kick at the screaming Centauress, but they split up. Charlay wrote frantically as Garia found her [Message] scroll.

 

Fierre! It’s me, Charlay! I need you to tell me Ryoka’s middle name!

Hey Fierre, it’s Garia. Just checking in. Do you know what Ryoka’s middle name is…?

 

Meanwhile, Alevica smugly watched them race into the distance, then race back. She licked one finger, held it up, then began gathering all the animosity up into her hat.

Mister Ram watched the Witch Runner and shook his head. That Alevica was a piece of work.

 

——

 

Other meetings were far less…unpleasant. For instance, while Charlay and Garia were entering into a real feud, egged on by Alevica, someone else was meeting another famous [Witch] of Riverfarm.

Namely, Lyonette and Witch Eloise. They had tea in Eloise’s home, which was already being transformed from the generic house into, well…

A sanctum of tea. Eloise had tea leaves hanging up, at least eight different styles of tea kettle, and she made bags of tea leaves as well as grew small pots of exotic varieties.

For all that, her sitting room had no such clutter, and it was so elegant, a table sitting just so between two comfortable chairs as a custom-fit window gave them a splendid view of the quiet forest and breeze blowing across the leaves changing color, that Lyonette had to press a hand over her heart.

This was elegance. This was the talent of someone who could change a room to a theme. Ser Lormel himself looked respectful and amazed by the short, elderly woman sitting with a simple hat on her head.

She looked humble, and her clothes were not washed every day; they were for work, not carefully tailored gowns that required an entire person to maintain them regularly.

Yet, Lyonette felt, no, she knew, that if Eloise were called upon to walk into a ballroom or attend a royal court, she would not have been out of place. Lyonette inhaled a Calanferian tea blend she hadn’t smelled for over a year. Dawn’s Leaf, pale gold if you held it up, and very mild, with the faintest taste of perhaps maple.

She looked at Eloise over her cup and had to ask.

“Are you…her? Witch Eloise, I do beg your pardon. But I am simply, utterly in awe.”

There was only one person who could have this much of Terandria and yet be…a [Witch]. Lyonette had heard of a [Lady] who had left her life to become a primitive [Witch]. In her youth, she had known the name as a cautionary tale, someone to deride or mock or pity.

Now? She looked into the twinkling eyes of Eloise, and the [Witch of Tea] put down her cup.

“As one ages, they develop a reputation, Princess Marquin. I don’t believe I deserve awe for simply having lived a full life. Anyone who reaches my age generally has done one thing of note, at least. Or have you not met the lady of fire? Now there was someone who leaves the world poorer and colder.”

“Even so. Even so, I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Lyonette murmured. Eloise chuckled.

“And I, you! This may be poor fare, but will you take some snacks? I made them out of walnuts I gathered.”

“Oh, allow me to share some cookies from Liscor. I have the recipe…Ser Lormel?”

Eloise watched as Lyonette fumbled with her bag of holding and then had Lormel present them. A mix of [Barmaid] and [Princess]. Her eyes were knowing, because Lyonette was walking down a road Eloise had travelled long ago. So the [Witch] delicately accepted the recipe and nibbled at a cookie, smiling.

“Shall we then talk of home, Miss Lyonette? Let us be women from home, not our classes. And speak frankly. If you would like, I have some poor advice to share.”

Lyonette leaned forwards, then caught herself and smiled. She raised her cup, and it chimed as Eloise touched hers to it. Both smiled in delight, like dignified girls playing at being [Ladies]. It made Eloise look so very young.

 

——

 

Unlike Lyonette, Inkar visited Witch Oliyaya, and that was an experience. The [Witch] peered at Inkar as the [Worldly Traveller] inspected the charms Oliyaya had made.

“You want to buy my craft, eh? I don’t care for gold like some. What have you, girl who smells of Gnolls?”

Inkar had already given Oliyaya the cheese gift, but the [Witch] was unmoved. She recognized the product of a Skill, and Inkar gestured around.

“I would like to trade for many things, Witch Oliyaya. I am from Longstalker’s Fang, and I have a few things—”

She delved into her bag of holding and came out with a bolt of fabric that Oliyaya’s hands hovered over.

“Oh. Oh, is this Shockwoolie wool? A fine bolt of cloth. Silver from Silverfangs? Naturally mined. For a few charms, I could trade.”

Inkar bowed her head politely.

“I would love to see what you have—but I would also like to trade with many [Witches]. They have many crafts, don’t they?”

Oliyaya laughed.

“They do! But if you think even that cloth will buy much—a [Witch] is no [Craftsman] to churn out goods. Nor do I think that bag of holding has enough treasures.”

It did not, and Inkar knew that well enough. She had bought some Shield Spider venom from Liscor, and she had other trade goods from the Meeting of Tribes, but she took a breath and looked Oliyaya in the eyes.

Which was not easy, because they seemed to pop out of the [Witch]’s head, and they were a disconcertingly lurid green that stared like, well, a scary [Witch]. But it was an experienced [Traveler] who held her own.

“May I purchase some charms and your craft to take back to Longstalker’s Fang and any tribes who wish it, Witch Oliyaya? And from the other [Witches]?”

The cackle from Oliyaya was loud, but not outraged. She stared down at Inkar, leaning forwards until her breath—oddly minty, not foul—blew across Inkar’s face.

“You want to buy my goods on credit?

Only then did Inkar see the twinkle in the old [Witch]’s gaze. Oliyaya turned her head innocently, but it was too late. Inkar’s smile grew, and the [Witch] cackled and cursed, but good-naturedly.

“I promise on my name and Longstalker’s Fang’s honor it will come to Riverfarm, Witch Oliyaya. There is a door in Invrisil, and it can cut a journey short from Invrisil to Pallass.”

“Eight hundred miles and the Bloodfields gone. True, true. And what would you offer?”

Oliyaya squatted over a mortar and pestle that a girl with burn scars was working over, sifting through fennel with her fingers. Inkar responded, her eyes on Oliyaya’s dark clothing—fine and magical, but old like the [Witch].

“I know a great [Spinner], Honored Deskie, Witch Oliyaya. There are other goods as well.”

“Deskie the Magic Spinner. I know that name. Ah, and her clothing you wear. Well then, well then. I will trade you my craft. If you ensure that any trade of cloth she makes comes to me, before any other. Then I shall introduce you to the others.”

The [Witch] laughed again, and then she was spreading her work before Inkar, and the [Traveler] was writing down charms and what Oliyaya wanted to send to Eska. After all—if you travelled so far to distant lands, only a fool would not trade.

 

——

 

There were, in fact, a few meetings which would have larger consequences. Although the ramifications might not be apparent immediately, they bore instant fruit.

Such as Laken Godart. He was relaxing and trying not to focus on the point of distant irritation that was Erin. The foreign hostility was really affecting him, but he enjoyed hearing of the antics of the others, and he’d decided just to get back to work.

“Hm. Bandits have come over the border.”

“Poor souls, Your Majesty. I will alert General Wiskeria and Beniar at once.”

Mister Prost stepped out as Lady Rie took Prost’s place. She still unsettled him. She was changed, markedly, from her being called by the Circle of Thorns. Oh, it was hard to tell what had changed her very body at first.

If you knew her, she would have seemed unnaturally more vital, as if someone had injected her with energy. The faint, faint tinge to her skin, her teeth? Well, the proof in the pudding, to use an expression, was in her talents.

Namely, the ability to wrestle her bodyguard in terms of strength, a boundless energy—and a nature that unsettled the [Witches], though even Mavika had warned Laken it might not have been obvious had they not known.

For now, Rie was the perfect administrator of Riverfarm’s diplomatic arm. And to her employers, she was the plant in the Unseen Empire, a useful tool.

Unbeknownst to them, Rie could ignore their orders, but she played along. A weapon to combat the Circle from the inside.

Not that Laken wanted to go up against what was apparently an entirely shadowy cabal, so Rie just delivered her report quietly.

“They are asking me to look into House Veltras via any means possible, Your Majesty. I told them I have few avenues, but they asked me to copy any correspondence between you and Lord Tyrion.”

“I see. Ryoka must truly worry them. Well, anything about Erin?”

“Only demand for anything about her <Quests> or plans.”

“I see. Well, keep scrying orbs away from Erin. In case she has—what did that Lyonette call them? ‘Solstice events’? How amazing. If something becomes public knowledge, you’ll have to inform them, but otherwise, she is a pleasant guest only interested in Goblins.”

“Absolutely, sire.”

He could tell Rie was smiling. The benefit of having someone altered in that—ritual—was that her new bosses believed she was incapable of being a traitor. Which, to be fair, without Tamaroth’s help, would have been the case.

She had never spoken of it, except to say it was the most unpleasant experience of her life, and also altering. Laken had begun letting Durene go on her self-imposed challenges when Rie had come back.

He needed warriors on par with Griffon Hunt. Spies, capable agents as well. That was his next goal. But the [Emperor] was taking his leisure as Rie departed, and he sat in his home, resting in a wonderful reclining chair that had just been engineered by Gamel’s fiancée, Tessia. Forget trebuchets…this was the real achievement of engineering.

Then Laken sat up slightly.

“What the—”

An intruder had entered his home. Gamel had spotted the assailant, but Laken held up a hand. Someone had come to meet the [Emperor] in private. After all, it was only appropriate they should meet.

Your Majesty. I am a correspondent of [Kings]. They know me from Chandrar to Baleros. Forsooth, it is I! Let us talk as equals!

Mrsha the Great and Terrible held up a card. Laken Godart sat up slightly as the little Gnoll girl, who he had been told had white fur which made her a Doombearer, stood in front of him.

He thought she was holding something up.

“Er…is it Mrsha? Do you have something you want to say to me, Miss Mrsha?”

The little Gnoll girl faltered. She stared at her note—then Laken’s closed eyes. Then she realized he was blind.

She’d known that—but he’d moved around so easily she had forgotten blind meant you couldn’t read. Unless it was braille. And she couldn’t speak.

Oh no. Mrsha tapped her speaking stone, and a bright voice chirped.

Hi, I’m Mrsha!

“Uh. Hello?”

“Hi! Read my note, stupid!”

Laken Godart felt Gamel shifting as Mrsha realized that Gire’s pre-recorded lines could be more…tactful. He turned his head.

“Ah, Gamel? Please read the note?”

He sat there as Mrsha’s eloquent speech was read out loud by Gamel. The girl was fidgeting, and when Gamel read her statements, Laken…twitched.

What an annoying kid. He smiled politely at Mrsha.

“I’m afraid I am resting, Miss Mrsha. It was lovely to meet you, but I am an [Emperor].”

Mrsha scribbled, and he had to wait for her to pass a note to Gamel.

But I’m Mrsha! I know Fetohep of Khelt! And the Titan of Baleros! Let’s talk about important things! I’m a Doombearer, you know. Plus, I’m cute.

Laken Godart sat there. He considered her words and actually wondered if they might be true for a second. Then he caught himself, shook his head, and spoke.

“Gamel, please take Miss Mrsha out and find her mother or some children her age.”

What? You can’t do this! You stupid fool! No one ignores Mrsha the Great and—

Gamel picked up Mrsha and, ignoring her squirming, carried her outside. Laken Godart sat in his recliner, then he lay back.

“Children. Was I that bad? Eugh.”

She reminded him of a giant Sariant Lamb.

 

——

 

Mrsha the Indignant Parcel squirmed, but she didn’t quite dare punch or bite Gamel. Even so, when he put her down with a bunch of Riverfarm’s children who got to play outdoors, she listened to him tell her off.

“His Majesty is not to be disturbed. Hey, you lot! This girl would like to play. Keep an eye on her?”

Oh, he’d pay. So would that [Emperor]. Mrsha was going to get right back in and assert dominance! She was just about to slink off as Gamel marched away when someone ran up.

“You’re a Gnoll!”

Mrsha turned and stared at a girl with pigtails who grinned in delight at her. Mrsha pointed at her face.

Who, me? Well observed, dummy. But she didn’t say that. The girl peered at Mrsha.

“Can’t you speak?”

“No, she can’t, remember? But she’s fast! Did you see her crawling through the [Emperor]’s window? You oughtn’t to do that, Miss. Let’s play instead! We’ve got a soccer ball, and we’re going to the new fields. There’s a game!”

Another boy around eleven urged Mrsha. She turned her head. Plebians! She was Mrsha the Great and—

“Your fur’s so nice! It’s white. Is it hard to keep clean? I love it!”

The girl touched Mrsha’s fur! The Gnoll child slapped the hand and was about to growl. Yeah, she was a Doombearer. Doombearer! So don’t think she was—

Then she saw the curious children around her, mostly Humans, and hesitated. Mrsha looked around, and they crowded over, asking what Gnolls ate, if she ran around on all fours, and what she was wearing—a kilt.

And she realized not one, not even Drake children, knew what the heck a Doombringer or Doombearer was. They barely knew what a Gnoll was. She couldn’t speak, but most of them could read, and they oohed as she produced her bag of holding.

Mrsha the Amazingly Interesting stood amidst the children. And then the notions of bothering an [Emperor] vanished. She produced her special magical ball and threw it and then began to race around with the children who barely knew her name or cared why her fur was white. Within five minutes, she was laughing, her slight cold forgotten.

Then she realized this lot had never seen a Liscorian playground. And they had never thrown a proper riot. Mrsha the Troublemaker decided she had to show these yokels how a real Liscorian kid did things. And she had the most fun she had ever had in the last year in the first hour of play.

 

——

 

There was something for everyone in Riverfarm. Whether it was just seeing something new, being found valuable, or making an opportunity. For everyone.

Even…him.

Tkrn.

He was depressed, because Inkar had wanted to negotiate with the [Witches], and she had forbidden him from joining in. Tkrn had no head for trade, and he caved before Inkar in deals. He was walking about, smelling this town, and admiring the roads.

“Brick. Look at it. So smooth. And they’re working on sewers?

The Gnoll felt embarrassed when people stared at him, but even Liscor didn’t have roads this obsessively well-built in every spot. Of course, he couldn’t have known how Laken’s brick roads were among his most unpopular decisions.

Tkrn was a [Guardsman]. He just knew how many times an uneven cobblestone could snap a wagon wheel and cause a headache. Speaking of which, he was admiring how Riverfarm was laid out. It had neat intersections and was built such that you didn’t have to go far from the main thoroughfare to reach any one spot. Again, far better than a windy side road.

However—Riverfarm was still a former village, and it wasn’t used to the levels of traffic it was getting. [Merchants] had started coming in to trade with Riverfarm, and the other parts of the Unseen Empires sent their own wagons and Runners, and so Tkrn found himself walking on the sidewalk as more and more carts fought for the center of the road, mixing with villagers who often crossed the street anywhere they chose, forcing a [Driver] to stop.

In short, they had a bad traffic system, unlike Liscor, where anyone not crossing the street at crosswalks would get cursed out. Tkrn was just thinking it might cause problems when he heard a tremendous bang.

He had a hand on his sword in a moment, but it wasn’t a fight—the cursing up ahead made Tkrn break into a run. Then he saw it.

The busiest road in Riverfarm was the main one, and where it had a four-way stop, someone who wasn’t looking with their wagon had collided with another wagon. Thankfully, the horses were fine, but they’d halted to assess the damage.

Unfortunately, someone else was trying to turn and had to stop. They tried to reverse—only to find four huge, loaded wagons behind them. Suddenly, the horses were boxed in, a pair of ponies reared—and no less than two dozen wagons were in the intersection, unable to turn around as more came to a stop and created more of a blockage.

“Dead gods.”

Tkrn saw the pileup of vehicles and heard the cursing. [Drivers] stood up and began shouting at the people in the center, who looked ready to fight over the damages as more called for others to stop, and horses began to complain about the claustrophobic space. The people of Riverfarm didn’t help; they had walked into the street, but they were just adding to the blockage.

“Drakes’ ancestors! It’s the famous—no. Is it?”

Tkrn passed by a horrified Mister Prost and a few men and women wearing Riverfarm’s livery. The local Watch saw Tkrn trotting left and right, and the [Guardsman] shook his head.

“It is! It’s the legendary five-way cart fullbody pileup!”

“The what?”

Mister Prost was in a mortal horror. Today of all days! With the guests! This was the third major traffic jam this week, and this was the worst yet. But the excited Gnoll from Liscor, that distant city, was gesturing and commentating to the others.

“I’ve never seen a traffic jam this bad. See how each cart is stuck? They all have to reverse or go forwards, but there are five directions each one has to go because that idiot was in the middle of a turn, and she’s facing a wall. It’s the most glorious disaster. It could take hours to sort out. Days, if the traffic gets stuck in multiple streets. I heard a horse once died of starvation before they unstuck the jam.”

Prost groaned. He turned to the other members of Riverfarm’s new Watch.

“Well—get the carts backed up! Pull ‘em back, and someone feed the horses if they’re going to die. Stop those idiots from fighting!”

“Where—where should we go, Mister Prost? There’s only four of us!”

A young [Guardswoman] protested. The completely and utterly blank look on her face offended Tkrn. He waited as Prost turned left and right.

“Go—go down that street. You two.”

“And do what, sir?”

“Back up the carts.”

“Where should they go?”

Tkrn’s mouth actually opened. He waited for Prost to kick the young woman out of the Watch, but the [Steward] seemed as lost as she was.

Because they had never been in a big city. Before Prost could figure something else out, Tkrn snapped.

“Wait a second. You don’t leave—blow your whistle! What’s your traffic alarm and backup call?”

The Humans looked at Tkrn. The young [Guardswoman] gave Tkrn a blank stare.

“My what?”

“Where’s your whistle?

She hesitated and looked at the other three Watch members, who shrugged.

“I don’t have one.”

Tkrn’s jaw dropped.

“You don’t have—? Then how do you call for help?”

“Well, if there’s a problem, His Majesty knows, or we shout for help.”

You shout for—wait a second. Are you actually [Guards] or are you just wearing the gear? This is a traffic stop! You whistle for help, get a [Sergeant] in the center, and begin blocking streets off! You don’t reverse carts—you make sure more aren’t coming to add to the problem! And someone has to stop those idiots before they brawl!”

Indeed, a furious Human was shouting at a half-Elf, and they looked ready to punch each other out. But the Humans were just giving Tkrn a huge look.

“What’s all that about? We’re [Militia], not [Guards]! Most Watch don’t have [Guards] classes. You get that after a few months if you’re good. I was a Watch member in a town before this.”

A strident man jerked a thumb at his chest. Tkrn looked him up and down.

“Well, with training like that, no wonder! How long did you spend in training, Watchman? Where’s your gear?

The man looked perplexed.

“Training? I spent three days following an older fellow around, and then I got given a club and a shield. You’re from those fancy Drake cities, aren’t you?”

Tkrn’s blank stare was morphing into one of slow, dawning horror. He’d heard jokes about the north’s Watches, but he hadn’t really understood the truth behind the jokes.

The north often conflated their militias or standing armies with the Watch. Moreover, adventurers often did the job of [Guards]. Tkrn had spent four months as a trainee, and then he’d spent two years in probation as a junior guardsman before becoming a full-time one.

Zevara’s new influx to the Watch had left the [Watch Captain] stressed out that she was reducing their performance rushing them into the job. If she’d seen Riverfarm, she would have probably been breathing magma.

He spoke, taking charge without realizing he was doing it.

“Alright. You—find the Watch. You have a headquarters? Get me—twenty-three. There will be four at each intersection, blocking off the road and navigating the horses back. You, post them to each street.”

“How do I—?”

“Four per street is sixteen. Count how many go where. Send the rest to me. You two, with me. Hey!

Tkrn put his whistle in his mouth and blew it. The beginnings of a brawl in the center of the street broke up as people put their hands over their ears and turned. They saw a Gnoll stomping down the street, bawling in a familiar, practiced manner.

Liscor’s—I mean, Riverfarm Watch coming through! Please, go about your business! Clear the streets! Sir, I don’t have time for—sir, wait over there. Now, shut up—let’s get everyone out of this jam, first. If your cart’s damaged or your horses are hurt, wait unless someone’s bleeding. Quiet—”

Mister Prost watched as Tkrn began giving out orders. The Gnoll only realized he had taken command from the actual [Steward] of Riverfarm when Prost began adding his voice to the mix.

“Oh—I didn’t mean to take charge, sir!”

Tkrn saluted, feeling a sinking feeling in his stomach. How important was a [Steward]? But Prost just shook Tkrn’s paw.

“That was fantastic, Guardsman! Do they really train [Guards] to do all that?”

“What, traffic control? It’s part of the job. Do you not have anything like that?”

Prost shook his head.

“No, but we will, and His Majesty himself will want to speak to you! Do you have time to talk with His Majesty?”

“Me?”

Tkrn squeaked, but Prost was already steering him towards a blind man who was witnessing the horrific traffic jam being dispersed with actual competency for once. Laken Godart spoke without turning his head.

“Mister Prost, I heard some of that. I believe we need to import some of the Watch practices from the Drakes posthaste. And fix our street problems.”

“Absolutely, Your Majesty. Guardsman, how does Liscor solve this?”

Tkrn scratched his head, but he blurted out what he knew.

“Traffic problems? If it’s a bad street, a [Guardsman] will direct traffic, or we’ll tell people to go another route. But if it’s just a bad jam, we have to sometimes just organize the carts or everyone tries to go at the same time. There’s always some Creler-for-brains who tries to go ahead of everyone else and causes this. Er—sorry for the language, Your Majesty.”

Laken was listening intently. He smiled reassuringly at Tkrn.

“Not at all. Mister Prost, someone to direct traffic would be welcome. But it rather sounds to me like what we need is…a traffic light.”

Tkrn’s ears perked up. Prost looked at Laken with a familiar curiosity.

“A what, sire?”

Laken tapped a finger to his lips.

“Get me Nesor and a few [Mages]. A [Witch] too, perhaps. And…Jelov. Actually, I just put on fresh clothes, and I don’t want to get wet again, even if it seems like rain later today. Make it Master Helm. I suppose we can make it out of metal. Guardsman Tkrn, are you free to consult with us for, oh, an hour?”

“I—of course, Your Majesty?”

Tkrn was sweating, and Prost noticed.

“Someone get Guardsman Tkrn a refreshing drink. And anything to eat? This way, Your Majesty…”

And that was how Tkrn found himself walking with Emperor Laken Godart as the [Emperor] asked some curious magic-users if they could enchant a piece of metal to show different-colored lights. Then Tkrn’s eyes widened, and he looked at Laken.

Of course! Earth folk! He was Inkar’s partner, of course, and she had told him of her world. But she’d never mentioned traffic lights! When he told Zevara about this, she’d be so happy for all the [Guards] who didn’t have to direct traffic, why, she might actually smile at him.

Tkrn was also a bit unhappy, because it explained why, when he’d gone to the simulation of Earth, he’d cut his adventures short twice shortly after seeing a red light and hearing a honking horn coming down the street. Cars were a horrible thing.

 

——

 

Traffic lights. [Bards]. Friendships and tea. A day in Riverfarm was already a bustling thing, but it always was. Nanette sat under a tree again, and not even the news that she might leave with Erin Solstice changed her blank face. Yet there were good meetings for the bad.

As her friends went about their various days, Erin Solstice walked through Riverfarm with Griffon Hunt. She was going to find Nanette, but her friends also deserved their moment, so she watched Cade walk in front of Briganda, who was ready to catch him if he fell or walked in front of a wagon.

Typhenous was eating the newest cookies from Liscor, while Halrac kept pausing to introduce Erin awkwardly to someone he knew. Mostly from Windrest, and the grumpy [Marksman]’s face kept turning remarkably red as someone would make a passing comment.

“Miss Erin, ain’t it? What a lovely lady. Are you thinking of courting young Halrac? The lad could use someone in his life to keep him occupied. As shy as could be growing up.”

Erin kept giggling as Master Helm patted Halrac on the shoulder and showed Erin around his smithy or a woman who’d changed Halrac’s diapers remarked on how a burbling baby was so serious now, but a hero, a Gold-rank adventurer.

The rest of Halrac’s team was enjoying this to no end, but it had to be said—in between Erin visiting people, she was talking.

“So there I was, and I met the most amazing [Archer] with a shining bow. And then a bunch of ‘em, all [Kings] and [Princesses], shooting arrows! They were an entire kingdom of bow-people!”

“Avel.”

Erin’s face fell. Halrac gave her a disbelieving look, but he had listened to her tales of the deadlands in silence.

“Yeah. They were brave until the end. I never saw…I wondered if Ulrien might have been there, but I never saw him. How—how was it when I died?”

They were talking, as they walked in the sunlit day, of the things they had both seen when she was dead. Halrac shrugged.

“The Horns went to the Village of the Dead. We went with them. It was damned and foolish, but no one could have stopped them.”

All for you. Erin looked up at Halrac, and her smile turned sad.

“How many people died?”

“Less than most death-raids, Miss Solstice. Less than most. Have you met our resident Mossbear, Bismarck? Halrac, let’s introduce Miss Solstice, but, ah, hide your food, Miss Erin. The fellow is not above bowling someone over for a snack.”

Typhenous interrupted the moment, and Halrac nodded. He straightened—and Erin linked arms with him, much to his discomfort and the delight of his former village. She looked up at him, and he began to pull away.

Were they the closest guest and [Innkeeper]? No. But he had been there for so long—Erin just sighed as she looked around Riverfarm.

“Promise to visit more, Halrac. I’m gonna miss you. But this is a nice place, it seems like. And Pebblesnatch really likes you.”

“It is. Laken Godart saved my village, and I am grateful to him for that.”

He agreed quietly. Erin nodded, and on they walked. Behind them, as Briganda teased Cade with a cookie, Revi and the last member of Erin’s party strolled along.

Revi Cotton and…Gothica. They didn’t say much. Revi strolled along in her [Summoner]’s clothing, glancing at Gothica now and then as the Goblin walked like a shadow under the sun. After about forty minutes of listening to Erin and the others talk, Revi nodded.

“Your outfit has some style. Good to see someone’s classing up the inn.”

Gothica grinned toothily.

“You too.”

“[Goth], is it? What kind of a class is [Goth]?

Typhenous’ ears perked up. All his bribes and begging had availed him not. But Revi? Gothica considered the question.

“Is a class about style. Blackness. Being alone. Stick it up the bum of people in charge. Style.”

“Ooh. That would be a hit in Nerrhavia’s Fallen among a certain group of people. Do you think I could pick up the class? Just for fun.”

Gothica eyed Revi.

“Yah. You have clothing?”

“Mhm.”

“Let’s go.”

They vanished as Erin began to tour the fields of Riverfarm. She heard lots of shouting behind her, and Master Helm walked off, groaning.

“Oh dead gods, it’s another pileup. I’ll never get my shipments…”

Erin almost wanted to turn back, but she didn’t know if traffic jams were that interesting. So they began to cross the bridge to the fields as she spoke to Halrac.

“I need to talk to Nanette. And the [Witches] about…witch-y stuff. But, um, do the Goblins seem happy here, Halrac?”

“As happy as I’ve seen them. It was worse at first, but when we said we knew Pebblesnatch, it helped.”

Erin looked at Halrac and bit her tongue. She glanced around, frowning, then nodded.

“That’s good. I was worried that—well. If they’re—if they’re happy—I guess that’s that. But I just—do you hear that?”

She stopped, midway across the bridge, and did a slow rotation. Halrac halted as well, frowning, and Briganda cautioned Cade not to peer out over the bridge, although there was a railing. Erin’s head craned about, and she spoke.

“I hear someone crying. I hear…I’ve been hearing it off and on for a while.”

“Crying?”

Halrac had excellent ears, but he could hear nothing of the sort. Typhenous glanced at Erin sharply.

“I have heard nothing, Miss Solstice. Is it someone in danger?”

The [Witch] bit her lip.

“No. Nothing like that. It’s not pain…I think they’re just sad. He? It might be a he. But where…”

A raven, Mavika’s familiar, perched on a tree and watched Erin. The [Witches] of Riverfarm were interested in her, the girl who had been taught by a great coven yet had no hat or craft.

More than they were, and less. Yet she heard something, and so Erin turned her head to the forest and mountain beyond. To the Goblinlands, back to Riverfarm. She looked around and saw the raven and waved, then looked up to where a cloud, like a second unseen castle in the sky, floated above her. She frowned behind her and ahead.

And then she figured out where the old man was. Erin’s eyes went round.

“No way…”

She looked down at the bridge newly built below her feet. Or rather…what lay beneath it. The old man wept and ran across Riverfarm. He whispered to her as people took bits of his skin. Erin looked down and heard the river weeping. Her lips moved, and Halrac felt goosebumps ripple up his arms. A raven took wing, cawing as Erin whispered.

An Elemental.

 

——

 

In this day and age, there was only one Elemental that had a name.

Khoteizetrough of Gaarh Marsh. And it was dead. Even Khoteizetrough had not been a true Earth Elemental of the Swamps. The body of that great protector had already perished, and the Khoteizetrough of the modern day had been more, well, Swamp Elemental than Earth, a decomposed being who was still so mighty it made Gaarh Marsh a tribe beyond tribes.

Yet the age of Elementals was bygone. Like Truestone, they had faded from the earth. But unlike Treants or Dryads, they were not an entirely dead race.

It was just that any version around in the world today was different from their true nature.

Consider Maviola. Or Ceria Springwalker, or even the Warmage Thresk. Each one was capable of summoning an elemental. But that was much like conjuring the idea of something rather than the genuine article.

They could create beings of fire to fight their opponents temporarily, but there was no soul there. No consciousness. Real Elementals did not ‘run out of time’, and they had their own magic.

Real elementals were the foundation of great [Shamans] and magics. You could strike a pact with them. They were akin to Plain’s Eye’s manufactured Daemon. But there was one more thing.

“You have to summon an Elemental. You can’t just, like, make them appear. Not the real ones.”

“But what is an Elemental, then? I’ve fought Earth Golems. What’s the difference?”

Erin bit her lip. Briganda was bouncing Cade on her knee as he played with the Box of Wonders. Erin was pacing back and forth in front of the riverbank, trying to explain what had her so excited.

“Think of it like this. Earth Golems are like…magical pieces of mud. Like how Snow Golems form. But they are the material. If you get rid of the magic mud, the Earth Golem dies, right?”

“Right.”

It was standard-practice to aim for a Golem’s Heart. Whether that was an artificial one or a natural one, like how Snow Golems had magical ice in their heads. Earth Golems had a ‘stomach’ of potent, smelly mud. Or sometimes a magical gemstone. They were like slimes, really.

However—Erin lifted a finger.

“Elementals aren’t that. They’re an idea. This guy’s a river. The way it works is that you have to bind his essence to a mortal vessel. Like how Khoteizetrough was the Elemental of the swamp; he was the swamp. Because it was so old and powerful it developed a personality.”

The Gold-rank adventurers exchanged a look. This seemed more like stories than reality.

“How do you beat one, then?”

Erin shrugged.

“It’s hard. Air Elementals are all air. They’re like the top-level version of their kind. You can kill them like poor Khoteizetrough…but this old guy hasn’t been summoned. I don’t think even the other [Witches] could hear him. He wants someone to talk to him!”

She glanced at the river, and Revi, who’d come back with Gothica, frowned at Erin.

“How can you hear him, then? What makes you so special?”

Erin shrugged. She rubbed at her ear and winced.

“I had a good teacher. Anyone can learn to listen. Or see. It’s just a matter of perspective. But, uh, it’s like having a moment of inspiration or grace. You have to flip a switch, and then you can do it whenever, but it took me ages to figure it out. And I had the best teachers in ever.”

By now, she had an audience larger than even Griffon Hunt. Mavika perched on a branch, listening to Erin speak. She gave Erin an appraising look.

“That is more of a [Witch] than you were before. Even I heard this ‘old man’ not. But then, I am of the air and sky.”

Erin nodded rapidly.

“Yeah, you’re specialized, Mavika. It might actually be hardest for you to hear water even if you wanted to.”

“Indeed.”

Mavika dipped her head to Erin, although whether it was for Erin helping her to save face or simple acknowledgement, it was hard to tell. Yet Erin was glancing around.

“Darn! Where is Inkar? I just had an amazing idea. What if…what if I summoned this guy? Maybe he won’t want to, but I think he does if he’s talking to me. And then—”

“You cannot just take an elemental from Riverfarm! Isn’t that stealing, Erin?”

Revi was horrified, but Erin waved her hands.

“No, no, no! It wouldn’t be stealing!

“Oh, good. For a second there, I thought you wanted to conjure an Elemental and bring it to the Gnoll Plains. Because Laken is not gonna like that.”

Revi sighed in relief. Erin hesitated.

“W-well, it’s not stealing because the Elemental would have his own will. I’d just ask if he wanted to protect a tribe. They love stuff like that, you know.”

Griffon Hunt exchanged worried glances. They were aware of their position as hired help for Riverfarm, and they had a pretty good idea of how Laken would treat them losing a magical being. On the other hand…Typhenous shot a quick [Message] to Nesor.

“It wouldn’t hurt to see if this Elemental exists either way, would it?”

He glanced around too-casually, and Halrac frowned, but Erin beamed at him.

“Yeah! It’ll take me a second to figure out how to do it, anyways. Mavika, do you know how to summon elementals? It wasn’t part of my training. I only know theory.”

The Crow Witch hesitated and shook her head.

“You know more than I of this part of deep craft. If you think it is wise, do what you wilt, and I will watch with the others.”

More [Witches] were learning from Erin. And lambs. The young woman gulped, but her eyes were aflame, and this, perhaps more than any moment, was truly what she had learned from the lands of the dead. So she began speaking out loud, explaining to her audience.

“Okay. Okay. If I recall right—summoning an Elemental is like any other spirit. There are two basic parts of a spirit staying in the world. The ritual can be simple or hard, and since he’s…here, that’s not as much of an issue. And he wants to come out. So we need to make a body for him and an anchor.”

“How’s that, then?”

Typhenous was scribbling frantically. Erin ticked the two off on her fingers.

“Body. Body is like—what he uses. A vessel like Khoteizetrough had. It can be small or big, and an Elemental grows over time as it puts more of itself in there. We need something suitably…water-like.”

“A bucket of water?”

Special water, Revi! Almost like a slime’s body, maybe. The second thing it needs is an anchor. Some part of it that connects to what it is. A sapling or…well, a riverstone.”

“I could get that. It’s a cold day, but if you want someone to take a dip—I’m your woman! This sounds exciting!”

Briganda laughed and shucked off her outer layer of clothing. She put a toe in the river and shuddered.

“Oh, that’s cold! I’ll dive down and grab a stone?”

Erin hesitated.

“Uh—yeah! Get one with a hole in it, if you can! A natural hole in the center.”

Briganda’s face fell. She stared down into the riverbed at hundreds of stones.

“Wait, what?”

Then a chortling Cade ran up and pushed Briganda into the water. She fell in with a yelp and began bobbing in the fast-moving current, diving down and coming up with muddy stones.

Erin was trying to figure out the water bit. Mavika perched next to her.

“Perhaps only a bit of water will do for a small one? In the tales I know, they started small and grew without limit over time.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just—a basic Elemental is sorta stupid. If we give him water, he’ll splash and destroy his body. So it needs to be slightly…gelatinous?”

“Hm. A thick water?”

“Ew, but yes.”

Mavika frowned at Erin, but then she turned her head.

“Perhaps Eloise could help. She is a [Witch] of tea, and she could mix an agent into some water. I have horse’s bone and marrow, and I know Agratha can make a jelly broth of beef.”

Erin clapped her hands in delight.

“What, like a tea Elemental? That’s hilarious! Yeah, let’s do that! All we need is a cauldron, a stone…”

And a great occasion for the magic. Erin felt it in the air, a humming in her bones. Her eyes lit up, and she beamed, and the other [Witches] felt it as she began to kneel by the riverbed and whispered to the water.

A prickle in their thumbs. A great act of witching this way comes. Even the girl sitting on the hill looked down as she felt Erin speaking to the river.

But the one [Witch] who heard the old man and ignored his pleas day by day raised her head and turned from supervising a new trebuchet being constructed in the engineering corps’ home.

“Oh no, that fool.”

She went striding back, away from Tessia, and tried to gauge how far she was from wherever it was happening. The [Engineers] had been given a site six miles away from Riverfarm proper. They had moved when people complained of the loud thwacking sound of trebuchets misfiring and the occasional projectiles launched in every direction.

Wiskeria had walked the distance. She ran about, cursing and calling for a horse, then just charged down the road. Of all the times not to have her mother’s boots! She hoped she’d make it in time.

 

——

 

She was halfway through setting up a cauldron and Erin was inspecting a stone with a bit of quartz running through it, a geode that had tumbled into the river long ago, perhaps, when she noticed Halrac’s look of reserve.

“What?”

“This seems like a larger event than just summoning a slime or Water Golem, Erin.”

He glanced to the side, and Erin saw dozens of girls in hats sitting on the banks. Older [Witches] were arriving, bringing their apprentices. Most watched, standing or sitting, but Agratha had brought a picnic blanket and was offering a canteen of soup around.

Erin bit her lip. She saw Halrac glance at her and then at his team. Unfortunately, Halrac Everam didn’t have much support—Revi had entered her gothic-rebel phase, Typhenous was greedily watching the goings-on, and Briganda was busy drying herself, and she was a happy-go-lucky sort anyways. Cade was probably Halrac’s backup that this wasn’t a good idea, and that was just because the boy wanted to go to the bathroom.

“What? Oh, come on, Halrac. It’s just a little—Laken’s cool. Mm. Maybe he’s not cool.”

Halrac didn’t say anything. He just kept watching Erin. The [Innkeeper] blew out her cheeks.

“I’m not—”

She stared at the ground, then peered around. Erin seemed to demarcate part of the sky and grumbled.

“It’s all his. Land, people, air—who just claims everything? Isn’t that arrogant? Whatddya think about this [Emperor], Halrac? Is he arrogant or a jerk or…?”

The [Marksman] shifted slightly and lowered his voice.

“Maybe. He’s certainly self-assured.”

Exactly!

“…But he’s also an [Emperor]. Tens of thousands of people look up to him. He is far more restrained than some. I’ve met Gold-rank adventurers with more grating egos. I think you could name at least one.”

“Todi? Yeah. I…”

Erin looked down at the spot of the ritual and then up as a few [Witches] brought over some gelatin and materials. She stared at the sky and groaned.

“…Damnit. I’ve got to do this.”

Glumly, Erin got up and turned. She walked towards Riverfarm, but as it turned out, Laken was already heading her way. He had his entourage, and he clearly knew something was going on.

“Ah, Erin. Is something…eventful taking place? Something suitably witchy?”

The worst part was that he even sounded polite, like he was sure it was okay, but he was just coming to inquire.

“Sorta.”

Erin mumbled and scuffed at the ground with one foot. She glanced back at Halrac and then looked at Laken.

“I, uh—I’m doing something with your river, Laken. I’m trying to summon the spirit of a Water Elemental.”

“You what?

The strangled voice came from Nesor, the nervous [Mage] in the back. He was the only person who could appreciate that statement. Laken’s brows rose.

“Indeed?”

Erin nodded glumly.

“But I realized I have to ask you. Because it’s your land and sort of your river. Also, I was hoping he’d come with me. I don’t think an elemental listens to an [Emperor], but he’s been crying since I got here. Anyways. Can I summon an Elemental? It’ll only take like ten minutes to try. I’ll probably fail, anyways.”

As requests went, it was terrible. But that was because Erin really didn’t want to ask. She felt like she knew the answer already, and she was about to sulk off when the [Emperor] replied.

“Yes.”

Erin’s bowed head came up suspiciously.

“Wh—really?

Laken raised his brows.

“You want to summon an elemental of a river? As long as you think it’s safe and my subjects can stay back, absolutely, try. In what scenario would I not want to meet one?”

“Maybe a blood elemental or something like that. Uh—wow! Thanks, Laken! You’re cooler than I thought! I mean…that’s exactly what I meant.”

Erin gave him a thumbs-up, and the [Emperor] hesitated. He strolled after Erin as she ran back to Halrac, shouting.

“Halrac! I got permission! Let’s do this thing!”

“Was that a good idea, Rie? Thoughts?”

Laken whispered to the others. He felt rather like the ‘cool principal’ who okayed the students skateboarding down the hallways. And he had never even thought of himself as a principal. In some generic American school. With lots of lockers, allegedly, for shoving people into. That was how he pictured it.

“It seems incredible she could do that off-handed. From Nesor’s babbling, it seems impossible, Your Majesty. But it would be a useful lesson to learn even if it fails. Whether it is dangerous? I remind you of our Solstice party.”

Laken hesitated. It did seem impossible that the cheerful young woman could do that. But then…her aura was only middling, weaker than Rie’s had been when they first met. Perhaps because this wasn’t her inn?

Yet the stories about her—Laken murmured to Prost.

“Maybe move Riverfarm’s people back if they want to watch. The [Witches] are all over the riverbank.”

He decided to watch at a remove as Griffon Hunt, a few older [Witches], and Erin fussed around the riverbank. Erin didn’t seem to need much time for a ‘first try’. Laken told himself he wasn’t going to find the proverbial high-schooler with a broken neck in five minutes. There was no way she was as bad as Ryoka, right?

And when he thought that, the [Emperor] got really worried.

 

——

 

For a grand meeting, it was like…preparing for a guest. If you did it right, for someone like Khoteizetrough, or who he would be, you needed to honor them in a suitable way.

Set the table and prepare a feast. Sweep the floor, set a crackling fire ablaze. Clean the guest room, replace the sheets, and throw open the windows. Welcome them, these distant guests, with open arms and hope they would choose to live with you awhile. Some might stay and put their lives with yours or stay with your children’s children. Great protectors, beings of magic and wisdom.

Erin had no banquet adorned for this old man. She barely had a can of soup, and she was improvising a can opener with a stick and two rocks. Her ‘guest room’ was a pallet of straw, and she knew it.

Yet she was still inviting him. Not just because she wanted to meet him or desired his power, but because he was crying.

Weeping and begging to be let in. She had never heard of someone doing that. He knew she was there, and he wanted to meet her as much as she did him. So, though it was poor, Erin Solstice mixed up tea and gelatin powder and water and grimaced at the mess in the cauldrons. She lifted the ladle, and someone actually tried to taste it.

Witch Oliyaya!

Agratha was shocked, but Oliyaya cackled.

“It tastes as foul as tea and riverwater and mud might. But it’s closer to jelly than naught. Add some spit in for substance?”

“I think not. Although this is, ah, improvised? Will this do?”

The [Witches] turned to Erin. She eyed the mess and then the stone with the geode in it. Slowly, she lowered the stone into the cauldron of vaguely-green jelly.

“It’s terrible. If it was anyone else, I’d expect them to be really upset. But I can hear…he’s practically reaching for the cauldron. Can you hear him?”

She turned expectantly, and Mavika shook her head. She was as deaf to the voice of water as most birds. If she had been the [Witch of Penguins]…maybe that kind of witch-bird would have heard.

However, more than one [Witch] was craning their necks and peering into the river. It was lapping hard at the banks, now. Interestingly, against the natural laws of physics, the water seemed to surge against the side of the river Erin was on.

“I can hear something.”

Oliyaya whispered, and Eloise adjusted her hat, eying the river.

“Yes. He wants to meet us. This is uncanny. I have walked the Vail Forest and listened long. I have some gift with herbs and water myself, but no voice was even half as loud. I wonder why.”

Hedag stood furthest back. Her eyes were locked on the river, and she had not joined the ritual. Erin turned to her.

“Um, Witch Hedag? Is something wrong?”

“I do not know. But best summon him, eh, Witch Erin? If he is this loud, better to swing clean than stop halfway.”

So Erin had Halrac and Briganda help carry the cauldron to the edge of the river, where the water lapped around the cauldron. Cade sucked his thumb as Gothica copied him, and Riverfarm’s folk stood far back. Then the adventurers took a step back, and it was Erin alone.

The [Witch of Second Chances] felt uncertain with so many eyes upon her. She felt—off. This was no proper invitation, no rich meal. Yet the guest was pounding at the door and weeping.

How long had he waited? Her heart went out to him. He sounded so old. He had lain here, sleeping, as ages passed. Waking and calling out and weeping in silence.

It was the [Witches] who had first woken him up. The great coven coming across this land. No, the [Emperor] himself. But the only ones to hear him had ignored his voice. Now—

Erin Solstice had no drawn ritual. No sacrifice of magic. She waded into the banks of the river and felt the current pulling at her shoes. She shivered, for it was a strong river and pulled her, but called out.

“Hello? It’s me. I can hear you. I have nothing to offer you, but will you meet with me?”

The [Witches] watched. Riverfarm’s folk eyed the [Innkeeper] standing in the water, as silly and odd as she’d come. A [Princess] hurried forth, exasperated, as a little Gnoll girl stopped racing about with her new friends and halted.

Mrsha, the [Druid], felt Erin reaching down. She scampered forwards and joined the crowd, observing as Erin tried to make contact.

Now, how did it go? It was just a matter of perspective. If you set the table right, if they were willing to listen and you had a place for them to stay—you had to get their attention.

You had to open the door and see them. Erin bent over the river, looking down into the waters. But it was not the riverbed she was trying to see. She looked down, and down, until her eyes began to play tricks on her.

Like anything, if you stared at it too long, if you focused on a word, the less sense it made. But Erin kept staring, blinking when she needed to, but holding her gaze in one spot. Until the little tricks her mind played began…morphing together. Until the murmurs of people behind her were overtaken by the rushing of waters. The coldness in her feet spread—and then numbed her flesh—

And then Erin fell. Not physically, but fell into a world of rushing blue. Where the muddy banks became the floor of a world where water was everything. She almost gasped, almost jerked back, but held herself as she fell deeper.

“There you are.”

It was a vast world of water. An ocean—but an ocean of so many parts. If the water had been colored, Erin thought she would have seen a hundred myriad streams, each unique, blending and mixing and warring and joining together.

The will of water. Perhaps the ocean itself had a will. Perhaps the oceans could be elementals, like ponds and lakes and rivers.

But now—she looked around as she sank, following this stream, and Erin’s heart clenched. Because this ocean was still.

The water was dead. The land was cold where it met this ocean in the distance, and the last glorious singers had fled this continent, into the sea. Long ago, and so he wept.

An old man. He looked nothing like a person as Erin sank down. If he had hair, if she had to make sense of that face that gazed upwards and the tears that fell, his hair was like old water, twisting around a face made of a ripple, a passing reflection of the things that passed above him.

Yet she knew he was old. Old and lonely. He wept because someone had died. No—two someones. The last of a forest and a great protector.

Salty tears ran from Erin’s eyes, mixing with the sea around her. She reached down—the water was all around her, in her lungs, but she whispered without breath.

Hello. Do you want to come with me?”

The old man looked up at her and raised his head where he sat, alone. She saw that head of currents, a face made of waters, rise, and then swam upwards. Reaching for her, looking up at her pitiful offering. But a smile of delight spread across his face, and he shot up, faster and faster, and Erin gulped as she realized how large he was. Even if he wasn’t as old or powerful, he was a river. He carried her up in his wake, and she—

 

——

 

Erin had gone completely still. The [Witches] were not fooled, but Riverfarm’s folk were greatly perplexed by what they saw. They had seen her call out once, then just stand there as her trousers were soaked by the lapping waters. There was something off about the river, and the longer they watched, the more the hair prickled down their necks and a shiver ran up their spines.

Yet she didn’t do anything interesting. Not at first. She gazed down, immobile, as the cauldron slowly threatened to tip over and the water’s lashing grew stronger.

Then…the river turned as flat as glass. It still ran, but gasps of shock and awe rose and then fell to silence as the rushing waters stopped pushing. Erin Solstice’s lips moved, but no words came out. She reached down as Wiskeria reached the edge of Riverfarm, clutching at a stitch in her side.

No, stop!

Too late. She saw Erin bending down. She saw the old man rising, and Wiskeria ran, lungs bursting with pain.

What they all saw, [Witches], people, was Erin Solstice completing the simple gesture. She reached down with one hand into the water and grabbed something there. Someone else’s hand. Erin began to pull up—but the old man was rising.

The river convulsed, and a geyser of water blew upwards. A stream of liquid, enough to douse a house twice over in a single jet. It could have hammered Erin flat in a moment—the [Witches] stepped back warily. Briganda shielded Cade, but the jet of water was a perfect arc, a parabola which had only one target.

The cauldron. Down the water came, and it struck the little iron cauldron so hard that it cracked and burst apart in a second. The metal tore as if someone had taken an equivalent of paper and ripped it asunder.

Yet the water and metal didn’t spray everywhere. The river water poured down as Erin staggered back, eyes wide with shock and then delight. The jet of water surged down and down, and surely the cauldron could not have held it all. But like a bag of holding, it filled without end. Then—something rocked within the metal prison. It rotated awkwardly and then spilled out onto the muddy grass of the riverbank. Amidst the reeds and a frog hopping around wondering what the hell had happened, a being poured out of the cauldron.

 

——

 

“Rie. What do you see?”

Laken Godart stood, uncertain amongst all the people gasping and pointing. For he saw nothing, obviously, but his senses as an [Emperor] told him something else. His palms were sweaty.

For it felt as though the river had suddenly left the riverbed, and a portion of it, a representative, was rolling about less than a hundred feet from him. A mass of water, a force of nature grounded in some object.

He didn’t like it. He wished Durene were here, yet it was also inspiring. Laken had often wondered what it was like to stand before a waterfall and see it, rather than hear the all-encompassing roar, and feel the spray upon his face of so much water falling. This—this was his experience.

Lady Rie took a moment to swallow. When she replied, her voice was slightly unsteady, and he thought she too was reconsidering all the stories she’d heard about Erin. But what she said wasn’t what he expected.

“It’s…as though I’m seeing a wave breaking upon the land, Your Majesty. It never runs out. A wave…or a hand?”

“A hand? A wave?”

“A hand of water? No, now it’s become a—a cube of water! It’s bobbing, like a dewdrop, now a whirlpool—”

“Not a slime?”

The [Emperor] was confused. From everything he’d heard, he expected it to be like a tea-slime thing. Some round orb of water. But Rie was shaking her head, knowing he could sense it.

“Not at all. It has a greenish tinge, but it moves too fast for anyone to call it a slime. It has—color.”

“Color?”

“Green in the body, mud—almost like eyes. But white as well, streaks of it. Prost, what would you call water that does that?”

The [Steward] broke out of his fascinated observation and spoke.

“Whitewater, Rie, Your Majesty. Rippling whitewater as if I was a lad and rafting down this very river among the rapids.”

Laken Godart exhaled. He sensed the river whirling around Erin, who was raising her hands and calling out to it. But it flowed so fast past her—surging towards the [Witches] watching, whirling around.

Like a dog, perhaps. One of Gralton’s otter-dogs, exploring a new home. Yet there was too much sentience there. Laken felt the water ripple backwards towards the [Innkeeper] and heard a shout of alarm.

Erin!

That was Lyonette. The Water Elemental engulfed Erin up to her neck and lifted her up. Erin was laughing, trying to shout.

“It’s cold! Wait, wait! You’re so happy! Hello!”

She was laughing as Laken’s head turned, and he sensed Wiskeria running through the fields. He heard her a few seconds later, a shouting, distant voice amidst it all. Then Laken’s heart sank. For what Wiskeria said was this:

“Don’t do it! Don’t get near him! He’s a bastard! He’s an Elemental. He’s a river, and he understands nothing about what we call right and wrong!”

The [Emperor]’s head swung back just as Erin’s laughter turned into a note of alarm. Then the Elemental of the River swallowed her head, and she began to drown.

 

——

 

He was so happy. He really had been lonely, and now he whirled around, changing forms, rejoicing in being able to leave his pre-set path. There was no malice in him.

Not even when he engulfed her head. Erin inhaled water and began drowning on dry land as the Water Elemental seized her up.

Stop! Stop, stop, stopstopstop—

Her instant panic confused the elemental. It was young, now, part river, part the form she had given it. Far weaker than a river in all its majesty, but able to grow. It cast around, looking for a foe. Then it abandoned Erin as she tried to tell it to let her go.

“Erin!”

The [Innkeeper] landed, spewing out water, and it felt like a bucket’s worth, before she coughed and inhaled. She looked up as the Water Elemental whirled around her.

What had gone wrong? It didn’t know why Erin was suffering—but it was concerned for her. Yet suddenly, Erin was no longer as confident as she had been a moment ago. She coughed as Halrac ran over. And he had his invisible bow drawn.

“No, he’s still friendly to me. I—”

Erin was hacking out more water, coughing, as the Water Elemental began to flow around. Now, Witch Agratha was backing up in alarm, and Eloise and Mavika were whispering quickly. They sensed it too.

An infinite curiosity, a rejoicing to be alive! And a complete disregard and understanding of what this ‘land’ was about. The Water Elemental cast left, cast right. Then Erin realized what Wiskeria had known from the start.

For the river and the Water Elemental surged around, past the nervous mortals, and it recognized something. Oh! I know this! The elemental reached out, and with all the strength of thousands of pounds of water, as quick as a tidal wave, and as cheerfully as could be—

It plucked Cade out from behind Briganda and tossed him into the center of the river. The boy’s eyes went wide as he flew up, and Briganda was knocked sprawling. He flew and was almost smiling, his face wide with shock and alarm. Then the water reached up and swallowed him. Then it began dragging him down into the deeps.

Cade!

Briganda was on her feet in a second, screaming. She ran towards the riverbank, and the boy was struggling as the water dragged him down, down to the riverbed. The Water Elemental reached out cheerfully, and a little Gnoll girl ran, screaming.

I’ve done this before. Erin was frozen in shock and horror. She got a flash from the river. It recognized people. People and children. Some stole parts of it, but others swam about. And when it rained, or sometimes, they sank low and never came back out.

It was trying to drown Cade. The Water Elemental reached for Mrsha, inviting the [Druid] to join it forever, and Mrsha ran, screaming, but it flowed like a racing current—until Halrac’s arrow blew the top half of it into a gout of steam.

Halrac!

Get Cade! Erin, stop it!

The [Marksman] reached for a second arrow as Briganda dove into the waters. Erin shouted, running at the water elemental as it pivoted wildly, confused.

That hurt. It had no pain receptors, but its body was it. The elemental cast around, spotted its attacker, and launched a ball of water at Halrac.

He tried to dodge, but they were too close. So what hit him was a ball of water. Just water…heavy and fast, like a catapult throwing a stone. It knocked him flat, and Erin was shouting at it.

Stop, stop! Let him go!

She pointed at the water, and the river noticed Briganda trying to free the boy. So it lifted Cade up and tossed her out of the water. Now, the boy was hovering in the air, and the river was marveling that it could do this.

It had magic. And a body. And this was its heart. Cade was struggling fainter now. Erin looked at the water elemental, gathering more of itself back.

“Stop this. Stop this!

It turned to her, wondering why she was so upset. The [Innkeeper] was blazing, blazing with fury and fear.

“Put him down.”

The river hesitated. What if I don’t want to? It waved the dying boy around, and then Erin punched it.

[Minotaur Punch]. Her fist splattered part of its ‘face’ and then sank into the water. Curiously, the river felt at her hand. Then it ignored her.

Everyone was trying to get to Cade, now, but most of the people were just standing at the river’s edge, looking at the mass of water holding the boy. It was tossing anyone trying to leap into it out, and Typhenous was trying to ‘cut’ the water holding Cade up. But he might as well have been trying to cut sand. Even if he severed part of the river, it was water. There was a seemingly endless amount of it.

Then the old [Mage] tried to block the river with a [Forcewall]. His spell lasted a tenth of a second, and the water rippled. The river did not like that. Typhenous was already reeling when another jet of water struck him and sent him sprawling.

The Water Elemental was getting confused by the sudden animosity it was feeling from its savior. She was making demands of it, and it didn’t like them. The boy was almost part of it, now. It lifted him higher—and then Wiskeria was there.

River, let go and run elsewhere or I’ll break your heart! Leave be and hold fast or this moment will be your last!

She ran past Erin and plunged both hands into the Water Elemental’s body. It jerked—but it hadn’t learned to hide its heart. She had hold of the geode riverstone in her hands, and she was pulling it. The Water Elemental heaved as Erin looked at Wiskeria—then it swatted them both.

Erin landed on her back, dazed, head ringing, and got up amidst the shouting. Wiskeria staggered up next to her, cursing and spitting blood.

“You damned thing. We have to kill its body!”

“Kill it?”

Erin gasped. She looked at the elemental, and Wiskeria seized her arm.

“It won’t kill the river! They’re not separate yet. Just break that damn stone!”

“No, Cade—

The [Innkeeper] whirled for the boy. He was about to drown! Then she saw a [Princess] lift a finger. Lyonette du Marquin looked around at the [Emperor] shouting for his soldiers and at the boy, reaching for his mother helplessly trying to swim up at him.

Lyonette shouted one thing, in desperation and certainty.

SHRIEKBLADE.

A screaming blur launched itself out of the shadows of a house. Erin didn’t even see the Drake she was moving so fast. The Named Adventurer leapt, blades drawn, and raced across the ground. The river barely noticed her, one individual amongst all the others. But then Shriekblade leapt and hit the body of water holding Cade.

A part of the river exploded. The mass of water jerked, and the Water Elemental convulsed in fright and outrage. It cast around, and Tessa landed in a roll, the boy in her arms. She stared at him, held him upside down, and he began puking out water. Then she saw Briganda charging at her and handed him to his mother. Tessa looked up and cartwheeled out of the way of a blast of water.

Enough!

Erin strode over the muddy ground with Wiskeria. She pointed at the Water Elemental and shouted at it.

“Stop attacking people! Listen to me!

“Back down, old man. Quiet, river, and listen to her voice!”

Wiskeria shouted, but the river never stopped moving. And it was getting pissed. It launched a blob of water at the [Marksman] who shot an arrow into it that burned and sizzled and turned it to steam.

River!

Who said it? Erin? Wiskeria? They caught sight of each other, standing side-by-side, and both realized what they had to do. Erin clenched her fist, but she was wet, and she had no flame for this. Nor the regret and anger, not yet.

Wiskeria looked at Erin and saw her honest mistake, and she drew her wand. She aimed her wand at the Water Elemental’s heart.

“[Ice Spike]!”

The Tier 2 spell barely got in a foot before it sank into the water, and the Water Elemental was growing by the second. Wiskeria checked her wand; she was no battle-caster. Typhenous threw a comet into the Water Elemental, and it shielded its core, swiveling towards him.

He’s right next to his body. We have to cut him from his vessel! By craft or with mortal blade!”

Wiskeria shouted in Erin’s ear. Both [Witches] whirled, and Erin stared at her fist, felt the pan, kitchen knife, and jar of acid—none of which were good against a mass of water.

They needed something more. So both [Witches] reached for their craft. Erin tried to conjure a spell, anything—and realized she didn’t even know what her craft was. She had no hat.

And Wiskeria’s hat was empty. The [Witch of Law] clutched at her hat and cursed. Then, the other [Witches] nodded to each other. Erin saw someone tip her hat up, and Mavika’s voice crowed in her ears, despite the shouting and sounds.

A [Witch] without a craft is a [Mage] without a single spell.

She raised her hand, and a howling gale blew into the Water Elemental, a vortex of wind that sent water raining up and down. The river turned, outraged and alarmed, and a second [Witch] drew something as it launched a blast of water to pound Mavika’s bones into dust.

“A [Witch] with no hat is a flame with no fuel.”

Agratha unfolded the parasol and held it like a [Pikeman] before a charge. A torrent of water struck it and filled the air with mist and thunder, but the light fabric didn’t so much as waver. Then the last [Witch] raised her head. Hedag focused on Cade, choking and clinging to his mother, and she raised her axe and strode across the ground.

“A [Witch] is a [Witch], but you two have much to learn.”

The Water Elemental recoiled as the Hedag brought up that rusted headsman’s axe. She swung it down, through a grasping hand. Through the body of water.

Through the river stone. Erin and Wiskeria heard the old man shriek and try to hold on, but his connection was gone and he was too newly-formed. The river slumped back and began to run according to nature once more. The gelatinous body quivered—then sagged and oozed amidst the mud and flowed into the waters.

It was done. Erin looked around as Laken came striding forwards, as Briganda turned with a mother’s wrath. She looked at Wiskeria, and the other [Witch] caught her eyes.

They looked at each other in silence, and Erin hung her head. Wiskeria just breathed and spoke into that moment.

“I hate it when they try to teach us a lesson.”

 

——

 

It had been a long time since Wiskeria felt something like this. She felt things, of course.

She felt the water on her robes, the sodden, unpleasant feeling of it clinging to her skin. That wasn’t fun, nor the adrenaline in her veins or fear that had been in her heart.

A [Witch] felt emotions. She felt emotions. It wasn’t as if her mother had taken them away. When she was stabbed, she screamed. When she stubbed a toe, she cursed and wept. She was hardly immortal or even tough.

It was just that these were natural things, and sometimes she could let them pass over her or think amidst blinding agony if she had to. But that was just a trick of concentration; any [Warrior] could do that.

Strong feelings, though, especially the good ones, were rare. She had once been a girl, and her mother had shown her every wonder and horror; it had made her numb until her first friend taught her how to be close to a normal person. However, even now, Wiskeria remembered her great emotions.

Her betrayal when Odveig revealed herself as Sacra. Her rage against her mother’s deeds. Her sense of righteousness when she found her craft. Her sadness for Nanette.

Now, she savored a different kind of feeling. Which was sympathy for Erin Solstice.

The young woman sat there, a blanket on her shoulders, staring at the fire in her guest-house. Wiskeria had lit it for her. Erin didn’t seem keen on moving.

She still had a bruise, a bad one, from where Briganda had punched her. Which was a fair and honest blow, and there hadn’t been two or four. No one was dead, but there was a lot of cleaning up to do. The old man was howling his fury, and Riverfarm’s folk were understandably upset by what they’d seen.

However, Wiskeria was slightly peeved. Indignant, and she ventured some words into the silence.

“They knew it would probably go bad. They let you summon the Water Elemental and make that mistake. I hate it when they do that.”

Erin hadn’t stirred until now, but her head began to rise. Her voice croaked.

“They knew he’d…?”

Wiskeria sensed her rising outrage and corrected herself.

“They probably didn’t know he’d try to kill Cade. Hedag would have stopped you herself. But…let’s say they let it happen. Say, rather, they allowed you to make a mistake because they thought they could control it if they were there. Which was true. And they probably wanted to learn how to do what you did. Many purposes to a deed. That’s witchcraft.”

“How could they let me do that?”

Erin’s voice was hushed, angry, and hurt. Wiskeria smiled.

“Because you came to them without a hat and no craft but told them you were the student of the greatest coven, and it made them mad. [Witches] can be petty. They don’t like me much, either, because I’m a [Witch of Law] and Belavierr’s daughter and I won’t tell them any secrets. Some of them don’t care, but they push us to be what they think is best. That’s a [Witch]-y thing to do.”

“That’s outrageous. I n—I d—I don’t appreciate people doing it to me.

Erin was at least conscientious enough not to be hypocritical. Then she looked at Wiskeria again.

“I didn’t mean to be rude. Well—sorta. I just didn’t want to go in with thees and thous, you know?”

The other [Witch] considered this and shrugged.

“You should have. Mavika especially wants that.”

“But why? Why can’t I be casual?”

For answer, Wiskeria nodded out the window at the angry river.

“Because witchcraft has rules. It’s like…wiping your feet at the door. It’s courtesy, and sometimes, the rules about where to walk or how to talk save your life. Didn’t the ghosts teach you that?”

She said it so matter-of-factly, as if she believed Erin’s stories implicitly. Even the people who knew Erin best didn’t quite…believe. They tried, but Wiskeria just tilted her head, and Erin hesitated.

“I—they taught me how to be a [Witch]. How to be one, not secrets. Not like the other ghosts.”

“Oh, how to be one. Then they probably expected you to make a bunch of mistakes. My mother was the other way. She taught me all the secrets and none of how to be. A [Witch] is a [Witch]. She coined that expression, you know.”

“Did she? Your mother’s really Belavierr? The Stitch Witch? The one that…?”

“Murdered Califor? Nearly killed that girl, Mrsha? Slaughtered Gnolls at the Meeting of Tribes? The Threadbreaker of Stitchfolk? The Witch of Webs, the Immortal Spider? The woman who’s stolen lives and sewn faces onto a thousand puppets and victims? Yes.”

Wiskeria’s face never changed. Erin’s mouth opened, and she gave Wiskeria much the same look others gave her.

“You’re so casual about it.”

Wiskeria shrugged.

“I’ve been used to it all my days. It was stranger for me to find out other people had a mother and father, or that they wept when they bled. I’m aware I’m not—normal. But please don’t tell anyone. I’ve done a good job of late, and I think they think I’m somewhat normal. For a [Witch].”

A surprisingly anxious look crossed her face, and Erin’s odd stare intensified. She had never met someone who wanted to be normal. Except maybe Ishkr.

“I promise. You do a good job. I barely noticed you until after I talked to Nanette. Oh no, she’ll never want to come with me now. I’ve screwed things up. Briganda hates me, and I messed up Laken’s village and…”

“And the Witches are going to try to apprentice you off, now. Just you wait.”

Wiskeria patted Erin on the head. When the [Innkeeper] gave her a strange look, Wiskeria tried the shoulder and then the back. Erin laughed.

“You’re like Bird.

“Who? Do you mean a bird, in general, or is that a name?”

“A name. Don’t worry! You pat me on the shoulder, I think. Back is if I’m crying.”

Really? When do I pat you on the head? If you’re a child?”

Erin frowned.

“Yeah—or if we were, like, super close or something. Or if you want to treat me like a kid. Um. You can stop patting me, now.”

Wiskeria stopped. Erin looked at her, and Wiskeria felt a shiver of delight. Because if Erin had failed with the old man, once she saw Wiskeria, the [Witch of Law] understood how an [Innkeeper] could be a [Witch].

“You have good eyes for people. No wonder Califor made you her apprentice. She had good eyes, too.”

Erin ducked her head.

“I dunno, I think I was the only one she got. Um. Wiskeria, right? What did you mean when you said they’d make me their apprentice? That’s not the plan, at all.”

Wiskeria snorted.

“I know, but that’s what you think. What they think is that now you’ve been humbled, they can get one of them to teach you. And learn from you. A good [Witch] learns from their apprentice. How likely is that?”

Erin made a face, and Wiskeria studied it.

“Is that a no?”

“No! I don’t want to—I like them, sort of, but I don’t think I want to be an apprentice. How many good ones are there?”

“Er, the ones who you saw? Eloise, Hedag, Mavika, Oliyaya, Agratha. There are a few others, but those are the ones who were here the longest.”

Erin’s expression of sucking sour lemons intensified.

“I don’t want any of them to teach me. Eloise is the coolest of the lot, but she’s like Lyonette. Is Oliyaya the one with the…cackle?”

“Mhm. Agratha is the one who tries to make people smile even if they don’t want to.”

“Tries to…oh! That’s a wonderful description! I don’t want any of them to teach me, thanks. No sir. No way.”

Erin shook her head adamantly, and Wiskeria nodded.

“I suppose, then, that you’ll have to teach yourself. Just don’t try to summon anyone else you meet. Not without doing your research.”

The [Innkeeper]’s face fell. She hung her head.

“He was so sad. I thought I was doing a good deed. It was a small vessel.”

Wiskeria patted Erin’s knee and got a nod of approval. She explained, as patiently as she could. It was amazing Erin didn’t see it.

“I know he was sad, but he didn’t understand why drowning children was bad. Even my mother knows right and wrong, but he’s water. He’s killed more children over his life than most monsters who walk on two legs. He weeps—but most spirits lie, even if it’s also to themselves. You have to do your research, first. Be very sure before you act. When I heard him weeping, I checked with some of the locals, and they told me how he overflows his banks and how many he’s killed. If it was a Dryad? She might be nice to that [Druid] girl, Mrsha, but she’d strangle Cade in a heartbeat for plucking a single flower.”

Erin shuddered. Then she looked sideways at Wiskeria.

“How d’you know all that? Did Belavierr teach you?”

Wiskeria nodded absently.

“Some. The rest is just stories. Reading books and so on. I met countless [Witches] of Terandria, and I’ve met a lot of the ones in Izril. Not that I’m an expert. As you can see, my hat is empty. I am a [Witch] with no great deeds, but that’s fine. It annoys my mother, and there’s nothing grand about me. I was simply Belavierr’s daughter. If I went around summoning elementals, it would be so boring of me, wouldn’t it?”

Wiskeria stopped talking abruptly and almost jumped. Erin had sucked the words out of her like a sponge did water! She turned, abashed, but Erin had a look of delight and chagrin on her face. The [Innkeeper] vibrated and then almost burst out.

“You’re fascinating! You’re nothing like what I thought you’d be—if I even knew Belavierr had a daughter! Wiskeria, I like you!”

“Really? I hated you from the moment I saw you.”

Her brows were faintly blue now the dye had washed out a bit. Erin’s face fell.

“Wh—you did? Why?”

“Because you remind me of my mother. She would have summoned that old man in a heartbeat if she thought he was worth it. Even if he drowned everyone in Riverfarm. She never asks whether something is right or wrong, or even smart. She just does it. You’re all grand deeds like the people in your company. You do what you think you have to, even if you break every rule. Am I wrong?”

The [Innkeeper] looked terribly offended by the comparison and then tentatively outraged.

“I don’t always do that. It’s just how things shake up. You can’t always follow the rules. You don’t get anything done that way.”

“Spoken like Belavierr.”

“Hey! Take that back. I’ve never met her, but every story I’ve heard makes her super bad!”

Wiskeria nodded reasonably.

“She’s worse than the stories. And you are like her. I can see the connection, and my words are fair. I swear it, upon my hat and hair.”

She added a bit of magic, a bit of solemness so Erin could see she was serious. But that only outraged Erin more.

“Take it back! Take it back! I’ll—”

She began to poke Wiskeria and then punch her gently. In response, Wiskeria raised a fist.

No, no punching!

Erin saw the future in an instant and put up her hands. She spoke quickly as Wiskeria lowered her fist.

“You don’t punch people when they play-fight! Important lesson, especially with kids!”

Wiskeria smiled politely.

“I know. But I wanted you to stop.”

Erin gave her a bug-eyed look, and then she burst out laughing. It turned into something like a sob or a moan, and she hugged the towel around her tighter and edged closer to her fire.

“This sucks. I’ve fallen into my old ways. I should have listened. I should have been polite, but it’s hard. I should have a stupid…hat. But I don’t like being bullied, and I don’t wanna apprentice myself to them.”

“Mm. And the old man’s gotten a taste for power. He’ll be back.”

Erin gave Wiskeria such a woebegone look that Wiskeria felt more sympathy for her. She patted Erin on the head, and the [Innkeeper] sniffled into her towel.

“What’s so bad about being a [Witch of Law], Wiskeria? You sound like you’re not a proper witch. Are you happy, working with Laken? What happened between you and your mother?”

That was a long story, so Wiskeria told some of it to Erin. But as for the rest—she shrugged.

“I like Laken. He’s definitely fated, like you and Inkar. Or if not fated, something’s on his side. He’s an [Emperor] in Izril. He doesn’t fit. I like Riverfarm because it’s no old power like the Five Families. I like it because it welcomes me, as odd as I am. I’m fine with being a poor [Witch]. As I said, it would be too easy to become a grand, bland one.”

Erin gave Wiskeria the side-eye, and then a smile spread across her face.

“You know what, Wiskeria? I just had a brilliant idea. I don’t really want to have a teacher, but while I’m here—you should teach me!”

“Me?”

Wiskeria blinked. She had not an ounce of power under her hat, but Erin nodded excitedly.

“Yes! You’ve seen how my style of witchcraft goes bad. You know more than most witches, and you’re nice, unlike the others. Teach me witchcraft for a bit? Please? And help me get to Nanette.”

Thoughtfully, Wiskeria took off her hat and studied it. She glanced at Erin and saw the [Innkeeper]’s pleading expression.

“You and I are not alike at all. I think our crafts might end up opposed. I don’t like you that much, and you seem like you’d be a poor student. Are you sure?”

Erin sucked in her breath.

“You could, uh, use more tact.”

“Again, I learned tact, but I don’t need to employ it. We’re [Witches]. If you want me to teach you a bit, I will. But only if you learn.”

The [Innkeeper] chewed on her lip, but then she nodded slowly.

“I have to. I must. Even if the other [Witches] are right about that, though—I am not like them. I am an [Innkeeper] and a [Witch], and I’ll be a weird one no matter what happens. I want to choose my teacher, so I choose you, Wiskeria!”

She laughed and smiled, and Wiskeria considered the offer. She looked up at the ceiling, tried to divine the future with commonsense and foresight, and then thought of her own regrets and her mother’s lessons. At last, she nodded.

“Very well. In that case, I will teach you as long as you stay. But you’ll follow my orders and do as I say. No arguments. Questions, but you have to try to learn, agreed?”

“Agreed! What’s my first step?”

Erin shot up as if she had gotten her second wind. Wiskeria thoughtfully looked out the window.

“To begin with, we’ll go back and apologize to Briganda fully once more. Then you and I will help repair the bridge or clean up. After that, we’ll tell Laken to watch the old man and tell the [Witches] I’m teaching you and that you’ll enter the hat competition. Then, I have to walk back to Tessia’s, so we’ll do that and talk.”

Erin’s face fell. She raised a hand, and Wiskeria stared at it until Erin spoke.

“This isn’t an objection! But, uh, that all doesn’t sound very witchy.”

And to that, Wiskeria sighed and put her hat on her head.

“Your first lesson, Erin, is that a [Witch] is always a [Witch]. Once you see the magic in everything, you can do something properly. Let’s go.”

She stood up, and Erin trailed after Wiskeria, wondering if this would be fun or a good idea, but feeling better because she’d found a teacher even more unique than she was. And, well, Wiskeria walked with a curious feeling. It was no pricking in her thumbs, just the odd sensation of responsibility, of trying to teach a younger Wiskeria how not to be quite so badly her.

 

——

 

“So it seems Erin Solstice is going to be staying here a while longer. Well…as first day events go, no one is dead. I cannot quite believe that is where we are setting the bar, but at least we have that.”

Laken Godart swilled some liquid around in a cup and felt it moving. It was fairly odorless, and so he indulged himself in sensation before he took a sip and felt the sting. He coughed.

Damn me. This is fiery. Do Drakes really enjoy this?”

He heard a surprised laugh, and then the other person sitting in one of the grand chairs next to the fire in Laken’s mansion-home in Riverfarm spoke.

“All the time. Pain is how they enjoy anything. How do you know our language?”

Numbtongue saw the [Emperor]’s face wrinkle up. Laken spoke after a few seconds.

“I got something like ‘pain’, and I’m sure there was a question in that. What did you ask?”

“How do you know our language?”

The Hobgoblin sat with Laken Godart late at night after all the fuss had died down. They were both aware Gamel was sitting in another room; Durene hadn’t come back yet, but the [Knight] was not-eavesdropping, but there for Laken’s safety.

Nevertheless, the [Emperor] had insisted upon meeting Numbtongue, and the [Bard] had shown up as if he’d read Laken’s mind.

After all, they had a history. They had only met once, but Laken felt such a strong connection, he wished he could see Numbtongue. This was the Goblin he had found after the Siege of Liscor. Per his request, Numbtongue had let Laken feel at his face. In return, the Hob had anything he’d asked for, but he’d brought his own drinks.

The [Emperor] kept coughing into one hand politely, then rattled off a bit of French.

“I’m multilingual, you know. I don’t have a gift, but as you must surely know—my world has more than one language. I thought that I could learn your people’s language, and Pebblesnatch has taught me.”

“Hm. Weird. You are a weird [Emperor].”

Laken raised his brows.

“How many have you met?”

The [Bard] just laughed heartily. He took a long drink from his cup, then tried Riverfarm’s new grape wine. It evidently pleased him, and there was a bevy of snacks. After a while, Laken broke the silence.

“How do you enjoy Riverfarm, Numbtongue?”

The [Bard] responded quietly.

“Lots of little lambs. They have cunning eyes.”

“You noticed that?”

“Hrm. They remind me of Mrsha.”

“Egh. I’m just imagining if the Sariants could talk. But the Goblinlands is what I meant.”

“I know.”

Numbtongue didn’t reply for a while, and Laken waited, feeling more nervous of the Hobgoblin’s judgment than Erin or Ryoka’s. When Numbtongue replied, it was simply.

“There is a Watch Captain in Liscor named Zevara. She does not like me. I think she understands I am me, and because of her, I can enter Liscor and am not killed. But she always puts [Guards] on me, for my protection, and if there were many Goblins, I think she would be wary of me. I do not hate her. Erin gets mad, but if I were her, and I knew Redfangs, I would try to wipe out my tribe.”

“Why?”

Numbtongue’s grin was on his teeth, in his voice, even unseen.

“Because we were raiders. We attacked Humans and Drakes, even Gnolls if we found them. I have never met Tremborag, but I have…friends…who knew him. And he was someone I would kill. If his tribe came to you, and I were you, I would kill him. But I wouldn’t have killed the Goblins who came to Erin’s inn. They were my people, and some were even innocent of everything.”

The [Emperor]’s head bowed. Numbtongue went on in the silence.

“But we attacked you, and you thought all of us were one Goblin. Now you know better, and I see Goblins walking around. I was dying and you helped kill me and bring me back. Erin is always Erin. She would cry for one Goblin. We are not rats. We are Goblins, and someday, you will have to suffer if you want to protect us.”

“I know.”

Laken thought of the bearded man’s distaste. He thought of the other nobility and the rumblings of his people. Numbtongue put down his cup with a clink.

“When that day comes, have an escape tunnel for them. And you.”

Laken waited.

“What about the rest?”

The [Bard] stretched his legs out and quietly farted into his chair. He waved it in the direction of a sheep spying on the two of them from a bookshelf where it had hollowed out a spot behind the books.

“I don’t like you, Laken Godart. You killed a lot of my friends. I don’t hate you, Laken Godart. You’re better than most Humans. That’s pretty good, eh?”

He looked over, and the blind [Emperor] smiled.

“That’s a high compliment. And a good place to start. Do you think we can be friends?”

Numbtongue shrugged, although he knew Laken couldn’t see it.

“Friends. Allies. Sure. What did you have in mind?”

Laken tilted his head, and the Sariant ran, squeaking, as he focused on it. Gamel had to get up and take it outside, and Laken looked at Numbtongue in that moment of silence.

“Let’s trade secrets. A few interesting ones. We are on a side, and I would like you to know some things I’ve been told. Maybe you can do more than I can, even with an empire.”

The Hobgoblin’s eyes gleamed with interest.

“We are on good sides. Erin talks too much.”

“That she does. And frankly, I feel like I’d call on her if I needed a battering ram. Sometimes, I suspect, you need to protect her from herself. Today might be an example, but I don’t know her well.”

The Hob chuckled.

“She gets good things instead of bad two thirds of the time. Two other days, you would have a cute Water Elemental rolling around.”

Laken’s smile was rueful.

“Well, I can respect that kind of gambling. But there are reasons to keep things from her. For instance—this. I told the Mage’s Guild to lock down the news, and the lambs stole all the [Message] scrolls from your company. Just so Erin doesn’t make this—worse? Lady Rie will report that she is definitely here, and if anyone scries her, she was here and had nothing to do with anything.”

“With what? Did something happen with—the monsters?”

Numbtongue sat up instantly, and Laken produced a [Message].

“It’s happening. Take a look.”

Numbtongue began to read, and Laken appreciated the multicultural level of swearing that began as Numbtongue realized they had really missed great events taking place. But what that was, Erin would find out later.

For now, a [Bard] sat with an [Emperor], and they enjoyed a quiet conversation in the night.

 

——

 

One last thing.

Wiskeria had a long chat with Erin as they mended what bridges they could, metaphorically and literally. She talked, for a while, about what it was like to be Belavierr’s daughter and listened to Erin’s tales.

It sounded like she had a lot to teach Erin. Least of all because, of all the coven that had taught Erin—Califor was probably the only good mother and teacher of the lot.

They had all been the greatest monsters of their ages. Somillune? Erin hadn’t known the tales that made the [Witch of Ash] as feared as she was respected. They had put her on a road to becoming something like them.

Wiskeria would be the other voice in Erin’s ear for a little bit. She’d been up for a while, thinking about lessons, but she’d drifted off in the night. As always, she listened, even if she didn’t want to act on the things she heard, omens and fate.

Tonight, she heard an old man shouting his fury, and he would be a problem. Wiskeria muttered as she turned over and hoped Erin got some sleep.

“Sleep for another thousand years, old man. By the twitching in my toes—fuck off.”

He went silent, and Wiskeria began snoring softly as she began to dream. Then—her eyes snapped open, and she stared up in pure alarm and surprise. Wiskeria sat bolt upright and whirled, looking right and looking left.

Hello? Who’s there?

She got up, drew a dagger, and crept around her house for a good thirty minutes, even going outside. But then she went back to her bed and crawled into it. She put her wand, dagger, and hat all close by on her bed and tried to sleep, rattled.

She had never heard anything like that before. It was no watery voice from the deep. It was close—and it sounded like a wail, an eerie sound with no vocal cords. It spoke to her, and Wiskeria listened.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Notes: It was a three-parter after all. Darn!

I suppose it’s inevitable that when you have a place you haven’t been before, you have to re-explore and such. But here is part of Erin’s adventure in Riverfarm.

However. I think we’ll cut away from here and come back later. I have a plan! The plan just changes now and then. I also need to figure out how to move faster on the Volume 1 rewrites. And the other projects. And Gravesong’s sequel and…

You know, it’s a good problem to have, too many stories to write. But it’s keeping quality up and not abandoning the project that matters. The Wandering Inn is like that with all the plotlines and Riverfarm has been gone for a while. Nevertheless, we do the best we can.

Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading! Rest assured, all questions will be answered. In fact, if you were reading this any day except the day it was published, you could probably skip ahead and find out what happens next! It’s not a cliffhanger. It’s just a matter of perspective. See you later!

 

Irurx and Writing for Ducks by Brack!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

Erin by Detton!

 

Pisces and Ceria by butts!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.12

While Erin Solstice was learning a lesson about [Witches], the rest of the world had their eyes on Izril. Not in a grand sense of it being the most important part of the world.

Arguably, the King of Destruction took priority there. He was now back with every living member of his Seven, and Nerrhavia’s Fallen was his only foe who had not yet quit the field. If you had a grudge or saw an opportunity in the ensuing bloodbath…

Similarly, The Dyed Lands dominated Balerosian news. It would have surprised Erin, if she were even near a scrying orb, because Noass and Sir Relz did not cover the news daily. For better or worse, Wistram News Network had become mostly popular in Izril, although it was the most ‘worldwide’ of any cycle.

However, the Great Companies of Baleros rallying the continent against the monsters was a good contrast to Izril. If you found a scrying orb, you could see the cities being evacuated live. Mercenary companies, paid to hold a line in the sand or evacuate settlements.

On the forefront of that news was him.

 

——

 

The Titan of Baleros’ company was closest to The Dyed Lands, aside from the reclusive Eyes of Baleros. His was a vast company, and it was obviously still locked in combat with Jungle Tails.

However—it had been two weeks since The Dyed Lands moved forwards in time. Two weeks, and eight lesser cities had been evacuated or were being overrun by—colors.

Colors. Each one unique. Pale white stalking beasts, all fangs and ivory, their hides fragile, but often invisible as they fought forwards in skirmishing tribes, dragging off prey. They skirted and fought with bright, bright red flower-creatures. Plant-based monsters who often swept forwards under paralytic or allergen-based pollen storms.

Each color fought the other for dominance and, now freed of their temporal prison, were trying to grab land as fast as they could. Their disunity was one of the only reasons The Dyed Lands hadn’t claimed more cities.

For some of the apex predators of each color had already been certified as Gold-rank threats, and they were only going to rise higher. A Named-rank threat was a rare one, but people had pointed up at the three-headed flier that was one of the most famous icons of this new death-zone.

Each neck was reptilian, folds of skin layered over dead-white flesh, curved talons on a body that had six legs and was vaguely like a manticore, two massive wings carrying the monster aloft. Its nickname was a Three-Headed Grabghast. Mostly because the creature would render itself invisible, a trick of the white-zone, then extend each head insanely long.

It could stretch as far as nine feet with each head and bite a victim, whereupon the face, shaped like some weeping lion, oddly distorted, would begin to rend its victims with its teeth and retreat.

It was a fiend, a worthy monster outside of any horde, and they could fly so far and high they were among the fastest-moving threats coming from that place. The Grabghasts went after vulnerable targets, heedless of walls or civilization. They ate and ate and left vein-colored eggs in their wake, some method of reproducing or leaving some aspect of itself behind.

No egg had yet hatched, and those that were found had been smashed. And the Grabghasts themselves could be killed.

The Titan of Baleros was checking his hair when the scrying orb turned to him. He nodded into the camera and spoke curtly.

“I won’t waste your time. We’re pulling the Iron Vanguard and Maelstrom’s Howling together for a full force that will shatter The Dyed Lands into shards. If Jungle Tails would see fit to cease-fire, I’d have an easier time. Nevertheless, the Forgotten Wing company will hold them across the Corthien Valley. Bring it down—[Mark Target]. Loose!”

The scrying orb rotated, and the air vibrated and roared ahead of a marching column of Lizardfolk and Selphid [Mercenaries]. The Corthien Valley was wide farmlands dotted by nali-stick farms, irrigated in classic terraces. Right now, the [Farmers] were peeking out of their houses.

The Grabghast had been hiding in a clump of huge, tangling bushes. It ignored the thick hedges, but not the first volley of stones. The Lizardfolk swung up slings, and pebbles bounced off the hide of the monster. It came surging down towards the braced Selphids as Niers watched.

“Slow it.”

“[Suppressing Fire]. [Mark Target: Reduced Mobility].”

Cameral’s voice trembled as the Dullahan [Strategist] pointed and the Grabghast’s momentum faltered. Its necks were already trying to stretch, and Niers nodded.

Slings, down! Arrows—give me a wood-tipped volley! No Skills!”

The Lizardfolk stopped whirling their strings, and a second rank armed with shortbows loosed a volley. Niers peered at the Grabghast. One head shot out like a snake’s, and a Selphid shouted.

Inc—

Someone speared the head, and the beast howled as it retracted its face. However—the brave [Pikewoman] reeled, and a cry went up.

Body down! Chest wound—”

One of the Selphids in front was missing a chunk of its chest, and the wounded Selphid went reeling. Niers’ eyes narrowed.

“That was nearly thirty feet, not the nine advertised. Someone update the entry in our encyclopedias. It’s got a bite that goes through iron. Wooden arrows—sink into the hide.”

Half the fletchings had stuck in the hide, but only lightly. Niers nodded.

“Enough playing. [Thorn Formation]—flame spells and full volley—now!

The Grabghast’s scream turned into a whine of terror as the third and final volley lanced it. No cheap wooden arrows or stones, but steel-tipped arrows and Skills. It didn’t even turn to Niers’ formation, but tried to run. Thin, pale grey liquid leaked from its sides, and Niers ran a commentary as his [Archers] filled it with arrows.

“Wood-tipped arrows can keep these Grabghasts bleeding. We’ll test poison on more; it’s reported to work. If your local forces have no poison or arrows, you must surround it. They can and will strike and run. Use dust or sand in the air with wind spells to identify them. Astoragon, signing out. Forgotten Wing, advance!

The Grabghast was still dying as a Selphid stormed forwards with an axe to cut off its heads. Niers Astoragon moved ahead with the rest of his battalion. He was scrambling his forces, engaging every monster he came across. Behind him, some fascinated [Scholars] and adventurers and [Naturalists] were vying for a chance to dissect this new monster.

An organized advance from a Great Company. Baleros expected nothing less, and Niers had made a point of doing these broadcasts as efficiently as possible. Thus far, the Dullahans had taken the same cues, although Maelstrom’s Howling was more effusive at times. The Great Companies, for all their vying, had seen a threat and were headed to stomp it out as fast as possible.

 

——

 

The Titan’s brief moment on the scrying orb showcased Baleros’ attitude to new threats. There were elements to be desired, and Niers was certainly winning by engaging the most far-flung of the monsters coming out of that place, but it was a contrastable moment.

…Especially to the horde coming out of the High Passes. Were the Gargoyles and Eater Goats a proportionally far smaller threat?

Absolutely. However, thousands of Gargoyles and Eater Goats were still a force capable of wiping out city after city. And the north, in this hour of need, sent…

Adventurers. Adventurers, militia, a <Quest> with a steadily rising reward, and no armies.

No centralized army. As Sir Relz interviewed the local nobility, he was stressed on that fact.

What you do not understand, ah, Sir Drake, is that there is a difference between noble estates and commonwealth cities. The cities closest to the High Passes, I believe, Celum being the—the one of note, are not under anyone’s definitive authority. Lady Reinhart has a mansion in Celum…but the city pays her no tithes.

“It’s not Celum that’s closest to this section of the High Passes, Lord Gorne. The monsters have exited a higher plateau farther up along the mountain range.”

Really? Er…where are they, then? Are they near about…erm…some other place?

The [Lord] looked surprised, and Sir Relz consulted the map displaying the region.

“Celum is far to the east. The nearest city—well, town—is Somegel, and I believe the populace has mostly fled. Then we reach the city of Orefell—is Celum the only city you know?”

Lord Gorne shrugged and patted at his forehead uncomfortably with a handkerchief. He was wearing full-plate armor, and, despite mostly standing still, even in the fall sun, he was baking a bit. He was one of the ‘closest’ nobles, and his estates lay a comfortable forty miles north of Celum and well clear of the High Passes proper.

“There you are, then. No noble family has migrated that far south or been established. Let alone one of the Five Families. Now, my army is standing ready to repel the monsters, and I anticipate, nay, I am sure House Veltras will lead a counteroffensive well before they reach my lands. I have written to Lord Tyrion himself, and if the man is removed from where we are, his people are not.”

“So what I’m hearing is that the north is waiting on one of the Five Families to do something? You do not, in fact, intend to march to the aid of Orefell?”

Lord Gorne bristled. He indicated his army, which was a thin force of six thousand by some Drake city standards—it still made him the largest force in the region by far. He’d trotted out eight hundred to do some parade drills for this interview.

“I hardly intend to bleed my people’s protectors against the monsters alone, Sir Drake. I might say that the High Passes are everyone’s issue! Where’re your Drake armies?”

Sir Relz ignored that. The Drake shuffled some papers with his claws and nodded to one side at an off-screen person.

“The north is Human land. I think that answers our questions. Thank you, Lord Gorne, and it seems like the adventurers and cities responding to the muster will determine who meets the monsters in the field. Hardly the response of a Walled City for a Drake settlement in need, but I suppose these things happen.”

He almost got away with it, but Lord Gorne’s rapidly-purpling expression turned calm for one moment. He might have been pompous, but he was still a [Lord], and he snapped back coolly.

“A fine sentiment, sir. Where were those armies when Liscor was nearly taken? It seemed to me that Pallass quite ignored the requests for aid, and your Oteslia was the only Walled City to give a damn. I suppose border settlements are ignored everywhere, eh?”

“That is a complete mischaracterization of—

Sir Relz began to respond, but the viewpoint switched, and he was left, fuming, as another guest from the Adventurer’s Guild in Invrisil came on air.

It was sort of amazing. Izril’s coverage of the High Passes disaster as it unfolded was non-stop, and it had a lot more drama—and a lot less actual action. Someone watching the scrying orb of Sir Relz turned to the other people sitting and watching.

“D’you think this makes us look bad?”

Relc Grasstongue scratched under his chin absently as he looked around The Wandering Inn. It was mostly empty, but the inn was back open, and that meant the regulars still came. Menolit, Relc, Klbkch—Ishkr and a small staff were serving the clients watching the news in the rec-room.

Menolit put down a hand of cards and glanced up idly.

“How’s it make us look bad, exactly?”

“As Izrilians. Baleros looked pretty damn sharp. Nice formations, and that Selphid only got hurt because that monster had that trick up its sleeve. Meanwhile, that [Lord] can’t take a single stick out his ass and hit a goat with it.”

A few snorts from around the room. It was comfortable with Erin gone. You hated to admit it, but…there was a time for drama and a time for relaxing.

Having a nice drink of blue juice with a hot toddy for later to accompany a pretzel or some fries? You could bleed a bit of coin to get something piping hot like a slice of pizza, and Ishkr had cleverly opened the windows a bit.

So it was cold as fall blew in, but he’d lit a fire in the rec room, and there were blankets, so it was really better than just being amiably warm. Relc had two blankets on, and he was almost dozing by the fire after a dawn-shift as a [Guard]. He yawned and waited for Menolit to reply, but speaking of hot toddies, Captain Todi put down a card and responded.

“He’s just looking out for himself. It’s classic politics. If he marched his army down, everyone’d call him a hero, but he’d lose two-thirds of his army even if he won. Gorne doesn’t have that many [Knights]; he’s got low-level [Soldiers]. [Militia], even. And if he did march, no one’d help.”

“How’s that, then?”

Menolit frowned. The rec room listened with interest. Relc, Menolit, and Todi were some of the more notable regulars, but there were the usual Antinium, a Goblin—Rasktooth—napping next to Infinitypear, and even some Players of Celum from Invrisil.

More Antinium than regular, actually. Not only did the Free Antinium send patrols up, but the army was now granting leave to a lot of its members since the war against Hectval had slowed. A few [Crusaders] were watching the card games and wondering if this was a good use of their hard-earned gold.

Even Menolit had a heart, though, so he had not fleeced the new Antinium soldiers out of any coin. As for Todi, the Gold-rank Captain explained with casual cynicism.

“Easy. If he’s going to stop the monsters, why should anyone else help? If he stays put, everyone will band together over the threat. Adventurers get called in to do their thing, and yeah, a few cities might have to evacuate or fight off the horde, but the nobles don’t suffer any fucking thing.”

Menolit frowned darkly as he tossed his cards down in disgust.

“That’s terrible. You Humans do it like that?”

Todi gave him a wry look.

“You think we like it? I’m talking noble politics.”

“Oh. Yeah. Like Walled Cities wagging their tails. Fine, fine…poor Orefell, though. Anyone know the place?”

“I bet it’s got lots of ore.”

Relc muttered dreamily. He felt bad, in a vague sense, and Captain Todi shrugged.

“Never been. We skipped by it when we went to the High Passes and hunted Wyverns. Ambrol? You said you worked around there.”

He turned to one of his Gold-rank teammates, and the [Mage] muttered.

“I grew up two towns over. It’s not a huge mining city. Esthelm’s arguably got more. Orefell was more…aspirational. Poor bastards were founded by a [Lord] with no sense of the land. They do better trade panning the rivers. Jade, not ore. Decent fishing—you get the same damn bitey fish around here as Orefell.”

“No herding? It’s pretty flat land coming out of the High Passes’ entrance up north.”

Todi asked idly. His teammate shook his head.

“Carn Wolves, Eater Goats, Gargoyles, Wyverns. Farming’s out for the same reason. Orefell is all about semi-precious stones. If you are mining, it’s cave-mining. You hit a likely spot, grab whatever’s most precious, and leg it back to the city. No permanent seams or mines. It’s all expeditions. Anyone works hard, gets some gold, and moves back east. I did that—got a big chunk of jade and bought my first set of chainmail.”

Todi whistled quietly.

“Well, their already bad luck just ran out. Sucks to be Orefell. I bet it’ll have to be evacuated. Even if the Horns and other Gold-rank teams are making a stand, they won’t be able to do more than pick off parts of that horde. If it divides up, maybe only a few villages will burn. If not…it’ll take a while for one of the Five Families or a few nobles to rally a big enough army to slap it down. All those militias and other cities will do their best, but Gargoyles are tough bastards, and Eater Goats don’t stop.

The rest of the room muttered, and Relc opened one eye and sighed. Poor Orefell. That was the consensus.

Poor Orefell, and what a shame. Relc thought of Liscor’s army, but the chances of them navigating past Esthelm and all the way up and around the High Passes to Orefell from Hectval in time were impossible. Besides—it was the north’s problem. He lay back in his rocking chair and began to snore until someone threw a fork at him to make him stop.

Relc almost wished he’d called in sick—for a week—to go with Erin to Riverfarm. However, he was a trusted sergeant. Plus, he’d heard Manus had been striking the north, and Relc had a pretty good idea of what they’d been up to. It was warm down here, and his kid was getting her own break from the army tomorrow.

So he rested, and The Wandering Inn watched the news, content in the fact that they weren’t part of this particular drama for once.

That was the evening after Erin had left. The day when she posted the <Heroic Quest>. It was a meaningless moment. And it also changed…a lot.

 

——

 

Who went to the High Passes? Who could reach Orefell in time? Erin’s door was limited; even if Liscor had wanted to send Strategos Olesm, they wouldn’t have been capable of doing so. The only people who could move that fast, in general and with the door, were small groups.

Adventurers.

Yet once again, Todi was sitting in The Wandering Inn, completely unmoved by the bounties on the monsters or appeals of the local cities. And while Todi was often considered a bastard and a coward or both—

He was a weathervane for the average adventurer. Todi saw little opportunity in playing [Hero] and a lot of death. However, adventurers did still go.

The Horns of Hammerad were arranging transit to Orefell outside of Invrisil when the Halfseekers arrived. Captain Jelaqua Ivirith, pale-skinned in her dead Human body, was tying something to her belt when she called out.

“Ceria! There you are. Mind if we ride along?”

Ceria Springwalker turned and laughed when she saw the Halfseekers.

“Jelaqua! I thought we were the only ones crazy enough to join in. What’s wrong with your team? Don’t you have Maughin to hold you back?”

The Selphid’s smile was crooked, and she looked less relaxed than some times. Her team, accordingly, looked grimmer. Moore almost seemed to have reverted backwards; he barely nodded to Ksmvr, who was patting some horses on their heads as he came to a halt. Seborn was checking and rechecking his blades, and Ulinde shyly nodded to Pisces.

“Ah, well, we thought about it. It wasn’t Maughin—it was hearing the people begging for help on the scrying orb. Orefell will never evacuate in time. We’re not looking to fight that horde, but Maughin understood; the Halfseekers couldn’t sit in Pallass. You felt the same way?”

Ceria hesitated and glanced at her teammates. Yvlon was stretching her metal arms, and she nodded to Moore’s new set of armor, courtesy of Maughin. She clasped Seborn’s hand, and Ksmvr turned as a wagon was brought out and, surprisingly, unhitched.

“Sure. I mean, of course. It’s all heroic nonsense over here. Yvlon was raring to go, and we had a discussion, and I said we’d die, but we’re going.”

She mimed slitting her throat, and Jelaqua laughed. Unconsciously, she patted the object hanging on her side.

It was a little hammer, so fresh it was still tinged blue from the forge fires. Ceria glanced at it, and Jelaqua explained.

“Lucky charm. For [Lovers]. Which I am.”

“Ooh. Want to play cards tonight?”

It was light banter, and both Gold-rank Captains glanced around and noticed they had a few eyes on them. Jelaqua called out to a group skulking in the distance, a few sheathed blades prominent alongside their armor.

“Any of you fancy on coming with? There’s plenty of room, and we can always get another wagon!”

At her words, the group started and then backed up. Ceria’s eyes followed them. Jelaqua glanced at her.

“Who was that?”

“Some Silver-rank team. I can count how many are going to Orefell on one hand.”

She raised four fingers, and Jelaqua raised her brows.

“Who’re the other two?”

“The Pride of Kelia and a Gold-rank team. Spoken Vow. Ever heard of them?”

Jelaqua had a vague inkling.

“Some mixed-group team, fairly new. Decent. Good on the Pride. Is Nailren still heading it? I’m disappointed the Wings and Flamewardens aren’t coming.”

For answer, the half-Elf shrugged.

“The Wings were really interested in the new lands, so they might be tied up in negotiations for a scouting gig. Plus, they were down a member, remember? As for the Flamewardens…Keldrass’ heavy armor doesn’t move fast. Even if he has the Heartflame Breastplate, I don’t think they want to outrun Eater Goats.”

Her analysis sombered Jelaqua further, and it wasn’t like she’d come dancing out of Maughin’s bed.

“True. We can’t fight them en-masse without an escape route. Maybe we should buy some of those [Lesser Teleport] scrolls…how long are you waiting?”

Ceria turned and jerked a thumb at the wagon. The horses had been unhitched, and the [Stablehand] was asking Ksmvr for an autograph.

“We were about to go, but we’ll wait. Pisces was just conjuring our ride.”

On cue, the [Necromancer] spilled bones from a pouch, pointed, and two undead horses rose upwards to the [Stablehand]’s horror. Horror—but he didn’t scream, and no one called the Watch.

That was the level of fame the Horns had reached. The other horses shied away as Pisces began to tether them, and Jelaqua whistled.

“I forgot how economical you all are. Give us a second. Seborn! Want to check on scrolls in Invrisil?”

The Drowned Man turned from a quiet talk with Yvlon.

“Don’t bother. Word is they’ve all been taken. Black market’s gone to people close to the hordes who want out. Nervous nobility and rich folk bought the rest.”

“Damn. We’re the ones heading to the fighting! Invrisil’s—oh, wait. It was via Celum, wasn’t it?”

Glumly, Jelaqua realized that Erin had enabled unique market conditions where someone living near Celum could, for a nominal fee and far less effort, get ahold of a magical item. Which was normally great—except when the adventurers could have really used the magic.

“We’ll be fine. I’m working on a plan, and I’ve told everyone we are not charging into the monsters. Hop on.”

Ceria assured the Selphid, and the two teams loaded up. Jelaqua looked around, but no other team joined them. She sat there, staring ahead blankly as Pisces trotted the wagon out of the gates.

“I feel like I’ll betray my age if I say something like, ‘when I was a Silver-rank adventurer, any decent team would go and fight’. I’m fifty-eight years old.”

“Well, you’re younger than me. Go ahead and say it.”

The [Cryomancer] leaned back, and Jelaqua tried to smile. She gazed around and sighed.

“Nah. Even in Baleros, it’s risk-reward all the way down. And this…I’ve packed the Raskghar bodies. Frankly, if Ulinde and I burn through them, it’ll just make the Gnolls happier. But I don’t want to lose anyone or even come close. Not for this. It’s a shame to say, but we’ve had too many close calls, Ceria. No Village of the Dead, but I have to go.”

She glanced sideways, hoping the half-Elf wouldn’t castigate her, but Ceria just nodded, eyes sharp.

“Trust me, Jelaqua. I understand. After Chandrar—I have a plan. I’ll lay it on you as we go. No gambling with lives. I just hope there’s more [Soldiers] or the most we’ll be able to do is slow down breakaway packs.”

Jelaqua nodded and sat up, and Ceria offered her some of Erin’s new mana candies for the road. They were eating and talking when they spotted a group of Gnolls on horseback and another wagon headed west. Pisces’ horses didn’t tire, so they caught up to practically the only travellers headed this way. Already, Ceria could see a flow towards Invrisil.

And these are just people worried about the monsters. Not in the line of traffic. They’d be going as fast as they could all day and night. She estimated they’d get there in about three days—faster now that Nailren’s party trotted over and offered to join the expedition. That was about how much time Orefell had too.

The adventurers crammed over, and Ceria met with Spoken Vow, a team of five, who looked slightly intimidated, slightly competitive when they were introduced to the Horns. She shook hands with their leader, a decent [Warrior] with a tower shield named Mickey the Moored, much to Moore’s vague amusement. A self-trained [Hedge Mage] who had learned how to throw flaming sparks, a [Trick-Shot Archer], and a [Dual Slingshot Skirmisher].

A Gold-rank team. Oh, and their last member was a new rookie who had made Gold-rank on her own. A [Knife Fighter]. Ceria gave her a second look, and Seborn whispered.

“Typhenous’ kind.”

“Ah.”

Ceria shook hands, with the too-polite smile on the woman’s face, and nodded. She sat back with Nailren, who began asking about the Meeting of Tribes, and listened to Ksmvr introduce himself to the other adventurers.

“Hello, I am Ksmvr. I do not eat people. I am, in fact, a great lover of animals except camels. Any stories you have heard about me as ‘Ksmvr of Chandrar’ are greatly exaggerated, except for my personal acts of heroism. I did not free the Empress of Tiqr, although we are friends, and she has stolen my sword. Hello, I am Ksmvr…”

Ceria sat back and stared at the sky, smiling, but in that way that was deliberate, not genuine. She knew she was wearing the circlet of the Putrid One, but even so, she had to believe…

The half-Elf subtly took it off, although it was still invisible. She pretended to be stuffing her face and waited for two minutes as her head felt tighter, more clouded, and she grew decidedly more stupider.

More stupider? More…less intellectual? Less erudite? Ceria gave up. The rebound effect was not fun, and she’d put the circlet back on in a second. She just waited, then exhaled. Ceria flipped the circlet back onto her head and was relieved by everything returning to better-than-normal. But she had to make sure, and she felt the same way.

“Yep. That checks out. We’re in trouble.”

 

——

 

On the second day since the horde’s announcement, the roads became clogged with fleeing people. Each city, town, and village was advised by Wistram to evacuate.

They listened. They had always known the threat of a horde might come from the High Passes, but this was faster than they thought. Worse than they thought.

A smaller horde, even the Eater Goats by the hundreds or thousands, could be defeated by a city’s walls and luck. Eater Goats led by Gargoyles?

One was made worse by the other. Gargoyles alone were strong, tough enough to ignore casual arrows, and capable of flying. They spat out bits of stone like [Stone Shard] spells—but cast by an experienced [Mage]—and their rock-like skin covering their orange insides made them a Silver-rank threat for a whole team.

Yet they could be killed by enough determined people, even at low-levels. Eater Goats, by contrast, never stopped. They were largely stupid, and while they could jump, they died to a lot of things and would eat their own dead. One or the other was a manageable threat.

But together, they could overwhelm a city. And they were moving fast. The first place to fall was Somegel.

The city had been evacuating all night. First had gone the horses as every single person with one was offered increasing sums of gold or begged to hitch theirs to a wagon. Offers became less polite, and by the time day broke, any horse left in the city would be requisitioned—by blade.

Not that many waited till dawn. The first hours after the announcement were full of panic—and many left instantly, grabbing valuables and evacuating.

However—Human or people’s natures were more complex. The gangs in Somegel were small, but they realized there was a profit to be had in acquiring transit, or promising it, and looting houses evacuated by other citizens.

Some refused to go, trusting to the walls of Somegel, which were still fifteen feet high, as befitted a city near the High Passes. They bunkered down, organized into militias…and watched the news.

When the first scrying spells finally found the monsters and revealed the scope of the horde—thousands of Eater Goats surging across the base of the High Passes, Gargoyles bickering with each other, tearing apart weaker monsters who fell or even bled—many more decided to go.

The scramble began as the fastest to leave Somegel left the rest to go on foot, forced to abandon possessions or try to barter them for a horse.

A horse! Or someone with travel classes? More than one [Scoundrel] rode into Somegel, having traveled all night, and traded their horse for a few jewels, a bag of gold. Then they joined the crowds heading out on foot, delighted…until they realized how fast the monsters were moving.

When the horde appeared by daybreak, Somegel was a quarter full. The rest were either hiding in basements or joining the militia defending the walls.

Even with the scrying orb’s visions of the monsters, it hadn’t quite sunk in yet, for the Humans of Somegel, just how many monsters there were. When the Eater Goats began storming over the horizon and braying, braying with their shrieking calls until the stones were vibrating as much as your ear canals—the defenders’ nerves began to break. Some tried to get out the sealed gates or decided to hide instead. But even those who managed to force the eastward gate open and run were far too slow.

Somegel fell in one hour. Not ‘the monsters took the walls’ in one hour or ‘they fought for one hour’. The entire town was gone and the monsters were moving off in an hour.

A town of six thousand was sprawling enough and rich enough to put wooden walls in place. Not enchanted. And yes, more than three quarters had gone rather than fight.

But that still left nigh on a thousand Humans to try and hold the walls against the monsters. Humans with Skills, weapons, tactics—and it worked.

For about five minutes. The Eater Goats swarmed around the gates, trying to eat the wood banded by iron, but even their jaws had little purchase. Some jumped, but unless they springboarded off each other, they never would reach the top of the fifteen-foot walls. The [Archers] pelted arrows down, and even if an Eater Goat was strong enough to take a shot straight through the back, it would be a target for its own kind and weakened.

However—there were so many of them. They began tossing their own up, an Eater Goat leaping up and letting another leap off its back like some kind of circus act. However, those that got to the walls were minced up by half a dozen thrusting blades. They fought, biting, tearing into the panicked Humans, but even a deep bite was seldom fatal. Armor protected flesh, and a bit of healing potion saved even a grave wound.

If it were just the goats—Somegel would still have fallen. The goats pressed in around the walls from every angle, spreading out and trying to find a way inside. Once one pocket was breached, they would flood in and the neat lines of defense would waver.

However, the Gargoyles expedited the process. The Humans in the militia looked up at the first sound of giant wings tearing the air and saw a Gargoyle Bossel crash down. The curved beak opened and spat stone shards at a Human with a shield.

“[Deflecting Parry]!”

The shield deflected the spray of stones, saving the life of the [Warrior]. The Skill did not activate twice. The Bossel swung a stone axe down and crushed the Human as they staggered from the first attack. Then it whirled, ignoring the swords and spears jabbing into it, and began laying about as more Gargoyles landed.

If it was one or a dozen…but it was dozens, and more afterwards. Many of the Gargoyles and Eater Goats just waited outside as a wall was breached. A few hammered on the gates, and when the first gap emerged, they poured into the city.

It was…merciful that the [Scrying] spells showed none of the bloodbath in detail. The Eater Goats sniffed out anything edible, and that included people hiding in their basements. Some might have been spared because the Gargoyles herded the Eater Goats forwards.

Bloated, some so fat their ribs were distended to make room for the food they were digesting, the Eater Goats reluctantly abandoned tearing apart Somegel for everything. The Gargoyles themselves had smashed into homes and looted what they valued: metal for weapons, food they might like, or shiny trinkets. They recognized magic, although Somegel had been left with precious little of it for the Gargoyles to fight over.

Strange. It was all strange to the experts who knew monsters. The Gargoyles might have squatted, even taken over Somegel as a base, some of them. But they kept moving, driving the Eater Goats on as if they were afraid to stay—or aware their enemies were mobilizing against them.

It looked much the same. Somegel was a ruined city afterwards, with few dead bodies or much more than blood—and the Eater Goats had even licked the walls clean in their hunger. A few goats roamed around, still bleating for food, but the horde left before the sun had even finished rising.

A few survivors would emerge later, shell-shocked, to flee or scavenge and try to last, but some would come down with sickness, a strange malady of the skin.

Not that those who watched Somegel’s fall saw the later, insidious effects of the horde’s presence. Drassi somberly covered the broadcast with Colmet, a Gnoll from Pallass who was her new co-anchor. The [Scrying] spells followed the horde as the Gargoyles continued onwards, and a facet of Eater Goat biology revealed itself then.

They were reproducing. Not in a traditional way you expected. Instead, the Eater Goats who’d eaten so much they were bloated to the point of actually rupturing their stomachs digested at an insane, unbelievable rate. But they swelled up as all that excess energy, instead of being converted to fat, resulted in a strange gestation. In little over three hours, an Eater Goat would halt, despite the Gargoyles lashing them or their kind bumping into them, and vomit a younger Eater Goat onto the ground.

Naked, with teeth as sharp as flint and already hungry, the bleating younger goats left the horde. The Gargoyles ignored them as the newborn Eater Goats roamed backwards to the High Passes; it would take them days or weeks to grow their tough fur hides and become a fully dangerous Eater Goat.

As for the cute, small, black goat amidst the horde…it hopped along, sometimes carried by a very unhappy and nervous Gargoyle, a strange collar around its neck. It was upset it had nothing to eat and kept trying to bite off the collar, but it had weak teeth compared to the rest of its kind. When a few other Eater Goats had tried to bite off the collar, they had torn out their teeth with the force of their bites to no avail.

 

——

 

By now, everyone who was headed to Orefell was already en-route. Just who that was became clearer as Drassi sorted out people headed to combat the horde—or fleeing it as best they could. Some forces had not declared their intentions, but the distance was such that anyone as far away as Invrisil had to go—now.

However, like the Goblin Lord’s rampage had shown, the power of the north, was, well, north. Few cities or nobles had an army large enough to contribute to a monster rampage of this size, and those that did, like Lord Gorne, were playing politics.

A city could be rebuilt. People? Better to flee rather than face Somegel’s fate, even if you were a city.

The problem was this: Somegel was a city of six thousand souls. It had been able to let everyone out through the gates, on horseback, riding wagons, or on foot, but the people on foot were now racing to get away from the monsters who could move faster than they could.

But a city? A city of tens of thousands or larger?

The gates were choked, and some of the Watch had abandoned their posts. People were fleeing in such numbers that the roads were practically ignored as people marched alongside the road, tripping, wheels breaking, arguing, fighting, pleading—

Orefell did not evacuate completely because it was impossible to. And even if they did—how would they take enough food for everyone? Where was the organization, the future?

A large percentage of the city’s fifty-six thousand population stayed as the horde began to swarm their way. That was the second day, and by now, their [Governor] was putting out every distress call she could, using speaking stones, appealing to Wistram, Eldavin, the Five Families, calling in every favor she thought she had, threatening and begging.

So—who was coming to help?

 

——

 

On the third day, Gershal of Vaunt arrived and was very unhappy his horse hadn’t thrown a shoe. Or that four hundred horses hadn’t done the same.

He was a [Lieutenant of the Line], and unfortunately, his forces had been able and ‘willing’ to ride to Orefell’s defense. Gershal was doubly-unfortunately the officer assigned to the cause for a few reasons.

Firstly, he was no [General] of Vaunt, a city famous for its cheese. Good cheese, plenty of bries, a few camemberts—soft cheese, none of that hard, break-your-grater nonsense. But Vaunt had cheese, not amazing forces.

Well, they had enough to maintain some proper [Soldiers], and one supposed being a city that traded cheeses gave them a conscience or at least the desire to be a sociable neighbor. The second reason they’d sent Gershal was…

He had done this before. The [Lieutenant] had been six levels lower when he had met Zel Shivertail and fought with the Tidebreaker in the ill-fated battle against the Goblin Lord. He had earned five of those six levels on that day.

He still had nightmares. It gave Gershal no good impressions of this desperate mission of mercy. If he was happy about one thing—it was that Captain Salvia of Nonelmar wasn’t there.

Nonelmar and Vaunt had a famous rivalry which, of course, you knew about. Because it was so famous. Ahem. Gershal was aware it was small cheese curds compared to the rest of the region, but he and Salvia had been cordial rivals and fought with Zel Shivertail. Her [Riders] were far more mobile than his forces, which had only upgraded to horses recently.

…But damn him if he wasn’t glad she was missing. Because Gershal didn’t know if they were going to survive this in many pieces.

“Vaunt’s sent only four hundred? There are more Gargoyles than your soldiers, [Lieutenant]!”

The first thing the [Governor] shouted at him was that—before she collected herself. She had a turban set with a jewel on her head, and she was a [Trade Governor] and very, very stressed. She didn’t look like she’d slept, which made two of them.

“Governor Cuarte, I have ridden night and day to give aid to our distant friends in Orefell. Vaunt is not the closest city to Invrisil, let alone Orefell. We have given what we can.”

“Yes, of course. Just—someone will find a place for your men.”

Gershal nodded and waited, but the Governor lapsed into a blank silence and stare. Her advisory council was half-gone, deserted, and Gershal coughed into one fist.

“Hm? What?”

“…Is there a commanding officer, a [General] of Orefell I should present myself to, Madam Governor? We could use supplies, and I would like to rest our horses. If the monster horde arrives tomorrow, we will need all the rest we can get.”

The [Governor] gave him a bug-eyed look and then ran her hands through her hair.

“Supplies? Half our warehouses were looted—we can find something. You, Danna, find the [Lieutenant] a place to stay. The barracks. But watch your horses, [Lieutenant]. Tie them up, and someone will steal them. Did you say [General]? You are an officer-class, aren’t you? Don’t you have a plan of attack?”

Gershal’s heart sank lower into his boots.

“I—would hope there is someone in the field commanding the defenses.”

The [Governor] laughed bleakly, like someone dropping pieces of glass off a balcony.

“We had a [Militia Commander]. A good one, who’s fought monsters from the High Passes. Only, I can’t find her. I know there are other groups coming to fight. A dozen. Adventurers. I’ll…I’ll find you their names.”

While she searched for a list, Gershal sent a [Message] to Vaunt asking their [General] for orders. He wanted them to tell him to turn around and escort some civilians to safety, but instead, he got the worst news yet.

After consultation with the Five Families, Vaunt has placed its forces under the command of the leading officer in the field. In the absence of any direct commands, you, Lieutenant Gershal, are to skirmish and delay the monsters to allow Orefell to evacuate as best you are able.

“Skirmish and delay…?”

He nearly tore the [Message] up. Gershal had seen the monsters on the scrying orb. He had seen another town burning in the distance and taken fifty of his [Soldiers] to scout it out.

One look at the flying Gargoyles, who moved far faster than he wanted giant stone monsters—the smallest of whom were seven feet tall—to move, or the Eater Goats running full-tilt, and he knew there would be no ‘skirmish’. His Skills were devoted to holding a spot, and unlike other armies, if they were surrounded, his people were dead.

“We’re holding the walls. If we sortie, it will only be because Orefell is overrun. All we have to do is perform a fighting withdrawal. The adventurers will help draw off the monsters.”

He gave a little speech to his command and got bleak looks in reply. Someone muttered as Gershal strode back to find the other commanders in the city.

What adventurers?

There were precious few in the city. Gershal understood, by now, that the Five Families were waking up to the crisis. House Terland and House El had begun mobilizing a number of Gold-rank teams, and a Golem-led force was moving south from one of their strongholds.

Far, far north of Invrisil. They had pledged that not a single monster would sack Celum, which was far enough east of Orefell for that to be at least a week out from the horde’s path. Gershal imagined they would keep that promise, especially because House Veltras seemed to be moving quick too, a force heading down from around the High Passes’ range and going south to pincer the horde.

…Too far from Orefell. Gershal remembered when Magnolia had put out her call for aid and Tyrion Veltras had sucked the forces meant for Zel’s army into his. He felt much the same thing happening here, only this time, he couldn’t blame House Veltras. So he blamed everyone else instead.

 

——

 

Pisces Jealnet didn’t sleep well on the ride to Orefell. Mostly because he hated camping.

In a larger sense, it was his nerves about the crisis and his telling his team what had happened with Roshal. They were very supporting, as Erin had claimed. He had felt silly when, before getting through one of his notecards, Yvlon had leapt up, swearing to hunt down every [Slaver] between here and Roshal.

…But it made him think of his friends in Pomle. And, he had found, sharing his trauma with his team had hurt him by hurting them. Ksmvr had looked so shocked and had been so upset he hadn’t slept for two days before he’d passed out in the wagon. Pisces was glad of it.

He didn’t want it.

Yet the monsters remained. He was an adventurer, and that was an odd thought for the [Necromancer]. Ceria had been joking that they hadn’t been back to Liscor a month before they were called away on adventurer business. To which he had said, ‘that is yours and Yvlon’s concern, I am merely an unwilling participant’.

And then, the Spoken Vow team had given Pisces an odd look, and he had remembered he’d voted to go there. He’d looked around and realized he’d become one of them.

One of those swashbuckling, ale-drinking adventure-havers, who went on errands and…and it felt normal. It felt right. Even if this was the stupidest decision since the Village of the Dead raid, Pisces couldn’t imagine anything else happening.

It was so strange coming to Orefell, too. When he first left Wistram, Pisces had headed straight south to Liscor on a pilgrimage to see where the Necromancer had died. A meandering pilgrimage often falling afoul of the law, it was true, but Orefell was not a place to visit.

It was surprisingly industrial, and he saw two huge cranes designed for picking up huge loads of stone, a rare engineering marvel, in the city from a distance. They had been for the mines that had never panned out, but they were good for loading and unloading, and the walls were high.

“Twenty feet. Stone. Liscor’s got better ones, and these don’t look like they have more than a single Tier 4 binding on them.”

Ceria pronounced at a distance. Pisces raised his brows; she was getting better at enchantments if she was as certain as she sounded. He saw a stream of people passing by, a flow like the last two days had shown him.

Human pettiness and misery in its fullness. Pisces had seen how few teams and people were headed this way. And yet…what surprised him was not that, but the reactions.

To his team. People looked up and pointed as the undead horses clattered down the road, and then they began to cheer. They saw Ksmvr and began to shout.

“The Horns of Hammerad!”

Ksmvr of Chandrar! It’s Pisces the [Necromancer]! Ceria the Ice Squirrel! The Silver Killer of—

Yvlon’s face turned beet red, and Ceria choked on her own spit laughing. Pisces stared down as the people threatened to flood the wagon, and Jelaqua had to get up and shout.

Keep it moving, people! Keep going! We need to get into that city! Thank you!

Moore was trudging next to the wagon, and people stared up at him. He looked down at a family and a crying girl staring at an upended wagon. It had broken, and Moore stepped over and lifted the wagon up, halting the flow of people.

“If you have another wheel, I can hold it. Or we may have one in our cart.”

He told the stunned parents, and Jelaqua cursed.

“Moore! Oh, dead gods—someone get the spare wheel! Moore—alright, alright, I’m coming. Ulinde, can you just [Repair] that or is it too much damage?”

The Halfseekers were quintessentially good people, and they deserved the cheers more than the Horns in Pisces’ opinion. However, it was when Ceria met the [Governor] and was dragged away by the frantic woman that he met Gershal of Vaunt.

The [Lieutenant] almost looked ready to cry when he presented himself as a leader of a four hundred soldier force. He turned to Pisces and, to the [Necromancer]’s amazement, shook his hand.

“Adventurer Pisces? It is good, damned good, if you’ll excuse me, to see some Gold-rank teams here. How many?”

Pisces was so surprised that Ksmvr spoke for him.

“Four. The Pride of Kelia is Silver-rank, but they are excellent archers, and we have Spoken Vow and the Halfseekers. Hello, Lieutenant. I am Ksmvr. You may know me as Ksmvr of Chandrar, but I must assure you that any tales about me are exaggerated except for my skill at petting animals.”

Gershal gave Ksmvr a bug-eyed look, which the [Skirmisher] returned, but then he held out a slow hand.

“I believe I’ve seen you dancing.”

Ksmvr hesitated and clacked his mandibles together.

“…I do not dance upon request, but I am pleased you have observed me in a private act. Hello.”

They shook hands, and Gershal didn’t even wipe his hands—although he was wearing gloves. But that made him a better person than most, and the man proved to be a better information source than the [Governor] practically clinging to Ceria.

“There are two other Gold-rank teams here. Two. One is large enough to be a force—they’re called ‘A Pact of Flame and Sword’. Do you know them?”

“No. How large are they?”

Pisces waved Yvlon over as she spoke to Nailren and Spoken Vow’s Captain, Mickey—he thought they were arranging a place to meet tonight, which would be good. They only had a day left.

“A Pact of Flame and Sword? Thirty strong.”

Thirty?

That caught Pisces and Ksmvr’s ear, but Yvlon nodded when she heard that.

“I know the Pact. Gold-rank team, but they have a few members who are Gold themselves. They’re like Todi, Pisces. More upstanding, more mercenary.”

Well, that was something. Gershal did seem relieved to have three more, and he spoke quickly.

“Frankly, Adventurers, I’m not even sure if we want to come to a battle. Each town and village has gone down in less than an hour. Orefell has fine walls—but the [Governor] is bleeding her soldiers day by day. We thought the city would be a place to fight at—but it’s two-thirds empty.”

“I thought there was no way Orefell could be evacuated.”

Yvlon looked concerned. Gershal gave her a waxy smile.

“It can’t. Not fully, but the scrying spells are waking up everyone to how many monsters are coming. The [Governor] is thinking of calling for a full evacuation.”

“That would be disastrous! If she hasn’t done it already—”

Gershal interrupted Yvlon.

“Half her remaining militia fled, yesterday and today, Adventurer Yvlon. It may be wiser to escort however many can flee on foot.”

That made Yvlon hold her tongue. Ironically, Wistram’s calls for evacuation were going too well. Pisces’ estimation of how bad this was sunk from bad to worse.

“If they do evacuate, we may be able to stall part of the monsters. The rest will surely go for the city. What if there was a fighting withdrawal?”

Exactly what the consensus is among the leadership, Adventurer Pisces, sir!”

Sir. Gershal looked at Pisces with relief, and at this point, the [Necromancer]’s fragile ego forced his tongue into saying something stupid as usual. He sniffed.

“I am, ah, a [Necromancer], you know, Lieutenant Gershal. I might save your thanks. I fear you might be sullied by association.”

To that, the man gave Pisces the blankest of looks.

“I know that, Adventurer Pisces. But you also went into the Village of the Dead. If there was ever a time for a [Necromancer]…”

He left Pisces with his mouth slightly open. The [Necromancer] looked at Yvlon, but it was Ksmvr who put a hand on his shoulder.

“You have become widely accepted, Comrade Pisces. I am glad, although you must not let other people assert dominance over you so easily.”

His mandibles lifted and opened. Pisces was glad someone could smile about all this. But the more he saw of Orefell, the more he agreed with Gershal’s sudden decision to evacuate more.

This city was not in a good place.

 

——

 

Low-level soldiers. Sparse reinforcements and a magnification, nay, an awareness of how they were on the chopping block since no great armies had come to save them.

That saw Orefell emptying at an increasing rate over the course of the day. The Horns were a single line in the sand, and they were doing calculations on how much weight the Gold-rank adventurers might have to pull.

“Let’s say there’s only a thousand Gargoyles.”

The leader of Spoken Vow spat out their biscuit. Ceria went on as another Gold-rank team Captain nervously did figures with her. The Pact’s leader was a tall man, with, of all things, a bit of Gnollish heritage. It made him almost as hairy as Nailren, albeit only where he should have hair naturally, and the Gnoll had smiled.

For about five minutes until the teams had gathered for a recce. They had a few local Silver and Bronze-ranks, but most had fled. The ones who had come and might come were only here because of…

The quest. That darned Erin Solstice. Ceria smiled ruefully. She shifted from foot-to-foot and kept glancing sidelong at the <Quest> posted to the empty Adventurer’s Guild, which a [Receptionist] was updating with new figures every few seconds.

Even when she was gone…Ceria went on.

“Let’s say the soldiers can handle half or stall them. And let’s say there are only two thousand Eater Goats.”

“There are more.”

Nailren spoke flatly. He was a [Ranger], and Ceria nodded to him.

“Let’s say there are for the sake of easy numbers. That’s 500 Gargoyles, 1000 Eater Goats. We have, with all our adventurers combined, around maybe fifty decent fighters. Gold and Silver. So each one of us takes on five Gargoyles and ten Eater Goats.”

Silence. After a second, Spoken Vow’s leader Mickey laughed nervously.

“I…I can handle ten Eater Goats if they don’t all jump me at once. Hell, all ten at the same time. Five Gargoyles, by myself?”

“That’s reductionist, Ceria. We never fight alone. Hold them, stall them, break them at choke points. We have to do it. I say that if we hold Orefell, we fight building-to-building. Once the walls fall—we barely try to hold them. Let the monsters have them; we should blockade streets, force them into coming after us. Then we hole up in a defensive spot. The mines.”

Jelaqua looked tired as she leaned over a map of the city. Ceria nodded. She had done that math as a point.

“And if they evacuate?”

“We try to stall as many as we can while everyone runs.”

“They’ll catch the civilians eventually. Eater Goats don’t stop runnin’. I’ve seen it happen.”

Pact’s Captain was named Nethengrel, and he looked around slowly. Ceria nodded and glanced at a larger map.

“The nearest village—no, if we want a city, it’s thirty-two miles. But how long would they hold? We’ll be running and defending people getting torn to shreds.”

“Either that or we blockade ourselves in some mines and hope the horde passes us by.”

Two bad options. Some of the lower-level Captains looked like they didn’t want to be here. Ceria didn’t want to be here, but she was, and so she did all she could to survive.

“We can stall them. Frankly, I think it’s a better option. Adventurers keep mobile, on horseback, and we clash with the monsters. I have [Ice Walls]. My entire class is about freezing things. Moore’s an expert in green magic—we can trip up the monsters. What we can’t do is get boxed in by those Bossels. Some of our people can go toe-to-toe with them, like Jelaqua and Yvlon, but my vote is convincing the [Governor] to evacuate everyone tonight. Within the hour, and we hope like hell the monsters divide up enough to sack Orefell.”

“Agreed.”

Nailren spoke instantly. He didn’t fancy dying in a box, and his team were ranged experts. The other two Gold-rank Captains looked uncertain if they had a vote, being individually Silver-rank, but Jelaqua nodded.

“You’re the one with a plan, Ceria, and you’ve got one for the battle.”

One of the other Captains coughed.

“Which is…?”

“[Fortress of the Ice Queen]. [Frozen Floor]. Stagger up the goats, maybe, but keep them off while we hit the Gargoyles. Repeat. I can’t promise I can do it much, but I hope those buggers aren’t that nimble. We can throw one Frostmarrow Behemoth at them—but it won’t last long against that many.”

The adventurers murmured, and they were almost in agreement when the final Gold-rank team captain came striding into the room. He was breathless and pulling off a helmet as he clanked in.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I was helping organize the evacuation—we have to empty this city. Half the battlements were abandoned, and I cannot, in good conscience, claim anyone remaining is safe. Who’s in charge of—Ceria?”

The half-Elf heard a familiar voice and whirled in disbelief. Her mouth opened in a delighted, if resigned, smile, and Jelaqua struck her forehead with a palm.

“Of all the—how are you here? You idiot, do you just smell suicidal causes? Ylawes!”

She spread her arms and hugged and kissed the [Knight] as he blinked at her.

“Jelaqua? You’re here—of course you are. Ceria! I had no idea the Horns were fighting the good fight. You’re a welcome sight.”

He clasped hands with Ceria, and the half-Elf smiled grimly. Even Ylawes Byres didn’t make the odds seem better, but the [Knight] still smiled and actually hugged her.

“Is my sister here? Is she well?”

“I’ll take you to her, Ylawes. But first—the [Governor]. We have to go.”

The city’s full evacuation was declared by evening. The monsters would arrive the next day, and instead of rest, Ceria found herself telling frightened civilians that the adventurers would not hold the walls unless they had to run into the mines for cover. Anyone who wanted to stay could find a hiding spot or find an area of the mines that Moore was helping set up to collapse. Let Sir Relz and the other nobles and [Strategists] offer their far-flung armchair commentary. Ceria’s view was that Orefell was a deathtrap.

Five Gold-rank teams and less than three thousand full [Soldiers] spent a sleepless night in Orefell facing a horde of monsters. When they rose, they had the task of combatting a horde of monsters greater in numbers, and the most appetizing target on the road were trying to flee a horde of monsters with possessions on their backs slowing every damn step.

Those were the stakes, and those were the odds. But by dawn, at least there was some hope. After all—even if she wasn’t here, Erin had sent all she could.

A <Quest>, her hopes and feelings, whatever that was worth, and something far more tangible.

A [Boon].

 

——

 

She had only one. But with Lyonette? It made two. When Ceria woke up, Gershal of Vaunt was shouting across their localized speaking stones.

The horde is visible in the distance! Adventurer Nailren says it has not spread out much—we have reinforcements from the north and east and south all claiming to have arrived but none in sight. Adventurers, is everyone prepared?”

“Hold on, Lieutenant—we have a situation.”

“What kind of—”

A good one! Dead gods! Tree rot! Fortress Beavers!”

Ceria ran out of exclamations. She stared at a member of her team who had been given a boon from the [Innkeeper]. Because Erin wouldn’t let her friends go into danger without doing everything she could.

However, her boon was a Skill seldom used even by herself. Erin had no idea how it worked except in one specific case. So she had needed to choose both a recipient and a guest who had visited her inn. Who had she chosen?

The most hilarious combo possible, that was who. There he stood, in front of the other awed adventurers. His robes blew around him, rippling in the wind as it ruffled Pisces Jealnet’s hair. When he stood with one foot propped up on a chair, he looked like he could be standing in some portrait of a hero upon a quest, a windswept background behind him.

In this case, the wind kept blowing despite Pisces’ clear chagrin at Jelaqua laughing herself sick. [Boon of the Guest]! And who had been the guest?

Ryoka Griffin. Pisces was red-faced as Ksmvr felt at the winds with delight.

“I can’t make it stop! It’s like a wind familiar. See?”

He pointed to a cup where his breakfast plate lay spinning in a circle, and the wind tried to pick the cup up. But it was so clumsy Pisces ducked as a spray of liquid flew past him.

“That is the most useless Skill ever!”

Ceria laughed. Yvlon shook her head.

“There has to be some utility. Pisces, I’ll try to punch you. Stop me.”

“What? No, not you, Yvlon. Anyone but—”

Pisces backed up and threw up a hand as she raised one metal arm, but before he could even summon the wind, a jet blast suddenly kicked Yvlon off her feet. She landed, somewhat stunned, and blinked up at Ylawes as he raised his shield reflexively.

“Automatic wind protection? Nice! Does it do it twice?”

Ceria threw a mug at Pisces. He ducked it with a glower, and she supposed it only worked every so often. He shifted from foot-to-foot uneasily.

“I do not care for this at all. I find it makes me a larger target and—I have the strangest itching in my feet. I feel like I should be jogging a lap around the city. And my shoes are too tight.”

He stared down at his shoes, which, hither-to, he had never bothered to worry about aside from making sure they had no holes in them. Ceria’s lips twitched.

“Are you saying you want to go barefoot?”

Pisces’ head snapped up.

Absolutely not! Yes. And I feel like I can sense minute currents of air, for the useless ability that it is. For instance, Miss Falene just passed wind.”

He turned to a half-Elf and Dwarf coming downstairs, and Falene Skyskrall turned white with fury as Dawil began laughing. That was—until the second boon-holder came walking indoors and everyone went quiet.

Of the two adventurers…Erin probably had Pisces on her mind, but there was someone else that Lyonette had allocated her precious [Boon of the Princess] to. And it was as much her daughter’s choice as hers. So Ceria’s breath caught in her throat, and Nailren was the one who spoke after a moment.

“…Dead gods, Moore. You’re as fearsome as any [Shaman] of the tribes.”

Moore shifted uncomfortably. He had ducked to enter the Adventurer’s Guild because he was so tall, but now, even ducking, his head scraped the ceiling. Or rather…

The antlers. Moore had been wearing chainmail yesterday, good Pallassian steel. Today? It was like the outfit had sprouted with hide legging and shoulders, and a bark covering melded with the metal. To complete it, his helmet had antlers. He looked like some kind of natural guardian underneath it, and the vines winding up his boots were green turning to the blood red he had learned to use.

“I can’t take it off! Or rather, when I put on my armor, this happens. It’s a Skill called [Vestments of the Warrior of Green]. One Skill.”

“And tough as Orichalcum. I gave him a stab and barely went through it. Mrsha knows who needed armor the most.”

Seborn looked approving. Moore scratched at his head and nearly tangled his gauntleted hands with the antlers.

“I just feel silly. I’m glad she thought of me—and Lyonette—but how do I look?”

Ceria beat everyone else to the punch.

“Moore, you look like a legend. A real Gold-rank! Pisces, on the other hand, has turned into the Windy Necro-lad.”

I resent Miss Griffin being used as the catalyst for this boon! Anyone would have been better! Why not Archmage Eldavin? Why not Saliss of Lights?”

“Then you’d be naked.”

Jelaqua chortled, and the adventurers laughed. Levity, before Gershal spoke breathlessly.

They’re coming. Get ready. The [Governor] is leaving the city, and the alarms are blowing—”

The horns began to sound, and Ceria’s laughter halted. As the monsters swarmed over the distance. The last citizens began running, abandoning everything that would weigh them down. Their possessions or their lives? The soldiers and adventurers followed, and Falene, Pisces, and a few [Mages] cast as many illusions to distract the monsters as they could. The horde advanced—then began to split as they saw the fleeing people. Ceria’s blood tingled. It depended on reinforcements, on how many monsters followed. If they were caught—they were all dead.

But she swore that the Horns and their friends would not be surrounded and die. The half-Elf only wondered if she could pull Yvlon, Ylawes, and the others out of however hellish that battle became. Yet as the first Eater Goats began screaming in the distance, Ceria saw Seborn close his eyes and clasp his hands together in an odd gesture. He caught her looking when he opened his eyes.

“Does that do anything, Seborn?”

The Drowned Man shrugged and almost smiled. He looked eastwards as Gershal’s voice broke in excitedly.

“Maybe not, but it doesn’t hurt. Come on, Springwalker. I don’t think we’re dead yet.”

 

——

 

The people fleeing Orefell were the entire city’s population, and in a single shoving mass, they were slow. As slow as their weakest and frailest members; and even a healthy man or woman could not outrun an Eater Goat.

A pursuit and battle was inevitable, but they could have split up in every direction. Accordingly, the horde would have done likewise, and while that might have resulted in butchery, it would have weakened the monsters as they split up.

The irony was that the smartest move for everyone was the most selfish and heartless for a few. Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer had seen it many times. The defenders had elected to abandon the city, but kept the fleeing people together not simply because they were naive, but because of the boast.

We will protect you. If they all went one way, they could be defended as opposed to a random flight. But that meant the soldiers would be fighting, and the horde was closing in on them.

Tolveilouka knew the Horns were there, and part of him longed to swoop down and end them—but five Gold-rank teams was not an idle boast. Even in his day…or maybe that was the difference between his day and this one.

Nevertheless, he had sworn to make it better. To bring down their home was more artful than their deaths, and besides…

Once revealed, he would be Izril’s foe. He wanted to see how the Five Families reacted, and thus far?

He was not impressed. Or if he was, it was by how few had come to make a stand at this city. It was amazingly pragmatic in the heartless way that dividing the fleeing people would have been.

“A Drake hoards and holds onto every scrap of land even if it costs him his fingers. Is this the way of the north?”

He mused. This kind of self-sacrificial attitude would keep pockets of the Human lands strong, and the rest would bleed out. Contrast that with Drake hegemonic obsession with maintaining ‘their land’? Both ideas had their weaknesses. However, Tolveilouka was no great [Strategist]. Nor was he some kind of infallible information-gatherer. He was far more—direct in most of his approaches.

Hence, his conclusions about the north’s attitude towards their unfortunate neighbors was disrupted as the monster horde split, most heading towards the city like the idiots the Gargoyles were. A good portion were bearing down on the refugees, and Tolve was pleased to let it play out since it looked like the Horns were still in trouble.

…Until he saw the [Riders] coming in from the east. The half-Elf hissed quietly.

 

——

 

Gershal of Vaunt was looking over his shoulder every second. They were coming. Gargoyles, Eater Goats—damn him, but those Bossels were so huge he thought even the Tidebreaker would have looked short compared to them. Half their size!

He wished Zel Shivertail were here. And he told himself the Goblin Lord had been worse. He told himself he had real adventurers on his side, like the Horns and the reassuringly famous Silver Swords.

Yet Gershal had to admit, the sight of a column of dust on the horizon and the horns blowing did make him tear up. He turned and felt the first higher-level commander on the field since he had come to Orefell.

Not one, Gershal realized, but two. Although the [Militia Commander] of Orefell was half-leader, half unwilling captive of the [Brigadier] leading nearly four thousand mounted troops towards them.

“Someone send a rider to them! Who’s this?”

The answer came before the soldiers were even in sight. A howling, strident voice came from a mustachioed—woman—on horseback. Gershal did a double-take as she shouted across the distance.

I am [Brigadier] Forount of Wales! With me flies Ocre, Remendia, Ambault, and Celum’s banners! We will turn back this horde of monsters long enough! With me!

Gershal had a spyglass, and he saw armored riders in heavy gear, with proper barding on their mounts, following her.

Wales? Odd name for a city, but he vaguely remembered it. They had cheap, solid [Lancers] as opposed to a [Knight]-core, and even the Goblin Lord hadn’t sacked their city. He could see why.

A coalition of cities. The people of Orefell were cheering wildly, and so were the soldiers, but a half-Elf raced past on a frozen chariot, shouting.

Stop cheering and run!

That snapped Gershal out of it. He looked back and counted. The monster horde had seen the large numbers of soldiers, but still. They might still outnumber the fighting Humans, and that was not a fight he wanted to take.

They could make it, though. With so many riders, they could throw back the monsters and retreat, either stagger or tire them out! Gershal was racing forwards to add the [Brigadier] to the speaking stone network when he heard a moan from behind him.

He turned—and his face turned as waxy as bad cheese left out in the sun. Because suddenly—every single monster in the horde had abandoned the city. And they were racing—fast—towards him.

 

——

 

Tolveilouka considered it cheating. Just a tiny bit. But he nodded thoughtfully down to the [Brigadier]. And her mustache.

“So some cities have the wherewithal to stand together. Nobles unite for their interest, and these far-flung cities likewise. Very good. And such a beautiful style.”

He meant the mustache. Was it a fake or did she grow it? The poorest option was if her class gave it to her for whatever reason.

He hoped she lived, but the Gargoyles were racing to abandon their siege of the city. This was not what the living wanted, of course. They had banked upon the city distracting the monsters, and woe was them.

Tolve supposed he should be sipping a glass of cordial or some such, but he was alone. Alone…he closed his eyes.

If only some faithful Revenants remained. If only he were here. He buried his face in his hands—then peeked with one eye. At the very least, he’d see a bloodbath. Then his head snapped up, and he growled.

What? How did they get here?

It was one thing for adventurers. Adventurers popped up everywhere, like those ‘Silver Swords’, who had ridden horse after horse into the ground to make it this far east from the coastline. But them? Those stubborn, slow—short—Tolve bit into one manicured nail and pointed.

“Dwarves!”

 

——

 

An invisible undead being’s wrath aside, the Dwarves were really unhappy about it too. Less than two hundred had made it, and their [Field Captain] was clutching at a stitch in his side.

Dead gods and Grandfathers’ beards! We tell jokes about Dwarves sprinting faster than folks on horseback, but I never thought I’d see the day!”

He roared, catching his breath as two hundred of the Dwarves from Deríthal-Vel halted in dismay. Two hundred.

Not two thousand. Not any one of the other groups making it to Dwarfhalls Rest. Oh, no. They weren’t stupid.

Most of the Dwarves heading to the mountain weren’t dedicated fighters. They were [Crafters], [Smiths], [Cooks], and [Scribes] for ore’s sake! And of the many groups who’d disembarked at various ports on Izril’s north, only one had even been close enough to contemplate splitting and heading south.

Two hundred. Two hundred was the most they could spare. Two hundred was—putting aside the lack of any reward until that <Quest> had been posted—the only thing the Dwarves could do.

But it had been the right thing to do. The only thing, and for many reasons, the [Field Captain] had agreed to lead two hundred of his best into battle against the monsters.

After all, they wanted to be a part of Izril, and you could not stand with the Humans and look them in the eye if you were too craven to answer such a desperate call. That was [Field Captain] Rlint’s reasoning.

To look at things, the rest of Izril hadn’t reasoned the same! He was staring in dismay at barely six thousand soldiers and a handful of Gold-rank teams facing almost that number of monsters. They might even be outnumbered.

Where are the Five Families? Where is House Veltras, riding down on the monsters? They did it for Goblins! Where are Wellfar ships sending troops south? Golems? The House of El’s craft?”

He saw none of it. The Dwarf’s lungs were burning from nonstop marching, but he kept half-screaming.

“Ironveil Company, fall back! Fall back!

The Dwarves catching their breaths looked up, having marched hard since dawn, only to hear a retreat order. However, Rlint took one look at the situation and knew it was the call to make.

Dwarves had a different attitude and training to war than most Human kingdoms, let alone however Izril did it. He was aware that eyes might be upon him, but Rlint was scanning the field, and his unit was not entering an alliance of forces converging against the monsters as he’d thought.

Instead, they were alone, coming from north to south, and unsupported. They needed to maneuver around the monsters and link up with the Humans. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like they’d make it.

“[Captain], oncoming Gargoyles.”

A [Scout] snapped, and the Dwarves began unlimbering shields, slamming axes and blades down into the dirt and groaning. Rlint looked up, and his heart sank as a sizable force split from the monsters.

Why? The Dwarves were covered in plate and chain, and they were armed to the teeth. They were—and this was a technicality, but he felt it fit—shorter than the Humans, and there was a lot less to eat than the thousands of Humans!

It was almost as if those Bossels were directing them like a proper army. Rlint had fought Gargoyles at home, and he had seldom seen this level of cohesion.

“Brace yourselves, boys and girls! We might be facing a Suzerain of Stone.”

Rlint spoke, and voices groaned as he named the conclusion of Gargoyle evolution. He didn’t see one—and that would be visible as a giant even among its kin. Rlint considered falling back, but they hadn’t passed many defensible spots. So he just looked around and pointed.

“That hill. There! Set up and prepare for combat! Get a [Message] to the Humans, and tell them we need any support we can get. One adventurer team hitting them from behind or we won’t be reporting back to Grandfather.”

A [Stone Magus] began casting, and the [Field Captain] began to run, still tasting iron in his lungs as the Dwarves pivoted. For this, we came to Izril? Rlint shouted and raised his axe overhead, if they could see him in a [Scrying] spell.

Let them at least see how Dwarves extended our hands. And if no one was there to take them—stone shall weep for us all.

Ready crossbows!

The Dwarves were checking each other, murmuring final words, shouting, and singing as the [Stone Magus] raced over. He pointed, and a wall flanked their defensive line.

Field Captain, the Humans say they’re coming. More reinforcements are coming.

“Well, they had better get here soon. Crossbows—loose! Loose!

The [Field Captain] swung up a black crossbow forged of Dwarfsteel from his home. He aimed at the largest Gargoyle and felt the kick against his chest. Then he swung it down and put his foot in the stirrup. His blood was roaring, and, oh, how he wished they were deploying alongside those Humans in the distance preparing to meet their foes.

Not just because it was safety in numbers. He grinned.

“This is no place for anyone to fall. Better to die arm-in-arm with new friends. Crossbows loose! Throwing axes!

 

——

 

The monsters were coming at the Dwarves, and they would actually hit the Dwarves faster than the Humans, who were still moving backwards with the fleeing refugees. However—even with Tolveilouka’s wrath directing the Bossels to divert their forces at the Dwarves, the two hundred would not die quick.

They were Dwarves, and you could put something down to the doughteyness of their beards and a Dwarf’s stubbornness, as if that made them tougher.

No, as Merrik well knew, what made them tougher was tactics. Tactics forged out of logic that allowed them to beat other Human kingdoms, monsters, everyone, in combat.

The Dwarf was watching with his hands clenched. He regretted not going at once to the battle. But even Venaz had not. He, Peki, and Venaz were in Liscor’s camp, hundreds of miles away.

He could only watch. And admire his people’s tactics that had won him a scholarship to the Titan. Even the Titan respected how they fought.

“[Stone Walls]. Stone walls and…that’s right. Just like that.

The Dwarves had entrenched themselves in stone. One on each side. And a wall at their back. They created a pillbox against which the monsters would break. If they had no natural advantage in terrain, they’d make it! With [Sappers] or magic.

Nor did the other species know how a Dwarf fought. Even Venaz was surprised as the scrying spell focused on the Dwarves. For the first thing that hit the Eater Goats and Gargoyles was a rain of crossbow bolts.

Dwarfsteel, light and tough! Oversized crossbows with a punch any Gold-rank adventurer would respect. Monsters staggered, and even a Gargoyle went down, but it got up, spurting orange blood. The Dwarves managed another volley before the monster crossed a line in the sand. Then the [Field Captain] gave the same order Merrik would have.

“Throwing axes.”

At this, even Calruz and Venaz twisted and stared at Merrik. Peki was hopping from foot to foot, staring out the tent. The Minotaur [Prisoner] and [Strategist] looked back at the scrying orb and saw an unusual sight.

The Dwarves’ first rank had dropped to their knees to fire the crossbows so as not to be hit by the second. Now, both first and second rank drew axes. The second rank threw first, and then the first rose and lifted their axes. They threw, and more monsters went down, screaming as the weighted axes took off a head, bit into Gargoyle flesh.

“That’s…at least a hundred throwing axes. Does every single Dwarf carry a crossbow and throwing axe?”

Venaz turned to Merrik. The Dwarf smiled sadly and looked up.

“Of course. It’s called armaments.”

Venaz and Calruz looked at each other. They hailed from the House of Minos, one of the most elite fighting forces equipped with advanced weaponry in the world. Even to them—the Dwarves were ridiculously overgeared for the average [Soldier].

Especially when the [Scouts] amidst their number turned out to have been fortifying their spot in their own way. Namely—the first Eater Goats ran onto caltrops and steel snares, which snapped and brought them down. They fell, screaming, as two Dwarves planted a wire ‘net’ of steel which tripped up a Gargoyle and two more before the stakes were torn out of the ground. Then—the Dwarves charged, a wall of steel slamming into monstrous flesh and falling back, forming a link of iron. As tough and unforgiving as barbed wire. On their own fortified ground, backs to a wall.

But even iron would bend. Merrik stared bleakly as Peki pointed out the tent, staring at him anxiously.

“I could…fly over and help?”

“In how many days?”

Venaz turned and glared derisively. Peki folded her wings and sulked. She patted Merrik on the back as he watched.

“They’ll make it. Give me three days. They’ll last three days.”

“Yeah. They will.”

The Dwarf lied as he watched the line of Dwarves bow inwards slightly and—hold. He looked for reinforcements, adventurers—there had to be some. Then he saw the Gargoyles and Eater Goats hit the Humans like flesh meeting a hammer’s face.

But—he closed his eyes—

What a terrible sound and battle to fight. He began muttering, trying—again—to throw a Skill hundreds of miles.

“[Unit: Stone Skin]. [Unit: Stone Skin]…”

But it wasn’t working. He was too far away. Too weak.

 

——

 

“[Fortress of the Ice Queen]!”

A year ago, this spell would have been game-changing. It would have made her think she was a Gold-rank, or so close it could be tasted. It would have made her the most valuable member of her team.

It wasn’t enough. Ceria Springwalker ran across a rising battlement of ice and saw the Frostmarrow Behemoth crash into the monsters. The same beast of ivory and ice crushed dozens of Eater Goats as the rest tried to dodge. It raised a paw and slammed it down on the closest Gargoyle’s head, leaving only pulp.

But it was one versus hundreds of Gargoyles, and it slowed as it ran into dozens of them, and they began swinging clubs into its body.

Silver and steel, stop staring and keep casting, Ceria!

Yvlon’s voice broke Ceria out of her reverie. The half-Elf turned and pointed. [Ice Wall]! [Icy Floor]!

Walls of ice shot up along the ramparts of the small fort, blocking off milling goats. It didn’t do as much to the Gargoyles, who could fly and leap, but the icy floor was treacherous. Ceria saw the walls rise and form a kind of barrier across the ground. Not just on her side; Moore was raising walls of stone, and Pisces was helping with bone.

The walls of magic looked like a giant ‘V’ from overhead, only with a hole in the center. And it was that funnel that the [Soldiers] led by the [Brigadier], Gershal, and the others were holding as the refugees fled behind them.

Excellent strategy. Wonderful terrain control, and even Illphres might have called it adequate.

But it wasn’t. These weren’t Crelers, and there were more monsters on the field than Ceria had ever seen in her life. Goats went soaring over the walls as Gargoyles just leapt over them.

They ran into pikes. Vaunt’s soldiers had dismounted, and Ceria saw two pikes snap—and the other two bring down a screaming Gargoyle who went still as the tips rammed into its heart. The Humans fell back, and another howling Gargoyle cleared the ice wall to avenge its brother.

It ran straight into a spear of silver metal. Yvlon Byres’ telescoping arm shot out and rammed a hole through its chest.

But the Gargoyle didn’t fall, and it knocked Yvlon’s shapeshifting arm away, snarling and bending the metal slightly. Yvlon staggered as her arms reformed and raised a sword. The Gargoyle spat, and the stone shards—

Swerved as a [Necromancer] whirled and shouted.

“Yvlon—”

Pisces watched the wind blow the shards past Yvlon. The [Armsmistress] caught herself, one armed raised, then charged the Gargoyle. It raised an axe to strike her, opening its mouth, and Ksmvr landed on its head.

“Blindness.”

He slashed it across its face and missed the eyes, but the orange blood ran across the deep wounds his twin swords left. The Gargoyle screamed, tried to catch itself, and Yvlon shouted.

“[Sword Art: Arc of the Moon!]”

Pisces threw a [Shatterbolt] followed by a [Deathbolt] that sent two Eater Goats crashing down, one broken, the other just dead, and the wind knocked a second Gargoyle out of the air. Wonderful fighting. Perfect teamwork as Ceria finished fortifying her area and slid down a ramp towards Yvlon.

But she had seen what they hadn’t. And that was that there weren’t hundreds of Gargoyles. There were so many—

Fall back! Fall b—

Gershal’s voice came less than eight minutes into the fighting. Ceria turned, panting in disbelief. She’d barely finished casting the—

The Frostmarrow Behemoth’s head was split open. A Bossel climbed it and shrieked. Another crashed into Vaunt’s pikes and swung its axe. Once. Ceria thought she saw eight people die. A head, torn clean off—ribs and shoulder smashed to pulp, a skull ruined—and then those three [Soldiers] were thrown into the other five like projectiles, breaking bones and—

“Fall back!”

The [Brigadier] echoed the call. Ceria cast a glance into the distance. The Orefell folk were running as fast as could be, abandoning everything they had left. But even their panicked sprint had only brought them—

Pisces, the chariot! Move, move!

She leapt after Pisces, throwing [Ice Spikes] faster than she could chant. Not [Ice Spears], just a rain of projectiles to keep the leaping Eater Goats down. Ksmvr appeared, panting, leaping out of the monsters.

“They bit my arm.”

He showed Ceria a chunk missing from his upper right forearm. There was less arm than—Ceria reached for a potion as Pisces leapt into the chariot.

Yvlon! Get her, Jelaqua!

The Selphid pulled Yvlon into a headlock as Yvlon tried to charge into a wall of Eater Goats, screaming wildly. Mad with fury. Moore was already striding back as Ulinde ran, headless, past a stunned Gargoyle.

The flight of the adventurers was fast. Nailren was galloping past her as Spoken Vow shouted that one of their teammates, their own [Skirmisher], was back there. But the voice that interrupted Ceria was desperate.

Ceria, with me! We have to save my people!

Dawil pointed, and Ceria cursed. She saw the Dwarves locked in combat and whirled.

Pisces, follow Dawil!

The [Necromancer] was steering at the fleeing Humans and Gershal, but he rotated the chariot and sped off grimly as Ylawes and Falene held the last monsters at bay. They passed the dead [Skirmisher] and hundreds of dead Humans.

“Stone awakes!”

Dawil howled and drew a mundane throwing axe as they raced across the ground towards the Dwarves. Ceria saw only huge Gargoyles smashing their clubs into something from behind—then Dawil threw his axe, and it struck deep into a Gargoyle’s back. Then he leapt off his horse and crashed into the fighting.

The Horns of Hammerad followed him. Pisces drove his chariot into the goats, and Yvlon leapt down, arms like razors. Ceria saw Pisces’ wind protection save him.

She wasn’t so lucky. She was blasting Eater Goats in the head from the chariot when a Gargoyle’s projectile hammered into her shoulder. Ceria fell down, and only [Frozen Armor] saved her as an Eater Goat jumped on her and began trying to tear her apart. When she was up, she had had enough.

“[Icy Spear].”

Ceria cast the spell, held it in one hand, and aimed her wand at the Gargoyle. Two spears struck it in the chest, one after another. It fell down, and then—the battle was done.

Yvlon was staring blankly at an Eater Goat’s teeth embedded in one arm. She turned, and Ceria saw her armor was battered, but she was intact—until she tried to walk and stopped. Something was wrong from a blow she’d taken. Pisces was the only one not wounded; Ksmvr got up from where a Gargoyle had clubbed him ten feet. Dawil’s face was a mass of blood, and it was hard to tell whether it was his or the goats’; one had taken his helmet.

And the Dwarves? Ceria looked at the enclosed fort of stone. She called out.

“Hello?”

For a moment, nothing moved. She saw fallen Gargoyles, so many dead Eater Goats…then what looked like a wall of battered, bloody stone moved, and she realized it was shields. Dwarves emerged, bruised behind crushing blows, armor torn—

Alive. Their [Captain] clutched at a broken arm as he spoke.

“Dawil the Adventurer. If I’d known you were here, I wouldn’t have doubted it.”

“Always.”

That was the only thing the [Axe Champion] said. Then everyone turned at the desperate horn blaring, and Ceria’s stone screamed at her, though she was almost out of its range.

Ceria—here! You! On you!

She turned and saw the monsters coming this way. Without a word, the Dwarves bent over their dead and hefted their gear. The [Captain] snapped.

“Drop everything but your principal weapon. Go! Which way?”

Ceria pointed, and they began to run. She called on the circlet’s magic and felt it was already half gone. Well, she needed as many walls as she could make.

 

——

 

The first engagement saw multiple Gold-rank adventurers fall. However, only among the Gold-rank teams like Spoken Vow and the Pact. The other Gold-rank teams were all made up of individual adventurers, and even Nailren’s ranged team had made it out with little more than scars from the Gargoyles’ long-ranged projectiles.

However, the [Soldiers] had paid a huge price for eight minutes of fighting. As many as three hundred had died despite the numerous protections, and only their retreat and healing potions had stopped that number from going up.

Gershal made it. In fact, it was his forces that saved the Dwarves as the Horns and Dawil led them on a wild escape. They were racing eastwards, sure they’d never get to safety despite Ceria and Pisces casting spells wildly, when his soldiers came racing with a train of horses.

Get on!

Half his people dismounted, and some rode with the Dwarves and the others ran, fresh, carrying Rlint’s forces out of danger. Unfortunately, not out of the fighting.

Eight minutes of fighting. A retreat that lasted another hour of skirmishing. And guess what?

They weren’t even close to the next city, only halfway there. The refugees halted, barely sixteen miles from Orefell with the monsters closing for a night engagement. When the furious adventurers demanded for them to keep running, they were faced with an ugly truth.

The cityfolk couldn’t. It was true trained [Soldiers] could march twenty-five miles without Skills and a full backpack in a day, but that was them. Some cityfolk were out of shape. They pushed at each other, wasted energy with talking and reassurances and chatter. They were young and old, not in their prime.

Worse? They didn’t pace themselves. They had sprinted until they threw up when the monsters were on them, then they exhausted themselves.

“We can abandon them. Take anyone who can move and keep moving. It’s that or they fight with us and we watch them die by the thousands.”

The words left Ceria’s mouth too quickly. Yvlon grabbed her and stared into her eyes.

“What’s wrong with you? Leave them?”

Ceria bit her lip, and she wondered if the circlet were to blame. But it was so clear to her. The refugees were being given all the spare weapons, and some had training, Skills, and they’d fight with the soldiers as a kind of backup.

…But they were going to die. The [Brigadier], at least, knew where to choose her place to die. She’d taken a hill with a steep cliff in several places; just dirt, some kind of natural erosion. It was as good as an [Earth Wall], and she hoped to form a pike line so that even if a Gargoyle leapt, they’d run into spears and archers. On both sides of this natural hill facing, she wanted the [Mages] to fortify. The Dwarves would take one side, and Gershal would lead the infantry on the other. The [Riders] would circle and try to hammer the monsters from behind.

It wasn’t going to work. Ceria saw it clearly. Gargoyles were not an infantry force. They had ranged attacks, were too large, and could smash through these lines. But no one would abandon a third of the refugees to die. Nevermind that they were all exhausted, some too weak to even hold a sword up straight.

So Ceria began planning her exit. She looked at the other adventurers and saw it unspoken, in every eye but Ylawes’.

How many will die before we run? It was a calculation, not a question. The half-Elf closed her eyes as, in the distance, the first Bossels began to scream.

As Eater Goats surged forwards with their tireless hunger, shrieking, and the first long-range [Archers] began to fire, Ceria hoped Mrsha, Erin, weren’t watching. Because they would see either cowardice or something worse.

Now. Now…her eyes opened, and the half-Elf gave her team a weary, bloody smile.

“Guys? You’re not going to believe this. But my [Dangersense] just went off.”

Pisces, Ksmvr, and Yvlon all turned to her. Pisces’ face went slack, and Ksmvr’s mandibles clicked as if he couldn’t tell she was joking. Ceria stared into the mass of monsters and wondered what the hell was coming their way. She didn’t know it, but Tolveilouka was laughing.

 

——

 

Laughing. The half-Elf stood in darkness, naked except for a light cloak blowing around his body. Arching backwards with mirth. Perhaps it was immortality that made them so…performative. Or maybe it was that when they rejoiced, they cared not who watched them.

He had forgotten he cared about prolonging the Horn’s demise. He just enjoyed it as they made that valiant line in the sand he had seen again and again. As if heroism would make up for everything else.

Tolveilouka had seen that broken line in the blood drawn afterwards. He had squatted among the carrion where the armor of [Heroes] rusted under plague. Now, as night howled down from the High Passes like the monsters below, he stood on a far-distant ravine’s cliff, watching the hill over cracked earth with magic, a distant swarm meeting stationary walls of ice and bone.

A little [Necromancer]. A handful of Dwarves, and a half-made woman of metal. Dead. A half-Giant with a drop of blood, his half-Elf kin with a speck of power. The Revenant laughed. And laughed.

And wondered who the hell was ringing those bells. They came to him on a distant breeze, breaking the manic laughter, the unholy mirth. Tolveilouka heard them, sounding across the distance.

He had no window into the world of [Messages], since he was no [Mage]. He had no [Scrying] spells save what artifacts his master had left. He was, in many ways, a poor version of a [Necromancer]. Nor had he cared; this was an experiment.

So why did his skin crawl and itch? The half-Elf ran his hands down his pristine skin, which could mutate and turn into a bulbous plague in a heartbeat. He shivered as if cold, but it wasn’t that he felt. He…felt a churning unease in his stomach, and it was such a foreign sensation he had almost forgotten how it felt.

Not since those bad days have I—

Tolveilouka whirled. He searched the darkness, and then he snatched at a [Message] scroll at his side, began to scan the lands in front of the High Passes. Even when he found the culprits, he understood it not.

The Putrid One’s greatest servant felt his skin crawl, but not with distaste. More—unease. Confusion. Uncertainty. He backed up, and the laughter stopped, and a thousand lights seemed to burst into light amidst that black night. They surged across the ground, towards the Humans, but they did not cast their bearers into naked relief, in shining gold or glorious colors.

For these creatures…these…he had seen one, and now Tolveilouka whispered as he read the alarms spreading from place to place. A name. They had a name. But—what a strange one. He gazed downwards as a light which had no magic nor flame made him raise his hand and shield his face.

Who…who are these? The Black Tide? Antinium?

Tolveilouka looked down in disbelief as the Antinium poured north across the Human lands. Not just any Antinium.

[Crusaders].

 

——

 

But how? And why? And how?

Three days ago, when the news from the High Passes was hitting The Wandering Inn, everyone was listening. The regulars were speculating, Todi was laying down how unlikely it was for immediate aid to come for the sacrificial buffer cities, and the Horns of Hammerad were heading out.

Depending on who you were, these moments might be familiar. However, what did the Antinium see?

They were there. They were always there. Yet, it was a new group who rested at tables, who had money in their pouches and an odd…sense of disquiet even in peaceful daylight.

They did not stare as long at the sky. Many had no paint, but they looked around with a sharpness, a curiosity some of their kind lacked. They were not only allowed to think, but they had learned lessons in war.

Lessons like how easy it was to die. Occasionally—some would flinch or brace at a loud sound. As if a flying piece of pottery Liska tossed while tripping were an arrow or a stone from a catapult.

They were the [Crusaders] of Liscor’s second army. Off-duty, obviously. On holiday. Olesm had assigned a number of the Antinium who’d fought hardest against Hectval a longer vacation, and Liscor was happy enough to have the soldiers’ coin flowing back into businesses.

A few listened when they heard the High Passes erupt. They looked at each other in dead silence. They might not all know Gargoyles, but some Antinium had fought them and Eater Goats. The numbers were a calculation each [Crusader] could run.

Obviously, it was the same thing Menolit and Relc could do. Todi, Saliss—anyone who had seen war or even large-scale combat had a better sense than civilians did of the true danger and horrors that would follow cities falling and the monsters overrunning fleeing people.

The difference was that there was something off about the [Crusaders]. They looked up at the sky, they walked Liscor’s streets. They politely stood in lines at the crosswalks, and they obeyed every rule they had been told.

…But even [Strategos] Olesm made mistakes. And one of the mistakes he had made was this: he had never told the Antinium the obvious, the plain facts that most [Soldiers] understood. Which was that they only went to war when they were told to go to war.

[Banner Commander] Artur was staring at a map of the High Passes. He had a mug of a hot toddy in his hands, and it was really making him like Captain Todi. The adventurer was abrasive, but he’d invented this?

Artur listened to the news of Hectval. Then he saw Battalion 8, Squad 1, Crusader 802, Embraim, glancing around at the other [Crusaders]. Restless.

It looked like bad stuff was happening to those Humans. Not that the Antinium knew Humans, but they knew monsters. Just remembering the days in the Hive when monsters would pour out of the walls…before Belgrade, the savior of so many lives, had built the trapped hallways.

Imagine that happening to the cute little Drakes or Humans who had no shell and were so tiny? And yet…Liscor wasn’t going to war.

Menolit said so. And while the conversation did stray to The Dyed Lands, the [Crusaders], noticing each other’s restlessness, got up and paid for their food. To the bewilderment of the Painted Antinium and regular Antinium, Artur spoke in such a ringing voice that Relc and Menolit were on their feet before they caught themselves.

Soldiers, on your feet! Rally at Peace Point 1.

The [Crusaders] leapt up and marched out of the inn. Ishkr watched and hurried after Artur.

“I can pack up some food if you aren’t finished with it, Artur…”

“We should move quickly. Thank you, Server Ishkr.”

The Worker spoke. And with such precision and—and confidence that even people who knew Antinium were surprised. He spoke like what he was. A soldier. Relc sat down, blinking, as the [Crusaders] filed out.

“Sharp lads, eh? Brave fellows. I don’t envy Hectval.”

“No.”

Menolit’s eyes followed the [Crusaders] as Relc chuckled weakly. Neither Drake said it, but they saw something different in the Antinium in the army. They were, well, sharp. Full of vim and vigor. Not every [Soldier] leapt to attention like that. But the Antinium were natural [Soldiers]. In fact…the Soldiers might make better [Soldiers] than Antinium Soldiers, if that made sense. Unlike their Hive, this was a class and purpose.

And they acted and moved with the same speed they had learned in battle. Artur found more [Crusaders] waiting for him at Peace Point 1—a smaller plaza where they assembled to take the door back to Liscor or march back on foot.

“Who is in charge here?”

Embraim, as [Battalion Leader] of Battalion 8, stepped forwards. Next came [Sergeant] Crusader 224-5. Three high-level [Crusaders] walked forwards. Their classes had changed, and one of them was a Soldier who stood taller than the rest. Another Soldier had two shields, giant tower shields, that made him walk awkwardly. The last Soldier had a voice.

[Templar]. Finally, Artur himself stepped forwards. The six Antinium looked at each other with uncertainty. The [Templar] with a voice rumbled, and it was a glorious voice. Not like the other Antinium’s staccato tones. He had wanted a voice like Sir Relz, something with tones where you could roll and project each word, savoring it like butter.

Perhaps not even Yellow Splatters had such a fine voice, because this went beyond even the Free Queen’s ability to shape flesh.

“Strategos Olesm is not present. Nor is Strategist Belgrade. We are without leadership. Commanders Tersk and Dekass are equally absent.”

The other Antinium nodded. Artur checked his [Message] scroll.

“We are not on-duty. Liscor’s army is not moving to intercept the monsters. This is not a Liscorian affair. Therefore, it is almost certain none of our forces will move to combat the monsters unless they reach Celum.”

And by that point, at least a week or two would have passed, and cities would lie burning. The [Crusaders] felt it, but they were bound by a number of factors.

“We are off-duty.”

Embraim pointed out carefully. Artur hesitated.

“We are. But I feel a calling. It is not…Heaven. I wish Zimrah were here. Perhaps Pawn may explain what I am feeling. It is not a calling of my class. It is a calling of my intention. I wish to go.”

The other [Crusaders] nodded. Artur was a [Soldier] more than he was a [Crusader]. Those who had become [Templars], or [Priests] like Zimrah, had a different role. They felt it too, though. Not quite like a prayer. More like a desire.

They wanted to go. But they were part of Liscor’s army. However, at this point, as the Antinium had done before, [Battalion Leader] Embraim spoke again.

“We are off-duty.

Artur was about to repeat himself when he noted how Embraim emphasized that. Glory Battalion’s leader had no handy book on Liscor’s army’s regulations to follow, but they had all memorized all the standing orders.

Let’s see. Don’t cause trouble off-duty. Conduct yourselves as members of Liscor’s army…report back at your muster times…

There wasn’t anything about conducting military operations. Obviously, it was assumed that everyone understood not starting a war was part of it, and Olesm had mentioned refraining from brawling with Pallass’ [Soldiers] and entanglements with Human cities.

…But nothing about monsters. Artur put together what Embraim was hinting at along with the others. [Sergeant] Crusader 224-5 spoke cautiously.

“[Crusaders] present in the city number three hundred and twelve off-duty. Far too few.”

This was also true. The Antinium hesitated. They didn’t want to die. Or rather, die to no end. Heaven called them, but here was pretty nice too. And they had to watch each other’s backs.

Their answer came as the new guests of Erin’s inn saw another member of the inn strolling along the plaza. Well, strolling implied he was happy.

“Normen, you aren’t going to the High Passes. Put it out of your head.”

Alcaz and Normen were walking along. They stopped when they saw the large group of Antinium, but Alcaz tipped his hat, and the Antinium nodded and stepped aside. A number of Brothers were walking with Normen. It was Alcaz and Normen, the two former members of the gang, who were talking.

“Explain to me why not, Alcaz? I’m a [Knight]. By rights, this is the sort of thing a fellow does.”

Normen was adjusting his clothing, but he had not the plate armor promised from Mrell yet. And while he had a sword that Lyonette had bought for training—

Alcaz was no [Knight]. Nor had Erin worked any wonders on him yet. Nor had he asked. He was smiling, though. As proud as he had been the day Normen was knighted. Yet this time…he looked at Normen. Then the other Brothers. They were all proud of him.

And, like the [Crusaders], keenly aware of the odds. Alcaz nodded.

“That’s the kind of stupid thing a fellow should do, Normen. By rights, we should all head down. But we’re not that sort. You…you’ve taken a step into the light. But your hat’s a bit too big for your head, yet.”

He touched Normen’s cap with one hand, then looked pointedly at Normen’s lack of armor.

“You as good with that sword as Crimshaw was with a club?”

“Not at all. An artful man, that fellow. Swung it like a [Painter].”

Another, older Brother murmured, and all nodded. Normen’s jaw clenched.

“I was given a chance. I can’t sit here.”

He didn’t see how they smiled. Proudly. Each Brother beamed and then hid it—ashamed. Alcaz himself hid his grin as he turned his head.

“Right you are, Normen. But I have to tell you, as it were—I don’t think you can beat a Gargoyle. For instance, you never saw this coming.”

Artur saw Normen turn his head straight into the fist that decked him. The [Crusaders] watched appreciatively. Not for the violence, but for the quality of the punch. Normen went down and got up with his fists clenched. Alcaz waited, adjusting his bowler hat.

Alcaz!

“Let’s make a deal, Normen. You prove you can take us on, sword or fist, and we’ll let you go. Otherwise, I’m afraid we’ll have to keep you from killing yourself. It’s a pathetic thing to do, stopping a man from doing what’s right. But we’re a bunch of bastards and happy with that.”

The other Brothers lined up as the lone [Knight] raised his fists. He looked around at the cheerful group of men stopping him from rushing to his death.

 

——

 

The [Crusaders] watched the fistfight until someone called for the Watch, and they stepped away to let the [Guards] through. Normen gave a good showing of himself, even if the Brothers only fought him two-on-one, like gentle-ish-men.

The entire moment gave Artur an idea. It was true that the [Crusaders] off-duty in Liscor had nowhere near the numbers to combat thousands of monsters. But…he was checking the rules over and over in his head. Then he turned to the others.

“I have an idea. Battalion Leader Embraim. Do you know how many spare sets of armor the Armored Queen has left in the Free Hive’s armory?”

The other Worker turned, and the [Crusader]’s antennae waved frantically. Now there was an interesting thought.

Just like Battalion 6, Calruz’s Beriad, the Antinium were learning there was a lot of empty space in the rules. So when a group of Antinium marched into the Free Hive and began claiming suits of armor and weapons, who would stop them?

 

——

 

Prognugator Maev wasn’t sure what she was here to learn from the Free Antinium, but it had certainly changed her fellow Prognugator, Xeu. The Silent Antinium were not here in numbers, but like the other Hives save for the Twisted Antinium, they had sent gifts and their own Prognugators to learn.

What she had learned so far, and reported to the Silent Queen, was this: the Free Antinium’s food tasted good. Their Hive was uniquely defended by layers of traps. Their Antinium with paints and ‘prayer’ had a lot of non-essential tasks that seemed to contribute to their levelling. They were good at chess.

Xeu…Xeu was odd, after she came back. She’d broken a scythe, and she no longer conducted her usual patrol routes. She had a ‘friend’ called Icecube, and she missed him.

All very distressing. Prognugator Maev was composing a report suggesting that Xeu’s mental state was addled, but she did not want the Silent Queen to decommission Xeu, so she was…hesitating. Did that mean she was compromised?

Do her duty. Prognugator Maev fought monsters. She had leveled once as a [Prognugator], which might be down to the Free Hive’s influence? Her one distraction today was seeing a large group of Antinium entering their armory.

“Query. What are you doing? No fighting has begun. What orders from the Free Queen necessitate this?”

The Prognugator de-cloaked her body, and some [Crusaders] from the group sent to fight with the Drakes jumped. One tried to hide a piece of plate armor behind his back.

“We are requisitioning supplies from the armory, Prognugator.”

A Worker spoke, an oddity, because he sounded so…authoritative. Maev rubbed her talons together.

“No action from the Free Queen suggests this. What orders were given?”

She was in the Free Queen’s telepathic network, and to her understanding, the Free Queen was, ah, vegetating. She had gone silent mentally, which suggested she might be asleep. Revelantor Klbkch was occupied with his [Guard]-duties, and thus Maev felt she had to inquire.

“We do not have an order from the Free Queen. But there is no rule saying the Antinium cannot take armor out of the Hive.”

Another [Crusader] spoke, and Maev recoiled from a Soldier with a voice! She almost attacked on the assumption he was an Aberration, but remembered her orders. Then she saw how many regular Workers and Soldiers were cowering against the walls.

Hundreds. And there had been a huge line…Maev thought she understood what they were doing, but it was also incomprehensible. Antinium did not take independent action. She wrestled with this.

“No explicit permission has been granted by the Armored Queen or Free Queen for items of war. Desist.”

The [Crusaders] looked at each other as the regular Soldiers and Workers instantly turned around and began to file away. Maev felt better—right until the one with the banner raised a hand.

“No, stop. We are not under your command, Silent Antinium Prognugator. With respect, you are not our commanding officer.”

Maev felt like she was drowning in water. What was going on? She skittered right and then left, as if someone had slapped her with Rxlvn. She clicked her mandibles.

“I am Prognugator of the Silent Antinium.”

She reminded them of her rank. [Banner Commander] Artur nodded reasonably.

“I am [Banner Commander] Artur of Liscor’s Second Army, serving under Commander Olesm with broad dispensation for authority as I see fit. What rank would a Prognugator have equivalent to mine?”

Maev stared at him. She rubbed her scythes together in a keening sound and was just about to either kill him or wake up the Free Queen when someone else scuttled through the Hive.

“Hello, what is going on here? Good day, good day to you all, sirs and possibly madams. I am the friendly, beloved Prognugator, Pivr.”

Wonderful. Maev did not get irritated, as these were lesser emotions and the Silent Queen was the embodiment of Antinium grace, superiority, and knowledge. But Pivr? He had changed too, and somehow—he was even more annoying.

He had a hat now. A top-hat that was perched unsteadily on his head. To anchor it so he didn’t have to balance to keep it on, Alcaz had helped him add a strap that looped around his face. The other quadrupedal Antinium halted when he saw the [Crusaders] requisitioning gear.

“Prognugator Maev. Good day to you, Miss.”

He tipped his hat, and Maev spoke.

“Prognugator Pivr. What are you doing?”

“I am a gentleman, Prognugator Maev. You must try it. You will not be likable, otherwise. Good day to you. Are these the [Crusaders]? What is going on?”

Maev explained the objectionable activities as Pivr listened. She waited for him to back her up, but Pivr only rubbed his legs together and fanned his wings a few seconds before he came to a decision.

“This all sounds unusual…but acceptable.”

Prognugator Pivr. Is this standard for the Flying Antinium?”

Pivr fanned his wings in a ‘shrug’.

“No, but I am attempting to be likable. Stymying this would likely earn Pawn’s wrath or some kind of censure. I, Pivr, give my permission to the [Crusaders] to take as many Antinium as needed and armor. It is not as if they are crucially needed for the defense or operation of the Free Hive.”

It was true. Thanks to Belgrade’s network of traps, the Free Hive had a lot of Antinium on downtime. Maev was, of course, furious, but as a Revelantor, Pivr outranked her! She could only scuttle away and watch as the Antinium resumed filing into the armory. Pivr watched with interest, but only vaguely. He had a drink with Alcaz he meant to get to, and he scuttled off after a few minutes.

More [Crusaders] being armed was all he saw. Maev was so…so…bland. It never quite occurred to Pivr to ask just how many new [Crusaders] were being ordained. Or note that in all this fuss…

Not a single Painted Antinium was present, much less Pawn. They were doing it all on their own.

 

——

 

And they knew what they were doing. You could deny it, like Maev, or be oblivious if you only saw elements, like Pivr.

But this was no little escapade. No prank, no innocent Painted Antinium doing their thing. The [Crusaders] knew.

They knew, and that knowledge pulled them forwards. Like a forbidden honey, like a dream. Every species had an apple and a serpent, to use another religion as a metaphor.

In this case, the serpent was a conscience, and the apple tasted like…it tasted right. Like righteousness.

It was in his heart. Artur watched as the two hundred plus [Crusaders] stood in front of ranks of kneeling Antinium. The regular Soldiers and Workers waited as suits of armor and weapons sat in front of them. It was the [Templar] with the voice, who had been known as Crusader 120-2, that spoke.

Theogrin, a name that Drake, Gnoll, and Human soldiers of Liscor had helped him choose, raised his voice.

I am [Templar] Theogrin of Liscor’s Army. Battalion 3, Tersk’s Vanguard. This is no action of Liscor’s army. But we are [Crusaders]. This is not an order of the Free Queen or any Prognugator. The Painted Antinium are not part of the army.”

The Antinium wavered. They were not idiots. These were Antinium…doing something of their own accord.

Blasphemy. If there was any such equivalence in Antinium ideals, this was as close to Aberration as it came. Yet they held still. They had heard of Ksmvr of Chandrar. They had seen the Painted Antinium, and so many had longed to be one of that sacred number.

Yet the [Crusaders] of the Free Antinium were a different breed from even the rest. It was something in their eyes. The way they spoke. The [Templar] had no paint, only armor, some battered, worn by dead comrades behind them.

But look at that one. He stood taller than the others. Like Yellow Splatters, but he had not been chosen. His deeds had won him his voice alone.

The Painted Antinium prayed. The [Crusaders] did likewise, but they marched. So no Antinium Workers or Soldiers fled as Theogrin went on.

“There are no orders that drive us forwards. Only need. Once, we marched on Hectval to avenge the [Innkeeper], for war. I hear it now, again. Until my leave of vacation is over, I, Theogrin, declare a crusade against the monsters of the High Passes. If you would be a [Crusader], take up arms.”

The Antinium looked up at him, then down at the sets of armor and weapons. Then they knelt as an [Acolyte] passed down their ranks, swinging a censer that smelled like cinnamon. When they rose—Artur sighed.

“If any are hellbound, it is the ones who will lead so many to Heaven.”

He looked down at the army of untested new [Crusaders], and Embraim heard him. The Worker’s mandibles rose, and an echo of that pink flame that had baptized his battalion glowed in his voice.

“Someone must go to Orefell. We are [Crusaders].”

Artur’s lowered head rose, and he exhaled. Then he nodded as the [Templars] began giving orders, reorganizing the ranks as the new recruits were given crash-courses by the veterans. They had to march—now. They had days, only days to teach these Soldiers and Workers how to fight.

This was against all laws of the Hive if there were any that had ever been written down. They had no authority save the one they had given themselves, and they knew Commander Olesm, Revelantor Klbkch, would not approve.

But even Erin Solstice, the [Innkeeper] of Liscor, had underestimated these new Antinium. For they were [Crusaders]. And if they had no crusade, they would find one for themselves.

 

——

 

That was how it had begun. The Free Queen and Klbkch had been so complacent, so relaxed with so many capable helpers in the Hive, that they had slacked off their eternal vigilance. A decade of fighting and work…weren’t they allowed to have a drink and a snack and fall asleep petting Deferred Sustenance?

When they woke…when Klbkch got off-duty, he realized something was off. But it was only when he sensed the great march that he went to query the Free Queen. And she…sat still for a whole minute and then began shrieking.

“They did what? They took what? How many—they are leaving the northern attack tunnels. They are using the war-tunnels for the northern invasion.”

Klbkch’s mandibles opened wide in horror. He whirled and realized the Antinium were using the furthest tunnels in the Free Hive. The ones that had been dug around the Second Antinium War.

Untold in the history of the Antinium Wars was an encounter where the Antinium had attempted to seize elements of the north. They had tunneled past Liscor and attempted to secure a foothold in what they had viewed as the weaker, uncoordinated north.

They had run into a Dragon. Two armies had burned before the Queens elected to never try that again. But the tunnels remained. And now…the Antinium crossed under parts of the High Passes and emerged along the mountain range.

A swarm of bodies, marching in ranks behind a banner of Liscor’s flag. The Black Tide. But how they shone. [Templars], striding in front of experienced [Soldiers] teaching new [Crusaders] how to fire a crossbow and hold a shield.

Singing.

[Combined Skill: Wrath of the Righteous]. Even the Soldiers with no voices joined in. As for the bells? One of Erin’s first remarks upon hearing about the [Crusaders] was remembering church bells. So Artur had bought the largest portable bell he could on the off-chance it helped.

Three days of marching. By day and night, crossing the rocky mountain range into the furthest-flung elements of Human lands. Only the other Antinium had any inkling of what was going on, and when they did notice, when the entire world saw the Antinium armies marching across the ground, everyone thought it was the Free Queen.

The Grand Queen launched an immediate inquest only to hear the most shocking news of all: the Free Queen denied doing anything. And now—

 

——

 

Ceria Springwalker thought she was dreaming. She heard the strange tolling of a dozen bells, discordant in the air, and whirled. Her wand rose as she conjured a spear of ice and launched it at a Bossel, but the damn Gargoyle had a shield, and it blocked the spell, reeling and opening its mouth. The shards blasted into Ceria’s armor, and she shouted.

Yvlon, get back! [Ice Walls] going up!

“Ceria, stop blocking me—”

The [Armsmistress] was already covered with gore, and the Eater Goats were actually avoiding her. She was less edible than the other fighters, and her other arm stabbed out as she swung a sword one-handed, the metal morphing. Pisces and Ksmvr were holding the top of the hill, cutting down goats as they leapt.

But the Gargoyles kept crashing forwards, landing amongst the [Soldiers]. They tore around and died hard. The Dwarves and adventurers were the only ones with weapons who could reliably penetrate their skin.

And the goats! Ceria’s [Dangersense] was howling at her. She heard a whine, and the Gargoyles and Eater Goats began pressing forwards in a rush on the right wing of the battle. As if they were afraid of something behind them.

Then—she heard the first screams, and her head turned. She felt at one bloody ear.

“What?”

The Black Tide is marching! Antinium!

Gershal of Vaunt was screaming in the speaking stone. Ceria whirled, and she saw them storming across the ground. Thousands of Antinium, surrounded by lights like her [Illumination] spell. But such lights…they weren’t magical, nor were they mortal flames. They looked like someone had captured a bit of sunlight and turned it into a floating orb.

Ceria’s wand wavered, and her mind went blank. Then she began shouting and screaming at the sky.

Erin! You maniac! You—

She was, of course, wrong. But the monsters didn’t care. The Eater Goats turned in a swarm as a Bossel roared a note of alarm. The horde split, and the Eater Goats regarded their newest food source. And…hesitated.

The crusade of the Free Antinium halted as the monsters began to pivot towards them. They had been marching all day to reach this point, and many of the Antinium were tired. But a rank of larger Antinium, some wearing brilliant armor, stepped forwards.

“Crusaders! Prepare to charge! Battalion 1, split left! Companies 4-6, flanking.”

Artur roared. He pointed, and Antinium groups broke away from the main force, spreading out. The Eater Goats weren’t charging. The Gargoyles clubbed at them, some even whipping and howling, but the fearless monsters were tilting their heads, slowing.

They heard something. The Eater Goats had no language. They had ideas, their own form of communication, but only a few species had ever managed to get through to them like the red paint of the Redfangs.

So what was this…sound? What were these voices, such that even the goats understood them? The [Crusaders] came to a halt, lines of steel armor shining under the light of faith and the stars.

The Soldiers and Workers were doing something. As one, they raised one of their four arms, and their fists clashed against their armor. The Antinium stomped their feet, and their heads rose.

They stared up at the night sky. At the stars, glowing with every color.

War. War and death. A crusade against you.

The Eater Goats looked at each other. Death? They brayed a challenge, but the mysterious, eerie creatures just kept chanting without a voice.

Come. Come and die.

Nothing in the Eater Goats’ lives had ever uttered a challenge to them aside from their own kind. The monsters began shrieking and started charging across the ground. The [Crusaders] waited, and the Antinium with the banner shouted.

Crossbows!

A rank of Antinium swung up their crossbows. The Soldiers fired and then began to reload. Artur watched a rank of goats stumble.

Bows!

Workers with bows loosed a volley into the air. The stone-tipped arrows glanced off the Gargoyles, wounding the Eater Goats. Artur cursed until an arrow streaked past his face and took a Gargoyle through the eye.

The [Banner Commander] turned, and one of the [Avengers] lowered his bow in the squad he was commanding. He was already shaking with rage. These were not Hectval’s soldiers, but monsters? How many monsters had killed his people? His second arrow blew a chunk out of a Gargoyle’s face, and it dropped as Eater Goats began to bite at the corpse.

The Bossels realized that this army was dangerous. More and more Gargoyles were loping away from their onslaught on the Humans and Dwarves. The first rank of Eater Goats surged forwards, a ravening mass of mouths looking to bring down the Antinium. Even the Dwarves’ defensive line had struggled to stand against that onslaught.

Then—to the disbelief of the watchers and against strategic sense—a group of Antinium began a counter-charge. They broke past the lines of braced Antinium and ran at the Eater Goats.

Something—the Eater Goats looked up and saw something strange. In their eyes. They were just an insect’s eyes, edible like everything, multifaceted and pupilless. Foreign even to strange creatures like Eater Goats. But there was something else there. A kind of fervor, an idea given a material presence in this world.

It surrounded them like an aura or magic, as Tolveilouka had seen before. But like the rarest of classes, like the hated [Paladin], there was something else there. That uneasy feeling before his beloved master died. Something beyond even the Putrid One’s craft.

That had been a dream in his era, a long-lost secret. This was the conceptualization of that idea. The Antinium pounded across the ground, sixty strong. The [Crusaders] who had served in the army.

[Templars]. The one in front raised a sword and shield, holding two daggers in his lower hands as the first Eater Goat leapt. He had no voice, but he spoke.

“[Miracle: Holy Sword].”

He had seen Manus break. Tolveilouka’s skin erupted into goosebumps. The Grand Strategist of Pallass quailed. Those watchers—what did they see?

A high-level Antinium. Terrifying. The Eater Goats looked up and wondered why a sword hovered above them. Made out of that light that was so terrifyingly bright. Then it fell, and a dozen Eater Goats vanished.

The new [Crusaders] watched in awe and a terror of their own. One of their kind had summoned a sword made of light! This wasn’t what Antinium were! They were doomed to die, dozens to bring down a single Crypt Worm. But another of their kind, the one with a voice like beauty, Theogrin, raised a shield.

“[Barrier of Faith]!”

Leaping Eater Goats slammed into a wall of light, like a magic spell. It lasted for moments as more plowed into the gap, but the dazed monsters halted. They saw the shimmering barrier appear, and an Antinium brought down a tower shield. It snapped an Eater Goat’s back, and a Gargoyle swung into it, but the club rebounded as the [Templar] refused to budge. The Gargoyle’s eyes widened, and it spat projectiles into a [Crusader]’s chest. The Antinium fell back as the point-blank stone shards cut into his chest, piercing the steel. He raised a hand as green blood ran from a deep wound.

“[Heal Minor Wounds].”

A [Crusader] grabbed him, and the wound closed. The [Crusader] charged, screaming, and the Gargoyle backed up as a glowing sword pierced his stomach.

Then the mass of monsters hit the center of the Antinium forces, and Antinium fell back as Eater Goats swarmed them. Gargoyles began leaping, spitting stone and landing among the low-level [Crusaders]. The Antinium bunched up, bringing the Gargoyles down. Soldiers and Workers falling as Eater Goats brought them down. Biting back with their mandibles.

They were not invincible. A [Crusader] fell, brought down by goats. A dozen Workers armed with bows found themselves facing a Bossel. But then the [Avenger] shot an arrow at point-blank range, and an experienced squad stormed left, cutting down the goats.

The Antinium were here. And they were maneuvering.

 

——

 

Gershal of Vaunt couldn’t believe his eyes! It was one thing to fight alongside an experienced adventurer like Pisces, [Necromancer] or not, or see Ksmvr of Chandrar, but this was an Antinium army. How had it gotten here? From the south? How had no one seen it?

This was all in the back of his mind. Most of his attention was still devoted to surviving. Vaunt’s lines were breaking.

Too late, he realized Ceria’s dire pronouncements had been right. The half-Elf had been blunt, but she had told him to sacrifice the civilians of Orefell in their own battalion. Not place them among Vaunt’s soldiers.

They were like cork in a brick wall. They fought hard, but they gave way, and the areas where they died or fell backwards bowed inwards. On the other side, the Dwarves were like a rock, refusing to give an inch. The Antinium had come from that side, but Gershal was screaming for the other officers posted on his end to use their Skills.

[Axebreaker Formation]! Axebreaker—where’s my Skill?”

He looked around and got his answer as he saw a corpse standing amongst a terrified group of screaming men and women. A Gargoyle Bossel had sniped one of the [Strategists].

“Fall back! Fall back!”

Which city’s soldiers were shouting that? Gershal howled.

“Hold your ground or we’re all dead! Vaunt, hold the line! Tidebreaker’s stand!

He invoked that day, and his diminishing [Soldiers] halted their flight. They looked up as Gargoyles lunged forwards. Gershal raised his sword, and a sword of bent iron struck him so hard his other arm nearly broke. He landed and saw a Gargoyle staring down at him.

The [Lieutenant of the Line] rose in a single leap. His sword shot straight up in a thrust.

“[Piercing Leap].”

His sword’s tip went up and through the roof of that red mouth. The orange blood gushed around the curved beak, and the Gargoyle screamed. Gershal landed on his feet, and his enchanted sword hacked at the stone flesh.

“To the lieutenant!”

Three spears came to his rescue, knocking the Gargoyle back. It retreated, still covering its mouth, and Gershal found he was alive another second. He—had he just used that Skill to regain his footing? He had never thought to use that Skill like that before.

If he lived through the battle—Gershal looked around and heard no more Skills ringing in the air. They were used or the officers were dead. He was calling for adventurers, knowing they were about to expose their flanks and damn them when, to his astonishment, the fleeing civilians and soldiers came back.

“Charge! Charge, damn you!”

A voice roared in Gershal’s ears, and he saw a wild-eyed [Soldier] charging an astonished Eater Goat and clubbing the monster down. The Gargoyles blinked in the face of this sudden onslaught of courage, and Gershal felt a furious anger engulf him.

A Skill? Then he saw and felt his spirits rise. They rose, and the odds against him seemed, if not worse, than something to fight rather than despair at. Gershal looked around for the source of this strange feeling and saw it.

A foreign flag, waving in the breeze. And the being who held it was—an Antinium. The [Banner Commander] pointed, and Humans rushed forwards.

“[Unit: Moment of Frenzy]! Bring down the Gargoyles!

Artur’s waving flag was deflecting the Gargoyles spitting shards of stone at him. Gershal halted, panting, and his broken arm almost rose in a salute as the Antinium snapped at him.

“Where is your commanding officer? I am Artur, [Banner Commander] of Liscor’s Second Army.”

“I’m in charge of this spot! Lieutenant Gershal of Vaunt!”

“We are being overrun. Your lines are in disarray.”

Artur spoke calmly, as if he was used to speaking to Humans. Gershal looked around and knew it was true. He glanced over his shoulder.

“The [Brigadier] is leading the charge, and the adventurers are fighting the Bossels. There are no more reinforcements!”

Just civilians, and their wild attack was already faltering. Artur glanced around sharply and then pointed straight ahead, along the edge of the hill where they were fighting beside Ceria’s melting ice-walls.

“I see. Then we hold them here. I need reinforcements to my position! The lines are about to break!

He called into a speaking stone, and Gershal looked around wildly. But the Antinium had the other flank—this lone standard bearer must have run into the fighting to support them.

Gershal felt light, somehow. Fighting alongside Antinium and Dwarves? He gave Artur a wild salute with his sword.

“We hold them, then. If your flag stops the Gargoyles spitting stone—we’ll stop them. Vaunt, to arms! Liscor’s with us, and the Black Tide! Do the Tidebreaker proud!

Men and women joined a line as the [Lieutenant] laughed. Then—an Eater Goat was biting into his leg and he was stabbing it through the face, but the jaw kept biting even when the monster was dead, and he had to saw it off his armor. Gershal screamed as he tore its teeth loose and set himself against a charging Gargoyle. Fighting desperately. For pride. For life.

He wanted to live and ask that Antinium with a flag—everything.

 

——

 

Artur whirled around, but there was no one but the Humans. He saw adventurers putting up a terrible fight in the distance, and some of the [Crusaders] were maneuvering around the back of the battle, but that brave man was dying.

He did not charge into the front lines. He was no great warrior. As he had done many times now, Artur watched as good people died in front of him and he held a flag.

But he was not the Worker who had watched his comrades die. The [Banner Commander] was shouting, directing Humans into the breach, a magnet for the Gargoyles shooting stones at him. Yet…this was not all he could do.

There was something else. Artur kicked an Eater Goat who had gotten past the fighters in the face, shattering its jagged teeth, and hesitated.

Hesitated for one second. He turned his head to the glorious [Templars], fighting in a knot and pushing the monsters back. The dying Soldiers and Workers fighting in his new crusade. He had started this.

So. It was one second. Only one, and Artur broke all the rules. Not just ducking through loopholes or unwritten rules.

He broke all of them. Intentionally, in a moment, with no regrets. Because he could, and it mattered. Because—

The Antinium had been there when General Sserys brought the Antinium into the Meeting of Tribes. He had seen, reflected in the [Innkeeper]’s face, another great legend of the Drakes. His enemy?

His inspiration. Soldiers of Liscor. And he had been there.

Artur had leveled up. So the Level 31 [Banner Commander] raised his hand as he pointed to the side of Vaunt’s final stand. He looked up at the sky and spoke.

“Get me the group with the best punching power. [Company, On Me].

His finger felt electric. A charge ran through the battlefield, and Artur’s eyes flashed for a second as Gershal’s head rose. Then—a hundred [Soldiers] appeared in a flash.

Squad 5, Battalion 1, raised their heads as something dragged them across the world. Again. Crusader 53 was sitting in a chair, and his butt hit the ground, the bowl of soup he was holding spilling all over him. Crusader 57 raised his head.

whAt the FuCK.

“What’s going on?”

Zimrah scrambled to her feet. Poor Crusader 87 was caught, squatting in what he’d thought was a latrine. The Antinium scrambled for their weapons, and then they caught onto what was happening.

Monsters? Soldiers. Crusader 53 shot up and grabbed a mace as a familiar voice called out to them.

Artur.

Battalion 1, flank the monsters! Charge, charge!

That was all they needed to hear. They might have been relaxing in Liscor’s camp, but this was the second time it had happened. Squad 5 found each other in seconds. Crusader 57 was still screaming insults.

DeaD gOds damnIT. gODdaMnit! It’s her fault! I know it!

“Shut up!”

Someone shouted at him, and the offended Worker looked around, then hefted his greatsword onto one shoulder. Squad 5 prepared to charge. It took them eight seconds as the Gargoyles turned to face a hundred Antinium.

The horror of the watching officers, seeing Sserys’ famous Skill in the hands of an Antinium, was lost on Crusader 53. He heard a piercing sound.

Crusader 57 had bought a whistle in Liscor with his money. A tin flute, it was called. He stuck it between his mandibles and blew a mocking tune. The Gargoyles had seen their kin fighting the Antinium and knew they were a threat. A Bossel turned, still confident he was the biggest and most dangerous thing on the field aside from that fearsome half-Giant clubbing his kin.

Squad 5 charged. The Bossel raised a club as long as Crusader 53, and the [Maceman] raised his mace. It…sparked. The Bossel’s eyes fixed on the strange material in the elegant, nay, beautiful mace with flanged edges as sharp as the day it had been carved out of Dragonbone. It swung at Crusader 53, and he swung the mace he had taken from a champion of Az’muzarre.

The Gargoyle’s arm twisted, and the club half-exploded in a roar as the relic unleashed a discharge of furious lightning. The Bossel recoiled and realized something was wrong.

These Antinium had levels. Crusader 57 whirled his sword down.

“[Zweihander Chop]. Rookie, get back!

He kicked Crusader 59 as he cut down a line of Eater Goats. The ‘younger’ [Crusader] stumbled back, and the Bossel’s arm strained as it tried to bring the club down. It saw Crusader 53 raise his mace and braced itself.

[Mace Art: Big Hammer]. 

A giant, glowing copy of 53’s mace struck the Bossel in the chest and face. Crusader 53 ran at the toppled monster as it fell backwards and looked down. He clubbed what remained of the face just in case and whirled. A Gargoyle saw what had happened to its leader and backed up. The Dragonbone mace sang.

 

——

 

“Battalion 1!”

Liscor’s camp was in uproar. They had vanished! Belgrade was screaming Artur’s name, and [Strategos] Olesm had come racing down from his command tent where he’d been watching the Antinium do battle. Everyone from the Council to the High Commands of the Walled Cities were shouting at him, but Olesm had only one thing in his mind.

Artur’s summoning companies!

Just like at the Great Plains. He had inherited Sserys’ Skill, or close enough. Now, with all the foresight in the world, he was involving Liscor’s full army in the battle for the north.

Merrik was laughing. Tears were running down his face as he saw Battalion 1 charging into battle.

“Glorious. Professor, do you see it?”

He had no doubt that the [Banner Commander] would be used as a lesson in class tomorrow. Now the Eater Goats and Gargoyles were stalemated as Battalion 1 slammed into their side, but it was the main crusade that was faltering.

The veterans were fighting without losing ground, but inexperienced Soldiers and Workers were suffering Gargoyles rampaging through their ranks. That banner was racing back to cover his army, and Olesm felt an electric shock in his veins.

Because he knew what would come next. And a few people saw history repeating itself.

A horned head slowly rose. Calruz turned and looked around.

“No. Not them. Let me—at least let me—”

Venaz gave Calruz a blank look as the one-armed [Prisoner] whispered. Then Calruz was running, breaking out of the mess tent. Venaz realized what was happening a second later. He tore something out of his belt pouch.

Your Majesty. My King. I have something to show you.

They were waiting. The instant they had heard Battalion 1 was gone, another hundred Antinium, new recruits and veterans, so few veterans, had gathered. Horns on their helmets, as silly or as glorious as you chose to see it.

Stop! St—

Calruz was running towards them, and at first he was shouting orders, but he halted and his voice died. As if he couldn’t bear to stop them and couldn’t bear to see it happen at the same time. Venaz held the scrying mirror up and showed the House of Minos a sight he had come all this way to see. His blood chilled, and he broke into a cold sweat, but his smile—

Battalion 6, the Beriad, had formed a line as Liscor’s army shouted and watched. They all had their single weapons—greatswords, hammers, battleaxes—in hand. They were stomping and raising their blades to the sky.

Demanding, demanding Artur do what they knew was coming next. Honor and glory, just like when they had halted Zeres amidst the waves.

The [Banner Commander] was calling them. But—he was not the only clever person who saw an opportunity. Peki whirled, looking at the scrying orb on delay. She looked at the chanting Beriad, Calruz’s expression of pain and awe. Then she seized Olesm.

“I enlist in Liscor’s army. Okay?”

“What? Wh—I accept.

Olesm took one look at the Garuda, and his eyes flickered. He pointed.

“Battalion 6! Commanding officer—Peki, whatever your last name is!”

“Peki of Pomle! [Drop Strike Lieutenant]! Last names are stup—”

The Garuda charged across the ground as the Antinium looked up. Merrik shouted.

“Peki!”

Then she vanished. Along with a hundred Antinium.

 

——

 

They appeared in battle, ready. Like thunder. Like a roar of voices, unheard.

Antherr saw them. He was stomping, his bandaged arms raised as he lifted a blade he’d seized from the Gnolls. Termin and the other Human were watching him, but the Soldier was screaming silently at the sky.

The [Immortal] was shouting.

Me! Take me too! His Battalion appeared in a blaze, facing the Gargoyles and Eater Goats.

But Antherr did not. He felt the pull—and then it failed.

He was too far away. Perhaps he was separated from his company. Perhaps Artur wasn’t that strong. All the Antinium could do was watch.

 

——

 

Once again, they appeared.

Though it was not water and mud rushing through their feet. Though it was monsters instead of Gnolls and Drakes—the Beriad cared not.

What did Minotaurs see? A hundred Antinium stomping and raising their blades. Fearless, a Garuda taking wing and surveying the battlefield so she could tell the Titan—what it was like to lead Antinium.

The Beriad pushed past the low-level [Crusaders]. Antinium were knocked aside, kindly, by striding [Juggernauts] and [Warriors of Honor]. Their leader pointed, and a Gargoyle Bossel howled.

A single Antinium with a greatsword charged, but not even Crusader 57 was so mad. The other Beriad stood back as a Bossel pounded towards him.

Madness. Honor? The first cut was thrown back by a shield, and the Bossel struck the Antinium [Honorguard] like a hammer. Armor tore, and the Antinium cut back, dodging another blow. He hacked into the leg—the Gargoyle crushed his shoulder. One of his arms went limp, but he had three more.

He was half the size of the Bossel, and it brought down the axe, crushing part of the Antinium’s head. The Beriad watched as the Antinium swung the greatsword once. It bit into a leg, and the Gargoyle brought the axe down again.

Then a second Antinium strode forwards with a greathammer. The Gargoyle whirled and spat shards of stone that lodged in gauntlets as the Antinium shielded its face. Again, that axe swung down—and the greathammer knocked it aside.

A Skill. The hammer came down and crushed a foot. The Bossel screamed, and the Antinium followed it up with another blow—then went stumbling backwards as a strike caved in part of his chest. He strode forwards, bleeding, and struck the knee again.

Then the Gargoyle fell. It clawed at the ground, raising a shield to defend itself, and saw the Antinium—waiting. The Gargoyle tensed—lunged—and a hammer struck the Bossel’s face.

The Beriad watched as the Bossel went still. Then another warrior faced down a Gargoyle. An Antinium swung a battleaxe up as he pointed at a Gargoyle who answered the challenge with a shriek.

They were fighting like Minotaurs engaging in honor-duels! To anyone who understood what they were seeing—

Peki landed and scream-shouted at the Beriad.

“Stop!”

They looked at her, offended as she pointed.

Stop fighting one-on-one! Kill and take them down!

“Not honorable.”

A Worker offered her haughtily. The Garuda gave him a tilt of the head and spoke like she was talking to Venaz.

“Honorable is letting your friends die? Follow me and kill everything with tactics!

The Beriad hesitated and saw the embattled [Crusaders] falling. Without a word, they abandoned their duels, and Peki found herself commanding Antinium.

She didn’t know what it would be like. Would they even follow orders? She had to know. The [Lieutenant] pointed a fist.

Follow in a wedge! [Unit: Thunder Punch].

She leapt across the ground as she activated a Skill. A free Skill. Did they know how to use it? Would they—?

The Garuda looked back, and every Antinium was charging after her. She pounded out of the fighting and ran in a curving arc. Like they had been drilling this for a month, the Antinium followed. They hit the side of the monsters, and Peki leapt up.

“[Half-Giant’s Launch Kick]!”

A Gargoyle went tumbling over Eater Goats, and the [Martial Artist] kicked an Eater Goat’s skull in. She shouted.

“Keep moving! There, there—”

She pointed, and two more wedges pierced in from alternate angles. The Garuda was astonished, but she couldn’t have realized how obvious her commands were. Not her voice, but the way she gestured. Intuitively, like a [Martial Artist], something Antinium could read perfectly.

 

——

 

The Beriad followed Peki into battle, swinging with such force they cleared everything around them. On the other side, Battalion 1 was stabilizing the battle as adventurers broke away from their spots to reinforce this weaker area.

The Antinium crusade was turning the odds towards victory. But as Battalion 1, Battalion 8, and the Beriad entered the fray like thunder, a curious thing happened among the rest of the crusade.

The Antinium’s momentum and morale—faltered. The new [Crusaders], still Level 1 or 2 at most, looked up, and their fighting slowed, because they were too busy watching.

The [Templars] were fighting in a knot, surrounded by monsters and warded by faith. Some were physically taller than any other Antinium, but only by a foot at most. Yet it seemed like a hundred feet.

They looked like Giants. The ordinary Workers and Soldiers gazed at the fearless Antinium, and they had not seen how the grinding brutality of war struck sparks of courage and sacrifice. How faith made commonplace heroes out of lowly insects like them.

Even he, Embraim, understood. Crusader 802, Battalion 8. He looked at the Soldiers and Workers, then to the distant [Templars]. The fearless Beriad. Battalion 1, from whom had come the legendary Crusader 51.

He did not feel able to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with them. He felt short. His spear felt heavy, and his shell fragile, a bare layer over thin blood in his body.

Faith took some of the crusade like a magical hurricane, sweeping them forwards over their foes. Not so for mortal Antinium. How could they ever aspire to be that?

Yet he was a [Soldier]. He had seen Manus break. Now, Embraim saw mortal men and women, like him, rallying for the charge.

“To the rear! I will split their lines or I will plant our banners where I fall!”

The [Brigadier], amidst all this chaos, was riding across the rear of the monster horde. She had fought through the screaming goats, and even now, she was performing pure strategy. She deserved backup.

Battalion 8’s veterans had taken several hundred Antinium Soldiers and Workers and moved to Artur’s flanking spot. They were advancing, but the hypnotic battle ahead was making the Antinium’s famously unbreakable will—falter.

This would not do. So the bug, the [Battalion Leader], the mere man who was Embraim took something out. Something he had found, that covetous thief. Like the first legends of Earth, he had stolen it. Hoarded it, for it made him strong.

A few Gargoyle Bossels were turning to face the Humans on horseback. They feared the charge of the [Lancers] less than most, but they were wary of the Antinium group too. What they saw, amidst that small force poised to charge their rear, was something curious.

It looked, to the confused [Brigadier] and the Human allies as well, nonsensical. To an Earther, it might appear as though Embraim was…having a cookout.

Like he had set up a barbeque grill and was making burgers. He had a kind of brazier that he had bought from Liscor’s street-vendors who did that very outdoor grilling. The Antinium had loaded up the metal frame with wood and charcoal. Now—to the bewilderment of all, he lit a flame.

It was pink. Embraim, Battalion 8’s leader, drew it from a locket around his neck. A coal burst into fire as he reverentially placed it in the brazier, and every Antinium, these ordinary insects, turned to stare at it. Hypnotized by the glow.

It burned pink and bright. It reflected every fallen soldier of Liscor, Antinium and Drake and Gnoll and Human, that Embraim had ever served with. In it, he saw Embria, dipping her spear and letting the fire burn across the wood and steel.

It gave him strength. Slowly, Embraim lowered his own spear into the flame, and the veterans joined him. Swords, even shields and maces, coating themselves in that glorious fire.

“Come.”

The other Soldiers and Workers slowly approached and laid their blades along that fire. Passing and carrying a part of it. The monsters turned, and the Eater Goats looked up as the Antinium turned.

A single brazier became an inferno. Now, they were ready. Embraim saluted the [Brigadier], who gave him a wondering look. Then he kicked over the brazier, and the flame licked across the ground. He ran through the flames, shouting.

Eighth Battalion, forwards!

They followed him, burning insects, and even the Eater Goats backed away from them. Even they couldn’t eat flame. 

 

——

 

Six hundred flaming Antinium made the night glow like wildfire. The half-Elf was laughing, for she knew that fire. Even when she was gone—those Antinium!

Prometheus, like the legend she had heard Erin telling Mrsha and Bird, hundreds of them, stealing the [Innkeeper]’s flame.

The Antinium are pushing the monsters back! Erin’s in so much trouble!

Ceria was still shouting her misinformation, but the relieved fighters would have kissed the [Innkeeper], mistake or not. Nailren’s team, the Pride of Kelia, were loosing arrows into the monster horde.

Eater Goats. Headshots. Nailren’s paw burned as he lifted his recurve, and he cursed not being Gold-rank. If he were Halrac, he’d be using enchanted arrows to kill the Gargoyles. As it was, he thought he’d killed at least fifty goats.

So why was he still shaking with fear? In fact—why were all the Gold-rank adventurers suddenly here? 

As if they had sensed something, Spoken Vow, the Pact, the Silver Swords, and the Halfseekers had joined the Horns. Ylawes was still staring at the [Crusaders] in a kind of stupefaction, but it was Moore, tallest of them all, who shaded his eyes and spoke in a booming voice as he hefted a mace covered with bloody thorns.

Something is coming. It’s among the monsters. Get ready.

Nailren’s head snapped up. Then he saw what had made the Eater Goats and Gargoyles hurl themselves forwards with such ferocity. It wasn’t just bloodlust.

It was fear. As the monster press let up, he saw a Gargoyle run forwards, flailing its limbs. And it—vanished.

No, half of it vanished. Its arms dropped, as if perfectly severed, and the Gnoll blanched.

“What the—?”

Then he saw a little black goat hop forwards, open its mouth, and swallow a fifteen-meter section of land in a huge sphere. It opened its mouth again, and a little hole with no light opened, not black, but a void. It sucked in fleeing goats, the ground, even half of a trembling Gargoyle Bossel holding…

A leash. The Void Goat had been unleashed, but Tolveilouka hadn’t told the Bossels what would happen when they used their secret weapon.

“Dead fucking gods and my grandmother’s tits! What is that?

Even Jelaqua had no idea. Nailren had never heard of this goat-type, but he didn’t need to think. His bow rose, and he aimed an arrow at the goat.

The arrow sped straight and true at the Void Goat’s head and was sucked into the void. Nailren saw the arrow twist, elongate, and his stomach churned as it was subjected to physics he could barely understand.

What happened if that were done to flesh? The other Gold-rank adventurers didn’t want to find out.

They opened up. [Mages] began casting spells, and [Archers] shot arrows. Ksmvr raised his crossbows, but hesitated.

He saw Ceria’s lance of ice and Pisces’ [Deathbolt] both curve into the void that the goat was merrily projecting. It was eating up everything, such that the goat was even standing on a single piece of land as everything else eroded below it. A near-perfect sphere of annihilation.

And it ate the magic. Ceria swore softly, and Pisces stared as the death magic was captured like it was Nailren’s arrow.

“Aw. Hells.”

Dawil muttered. He hefted his axe, felt at the broken piece of metal that had been his throwing axe…and shook his head.

The Void Eater Goat beamed. It had been getting really upset, but look at all this…it stared at the Gold-rank adventurers. Yum.

It had a priority list. Unlike its lesser kin, it was really interested in whatever was on that half-Elf’s head and the woman with metal arms. And that mace that bug-thing carried.

It hopped forwards merrily, and Ksmvr fired.

“[Weapon Art – Aggregate Volley].”

All his crossbows unloaded at once as the void the goat had conjured vanished. The Void Goat blinked, its two independent eyes staring vacantly around in the seconds it had—

Its mouth opened, closed, in a snap. Ksmvr lowered his crossbows as his shots fired.

“That is distressing.”

It ate his Skill and then opened its mouth. This time, the little vortex began sucking everything up in front of the goat, and it trotted forwards.

It could direct whatever the hell that was? The Gold-rank adventurers were already backing up, and so were the regular [Soldiers]. But they were adventurers. This was a monster.

“No one get near that thing.”

Jelaqua’s flail with the Demas Metal blades was practically useless, as were Seborn’s daggers, unless he wanted to try a sneak-attack. It might come to that, but the Selphid glanced at Ulinde.

“Moore, Ulinde. Sneak spire. Give it something to eat, Ulinde.”

“Yes, Jelaqua!”

The [Spellslinger] leapt up. With a Drake body, she began firing spells from her two wands. Tier 2 spells, [Flame Bolt], [Lightning Jolt], a stream like Falene was capable of.

The Void Goat actually halted to let her feed it, and it never noticed Moore moving left. The half-Giant struck the ground and concentrated. Then a spire of earth, piercing, shot upwards.

The goat hadn’t expected that. Nailren heard a confused baaaah and hoped it had died. The impact had killed three Eater Goats around it, sending their broken corpses flying. He looked around and then saw a black shape land.

On its hooves. The same [Earthen Spire] that had punched a Gargoyle in the chest and broken its ribs had hit the Void Goat. The miffed animal landed, hopped forwards, and began advancing faster.

“What?”

Someone whispered. Nailren shot another arrow as Jelaqua barked.

Moore! Pits!

This time, the half-Giant struck the earth, and a hole opened under the goat. It tried to leap it and sucked up a volley of spells.

But it missed the jet of wind that came from Pisces. The [Necromancer]’s finger trembled as Erin’s boon slammed the goat down from overhead.

Nice, Pisces!

Ceria whooped as the Void Goat fell into the hole. Moore was sweating as he struck the ground. The earth snapped shut, trapping the goat in a tomb of dirt. Everyone stared at the ground.

“No way it works. No way that worked.”

Someone muttered. A Gnoll in Nailren’s team. He snarled.

“Shut up. Don’t jinx—”

Then the ground vanished, and a Void Goat clambered out of the ground, looking peeved. It had just eaten its way out of the earth.

“Okay. That’s it. Run. Unless we catch it off-guard, there’s no way it dies!”

Jelaqua snapped, and the adventurers began trying to flee. But the Void Goat began galloping after them. It wasn’t as fast as its kin, but it was like a terrifying tag. The vortex had a gravitational pull, and if it caught you—

It saw the adventurers running for it and merrily swerved. The Gargoyles, Eater Goats, screamed, and the Void Goat began devouring monsters. Then it headed straight for the soldiers. The adventurers turned and tried to slow it down, but it was too late.

 

——

 

“Squad 8?”

Crusader 57 turned his head as he sensed something happen. He looked over, but the Antinium supposed to be fighting behind them were gone. Just…gone. The Worker looked around and then heard the screaming.

The silence. The roaring vortex as the Void Goat approached. Crusader 53 motioned everyone behind him. A rain of arrows fell, and those around the goat were sucked into oblivion. It looked at Squad 5, grinned, and then plunged into the Antinium crusade’s ranks.

Hunting them. Hunting them all.

Workers and Soldiers vanished. New [Crusaders] and old. The Void Goat trotted forwards so fast that the Antinium had no idea what was going on until Peki, Artur, and the other commanders screamed at them.

“Run!”

Then everyone was running. Into Eater Goats and Gargoyles, their formations breaking as a single monster destabilized the entire battlefield. Crusader 57 was looking around as Squad 5 ran. Zimrah, their [Priest], was screaming.

“You—you—!

“Squad 8? Those idiots owe me money.”

He looked back at that merry little goat running around with its mouth open. So cute and small compared to the others. Crusader 57’s grip tightened on his zweihander.

“I’m going to kill you.”

Half of Squad 5 had to drag him back. Even the Beriad were backing up as the Void Goat ran around. A hundred Antinium had vanished. More. It curved left, towards Squad 5, and a knot of fighting Antinium refused to budge.

A [Templar] with two tower shields was taking on a pair of Bossels. [Taunt the Foe]. They swung weapons like cudgels into his shields, but the Soldier refused to move. Then the Templar heaved, and his shields began to glow.

[My Noble Virtue: Protection]. [Retribution of the Defender].

He heaved, and both Bossels went stumbling back. But the Void Goat was coming, and a [Templar] spotted it.

An Antinium went striding forwards as desperate arrows and spells were sucked into oblivion by the goat. The few that struck it…it seemed to be tougher than its kin. It barely noticed one of Nailren’s arrows that found the small gap in its creation of the void. The Void Goat smiled merrily as the [Templar] pointed.

“[Holy Swo—”

He vanished. The ground, the Antinium—the Void Goat did a backflip of joy. An obscene little monster. Then its look of delight turned to confusion. It stared around, and those two vertical pupils blinked once. It narrowed its eyes and stared at something.

The Void Goat opened its mouth and inhaled. The air warped, and the other [Templar] fell back. The Void Goat stared at where the [Templar] had been and then skipped over. It circled the ground, confused. Then it looked around, and another [Templar] split off from his fellows.

He had a pair of crossbows and fired, one after another, circling, feinting. This time, the Void Goat concentrated whatever it was doing. It ate an arm, and the Antinium stared at his arm. He charged, swinging. Fell.

The Void Eater Goat stood over the Antinium as it bit at the monster. It trotted around the Antinium—and a hole appeared in the world. But the goat didn’t seem satisfied. It stared at something. Perplexed. Annoyed.

Just like Tolveilouka—no, the undead thing was different. This…this wasn’t a failure to use its power. The Void Goat baahed.

I can’t eat that. What is that? It had thought, naively, that it had figured out the ultimate solution to life’s many difficult substances. It could eat magic, even Skills.

But not that. Whatever the Antinium had, it was vexing. So the Void Goat decided to consume as many of them as possible.

It began to run, and now the remaining monsters had the living at their mercy. Gargoyles formed up to hack the desperate Humans, Dwarves, and Antinium to bits. So long as the goat focused on them

The first Bossels, the ones with the magical blades, the looted armor, strode to the [Riders] led by the [Brigadier] fleeing the Void Goat. A collision that the Humans couldn’t avoid. They opened their mouths as the [Brigadier] screamed.

Charge for Wales! Charge for Orefell and—

Her horse went down as the first volley of stone shards lanced the [Riders]. The Bossels charged amid the vortex of the goat’s destruction. The screams, the Eater Goats’ shrieking, and the beating of wings. One heard a familiar sound, a tearing of air, and felt a chill on its back.

It looked up at that uneasy memory and made a strangled sound. Just one before the Frost Wyvern exhaled.

The other Bossels froze in place. Some—literally, but most shook off the covering of ice, feeling the deadly chill. They gazed upwards in alarm, and one leapt up to strike at the Frost Wyvern, their old foe, pursuing them from the High Passes!

The Bossel saw a strange thing riding on top of the Wyvern. Why, it looked like a saddle. Like some of those stupid Wolves. And on it was a Goblin with a helmet with glass goggles and a Hobgoblin. The Hob lifted a big, big crossbow and—

It sounded like thunder.

The Bossel’s headless corpse dropped to the ground with a crash. The monsters gazed upwards as a familiar shriek gave them pause. Then a second Frost Wyvern dove and coated Eater Goats in a layer of icy death. More explosions of sound—a bolt blasted into the ground straight in front of [Field Captain] Rlint. He swore, then eyed the bone bolt.

“Who’s got crossbows like—?”

He looked up as a Wyvern passed overhead. The gaping Dwarf caught sight of a little Goblin as she gave him a two-fingered salute. Then the Hob aiming a Thunderbow fired again.

“Goblins?”

Suddenly, there were Goblins. Frost Wyverns dropped out of the sky, coming from the west. From the High Passes. A disbelieving Gershal watched as a Hob leapt off a Wyvern with a squad of Goblins and set up another of those oversized crossbows.

Five hundred feet distant, he calmly set up with two more and began firing into the monsters’ backs. With a pure, contemptuous disregard for close-quarters combat.

Strategy. The Frost Wyverns were strafing the Eater Goats, and the Gargoyles were suddenly targets for the crossbows and Goblins on the ground. A racing group of Carn Wolves leapt onto the backs of some Gargoyles, and their riders speared the monsters. One, holding twin blades, beheaded a Gargoyle with a single cut as he rode forwards.

The Goblins are shooting down the monsters! Don’t attack! Don’t attack!

Someone shouted that, but the Antinium didn’t even need to be told. The Goblins were clearly attacking the monsters, so the [Crusaders] pushed forwards as the Void Goat halted.

Oh, it’s you lot again. Hello. It stared at the Goblins and then hopped left as a crossbow bolt ploughed into the ground.

A flaming crossbow bolt. One of the Wyverns was carrying a Goblin Chieftain. She pointed—and a [Fireball] shot downwards, as fast as a baseball being thrown by a professional pitcher. It exploded just in front of the Void Goat’s protective vortex, and the creature looked annoyed.

That’s how you do it! Area spells—hit it! Ceria, freeze that bastard!”

The adventurers realized the trick. The Void Goat could eat even the blast of a [Fireball], but the shockwave and heat annoyed it. Frost Wyverns circled as their riders unloaded, shooting crossbow bolts from all angles.

Now, the Eater Goats were fleeing. They recognized the Redfang stripes on some of the Goblins, and Frost Wyverns were a threat that preyed on them. The Bossels hesitated, but as another fell to the Antinium with their faith-powered weapons, they realized that even if the terrifying half-Elf massacred them—this was a sure death.

That left only the Void Goat. It stood, defiantly consuming arrows, magic, even the instruments of faith hurled against it. Someone was making it cold, and it was shivering a bit, but even Ceria couldn’t freeze the wretched monster.

However, the Void Goat’s stretched open mouth was trembling. It stood under the onslaught of fire as a Goblin shouted down at the stunned [Brigadier].

Fire, fire! It can only do it for forty-eight seconds!

“Forty-eight?”

Then the desperate fighters saw the Void Goat snap its mouth shut and dodge. It leapt forwards, then it opened its mouth again.

But an arrow was sticking out of its side, and it looked mad. The Void Eater Goat began running towards the nearest group of archers, but they fled, and it could only do its void trick so long.

Like someone holding their breath. And now, Hobs were reloading their bows. Waiting, waiting, firing in cycles. The Void Eater Goat’s eyes rolled, and Rags snapped.

[Instantaneous Reload]! Loose!

The Void Eater Goat tried to dodge. Three dozen Thunderbows fired. Two struck it, but even the powerful bolts from the Wyvernbone bows only sent it stumbling backwards. It screamed—and a black bolt passed through it at the same time as a [Fireball] lit up the entire Void Goat.

Falene’s [Fireball] and Pisces’ [Deathbolt] made the goat stumble. Burning, eyes wide with wrath, it began running back towards the High Passes. But it had an army after it this time, and they wanted it dead. It opened a void as it ran backwards, but its jaw was already trembling with exhaustion.

A line of Antinium [Archers] were loosing arrows at it, and the Void Goat looked back at the Goblins in the air, the adventurers. Its eyes narrowed.

The Void Goat closed its mouth. Then—suddenly—its body bulged, and it opened the maw and—

Reversed the void.

 

——

 

The thunder in Gershal’s ears was replaced by cries and shrieks. It turned out to be from a Wyvern, lying with wings shredded.

He got up, looked around, and saw someone had torn a line through the earth. Gershal wandered around as people got up, some having survived…what?

The Void Goat. He looked around, but it was gone. Fleeing—and no one seemed ready to chase it. After all, it had shown another trick—which was reversing its ability.

It had thrown…flesh. Blood. Dirt, stone, all compressed, out of whatever pocket-dimension it had. Its stomach? They had re-expanded as they came out, and the explosion was something like a Tier 5 spell.

Maybe Tier 6.

A lot of people were down. The Antinium…no, they were picking up their comrades, forming into groups. The Goblins were shouting, half-deafened, as the small one, their leader, screamed curses.

Stupid goat! I will eat you! You and the thing with faces!

Rags howled, but then she pointed at Redscar, who was riding at the fleeing Gargoyles.

Kill monsters! Someone find Hungry Hungry Goat!”

The monsters were fleeing. But as one, the Humans, Dwarves, Antinium, adventurers, and now Goblins turned on the last Eater Goats and Gargoyles with a vengeance. Charging [Crusaders] joined [Lancers] and a [Necromancer] on a chariot as Goblins aimed crossbows down at the horde.

It was a sight never seen before in the history of the world. Not by Tolveilouka, not by anyone. When it was done, at least for now, Field Captain Rlint stared at the first Goblin Chieftain he had ever seen up close.

“What happened here?”

That was all the Dwarf said. He looked at the Antinium, who were admiring [Brigadier] Forount’s mustache. The woman seemed dazed from hitting her head after going down, but she was speaking energetically to a curious Goblin. With a [Chef]’s hat. And Artur, the [Banner Commander] who had saved Gershal’s life.

“The mustache? Entirely real. You don’t get points for buying some fake hair and gluing it to your face. There’s hair tonics for everyone. I heard some Drake grows his own beard.”

“What points?”

Artur was patently confused. The [Brigadier] laughed, staring at him, then at Calescent, who was gathering Eater Goat meat for a roast.

“Ah—that’s just an expression. I just—liked mustaches. Splendid things. So I got one.”

“Such style.”

Fightipilota was grinning. The [Brigadier] straightened and looked proud.

“I’m glad—you think so, Miss.”

This was something. Rlint just knew it. He couldn’t tell whether he was endangering the Dwarven expedition or not. The Five Families were sure to be throwing a fit at anyone consorting with what was clearly a powerful Goblin tribe and the Antinium. The Walled Cities would not be happy.

But then, the Dwarf thought—where the hell were any of them? He glanced at Dawil and coughed.

“Field Captain Rlint of Deríthal-Vel. We’re resettling Dwarfhalls Rest. May I present my compliments to the commanders of both forces?”

He held out a hand, and both Antinium’s bug-like eyes and the Goblin’s crimson eyes found him. Rlint had misgivings about this—but the Grandfathers had many stories of bastards, and that was apparently everyone, even women, at times in history.

They had never said much bad about Goblins, though. He found himself shaking a [Templar]’s hand and asking about the class. Then a little Goblin called ‘Rags’ shook his hand. He noticed her crossbow.

“That’s Dwarfsteel. Did you—get it from a customer of ours?”

The Goblin peered at him, then grinned.

“Found it off a dead adventurer. Good stuff. How much for a hundred?”

To which he had nothing to say. But the Antinium were standing in formation, and they were here. Antinium in the north.

One of the vocal ones, a Worker with a huge sword, made a kacshaw sound. A sneeze? The rest of his squad stared at him. He looked so offended as he wiped at his mandibles that he turned.

“Ew. I think I caught a cold again. Zimrah. Cure me.”

A [Priest] walked over, sighing, and put a hand on Crusader 57’s head, and he brightened up.

“That feels nice. Thanks, I guess.”

The moment passed almost everyone by but a certain half-Elf standing about sixteen miles away, who began flipping out. Rlint didn’t notice; he was shaking hands with everyone, gore-spattered or not.

“What’s going to become of this now?”

The consequences were so huge that no one could guess, not even Ceria. She looked at the Antinium [Crusaders] and the Goblins, and Rags’ eyes glittered.

“Where’s Erin?”

“Not here, for once. Apparently, she had nothing to do with the Antinium.”

Rags’ eyes rose in pure disbelief, but then she shrugged and sighed. She nodded at the [Chef], Calescent, who was bouncing on his toes excitedly.

“I have a stupid [Chef] to get rid of. My best [Chef]. I will go to Liscor, soon. Had to help fight monsters. Not sure why they all left.”

“Oh. Thanks. Are you sure…”

Ceria didn’t know what to say. Are you sure it was worth it? Rags glanced around and then up at the sky, as if she could see the scrying spells. She grinned and waved, then held out a clawed hand.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But this? Maybe this makes sense to them.”

She held out her claw, concentrated, and Ceria wondered what she was doing. Then Rags blinked, and a shower of gold coins fell into her claws. Quite a lot of gold coins, in fact. It came down so hard that the little Goblin ran, cursing and shielding her head as her portion of the <Heroic Quest> rained down.

Not just gold. Ceria saw a half-empty tub of…butter fall out of the sky. Straight into her hands. The half-Elf stared at it and then at the gold raining down. An agate hit Jelaqua in the head, and then she blinked.

Whoa! What the—a wand!

A redwood wand landed amidst her rewards. Gershal of Vaunt stared up, and the pommel of a magic sword clocked him in the jaw.

That wasn’t on the quest reward! Ceria gaped around, and Ksmvr placed a hand on her shoulder solemnly.

“I believe we have received the half-pot of butter. In the future, Captain Ceria…”

She waited for him to ask for the butter or say something humorous, but the [Skirmisher] just gave her a grave look.

“…Perhaps the quest rewards should be given to someone luckier? I would like a free magic sword.”

The Free Antinium were all getting a share of the rewards, so only a handful of coins popped out of the air, or a few objects per Antinium. But again—sometimes—something clearly unusual appeared, like a glowing gem that bounced off a Worker’s head. Ceria stared around and then down at her rewards.

She had gotten quite a good amount of gold, given her contributions, so she wondered how it was divided up. But—if she glanced at the lucky Gershal, swearing and exclaiming as Pisces and Falene told him not to touch the sword until appraised, the celebrating people, the Goblins and Antinium, she slowly picked up one of the coins in the pile at her feet amidst the mud and gore.

On a hunch, Ceria bit into it, and the slightly off-gold dented a bit, revealing a brassy surface underneath. Ceria stared at the fake coin and sighed.

“Predictable.”

Then she put her arms around Pisces and Yvlon’s shoulders as Ksmvr peered at the [Crusaders] and they peered back. As Rags and Artur and a few Antinium met the wide-eyed [Governor] of Orefell, and the civilians looked upon their rescuers with the rest of the world. In the chaotic moment, Gershal of Vaunt slowly unwrapped a piece of brie and looked around surreptitiously.

“…Is anyone hungry?”

 

 

 

 

Author’s Notes: I did this in two days. Not three.

I would like you to understand my writing process. I have, in the past, remarked that I now write over the course of three days. It used to be one and frankly, the more time I have for a chapter, the better.

This was done in two days. I wrote more, and faster, and I hope, better, than average. But I did it to a reason.

I am hoping to cut (most) chapters shorter so I have one day to work on Volume 1 revisions. This may not work, or it may temporarily lower the quality or length of the chapters, but my goal has been getting Volume 1 done by Christmas of this year. To avoid this rewrite taking ages, I need to sacrifice something.

Well, this chapter is done and I had it planned for a while, which was why it came out more speedily. Was it done well? I hope you enjoyed this changing world and yes…a lot is going to happen.

As ever. Thanks for reading and I will, if successful, append any finished chapters to the rewrite pages, but I’ll just mention them every time. Let’s see if this works. Thanks for reading!

 

Face-Eater Moth by LeChatDemon!

 

Garuda by Adventurer!

 

Bells by QtheBird!

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/q_thebird

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/quintenthebird

 


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9.13

The Antinium really knew how to ruin someone’s day. And by ‘someone’, that was everyone. There was something sobering, in a truly unpleasant way, in seeing the distant Antinium threat on the wrong side of the High Passes.

It told men like Calidus Reinhart that the Antinium had a route to the north. Not just that; they’d probably had one for a while. And that now, something, some confluence of factors, had made them bold enough to ignore any reactions of the north. He sat, wine spilling onto some briefs, as an [Assassin] gave him a side-eye at breakfast.

Even for the famous Assassin’s Guild, there was something odd about a [Lord] who invited a trained killer to breakfast and showed up without any clothing, chugging wine out of a bottle.

 

——

 

If Calidus’ reluctantly-trained mind was going a mile a minute, well, his wasn’t the only one. The problem was—for the logical, the purely empirical observers with no grounding in Antinium culture, the actions of the Antinium were hard to predict.

They had always been a foreign species, but why assist the north by saving a city? To level up their army? However, they had made what seemed to be numerous strategic errors. Unless…

“They’re onto us. This is a clear provocation, but I suggest the Walled Cities do not react instantaneously to the Antinium presence, Dragonspeaker, Security Council. May I present my theory in full?”

A [Strategist] was giving a hurried report as Spearmaster Lulv, Wall Lady Rafaema, and the rest of Manus High Command listened. Rafaema was watching the Antinium in the scrying orb and listening with half her attention.

“Proceed, Strategist Rollend.”

The Drake nodded and began to point out a very specific map that had recently been added to with Magnolia Reinhart’s unprecedented intelligence boon.

“We have always known the Antinium likely had passages to the north. In fact, we placed one of their exits in roughly the area they emerged from. It’s clear now that the Antinium were aware of our surveillance. They revealed the exits as part of a complex mind-game. The Queens have been notably cunning in this respect. As for the army, this ‘crusade’ of the Free Antinium, I believe it to be bait.”

“For the North or for us?”

A growling voice from the side. The [Strategist] adjusted his pointing stick as he gazed around solemnly.

“Likely both, Spearmaster Lulv. As you yourself observed, the other Hives were waiting for your entry into the Hectval war. I propose that they are hoping for a series of protracted conflicts to level up their soldiers, despite heavy losses.”

“Counter-levelling one for a thousand. Antinium strategy at its finest. They can attack monsters, and if they’re attacked—they still win even if they pull a hundred troops out at Level 20. But what about that Antinium who’s stolen General Sserys’ Skill? [Company, On Me]?”

“Another mind-game, [General]. And a clear warning; these are not low-level Antinium anymore.”

Solemn nods around the table. Rafaema rubbed at her forehead. It could well be that the Antinium were playing a game on par with the greatest strategists of the south. Unfortunately, the [Strategist] had missed something when Lulv asked who the Antinium were baiting.

The Gnoll had been speaking ironically. Right now, he was giving Rafaema a side-eye, and Luciva had noticed. She was thus politely listening to one of their [Strategists], and Lulv would have his moment after the Drake had his say.

 

——

 

The thing was, the logical inferences about Antinium actions were sometimes wrong. It was like looking at a Lizardfolk army that disbanded on Pallass’ borders during the Naga incursions.

“Not to be too antiquated, but I was young enough to remember those conflicts. Not the battles themselves, mind you, but they were still being taught when I was in Manus’ academies.”

Archmage Zelkyr had been alive back then. That reminded Chaldion’s audience exactly how old the Drake was. He waited for a few chuckles as he went over the latest incident to give him a churning pool of acid in his stomach.

The [Grand Strategist] had his own council, but he’d actually pulled in junior [Tacticians] of Pallass as well as General Shirka and the other top brass. General Edellein was clearly annoyed by the ‘lesser’ officers being present, but how else were they supposed to learn? Chaldion was pointing out the same message he’d sent to Manus’ High Command, and it was this:

“In the Naga Incursions, a lot of [Strategists] assumed that the Lizardfolk knew something we didn’t. Pallass was vulnerable to having some of its cities lost or suffering a direct siege, which would have taken us out of the war until it could be broken. Yet the Lizardfolk forces disbanded within a week of marching into our territories. Why? [Strategists] assumed they had foreseen some kind of counter or danger; Ancestors, we were even scouting for Adult Crelers. Perhaps a Drake city had come to the defense? The truth was far simpler.”

Chaldion’s eyepatch was in place, and he paused, his grey scales flexing as one hand lifted the stomach medication that Saliss had brewed up. He took a long draft, and then one of the new coffee stuff. It had been a long night. An early dawn’s light shone through a window, and it seemed like blood. He could almost smell it.

Damn Antinium. Yet he went on, because this lesson had to be learned.

“…It turned out none of that was the case. The Lizardfolk army that disbanded? It had nothing to do with their strategy or a threat or anything else. It turned out they’d run out of food because someone had miscounted how much supplies they’d had left, and the Lizardfolk had been forced to retreat.”

Chuckles among the audience. Chaldion looked around sardonically and then nodded to something he had commissioned that Manus lacked. An important element of their strategic understanding of the Antinium could not be logical because a logical enemy never did anything surprising. People were harder to predict, and damn that Human, because she’d created uncertainty in what Chaldion had thought he’d already analyzed as a threat.

Every eye swung, some affronted, others amused, to a huge illustration of an Antinium. It was, in fact, Bird the Hunter. The famous ‘Prognugator’, the Antinium to stand on Pallass’ walls, a dangerous threat to Drakes and a formidable foe with his unprecedented archery abilities.

The illustration was not of him standing upon the corpse of a Wyvern, offering war. It was, actually, a picture of Bird trying to fly off the roof of the inn with two ‘wings’ made of feathers. He was mid-leap as an [Innkeeper] waved her arms, trying to get him to stop.

“The Wandering Inn. Have a drink there. In fact, I encourage every officer to go there and witness the Free Antinium in a natural element at least once. I am minded to believe that this event, if not directly the fault of Erin Solstice herself, is in line with the changes in the Free Hive I have personally witnessed.”

“Meaning, Strategist Chaldion?”

The old Drake sighed. Edellein really was as stupid as half a brick coated in butter. Why half a brick and the butter? He couldn’t even get to full-brick. Thrissiam had been sharp.

“Meaning, General Edellein, this might not have been an action condoned by the Free Queen. In other words—the Antinium are beginning to take independent action. They are levelling. But this might well have been…”

Chaldion’s lips twisted, but he said it anyways.

“A simple mission of mercy.”

His audience gave him the blankest looks in the world, and the Grand Strategist had another sip of the bitter coffee. It needed sugar, he decided. Or something else? What did that note say? Milk?

 

——

 

There was a reason why Chaldion was considered the Grand Strategist of the Drakes. His insight was unique among a lot of strategic meetings taking place. However, it was not impossible for other people to reach this conclusion, even if they were not visitors of Liscor.

Niers, for instance, had already factored in a Bird-like element into these moves. Calidus Reinhart might worry, and so might Regis Reinhart and any number of other nobles, but at least one prominent member of the Five Families had insights about the Antinium beyond the war machine.

Well, Ryoka thought Magnolia Reinhart did. She, herself, was currently trying to impart some understanding to no less than Tyrion Veltras.

Tyrion Veltras and—Ryoka felt like peeing a bit and had gone to the restroom twice—Ulva Terland. Ulva Terland and Captain Etril Wellfar and, Ryoka suspected, the [Lady] of House El might be reporting back to Lord Deilan El himself.

Which meant that she was sitting and speaking by proxy to three leaders of the Five Families. Not bad for a brunch, eh? Ryoka would have preferred to be anywhere else.

Unfortunately, she’d done this to herself. Lord Tyrion had been getting into his saddle to begin racing south and muster an even larger army than the one going to fight the monsters to repel the Antinium. Then, Ryoka had told him there were facts not in his possession, and the idiot had listened.

Quite how she had ended up with Ulva Terland at brunch was probably due to all of First Landing having long ears. The invitation, strongly-worded, had come within ten minutes, and Tyrion had dragged her here.

Now, Ryoka was looking around and sweating as she kicked her bare feet against one of the mansions belonging to House Terland in First Landing. A [Servant] stared at the barefoot Courier with a vague horror—and at Sammial Veltras, who was currently harassing the help.

Not the mundane help. Rather, two permanently-smiling Golems were following him around as he wandered Terland’s halls, staring at serving and security Golems. Sammial reached out to poke a statue-knight Golem with an incredibly sharp sword that Ryoka suspected wasn’t ornamental. Jericha caught his hand.

“Why don’t we proceed somewhere else, Lord Sammial? There are Golems for the entertainment of Terland’s folk.”

“Indeed, Lord Sammial. Would you like to have a bout with a Fencing Golem?”

Would I?

Sammial instantly brightened up, and Jericha closed her eyes, because that meant he’d be holding a sword. Ulva Terland’s lips twitched.

As before, she was ensconced in magical protective spells, and she sat at the ‘intimate’ table for brunch with a selection of rich foods no one had really touched. Ryoka saw Etril inspecting some huge shrimps filled with a pilaf or whatever, but what she noticed about Ulva were, uh, her bodyguards.

Two Golems, one with an enchanted sword and shield, another with a staff, both porcelain, both standing right behind Ulva.

Paranoid was about the right word when it came to her. It was more amazing that the other nobles barely reacted. Tyrion himself sat like a piece of wood—no, wait, the empty chair across from him had a bit more personality, since it was a half-Elven heirloom from Terandria. As far as Ryoka could tell, everything was an heirloom, including the table itself; it was one piece, long enough to seat fifty people, and cut from some gigantic tree she was sure would have upset any [Druid] to gaze upon.

Never let it be said that the Five Families lacked for personality, though. As Ulva watched Sammial go, she leaned over and murmured out of the corner of her mouth.

“That son of yours may well enjoy the Fencing Golems, Tyrion. He had better not break any like you did when you were a boy.”

Tyrion twitched slightly.

“Sammial has not been trained in swordsmanship, Lady Ulva.”

“No indeed? I am sure he will find a way. Not for fondness or politics did I suffer your presence and lift the ban on you, Tyrion. Your other boy, Hethon, would have been a better guest. Far more polite.”

Tyrion hesitated, and the [Lady] of El moved a fan over what Ryoka was sure was a smiling mouth. Etril didn’t even try to hide a grin as Tyrion replied.

“I was not aware I was banned, Lady Ulva.”

The other [Lady] gave him a long look.

“We have not invited you to the Terland estates in eleven years, Tyrion.”

“I do not make a habit of social events.”

“Quite apparently.”

Ulva rolled her eyes, and Ryoka couldn’t help but hide a smile. Ulva noticed, and she lifted one hand. Instantly, a serving Golem moved.

“The rolled hibiscus.”

A beautiful red roll of what Ryoka had almost thought was ornamentation rather than food appeared on a plate in front of Ulva. She produced a fork and knife and cut away a cross-section to reveal a neatly-packed roll of very floral, bright ingredients. She nodded to it as she lifted it to her mouth.

“It may not suit your tastes, Courier Griffin. Some of these dishes are made for my enduring health. Perhaps you might enjoy it? These ‘spring rolls’ come from Drath, as I understand it.”

Ryoka blinked at the now-familiar dish, albeit instead of an outer shell of dough, it was…the hibiscus flower? Some kind of ultimate health dish, possibly even vegan if it was really made from plants.

Then she glanced at Ulva, because while there was no formal head of House Wellfar, the sailors and seafolk, Ryoka had met Tyrion, Magnolia, and Deilan. Ulva was the most mysterious, for all she had been at the Summer Solstice party.

History had her as the only living member of the Five Families who had been entrenched in power during the First and Second Antinium Wars. Unlike Tyrion and Magnolia’s rise to fame and Maviola’s passing this year, Ulva was a relic from that time.

And yet…she was not old. Oh, she had an age to her. To Ryoka’s amazement, the [Lady] had faintly green hair, sparkling brown eyes dotted with bright motes of yellow, and she could walk swiftly or ride without need of an enchanted chair.

Yet the lines on her face gave her an age far beyond what Ryoka realized was barely sixty years—and that was filled with so many alchemical ingredients for health and wellbeing that she seemed in very good shape.

Lines, wrinkles from fear, a paranoia that kept her ensconced in bodyguards. She had once had a twin sister, Petria Terland, and they had been two powerful leaders of House Terland.

No longer. Still, Ulva was the leader of her house without question and sharp enough to call on Ryoka and Tyrion. Ryoka delicately inspected a bit of flank steak and took a nibble.

Lemony. No wonder Lady Buscrei had put some on her plate then pushed the plate away. Although some of the other Terlands were clearly savoring it. No accounting for taste.

Ulva noticed the reactions from Swey and some of House Veltras. She crooked a finger, and Ryoka was amazed by the responsiveness of the serving Golems. One leaned over, and she spoke quietly.

“Order the chef to amend his menu. Find a fresh piece of meat and serve it barely cooked past bloody. Medium rare or rare. No garnishings; provide them on the side. That should satisfy Veltras appetites.”

She glanced up at Ryoka and spoke conversationally.

“The cooking Golem is quite adept, but it must learn each recipe and be tailored to its guests.”

“You have a cooking Golem? Um, Lady Ulva?”

Ryoka saw Tyrion shift slightly. He replied for Ulva.

“A terrifying sight. It has eight arms and can mince foes in every direction at once. It propels itself on a crab-like construction and has no less than five orifices which it can use to rip and tear its opponents apart—”

“For processing food. Mincing garlic. Yes, Cook Garneis—that is his nickname—can be a fearsome sight, but he is well-programmed such that even a little boy who wandered into the kitchen for a midnight snack might only be traumatized as Garneis works around him. So petrified, in fact, that he was only found two hours later in the morning after Garneis prepared an entire feast. Hiding in a cupboard.”

If it was possible, Tyrion turned into even more stone, but a kind of red sandstone. Buscrei chuckled, but Swey just shuddered as if he too had had an experience like that.

Ryoka listened to all this with an increasing sense of…familiarity. And a desire to do something impolite because she knew this. Her family—well, they weren’t a quarter as noble as this gathering, but this was literal landed nobility.

Some old version of her swelled up, about to point out the irresponsibility of owning Golems, comparing it to slavery, or just making a statement about excess. Ryoka kicked it in the head and went the other way.

“With all these Golems, are there many activities for House Terland’s children, Lady Ulva? I have seen Lady Buscrei’s family hunting as a major pastime. What about Terland?”

Ulva leaned on one hand, eyes fixed on Ryoka.

“We are hardly as athletic as House Veltras, if that is what you are asking. Few of the Five Families are. Terland does indeed enjoy tireless, ageless servants. Unlike El, which I understand encourages apprenticeships much like the ships that Wellfar crews, we do tend to certain hobbies. Chess, for instance, was a major pastime when it was first introduced. However, most Terlands can play Kraken’s Poker, Gnollstones, and other such games.”

Ryoka could just imagine someone playing with life-sized chess pieces. Kraken’s Poker was something she knew, but Gnollstones? Ulva went on, nodding to one hallway Sammial had gone down.

“We have an extensive library if you would choose to visit it later, but I find most books our children and folk read have to do with Golems. The building, the shaping—we do not have Illivere’s fine traditions of creation, but it is an obsession. Often with less fruitful results. I have limited the budgets for those wishing to try to those who can successfully create even basic Golems. I wonder, have you similar interests now or as a child? In your home nation?”

Oh, Golem-lovers. It checked out. Ryoka searched for something to say, and it seemed hard at first blush.

Golems? I too have owned pets. Or—Golems? Yes, I afforded them with the thousands of gold pieces my family has. Golems? You mean, [Slaves]?

No, bad Ryoka. Then the Wind Runner had an interesting thought and actually smiled in reply to Ulva’s question.

“—No Golems where I grew up, Lady Ulva. However, I did quite enjoy building and constructing little—settlements. Toys of my own. I had these tiny interconnected puzzle-pieces which you could configure into anything you wanted. You could build a person, a tree, even a model of a city with them. They were called, oh, Legos. Have you heard of them?”

Ulva’s brows shot upwards, and Ryoka heard, in the back of her mind, an unseen version of Cara O’Sullivan slapping her forehead. But she deployed this idea into Terland’s household like an [Archmage] throwing a Tier 8 spell.

“Legos? What is this?”

Ryoka described the building blocks of a thousand glorious creations and the agony of anyone who stepped on one in the middle of the night. Ulva tapped her finger on the table in urbane amusement.

“What a funny concept. Puzzle pieces with no set puzzle?”

“There are many things you can make, Lady Ulva. I used to have a house or—or castle I’d build because all the pieces were there, but if you had the imagination, you could build anything. Why, people have built actual houses you could walk through. Gently.”

Fascinating.

The [Lady] from the House of El murmured, and Ryoka felt a prickle as one of the Terlands whispered with clear interest. Did she have some guilt? Oh yes. Here went another secret of Earth, out Ryoka’s mouth as if she were dispensing them like candy.

—But it worked. Ulva actually asked Ryoka to sketch a model brick so she could see what Ryoka meant by interconnecting. The instant she saw how the socketed molds would click into place, she sighed.

“Ah, like Golem arms into a socket. What a clever idea. And they play with that in Drath?”

“I wouldn’t know about all the islands, Lady Terland. Drath is quite large, even for an archipelago.”

Ryoka replied blandly. Ulva Terland gave Ryoka a brief smile and then nodded. The design was swept away, and she sat back. Ryoka had won some kind of implicit approval; the bodyguard golems took two steps back and stopped holding onto their blades quite as tightly.

“The Antinium. You claim they are not the pervasive threat that should warrant our armies pivoting on them? It is apparent they have developed more types of Antinium of late. Those abilities…strange classes.”

Ryoka smiled, but it was a bit waxy as Tyrion, Etril, and the other nobility looked at her. She hadn’t exactly been happy to see that either. Because unless she missed her guess, that wasn’t just a crusade like [Knights] meant it.

It was an actual damn religious crusade. And they were using abilities of faith. Literal swords popping out of the sky! Healing each other!

Ryoka didn’t have to be a ‘gamer’ to recognize the archetype of a paladin or other holy warrior. Yet she was compelled to speak in the Antinium’s defense.

“I’m aware of their impact on Izril, Lady Ulva, Tyrion. I’ve met them myself. They’re certainly dangerous, and I know my history. However, not every Hive is the same.”

“I had heard the Free Antinium were somewhat different after infesting Liscor. Yet not markedly. Magnolia Reinhart keeps track of them, and she has told me they diverge little from the mold.”

“When did she say that, Lady Ulva? Because their changes have been very—very recent. The Free Hive has split from the other Hives, and they’re more, oh, personable?”

“Personable. No Antinium I have met has ever so much as spoken.”

Tyrion spoke flatly, his tone of pure disbelief. Ryoka shrugged and tried not to sound annoyed.

“But you didn’t fight them during the First Antinium War, much, did you, Lord Tyrion?”

He shifted in his seat.

“No. House Veltras marched with Magnolia Reinhart, but I did not attend, as we viewed it as largely unnecessary. And in the Second Antinium War, the Goblin King took precedence. However, I have encountered them in battle, and they appeared to be as monstrous and unfeeling as Golems.”

Ulva scowled for the comparison, but Ryoka nodded, hoping she looked understanding.

“Then you might not know, Tyrion, that you fought Antinium Soldiers and very few Workers. Also, they were at war.”

“I fail to understand the distinction, apart from their size.”

Ryoka coughed into one fist.

“…Soldiers can’t speak. I think they’re physically incapable of speaking, Tyrion. Even if they wanted to—most Soldiers never see daylight in their entire lives. They live in their Hives, and only the Free Antinium have let their Antinium up on the surface and mingle with people. They probably find you as alien as you find them.”

Tyrion digested this amidst the titters and murmurs. Ulva Terland’s eyes sharpened.

“I see. And what did you think of these Free Antinium, Ryoka?”

Humanize them. Or well, peoplelize them if you wanted to be more species-inclusive. But the term worked well here. Ryoka took a breath. She had not met many Antinium, not like Erin, and certainly not many Goblins, but she had met a few, and Erin told her stories. She looked around and found her best representative.

“Well—apropos of Cook Garneis, I know an Antinium Worker who apparently operates a kind of bakery. He makes bread, and his name is Garry.”

The nobility gave her to the blankest of looks, then Swey began chortling. And that—was something. Ryoka kept glancing at the crusade in the scrying orb, and Ulva Terland herself passed a hand over a smile as she glanced at the images of the Antinium.

“So you do not find an army of the Antinium worth battling? Or these Goblins?

Tyrion glanced up, and Ryoka hesitated. Was that the same wretched Goblin who’d tried to mug her? Rags? She almost thought it was. Oh, if Erin were here to be more genuine about it. But Ryoka had her angle, and it might be one that the Five Families found more palatable. She took a breath and looked around.

“Say rather, Lady Ulva, what would be the point? They have killed monsters plaguing Orefell when any relieving armies were too far away to help. Even the Goblins.”

“But they’re monsters, Courier Griffin!”

A [Lord] of Terland sounded scandalized as Tyrion gave Ryoka a blank look. The Courier bared her teeth in a smile. She gazed around the table.

“There are worse things out there than Goblins and Antinium. Believe me. Both belong in the High Passes. If they’re not attacking you—”

She hesitated, then shrugged lightly.

“—do you want to do the Drakes’ job for them? Because I guarantee you, they’d love it if you wiped out both armies.”

Sorry, Erin. And Selys and Relc and every Drake Ryoka knew. But it worked.

Lord Tyrion’s face frosted over, and Ulva Terland nodded thoughtfully. Even the other [Lords] and [Ladies] nodded and began speaking about the battle at the Meeting of Tribes and the new lands. When all was said and done, hating Drakes was something they could get behind. Ryoka exhaled…right until Ulva Terland fixed her with another look.

“So. While it embarrasses me to ask, I fear I have become the poor host. Where do you hail from, Miss Griffin?”

Tyrion Veltras swung his eyes to Ryoka Griffin, and she beamed. Beamed and tensed to run for it—right until a crash was followed by a screaming Sammial running into the room. She had never been happier to see a berserk fencing Golem with a sword in her life.

 

——

 

Politics. You could do that all day. Discuss what it was that made the Antinium tick. Worry, inform yourselves with a weird Courier’s testimony.

But what about the Antinium who were there, in the open?

The crusade. It was dawn, but the camps around Orefell were in a flurry of activity. Some people hadn’t slept. Even now, people were heading back to the city, reclaiming the abandoned buildings, trying to sort out the abandoned belongings, the looted infrastructure.

Even if Orefell had not been sacked by the monsters, the people had done a pretty darn good job. Yet the people were mostly alive.

It was a great victory*. That asterisk was the size of one of the moons, but it was still a victory.

And the biggest victors were arguably the Antinium and Goblins. Because there they were. Separate, watched by the soldiers, targeted by the powers of Izril—but there.

Rags knew it might be disastrous for her tribe, but she had her reasons for being here. Firstly, she had reasoned that at least a few powers like that scary Drake from Pallass knew where she was. The Humans had every reason to hate her after Tenbault, and frankly, if that was so, why not risk this on garnering some goodwill?

Or…playing an angle she’d thought about. Plus, there was the <Quest> to consider. And Erin. And the Antinium were a kind of ally that she had sympathies for.

Mostly? She just hated that damn goat. It was a menace, and if it had only tried to destroy Goblinhome once, well, that was more than enough. The gambit had already paid off in her mind.

In the morning air, Rags took a slow bite from a new concoction made by Calescent as the other Goblins held their breath. Normally, this was an act of huge heroism, but even the [Spice Chef] had changed when he’d heard Erin put out a call for a [Chef] and other Goblins.

Rags had told him, in no uncertain terms, that Erin wouldn’t hire a [Chef] who would burn your mouth off, even with his Skill, [Hot Enough For You]. Now, she bit into a mildly spicy, extremely flavorful…quiche.

It had eggs. Razorbeak eggs, big and luscious, making the batter fluffy. It had cave mushrooms, chopped fine, and seasoned with wild leeks. It had cheese—and it was the cheese that Rags liked.

Oh, this was good! Vaunt had fine cheeses, and whatever Calescent had added with a pinch of his signature death-spice made Rags smile.

“Is good, Chieftain?”

The [Chef] hovered there, his hat in his hands like someone awaiting a panel of judges. For answer, Rags took another bite. The Goblins sighed, and Calescent smiled.

Then he produced a steak quesadilla, cheese, meat, and spices and nearly murdered the poor Goblin who went for it. The other Goblins laughed because one out of the ten had been spiced up. Calescent winked as Rags gave him a long look.

“Is called my ‘death-spice gamble’. One out of ten is super-spicy. Redfangs love. Eat all the time.”

Rags rolled her eyes. But she had to admit, Calescent was in his element here. And why not? The steak quesadilla he’d made? All he’d needed was some pre-prepared, thin dough and a skillet to fry up everything.

The cheese came from Vaunt, who apparently sent their soldiers with tons of their signature food as travel rations. And the meat?

The meat was everywhere. Not that the other species were eating the Gargoyles. However, the Eater Goats had become food, and if some of the Humans were a bit queasy and wary of cross-contamination, the Goblins loved a good goat.

Mind you, everyone was noshing down. Calescent frowned as he hurried over to a skillet where one of his [Cook]-apprentices was about to casserole some meat.

“No. Fry longer.”

“Is good fry! See?”

She showed him some meat that House Veltras’ folk would approve of, but Calescent frowned at it.

“You cook twice as long. Might be bad meat. Goats eat worms and bad stuff.”

It was an odd instinct, but the grumbling Goblin obeyed. Rags herself frowned at Calescent and beckoned him over with a finger.

“You think goats have bad meat?”

He shrugged.

“Feeling.”

She trusted his feelings, so Rags looked around.

“Hey! Poisonbite!”

The officer looked up as she carved at the goats. Rags pointed at her.

“After cutting and getting hides—wash hands. All Goblins wash hands. With soap.

“Soap?”

The Goblins groaned, but Rags glared, and instantly, a ball of lye soap was produced and grumbling Goblins did as they were told. Ironically, that made Rags’ entire tribe the most hygienic of all the species, because she brooked no arguments.

Even so, the entire event was going to go horribly wrong in time. An unstoppable force could be mitigated with soap and hot water and grilling the meat, but it was still a powerful plague. A plague! A—

Zimrah kept putting her hands on people and curing them. Rags watched the Antinium with fascination, because she had seen her own Ogres working their magic, but she hadn’t ever seen this. She wondered what they’d make of the Antinium [Priest], because her magic was not like theirs, hard-won via mana potions. Zimrah, the Antinium Worker with robes and a censer, just put her hands on an Antinium who felt a bit ‘off’.

“[Cure Ailments]. You are done. Pat, pat.”

She patted the Antinium on the head, and the Soldier trundled away. Zimrah turned and stretched.

“I am getting tired. Artur, I may need to rest. Can you tell Crusader 445-2 to take over? I am unusually…tired.”

The [Banner Commander] walked over.

“You have never been so tired. Most Antinium were not wounded.”

Zimrah nodded, puzzled.

“I know. But I feel exhausted. If someone is hurt, please wake me. Otherwise, I must sleep.”

Artur agreed instantly.

“You have worked enough, Zimrah. A Fortress of Fluff has been prepared there.”

He pointed, and Rags saw the curious mounds where Antinium sat were being made out of pillows and blankets. Zimrah walked over, sat down, and began snoozing.

…For about five minutes. Then she stood up.

“I have leveled four times! Why!?”

To her credit, while Artur hurried over to hear Zimrah’s new levels, this was hardly the only person counter-levelling hard. Rags wandered over, still eating her breakfast, and listened to Zimrah speaking. The thing Rags loved about the Antinium was that they were not private. They didn’t whisper, and she got a perfect earful.

“Level 28! Four levels. This is statistically improbable, Artur.”

“It may be. But you did survive the Void Eater Goat as I believe it was called. Perhaps you are being rewarded for healing all the colds?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe other species. Some came to me and asked for me to heal them. Should I heal them when I wake?”

“This would be wise, and I believe Commander Olesm would agree. What Skills have you learned?”

“Oh. Um. [Icon of Faith: Unclaimed]. And [Minor Radiance of Healing].”

Rags was fascinated. What the heck were those Skills? Radiance of healing? Did that mean…? On a hunch, as Artur speculated what kind of icon Zimrah needed, Rags produced a dagger and cut herself. Just a jab to her hand. She stared at it and narrowed her eyes.

It took nearly fifteen seconds before she noticed a change, and the wound began to scab. That was fast. It was a very slow scabbing, but on the other hand, Rags wondered how fast that was compared to normal.

“[Priest]. [Priest]. Got to get one.

The Goblin muttered as she stared at Zimrah. The Worker was snoozing, but she was hardly the only Antinium who had the unique power of faith.

 

——

 

It was just that only two Antinium had cure Skills. Or rather—Miracles.

There was a joke in The Wandering Inn that if someone had a notepad and was writing, they were either Mrsha or pulling a Grimalkin. However, more than one person outside of Orefell was doing a full Grimalkin, because the Antinium were talking.

Talking. Gershal of Vaunt watched as one of the [Templars] placed his hand on a nervous horse’s back. The animal nearly reared, but the Antinium spoke.

“[Heal Damage — Strike]. I am done.”

He stepped back, and the torn flesh along the horse’s foreleg mended in a glow of light.

“That is not what the [Priest] did.”

The difference in how the Skill was worded was not lost on some of the observers. Gershal saw the [Templar], an Antinium Soldier with a voice, turn and elucidate to a curious Dwarf, female Garuda, and even Brigadier Forount. He nodded and replied slowly.

“I am not a [Priest]. Zimrah is capable of using [Cure Mundane Wounds] a number of times per battle. That cures any wounds not inflicted by magic.”

Any?

Someone made a choking sound. Peki was nibbling at some grapes that Forount had shared from her rations—everyone was sharing food, and Gershal had given out Vaunt’s cheeses with liberty. To Antinium, no less! The [Templar] had a piece of brie on a toothpick, and he nibbled at it as he spoke; with four arms, he could pretty much eat and talk.

“Indeed. Any non-magical wounds. I am not Zimrah. I am capable of using the Miracle [Heal Damage] twice per battle.”

“What was that part about ‘strike’, though?”

Rlint, the [Field Captain], the Dwarf, pressed the [Templar], whose name was Theogrin. An Antinium with a name.

Gershal had avoided saying ‘dead gods’, or ‘this is incredible’, or ‘impossible’ thus far. He felt like it made him look like a fool since this was clearly happening. Besides, he had once served under the Tidebreaker, Zel Shivertail, and he had seen at least one improbable event take place.

“That means I can cure exactly how much damage I could inflict. Or close enough. A deep cut, a broken bone. No more.”

Fascinating. Rlint looked at one of the other Dwarves, and the [Stone Magus] shook his head.

“Nothing like [Restoration], Captain. Not at all. There’s no…mana cost to these ‘miracles’, are there?”

The Dwarf addressed Theogrin, and the Antinium tilted his head. His antennae waved wildly, like Gershal had seen tiny ants do.

“No. This is a Miracle, not a Skill. The cost is faith.”

“Faith?”

“My conviction wanes. I feel emptier. Weaker. If I was Crusader 51, I would never lack for faith. Or Pawn.”

Pawn. Gershal had heard that name before, along with Crusader 51. Many of the Antinium referenced them when they spoke.

And how they spoke! Skills, classes—Gershal was hardly an important [Lieutenant of the Line], but even he had a few secrets and tricks he only told his closest friends. Like how his [Piercing Leap] had been a move to carry him off his back and onto his feet; that was a valuable little trick.

But the Antinium were sharing huge information, even a kind of—of spell-Skill without hesitation! Gershal felt a bit bad about stealing this knowledge, but he listened as the [Stone Magus] tried to understand.

“It is not a spell or a Skill, then.”

“No. It comes when Skills do, but it is clearly labeled. That is how we know.”

“So it calls itself a miracle?”

“Yes.”

The Dwarf tugged at his beard hard. He looked around with a kind of hilarity and disbelief on his face.

“I haven’t studied at Wistram, but I have graduated from a magical academy! Not in any of the books—not once have I heard of a miracle. Nor anything that heals so easily! There are regeneration-type Skills and spells, but they are rare beyond belief!”

“A potion can heal. Our Miracles heal. It is handy, but not unique. If you would like to gain the ability, you should have a few warriors of faith in your armies.”

Theogrin pointed out reasonably. At that, Peki tilted her head.

“Faith. I have faith I can punch people. What are ‘warriors of faith’?”

And that led down such a rabbithole of confusion that all the listeners needed Theogrin to explain what he was. Again.

 

——

 

[Templar].

Even the word was provocative. [Templar] and [Crusader]. These were not unknown classes. Far from it.

[Crusader], like the idea of a Crusade, was intrinsic to [Knights]. A [Knight of the Crusade] was a known class, but the class by itself hinted at something. [Templar]…that was like an itch. Like [Paladin], it was an esoteric class. But it bothered Ylawes Byres because it sounded…unique.

Even more so than a [Knight] was. Why should Antinium have it? Why did they have abilities that overshadowed even his? He could, by virtue of his levels, training, and class, create a shield that could block countless foes in battle.

They could call a shield of faith. Even a sword! The Human man watched the Antinium with arms folded, at a remove from the other officers. It was safe to say there was some animosity there.

Or was it respect? Because Ylawes’ huge scowl was only matched by a kind of grudging envy. He had ridden from the coast after being rescued from the disastrous Wistram breakout by the Drakes. They had graciously stopped at a Human harbor to let the Silver Swords disembark, but the Earthers had stayed. Ylawes had gone to the High Passes instead of to Liscor like he’d planned.

He had known the odds were bleak, but the [Knight] had been determined to make a stand. For that was what was right and righteous. It was just…he’d done his best and had accounted for a number of monsters.

Yet the Antinium had, without question, saved them all. They stood, warriors of faith in armor, and there was a level of—of—shine to them that even the [Knight] lacked.

A purity of intent. Ylawes watched. Look.

A line of insects wearing armor knelt in the grass. Away from the bloodied corpses of Eater Goats and Gargoyles attracting a storm of insects. Some of the [Mages] had cast spells to keep away the insects and scavengers, but the harvesting of flesh and other parts had sped up. Soon, the rest would be unusable.

Grisly work, and the blood was not dried on many pieces of armor fully. Ylawes himself had mud in his socks and grit ground with every move of his silvered armor.

The Antinium were no less dirty. It stuck to their brown carapaces. Some still had traces of green blood, though their wounds had closed. Yet they knelt in a patch of soft grass, under a tree. At peace.

No—more than that. Proud. Their heads rose as one as an Antinium passed by. Some [Acolyte], another odd class, wearing robes of pale blue cotton. A Worker, chosen to hold the censer that leaked faintly with the smell of cinnamon.

Gently and carefully, the Worker passed each kneeling [Crusader]. The smoke drifted across their still antennae, over their mandibles, and a second Antinium spoke.

The [Templar] was a Worker. Yet he seemed, in his armor, as large as any Soldier. His voice was confident, as Ylawes had never heard from their kind.

“Look up.”

The Antinium did. The [Templar] corrected them gently.

“Not at me. Look up. There. Do you see the sky?”

They gazed upwards, and Ylawes’ head rose. He saw a clear dawn light, turning the sky from a blackness to a faint yellow, and brighter, until the blue reclaimed the fall air. It was a beautiful sight, and some part of him smiled at it.

But the Antinium had a wonder in them that he envied. They stared up at the sky, and there was such a reverence in them that Ylawes began to understand. There was more than just…enjoyment there. There was an intensity of the emotions that made him feel almost voyeuristic.

This was faith? The [Templar] resumed speaking, and Ylawes listened like the quiet Drowned Man leaning against the tree.

“You are no longer Workers and Soldiers, who will sleep and wake underground in the Hive. You are [Crusaders]. We are called forth for battle. We march to our deaths. But we do it under glorious sky. Soon, we will tell you how it all began, at an inn. With her. Know this, before even that. When you die, when you fall—Heaven awaits. It is not something to covet. Nor to go towards. However, we are Antinium without fear of death. When you are outnumbered, alone, believe. Pray and believe—and in the darkness, underground, before monsters—the sky will follow you.”

He raised a hand, and Ylawes thought the Antinium cast no spell. From Falene’s reaction, she sensed no mana. Yet the two Silver Swords saw the [Templar] raise a hand—and it was no [Light] spell he cast.

He held a sliver of something wrong. Like he had cut a triangle, a piece of bright blue glass and sunlight straight out of the world above. The [Templar] lifted the miracle of light as the [Crusaders] looked at him.

Faith is your weapon.

Faith. What was it? Ylawes trembled, gauntlets clenched, and perhaps it was mistaken as rage by some. But it was, in truth, like a man who realized he had only been using one hand all his life. The [Knight] saw a completeness there, an answer to the gift of magic that sometimes seemed overwhelming and superior to the sword.

How could he obtain…that?

 

——

 

If the Humans, Dwarves, and others who watched the Antinium had found something to obsess over, well, the same was true for regular Antinium.

The [Crusaders] were listening, witnessing what they could be. But the higher ideals of faith and salvation were also mixed with mundane pleasures.

Like the simple act of eating food. These were Workers and Soldiers of the Free Hive, not even Painted Antinium or ones taken on patrol. They had eaten some rations on the march here, but today, an Antinium held a piece of wood in its hand.

Just a long, straight stick. With pieces of carefully-seared meat stuck onto it, amid globs of brie. Globs, running with the heat it had been exposed to. Antinium mandibles were ideally suited for the kebabs which they could tear pieces off of. To add to the entire glorious mess were huge bits of bell-pepper, blackened with char, but no less tasty. In fact—more, because the dish was hot.

Hot. The Antinium Worker tore a bite free and then raised his other hand. It held a mug. Of mead. He took a deep draft of mead, and the frothy, cool beverage was another moment of—clarity.

Now, contrast this to the Antinium’s food in the Hive. They got paste.

Room-temperature paste. Never warm, never cold. Their water was sometimes cold, but often lukewarm. You never needed to worry about starving, but no Antinium ever went back for seconds. The portions were perfectly calculated, but even if they’d been allowed to…no one wanted seconds.

Sometimes the paste was green. Sometimes it was brown. Sometimes it was black or grey. There were bits in it, and it tasted like…like…

The Worker began screaming as he had another bite. He stood, legs spread, waving his other two free arms as he shouted.

Hot food! HOT FOOD. Beer! Is this what I have been missing? I am never going back to the Hive! Never! Damn the Hive! Damn the Queen and dying there! I am eating hot food! Cheese!? Is this cheese? What is that? Give me that!

He began running around, snatching more treats and stuffing them into his mouth.

“Dead gods. Crusader 57 is going crazy again. Even for him.”

A few amused [Crusaders] from Battalion 3 were sitting around. They knew what he meant, but a few affected to be more like the other [Soldiers]. They even had begun picking up expressions like ‘dead gods’.

Squad 5 glanced up for a second, and one of their number who was napping sat up.

“Who’s calling my name, asshole? Hey. What’s up with that weirdo?”

Crusader 57, the real Crusader 57, turned and pointed to the Worker running about. The rest of Squad 5 looked at each other.

Oh yes, there were some real changes coming over the new [Crusaders]. Crusader 53 was polishing his mace, and that was no euphemism. He noticed someone was watching him and turned.

A Dwarf waved at him. Crusader 53 hesitated—then waved back. He waited a second, but Dawil stomped over with a mug in hand. The Dwarf hesitated.

“Er—morning to you. Anyone care for a drink? They’re still rolling them out from Orefell’s distillery.”

The Antinium looked around. Crusader 57 sat up with interest, but after a second, Crusader 53 shrugged.

“Fair enough. The name’s Dawil. Silver Swords.”

Oh, the adventurers. The Antinium looked interested as the Dwarf crouched down.

“Would you mind me taking a look at that? What’s your name? Is that a Dragonbone mace?”

Crusader 53 needed one of the other members of Squad 5 to speak for him, but he was quite pleased Dawil had noticed. He let the Dwarf inspect it. Look what I found in battle!

“Dead gods. And I thought that Vaunt fellow had gotten lucky. I, er, don’t suppose you’d consider an offer for this? I could muster a lot of gold up.”

Crusader 53 gently tugged his mace free, and Dawil sighed.

“Yeah, thought so. Here. Want to see my hammer?”

No euphemisms. Yet. But it was true that there were a number of…interesting items that had appeared since the completion of the <Heroic Quest>.

Items and levels. Most of the Antinium had barely known that a quest existed, but if they had, a few things would have made sense.

Like some of the rewards, but especially something that had been part of it being posted.

Experience in <Combat>, <Aid> class categories.

What that meant was that, although some individuals with high-levels did not level, almost every single [Soldier] on the field had gained at least one level. Usually more.

That wasn’t unusual either, for a big battle. What was unusual were the magic items.

Gershal of Vaunt finally got to hold the magic longsword that had appeared nearly nine hours later. Falene Skystrall handed it to him, holding the plain steel blade with a bit of cloth. It was a plain blade, yet Gershal still felt a chill as she presented it to him.

For, the hilt was made of a strange, faintly green metal that looked at first to maybe be copper if it was exposed to the air. It certainly had a bronze tinge, but there was a luster that belied that notion. The handle had a kind of twist to the metal such that it looked like a [Smith] had twisted a straight handle with a wrench.

However, that was not the strangest bit. The strangest bit was that at the base of the steel was an equally curving etching on the blade. Normally, this was a bit of acid-work done to show a name, a crest of a city, a noble house, and so on. This…was more like a work of art.

Waving lines, much like the currents of a sea imagined upon the steel, rising upwards. It was beautiful and occupied the bottom third of the blade. It was also—frankly—confusing as heck.

The art of the handle and sword blade made sense. It was a fine blade and clearly magical, because it had that faint shine that was too-bright. [Detect Magic] also clearly showed the sword was magical, but Falene had ascertained a few things when she’d taken it.

“There was no magic sword listed in the entire quest rewards. Not once. Secondly, this…blade is of no style I can imagine. Most [Smiths] have some kind of subtle signature. None for this one. I do not know what the metal is; the Dwarves suspect it’s some kind of alloy that involves Treecopper.”

“And the enchantment, Adventurer Skystrall?”

She sighed and fiddled with the glasses she wore.

“…Inconclusive, but the sword has some kind of—strong gravity-grip spell. It’s strengthened and has a sharpness enchantment, but the main effect is, ah, odd. You could try it on an opponent, but I caution you not to try to strike them. Just have them try to parry a blow.”

Gershal held the blade up, and to his profound disappointment, he felt like the balance was off. It was a bit top-heavy. Not a blade you could perfectly balance mid-way on your thumb.

Yet it was his. It had appeared, given him a bruise on his jaw, and it seemed to be a random reward. One of his [Soldiers] offered to let him take a few swings, and Gershal gingerly cut the air a few times, then pretended he was on the attack.

One swing as the grinning [Soldier] raised a sword to deflect, and Gershal saw and felt what Falene meant. As the two swords connected lightly and the other blade made to sweep it away, he saw the other [Soldier] flinch. They had [Dangersense] and tried to pull the blade away, but too late.

The instant they touched, the magical sword twisted the other one. The second blade—and arm of the [Soldier]—rotated, and Gershal’s sword slipped under the blow. He could have brought it down and hacked through his opponent.

Of course, he didn’t, and the other [Soldier] rubbed at his hand.

Dead gods, sir! What was that?”

“A kind of gravity spell. It grabs and twists whatever it runs into. Shields are harder, but I imagine it is quite a potent weapon for a [Swordsman].”

Falene observed. Gershal was astounded and delighted. Just the thing for a [Soldier]! It didn’t work well on a shield; the [Shieldsister] grimaced when it struck her shield and reported a heavy pull, but on anyone with a good grip, it had little effect.

“Some reward! I say, is this the quality of item one gets from a <Heroic Quest>? I’d wager anyone would want to take them on if this is what’s received!”

“Just imagine what a <Mythical Quest> does, then. Hey, is that a [Mage] galloping into camp?”

Everyone turned, and Gershal put up his new blade as he saw someone emerging from Orefell. The [Governor] and—what was now a familiar sight—a [Mage] with a scrying orb. Instantly, everyone began checking their hair, and Falene produced a comb and two earrings.

They were going to be on television! Gershal wondered if the [Mage] would interview one of the first forces to show up. What should he say? Could this day get any better? It was strange, marvelous, and—

 

——

 

“Disastrous. This is a disaster, and I hold you accountable, Free Queen. We have exposed our tunnel to the north, ruined relationships, and I was not informed about any of these actions.”

The Grand Queen of the Antinium was not happy. Nor was Klbkch the Slayer. He stood in the Free Hive as she shouted at the Free Queen, and only after twelve minutes of ranting could the Free Queen even respond.

“As I have reiterated 35 times, my Queen, I gave no orders for the crusade to march. This event was spontaneous and unplanned by me or Klbkchhezeim.”

“Impossible! Antinium Soldiers and Workers do not make autonomous decisions! It was your Prognugator, Bird! Or another of the Hive’s Prognugators. I will not accept excuses! Antinium make no decisions of their own—”

“—Unless they are True Antinium.”

The Free Queen’s retort silenced the Grand Queen. Klbkch twisted his head around and stared at the Free Queen. She sat there, feeding her tiny Rock Crab, looking as pleased as could be.

Not furious? Not worried? Klbkch and the Grand Queen were not often on the same side, but he was so upset his hands were clenched on his swords’ hilts. The Grand Queen stopped speaking, then replied with a slow click of her mandibles.

“They are not True Antinium. Any statements to that effect would be incredibly misleading, and I would order the censure of such to other Queens. Especially in Klbkchhezeim’s presence.”

She glanced to either side, as if worried other scrying mirrors would come alight. However, this private chastisement was between the two of them. The Free Queen nodded slowly. Yet the triumphant note did not vanish.

“Say rather, then, that the Free Antinium have demonstrated one quality of the Antinium we were, my Queen. I did not authorize this mission. I understand there are dire consequences, but it is still proof that my Antinium are changing.”

The Grand Queen hesitated, and Klbkch knew she wasn’t going to give the Free Queen credit so easily.

“That is debatable. I still, currently, view their actions as a net-negative. What benefit to the Hives were obtained besides a few levels? No—before you answer that, Klbkchhezeim, Free Queen—how were you so lax that the crusade could leave your Hive without your knowledge?

That was fair critique, and Klbkch answered for the Free Queen.

“Grand Queen, I regret that both the Free Queen and I were occupied by our duties and did not sense the change. I was above, and the Hive’s signals are blocked by Liscor’s sewers.”

“And the Free Queen?”

“I was asleep, a necessary function for my continued existence and fulfillment of my duties.”

The Free Queen sounded a bit too snide, there. Like one of Elirr’s cats. Catty was a good word for it. The Grand Queen rumbled.

“Yet they armed themselves. I have a report from Prognugator Maev that stated she was overruled when they began this action. Why were they allowed access to the armory?”

“For that, my Queen, you must credit Prognugator Pivr, who authorized that action.”

Pivr? The Flying Queen’s—we will now address that issue with her. Hold while I summon the Flying Queen.”

This looked like it was going to take hours of arguing. Klbkch shifted—then made an authority call.

“My Queens, I must leave you to discuss the issue. My business as Revalantor demands I be elsewhere.”

“As you will, Klbkchhezeim.”

The Free Queen waved a feeler. Garry hurried forwards with a snack, but the Grand Queen was enraged all over.

“Klbkchhezeim! I did not give you authority to leave! Where is Xrn? She must also be an instrument of my will! Klbkchhezeim, I am the Grand Queen.

He nodded and felt a twinge of real irritation in him. Klbkch responded succinctly as he strode away.

“Yes, my Queen. I understand this, but Xrn is apparently conducting her own business. We are Centenium. You are the Grand Queen. Perhaps recall how they are supposed to act.”

He left before she could find the words to respond.

 

——

 

In truth, Klbkch reflected that the Grand Queen had organized the Queens by force of will after their calamitous landing. She was not incompetent—it was just that the years had changed her. Even among the True Antinium, there were Queens who proved to be less-suited to their positions, and it was dealt with.

The difference was that among the True Antinium, such issues had been full of far less strife in most cases and resolved faster, more efficiently, and with understanding among all.

There had been a time, he remembered, when the Antinium had been much like Drakes. They had squabbled, fought, and occasionally, Queens had even had to eliminate other Queens despite their common goals.

To fix that, the First Queen, creator of the Centenium, the unsurpassed, had created what later Antinium called the Unitasis Network. The telepathy that made the First Antinium so dangerous and so connected. Each Hive had been semi-linked, but this had made all the Antinium surpass their foes and become the dominant force in Rhir’s soil.

Even now, it was the power that allowed Antinium armies to fight with armies that had levels and magic and come out on top. It was their trump card and exceptionally difficult to employ, because not only did the Antinium have to be in range of a Queen, the Queens needed a proxy like a Prognugator, the closest thing they could make to a True Antinium.

However. That might all change, and Klbkch thought about that. Who would have known that out of all the Antinium in that original batch. Out of all of them, the one he had thought was the worst failure, the most annoying, the most…random, would prove to hold the key to salvation. And yet, what a curse.

For Bird was Bird, and if every Antinium must become Bird to use the power of the Unitasis NetworkKlbkch feared for them all.

The truth was that Bird was now the most valuable Antinium in all the Hives. Bar none. If he possessed the ability to change all Antinium, his worth outstripped even Wrymvr’s.

And the Antinium knew it. There was a reason that Bird had not left on the crusade, despite the Gargoyles having wings and therefore being a very bird-like target. Even if the [Crusaders] had wanted Bird to go with them…there was no chance they would have been able to smuggle Bird on their quest.

After all, she was watching Bird. In Klbkch’s experience, she always got what she wanted in time. Wrymvr was direct and acted as the Hives needed, as he saw it. His relationship with the Twisted Queen was at odds with the rest of the Antinium on Izril. By contrast—Xrn had always been much like the [Crusaders]. Which meant Wrymvr was, by that theory…more like Erin?

Klbkch’s head hurt. He decided to drop the metaphors before he began feeling the urge to hug Wrymvr. Then his stomach began to hurt, because he was listening to a conversation deep within the Hive. The Antinium had left the Queen’s sanctum, travelled down, down, and because so many [Crusaders] had left, the Hive was emptier, allowing him to swiftly bypass Antinium on patrol or carrying loads of dirt or resources elsewhere.

These tunnels were barely used. Normally, the Hive had little ‘empty space’; everything needed to be patrolled, but since Xrn had been wounded by Facestealer, she had needed to convalesce and requested her own area.

It had been granted to her. Klbkch had not come down here more than a few times. Xrn had been…unhappy. And dodging lightning bolts was still not fun, even in his new body.

Months after her injuries, it was clear that her very presence and magic had begun to warp the area. Klbkch halted as he heard two voices echoing up from below. The Hive had no doors in most cases, so sound travelled, but the compacted dirt walls and occasional stones were not generally prone to letting sound echo.

These walls, and even the ceiling, were different. Klbkch passed his hand over craggy, blue stone and stared at the glassy streaks on the walls and floor.

“Glass? Is she terraforming…”

It was disconcerting. Not because he thought it impossible of Xrn; she could turn any corridor into glass with pure heat and magic. But it wasn’t consistent. Streaks of glass ran crazily along the corridor at odd angles. Blue, green, and even violet stone had replaced the dirt in places.

Some kind of transformation spell? Klbkch had never been too interested in Xrn’s magic aside from its utility. But again, this was a patchwork change. Like an avante-garde art show piece, the entire tunnel stretched downwards, replete with such colors that a few Workers kept staring as they hurried by.

It was extremely unsettling for Klbkch, because the Antinium did not do art. Nothing like this. Even the statues of the Centenium each Queen made were accurate, not exaggerated. He hastened his footsteps; he could hear two voices below.

One was bright, sing-song, and chirped in a way that was sometimes deliberately annoying, other times as innocent as Mrsha could be. The second was deeper, and it had—strains like each emotion reflected in her eyes. So much power it altered her voice. It was annoyed and dangerous.

“You are refusing my orders, Bird? I told you. You are not permitted to return to the surface. Stop running away. Chesacre and Thaina keep retrieving you. Their patience is infinite. Mine is not.”

Klbkch halted dead in his tracks. What in the name of Rhir’s hells was that? He thought he actually tasted one of the words. It crackled through the air, and he actually inhaled ozone. He rounded a corner as the streaks of glass and colors grew brighter. There she was.

Xrn, the Small Queen. Azure chitin body, the most ant-like of all the Antinium, ironically. She had never been made in Galuc the Builder’s image, and she had an abdomen like an actual Antinium, no shell. Her arms were only two, and one held a staff while the other gesticulated to a bouncing little Worker holding his bow.

That was Xrn, wondrous, the [Thaumaturge] who inspired even other Queens to action. Or—it had been.

For the glowing radiance in her eyes, reflecting her emotions and constantly changing like a kaleidoscope of magic—was torn. Possibly forever by that monstrous guardian of the dungeon.

Facestealer. In her battle with Belavierr, he had been summoned and tried to tear off Xrn’s head. He had ripped apart one eye, part of her very head—

A killing wound that had torn into her mind. It should have been her end, but Xrn’s magic had saved her. Its radiance, like her eyes, was a shifting rainbow of colors. Only—it now leaked from a glowing wound in her face.

It was a miracle she had two arms, even. But at least she had managed to reattach the other limb since it had only been torn off. If Klbkch looked very closely, he saw a hairline fracture where it had been detached, but the Free Queen could reattach a limb. Not fix…the rest.

Klbkchhezeim halted, and Xrniavxxel turned. He knew he looked nothing like his old self, even with his new body. Only his swords were the same. He had long since resigned himself to walking around in a Worker’s pitiful form, the helpless feeling of decay.

But it was one thing to see his reflection and see her wounded like this. If they were back among the True Antinium, her body could be repaired! But none of the simple gels they’d recreated or saved would mend that scar.

“Klbkch. There you are. Good, the Grand Queen has not distracted you too long? We shall speak of this Crusade. But first, deal with Bird. He is insubordinate.”

Again, there it was! A flash of color in her words, and correspondingly—Klbkch saw the radiance emanating from Xrn’s head change.

A flash of gold, like inspiration or pride or the very light the [Crusaders] summoned. Happiness? Yet it flashed outwards, uncontrolled, and left a golden patch of glass on the domed chamber Xrn sat in.

Now, it made sense. No wonder she had requested space away from anyone else. Xrn’s magic had always been powerful, but her control had been legendary.

She had lost it. Or perhaps she could control it, but chose not to, here. Klbkch was so stunned that he barely noticed Xrn’s two followers before one moved.

Chesacre and Thaina. The Free Antinium’s two female Soldiers had vanished from the ranks of the Painted Antinium into Xrn’s custody one time. Klbkch had not inquired, much, nor seen them again. Their appearance was as shocking as Bird’s.

Their armored carapaces had changed color. The brown-black chitin had mottled, turned red like a rose, green as an emerald, a grey-white—a patchwork just like the walls. They were a discordant mix of colors, surely the product of proximity to Xrn’s magic.

But that wasn’t what made Klbkch do a double-take. What made him halt and truly look at them were their eyes.

Antinium eyes had no pupils nor glow or any other quality to them. What unsettled other species was the lack of any whites, any facsimile of eyes. They were just a bug’s eyes, which saw a compound picture. But Chesacre and Thaina’s had turned…

Transparent. They looked like glass and reflected far more than most eyes. There was still no pupil, but Klbkch felt a sheer unease as one of the Soldiers waved at him. It reminded him of Xrn’s gaze, but unlit. Yet with each flash of Xrn’s light, he almost felt like he saw an echo in their gaze.

Magic. This was not a place for a warrior like Klbkch. He felt uneasy here; the rules were different. Not that Centenium ever fought but to train and test new concepts, but he hated enemies where a swing of the sword did worse than nothing.

Not that they were going to fight. But Bird was excited when he saw Klbkch, and he waved his hands.

“There he is! I told you someone would come, you mean—mean Xrn! I am free! Although I did think it would be Erin. Or Ishkr. Or Pawn. Or Garry, before Klbkch. Klbkch, I have been captured! Free me!”

“Bird. You have not been captured. Xrn—I wished to speak, and I noticed Bird was present. You appear to be—well.”

“Is that small talk, Klbkchhezeim? It is not an Antinium thing. You have changed as much as Bird. Your body is somewhat better.”

Xrn’s voice was still leaking colors. Klbkch shifted slightly and deliberately folded his arms. She was definitely upset.

“You enjoyed it last we spoke. What is this about Bird being kidnapped?”

“I have been restrained here for three days against my will! Fed horrible treats from Garry’s kitchen! Including all the bird-related foods I could want! Which wasn’t so bad. But I was not allowed to leave.”

“Three days? Nonsense. I saw you in your tower yesterday on patrol.”

Bird gave Klbkch a highly offended look.

“No, you did not. I was here.”

“I saw you, Bird. Do not lie, even if that is your class. I saw…”

Then Klbkch hesitated, and Xrn turned her head and opened her mandibles.

“You see, little Bird? No one noticed. Not even Klbkchhezeim. A simple Worker fooled even the inn’s guests. You have no place there you claim.”

Bird glowered, and his antennae waved furiously.

“That is because you did not ask Ishkr! He noticed! Probably. Erin was not there, so it does not count. She would notice the moment she saw that fake!”

“It does not matter. You will stay here. Klbkch, I have summoned Bird repeatedly to study his abilities. The Free Queen has done likewise. He refuses to stay.”

Xrn calmed down a bit, and Klbkch sensed less of the colorized words that seemed to hover in the air. He stepped forwards as she beckoned him over, and Bird indignantly moved. Only then did Klbkch see the shackles of light keeping Bird from getting up and running.

Alright. At this point, if Klbkch had been on patrol and he had come across a similar scene, he would have called in backup. Since there was no backup besides the Free Queen…he relied on his familiarity and long acquaintance with Xrn as fellow Centenium.

Then he remembered she’d tried to have Wrymvr killed to reset his personality.

“What is so problematic about Bird returning to the inn, Xrn?”

I told him not to. He disobeyed me. He is capable of maintaining a Unitasis Network, Klbkch. Not just maintaining one like a lesser Prognugator. Generating one. The Queens have never been able to do that as far as the Great Plains, but he generated one.”

“With all the Queens’ help. I was there. And Wrymvr.”

Klbkch pointed out, slightly hurt. Xrn stared at him, and the lights emanating from her head changed with her eye to a vexed grey.

“Yes. You were there. Shut up.

Klbkch shut up. Bird bounced in his seat as Thaina offered him a drink. He sipped furiously from a straw.

“I left because I have a duty which supercedes creating a Unitasis Something for all the Antinium.”

“Which is?”

Xrn turned and glowered at him. Bird replied happily.

“Hunting birds, teasing Mrsha, and enjoying myself at the inn. I was appointed by Revalantor Klbkch. Who is sitting right there, incidentally. And the Free Queen. You are merely Prognugator Xrn of the Grand Queen. Therefore, you are outranked, and I should go back and sit in my tower and have fun. Tell her, Klbkch.”

“Bird. Shut up.”

Klbkch whispered. Xrn’s bright gaze flickered in colors so fast that Klbkch was sure this was not the start of their argument. He wondered what three days of speaking to Bird felt like.

“I am Xrn, The Small Queen of the Antinium. Centenium of the First Queen.

“Yes. And?”

Then Klbkch ducked. Chesacre and Thaina had already taken cover, but he saw the second effect of Xrn’s wounds aside from her personality. The Small Queen twitched—and the light from her head turned into a spell.

It looked like a snake made out of lightning. It flashed, curving upwards, and blew a chunk out of the ceiling. Stone, glass, and debris showered down as Xrn made a kcrching sound of fury. Bird twitched a bit in his restraints.

“Ooh. Pretty.”

For some reason, that seemed to calm Xrn down again. Or maybe it was the output of power. Klbkch got up and saw Chesacre edge over, behind him. She had a wand, and the Soldier bumped into him. Klbkch moved her away with one arm as he sat back down. He stared down at his hands as Xrn spoke.

Calmly.

“Bird, what do you want? Do you want to hunt a Roc? I will find one for you. Do you wish to have a better bow? One is surely in the armories of the Queens. Speak what you wish, and I will give it to you if you cooperate.”

Bird thought hard, and the little [Liar] chirped as he spoke. Unfortunately, he often told the truth, which made the lies even harder to detect.

“Me? Well, thank you for asking, Xrn. My answer is…I want to live in the inn forever.”

Klbkch slapped his forehead so hard he nearly dropped the bit of paper Chesacre had handed him. He caught it quickly as Xrn stared.

“What else?

Bird replied.

“Nothing else. I will be there until I die. That is my happiest outcome.”

Xrn laughed, and it was a fluttering sound, like another insect. Klbkch stared down at the note Chesacre had given him. He had no idea Soldiers could write, but she must have learned. It was still clumsy, but legible.

Scary Xrn. Want to leave. Us. She will kill him.

Klbkch’s head snapped up. He saw Xrn lean forwards.

“Bird. You do not know this, but True Antinium have never feared dying from long lifespans. We know how to rejuvenate bodies, replace limbs. If you were made correctly—if the Queens treated you, you would only perish in battle. But you were not. You were made for a shorter lifespan. You will never see the rest of that inn grow old, Bird. You will not live longer than a mere Goblin.”

Bird listened to Xrn as Klbkch glanced around. The two Soldiers were watching him. Bird replied as Klbkch got up slowly.

“That is not a problem so long as I am at the inn. Even if it is tomorrow. If I saw everything there was to see, if I was there, I would be happy.”

“Is that your final answer?”

Xrn’s voice was soft. Bird nodded.

“Xrn—”

She lifted her staff and, ignoring Klbkch, aimed it straight at Bird. The jeweled tip, normally a gemstone hovering in place, was instead a spear of glowing light. Bird leaned back as it aimed at his chest.

“Um. I do not believe killing me is allowed. I can make a Unitasis Network. You should not kill me. That is not a lie.”

His cheerful voice grew uncertain as Xrn ignored Klbkch standing right behind her. The Small Queen was smiling, and Klbkch saw the light warping towards him. He had a hand on his sword hilt.

“You are not the basis for True Antinium. But your power is essential. I will take the risk that your corpse will be that basis. If you will not cooperate—I will kill you. Klbkch, do not be a fool. Or the Silent Queen will be forced to make you another body.”

Her voice was light, even filled with levity. Klbkch spoke as Bird froze.

“If you slay him, my position in Liscor will be in jeopardy. Bird is too valuable to kill.”

Xrn never turned her head.

“I am offering him an ultimatum. As for your position—your social ties will be in jeopardy. Which is more valuable, Klbkchhezeim? The Antinium or your friendships?”

He didn’t answer. Klbkch just thought of what Erin would say. What her face would look like. But he felt a creeping paralysis running up his arms. She’d already begun casting a spell.

Or was she thinking it? The stalemate between the two was broken as Bird suddenly raised his hands.

“I understand. I understand. I do not wish to die. I will cooperate.”

Klbkch and Xrn’s antennae both twitched. She looked around, and the spear of light abruptly ended. She peered at Bird, and the restraints vanished.

“You agree?”

Bird nodded. He dusted himself off. Then he looked at Xrn and threw her a salute, like one of Klbkch’s [Guard] colleagues. His voice was suddenly, abruptly, serious.

“You have made the dilemma clear to me, Prognugator Xrn. I understand that I have no choice. Very well. I shall therefore collect my possessions from the inn. I will be back shortly.”

Xrn tilted her head. Klbkch’s mandibles opened and closed. Bird was going to obey? Well then—he was halfway through sheathing his sword when something tingled the back of Klbkch’s mind.

Wait a second, Bird would hate going to the Hive. He’d sworn never to go back. Was he—?

The [Convincing Lie] worked on the two Centenium for about six seconds after Bird marched out of the room. Klbkch and Xrn both held still for another second, then Klbkch coughed into his mandibles and muttered.

“…He’s running away.”

Xrn sat in her chair another heartbeat, then the light coming out of her head turned black. Like a storm deep in the ocean twisting with green blood of the Antinium. Klbkch drew his swords and swung for her staff, a second blade going f—

 

——

 

Someone shook him awake. Chesacre and Thaina bent over Klbkch as he jerked upright. He looked around and then realized he was on his back.

Also, there was a hole in his chest. Klbkch stared at the still-smoking crater and spoke.

“Ow.”

He looked around and saw one of his swords embedded up to the hilt in the ceiling of the room. The second was lying on the ground. Klbkch got up slowly as Xrn floated back into the chambers.

With Bird. He was wriggling in another series of magical chains. Xrn tossed him down, then raised her staff.

“Uh oh. Uh oh.”

Bird was trying to get at his bow. But Xrn’s voice was now filled with wrath. Like an Aberration—Chesacre and Thaina fled as Klbkch saw her one good eye flash at him.

“i hAve HAd eNouGH oF wAIting. Enough of that [Innkeeper]’s little lies and delays. I will freeze your head and have the Silent Queen copy your brain a hundred thousand times if I must! You are worthless by yourself.

“I am cooperating! I will cooperate 110%, and you cannot go higher than that! Tell her, Klbkch!”

Bird shouted frantically. Xrn ignored him.

“Xrn—you are behaving irrationally. Bird is too valuable to destroy.”

“The Klbkchhezeim of old would never say that. You have grown weak in spirit as well as body.”

She stared down at him. Then she rotated the staff, and a blade like a guillotine, blue and curved, formed in the air. Klbkch had to—do what? Stab her?

She would not desist nor quit once she saw something. And if he killed her—

The Rite of Anastasis could restore the soul at a cost. Was this Xrn being affected by her wounded mind? Klbkch’s hand closed around the hilt of his sword. Bird cried out as the blue blade poised, and Xrn aimed a finger down at him.

Klbkch, tell Erin—no, tell the Titan this was all his fault! I knew I should have kept refusing that Skill!”

The blue blade shot downwards, then halted, quivering, a foot from Bird’s face. Klbkch paused mid-lunge, or tried to. Xrn flew sideways, and he swiveled in midair, landed on his feet, and stared at her pointing staff, but neither Centenium moved. They both slowly turned their heads.

“…What was that, Bird?”

Klbkch couldn’t believe what he had just heard. If he had ears, he would have yanked one off or whatever Humans did. It had to be another lie, but…Xrn turned her head sideways, and the light coming out of her head was suddenly blue tinged with pink, wondering and excited.

“…Unitasis Network is a Skill?”

Bird looked between the two Centenium, as confused as they were. He stared at Klbkch, Xrn, as Klbkch strode towards him.

“You can learn the Unitasis Network as a Skill, Bird? Acquire it on a level-up?”

The [Liar] was so confused because he’d used the truth again. Bird’s mandibles opened and closed.

“Well, yes. H-how else are you supposed to do it?”

Klbkch was lost for words. With your head, obviously. It was as intrinsic to True Antinium as breathing. It was like getting a Skill called [I Breathe in Air]. But now that he thought of it…not everyone could breathe Dragonfire like Drakes. Could you, then, get a Skill to mimic that ability?

Could an Antinium gain a Skill that replaced what they’d lost? He felt like a fool, but then he realized this was a lie. After all, Xrn was the only spellcaster that the Antinium had. She’d surely cast—

“—praisal].”

Klbkch heard the whisper from behind him. He turned his head slowly as Bird sat up, and Xrn stared down at Bird. Then she put her hands behind her back, slowly floated downwards, and walked away.

“We will revisit this later. Let us discuss the Crusade now, Klbkchhezeim. What has the Grand Queen said?”

Bird stared at Xrn’s back in pure, furious indignation as Klbkch slowly let him go. He got up and looked around. In the end, he threw a cup at Xrn’s head.

You big dummy! I hate you! Come on, Thaina, Chesacre. Let us go find Garry.”

 

——

 

Xrn’s change in personality was not lost on Klbkch. Nor anyone else. Her wound, while not fatal, had decreased the Antinium’s war potential as a whole.

That was how much she mattered. And that was how distressing it was for her to abandon her role as the trusted instrument of the Grand Queen’s will.

It distressed the Grand Queen a lot. In fact, this entire affair had changed how each Queen saw their continued existence.

The Free Queen was obnoxiously happy. The Grand Queen knew it was to spite her. She did not believe the Free Queen had no role in this, and if Xrn were still faithfully reporting in, the Grand Queen would have had her investigate the matter and assign punishments.

But Xrn was hurt. Possibly never to recover. Xrn was hurt, and so the Grand Queen had no great subordinate except her Custodium, and Klbkchhezeim had proven he was still superior to all of them combined. Even so, she would have rested upon her laurels if it weren’t for the Free Queen’s damned levelling Antinium.

They made her Hive more valuable than even the Grand Queen’s Custodium. They proved she had been right and, therefore, the Grand Queen wrong. It was an attempt to destabilize her power!

This was how the Grand Queen thought. She knew the other five Queens were devoted to the cause, to going back to Rhir after conquering Izril. But she also knew none of them could do what she could.

Someone had to lead them. They all had their qualities, even the Twisted Queen and Free Queen, but only the Grand Queen could do it. The Armored Queen was a follower, the Silent Queen was too arrogant and too much a perfectionist, the Flying Queen a scatter-brained radical.

This was not how the Grand Queen used to think. She had once been a young ingenue in the corps of Antinium Queens assigned to overseeing supply lines and distribution. But the terrible battle at sea, the landing, had forced her ever into a position of command. Perhaps not even the great War Queens and Shaper Queens of old had known her burden.

Now, Xrn, her trusted Centenium, was gone. The Grand Queen ruminated as she sulkily ate mundane stores of food looted from the Drakes. Nothing like that Garry’s…foodstuffs. She had suggested, hinted many times that he would best serve all the Queens in her Hive, but the Free Queen had refused. To her face!

She needed to do something to prove the Grand Hive’s superiority. She needed to create…high-level Antinium of her own. Yes, and credit the Free Queen, but maintain the superiority of the Grand Hive.

After all, the Grand Hive had the most Antinium, resources, and knowledge of any Hive because the other Hives sent it material. Why couldn’t her Antinium level?

It was so frustrating. She had made an entire ‘town’ where they bought and sold goods, to emulate Liscor, but all the Workers and Soldiers did was stand around or constantly perform basic tasks without derivation. They were not like Anand.

She needed insight. But Xrn was hurt, and so the Grand Queen needed a replacement. She could probably requisition any Prognugator or Revalantor the other Queens had. They’d argue, but she could do it. Yet if she thought of requesting Pivr or Xeu or…no, there were only three Antinium worthy of serving her. Intelligent enough for her to listen to.

Klbkchhezeim, Xrniavxxel, and Wrymvr. True Centenium, who had served the First Queen. The problem was…

Xrn was eminently the best choice to serve. She was unique, had wide-ranging abilities, and she was ever-polite, if sometimes firm in her opinions.

Contrasted to her, Klbkch was…erratic. He fiercely disagreed with the Grand Queen during the levelling arguments that had seen the Free Queen join Liscor. He was opinionated and, unfortunately, had lost his body and was weaker. So she had regretfully let him go.

Even now, he was the Free Queen’s Revalantor. Which left…the final option. The Grand Queen didn’t like it, but she had to have a high-level servant. So she reached out and telepathically summoned Wrymvr.

Wrymvr the Deathless. Even before the Antinium had reached Izril, that had been his identity. A bodyguard for War Queens in battle. Modeled after Elder Crelers and other great foes.

His scream sent the Grand Hive into a panic as he descended, wings beating. The largest Antinium besides the Queens, an immortal warrior. The Grand Queen received him in her throne chambers as he flew in and perched. Even she feared him. A tiny bit.

His voices were succinct in how they spoke. His mind…closed off. He communicated very little, and even now, she did not understand why he had gravitated towards the Twisted Queen, that poor, wounded being filled with a madness like the one Xrn was developing.

Yet the Grand Queen raised her mandibles in a smile and gestured grandly as she sat on a throne modeled after the ones she had seen.

“Wrymvr. It is good of you to enter our presence. Sit. Will you refresh yourself with foodstuffs we have acquired?”

The great Centenium, his body ever-changing, ever-evolving, had nineteen legs today. Some stabbed into the dirt floor as he shuffled forwards. Six mouths on various parts of his body spoke, some drooling acid onto the floor. Another produced wisps of terrible cold. Wrymvr spoke as the Custodium eyed him, hands on their blades. All of them could attack him all day, and he would not take a wound, even if he lay there. He regarded the Grand Queen’s feast of goods and replied.

No.

The Grand Queen rubbed her feelers together anxiously. Communication. That was one of her fortes, and she felt like Wrymvr was, uh, weak in this area.

“No? Er, very well. If you are not in need of sustenance, let us cut to the point. Wrymvr, as I am sure you understand, ah, as we understand it, Xrn has become injured. Nevertheless, the Grand Hive is the Antinium, and we must have an instrument of our will. As Klbkchhezeim is working for the Free Queen, we have elected you to replace Xrn until such time as she recovers, if ever. I trust that is clear?”

The Centenium rubbed his own feelers together and made much the sound of metal screeching on metal. Some of the Custodium shifted.

“It is understood.”

Excellent. Then you shall report to me tomorrow after making such arrangements to leave the Twisted Hive and convey the necessity to the Twisted Queen. Is that clear?”

“Respectfully disagree, no.”

The Grand Queen sat there, wrestling with the limited issues of speech as opposed to telepathy. She tried again.

“Am I…are our orders not being conveyed clearly, Wrymvr? I have given you instructions as the Grand Queen.”

“Yes. Respectfully disagree.”

Now that was different. The Grand Queen tried to put her feeler against her face as if she was resting her head on her chin, although her body was far too big to do that like a more humanoid figure.

“You respectfully disagree. What if I were to order you, right now, to become my Revalantor?”

Wrymvr’s wings fanned out.

“Would respectfully disagree.”

“And if I asked you for an affirmative or negative?”

The Grand Queen snapped back, losing her patience. Wrymvr shifted, and one eye peered at her from within his armored body.

“Then. I. Would give an affirmative or negative.”

The Grand Queen sat there, and ‘miffed’ was not enough to describe how she felt. But Wrymvr was being…careful, and she realized that the mighty warrior did not want to push the issue. Nor did she.

“Very well. Begone.”

She turned her head, and he flew out with another, quieter, screech. The Grand Queen sat, fuming, on her throne.

Am I losing control of the Antinium? Impossible! Inconceivable, and it was—or had been. Yet maybe they were taking lessons from the Drakes. Perhaps their loyalties were wavering? Paranoia warred with fear in her mind.

I must have powerful Antinium. I must. The Free Queen’s methods to levelling are still incomprehensible. 

It was clear that was what separated the Antinium from becoming the dominant force in Izril. However, as the Grand Queen sat there, mulling over the issue, she tried to break it down into component parts. Like someone solving a logistical issue, she focused on the dilemma, broke it into pieces, and reassembled the criteria parts. That was how she thought. And it occurred to the Grand Queen there was something interesting.

I must have powerful individuals with high-levels. There was that issue and the issue of the Grand Hive’s superiority. But if you eliminated one criterion, suddenly the issue was phrased differently.

I must have high-level Antinium.

I must have high-level subordinates.

Two completely separate concerns. Hither-to, the Grand Queen had never considered any non-Antinium species as worthy, but now, she reconsidered. It was true that any normal species—Drakes, Humans—were inherently dangerous as they represented their own species. But what was that place she had seen in the news? She rumbled to herself as she looked around.

“Custodium 1. Fetch me…fetch me that object we took from the caravans. Documents about a certain city. Called, uh…Roshal.”

Loyalty was the most important thing of all. Loyalty to the Grand Hive. The Antinium as a whole, but the Grand Queen was thinking. Thinking about all the artifacts and gold in her vaults. She had never needed to employ them to excess, and the Antinium were wealthy on spoils of war. She found a catalog and began to browse it.

“Oh.”

She loved numbers, and when she ran the values against her personal stockpiles of wealth—the Grand Queen was very pleased. Oh, how interesting. You could hire more than just one or two. You could buy entire armies. But how loyal were they?

That evening, the city of Lailight Scintillation received the most interesting message it had received in, well, perhaps ever. Such that even the Emir Yazdil sat up and took notice.

 

——

 

Each Queen reacted to the Crusade in different ways. The Grand Queen saw a threat. The Silent Queen saw a puzzle.

“Recall Xeu. I must have an accounting of what motivates these…Antinium of faith. The Free Queen is distressingly silent when it comes to the exact methods of reproduction.”

Like a scientist presented with insufficient data, The Silent Queen sulked, wishing Klbkchhezeim were here. She felt undervalued, especially because her Silent Antinium were the most unique, valuable, and extraordinary creations of the Antinium, having rediscovered the camouflage carapaces.

She had done that. The Flying Antinium hadn’t even gotten flying right. But the Free Queen was so…erratically successful. None of her Antinium’s successes could be reproduced consistently, but they were consistently valuable.

“Unfortunate. Unfair. Tell Xeu to bring back methods of generating more levelling Antinium, Maev. Even if she…even if she must take a few Antinium with her.”

The Silent Queen thought long and hard about that second order, but she did give it. She, unlike the Grand Queen, still believed in a shared conscience of all. The Shaper Queens hid nothing from each other. Oh, some were better than others, but the other Queens hiding their projects, their knowledge?

It was wrong. As the Silent Queen saw it, a few of the Free Antinium would not go amiss, and she could make excuses to the Free Queen. But she wanted whatever the Free Queen had. Klbkchhezeim, the levelling…the Silent Queen despaired slightly.

Oh, how we have fallen. If only she had the knowledge to make real Antinium of old. They would sweep this continent in a year. So she waited, telling Xeu to steal a valuable Antinium for her. All she needed was one or two.

 

——

 

By contrast, the Silent Queen’s sulking and the Grand Queen’s paranoia seemed wrong to the Flying Queen. She was excited.

“This is unprecedented. A crusade in the north? These new abilities. I wish to learn them. But why did you authorize this? Pivr? Speak to me, Pivr?”

She was so excited the words spilled over her private speaking stone with him. Xrn had told her it was ‘warded’, so the Flying Queen had no fear of eavesdropping.

“My Queen, this was an issue of command. I was not aware of the Crusade. The Grand Queen was unhappy, but I believed it was a way to endear myself to the other Antinium.”

Pivr was anxious, but he needn’t have been. Her greatest creation could do nothing wrong. The Flying Queen assured him airily of this fact.

“The Grand Queen is always upset, Pivr. Fear not. This is clearly a net benefit. Let the other Queens complain. The Grand Queen and I see the value; even the Twisted Queen. 4-2 majority, dissent to approval. Clear benefits for Antinium. Can you manifest these healing abilities?”

“No, my Queen, but my stay in Liscor has had many benefits. I have two friends among the Humans.”

“Friends. Fascinating, fascinating. How much combat potential do friends have? Will they fight for the Flying Antinium?”

Imagine it! Irregular Humans or Drakes serving alongside Flying Antinium! The Flying Queen grew excited, but Pivr’s cautionary tones tempered her. He was always the voice of reason to her high-flying ideals.

“I do not know if they will leave Liscor or betray their Hives, my Queen. They are simply…nice to have.”

“I see, I see. Emotional benefits, and you are levelling?”

“Yes, my Queen.”

“Then your visit to Liscor is a great positive. So. When will you return? Tomorrow?”

She was excited to have him back and to implement his lessons in the Hive. But Pivr hesitated. His enthusiastic tone, oddly, became somewhat subdued.

“T-tomorrow, my Queen?”

“Of course! You have been gone months, Pivr. I am anxious to have you back. Two days?”

The Revalantor was silent a while.

“I…but Alcaz and Normen…I cannot take them to the Flying Hive.”

“Why not? Oh, they will not go? That is too bad, but we shall procure more ‘friends’ at a later date, Pivr.”

The Flying Queen waved this off, but Pivr’s hesitation grew longer.

“Yes. I imagine this is the case. So you wish to have me back instantly, Flying Queen? I ask purely so I know your will.”

He was so precise. The Flying Queen sighed and rubbed her mandibles together, but happily, as her Hive buzzed around her. Some of the other Prognugators listened in, fanning their wings as she spoke.

“Understandable! Yes, Pivr. It is my will that you ret—”

She heard a loud crkching sound on the other end and paused.

“Pivr, what was that?”

His voice came through, sounding confused.

“My Queen, what are you talk—crkch—crkch—did you hear that, my Queen?”

The Flying Queen was surprised—and confused. She had never heard this in the speaking stone before.

“I hear it too, Pivr. What is that sound?”

“I—crkch—don’t know, my Queen. It may be interference. Some magical activity?”

“Odd. Well, Pivr. I was saying—”

The sound grew louder, and the Flying Queen actually held the speaking stone away from her head.

“Pivr, can you hear me?”

“—crkch—can’t hear—krchch—will talk to you tomorrow—”

“Pivr, I would like you to return! Pivr? Hello?”

The Flying Queen spoke loudly, but the sound just intensified, and then the speaking stone went dark. The Queen stared blankly at the stone as some of her Prognugators fanned their wings.

“How distressing. Perhaps Xrn’s magic is failing along with her injuries? I will contact Pivr tomorrow to recall him, then. Back to work!”

She clapped her feelers together lightly, and the Hive moved into action. The Flying Queen had faith whatever the issue was would resolve itself, but to her amazement, Pivr could barely speak to her the next day before the interference grew so loud it forced the call to end. Or the day after that. Or…on the third day, she made one of her Prognugators rub their blade-talons together and listened to the sound. Then the Flying Antinium really came home to roost.

But that was a story for later.

 

——

 

The Armored Queen found the crusade good. She found the crusade right. And to her, it proved the logic of her Hive.

They wore her armor, after all. She was a soldier, a poor one, but one of the few who remained in the Antinium’s war, and she had never stopped fighting. That she had trusted in metal over chitin was simply adaptation to a new world.

And it worked. She had summoned Anand the instant she saw the crusade in action. He was fearful she would chastise him for his ‘failures’ with the boats or the crusade. But the Armored Queen saw no failure, and how would it have been his fault, anyways?

“Strategist Anand. How can I, or we, support this effort of the Free Antinium? Higher-quality armor? Weaponry? They must not perish. I will also petition the Free Queen to send representatives to train and inform my Armored Antinium—unless sending my Soldiers and Workers to her is more acceptable?”

He was confused and gratified, as if this action of support was not immediately logical.

“I do not know, Armored Queen. Anything you would give is surely useful; the armor has allowed so many [Crusaders] to survive where they would not, according to Belgrade.”

This pleased the Armored Queen greatly. It was a finer balm than any healing potion for her never fully-healed wounds, self-inflicted by changing her body to lay so many eggs. She bled, but she smiled. Then her mandibles fell.

“If only I could provide enough armor for both Hives. I cannot. Nor can the Armored Hive support this crusade as best it could. Our funds—material, gold—are low.”

This surprised Anand.

“I was led to believe that the Hives had a great surplus of coin and material, Armored Queen.”

She flicked a feeler as she watched the crusade celebrate their victory.

“Other Hives? Yes. The Grand Hive especially. The Armored Hive is, to my knowledge, in possession of the least amount of gold or other values of currency. We have traded and bought through various channels all the knowledge and metal you see here.”

Her wave took in the pounding of distant foundries, the foreign creation of steel and other productions. Anand nodded respectfully as the Armored Queen leaned forwards.

“To my shame, I cannot offer gold if gold is useful. I will acquire more and devote some of it to a stockpile if necessary, but the Armored Hive uses what it intakes.”

She saw little value in acquisition for acquisition’s sake, and she had devised ways to spend all that came into her Hive to benefit the Hives. It was, then, the Armored Queen’s willingness but lack of means that held her back. And Anand saw it. He bowed deeply and looked up at her.

Of all the Queens, she was the one which his Painted Antinium visited the most. Her Hive, and the Armored Queen, was his favorite, aside from the Free Queen, obviously, whom he did not really know. Anand looked up at her.

“If this is so, Armored Queen, then perhaps it is time for the Free Antinium to repay our debts.”

He began composing a [Message] back to Pawn and Belgrade and the others on the spot. And he would have done so regardless, but the Armored Queen smiled and raised her mandibles.

“Anand. This is not necessary. Debts? Obligation? You speak like a Drake or Gnoll. We are all Antinium.”

She said it like there never could have been any other point of view. Anand bowed, but nevertheless, he sent his [Message]. Painted Antinium and [Crusaders], even one of Pawn’s [Priests], arrived by the end of the week.

 

——

 

Armored Antinium. Silent Antinium. Flying Antinium. The Grand Hive’s mismatch of all of them. Free Antinium.

The Twisted Queen, of all the Queens, had a simple reaction to the crusades. Like Xrn, she was wounded, a permanent scar across her body. Many, from experiments and when the Drakes had reached her Hive during war. She could barely speak, and so only Wrymvr and Antinium truly understood her in her network of telepathy.

Her Hive had no Workers or Soldiers. Or at least—no unified body. They were the antithesis of the crusade. They were, in many ways…not even Antinium.

She had a clarity of mind that informed her actions, and Wrymvr concurred. It was at odds with Xrn. The Twisted Queen had never pretended to greatness, or even to being a soldier or revival of Antinium ways.

She made weapons. She unleashed weapons. Their promise to Rhir was all. The other Queens moved according to their natures, but they were still fairly direct, even at their most cunning.

The Twisted Queen was, like her name, unpredictable. She had been censured more than all the other Queens combined for actions taken against the Drakes. Her greatest project, unlike the others’, was no stockpile of war assets, no new type of Antinium.

The autonomous Birther Sacs designed to produce Antinium were her creation. A replacement for the inevitable demise of Queens, which she foresaw. But as Wrymvr returned and informed her of the Grand Queen’s pique, the Twisted Queen was busy.

Her talents were not as pronounced as the Silent or Flying Queen’s, but she was good enough. Good enough to see the interplay between muscle and movement; that was basic. Good enough to grow new forms, experiment—but she cheated.

Why bother developing flesh when you could copy it? Culture skin from a graft? In the same way, let’s assume the Twisted Queen needed an arm. A body. A host for a new type of Twisted Antinium.

She just asked Wrymvr to procure it or had her Twisted Antinium find some. An arm was not hard to find.

Of course, keeping the arm from rotting? Harder. Manipulating it? Harder still. You had to splice into the nerves, figure out how to move it with a reasonable level of control.

And that was just an arm. But the arm was arguably the hardest part since you could find a torso and a head, and as long as the scales or fur looked reasonably similar…

It wasn’t like a puppet. She’d tried that, and they were often identified. Infestation of hosts? Difficult to subvert them. But this was just an arm, a head—carefully preserved, and all the arm had to do was hold up a tiny little sign.

The rest was easy. They made it so easy. Drakes, Humans, even Gnolls all desired privacy. Money talked. You could bounce a [Message] spell across numerous places, obfuscate its origins, and Xrn had helped the Twisted Queen with that.

So the arm stayed on the little wooden chair as the Twisted Queen sat there, listening and watching something on a scrying orb. Now and then, the arm would raise and hold that little sign up. A sign with a number, whereupon someone would shout.

—teen thousand gold! Going once to 43, going twice to bidder 43—seventeen thousand gold!”

Hm. Damn. Do not get in the way, Wrymvr. I am being outbid.

The Twisted Queen’s thoughts were as complicated and as beautifully ornate as her speech was not. The same for Wrymvr, who thought-replied in equally amused terms.

“The adventurers’ gear from the Village of the Dead? Buy that scroll.”

“I am trying. Everyone wants it.”

The Twisted Queen was peeved. There were three such scrolls of the same kind on display, but the last two had gone for exorbitant prices. Even with an entire Hive’s worth of gold—she made that poor arm rise constantly as she vied with the others.

Artifacts were useful, but an army could do what an individual could not in most cases. The Twisted Queen was well aware of the Free Antinium’s potential, and she lauded the Free Queen’s foresight. Yet she was up to her own ideas. Why bother pushing the Free Antinium forward when they could clearly march?

She bid and bid again, hoping that the gold she had funneled into her account with the Merchant’s Guild would outlast the others. Wrymvr anxiously fanned his wings until she told him to stop blowing at the ‘mysterious Drake’. If the curtain moved and showed the actual body and contraption she’d set up—well, she doubted Bidder 42 would continue to have their account at the Merchant’s Guild.

The Twisted Queen won her scroll and spent two-sevenths of the Twisted Hive’s entire gold-based economy in the process. She was so pleased by the act that Wrymvr actually flew around her as she raised an antennae in victory.

What mattered was progress. Strike the enemy where they least expected it. She let Wrymvr land and spoke to him seriously.

Our great plan moves forwards in leaps and bounds. Alert Klbkch. We require preparation. Forces.

“What about the crusade?”

The Twisted Queen rubbed her feelers together. That was a separate, visible affair. She pondered for a long while, then spoke out loud.

“The Antinium. Are. Changing. This is. Well. The Crusade is. Good. So I shall send. Them. A gift.”

 

——

 

Six schemers, planners, plotters, visionaries, thinkers, and supporters were the Queens of the Antinium of Izril. They were intelligent, gifted, and despite their terrible losses, they were a force that were akin to the Walled Cities and Tribes of the Great Plains.

Or had been. The balance of power was shifting. The Gnolls had suffered from their infighting and the Drakes’ assaults, and were the Antinium rising in power now?

It seemed so, to many worried powers. Even if Chaldion understood that the Antinium were not a cohesive whole, that chance and personality played their parts in the new [Crusaders], he feared them.

Feared them as someone witnessing classes so old that only their names survived. Feared them as [Mages], uncontested in their magical might, witnessed acts of faith that they could not copy nor understand.

Antinium and Goblins. That little Chieftain, wearing a fur cloak over her tailored armor, cut an impressive figure. Impressive, to some eyes. Others might look at her height and find her cute or unthreatening, but if you thought about it, that just made it more impressive that a girl, a child, could lead a tribe.

She was all the more dangerous because she was no looming figure like Tremborag the Great Chieftain or Garen Redfang. Oh, and she was giving an interview.

Why Wistram allowed it was a mystery. Curiosity, most likely, and an addiction to the views. Then again, the Goblin Chieftain had come striding up as the [Mage] tried to interview Artur the [Banner Commander] at a distance.

“So, er—the Antinium fought the monsters as an act of cooperation with the north, [Banner Commander]?”

Sir Relz was craning his neck and pitching his voice because the camera was very far back from the Antinium. Drassi was fighting with Noass off-screen, and the entire event was hilariously chaotic. Yet Artur replied calmly, doing more damage to the Drakes’ perception of Antinium in a few words than you could do with a hammer and a decade’s worth of time.

The scrying spell was already being cut in major Drake cities, but fortunately, the viewer had an uninterrupted feed. Artur replied cheerfully.

“No, Sir Relz, it was not an act of cooperation.”

“Aha! Then what was it?”

“The right thing to do. Monsters should not be allowed to kill people.”

Sir Relz looked like he was going to be sick. His lips twisted, and he was about to respond when Rags strode into frame.

A Goblin?

The horrified exclamation came from back-stage in Sir Relz’s picture. Drassi shouted.

Rags?

Chieftain Rags of the Flooded Waters tribe marched up to the [Mage] holding the scrying spell and stopped. She grinned, but carefully, showing only some of her teeth as a Carn Wolf slunk into frame behind her. A magnificent animal who was in fact Thunderfur, posing for the scene.

“And here’s the Goblin Chieftain. Another do-gooder fighting monsters purely for the altruistic benefits, I suppose? If you’re tuning in, folks, I am Sir Relz, and this is an unprecedented broadcast. Who are you, Goblin? I warn you—the [Mage] in front of you is under Wistram’s direct protection and the protection of Pallass!”

Relz glared down at Rags, and she eyed the [Mage] unseen with a grin that never changed. At this, by the sounds of it, Drassi began to kick Noass harder off-stage, but Sir Relz was the better interviewer.

After all—his opinions directly matched up with what the rest of the world felt about Goblins. Drassi was, for once, the wrong [Reporter] for the task.

What would Rags say? She stared into the camera with all the deliberateness Artur had lacked. She knew she was putting her tribe in the crosshairs of countless foes, so why?

In this moment, Rags had the attention of the world, and the little Goblin, perhaps, wanted to say something entirely silly like, ‘we are a people’. ‘We are not monsters’. ‘Please don’t kill us’.

It would be the wrong thing to say. It was the right thing to speak, but it would land across countless deaf ears. The little Goblin was too knowledgeable, by now, to do that. So her grin never changed as she looked Sir Relz in the eyes.

“Do good? Hah! My tribe fights for good gold. Lots of gold. And food. Big <Heroic Quest> got posted, stupid Drake. Everyone know that. Even Goblins.”

Sir Relz’s jaw dropped as Rags spoke in, well, Ulvama-speak. Which was harder than proper language, but entirely in character as she posed with the giant crossbow on her back.

Goblins know about the <Heroic Quest>?”

“Duh. Drake have bad hearing? Good gold, shiny weapons and armor. We take food, too. You pay us, we hit enemies. Like Ants.”

She jerked a thumb at Artur, and the [Banner Commander] opened his mandibles, but he hesitated. Sir Relz was fascinated.

“Are you telling me your tribe…”

“Flooded Waters.”

“The Flooded Waters tribe is fighting for coin? Who are you, Goblin Chieftain?”

She bared her teeth even wider.

“Rags. I am Chieftain Rags. Mighty tribe in High Passes! But I fight for whomever pays me, not kill Drakes or Humans or Gnolls.”

Sir Relz’s eyes narrowed, and he consulted some notes Noass thrust over to him before hurrying to shoulder-check Drassi out of frame.

“Wait a second. Are you the Goblins who kidnapped the famous Healer of Tenbault months ago?”

Rags narrowed her eyes.

“No…maybe.”

The Drake looked around triumphantly, and the camera zoomed in on his face as he sat forwards, suddenly on high-alert, sensing even more drama.

“You’ve made an enemy of the north, Chieftain Rags. What do you say to that? Are you even aware the Five Families are out to find your tribe after what you’ve done?”

The image zoomed in on Rags’ face and then zoomed out hurriedly because she stuck a finger up her nose and began to pick it. The Goblin flicked something off to the side and spat. She was hamming it up a bit, but it was working.

“What, stupid healer? We brought back. Is just job.”

Job? Wait, say that again. Are you implying someone hired you to—

There were truth spells now part of Wistram’s broadcast as a matter of course, but they flashed an undecided amber at Rags’ statement. And the Chieftain began to look bored instantly.

“Psh. You is boring. You have big job for my tribe? Beat up Drakes? Fight monsters?”

“No, but did someone hire you to—”

Boring! You want to talk to me, you pay! I have Wyverns, Carn Wolves, Goblins with big hammers! You pay me, and I kill foes. Got it? Chieftain Rags. Greatest Chieftain ever.”

Rags jerked a thumb into her chest. She smiled around proudly, and some Goblins off-screen cheered and held their sides, trying not to laugh. Rags turned to the camera, and if you were Drassi, looking close, or someone who knew her—Rags’ eyes softened slightly, and she spoke possibly the only true words in the entire interview.

“I do not kill people without reason. I promise.”

Sir Relz saw her turn away, but the Drake was not about to lose this interview. He lunged, and the [Mage] holding the scrying orb pursued Rags a few steps as if Sir Relz had reached across the world and pushed them forwards. The Drake scrambled over the desk and came so close to the scrying orb you could see up his nose-holes.

“Wait! How did a Goblin Chieftain learn how to speak the proper language? How did your tribe come to be? Do you have any relationship with the Redfang Tribe? With…any individuals who taught you to interact with people?”

He had a name in mind, and Rags slowly swung back towards the camera, looking wary for a second. Now—now Chaldion of Pallass was sending one of the Eyes to cut the feed, but it was too late. Because there was a name on Rags’ tongue, and a lot of people knew it.

Erin Solstice. But if she said that—how much trouble would Erin be in? Even if she could deny sending the crusade, Goblins and Antinium?

If she said it, did Hectval’s assassination repeat itself? Yet she had to say something. It was funny, but no one would believe Rags if she told them she’d taught herself. A Goblin wasn’t that smart. So she needed a name.

A true one, unfortunately, because of those damn truth spells. Rags had a lot of names that might work well enough. Unfortunately…each one had consequences.

Reiss, the Goblin Lord? Not a good look. Garen Redfang? The same, and it put the Halfseekers into the spotlight. Tremborag? Forget about it. P-Pisces? He was not going to thank her for that.

Erin Solstice. She could say it, but Rags hesitated because she felt it was not the time. Not yet. Like telling everyone she was just a person and…and wanted to be left alone, it was not a message that Sir Relz or the world was ready to hear.

Then Rags had an idea. She had the perfect name, and she smiled crookedly. The truth spells flashed blue with truth as Rags spoke.

“Me? I learned from a famous Goblin. You called him…the Golden Goblin. Pyrite, the Goldstone Chieftain.”

“The Golden Goblin?”

Sir Relz blinked, and someone began to research the urban legend of the north’s Adventurer Guilds. He began to demand more answers, but Rags was already leaping onto Thunderfur’s back, and the Carn Wolf padded off.

An enigmatic, less-threatening Goblin Chieftain mercenary. The legacy of the Golden Goblin of the High Passes. Rags kept her head high as the camera followed her. They didn’t need to know the truth. This was the best truth.

For now.

 

——

 

The entire interview was wonderful. It was well-done, to the point, and it left an impact on the memory. The young Goblin was a natural, and there was also something about the Antinium that just—caught the eye.

Faith. The way they spoke with such disarming innocence, like Artur being interviewed by Sir Relz, who patently did not believe that an Antinium army would risk their lives fighting monsters because it was right.

Despite the Silver Swords being the embodiment of that very ideal. To give Sir Relz some credit—no one else believed it either.

We must destroy them at once. Someone retrieve the Crown of Flowers! Why is House Veltras not advancing? Those monsters are one thing, but this requires an army!”

Even House Reinhart, the famously aloof member of the Five Families, was alarmed by all this hubbub. But the [Lady] who had just watched Rags’ interview, who had, in fact, watched the entire affair from her mansion in Oteslia, spoke crisply into the scrying orb linking the many representatives of House Reinhart together.

Few were in the same room; Reinharts didn’t get along with each other. Oh, they were loyal to the family, but vipers recognized each other, and she was uncertain whether or not she should feel happy so many of her family were attending the group chat.

Even Calidus had pulled himself out of the bottom of a beer barrel to join in. He seemed relieved by her presence, but the rest of her family was spitting demands for her to muster an army.

As if she had one. Magnolia Reinhart sighed and spoke.

“Maid Calte? Do slap Tourois if he doesn’t shut up. Thank you.”

The [Lord] of House Reinhart spun and backed up as one of her maids calmly bowed to the camera. Calte didn’t raise a hand, but the rest of the unhappy Reinharts fell silent. Ressa twitched beside Magnolia.

She would have loved to do that. Alas, she and Magnolia were in Oteslia, and to judge by her family’s expressions, they not only held a grudge for her ‘Drake affairs’, but also her lack of action on the Goblins and Antinium.

As if they’d so much as bestirred themselves when the monster horde had come down from the High Passes. Magnolia had been the one making arrangements, as few as she could at this remove, and her smile was…well, not vexed.

In fact, to the surprise of many, it was pleased, delighted, happy, even. Rare emotions when she had to look at any of her family members.

“Tourois, my extended family. It is a delight to say that I have not had the pleasure of seeing your faces for quite some time.”

A few of her family scowled, but only the ones with working wits. The others just looked blank until they caught on. Calidus laughed and fell silent as glares went his way. Magnolia went on, pressing two gloved fingers together.

“Rest assured, I have seen the Antinium and Goblin ‘threat’ along with everyone else. In fact, I was aware they were on the march before they encountered the monsters. So before someone accuses me of not raising an army and marching to the defense of Orefell—I remind you how well that worked at Invrisil.”

A short silence as her family remembered that incident, although judging from a few smirks or looks of triumph, they regarded Zel Shivertail’s death as a net boon to all. Magnolia looked from face to face and got an unpleasant surprise.

Even the old man was here. Regis Reinhart was pretending to be a somewhat pale member of the family in his corner of the group scrying spell. She locked eyes with him, and he seemed worried and vexed. So no worse than usual. But he listened.

Calidus, Regis, a few other members of her family were the ones Magnolia was addressing. They were the ones who could think. The others just needed to stop panicking. Magnolia went on, and her smile didn’t change.

“The Goblins are, by their own words, entirely mercenary. They are the same ones who kidnapped the Healer of Tenbault—”

“Under your authority. We nearly lost the greatest healer in the north, and you did nothing, Magnolia!”

That was dear old Aunt Cecille, breaking in with her classic bad timing. Magnolia paused and, without looking at Cecille, lifted a finger.

“Someone silence dear Cecille, please? I don’t have the time to deal with any interruptions, and I will happily have Wistram eliminate you from this discussion if you break in again. Thankyousoverymuch. Now. If I had lost our great Healer of Tenbault, I would shed no tears. As you may recall, I helped her rise to her position. It is to my discredit that she is so objectionably greedy that paying for her services costs tens of thousands of gold pieces. She is a separate matter from the Goblins. Yes, they are here, and yes, they have Wyverns. I don’t believe even our dear Veltras cousins would want to chase them into the High Passes. If they continue attacking cities in the north, we deal with them. The Antinium are the true threat. As we speak, I am sending an agent to deal with them.

Calidus relaxed at once and beamed as he uncorked a bottle of champagne, but the rest of the family were less willing to take her on credit. Regis himself interrupted, as if daring her to kick him out of the call.

“A single agent? How do you intend to deal with our breached borders, Magnolia? Much less the threat of levelling Antinium and whatever classes they h—”

His face vanished from the group call, courtesy of Wistram’s new network spells. Magnolia’s smile widened as the rest of the Reinharts burst into nervous whispers. Magnolia waited, and a furious Regis reappeared less than ten seconds later.

“Silence, dear family. As I said, I am dealing with it. Would you have an issue if this were just monsters? Would you even know of the issue?”

They glared at her, but they did listen as Magnolia put her hands behind her back. She was still smiling.

“You have left the Antinium to me since the First Antinium War. So, do try to understand the following statement I am about to make. Sleep on it. Consult a [Strategist]. Drink a Potion of Wits, but listen to me when I say: this is the greatest boon we could ask for. This is a moment to claim for our advantage, and the first idiot who spoils my moves by attacking or paying for a hired killer, I will personally hang.”

Silence. The Reinharts gasped in outrage or shock, but Calidus thoughtfully stopped drinking, and Regis’ burning gaze turned to confusion. Magnolia Reinhart kept smiling as Ressa held up a second scrying orb cued to a racing saddle and a rather woebegone [Assassin].

Oh, excellent. Theofore was almost there. Magnolia could actually see the Antinium. She waved at the rest of her family.

“You are free to try and scry my conversations, but bear in mind what I said. I must bid you farewell, everyone. Business awaits.”

She cut the feed as the outrage began and the voices began calling for her to explain, but Ressa turned off the scrying orb and held the other one up.

“Regis will be demanding answers, Magnolia.”

“Let him. He’s canny enough to know these aren’t the days when Reinharts could march behind Earth Elementals and Golems. I was surprised Calidus was sober enough to join in.”

“He’s not an idiot.”

“No, and that’s why he’s the most dangerous and helpfully useless of the lot. Have someone check in on him.”

Magnolia sighed and pressed two fingers to her temples. Oh, she hated dealing with her family. And it was harder now that she had ‘fled’ the north to deal with problems like this.

Money only went so far. She had been gratified, in a way, to see Erin’s <Quest>, but the girl was still new to using her influence. She was a hammer, and while a hammer solved a lot of problems, it did not solve, say, a leaking wall.

But then, Erin Solstice didn’t see the Antinium as a threat. Magnolia cordially disagreed with many points of Erin’s beliefs, but she listened enough to understand where Erin was coming from.

She listened to Erin and Ryoka Griffin, which was why she, of all the Five Families, did not need to be told how the crusade had come to be. She waited as Theofore rode straight into the camps, bearing her banners.

He was challenged, which told Magnolia at least a few commanders were canny enough to know that they needed to secure their borders. Magnolia saw Ressa was taking notes as Theofore disembarked and met a [Lieutenant] riding up the road.

“He’s familiar. Who is that, Ressa?”

“Mm. Gershal of Vaunt. He fought with the Tidebreaker.”

“Oh my. Flag him. Vaunt was brave enough to ride in Orefell’s defense? Make a note. I should be nicer to them, cheese-freaks as they are.”

Ressa made a few quick notes as Theofore confirmed his identity. Magnolia waved at the [Lieutenant] as Theofore held up the scrying orb, and the poor fellow nearly fell out of his saddle in shock.

“Hello, hello! Lieutenant Gershal, isn’t it? I believe this is twice we’ve met! I shall send all the approbations to your city for your bravery later. But I would be exceptionally grateful if you would find the Antinium or Antinium—plural—in charge and convey my man, Theofore, to them?”

“At once, Lady Reinhart!”

It was never that simple, of course. Magnolia had some coffee with sugar and hummed as Ressa took some of the new beverage herself. She still liked tea more, but Ressa loved the stuff, drat her. And she’d begun hiding the sugar bowl.

A few people had to stop Theofore on his mission. They always did when Magnolia announced herself, only this time, it was quite germane to meet them.

Especially the mustached [Brigadier], Forount. The woman came riding up, twirling her mustache, and Magnolia actually laughed.

“Brigadier Forount of Wales! Good day to you!”

“Lady Reinhart, it is an honor! I wished to convey my personal respects to House Reinhart—and the hopes that you’ll look kindly upon these, ah, outsiders. They did pull us out of the fire at the last moment.”

Magnolia nodded graciously to the [Brigadier]. She had a soft spot for Forount of Wales. Why not? She had helped fund the [Brigadier]’s education as an officer.

“Your heroism notwithstanding, of course, [Brigadier]? Wales was an inspiration to the local cities—but I do wish you’d waited for more backup. It was a close battle.”

The woman puffed up even further.

“The lances you sponsored for Wales’ armored core need a target, Lady Reinhart! It was a close-run thing, but better to strike first than let the enemy do the same.”

“Quite noble of you, Brigadier.”

She might die saying those same words. But at least she had some support, and if Magnolia had to pump more aid into Wales to give the [Brigadier] a proper army in the south—there were worse candidates. Forount had proven herself, and that was a rare quality.

Magnolia was less pleased by how few Gold-rank teams were present. She had personally reached out to a number, and while the Silver Swords were a constant, Invrisil should have sent five times this number.

Theofore had reached the Antinium by this point, and Magnolia was telling him to find Yvlon Byres, and Ylawes too, in order that they might meet. Yet all those thoughts left her mind the instant she saw the Antinium.

Artur, the [Banner Commander], Embraim, the [Battalion Leader], and two [Templars] all stood, waiting for Theofore with Lieutenant Gershal. Theofore came to a halt, presented Magnolia to the Antinium, and had everyone move back as he deployed the proper privacy spells.

“Good evening, Banner Commander Artur. Battalion Leader Embraim, who I believe is Templar Theogrin, and I don’t know the last of your number.”

The Antinium jerked in surprise as Magnolia Reinhart greeted them smoothly. They exchanged glances, and their antennae waved, then Theogrin replied.

“This is Priest Zimrah.”

“Hello.”

The [Priest] wore armor, which was why Magnolia had mistaken her for a [Templar]. She sounded…sleepy. Magnolia clapped her hands together, feigning delight.

“My! A [Priest]! What an interesting class! And you are the commanders of this crusade, I take it?”

“We have no formal commander, Lady Reinhart. It is good to meet you. May I ask why you desire to speak with us? If Orefell is part of your lands, we wish to assure you on behalf of the Free Hive of Liscor that we are not here as enemies.”

Artur spoke carefully and with the most understanding of who she was. Magnolia’s heart was beating fast, but Ressa was a steadying presence.

“Ah, yes, well. I imagine it is something of a surprise that I might reach out. I am Magnolia Reinhart, leader of House Reinhart of the Five Families. Do forgive my late introductions. May I ask if you…know me?”

The Antinium glanced at her and Ressa in the scrying orb. They exchanged a look, then—as one—they shook their heads.

Even Artur.

“We know House Reinhart, but I have never heard your name, Lady Reinhart, except in passing.”

Magnolia’s smile wavered.

“Really. Not once? The Antinium do not remember me? What about Zel Shivertail?”

“The Tidebreaker? Yes, we know him. Hero of Liscor.”

Hero of Liscor. Magnolia sat back, and Ressa’s brows rose so high that they almost escaped into her hairline. Well now. Was that humbling or did it make her job easier?

Easier, most definitely. Magnolia nodded thoughtfully.

“Well then, I can tell you that I have been an enemy of the Antinium during the First and Second Antinium Wars, but I would like to discuss the affairs of state with this crusade peacefully, without the shackles of history. Would that be acceptable?”

Another moment of palpable confusion before the [Priest] stepped forwards. She—and it sounded like a she—spoke.

“We do not hold grudges for the Antinium Wars, Lady Reinhart. None of us were there. Are you…upset by our presence in the north? We are aware many would be. Already, we have been recalled by the Free Queen to Liscor.”

“And by Revalantor Klbkch. For punishment.”

Embraim broke in, and this time, Magnolia noticed how the four Antinium shifted and looked at each other. This…this was everything she had hoped for.

“Punishment? Oh dear. I understand this crusade was somewhat impromptu, but do not tell me the Antinium who fought to save Orefell from a terrible slaughter are to be punished?”

“Some of us may be declared Aberration. Or removed from command.”

Artur spoke slowly, and from the way all eyes swung to him, it was clear what that was. Magnolia Reinhart’s eyes opened wide. Her lips moved, and she spoke, a touch breathlessly.

“As I understand it, being declared Aberration is somewhat permanent.

“It will not happen.”

Zimrah spoke up suddenly, and Embraim tried to put a hand over her mandibles. But she slapped it down.

“No one will be Aberration. I refuse.”

“No one.”

The [Templar], Theogrin, nodded, and Magnolia saw Embraim and Artur glance at each other. They were so—unguarded. But this was what Magnolia had expected.

From the outset, the instant Ressa had told her the Antinium were marching, Magnolia had guessed, had hoped none of the Queens had ordered this crusade. The rest of her family, Tyrion, no one saw what this was. The greatest of opportunities.

“Excuse me, Antinium. Am I to understand your crusade was an independent action for which you may well be punished upon your return to the Hive?”

“Yes. This is so. We did not march north to invade, only to stop the monsters. Someone had to. No one else would get there in time.”

Artur replied, and Magnolia Reinhart herself ducked her head.

“It is embarrassingly true. My arrangements would not have made an impact until today—or later. Sadly. The bravery of Brigadier Forount stands at odds with the north’s inaction, and you have my gratitude. Which is why I have come to you with an offer. For your crusade.”

The Antinium stirred. Embraim clacked his mandibles together uneasily, and Artur hesitated.

“We have orders to return at once, Lady Reinhart. With respect—I am a member of Liscor’s Second Army, pending my removal from the ranks. Our loyalties prohibit us from taking actions for House Reinhart.”

She put her trembling fingers together.

“Oh, I understand that more than you would think, Banner Commander. But it has occurred to me that Orefell is not out of danger yet. There are still remnants of the monsters being eliminated, and the city is vulnerable. Why, the potential for undead to rise from the dead monsters is extreme.”

Artur nodded slowly.

“This is true. Yet we have definitive orders.”

“Indeed, indeed. Which is why, I, Magnolia Reinhart, am offering your crusade a substantial sum, be it in food, coin, or even Orefell’s productions, for you to…delay your departure. I understand the Free Queen or Revalantor Klbkch has given you an order. Could I pay you to ignore it?”

It was the most bald-faced attempt she had ever made, but Magnolia suspected the Antinium would not get a less-direct ploy. They stood there so silently she saw Theofore, holding the scrying orb, tense.

Ready to run. But the Antinium broke the frozen moment without reaching for their blades. After a long, long silence, one of them spoke. Zimrah.

“…We can do that?”

There it was. The first chink in the most united force to threaten Izril. Magnolia began speaking at once.

“Don’t think of it as disobeying exactly, Priest Zimrah. Consider it my counteroffer. Do your Antinium need better armor? Potions? Orefell has a lot of jade, very beautiful material. A single day’s delay, perhaps more? And might I add that it seems unreasonable for a single Antinium to be executed for your noble actions.”

“It does.”

Theogrin murmured. Magnolia nodded repeatedly.

“Let me simply say this, Antinium of the Free Hive. Nay, Crusaders of the Free Hive. If ever you should feel that your lives are in jeopardy upon return to the Hive of Liscor, there are alternatives. You may politely refuse such impossible commands, and I personally will offer you support. At the very least, enough food to maintain separation from the Hive without issue! Let us discuss the issue, and I will leave each of you with a token that you might contact me or my people at any time.”

She settled back as the Antinium nodded, and Ressa squeezed her shoulder hard. The army of Antinium would create problems; they could not stay around Orefell long, and the risk of a Human force taking shots at them was high, but if they could stay intact, even diminished—Magnolia locked her eyes on the Antinium. The first group of disobedient Antinium to the will of a Queen.

 

——

 

The day was full of strange events. Pisces Jealnet had known, the moment the Antinium showed up, that the world would never be the same.

He hadn’t expected Magnolia Reinhart. Or for Rags to become a Goblin [Mercenary]. Or for the crusade to stay around Orefell, but then again—what was the [Governor] supposed to do?

She had a city full of people who’d lost possessions or abandoned their homes, now looting, the stragglers returning, arguing, blaming people who’d fled their posts—she had already asked Gershal and the [Brigadier] to help restore order.

Worse, there were Eater Goats and that damn Void Goat on the loose. Heck, five Gargoyles were a Gold-rank threat. So when she accepted Magnolia Reinhart’s offer to keep the Free Antinium here, only the rest of the world was surprised and outraged.

It turned out the Antinium crusade was willing to be paid to hang around and slay monsters. In fact, their Workers could even help repair and build. What they ended up doing all this for was amusing, though.

“Four wagonloads of jade? What do Antinium want with jade?”

It was a handsome sum. Uncut, unpolished jade panned from the rivers was one of Orefell’s exports. When Pisces heard it via Ksmvr, he was confused. It was worth a lot—but Ksmvr had to explain the idea.

“The [Crusaders] believe the Free Queen and Liscor may accept it in return for their actions. There is a precedent.”

“…What precedent?”

Yvlon Byres was eying the black-clad [Assassin] carrying Magnolia Reinhart’s scrying orb on a tour of the Antinium camp. Ksmvr replied as if it were obvious.

“Each time Liscor’s army has marched, it traditionally sends back the spoils of a large campaign to the city.”

“You mean…Liscor’s mercenary army?

Yvlon’s mouth opened, and Pisces snorted. Ksmvr just nodded seriously.

“Commander Artur has claimed that as he is an officer of Liscor’s army, he is technically Liscor’s army as the Antinium have been accepted as a fighting force of Liscor. He…hopes that will prevent their censure.”

Antinium logic. It might even work. Pisces just wondered why Magnolia Reinhart of all people was being so helpful. Then he wondered if Erin had anything to do with this.

Then, Magnolia Reinhart came their way, and the [Necromancer] nearly fell into the campfire. The [Assassin] walked over, and Yvlon rose, and Ksmvr poked Ceria awake as the half-Elf rolled out of her sleeping bags.

“Wh—is it time to eat? Magnolia Reinhart?

“Hello, Horns of Hammerad! Ksmvr—am I pronouncing that right?—Pisces, Ceria, and dear niece Yvlon! It has been a while! You’ve grown up. And you, dear child, your arms! You should have told me you were in need, but you leveled out of the problem. Classic House Byres. Is Ylawes avoiding me? I thought I saw him running to the side.”

“Aunt Magnolia?”

Yvlon stuttered. Out of all the people, Magnolia Reinhart had singled out their team! Pisces remembered Ressa collecting Ryoka, but Magnolia Reinhart was now staring at him.

He didn’t like it. He bowed, and Ksmvr copied him as Ceria scratched at her head, then dipped a bow. Yvlon spoke slowly.

“It’s—wonderful to hear your voice, Aunt.”

Call me Magnolia, Yvlon! And I insist on doing likewise! I must say, it is such a treat to meet such a rising Gold-rank team. Much less to see my little niece as a fine adventurer! If I was in Celum or Invrisil, I would have to have you at my estates. Alas, you might have heard I’m in Oteslia.

“The entire continent knows.”

Ceria muttered a bit too loudly. Magnolia focused on her, and the half-Elf jumped.

“Pardon me, Miss Springwalker. I know, I made a fuss. I just wanted to introduce myself, especially to Yvlon, and convey my personal thanks for your bravery today. It will not go unnoticed, I promise. Spoken Vow, the Pact, the Halfseekers, and the Silver Swords are all credits to your rank.”

“Thank you, Lady Reinhart.”

Ceria blushed faintly, and Pisces couldn’t help but interject.

“This gratitude would not happen to be material, would it, Lady Reinhart?”

Yvlon kicked him, prompting Ksmvr to do the exact same. Magnolia glanced at Pisces and put a finger to her lips.

“Adventurer Pisces. Rather forwards of you.”

“Er, I apologize for—”

“—Fortunately, forwards befits a Gold-rank adventurer. And you are quite right. How about this? I can’t tell how much of that new <Quest> bounty you were paid, but in honor of your deeds, I will have a word with the Mage’s Guild and Wistram. I believe it’s two thousand gold pieces on your head, Adventurer Pisces? I will have it removed by the end of the week, regardless of the price. I can do nothing about Roshal; they do not bandy words with me, but that bounty will be cleared, and I will have the [Mercenaries] of Izril aware of that fact.”

Pisces blinked and stuttered.

“The—the bounty? You can do that? But it was posted in Terandria and—”

“—And this is Izril and the Five Families hold some sway. I am aware of Wistram’s…shenanigans. Frankly, if Archmage Nailihuaile were still alive, it might be harder, but she is not, and I would like to prove my sincerity. I hope you will remember it if I should be in need of competent service in the future.”

“Of course, Lady Reinhart! I mean, Aunt—Magnolia. Thank you!”

Yvlon nodded again, and Magnolia smiled and raised a hand.

“I won’t keep you long. I know how tiring it is to deal with the nobility—well, the boring nobility, pardon me, Yvlon. Do remember me to your mother, and tell Ylawes I am not some ravening beast.”

“Except for sugar.”

Who said that? Magnolia looked peeved, and Yvlon choked as the [Maid] leaned over. The [Assassin] bowed, and, giving Pisces a look of long agony behind his masked expression, trotted off to meet someone else.

“Whew. That is one crazy [Lady].”

Ceria exhaled after a moment. Yvlon went to kick her, but the half-Elf skipped out of the way.

“Ceria! She’s got ears everywhere!”

“So? She’s speaking to us. We’re on her list, Yvlon. We just talked with one of the most powerful [Ladies] in the north. She was headhunting us for requests in the future.”

Ceria rubbed at her head, somehow the least astonished of everyone. Pisces blinked. That was what she’d done, wasn’t it? Done them a favor—removed his bounty? Ceria shook her head.

“This is wild. The north’s never going to be the same. Magnolia in bed with Antinium and Goblins?”

Ceria, I swear to Silver Dragons—

A peal of laughter came from the scrying orb in the distance, and Ceria actually ducked behind Yvlon. The [Armsmistress] put a warning fist on Ceria’s head.

“Someday, your tongue is going to get you into trouble, Ceria.”

“And your fists don’t?”

Yvlon began to chase Ceria around, and Pisces exhaled. It was becoming night again, and where had the day gone?

Chatting to [Crusaders], watching the news, watching people file back into Orefell and thank him—him!

…And catching up with the other teams. But through it all, the Horns watched Pisces, their friend who had suffered in Roshal. Case in point, even now, while Yvlon chased Ceria into camp, Ksmvr stayed with Pisces. His people were all around him, but he followed Pisces around as the [Necromancer] looked about for someone else to talk to. Perhaps the Dwarves.

“Ksmvr, you can go elsewhere if you wish.”

He turned his head after two minutes of Ksmvr following his steps perfectly, like some game where you copied someone. It was so entertaining that two other Workers and a Goblin had followed Pisces like a living centipede.

“I cannot, Comrade Pisces. If Roshal attacks you, I must kill them. I will not let them grab you again, I promise.”

Pisces turned to look at the [Skirmisher]’s serious face. He halted and patted Ksmvr on the shoulder.

“They won’t attack here, Ksmvr.”

“They could. I should be vigilant.”

“I appreciate it…but you should relax.”

Ksmvr hesitated, then patted Pisces on the head. The [Necromancer] scowled, but lightly.

“Ksmvr, stop that.”

“May I scratch you under the chin?”

“I am not a cat.”

“You may still enjoy it.”

The [Necromancer]’s lips twitched, and then he was off, striding through the crowd. He had, of course, met countless people over the course of the day. The [Brigadier], with her mustache, the [Crusaders], including the one who had Erin’s glory fire. But it was, as always, home which sometimes called to him.

The Dwarves of Deríthal-Vel were packing up to leave. The few hundred that had come had collected their dead, and Pisces’ smile sombered as he saw a cart loaded with bodies. In fact, two adventurers were hanging around, helping the Dwarves load up and prepare their dead.

Selphids. Jelaqua was gently spreading something over a face.

“It’ll keep them. Watch out for carrion, but we can’t do much about death magic. Maybe Pisces can…?”

Field Captain Rlint glanced up. It said something about the Dwarves’ armor and tactics that there were only two wagons—but it was two too many. Many Dwarves had their helmets under their arms, and Pisces saw tears.

And Dawil. That Garuda, Peki, too. The [Field Captain] gave Pisces a slow nod.

“Adventurer Pisces. I know you. We’re transporting our fallen back. If we were pressed for time or safety, we’d take possessions, but there are wagons, and Orefell’s granted us some horses. We hope to send them all the way to Dwarfhome, but it’s a task.”

“That’s a long way. Can you…put them in bags of holding?”

“That’s what I said. The problem is they have so much armor on—and asking them to strip the bodies is, um…”

Jelaqua whispered to Pisces. Rlint nodded somberly.

“We won’t do that here. Better to march to Dwarfhome, with respect. We have some gel Captain Jelaqua was kind enough to give us, and there are customs our people in Dwarfhalls Rest can perform; some will meet us on the road.”

“You’re leaving now?”

The [Field Captain] nodded. He chuckled into his beard tiredly.

“We are on a time limit. The sooner we can get to Dwarfhalls and properly settle it the better. The Goblins…”

He cast a glance at Rags and her tribe and shook his head.

“…Have mostly abandoned the mountain, as I understand it. Some might be there, but that Chieftain Rags has told us they’ll likely flee, and there is no powerful tribe remaining. I have orders to return. But if you knew how to suppress the death magic and the chances of undead…”

That would be the worst thing, and Pisces hesitated. Splitting up the bodies was better, but he thought quickly.

“There has to be at least one [Gravetender] in Orefell. They’ll have gravesalt. Or ask—Ylawes Byres.”

“The Silver Swords’ Captain?”

Dawil glanced up, confused, and Pisces nodded.

“Gravesalt is salt, ash, silver—it suppresses death magic. Ah—you could get some potted plants. Put them in the center of the wagon.

“Potted plants?”

Even Jelaqua hadn’t heard of that, but Pisces elaborated.

“Living beings and the earth make it harder for undead to rise. Plants eat death magic.”

“A [Gravetender], gravesalt, and plants. That’ll work. Thank you, Adventurer. Do you hail from Noelictus? I heard you were from the home continent.”

Rlint nodded at Pisces as he flagged someone over to find the materials. The [Necromancer]’s smile wavered, but—he had already talked about Roshal. Ksmvr patted Pisces on the head and got a mild swat.

“Not Noelictus, Field Captain. As a matter of fact…I come from Ailendamus. Not that I have strong ties to the Kingdom of Glass and Glory.”

It was the first time he had ever said that. Even Jelaqua looked surprised, but Rlint just nodded thoughtfully.

“Not a home for [Necromancers].”

“No indeed. Nor was it Ailendamus proper; mine was a province absorbed in recent years.”

“Ah. That explains it. Well, you are a friend to Dwarves, Adventurer. This has been a striking meeting. I am sorry to leave, but I will remember it. Nor do I think marching to fight at Orefell was wrong.”

The Dwarf said that even as he stood before the lines of bodies. Pisces nodded slowly, and Rlint looked at the Antinium.

“Goblins. Antinium. The kindness of Selphids, and a [Necromancer]’s wisdom. We even had that [Priest] of the Antinium come here and bless our dead. I don’t know what their ‘Heaven’ is, but if it’s the opposite of Rhir, may our kin rest there.”

Strange times indeed. Pisces nodded and stepped back, but only after shaking hands with a number of Dwarves. Peki did likewise.

“I will tell Merrik I met you all. He was crying. Which is why I came.”

Rlint actually laughed at that.

“Tell him to visit, and we’ll all buy him a round! Dwarfhalls Rest will be sending Dwarfsteel before winter’s first snows, my oath on it! All of you are welcome to visit!”

“And you to visit Liscor! Or Invrisil or Celum—it’s all connected. Just mention you met us at The Wandering Inn, and I promise you, you’ll get a warm welcome and a free meal.”

Jelaqua grinned, and the Dwarves looked up. Rlint’s gaze sharpened.

“Ah, there’s a name I’ve heard. I promise we’ll do that. For now—Adventurer Dawil, an honor. Get that axe looked at by Master Pelt. If anyone can mend it—it’s him. Otherwise, you may need to go home.”

“That I know.”

Dawil spoke solemnly, and all the Dwarves filed past him. Pisces was curious because he knew the axe they meant, but Rlint just shook his head.

“A sign of the times. Not your fault. But a sign…well, you are a Gold-rank adventurer. You’ve earned a meeting and a tale. Grandfathers’ blessings on all.”

Then, one more round of handshakes and they were marching off.

“Poor bastards. They came, fought for Orefell, and now they’re leaving without so much as a wagonload of jade. Dwarves are too nice. I’m gonna cry.”

Jelaqua was quieter than Ceria. She produced a handkerchief and blew her nose into it.

“Did someone offer…?”

Pisces wasn’t sure if they’d missed their opportunity, but Dawil walked over, hands in his pockets.

“Nah, they refused it outright. It’s a bit of politics; shows they want to be good neighbors. But the rest is pride. They can call every Dwarf who fell here a hero who went without reward to fight the monsters. They’ll go home upon the shields. But yes. Thanks for helping, Jelaqua.”

“Don’t mention it. At least we gave them some of the skins.”

That caught Pisces’ ears.

“Skins?”

“Gargoyle hide.”

Jelaqua clarified. She pointed over to the battlefield where the insects and carrion had finally descended, and Pisces saw Humans with masks, Antinium, and Goblins all performing the nasty task of working with rotting flesh.

“A bunch of Bossel hides. That’s the toughest of the lot. It might still lose to Dwarfsteel, but it’ll be a bit lighter, and they know how to tan it. So do the Goblins.”

Pisces knew each monster had its value, and while the Eater Goats weren’t worth much aside from their teeth and hides like regular goats, Bossels and Gargoyles had hide that made armor better than leather.

Speaking of which, it seemed like Orefell was reclaiming some of its losses from the Gargoyles. They left the flesh alone, and the bones, but the hides were being carted to Orefell for tanning. Though it’d be a high-level [Tailor] or [Armorer] who could work it.

That gave Pisces a thought. Amidst the falling night, he gazed at the battlefield and stared at all those…bones.

Lovely bones. In fact, Gargoyle bones, which were notoriously tough. Pisces had always suffered from a lack of good bones. The Mothbears were still a mainstay of his collection, and he’d left an entire Warbear with his Skeleton Lord back on Chandrar.

They were still active. But Gargoyle bones? Pisces glanced around innocently, then two things happened.

The first was that someone spoke in his head. A telepathic voice of a great, dangerous being that made goosebumps ripple down Pisces’ spine.

The second was that someone spoke out loud. A shivering shout coming from the north of outrage, malice, and fury.

The Necromancer, Az’kerash, spoke to Pisces alone.

Young Pisces. I have seen your battle against the monsters of the High Passes. You have done well.

He sounded almost pleased. On the other hand, the Named-rank Adventurer—who roared so loudly everyone flinched and Jelaqua groaned—was decidedly unhappy.

GOBLINS.

The Selphid put two fingers in her ears.

“Oh, dead gods damnit. Who invited him? It’s Merdon!”

“Who?”

Then Pisces realized who it was. The Named-rank adventurer. Crowdcaller Merdon was coming from the north, and he had recognized some old foes.

—personal congratulations. Did you fare—THE DAMN GOBLINS—Bossels quite handily? I—PREPARE FOR BATTLE!—return to Izril.

Pisces simultaneously got both people speaking in his ears and heard exactly none of both conversations. He spoke, half to Jelaqua, half to Az’kerash.

“It’s Crowdcaller Merdon! He’s going to attack Rags’ tribe?”

Crowdcaller Merdon? One second—

Pisces thought he actually heard the Necromancer get a bit of the operatic voice raging—it sounded like an echo of Merdon’s shouting. So now deafened physically and mentally, Pisces was turning to what might be a bad battle.

Bad, because Merdon was the best person to attack a huge number of people. Even armies feared his voice, and it might have been why he had come to fight the Gargoyles and Eater Goats.

If so, he was two days late. And the Goblins were not a threat. Worse—he might go after the Antinium!

“We have to stop him. Dawil—come on.”

Jelaqua pounded ahead, and Ksmvr followed as the Necromancer spoke testily.

“I see. This is an opportune time. Do you know any [Hush] spells, Necromancer Pisces?”

“Only paltry ones, Archmage. [Silence]—”

Merdon’s next shout blew through the entire spell. Az’kerash’s whisper cut through the voice.

“Yes. A Named-rank adventurer can defeat basic spells. Try this. [Hush].”

And then there was silence. Pisces looked around, rattled. He still heard Merdon’s voice, but dimmed. It wasn’t perfect, but—

“Did you—cast that through me, Archmage Chandler?”

The Necromancer’s voice was amused.

Hardly. You and I are not linked. I merely cast a long-range spell centered upon your location. Even the Archmages of Wistram can perform this trick.

He said that as if it were normal, and Pisces suspected Archmage Feor would have to do more than just…speak a spell to have it done so quickly. He dipped his head and hesitated.

He was afraid of Az’kerash. It occurred to Pisces this altercation was the perfect excuse.

“I fear I may be needed elsewhere, Archmage. I, ah, must support my team, and an altercation would be dangerous to all.”

Hm. Perhaps. Hold one moment. It may not come to that. Named-rank or not, it seems this Crowdcaller does not want to die.

Pisces hurried in the direction of Merdon and saw the Named Adventurer had stopped screaming—and stopped his assault on Rags’ tribe.

Mostly because he was facing an army of annoyed [Crusaders] who were getting tired of his shouting. The Named-Rank adventurer and his Gold-rank supporters were a tiny knot compared to thousands of Antinium. Even if they thought Merdon was a match for them—he was quailing in the face of someone else.

Crowdcaller Merdon, you are late, and this shouting is hurting my ears! I have paid you your fee for your efforts, but there is no more fighting to be done. Much less here!”

Magnolia Reinhart’s voice was coming out of her speaking stone as her [Assassin] trotted forwards. A furious adventurer wearing armor strode towards her, and the two embarked in a heated discussion.

“She must have hired him to assault the horde. Predictably, he dragged his feet for what he assumed was a grand entrance and a weakened force. Or perhaps he was simply incapable of moving this fast from Tenbault.”

Az’kerash was both urbanely amused and disdainful. Pisces couldn’t fault the analysis either; if Ylawes and his team had made it, Merdon could have roused himself to join the battle. Nevertheless, it seemed like the Goblins, already moving towards their Wyverns, weren’t in as much danger with Magnolia Reinhart present.

Still, Pisces saw Rags mounting up and suspected she wouldn’t risk it. Which meant Dwarves and Goblins were heading away from the fighting. Pisces realized this was the perfect moment to sidle back to the battlefield.

It was dark, and the people working on harvesting the Gargoyles paid him no mind as Az’kerash discussed the battle with Pisces.

“Your team was, as ever, at the forefront of the fighting. I took some small note, as a Void Eater Goat is an interesting monster.”

Was he mocking Pisces? The [Necromancer] had been in the fighting, but he had felt like part of the effort, not the center.

“We were…less adept against so many monsters than we could have hoped, Great Necromancer.”

Pisces subvocalized. Az’kerash laughed quietly.

“Your team stood out nevertheless. As for the Void Eater Goat…that was a dangerous threat. They have been known to eat even Level 50 adventurers, although that is the required level range to handle them. You observed the weakness in their ability to generate their void spell?”

“Is it possible to circumvent that ability when it’s active, Archmage?”

Pisces wavered as he bent over the remains of a corpse. Probably a Bossel. He bent, and bones emerged from the bloody flesh. Despite his reservations, the great Necromancer was a fount of knowledge, and in their brief talks, Pisces learned a lot.

“Of course. Exceedingly difficult, but the goat cannot eat everything. Although I might note that even if your [Cryomancer] tried to freeze it—she might fail. It can swallow temperature, it is highly resistant, and it can hurl the contents of its stomach as a last-ditch resort. When facing one, it might behoove you to learn a spell rather like the Crowdcaller.”

“Sonic-based attacks?”

“Just so. [Death Wail]. Do you have the requisite spell among your studies?”

Pisces thought of the Djinni’s spellbook and shook his head.

“No, Great Necromancer.”

“Hm. Intriguing. I may have the time to locate a scroll. And I note you are collecting Gargoyle bones. Most perspicacious. Have you advanced past your Bone Behemoth attempts?”

“As a matter of fact…”

Pisces had not discussed Ivery and the Skeleton Lord mishaps, but when Az’kerash heard about the [Ritual of the Lord of Bones], he actually chuckled. Pisces was so astounded that he stopped stuffing bones into his bag of holding like a thief in the night.

“Great Archmage?”

Ah—it is nothing. It is simply that the, ah, ritual failing is a common mistake most [Necromancers] make. There are no instructions, and more than one [Necromancer] has fused a lot of valuable gemstones into their Skeleton Lord or bound less-than-helpful objects to them. I knew quite a few who did the exact same thing as you.

Pisces was fascinated.

“Really?”

“Oh, quite. It used to be a joke in Silvaria that a [Necromancer]’s first Skeleton Lord went into battle with an empty mug of beer or a quill. Armed with whatever pastimes they were about when they snatched the nearest object at hand. One Skeleton Lord was once sighted wearing some pantaloons by a young [Necromancer] caught in a romantic fling…”

Pisces was trying not to laugh. He was so caught up in the story as he took Gargoyle bones that he didn’t notice the patrol before Vaunt’s [Soldiers] were shining a lantern at him.

Halt, thief!

The [Necromancer] froze, and Az’kerash cut off as a squad of Humans with spears surrounded him.

“I’m—just walking around at night!”

He hid the bag of holding behind him as an old, familiar panic crept up. Oh, dead gods! Why hadn’t he gone invisible? Idiot! You idiot—

He was about to run and deal with the consequences later when something unprecedented happened. One of the [Soldiers] saw Pisces and called out.

“Wait! Wait, it’s Adventurer Pisces! The Horns!”

“Oh. Sorry, Adventurer Pisces! Of course, he’s a [Necromancer]—

The shining lantern light dimmed, and a somewhat embarrassed [Sergeant] saluted.

“Just checking that no scavengers or [Rogues] are stealing the monster parts, sir! We forgot a [Necromancer] was about. Uh—taking bones? Bodies?”

“Just—just bones.”

Az’kerash was silent as Pisces felt as flustered as could be. Stealing from graveyards or battlefields was a very [Necromancer] thing to do, and it earned them a terrible reputation, but the awkward soldiers just nodded.

“For that Frostmarrow Behemoth. I should imagine you need more. We actually have a pile of bones from the harvesting, sir. Hundreds. We could direct you to them?”

“Really?”

What.

Az’kerash was as stunned as Pisces. The [Necromancer] actually found himself walking with a squad who were too keen to offer him the largely useless bones.

“Some [Alchemists] want them, and the dogs’re slavering over them, but bones aren’t good for much, sir. And if it’s between them and you—help yourself. I apologize if we startled you.”

“Er—not at all, good [Sergeant]. I quite understand.”

Pisces felt off-kilter, and the [Sergeant] smiled, then he coughed.

“Speaking of which, if those were your undead, we apologize for destroying them. Just when we see any zombies rising, goats or Gargoyles…”

The adventurer was rapidly warming to the [Soldiers] of Vaunt. Not only was the [Lieutenant] a brave fellow, they were quite decent folk. So he was only too keen to smile around.

“Oh, not at all. Those would be natural undead. Direct them to me if they are dangerous, by all means. I would put them down as quickly as you.”

The [Sergeant] nodded, clearly relieved.

“As we thought, sir. But those Gargoyle zombies were rising fast. And some were even coming out of the bone pile. We almost burned the lot.”

“That is quick. Then again—it was a bloody battlefield.”

Pisces frowned, but as they reached the bone-pile he’d been promised, the [Sergeant] cursed.

“Dead gods damnit! There’s another one! Spears up!”

Pisces caught sight of a skeletal Gargoyle, still glistening with bits of flesh, stomping away from the pile of bones. A few [Soldiers] were racing away, calling for backup, but the undead skeleton didn’t pay attention to them. A glowing red flame in both sockets, it was walking towards the distant hilltop and forest. And Pisces…froze.

“If you want to do something, Adventurer, sir, now would be a great time! Not that we can’t handle one, but they are big.”

Indeed, the Gargoyle was still nine feet tall even without flesh, and it had thick bones. It was a powerful minion for even Pisces; if he summoned skeleton Gargoyles instead of regular humanoid skeletons, he’d have a powerful fighting force.

And it would be just the thing for a low-level [Necromancer]. Which was why Pisces stared at the animated Gargoyle skeleton, and his eyes slowly narrowed.

That wasn’t a natural animation at all. Normal skeletons didn’t rise this fast, not on a patrolled battlefield. Even if they did, they’d be attacking the wary soldiers at once.

“Just how many skeletons did you see rising, [Sergeant]?”

Pisces murmured, and the [Sergeant] scowled.

“No less than sixteen today and yesterday! Popped up like flies, but I heard the Antinium were knocking them down constantly. We took over, and it’s been nonstop. Caught a few people running around too. Stealing hides and the like.”

It was entirely possible that some of Orefell’s unscrupulous citizens were doing just that, but Pisces had another, sudden suspicion. Ironically, it was Az’kerash who didn’t get it.

A poor animation spell. Simple, and it is bound to a distant location. Long-range, no doubt. I sense multiple sources. Could this be…?

Pisces reminded himself that Az’kerash had been born and raised in Silvaria. Even if he had become the terror of Terandria, he had never been a [Necromancer] in the modern era.

In other words, he didn’t know that most [Necromancers] were famous carrion-scavengers of graveyards instead of being awarded bones. Pisces gazed at the animated skeleton and felt nostalgic.

Oh, the old raise-and-run. And a few idiots probably had a cheap bag of holding. If they made it in and out, they might have a free Eater Goat zombie or Gargoyle—but they probably hadn’t realized their bags of holding were too small to hold an entire Gargoyle corpse. That was why you went for bones, you idiots. Far more portable.

He pointed at the Gargoyle moving away and casually crooked his finger. The neck-bone cracked, and the entire skeleton dropped into pieces.

A perfect move for someone who understood how animation spells worked. Pisces sensed the magic flee, and the [Sergeant] jumped.

“That’s amazing, sir! Makes our efforts look way too hard!”

He only sounded a bit begrudging. Pisces coughed into his sleeve.

“Purely a [Necromancer] ability, I assure you, [Sergeant]. My teammates would have to hack or blast it apart.”

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind doing that for a few more…?”

The [Sergeant] sounded hopeful, and that was how Pisces found himself on defense-duty for the corpses. By now, he’d realized there were at least a few [Necromancers] trying to steal powerful bodies for their work, but Pisces didn’t realize how many there were until he concentrated.

“…Eight. Eight of them. You sense them too.

“Yes, of course.”

Pisces murmured as he put down another Gargoyle with a point of the finger. No less than eight [Necromancers] of various lower levels seemed to be out there. A few fled Vaunt’s patrols as they noticed more figures skulking around, and Pisces hit one of the fleeing figures with a [Sticky Webs] spell.

But that just turned out to be a [Thief], who was quickly dragged off for trying to cut some Bossel hide off in the dark. Not an easy task for an amateur.

Nevertheless, so many [Necromancers] was odd. One or two? Definitely, for this region. But eight wasn’t a mistake. It spoke to Pisces of an organized group.

A cabal. A term for a group of [Necromancers] or [Cultists] or a mix of the unsavory classes working together. Pisces had met a few in Izril on his way south, but they didn’t tend to last long. He suspected this group would run off, but to his surprise, they only got bolder. In fact—the first undead attack began no less than thirty minutes after he began helping Vaunt.

Skeletons! Zombies! Ten of them are attacking!

Pisces heard the [Sergeant] curse, and he ran to find ten undead Gargoyles and a bunch of Eater Goats biting at some [Soldiers]. He put them down fast as an Antinium ran into the fighting and swung a mace.

Crusader 53’s [Weapon of Faith] blew apart a skeleton’s head as if it were made of paper. Pisces blinked, but then saw more undead rising.

“What’s going on? Some kind of undead horde?”

The [Sergeant] glanced at Pisces, but the [Necromancer] was wavering. Did he play it off or let those idiots kill some of these soldiers? He was angry, and he realized why.

Az’kerash put it best.

A [Necromancer] is no monster by definition, but these scavengers threaten to injure brave warriors at rest. They are a disgrace to the class. I am tempted to…rectify their presence.

That was it. They were causing trouble, raising undead that could hurt or injure people, even if they were Zombies, just to gather their bones. Pisces’ brows snapped together, and he began snapping necks left and right. The undead tumbled down as the [Sergeant] and Crusader 53 stared at Pisces in respect.

“I believe we have a confluence of death magic, [Sergeant]. Permit me…access to your bone pile? I believe I can solve both issues at once.”

What’s the second issue? The [Sergeant] was only too grateful to pull back his forces. Pisces stepped over to the bone pile and busied himself for a second. Then he stepped back and calmly lit the rest of the bones on fire.

It wasn’t hard to get them burning. A sustained [Flame Jet] spell and they began to crackle and smoke. The marrow and other grease lit fast enough. Pisces kept pouring on the flames until the entire pile was alight, and he turned.

That should do it. Their target was gone, and while there were bodies, it was a clear message. He was about to make some excuses and head out when Pisces’ head snapped back around.

“You arrogant, petty little—

He shouted into the night to the confusion of the Humans and Antinium when something charged out of the darkness. Pisces saw an undead coming straight for him as some enraged [Necromancer] or cabal of them directed a foe at him.

Pitiful.

Az’kerash’s voice was filled with disdain. Pisces didn’t know what it was, but he felt an actually dangerous undead coming at high-speed towards him. Something on the level of…a Bone Horror. Maybe with more magic in it, a custom-built undead.

It would have pressed him if he were at the level when he first met Erin, but right now, Pisces was about to throw a [Shatterbolt] and kick the rest of the bones apart with his shoes. He was so angry at whomever these rogue [Necromancers] were because they reminded him of, well…him.

Thoughtless. Greedy. And uncaring for the sacrifice of Vaunt and the Dwarves and the others. Pisces leveled his ring, and then he blinked. He said something at the same time as Az’kerash repeated it in his head.

“A…cat?”

Cat?

Pisces saw the undead burst into the firelight as the [Soldiers] cried out. He looked at a loping beast, six feet tall along its arched spine, its skull perfectly configured not to resemble a skull, but the actual features of…a housecat.

A giant bone housecat bared its fangs and leapt towards Pisces. The [Necromancer] blinked, [Flash Stepped] sideways as it whirled, and hesitated.

“No way.”

The animal leapt—and he snapped its neck. The entire bone creation went down, and Pisces stared down at the carefully-shaved bone. The articulated ears. Dead gods, someone had even carved whiskers into the huge head.

“What is that, sir?”

“An…a spontaneous cat undead. Very common in some parts of the world.”

“A what?

The [Soldiers] gave Pisces a long look, but he bent down and then glanced up into the distance.

 

——

 

The [Necromancers] were throwing a fit. Not only had they lost most of the bones they’d hoped to loot—their best undead was gone.

She was going berserk, and the rest of the cabal hunkered down.

My personal undead! Who is that bastard down there? I’ll kill him! We’re raising Ghouls!

“Come on—they know we’re here, and they have horses. Let’s go, Ama.”

One of them whispered, but three of the newest members were hesitating. Death magic from below. It could be those Ants or an adventurer, but they thought it might be someone else using death magic. They weren’t good at sensing; no one here had been to Wistram, but if so—hadn’t a certain team gone to Orefell?

It was rare any of them got in range of a scrying orb, so they only knew of the battle from people fleeing, and they’d obviously come for corpses. Whose? It didn’t matter. But their angry leader had lost her temper.

Link up! We’re raising a Ghoul, and you three are grabbing corpses. We—wait a second. What’s that?”

All eight froze as, below, the empty grass of the night began to move. Just once, a flattening—but then another one twelve feet distant. It was faint, but the moonlight was good, and their already-paranoid instincts flared.

Invisible adventurer! Run!

The [Necromancers] leapt to their feet in a terror. They were made! They turned—and Pisces appeared, a [Light] spell in his hands.

He had a rapier in one hand, and he caught all eight, wearing robes of various hues of black, skulking in the grass. One of them leapt for cover and tripped and face-planted into the grass.

“Adventurer! Run and meet at the hideout!”

A scream, but then one of the youngest [Necromancers] actually tore the mask from her face.

“Wait! Stop, stop—Adventurer Pisces! It’s us! Remember?”

One of the three [Necromancers] who’d gotten his autograph in Invrisil held up their hands. Pisces stared down at them, and his rapier lowered. Not that it had ever really risen. He looked down at the cabal and sighed.

“I knew it.”

The eight frozen [Necromancers] stared at the most famous [Necromancer] of Izril. Pisces rubbed at his face.

“If it was anyone but me, you would be dead. Ylawes Byres wouldn’t even wait for a [Guardsman]. Raising undead to attack soldiers? Are you—? Nevermind. I was a young [Necromancer] too, but this is ridiculous. Leave.”

He pointed at them, and the eight [Necromancers] looked at each other. He, a Gold-rank adventurer, executioners of their class, had spotted them and…?

“Pisces?”

One of the masked, hooded figures whispered. Pisces was fumbling around in his bag of holding. Then, to their astonishment, he dumped a pile of huge Gargoyle bones on the ground.

“There. Half. Try not to cause trouble, will you? Who made the giant cat? That was halfway artful.”

He glanced around, and the three fans of his looked around. Then—Pisces Jealnet saw the leader of the coven slowly move. She stepped forwards and tugged the hood off her face. The mask fell, and Pisces blinked as someone scowled up at him.

Pale, virtually bone-white features from the chalk on her face. She’d even colored her nose black to mimic a skeleton. Pisces nearly dropped his rapier as the leader of the cabal, the owner of the giant cat undead, spoke with a snap.

“You—you call that halfway artful? If Gewilena or Feren had done that, you’d call it a masterpiece. You—you—”

His eyes bulged. Pisces’ mouth opened, and he gobbled as he pointed at her. He was as shocked as she was—although everyone had told her it was Pisces, she had denied he could be alive. It was someone else. She was the only survivor from the massacre aside from Feren.

Pisces pointed at a completely different face, far older, years apart. But the makeup was the same, and the artistry in bone?

He whispered a name from his childhood. From the first cabal he had ever joined as he looked her in the eye.

“Ama?”

A stranger’s face peered back at him, just as uncertain. Someone Pisces had never thought to see again, framed in nostalgia and grief and…

A complete stranger. A woman, not a girl, far changed from sneaking out of her mother’s shop with alchemical supplies to put on makeup with Gewilena that her village and family wouldn’t approve of.

She looked at Pisces with much the same expression. How had she come here, to Izril, stealing bones? And he…how had he become a Gold-rank adventurer, defending soldiers from the undead?

He wanted to reach out and hug her, but she was just as tense as the cat-skeleton she’d always carried with her, that silently-hissing menace that scratched everything, a barely-controlled housecat she’d loved to death. But when Pisces saw her—

“You’re alive. Everyone else was executed. I saw Gewilena’s…”

“Yeah. I heard they got you.”

“Did anyone else—?”

Suddenly, the question was red-hot on Pisces’ tongue. All his certainties were gone, and Ama hesitated.

“I don’t know where they are. How are you here? A Gold-rank adventurer working with House Byres and an Ant?

The rest of the [Necromancers] were silent, watching, and Pisces was aware of the unseen Az’kerash in his head. He tried to speak through a dry throat, and behind him, he heard a voice.

This isn’t right!

For a second, Pisces thought it was his inner self shouting it. Then he realized it was that odious fool, that poor excuse for a Named-rank Adventurer.

Crowdcaller Merdon. Despite the late hour, he was kicking up a second fuss. Pisces whirled as the [Necromancers] flattened themselves, but it wasn’t them.

Merdon had heard the Antinium were getting a huge bounty of jade and a guard-contract. Pisces snapped back at Ama.

“We’ll talk later. Hide before they see you! I’ll find you later—”

His voice was met only by eight hooded figures running for the hills. Ama shouted back.

“I’ll find you.

Then she was gone. Cursing and determined to shove his rapier somewhere Merdon would find objectionable, Pisces stormed down the hill. He saw Merdon face-to-face with an unmoved Theogrin. But his voice was rising, and Pisces was well aware that if he couldn’t take on an army, he could probably blow out everyone’s eardrums in a mile’s radius.

“I could lend you a [Complete Hush] scroll to reprimand that fool, young Pisces.”

Az’kerash sounded as annoyed as Pisces. But Merdon was, well—brave or foolhardy if nothing else. And as Shriekblade had said, that made a Named-rank Adventurer.

“Merdon, calm down!”

Ylawes was remonstrating with the man, but Merdon shoved the [Knight]’s arms away. He struck his huge shield with a mace, creating a tremendous clash of metal that made everyone wince.

“Calm down? The Antinium are infesting our lands, and you want me to tuck my tail behind my legs, Byres? An army’s right here! If none of you have the stones to take them on, I’ll do it myself! Any true Humans of the north will have my back. Do you think I fear a thousand Antinium? Ten thousand? I am Crowdcaller Merdon.

Ah, hells. His voice was getting louder. Pisces looked around for his team and saw Yvlon clenching a fist. Ceria was sidling around Merdon with what looked like icy earmuffs, lifting a wand casually. But all he had to do was shout.

The stalemate was about to turn ugly. All it took was someone casting a spell, and the Antinium would charge or defend themselves. And a Named-rank Adventurer was a hard foe. Pisces was about to take Az’kerash up on his offer when the Necromancer said something.

Ah. That is concerning.

Pisces bit his tongue. Then he looked up and agreed.

“Oh my. That is very concerning.”

Merdon’s howling voice was still growing louder as he watched his corners, his team silently pleading with him not to get them into a bloodbath. But he was canny enough to notice Ceria on his side and other adventurers and Antinium watching him. He was so busy looking around, it took him a split-second longer to look…up. Straight up. It wasn’t a direction most threats came from.

“Shit.”

Then the flying Antinium pointed down, and Merdon’s entire body flailed as his feet left the ground.

“[Reverse Gravity].”

Xrn, the Small Queen, watched Merdon go flying past her. The Named-rank Adventurer began to shout—then he realized he was falling. Falling into the sky.

“Go ahead and shout, Crowdcaller Merdon. I might drop you.”

The Small Queen called out as he fell past her. The man’s eyes were rolling wildly.

Merdon!

Ylawes shouted, and then he focused on Xrn, and the cry went up.

The Small Queen!

It was—uncertain. Unlike Klbkch or Wrymvr, Xrn was not as immediately dangerous looking. Immediately…until you realized how she’d gotten here. She had probably used the door to Celum or Invrisil, but the rest?

Only she could teleport and fly to this spot. Let alone with passengers.

Chesacre and Thaina were hugging the ground as some of the [Crusaders] stared at their mottled, colorful carapaces. The Small Queen glanced up as Merdon began to shout in alarm. He was currently a thousand feet up and flying higher.

“[Defy Gravity].”

He stopped, like a flailing balloon, high overhead. Xrn pointed up at him and then glanced down.

“If he shouts or you move, I will [Disintegrate] him. Then every single adventurer with a weapon raised.”

Instantly, everyone from Ceria to Merdon’s team lowered their weapons. Pisces himself hastily put his rapier down. Az’kerash was silent in his mind as Xrn spoke, and that glowing radiance coming out of her head was mirrored by her eyes.

They were bright. They found Pisces, found Magnolia Reinhart, staring up with hostility and nervousness from Theofore’s shaking grip. They found Ceria, even the distant, fleeing [Necromancers]—but they fixed on only one spot.

The Antinium. The [Crusaders], the [Templar], Embraim, Artur—all of them, watching with fear and a kind of resignation. Here came the consequences, and unlike Klbkch…even Zimrah seemed uncertain how to stop her.

The Small Queen smiled. Magic crackled out of her mind, unformed, as she looked around. The Queens were in total uproar. So followed the north and south of Izril. But the Small Queen was smiling.

Smiling, as Klbkch watched her float there on the scrying orbs. He already knew what she would say, yet it still came as a shock. The Twisted Queen laughed, once, as she plucked a single Birther Sac and prepared it for transit.

A gift. A gift for…

“I am the Small Queen of the Antinium. Xrn, you call me. I declare myself the Queen of the Seventh Hive of the Antinium. I will lead this crusade of the Antinium. Send to me your Soldiers and Workers, arms and supplies. This army will have no home below ground. It shall take every cause it finds righteous. Do what you will, [Crusaders]. Live, level, die as you see fit. I will answer your foes with the fury that broke Rhir’s walls.”

She floated there as the [Crusaders] looked at each other. The Small Queen’s gaze brightened until a second sun of a hundred colors seemed to be floating just above the treetops. Slowly, Pisces looked up and realized what Az’kerash had.

The Crusade of the Antinium was here to stay. Faith and steel and magic, for hire. Liscor’s famous army had competition.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: It’s going wrong. I said, I’m writing these in two parts. Which I did. But the word count is not…going…down.

It’s going to tire me out. But I did edit two chapters as well, so this change in the writing schedule is working. With a huge asterix. Almost as big as Merdon flying through the sky.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Processing a battle is important. You can’t just haul off to the next one without some kind of understanding. As for the other parts…well, we’ll see if we get back to it.

Witches, [Crusaders], and the side story poll oh my! I think I’m good for at least two more chapters, but we will see how my energy holds. I would like to take my break earlier in the month to recover lost energy, but I’m not feeling too bad so far. I just hope it can keep up.

Thanks for reading and enjoy the colors! It’s so…so hard to edit in when I post. Sigh.

 

Khoteizetrough by Enuryn the [Naturalist]!

 


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9.14 VM

Memory was a dangerous thing. It played tricks on you, mocked you, showed you scenes of torment again and again, and, in theory, was also how you learned.

Remembering everything was a curse. Remembering nothing was the opposite of bliss.

Everything in moderation, or balanced, was probably the [Philosopher] or [Bar Drunk]’s takeaway on the issue. Another interchangeable group.

But what if you danced on the far end of the spectrum, so deep on one side you were in danger of falling off? Reasonable, sociable, likable, stable people were all very well. Yet they would never become true [Mages]. That was what Archmage Valeterisa preached, but Montressa du Valeross didn’t really understand what she meant. Not at first.

After a month of the Archmage of Izril’s company, Montressa began to understand everything.

 

——

 

Montressa remembered being a new student at Wistram. All nerves, high-pitched voice—or so it felt—and uncertainty. Everyone felt like they were ten levels higher than you, and a 3rd-year student seemed like a full [Mage].

Of course, that was due to the unfamiliarity with how everything worked. Later, she began to separate the false pretenders from the [Mages] with actual talent. She identified the gifted students, those who could parse a Tier 4 spell while everyone was still sounding out the name.

It hadn’t helped that she’d had terrible role models. Not that Pisces, Beatrice, Calvaron, and Ceria had been bad students. Far from it; even Calvaron, the ‘laziest’ of the lot in that he was a Secret Broker, had been a good magic-user. Pisces?

Pisces had taught himself [Invisibility] in a month. Ceria had won an apprenticeship from Illphres, the first apprentice the [Cryomancer] had ever taken seriously.

In hindsight. In…memorandum, they should have all graduated and gone on to do great things. Nevermind the fact that some of them had; even Beatrice was—had been—Archmage Nailihuaile’s personal assistant.

It should have gone better. Montressa still remembered how they felt, the days after Pisces and Ceria had been expelled. Everyone had known her name, then. She had been the outcast that no one wanted to teach or associate with.

In Montressa’s 3rd year as a student of Wistram, she had, desperate to reinvent herself, taken a roommate.

Cognita assigned rooms to new students, and Wistram was so large that roommates were not a requirement, but there was a social element to such things. Lizardfolk got lonely, and in response to some students becoming isolated [Hermits], the Council had long ago instituted the option for a [Mage] to take a roommate.

They got a nicer, larger suite, and there were perks like getting an occasional ticket to get room service from a Golem, or bonus allowances for an older [Mage] who showed a 1st or 2nd-year the ropes.

Montressa had volunteered for the program, mainly in the hopes of establishing a good name among the 1st years before her past caught up with her. She had been nervous, ready to sponsor a few special meals, introduce her new roommate around the academy, and bribe her if need be.

What Montressa had not expected was for a six-foot-tall Minotauress to come striding into the rooms, introduce herself as Bezale of Maweil, and ask for Montressa to show her to Zelkyr’s Final Test. Bezale had been…a challenge.

Not that the Minotauress didn’t have her own issues with Montressa as a roommate. She had occasionally pointed them out to Montressa, much to the [Aegiscaster]’s shock.

For instance, Montressa, apparently, snored. So badly that Bezale, despite them sharing adjoining rooms in the same set of chambers, had had to sleep with her head under her pillow until she’d learned to cast [Silence]. Also, Montressa had, since growing up in House Valeross, never considered how annoying her hair was.

In that Bezale—a Minotaur, granted—objected to finding Montressa’s red strands of hair everywhere. Spellbooks, breakfast bowls—Montressa had no idea how it happened, but she had a suspicion growing up with a personal [Maidservant] made one miss certain lessons about personal hygiene.

By contrast, Bezale’s faults were her strident personality, constant requests for you to find her an esoteric book if you happened to be by the library—and return six books at once—and forcing Montressa into doing pushups on the beach as the tide rolled in at the break of dawn.

Needless to say, they were great friends. Montressa missed being with Bezale dearly; they had been an excellent team, both magical and personality-wise. However, Bezale was running a new business in Invrisil, and Montressa…

Montressa was realizing that her new apprenticeship under Archmage Valeterisa would make them the student and teacher of legends, or end with her throwing herself into a well.

If a six-foot Minotauress was a decent roommate with some flaws, Valeterisa was the roommate from below Rhir’s hells. The one that you didn’t hear about because all her other roommates had vanished or been taken into a [Healer]’s custody.

Case in point. Thirty-one days into acting as Valeterisa’s personal apprentice, assistant, manager, and, yes, roommate since the Archmage of Izril was constantly on the move, Montressa received an unhappy revelation.

“Archmage Valeterisa. Can you…repeat yourself?”

Montressa swallowed her breakfast, hard. She looked across their campsite as the magical tent they’d had to share began to fold up. Little, shadowy figures darted around it, yanking up tent pegs and clumsily folding the tent into the bag from which it had come.

[Shadow Familiars]. A kind of summoned creature similar to a Golem or Elemental, and dumber than both. They had no real personality and definitely no actual soul; they just hovered there until you told them to do something. Attack a Troll, clean up a spill—which they would do until their mana ran out.

Perfect for a busy person like Valeterisa, and a nightmare for anyone subjected to their idiocy. Like Salamani, the Mage Runner, who had nearly perished in the way of hundreds of others as the Shadow Familiars captured each person trying to meet with Archmage Valeterisa. They had orders to strip each victim of gear, heal their wounds, and feed them until Valeterisa could see to them, even dealing with water, changes of clothes, and the needs of the privy.

It was just…the Shadow Familiars had faithfully taken portions of food from the storehouse and fed the prisoners until they’d run out of food. Afterwards, they’d just pushed dust into the cells as the victims of Valeterisa’s mansion expired.

Still, they could pack up a tent, and good thing too, because Montressa had her hands full in the mornings. A figure sat across from her, barely responding as she poked vaguely at a bowl with a spoon. Her hair was grey, although the roots had the same blue as Lady Ieka Imarris’, her niece. She was thin, not by an obsessive diet, but more from forgetting to eat. Valeterisa was…surprisingly ordinary until you looked into her eyes, which appeared to be distant clouds, also blue and grey, as deep as could be.

The thing that marked her was her robes. They were the Archmage of Izril’s robes and whirled around her, a deep green laced with grey across the midsection at a diagonal angle. The top was embroidered with the crests of the Five Families, the bottom of the robes surrounded by the Six Walled Cities of Izril.

Compromise. Balance. Valeterisa was Izril’s only Archmage, and the crests were colorful; her robes were enchanted with so many spells they were the highest-grade artifact you could get in the modern era before becoming a Relic of their own.

She was the greatest spellcaster short of a true [Archmage], for that matter. Valeterisa was a [Grand Magus], which was, in a general sense, the penultimate stepping stone before [Archmage], as Montressa understood things.

[Apprentice] or [Hedge Mage] or [Spellcaster], the many classes of the self-taught, became a full [Mage], [Magus], or [Sorcerer] with training. They evolved to specialties, like [Wizard], [Druid], [Pyromancer], and so on. But [High Mage] was denoted as a further step towards power. From there, [Grand Magus] was the next step before [Archmage] became the symbol of true mastery recognized worldwide. There were higher classes, but Wistram still used the term ‘Archmage’ because of how it was perceived by all.

Valeterisa was, in her own words, a Level 52 [Grand Magus]. Her exact class was [Grand Magus of Mind and Studies]. A fitting class for someone whose specialty was research and who had obtained the famous [Parallel Thoughts] Skill that had nearly killed her, a prisoner of her own mind and a research that had taken eight years of her life.

She had no other class. Even Montressa was a [Lady], but Valeterisa had devoted her entire life to her sole class. It was, then, ironic that a girl from Earth had nearly reached her level within a year. But Erin Solstice was, to Valeterisa, an anomaly, as were all the Earthers. Plus, even in the old ages, Level 50 had still been a respected milestone; levelling grew infinitely harder past that.

Back to Valeterisa. The Archmage of Izril, the great [Mage] who had allowed Montressa to act as her assistant, handle the chores of the mundane world—sat, poking a spoon into the table repeatedly.

She got to the bowl of cereal after twenty-five tries. Then she vaguely scooped out some of the grains, stuck them into her mouth, and chewed. She did all this without once looking away from the book she was reading. It floated in front of Valeterisa; sometimes, she read it one-handed, but when she recalled she could, she had them float.

Her other hand was busy penning a reply on a [Message] scroll. Valeterisa could write legibly enough without looking, and one of her many thought processes was clearly devoted to writing a letter. Montressa pitied whomever it was; Valeterisa seldom devoted enough energy to more than her form-polite responses.

“Archmage Valeterisa. Archmage Valeterisa. Archmage—”

“Hm? What was the question…Montressa?”

She remembered Montressa’s name! It had taken three weeks, and Montressa wished she didn’t feel a surge of pride at being acknowledged. Twice now, she’d woken up to find Valeterisa aiming a wand at her, prepared to blast her to oblivion until she recalled the young woman sleeping there was her apprentice, not a thief or some kind of incredible [Lecher].

“Archmage Valeterisa, please tell me you didn’t just say what I think you did.”

The woman paused, glanced up, and put a finger to her head.

“Hm. [Rewind Memory]. I said I do not change my clothing or apparel unless something is frayed. That is correct.”

“Including your undergarments?”

Valeterisa took a longer moment in replying. She reached for some tea, took a sip, and made no face whatsoever. It was just…food. She ate because she had to.

“I foresee more unnecessary changes in my life.”

Archmage! How long have you worn that set of underwear?

Valeterisa gave Montressa a curious look, like this was some kind of trap. She raised a few fingers, and Montressa heard her counting out loud to her horror.

“Four, five…is this a worthy use of our time, apprentice? You could be learning a spell.”

“Humor me.”

Montressa breathed. Valeterisa sighed.

“There was a ball in which Ieka had me dress up. So…eight months.”

Eight months!?

Montressa’s shriek roused a few birds from around the warded campsite. They were camped in a grove of trees Valeterisa had decided to land in on their journey across Izril. The Archmage raised a finger and clarified.

“I was not finished. Eight months, eight years.”

Even Pisces Jealnet himself might have hesitated when faced with this revelation. But Valeterisa watched as Montressa tried to put as much space between herself and her mentor as possible.

“I hardly see the need to overreact, Montressa. I am perfectly clean. I cast [Cleanse] every night and morning.”

“It is the principle of the thing, Archmage!”

“Ah, yes. Principles. The very same reason you would have me write a response to every missive I receive and perform social functions nonstop.”

“Anyone who is a [Merchant] or above Level 30! Social functions? Greeting a Guildmaster at a Mage’s Guild is not hard.”

Valeterisa blinked sleepily at Montressa. She stared as the [Aegiscaster] launched into another rant—and then put on a huge, fake smile. She sat up, propped her head on her hands, and Montressa broke off.

“Archmage. Archmage.

“Yes, fascinating. I take your point and will amend my ways.”

Archmage, please don’t use your fake greeting personality on me.”

Valeterisa’s fake smile turned into a brief scowl of annoyance.

“Drat.”

Like it or not, Montressa was getting to know her teacher. Unfortunately, the same went for Valeterisa. Neither one had been sure of the other at first, and there had been hiccups. But now, Valeterisa pondered Montressa and nodded slowly.

“A change of clothing. If it truly elicits such a reaction from you, this may be a faux paus that can be used against me in social engagements. Especially by [Rumormongers] or [Socialites].”

“I…that’s correct.”

Montressa faltered. It amazed her when Valeterisa did this, but the Archmage of Izril wasn’t helpless, just careless. She had risen to Archmage in Wistram, and so Valeterisa mused onwards.

“I also take your point, unhappily, about the social impact of a pleasant greeting and due diligence with regard to replying to missives. Therefore. Apprentice Montressa, you will perform all these tasks for me. Arrange a new set of clothing when we come to our next stop, and I will trust you to reply to all my letters and greet everyone in my name.”

Montressa’s head thunked onto the table. The worst part of working for Valeterisa was that she was intelligent enough to figure out ways to push all her work onto Montressa’s back. Valeterisa went back to eating.

The [Aegiscaster] went back to inserting the wild raspberries she’d gathered into her cereal. Cereal and milk was not, actually, a regular breakfast food in this world.

Porridge? Grains? Certainly, certainly, but Montressa knew Earth customs, hence her copying the breakfast format. It helped that Valeterisa wasn’t a picky eater; as long as Montressa had some cereal grains and milk, and it kept reasonably well, they could have breakfast and source lunch and dinner.

And for all Montressa’s understandable problems with Valeterisa, there were some perks of working for her. For instance, as both women finished eating, Valeterisa pointed at their table.

“Done? Familiars, clean the table.”

The shadowy ‘imps’, with vague tails and horns, flitted forwards and snatched the bowls and utensils. They tossed everything into a bag of holding as Valeterisa pointed.

“[Cleanse]. [Cleanse]. [Cleanse]. [Cleanse].”

Two bowls, two spoons. Valeterisa paused and made a face.

“Note to self: learn [Mass Cleanse] now that I have an apprentice. Four castings is inefficient. Are we ready to leave, Montressa?”

“Almost, Archmage. Let me check the campsite…”

Montressa hurried around. They had only made a fire and put out the tent, foldable table, and other camping goods, but she always checked that Valeterisa hadn’t left a book or something behind. Or they’d be wasting an entire day to get it, and Valeterisa hated wasting time.

Not that she didn’t mind spending a lot of time and effort to a purpose. Hence them camping out here anyways; Valeterisa had been laying another teleportation sigil down. She was growing increasingly picky about finding spots where they would be unnoticed and undisturbed, especially past Liscor in the south of Izril.

“Ready to go, Archmage!”

“Good. [Levitation].”

Valeterisa touched Montressa’s shoulder, and the young woman felt her feet leave the ground. But not because Valeterisa had made Montressa fly.

[Accelerate Spell: Levitation]. [Windward Barrier: Self]. [Lightform Platform, Dais]. [Invisible Spectrum]. And…

“Towing, towing, Archmage!”

“Yes, yes. [Anchor Spell: Self].”

Valeterisa finally let go of Montressa, and the invisible platform of light moved as she flew forwards. Montressa saw their campsite, a small clearing, turn into a stand of trees amidst which frightened starlings were screaming as the Archmage of Izril and her apprentice emerged. She sat carefully as Valeterisa began to pick up speed.

Then they were soaring down from the mountain range that stretched down around the southeast of Izril. They were only in the foothills, and the mountains quickly turned into the northern cliffs: sharp drops caused by continual erosion. From there, the land widened, and Izril’s south truly began.

Valeterisa flew higher and higher until they were at a dizzying height. Montressa already felt sick, but she knew the dais was fairly large. And—the Archmage was flying this high up for a reason.

Consider Valeterisa. She was no Xrn of the Free Antinium, no great being that defined an entire species. Nor was she Feor, a famous name by deed and his own magic. She had largely been forgotten, and even with her return, Grand Magus Eldavin, now Archmage Eldavin, had overshadowed her by far.

He was capable of casting [Flight]; there were other [Mages] of similar calibers, like Silvenia, the Death of Magic. Valeterisa could only [Levitate]. Yet Montressa had learned to respect Valeterisa’s methods.

“Archmage. Why do we fly high all the time?”

Valeterisa glanced sideways as Montressa called out. It was time to begin lessons, it seemed, but they weren’t always magic. She responded, as if it were only natural.

“Why, because the higher I go, the more distance I travel.”

“Really?”

Valeterisa gave Montressa a strange look.

“An arrow flies farther the higher you aim it. It follows flight is the same, even if I produce my own velocity. I suspect altitude matters when flying. I have observed birds climbing for altitude; that they do not always skim across the ground makes me suspect that height matters for efficient transit in the air. Garuda fly higher for the same reason. Height matters in flying.”

“It…does? Why would it? Air is air.”

Montressa was a bright student of Wistram, a few years past graduation, but she was still a [Mage]. She did not consider distance a function of altitude. Valeterisa, by contrast, gave Montressa a look as if she were an idiot.

“It is my observation that higher altitudes decrease the time to my destination. I believe the factors may include a lack of air resistance higher up, but I have never quantified that theory. Let us observe the phenomenon directly.”

With that she dove, and Montressa yelped as they skimmed over the treetops until it opened up into rocky ground. A few Rock Golems turned to stare up at the Archmage and Montressa for ten minutes, then Valeterisa climbed straight up until she was so high Montressa was able to see the clouds just overhead. She flew and then had Montressa calculate their relative distances.

Montressa had to do that with a light-magic spell, which projected a ray of light and, upon hitting a target, told you how long it had taken for it to reach the target. But since it was so fast, you had to memorize a formula which you converted the number into.

That was how you came up with the [Measure Distance] spell. Montressa was forced to learn it as Valeterisa hovered in the air, impatiently correcting Montressa’s magical math. The answer, when it came, was that they had covered about 28% more distance using a higher altitude.

It was an interesting lesson. And Montressa learned a new spell!

Huzzah…? The [Aegiscaster] wondered when she’d need to use [Measure Distance] in her life. But that was Valeterisa for her. No spell was wasted, and she studied mathematics along with magic.

Valeterisa could read every single known writing script in the world, from Drake to Human to Drathian. She was as much a [Scholar] as [Mage], and it separated her from a lot of Wistram’s graduates.

Like Ceria. Love her or hate her…the half-Elf was, uh, not a scholarly type. She cast magic with excellent memorization, but part of the skillset that went into a [Mage] of her and Illphres’ type was aim; composing their ice to be properly cold, balanced, and shaped; and concentration.

Like [Pyromancers]. Some of them made fire hot. They didn’t care that fire required oxygen to breathe for most spells.

Valeterisa did. It fascinated her, the interplay between physics and magic. Some [Mages] were idiots whose answer to everything was [Fireball]. Valeterisa stood on the other end of that ideal, and that was the reason she was, well, an Archmage.

She was one of the few people who could push magic forwards or rediscover what had been lost. Yes, a natural, instinctual [Mage] could invent a new type of spell, but Valeterisa’s magic was exceptionally complex.

Just like [Measure Distance]. Montressa appreciated the lessons Valeterisa taught. She had felt like she was straying from the path of true magic into mundanity—and a lot of alcohol.

Valeterisa was pulling her back to her roots. Not that the Archmage of Izril could spend all the time she wanted in her mansion. She actually conducted a lot of business these days.

 

——

 

“Eight years. Eight years of neglected duties. I am getting tired of travel. Apprentice, do you think the Walled Cities would accept you in my stead?”

“Er, no, Archmage. At least, not for this.

A few hours had passed since their morning and breakfast. Montressa glanced up from penning another [Message] to a [Merchant]. She regretted her comments to Valeterisa already. She had written eleven apologies to [Merchants] who had been selling Valeterisa’s latest magical puzzle. Only, the dratted Archmage hadn’t told them it required magic to solve, so they wanted refunds.

Valeterisa was famous for her failed business ventures. Like the poor House of El…well, it was all for a goal. Meetings, travel—she needed money for spellbooks and her research. It was just that Valeterisa’s ideas for making money didn’t always pan out. The Kaalblades, on the other hand—that was a substantial sum coming into her coffers of late.

They were coming to a city. Or rather, a mountain placed incongruously far from the mountain range proper. Yet again, Montressa admired the Walled City of Salazsar. The City of Gems was still constructing itself out of the mountainside, and it was half-done, to look at it. Spires of gleaming stone rose high above the common folk, each one a company’s property, while the mines stretched deep into the gem-rich strata.

Valeterisa descended with Montressa, on time for her appointment. She was only delayed by the Watch being really unhappy to spot her in their airspace. Montressa spent a few tense minutes telling them it was Valeterisa—again. Then she landed as Drakes and Gnolls gathered, staring at the absent woman reading a spellbook.

Montressa looked around for a Drake from House Gemscale who was hurrying to direct them to their appointment, and Valeterisa nearly flew up to the tower rather than walk.

The second delay was the challenge.

Archmage of Izril! I challenge you to a duel!

“Ah, another random encounter.”

Montressa saw Valeterisa close her book with a sigh. The Archmage glanced up as a furious Drake wearing fiery red robes—and holding an equally flaming staff—planted himself in the street. Instantly, the Watch and other passersby moved back.

“A what?

“These events do find me. Monsters. Dueling [Mages]. Wars. I term them ‘random encounters’. I get them on a rather regular basis. They are predictably random.”

“You mean…people living their lives and you running across them?”

Valeterisa gave Montressa a genuinely pleased smile.

“You do understand. But it’s how they intersect with my life that I try to mitigate. Hello, are you attempting to kill me?”

The Drake floundered as Valeterisa swung towards him. He lifted the staff.

No, and don’t you dare hide behind the Watch! I am Magus Fyres of Salazsar! I spit in your face, Valeterisa of Izril! A true Archmage is a master of magic—and combat! Face me!

Montressa began to get what this Drake was on about. He wanted credit for knocking down the slim Valeterisa, who, indeed, looked like a breeze might send her sprawling. She was famously bookish, and Archmage Feor had once nearly fallen to Grimalkin of Pallass in a duel.

Even a great [Mage] was not necessarily adventurer-material, and this looked like a combat-[Mage]. No guesses as to what his specialty was.

“Archmage Valeterisa is not accepting duels!

Montressa had three barrier spells ready and was looking around for Salazsar’s Watch. But again—Valeterisa surprised her. She peered at the Drake.

“A [Pyromancer]? Oh. Ignore her. I accept. Shall we begin? What are the rules? Do I win your staff if I beat you? I will wager…my clothes. Underwear included.”

“Wh—really? Your clothes?

The Drake, Fyres, was clearly unprepared for her to accept so readily. He’d probably hoped to egg her into a duel, but now the audience was murmuring.

“A duel?”

No magical battles on the streets!

A nervous [Guard] called out, but Valeterisa gave Montressa a vague gesture.

“My apprentice will seal the area. Apprentice. Do we have a deal?”

“The robes of an Archmage for my staff?”

Fyres looked confused—but eager. Montressa edged over.

“Archmage, he looks like he’s decent. He might be a Gold-rank adventurer—he’s at least a Level 30 [Pyromancer]!”

She was worried about Valeterisa, whose reflexes and combat abilities were an unknown. Yes, she had famously surprised Eldavin in a fight and taken part in the battle at the Meeting of Tribes, but she was no Amerys. Yet Valeterisa simply waved Montressa off.

“My robes and underwear.”

“No, I don’t need that—”

Fyres croaked, but the audience was muttering.

“That’s Fyres? What is he doing with that Human?”

“Trying to strip her naked, it sounds like.”

What?

Montressa tried not to laugh at the poor Drake. Either way, his reputation was now damaged, but she was casting a wide barrier spell as he spluttered. Valeterisa stood there, chewing on a fingernail, as Fyres lifted his staff.

“Someone count us down!”

“Archmage?”

“Yes, count.”

Too late to stop. An eager Drake began the count, and Montressa waited for Valeterisa to do something. She had a wand, a good one, but she had no grand artifact, like Nailihuaile’s Serkonian Lance, to focus through. How good was she at fighting…?

“—two, one—”

Fyres exploded into an attack so fast Montressa didn’t see it. His spell left his flaming staff and flashed across the ground. It was—she realized as the explosion sent her stumbling back, even though the barrier caught the force, if not light and sound—

A [Fast Fireball]. Probably pre-charged in his staff. As opening spells went—that would kill most Silver-ranks outright. It was dirty, and Montressa opened her mouth to scream when she saw Valeterisa.

Faced with the combat-trained Drake, Valeterisa was…lying on the ground, coughing soot and wiping it out of her eyes.

“Ow.”

You pre-cast those barrier spells! Foul!

Valeterisa lifted a hand as Fyres howled. He cast another spell, and a ball of fire lashed out, but it struck Valeterisa harmlessly; the force of the [Fireball] had knocked her over. He sent a spray of Tier 3 [Fire Orbs] at Valeterisa, but they struck a slightly glowing sheen of magic covering her.

She was an Archmage. But Fyres just loaded a second [Fast Fireball], and he began calling an even more powerful spell as Montressa bit her tongue. The second [Fireball] was already shooting out across the dueling ground as Valeterisa managed her first spell.

“[Remo—”

Whumph. She went spinning across the ground as the second [Fireball] kicked her like a mule. Valeterisa sat up, looking dizzy, her spectacles askew.

“I regret this. I may vomit.”

“[Flame Pillar]!”

Fyres howled and struck his staff. Valeterisa looked down as a line of flames appeared and formed a circle around her, ten feet wide. She muttered as she pointed a finger down.

“[Lesser T—”

Again, the pillar of fire hit her faster than her spell. Valeterisa ignited as the audience winced, and then she popped into position ten feet away. This time—she looked singed.

Her barrier spells had saved her from two fireballs and a hail of flames, but the pillar was a step too far. Valeterisa winced, and Fyres’ smile was wide and delighted. He was panting—a bit—but his opening was on par with any of Ceria’s attacks.

Montressa’s hands were clenched, nails digging into her palms.

[Pyromancers] ran hot and burnt out fast. If Valeterisa could regain her composure—but that idiot had mana potions!

“Archmage, fight back! Don’t let him keep pressing!”

Fyres glared her way, but it was sound tactics. If he had to defend himself—but Valeterisa just saw him aiming a third [Fireball] her way and raised her hands.

“[Aura Binding: Five-fold Arcane Barrier].”

She recast her barrier again, and while it was on par with one of Montressa’s best spells—the [Archmage] went skidding back.

“Yield or die! [Siege Fireball]!

Fyres had her. He raised a claw, and a powerful Tier 4 spell began gathering. It was a spell slightly beyond his abilities to instantly cast, so it appeared as a glowing orb growing larger with each second. It was soon as large as he was—twice as large—

Dead gods, he must have some kind powerful fire-enhancing Skills to go along with his magic! Montressa feared even Valeterisa’s recast barrier wouldn’t save her from that, and she was preparing an emergency spell.

But at this point, Valeterisa began fighting back. She was spitting out more soot, coughing—but her finger rose even as she staggered around.

[Parallel Thoughts]. One part of her spun off to cast and uttered a spell.

“[Dispel Magic].”

The [Siege Fireball]…winked out. Fyres blinked at his empty hand, then he hissed.

“Cheap trick! [Fast Fireb—”

“[Dispel Magic].”

Valeterisa pointed at his staff. The Drake’s eyes bulged, and he raised his staff.

“[Flame P—”

“[Dispel Magic].”

The audience watched, suddenly amused, as the onslaught of magic stopped. This time, Fyres tried to cast a Tier 2 spell, without incantations, but Valeterisa was just repeating the spell.

“[Dispel Magic]. [Dispel Magic]. [Dispel Magic]. [Dispel Magic]. [Dispel Magic]—”

Someone began laughing. Montressa watched, open-mouthed. It was stupid—but it proved clearly the difference between the two. Combat-readiness or not, Valeterisa had the technique and mana reserves to dispel Fyres at range.

It was hard, exponentially harder to use that spell the further you got, let alone on a [Mage] directly casting, but she was doing it. Fyres grew angrier and angrier as the audience laughed, but he wasn’t done. Nor was he a one-trick [Mage].

Well…he was a multi-trick [Mage], and all his tricks were ‘fire’. His eyes narrowed, and then he let go of his staff, pointed one claw at Valeterisa, swept his tail across the ground, and kicked the air lightly.

He cast four spells at the same time. Montressa’s eyes widened. A spell from his stave, one from his claw, and his tail gathered a wave of sparks that morphed into a wall of fire as his foot flicked a fourth tendril of magic out.

That was impressive! Without a catalyst, spells were harder to cast; they also ‘cost’ more mana, hence most [Mages] needing a wand. Even Ceria used her bone hand, and while Pisces could cast free-handed, he acknowledged it was less effective than a wand.

Fyres, though, needed to get some magic past Valeterisa’s counterspells. And she got three of his attacks. The fourth—

The kick of the tail morphed into a [Fire Orb] that shot at Valeterisa’s face. It didn’t strike her; she had her barrier redeployed. Instead, it burst in a dazzling spray of flame and smoke that blinded Valeterisa. She blinked, lost focus—and Fyres aimed his staff at her.

“[Rivet-Lance of Flames].”

No!

Montressa saw him cast his trump-card, drawing on his stave to send the Tier 5 spell straight at Valeterisa. The Archmage blinked at a lethal jet of white-hot flames aimed at her, a barrier-breaking molten spell—

It fizzled out. Fyres stared at his staff. He blinked. Then he began gulping hard. He spoke in a choked voice.

“What—[Fireball]—”

He pointed again, and Montressa saw his staff spark—then suddenly stop, as if the magic were dead. But Valeterisa hadn’t cast [Dispel Magic]. She had flinched when he went for his final spell, but now she watched with an academic interest.

“Ah, it does work.”

Fyres was clawing at his throat. Eyes bulging. It took Montressa a moment to understand what was going on, then she realized.

There wasn’t any air. The [Mage] toppled to his knees, gagging, trying to breathe, but suddenly his magic and, indeed, lungs were betraying him! Valeterisa stood, thoughtful, then she clicked her fingers.

“Well, that was disappointing. I thought he’d produce some fire that didn’t rely on air. Perhaps it is a viable strategy after all? But I didn’t enjoy getting knocked about for a few minutes. I need more of a quick dispersal. A vacuum?”

Fyres inhaled, and the confused crowd saw Valeterisa turn, sigh, and rub at her back with a wince. At this, someone demanded to know what was going on, and it fell to Montressa to explain as Fyres gulped air.

But what had happened? She had a vague idea, but Valeterisa elaborated.

“Oxygen. A component of air, or so [Alchemists] tell me. I met a naked Drake who once told me that most non-magical flames need air to burn. The concept is thus simple: any fire can be defeated by removing the air. I tested my theory with this helpful [Mage], but it seems as though the method is too slow. Also—magical flames do exist. Apprentice, healing potion.”

She looked rather disgruntled, and Montressa suspected getting burnt hadn’t been the plan, but Valeterisa had risked her life for that idea. She brightened up when she realized she would get the staff, though. Montressa was just about to lower her barriers when Fyres sprang to his feet.

I haven’t lost yet! I neither yielded nor fell, you—you treacherous cheater!”

“I cast that spell at the beginning of our encounter. You were about to asphyxiate.”

Valeterisa looked annoyed. Fyres raised his staff, and Montressa saw a dangerous blue flame gathering in his claws and the staff.

“I don’t know what that word means, but this battle isn’t over. Have at you!

He snarled and lunged, claws burning. Valeterisa’s eyes narrowed.

“Very well.”

“[Blue Blaze]!”

“[Howl of the Blizzard]. [Deathbolt]. [Chain L—]”

The last spell went thwoom as it struck the magical shield in the air. Crackling bolts of lightning blasted Montressa’s spell apart, and the [Aegiscaster] staggered in the backlash, but Valeterisa stopped casting and glanced irritably at her. Then she looked up.

The audience throughout the battle had been mocking Fyres, cheering on Valeterisa, then laughing—then asking in confusion what the trick had been. When he’d gone for round two, they’d been shouting in excitement or calling him down.

Now—they were silent. Silent, because as Montressa’s barriers flickered away, the puddle of red robes and frost-covered Drake was lying on his face. He had dropped his staff, and Montressa pulled herself up and wondered if he was dead.

He wasn’t moving. Valeterisa strode forwards as a cone of ice made the ground crack with the sudden temperature change. She slipped, frowned, then levitated up an inch. She pointed, and the staff flew into her hands. Valeterisa inspected it, shrugged, and tucked it into her bag of holding. She then began to float upwards, leaving the stricken Fyres behind.

Was he dead? Montressa hurried forwards as someone shouted for a [Healer]. She bent down and heard a rasping breath.

Not dead. Frostbitten and almost—the [Deathbolt] hadn’t killed him, high-level as he was. The lightning would almost have definitely done so. Montressa gazed up, shaken, as a Watch [Sergeant] arrived at the scene and saw the damaged street, unnerved bystanders, and fallen [Pyromancer]. He glanced up to see Valeterisa flying ahead, and, with commendable foresight, placed a claw on Montressa’s shoulder before she could slink off.

 

——

 

Guess which faithful apprentice had to sort out that mess? Montressa had to explain the circumstances with witnesses, file paperwork for the Watch’s records, pay a fine for the street, and pay for the street-cleaning service. She would have washed the damn flagstones herself, but she just wanted to find Valeterisa.

Then she had to talk her way into the Gemstone tower and get directions to Valeterisa’s meeting with a Wall Lord Ilvriss, which most of the company was not aware was going on. But for a Gnollish [Administrator] who personally came down to retrieve her, she might have been arguing for hours at the front desk.

“Archmage Valeterisa didn’t mention me?”

“I don’t believe she recalled, Mage Montressa. She is speaking to the Wall Lord in the Gemscale family’s personal apartments. Just across that bridge; the guards are aware you are coming, now.”

By the time Montressa arrived, it was forty-one minutes later. A fact Valeterisa informed her of.

“I was nearly about to leave, apprentice. [Message] me next time you have personal business.”

“I did!

“You did? Ah. So you did. I was devoting all my attention to the Wall Lord’s discussion. I will have some projections for you…um, by the end of the week. My apprentice will remind me.”

Valeterisa turned and put a huge smile on her face, and Montressa saw a familiar purple-scaled Drake wearing an expression of pure sympathy. Ilvriss turned it into a smile as Valeterisa bowed to him.

“Thank you, Archmage. Your fee will be waiting for you upon delivery of your first projections. May I ask about my second offer?”

Valeterisa hmmed.

“Staying? I have a mansion which I am eager to return to. Frankly, having seen the Meeting of Tribes and Belavierr…I have had some interesting, nay, fascinating insights from those ghosts who were capable of such a mass-terraforming spell, but all the [Shamans] appear to be too busy to answer [Message] spells. Or dead. I do not know if I have business that will keep me in the south long enough for your undisclosed matters of Salazsar’s security.”

Ilvriss winced with each sentence Valeterisa uttered, starting with ‘Belavierr’. From the look he and his surly, blue-scaled bodyguard shot Montressa—this was clearly private. Unfortunately, as he seemed to know full well by now, Valeterisa was a leaking faucet. Attached to a sieve.

“Please give it as much thought as possible, Archmage. I am prepared to be exceedingly generous. And discretion—”

“I have committed it to my most secret categorization, Wall Lord. Mentally.”

Valeterisa smiled again, and Ilvriss looked at Montressa. He bowed slightly.

“Mage Montressa, I believe?”

“Yes, Wall Lord? I mean—yes! I don’t know if we’ve ever met, personally?”

Montressa didn’t think so, aside from the Meeting of Tribes, and that had been a battlefield. But he clearly knew her name, and she had a sinking feeling she knew from where. Ilvriss gave her a curt nod.

“I have heard your name from The Wandering Inn. A slight unpleasantness…which I was pleased to note was resolved. I hope everyone is well, Erin Solstice especially? Did you have the chance to see her after her resurrection…?”

He sounded hopeful and nostalgic, and Montressa was sorry to shake her head.

“I’m afraid I left before that, Wall Lord, but I have heard from a friend, Bezale, that she is mobile. On two legs, even.”

“I did hear about that. Excellent recovery…I don’t know if you are planning on staying in Salazsar tonight? I should like to invite you—invite you both to dine with me if you have time.”

The Drake smiled, and Montressa’s mouth watered at the idea of cooked, fine food, and someone as sane-sounding as him. Plus, he clearly held Erin in some regard! But then her heart sank as both she and Ilvriss looked at Valeterisa.

She was fidgeting, like a child clearly bored with the conversation. Now, she broke in hurriedly.

“I regret to say that is impossible, Wall Lord. We will be flying out immediately. With all due plaudits for your offer.”

“We will? I mean—yes, Archmage. At once. Wall Lord, I am so sorry…”

He lifted a claw as Valeterisa nodded to the nearest balcony. He leaned over and shook her hand as he murmured.

“Not at all. Or rather, I should say, the apologies are all mine. For…your sacrifice.”

 

——

 

Montressa gave him a wan smile, and then she was striding to catch up with Valeterisa. The two were flying from Salazsar’s balcony, and Ilvriss swore he heard Montressa begging the Watch not to shoot them down as they exited the City of Gems as fast as they’d arrived.

He turned to Shield Captain Osthia. The Drake was watching Montressa go with much the same expression Ilvriss feared was plastered on his face.

“And that was the first [Mage] you hoped to recruit, Wall Lord? I hope we have…backups?”

Osthia was tactful, but she couldn’t hide how off-putting she’d found Valeterisa. Ilvriss sighed, rubbed at his neck-scales, and cursed quietly.

“A few. But she was the best one. All this time—wasted? Perhaps we’ll get lucky.”

His tone suggested how likely he thought that was. Osthia hesitated and then peered at Ilvriss.

“May I ask why the Archmage of Izril, Wall Lord? From the sounds of her ‘duel’ earlier, she didn’t seem the most capable, and there are fine spellcasters across Izril, if not so famous. Fissival, for instance, although that’s tricky.”

Ilvriss nodded. He threw himself into a chair and was somewhat glad Montressa hadn’t taken him up on his offer. He’d have had to reshuffle a meeting with Salazsar’s [Generals], and that would have been a bad look.

After all—Salazsar was at war with Fissival. He’d struck the first damn blow at the Meeting of Tribes, and while their armies weren’t marching into open combat yet, all trade had ceased and both cities were calling on their allies.

Actions had consequences. He would have to pay for his, but he didn’t regret what he’d done. Ilvriss answered Osthia curtly as he rubbed at his forehead.

“She might not be the most ideal candidate in some—many respects, but there was one reason I wanted her, Osthia.”

“Which is?”

Ilvriss glanced thoughtfully out the window. The Archmage of Izril had already vanished, and she should have been visible for miles. Interesting.

“…Of all the [Mages] you could name, she truly is a daughter of Izril. North and south. She belongs to a noble house in the north, but she grew up in a Walled City. Scatterbrained she might seem, but she would be a cunning ally. I think.”

 

——

 

Ilvriss was not wrong. Nor was he completely right. Valeterisa teleported Montressa and herself within minutes of leaving his tower, just as soon as she left Salazsar’s aegis that prevented hostile teleportation spells.

They popped into the air, and Montressa nearly threw up—then saw the same damn campsite they’d been at this morning!

Well, it proved Valeterisa’s new teleportation network was in order. She’d laid spots across the continent and could now leapfrog across Izril. It wasn’t like Eldavin’s [Grand Teleportation] spell, but it would facilitate travel.

Archmage! I protest! I told you there are boundaries, and not only did you get me into a lot of trouble, you insulted Wall Lord Ilvriss, and now we’re on the road again? Where?

Valeterisa landed on the ground as Montressa began to shout. Even for her—this was a lot, but Valeterisa sat down on the dirt, took out Fyres’ staff, and began to inspect it, probably gauging its worth before she sold it for coin or dissected it for knowledge’s sake.

She replied slowly, but her eyes glanced up as Montressa glared. Even Valeterisa had to wait to recharge her mana after a teleport.

“We’re heading to Fissival next. I haven’t been home in years. Not that it’s home. And I left because that Wall Lord made me nervous. He wants me to train his [Mages], arm them with Tier 4-5 spells. Scrolls they can learn from. High-power magic. And he wanted me to accompany him into a sealed magic room and discuss something top-secret. Possibly treasonous? He offered me four hundred thousand gold pieces to listen and agree to a number of top-tier privacy spells.”

“He…he did?”

Montressa’s rage evaporated, and she listened. Valeterisa glanced up sharply, and Montressa realized she was in a rare opportunity to talk to all of the Archmage of Izril at once.

“Yes. The room was cunningly disguised, and I detected no more high-level individuals present, but it would have rendered me vulnerable the moment I entered. His business may have simply been a plot for power; Ilvriss has a reputation for financial and political acumen. However, it may have been that my refusal would have ended with an attempt on my life or a blood-sealed agreement. It spoke of a trap.”

Wall Lord Ilvriss? Montressa couldn’t quite believe it, but she didn’t know him that well. It was just—Erin talked favorably about him.

“Perhaps he was paranoid?”

Valeterisa nodded instantly.

“Perhaps. There are countless scenarios, and I am running through them now. But most of them place me in a form of danger I do not seek. Top of the list is that the quote-unquote ‘secret forces’ he is training are not just to combat the Antinium.”

“He’s training secret forces?”

The Archmage shrugged.

“That is a secret. I trust you to keep it private given your background at Wistram. Yes. My top projects include him forming a task force to either strike the Antinium directly, some other threat like the north…or murder the King of Destruction. That is one of the individuals who would require someone of my level, in which case I would be handpicked to oppose Amerys. Far from ideal.”

Any of those ideas sounded outlandish, but Valeterisa sounded like she was considering them all. Montressa laughed weakly, trying to play it off. She was no stranger to Wistram’s shenanigans, but this was…a bit too much. Even for Ullsinoi.

“Archmage, I’m no stranger to the Academy’s cloak-and-dagger. Dead gods, I’ve even worked for Nailihuaile, and she has…some cold-blood maneuvers, even for a Lamia. Or had. But how likely is it you’d be part of one of those operations?”

Valeterisa sat there, fiddling with the staff, then tossed it into the air. It floated towards Montressa, and the young woman caught it instinctively. It felt hot, and she wondered if it were magicore or something stronger in the staff. It was nicer than her staff, even if the fire-element wasn’t her style.

“Eight years ago…no, it’s nine and two months. I was approached by [Assassins] for recruitment into the Circle of Thorns. I witnessed their reemergence shortly after my awakening. It would have been extremely unfortunate to be part of a poisoning attempt against House Veltras or have that blackmail me into further actions. I have been asked, privately, by numerous individuals if I would consider casting spells to kill the King of Destruction while he slumbered for the last twenty years. Attack the Antinium. Murder Feor. I make a point of checking my involvement in any dangerous plans.”

She gave Montressa a long stare, and the [Aegiscaster] gulped, hard. Murder Archmage Feor? Valeterisa nodded to the staff.

“That is yours. You need a better staff. We should reach Fissival in two days of flying. I wish to return home.”

The sudden change of topic caught Montressa off-guard. She scrambled to her feet.

“Do we have more business, Archmage? I thought we were done.”

Her schedule for Valeterisa only included activities in the north, but the Archmage clearly had one last place to visit. Interestingly, the Archmage of Izril hesitated. It seemed natural she might want to visit the famous City of Magic, even if it was the most remote of all the Walled Cities, far east along the coast of the continent. Remote via trade ships, which had usually preferred the western approach, and geographically, unlike Pallass, Oteslia, and Zeres, which all occupied roughly the middle of the continent.

Yet Valeterisa cast her gaze eastwards and took her time replying. When she did look at Montressa, it was all of her that looked.

“There are a few old acquaintances I wish to meet, and I will introduce you to some talented spellcasters even Wistram lacks. Most of all…”

She hesitated. Valeterisa glanced at the horizon, and her lips moved for a while before she spoke, sounding almost abashed.

“…I suppose I’m simply nostalgic. I haven’t returned since they made me an Archmage, long, long ago. It would be…fun? To visit.”

She thought about the word.

“No, not fun. But we’ll do it anyways.”

Montressa glanced at the odd expression on Valeterisa’s face. It was there for a second, a real person behind the Archmage of Izril’s blank mask, and then Valeterisa tapped her head.

“[Clear Emotions].”

She glanced at Montressa, and the look was gone. But the rest of it…Valeterisa began casting her spells again, and she spoke as they lifted into the air, heading towards the City of Magic.

“Apprentice, I notice a lack of fresh underwear. Did you forget?”

 

——

 

The Walled City of Fissival had a lot of stories about it. Every Walled City did. Montressa paid attention, but really, every nation said much the same thing.

Calanfer’s Eternal Throne never grew dark. Noelictus’ fields, a somber reflection of any other nation. Pheislant’s lighthouses, and so on. Desonis had…swamps with Hydras in them.

But they said of the Walled Cities, truly ancient pieces of architecture by any standard, that their heydays had been sights of wonder and glory, each and every day. Pallass’ forges had once supplied half a continent with steel, and while they only manufactured enough to fill half a floor with smaller foundries, Montressa had seen the old steelworks, and the elevators were new and fascinating; the aqueducts that ran uphill were marvels of engineering.

Salazsar had grown its legend, and its mines still produced rare Adamantium. Zeres, that City of Waves, had ironically also grown more notable—a giant gemstone halberd was sticking out of one of its towers.

Oteslia had a big tree. And a Dragon, but no one knew that. Fissival, now…they said of the City of Magic that it floated. Fissival flew, and it was the greatest mage school in all of Izril. In all of the world? It had always rivaled Wistram, but there had been times when Fissival eclipsed even the famous Academy of Mages. A hall of learning where the grand magics still held strong, including the teleportation network so many forgot about.

And the legends were true! Montressa du Valeross saw Fissival was indeed at the far edge of Izril’s south-eastern coast. The land rose into a plateau, a massive one bordering the ocean. Not that Fissival hugged the cliffs, but it made any attacking force—or travellers—climb the long path to Fissival, an exposed approach, or scale cliffs and attack via sea.

Ideally placed, in short, to have survived even the Antinium Wars with few threats. Because Fissival, like every Walled City, was unlike every Walled City.

Its architecture was unique. For instance, Fissival had a series of mage-towers and fortified checkpoints leading up to the city proper. They were clearly ancient towers, and as Valeterisa flew past them, Montressa saw one, sixty feet tall, slowly rotating towards her. A glowing gem warningly flashed at Valeterisa until she dove lower, and Drakes holding wands and bows shouted at the Archmage of Izril.

“Note the jade centerpiece below, apprentice? It is thought-controlled by the tower commander. It can swivel, project Tier 5 spells, and each tower has a complement of at least forty soldiers at all times—”

I see it! I see it, Archmage! Please stop antagonizing them!

Carved jade, colorful stone, and old motifs of Dragons, twisting upwards, were carved upon each tower. Each ‘eye’ of a Dragon was a gemstone, such that if the towers fired a spell, that was where they’d come from.

Interestingly…not all the Dragons looked like the ones Montressa saw in motifs in Terandrian paintings. Some were long, as if stretched, and had long, winding bodies.

“What are those, Archmage?”

“Hm? Dragons.”

“But they don’t look like regular ones—”

Valeterisa turned her head as they flew up the long path towards Fissival. She actually sounded…amused. And slightly peeved.

“Don’t be naive, apprentice. Things like that make you out to be a foreigner. Those are Dragons. Long Dragons, I believe.”

“Long…Dragons?”

It sounded like the dumbest name possible, and Montressa thought Valeterisa was kidding, but the Archmage elaborated.

“Lung Dragons? Long Dragons is the common vernacular. An old term for an extinct Dragon. Do not call them Wyrms. That would be highly rude and inaccurate. Zeres has ties with Wyrms, but Fissival does not associate with that kind of…”

She snapped her fingers vaguely as she descended to the ground to walk the last few hundred paces.

“…salt-brained, squabbling, day-drunk riff-raff. Fissival is better than Zeres.”

Montressa blinked. She had never heard Valeterisa insult anyone. But it seemed like her return home was awakening something in the Archmage of Izril. She walked faster, she seemed more focused, and while she had still blitzed Fissival’s outer defenses, her comments were not unheard.

A checkpoint of Drakes, the final barrier between travellers and entry to the city, had heard her comments. They were already waving Montressa and Valeterisa forwards past the regular wagons and people on foot, and she noticed a few giving Valeterisa nods of approval.

Nevertheless, Montressa had forgotten the dangers of coming here. She remembered very quickly as several Drakes lowered enchanted spears and their captain produced a wand which he casually aimed at the ground.

“Archmage Valeterisa of Wistram. You are a known enemy of the City of Magic for your participation in the battle at the Meeting of Tribes. State your business.”

“Visiting.”

Valeterisa stood blankly with Montressa at her side. She waited, and the Drake’s expression cued her into the issue.

“Ah, this is my apprentice, Montressa du Something. She will need to fill out the Foreigner’s paperwork and collect a visa; she has a Grade-3 Passport. How tiresome.”

The Drake looked at her, askance.

“Archmage, you slew Fissival’s combat mages in battle. Proper clearance is not the issue here.”

“Oh, that. I was hired to do that. By Wall Lord Ilvriss of Salazsar.”

“We’re at war with Salazsar!”

“And?”

Montressa was about to leap forwards, apologize, and deal with the situation, but unlike every other time, Valeterisa held an arm out and blocked her. She blinked, and her eyes lit up with some gentle amusement. She spoke quickly and produced something, though it took her a lot of digging to find the small, folded, old piece of parchment that glittered with ancient magic stamps.

“Ah, I see the issue here. You are addressing me as Archmage Valeterisa of Wistram. A foreign [Mage] and therefore an enemy of Fissival.”

“Yes.”

The Drake [Captain] gave her a long, wary look as the other travellers backed away from what seemed like another firefight. Although…it would be a short one even if Montressa and Valeterisa were ready to go, because no less than eight mage-towers had a lock on them from various distances, and Montressa was sure they had siege-class artillery spells. But Valeterisa waved something at the guards, and the mood changed.

“You are wrong. I am entering this city as Second-Class Citizen Valeterisa, current member of the Draconae Scholarium as a graduated [Mage] of the academy, no formal designation, no affiliations with any Mage Lords or Ladies. I participated in mercenary work for a rival Walled City about three weeks ago, which does not bar my entry into the city. Here are my papers.”

She presented a document to the [Captain], and Montressa’s jaw dropped along with everyone else’s. The [Captain] did a double-take, and then one of the [Soldiers] muttered.

“A Second-Class…? The Archmage of Izril was a citizen of Fissival?”

Valeterisa’s smile turned a bit sour.

“I can see I’ve continued to be forgotten. I am a Second-Class Citizen. I grew up here. I know my rights as a [Mage] under mercenary work.”

“We’re going to have to check that. This is—one second, Archmage.”

“I can sing the national anthem if you wish.”

The [Captain] did a double-take, almost laughed, gave Valeterisa a strained look, and Montressa saw his eyes flick to the other [Guards]. They muttered. Something about that joke…or maybe not a joke, had convinced them all Valeterisa was serious.

It still took nearly ten minutes for them to come back and announce that Valeterisa was allowed entry. However…Fissival still considered her a national threat due to her status and long-time absence from the Walled City of Magic.

Not promising. However, Valeterisa listened to the [Captain]’s carefully-worded statement and nodded.

“I am entering as a Second-Class Citizen, then?”

“Correct. Not as Archmage of Wistram. Which means you will be held to the same standards as any Second-Class Citizen.”

That didn’t sound good to Montressa. She had no idea what a Second-Class Citizen got treated like, but she bet it opened Valeterisa up to certain loopholes. What if they jailed her on trumped up charges?

Yet it seemed like Valeterisa knew Fissival. She replied steadily as she accepted the documents.

“That is acceptable. I know the laws. I remind you, however, that Wistram is aware of my visit to Fissival. I will enter the city as a citizen, but any actions taken against me will incur Wistram’s wrath.”

The Drakes glanced at each other nervously. It was a threat that might have lacked for teeth in other times, or a softer response. But right now…Archmage Eldavin and his teleporting forces were a guarantee of Wistram’s displeasure.

“I think I can assure you no hostility will occur within the City of Magic unless you begin it, Archmage.”

“I tend to agree. May I enter the city now?”

For answer, the Drakes stood aside—then one practically stomach-checked Montressa as she tried to follow the Archmage.

“Halt! You need to enter the city! Application forms? Passport?”

“Application forms? You’ve got to be—”

The Drakes took a certain malicious pleasure in stopping Montressa as Valeterisa turned. And here Montressa realized—this was a Drake city. They had forms, paperwork, and as the Drakes barked at her—

“You apply for a visitor’s permit to Fissival! In advance!”

Montressa spluttered as she dug out her Grade-3 Passport, which usually meant she could walk through any city’s gates without trouble. But Valeterisa walked back and tapped the [Captain] on the shoulder.

“I forgot about this. Tiresome. I sponsor her visit. Please issue her a visa.”

The [Captain], somewhat to Montressa’s surprise, gave Valeterisa a grudging nod.

“I need your papers again. Let me take them…identification number…we’ll issue your companion a visa as you are a citizen in good standing. Duration of stay?”

Montressa glanced at Valeterisa.

“One week?”

“One day?”

The Drake stared at both. He sighed.

“…We’ll issue you a one-week visa. Failure to leave the city by the end of a week from now will result in your arrest and a fine and expulsion from the city, Miss Human. You are going to be issued a Foreigner’s visa. Now—this subjects you to the same taxation standards as a Third-Class Citizen for a week’s time. However, I would look up how the laws apply to you stringently, as there are a number of privileges assigned to Third-Class Citizens you do not enjoy.”

“Understood. Where can I get a book of these laws?”

Montressa appreciated they at least told her what was going on. The Drake gave her a supercilious glance.

“We do not issue books of Fissival’s laws, Miss Human. Go to the nearest library. The books are free to read, although you will not have the right to check any out as a Foreigner. Note that your poor conduct will reflect on your sponsor, Citizen Valeterisa here, and that the Watch has the right to stop you at any time on suspicion of illicit activity…”

He spoke for nearly five more minutes, giving her a tired rundown of basic laws. Montressa fidgeted and tried to smile politely, but Valeterisa just walked off and waited until the Drakes handed her a visa, a piece of laminated paper with a simple magical seal that they clearly re-used and re-issued. The only changed details were the identification number linking her to Valeterisa and Montressa’s name and a picture of her pinned to it.

The [Aegiscaster] just bet that if she were back in Wistram, one of her or Beatrice’s contacts could easily forge one such pass. But at last, they were walking into Fissival, and Montressa got to see the city proper.

She continued to be let down. For Fissival was no City of War with huge walls and a double-layer of fortifications. The opening to the City of Magic they were entering had gently-sloping walls that formed a base at the plaza you could walk into, slowly rising in a gentle circle until they got to about thirty feet in height further on.

The City of Magic was below Oteslia for defensive appearances. And yet…the checkpoints seemed fairly impressive. And here, Montressa got to see one of the legends of Fissival for herself.

Behold. The City of Magic. Home. The flying city of Fissival.”

“Flying?”

Montressa looked around wildly as she stepped onto the ancient stone that demarcated the mundane road from the enchanted, ancient stone of the City of Magic. Valeterisa stopped her, made her walk back, and pointed.

“Flying. See?”

Montressa stared blankly at the tiny step up between the road and the city. Then she squatted down. She peered at the gap between stones and saw Fissival was elevated about…an inch. She looked at Valeterisa.

“It’s…floating?”

“Half an inch. The levitation spells and enchantments used to carry Fissival higher, even transport it in times of need, but the control mechanisms and most of the spells are defunct. The levitation stones embedded in the base of the city keep it continually hovering.”

“One inch.”

“One half-inch.”

Montressa closed her eyes. She hadn’t really expected to see the city flying, but she had hoped for some hovering element. The Drakes could claim it was a flying city…but it just made her mad.

Fissival had none of Pallass’ grandness when you first entered it. Erin Solstice had never gone in the proper way, but Montressa’s first sight of the great bazaar on the 1st Floor had been impressive. When she had first seen the great tree of Oteslia, she had marvelled. Even Manus’ labyrinths of fortified ground were impressive. Salazsar’s towers and mines? Artistic!

Fissival? Well—Montressa’s head rose as she surveyed the domed roofs of the buildings in the middle distance. In the center of the city rose a sprawling complex, glass windows and high-elevation walkways reminding her of Wistram or Salazsar’s heights.

The Draconae Scholarium was the heart of the city. The great Academy of Fissival was, to Montressa’s eyes, an inner city in itself, possibly larger than Liscor, where a few truly magical towers did indeed seem to be present. Like Wistram, she spotted a tower covered in glass, odd half-spheres of crystal and an entirely cylindrical top that might be the largest scrying orb in existence.

She glimpsed, even from here, so many spells they dizzied her eyes, and even saw a figure flying through the sky. Montressa’s first thought was Djinni, but it was neither a Drake with wings nor a Djinni; a billowing set of robes told her it was a [Mage].

In that sense, it was magical, but it was less than the Academy of Mages, which stretched up into mists and was surrounded by the sea in a bubble of calm. The city was like that; the buildings seemed shorter than the other Walled Cities.

Perhaps because Fissival was a huge, gigantic dais rather than a contained box bristling with siege weapons. It probably had the most space of any Walled City, and as such, less need for the huge elevation.

Unfortunately, that meant that Montressa’s eyes didn’t immediately pop with some grand edifice like First Landing could show her. She gazed around the plaza she stood in, helpfully marked The Visitor’s Plaza by a sign directing her inwards. Valeterisa stood, like the traveller returning home she was, gazing around with an unabashed sense of nostalgia.

“Home. Do you see the Scholarium, there, Apprentice? We must visit it, but there are a number of places to see. Great mages, my house…what do you think of it?”

“It’s…wonderful, Archmage.”

Valeterisa looked over at Montressa.

“I detect what might be a lie in that statement. Are you not impressed?”

“It’s, uh, a large city, Archmage. Wonderful stone floors. I imagine they don’t have to be repaired.”

Montressa kicked at the stone flooring and looked around vaguely. She saw Valeterisa’s face fall.

“You aren’t impressed. Well—we have barely seen the city. Let’s—ah. It must be the end of the hour. One sec—”

Then a pillar of light blasted up to Valeterisa’s right, straight into the sky. Montressa shielded her face as more magic than she’d ever seen outside of an Archmage casting spells jetted up in a pure surge of power. It overwhelmed her senses—it must have been a mile off, in the heart of the city!

“What? What?

It was there for a second, then already the pillar of radiance was fading, the bright white light—which had seemed bright red, like a pink sunset—fading. The other new visitors to Fissival cried out, some shielding their eyes, others flinching like Montressa, but the Drakes and Valeterisa herself just idly glanced in that direction.

“It must be ten in the morning. I think that one’s Strength. I must be old. I’ve forgotten the Grand Plazas.”

Valeterisa glanced over and sighed. Then she noticed Montressa’s bug-eyed expression.

“Well, they’re not every hour. But that one goes off at ten. We still need clocks. Come on, Apprentice.”

“What was that?

Montressa shouted, and Valeterisa stopped, struck her forehead lightly, and looked delighted at Montressa’s expression.

“The Grand Plazas! You haven’t seen the Grand Spells, have you? Aha. Are you admiring Fissival now? It seems so.”

She peered excitedly at Montressa’s face, and she seemed satisfied by Montressa’s shock. Valeterisa moved forward with a spring in her step, and Montressa reconsidered yet again.

There was something in Fissival even Wistram lacked. Magic and pettiness, in equal measure.

 

——

 

“There is no city like Fissival, no city as grand, no magics as much in demand~”

Valeterisa hummed as they walked through the streets. Montressa muttered sotto voce.

“No city as expensive or rude to its guests.”

~♪ No city that makes you pay as much for a rest!

Dead gods, they even had songs about it. Or was that Valeterisa improvising? Montressa stared around, sulking, an hour later and eyed the prices on the inns.

They were high. They were shockingly high. They were, in fact, so high that she saw one inn with a plain advertisement Erin would have probably called good marketing.

The Archmage’s Retreat! 1 gold per night for a room! Breakfast included!

“One gold piece? One gold piece?

She pointed it out to Valeterisa, and the Archmage stopped humming.

“Don’t be silly, Montressa. We don’t want a basic room. The best ones cost more than that, I’m sure.”

Montressa choked. She was a [Lady] and a student of Wistram! Both rich backgrounds, and she felt like she was being ripped off just staring at the prices. But then—she was still fuming mad.

“It’s not fair! I could barely afford that as a Level 30 [Mage] of Wistram! Especially after being ripped off—after being swindled like that!”

“I warned you not to sell your goods. You didn’t listen.”

Montressa folded her arms. Valeterisa had said that, but Montressa hadn’t understood why.

 

——

 

About an hour ago, they’d been walking through the Mage’s Marquee, a series of outdoor shops in one of Fissival’s many plazas, and Montressa had been admiring the many, if expensive, magical items for sale.

Even Wistram didn’t trade as many magical goods as a city devoted to magic. There were wands for sale, ranging from mere silver to gold in the thousands of pieces. She had never seen so many shops selling wands, or magical scrolls, reagents—they had charms, enchanted earrings, gemstones, and every kind of magical good from enchanted clothing to magical cutlery.

Hot spoon! Hot spoon! Never have a cold bite of soup again! Comes in a set for a small fee!”

Montressa’s lips quirked as she saw someone selling a simple steel spoon enchanted with a heating spell. It looked somewhat decent, and it might last for a while if they’d insulated the enchantment enough, although the magical power would wane.

But a hot spoon?

“Also, a hot plate and hot cup. Any takers?”

Not everything had to sell well, it seemed. But while the desperate Drake offering his heat-based cutlery was losing customers, a competing Drake wearing two frost-covered earrings—attached to her neck-spines since Drakes didn’t have ears—was winning the duel of vendors.

Cold canteen! Tired of the heat? Want a refreshing drink? Buy a cold canteen!”

At this point, Montressa began giggling. The worst part was that a few people had bought the canteen enchanted with the cooling spell, and why not? The Drake had cooling stones you could put in your pocket, and her rival, the unlucky [Enchanter] specializing in heat-products, was shaking his fist at her.

“You may be winning now, Claisse, but just wait till winter!”

“Oh, I’ll wait—and begin selling [Frost Resistance] trinkets as soon as it gets chilly! Ice magic never loses!”

Ceria would have loved to meet her. The Drake was just one of a series of vendors, and Montressa realized—they were selling a lot.

“Two silvers per wand! Basic starting kits! How many can I get you today, [Trader] Gosthe? One silver, eight copper?”

“One silver, six. And I’ll buy fifty if you match my prices.”

One of the people who’d been in line for Fissival, a Human [Magic Trader] if her own wand was any clue, had clearly come to top off her inventory. The Drake began to haggle as Montressa raised her brows.

“Two silvers per wand? I’ve never seen those prices.”

Valeterisa was looking around interestedly, but with little attraction to any magic shops like she normally had. She was a local and, as such, seemed to know that not much on this open street would attract her interest. She spoke to Montressa.

“Feel free to look around, apprentice. But don’t sell anything.”

Montressa jumped and hid her personal charms behind her back guiltily.

“What? Why not, Archmage?”

She might be Valeterisa’s apprentice, and it had perks like her new staff, but Montressa was still a [Mage] who needed coin. She could work enchantments or sell her charms—all defense or ward-oriented—and earn a tidy profit even in a Walled City.

“Just don’t. You will regret it.”

“It’s not against the rules, is it?”

“No. But don’t do it. I—is that a Phoenix feather?

Valeterisa suddenly vanished in a stampede as a [Trader] opened a stall and began to shout.

Magical reagents from Chandrar! Phoenix feathers and—dead gods, don’t push!

So it seemed like there were valuable items on the market! Enough so that Valeterisa actually ran to the stall with a bevy of Drakes. In fact…Montressa thought she saw more common citizens than she’d ever normally expect, here.

She looked around and saw more than one low-level seller sitting on the ground with a few wares on display. Each one seemed to be doing good business; someone had even bought a Hot Spoon™ while Montressa was looking about.

She couldn’t help it. Montressa glanced around, found a spot, and began laying out some items. She had people asking her what she was selling before she was even done.

“These are anti-insect charms. Repellants; put them in a corner of the house, and they’ll keep them away for four months, guaranteed! I have single-use, emergency [Forcewall] tokens rated at eight mace strikes by a Level 15 [Warrior], a [Protection] spell on this cloak—”

“I’ll take it!”

She made her first sale within six seconds. A Drake bought Montressa’s anti-insect charms and didn’t blink once at the gold cost.

“It’s so cheap!”

“You think so?”

Montressa did a double-take. She sold her powerful anti-insect repellants for one gold, eight silver. That was a steep price for the average citizen! It wasn’t permanent, but even so, if the old metrics of a gold per week for low-level jobs held true…

“It is! You should consider doubling the prices.”

The first Drake informed Montressa airily. She hesitated, but more were queueing up. Montressa did raise her prices after two more sales and had sold eight of her items by the time she realized what that warning meant.

[Tax Inspector]! You, Human, and you, the Gnoll—I didn’t see a notice of day-trading. We’ll do a quick inspection of your inventory. [Inspection: Gold Collected]! Hm!”

A Drake followed by a group of armed [Guards] stormed into the plaza so fast Montressa was haggling over her Cloak of Protection when he was almost on her. She saw a few Drakes who’d been selling goods furtively try to run for it, but one of the [Guards] raised a wand.

“[Sticky Webs]. Three runners!”

The other [Guards] pounded after the fleeing illicit sellers while the established ones, including the two [Enchanters], looked on with amusement, calling out encouragement to either side. It wasn’t violent—the worst Montressa saw was a few Drakes falling over as they were snared.

However—she wasn’t prepared for a [Tax Inspector]. Much less the Drake who marched over and gave her what for.

“Selling without a permit? Where’s your papers, Miss Human? I don’t know you.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed a permit for trading, sir.”

Montressa rose, and the Drake gave her a surprised look.

“You don’t. Each plaza is part of a district. There’s only a surcharge on day trades.”

“Oh, good—”

“—But I see you’re a Foreigner. Oh dear, and you’re selling? In Fissival? Well, the guards would do this, but I’m here, and some of you lot have a habit of slipping out the gates, so let’s do this. I’ve pulled your gold sales, so let me just calculate your taxes. Foreign [Mage] selling goods in the city, plus the tariffs, the day-trader tax for the plaza…six gold and eighteen silver.”

That’s two-thirds of my profits!

Montressa shouted in horror. The watching [Guards] looked amused, and Valeterisa finally found Montressa to see her apprentice clutching at her money bag in horror. The Drake [Tax Inspector] gave Montressa a vaguely sympathetic look.

“58%. We have a standing tariff on Wistram goods, which is why you got hit harder than average. It’s a flat 30% for Foreigners without a trading license, Miss [Mage]. Didn’t you read the rules? Pay up. If you want, you can argue this with one of the [Judges], but I really wouldn’t recommend that.”

“Apprentice. Did you just try to sell something?”

Valeterisa looked resigned as she stuffed a handful of feathers into her bag of holding. The [Tax Inspector] glanced at the Archmage, seemed to recognize her level, if not her by name, and nodded.

“Are you selling goods with her, Miss?”

“Hardly. I’m local. I wouldn’t be caught dead selling out here.”

The [Tax Inspector] laughed at that, and Montressa saw, to her indignation, a corner of Valeterisa’s lips lift!

“Hah! I hear that. Didn’t you warn her?”

“I did. Humans.”

Archmage! Why are the fees so high?”

Montressa spluttered as she pulled out some gold pieces and watched them disappear. To his credit, the [Tax Collector] did issue Montressa a receipt and warned her not to lose it; the guards would perform the same analysis of goods sold, and she’d have to prove she already paid. Valeterisa answered as the Drake wrote and stamped a document.

“Fissival has a lot of goods sold, Apprentice. Unless you have a Trader’s permit—expensive to maintain—or you’re a First-Class Citizen, it’s not worth it. All the Drakes here are First-Class. Aside from the ones who ran away.”

“Does that mean you wouldn’t be able to sell anything without that markup?”

Montressa was horrified. Valeterisa gave her an insulted look.

“Don’t be stupid. I only pay a 15% fee as a Second-Class Citizen. And I never sell my goods like this. Foreigners.”

She wandered off, and Montressa stared around as her hard-made magical items disappeared along with most of her proceeds. She stomped after Valeterisa as the Drake [Tax Inspector] glanced around and found someone else to terrorize.

 

——

 

Montressa was still mad about it an hour later as they walked through the inns, looking for a place to rest.

“Second-Class Citizens. How can you stand for it, Archmage? How many classes are there?

“Only three. Third-Class Citizens and Foreigners are rare in Fissival.”

“I just bet!”

Valeterisa glanced at Montressa, looking amused. The woman had stopped at a stall and bought what looked like a network of glistening threads. Vaguely like spider webs? It was attached to a little stick of shaved wood, and she handed another to Montressa.

“Here. A treat.”

“What’s this?”

Montressa saw Valeterisa nibble on the spun threads as the seller of the odd food made more. He took a long bottle of…syrup? And began to spread it over a stick. The Drake expertly twirled the stick, creating a crazy pattern, and Montressa saw it become a shining layer of delicate sugar as the strands quickly dried.

In fact, he was using magic! The Drake had some kind of air-spell that was rapidly-cooling the syrup or else he would have struggled to get it to harden. He winked as Montressa watched. Valeterisa looked approving.

“Sap String. From Sap Spiders. It’s a local treat. It reminds me of the ‘cotton candy’ the Humans talked so much about.”

It wasn’t as sweet as many of the Earthers’ concoctions, and Montressa realized it might actually be literal tree sap or natural syrup tapped from a maple or other tree. Still, it tasted good, and she nibbled at it. She’d never seen a vendor use magic like that before.

“Sap Spiders? There are sap spiders?

Valeterisa turned her head and made a coughing sound. A few Drakes waiting in line started laughing. Montressa turned beet red as she realized she’d fallen for another local joke. Valeterisa winked with a slight smirk.

“There aren’t.”

“Thanks. I got that.”

They went onwards, and Valeterisa spoke idly, gesturing at the Drakes walking about Fissival. Humans, too. To Montressa’s shock, there were more Humans than even Gnolls! Well, that fit given Fissival’s relationship with Gnolls of late, but it turned out that Fissival might have the highest Human population in all the south.

“Humans have always come to Fissival to learn magic. We have more non-Drakes than…anywhere but Oteslia or Zeres, and they have Gnolls and [Sailors]. A Third-Class Citizen is rare; they’re either students or Drakes in other cities who are affiliated with Fissival and given honorary citizenships. Anyone else is a Foreigner or belongs here. I, myself, was born into a Second-Class Citizenship.”

“But not a First-Class?”

Valeterisa pondered that.

“Well, no. I’m not a Drake. You can either be born into your citizenship or win it via great merit, and I never contributed enough. I probably would be, if I’d stayed right after graduating. Most Humans you see will not be First-Class Citizens.”

“I wonder why.”

The Archmage of Izril gave Montressa a reproving look.

“It beats being a citizen of another city in some regards. Or being a [Slave]. Or a Terandrian [Slave].”

“We don’t have slaves.”

“Terandrian [Slave] means [Serf] or [Peasant].”

“It’s not the same!”

Valeterisa rolled her eyes. She really seemed like she was stepping back into an older personality. Montressa shut up as she stomped after her teacher. She didn’t miss how Valeterisa glanced around with a growing interest—or stopped to admire a passing Drake.

“You really grew up here?”

“Since I was a girl. I’m still technically a member of the Scholarium. I might even be able to claim a room, but since you’re here…I suppose we’d better find an inn. I came to Fissival, instead of Wistram, when House Imarris sponsored my magical education.”

Montressa calmed down a bit.

“Really? Why not Wistram?”

Valeterisa took a long moment to reply.

“…Some of House Imarris’ cousins were born here, lived here. I am technically too far removed to be a full member of the nobility, but I was recognized once I became a [Mage] of some standing. My citizenship comes from my parents, who lived and worked here.”

“Are they still around?”

Valeterisa kept chewing on her Sap String treat, but her voice grew distant.

“No. They passed away when I was studying at Wistram.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

The two walked on in silence. After a while, Valeterisa tapped her head, and her tone grew lighter. Montressa wished she hadn’t cleared her emotions, but the Archmage smiled and grew excited again.

“Ah, and here we are. Apprentice, look, one of the Grand Plazas! It’s nearly midday—this must be…well, it wouldn’t hurt to join in.”

Montressa glanced up and saw a stream of Drakes, Humans, and other people heading towards an open plaza ahead. However, unlike the one that had been filled with vendors, or any other street, this one was clearly magical.

Vast ley lines of power crisscrossed the plaza, and only when she followed Valeterisa, asking what was happening, did Montressa realize—they weren’t leylines, natural avenues of power, but part of a spell circle.

A vast one. Thousands could gather in this plaza with ease, and thousands were already spreading out, murmuring, making light conversation. An elderly Drake man was dithering at the entrance, but he followed Valeterisa when he saw Montressa asking what was going on.

“First time in Fissival?”

“That’s right. Which plaza is this?”

“You don’t know?”

The old Drake and Valeterisa chatted as they stood around idly, as if waiting for something to happen. Montressa’s head swung around. Too many things were happening at once.

There were gates demarcating this Grand Plaza from the rest of Fissival. They had been standing open, but the instant she’d passed through, Montressa had realized two things.

Firstly—there was a huge sun-clock, a magical timepiece anchored to a central fixture in the plaza. It had four faces, and it was almost perfectly nearing 12 o’clock, which was what everyone was waiting for.

Secondly, and far more revealing?

“Archmage! Archmage, someone’s stealing my mana!”

It was running out of her from her feet! The plaza was—siphoning her magic! Not much, but it was alarming because of how easily it was done! Valeterisa glanced at Montressa, and the old Drake stared at her in amazement.

“Of course it is, Apprentice. It needs us to power the spell. The more people, the longer it lasts and the more efficacious. And I’ve done this before, old fellow. I lived here. This is just nostalgic.”

“So you have. Well, it won’t be long now. Should you warn your apprentice, Miss? Archmage?”

The Drake and Valeterisa glanced at Montressa as the [Aegiscaster] grew increasingly nervous. Valeterisa lifted one hand and spoke behind it.

“I think not. It is amusing to see her react.”

“Hah!”

Archmage? What’s going on? The spell circle’s activating. Archmage? Valet—

Then the clocks hit twelve, and the Grand Plaza’s magic activated. Fueled by thousands of people who contributed mana into it, on par with the cost of two Tier 2 spells, maybe, the plaza’s magics transmuted. A pillar of power rose and engulfed Montressa. She cried out and then froze as she felt something strike her.

The magics enveloping Montressa drained out the anger, indignation she’d felt at the damn [Tax Collectors] and Fissival’s bureaucracy earlier that day. They ate her pique with Valeterisa, her footsore feet, and the other emotions. For a moment—Montressa felt like a girl again, waving a magic wand and laughing at the colors she created. She looked up and felt the emotion in her chest.

It filled her up, and she exhaled, her shoulders relaxing as Drakes, Humans, and other visitors of Fissival smiled and laughed or hugged and chatted.

For four minutes. Valeterisa smiled up blandly as Montressa just stood there, looking around, and the spell buoyed her up. Even as the pillar of magic faded, the enchantment remained.

“What—what was that?”

“[Bliss].”

Valeterisa answered succinctly as Montressa felt the first wave of the spell end. Yet it still filled her and kept her light and happy. A magical emotion. She looked around and felt a smile on her face, but the old Drake only laughed lightly. And a bit sadly.

“It wears off faster the more times you feel it. But it is nice, I suppose, to visit the midday Bliss Plaza now and then. I have some friends who haven’t been in months.”

“A nice feeling.”

Valeterisa agreed. Montressa saw, to her surprise, many Drakes marching out of the plaza, heading back to work or stopping to chat before going about their day.

“They just—come here? And have this spell cast on them every day?”

She was astounded—and a bit worried. Was this some kind of magical effect altering her mind? Yet Valeterisa and the old Drake just looked amused.

“It’s optional. You give magic and receive benefits. Like Strength. That was ten, wasn’t it?”

“Yep. Strength. All the sweaty Drakes go there. Including all the ones getting the Sinew Magus’ new weight set and working at that damn gym-thing.”

Strength? There’s a—a Grand Plaza that casts a strength enchantment on you?”

Valeterisa nodded.

“Hence most labor-intensive jobs starting after ten in Fissival. There is little point without. There are a few other Grand Plazas; some have failed. There used to be one each hour.”

“Bah, we can do without. Imagine a lightshow every hour? The night ones are bad enough. It was a pleasure, Miss Mages.”

The Drake walked off, and Montressa blinked around as Valeterisa hummed again. She pointed, and Montressa considered the ethics of offering a free spell to a populace to take away your worries and pain for a while. But then again—it did feel nice.

And it was one of the few things Fissival had that was free, right? When she said that to Valeterisa, the Archmage laughed.

“I think it’s time for you to see the library.”

 

——

 

Bookshelves. Books. Libraries were filled with them, but how you organized a library depended largely on the [Librarian]. On Earth, Montressa had heard they had a standardized system called the Dew-Point system or some such. That sounded wonderful and helped to make each library navigable by anyone familiar with it.

But oh, what a loss to the creativity and scope of the library ruled by the self-designed, esoteric [Librarian] half-gibbering with madness behind stacks of dusty books. Where was the adventure in locating the hidden bookshelf behind the rotating wall in the invisible section of the library guarded by the spike trap?

Libraries could be grand. Montressa had been to Pheislant’s, Wistram’s many unique ones, and she had heard and seen illustrations of the Hundred Thousand Tomes under Nerrhavia, seen private collections and witnessed the many manifold covers of ancient times gathering together as the weight of knowledge pressed down on her.

She had seen the straight, boring bookshelves that you could push over onto someone like a wall of educating death. She had seen spiral bookcases, highly impractical, or the ladders that let you climb up and pluck a book from the top shelf and then fall to your death.

Montressa knew books. Or she thought she did, because Fissival’s Grand Librarium was a world unto itself. She had followed Valeterisa to the nearest library. It was a modest entrance, and a lot of Drakes had been heading down. Why—Montressa didn’t understand until she realized they were going down into Fissival proper.

The entire Walled City was a huge, floating dais. It had a lower section, but the only place to build was ‘up’. Mainly because the lower part of Fissival, belowground, was all taken.

It was all a giant library.

The first thing Montressa saw when she descended the suburban entrance to the Library was a circular room. A circular room so far across her eyes lost focus of the other end and it turned into a gentle kaleidoscope of colors. Because she could not, even with a [Farsight] spell, pick out the books lining the countless bookcases on the other end.

Montressa felt a giddy feeling overtake her as Valeterisa walked down the first level of railings leading down, down into a world of books. A spiral bookcase followed the Drakes heading down, and a few plucked books as they passed or placed a book carefully into the shelf. The spines were the wrong way, so the pages faced the pedestrians and didn’t reveal the title.

“Why are they doing that, Archmage?”

“They’re returning books. Obviously.”

One of the books placed this way disappeared, and Montressa saw a baleful eye appear as a Drake on the other end of the spiral staircase snatched the book.

Damaged! Spill on Page 5!

“It was an accident! Don’t fine me! Don’t fine—

One of the Drakes shouted desperately, but the [Librarian] was already recording the damage. And more were reading titles, pulling out a book on display to take to one of the Drakes waiting to record the book, accept fees for fines, or direct their guests lower into the library.

Montressa was breathless. The entrance to the libraries were the spiral staircases, large enough for six people to walk shoulder-to-shoulder, or long, sloping ramps for people who struggled with stairs! It was already on par with most libraries for the number of books—and the Grand Librarium was more than the first floor.

In fact, this library stretched across Fissival, such that the library entrances doubled as a subway. You could walk under the streets to a destination at the same or better speed if you knew where you were going, so many Drakes strolled past bookshelves, walking the old carpeted floor on their way to another destination.

Spiral bookshelves for the entrances. Yet instead of the famously tall bookcases with ladders, Fissival went the opposite direction. Entire staircases led you past endlessly tall, forty-foot-high bookcases, and if you wanted a book that was across from you, a little crystal—when activated with magic—would create a temporary floor made out of light spells.

“Efficient light magic. Even Eldavin had good things to say of Fissival’s library magic. I used to work as a helper, categorizing books. And killing silverfish.”

“Silverfish?”

Montressa recalled the spindly, unsettlingly leggy little bastards that ate books and their glue. She hated them herself, but Valeterisa spoke solemnly.

“Yes. There are plenty of jobs for a young Drake. Or Human. They gave us clubs since we don’t want to damage books.”

“Clubs? For silverfish?”

They were supposed to be as long as your finger at most! Valeterisa shuddered.

“When it gets really bad, they call in adventurers. There are…chambers down here filled with books. It’s mostly categorized, but silverfish grow fast in the presence of magic.”

Montressa shuddered, but the Grand Librarium really was clean. The [Librarians] ruled here with an iron fist, and while you could speak, smoking, eating, or any other distractions were forbidden.

In fact, there were some quite lovely bathrooms with the Drakes’ famous plumbing, but only on the outer layers of the bookshelves, so there was no possibility of a pipe bursting and endangering the books. Montressa saw more Humans here, too, and Valeterisa pointed out lower floors.

“Some [Librarians] live there and never bother to leave. Fissival hosts countless [Scholars], [Researchers]…Oteslia’s are more hands-on, but they often send us requests for in-depth research. A [Librarian] of high-enough level can find almost any book, teleport from bookshelf to bookshelf. I’ve even heard some can punish thieves remotely with Skills.”

“Ook.”

“Hm?”

Valeterisa eyed Montressa, and the [Aegiscaster] covered her mouth with a smile.

“Sorry, I heard a funny story from one of the Earthers about a strange librarian. I think it was fiction. There aren’t any, uh, strange non-Drake and non-Human [Librarians], are there?”

Valeterisa gazed blankly at Montressa, then she adjusted her spectacles and smiled unexpectedly.

“I know one.”

 

——

 

The greatest [Librarian] in the Grand Librarium did not ook or eat bananas. However, no one damaged a book in his presence. Montressa stared at the chains on his legs and forbade a comment about [Slaves].

She didn’t think the Djinni would appreciate it. Nor did he seem particularly enslaved. He was reading a book, one leg crossed, as he floated around one of the lowest-levels of the library. To get down this far, Montressa and Valeterisa had simply floated down, but a more mundane visitor would have a lot of stairs to climb.

“Librarian Heorth. It is I, Valeterisa. Do you remember me?”

“Archmage of Izril, now.”

The Djinni closed the book he was reading and glanced up. His eyes were disconcertingly white and pupil-less—he had the vague shape of a Drake, but he had two long wings, and he seemed…oddly stooped for all he stood eight feet tall. He had long whiskers at the sides of his mouth, and Montressa realized he seemed almost like a cross between the Drakes and the Long Dragons. He had also been floating on a cloud, but now it vanished as he strode over and inspected her.

“Have you returned to join the Scholarium? Did you finally read the book I recommended to you? Age has changed you.”

Valeterisa fidgeted as the Djinni inspected her.

“I…I’ll get around to it in the next decade.”

“I am sure. And to answer your next question, no, I have not found any more fantastical tomes from an [Archmage] long-lost in the shelves. Wistram likely plundered the ones not hidden in the Scholarium’s personal archives. We do have eight more novels in the tales of the Lightning Thief, though.”

Really?

Both Montressa and Valeterisa chorused eagerly and looked at each other. The Djinni, Heorth, snorted quietly.

“Yes, and many copies. Shall I direct one of the [Librarians] to find you a copy?”

Montressa’s eyes widened excitedly.

“Eight? I thought there were only six—I’ve read every single one. Wait. Are these the copies that were banned in Izril and Terandria?”

Valeterisa looked fascinated as well, but she turned to give Montressa a superior look.

“Eight? I was there when the first books came out.”

Valeterisa and Montressa realized they had something in common. The famous Lightning Thief was one of the most famous book series in print, but the Djinni seemed dismissive.

“I have met better [Thieves]. But oh, don’t mind me and read the hot, contemporary works. Don’t read about the Constellation Thief or find any similarities in the derivative naming conventions.”

That caught Montressa’s ear. She bowed uneasily, because Djinni made her nervous. Wistram didn’t have them. They only had…Cognita.

“There was a Constellation Thief?”

For answer, Heorth pointed, and a beam of light illuminated a far shelf around the long, circular floor they were on.

“The Thief of Constellations, The Annals of Mershi, Volume XXXI. Terrible numbering convention. If you enjoy it, I will direct you to further works. Highly topical, especially with the City of Stars being spoken of again.”

Valeterisa’s eyes sparkled, and Montressa and her master ended up collecting nearly ten books, including all the latest Lightning Thief books she’d missed. It turned out some had never reached Wistram or Montressa, and Valeterisa had missed eight years anyways.

As for the Annals of Mershi—Valeterisa returned to Heorth and offered him something.

“For you.”

The Djinni accepted a glowing emerald and sniffed it, then smiled briefly as he tucked it away.

“From Salazsar? You have gone up in the world instead of offering me homemade quartz filled with mana. Have you visited the Scholarium yet?”

“Not yet.”

The Djinni gave the Archmage a long look.

“Save it for last. They will have words for you—savor your visit. And return your books before you leave, Valeterisa, or I will have to hunt you down myself.”

He was reading when they left, and Montressa kept turning her head to stare at him.

“I’ve never seen a Djinni with that much free rein.”

“Nor will you again. He knows almost every book of value in the library, and no one would dare replace him. He is still slave to the Grand Librarium, but as he told me—he won parts of his freedom within his bondage by knowledge. Knowledge which he imparts to few.”

Valeterisa brushed the ancient book, and Montressa saw that there was a slip inside the cover written with Heorth’s own words that listed the book and author. The cover itself was actually a replacement; the book had been worn or damaged.

Which made her think that only someone who knew what it contained or who was very, very lucky would ever find it. Even for a fictitious tale about a [Thief] in the days of Mershi—this was an old, rare book.

She glanced up suddenly and saw Valeterisa watching her. Montressa spoke, keeping her voice low.

“I don’t believe Heorth recommended that book idly, did he, Archmage?”

“Of course not. He never does. The only books he recommends that are useless are two million word-long sagas about romance which I refuse to read. But he has told me to check out other books now and then. Come—you are not allowed to check out books, but I am.”

Valeterisa was carrying up their books to check out when Montressa saw the last, final unique thing about the library. Some magical lettering and a huge crowd on the second floor caught her eyes, right below the surface. She stopped and actually plucked at Valeterisa’s sleeve.

“Archmage. Is that a…spellbook?”

A giant spellbook was sitting in a glass case, illuminated by a [Light] spell. A crowd of students and ordinary civilians, even a Human girl, were reading the page on display, which looked to be a basic [Purify Water] spell. Valeterisa glanced over.

“Mm? Yes, the public spells. Ah, they’re changing them.”

A [Librarian] was going from case to case—and Montressa saw no less than sixteen—and flipping the pages to pre-arranged selections. A Drake was arguing with one of them.

“Give me half an hour! I’ve nearly got this spell! Half an hour?”

“Public spellbooks?”

Montressa had never seen such a thing! She was appalled, but Valeterisa’s look was sardonic.

“Why not? They’re books. Meant to be read.”

“But they’re spellbooks!

Some of the other people had heard the quiet discussion and looked amused or exasperated. Valeterisa rolled her eyes.

“Yes, and why can’t everyone learn from them? That was what I said at Wistram until I learned spellbooks were hoarded. The same is true of the Scholarium, but at least there are the public spellbooks. Anyone can learn from them, and their pages are rotated each day.”

It astounded Montressa, even offended her. She instinctually felt like each spellbook should belong to a [Mage]. Just as patently, Valeterisa found that a ridiculous idea.

“Fissival is a city in which every citizen may learn magic, Montressa du Valeross. Liscor famously has every citizen gain one level in [Soldier]. The boast of the City of Magic is that every single citizen has a level in [Mage].”

Every single citizen? Montressa mouthed the words, and then she thought of the cheap wands. She saw a little Drake boy waving a wand around and casting [Light], rather than needing a candle.

Magic was learned here. Taught on a wider scale than even Wistram. And yet—and yet—looking at the library, the public spellbooks, Montressa had to wonder.

“Why isn’t Fissival overtaking Wistram if it produces this many spellcasters?”

To that, Valeterisa sighed and hesitated. She didn’t say anything, but a Human called out. He stood there, reading from a spellbook, but his eyes had been on Valeterisa the entire time.

“It is said of Fissival that many of the Drakes’ [Mages] come from here or study here. Fissival makes competent [Mages], but they do not make great [Mages]. With rare exceptions like Grimalkin of Pallass. Or the Archmage of Izril.”

His words caused a stir in the crowd, and heads turned to Valeterisa. She glanced at the man, and Montressa saw he had long, gloved fingers, brightly polished shoes, and a vest that had hands on them like that of the sun-clocks. Valeterisa blinked at the man.

“Milaw?”

“Hello, Archmage. Stop by my shop later today.”

He plucked a small cap from his head, revealing a shiny bald pate, and bowed as he touched his grey beard. Valeterisa nodded, her eyes never leaving him.

“I will.”

 

——

 

When they left the Librarium, Montressa was split on Fissival. Split, but warming to elements of the city. Right up until she ran into a statue of Wall Lord Dragial.

It was new and being put up closer to the inner city, where the Scholarium towered over everything. A private installment paid for by an anonymous donor, honoring the Wall Lord’s heroic sacrifice during the Meeting of Tribes.

“Ah. It’s him again. You know, he was a student-instructor at the Scholarium when I was young. I was older. He never liked me.”

Valeterisa’s voice was slightly strained as she stared up at him. Montressa looked at Valeterisa from the side.

“What was it like, growing up in the Scholarium?”

Valeterisa tugged on her robes absently.

“Fascinating. They had great [Mages]—great [Teachers]—and they were more organized than Wistram. I graduated at the top of my class, then applied and was accepted to Wistram. I could have been a teacher here or taken office and become a First-Class Citizen.”

“You didn’t stay?”

Valeterisa stared at the Wall Lord’s upraised expression and the gauntlet shining upon his arm. How history changed. The Blade of Mershi looked like it belonged to him, and he seemed more satisfied than he was in life.

“No. If I had stayed, I would not have been half as far down my journey to understand magic as I am now.”

Valeterisa looked away, and Montressa gazed around the square. She heard a familiar rat-a-tat-tat, and as if heralded by the statue, a group of marching Drakes wearing Fissival’s armor and the icon of their city crossed by a wand and staff called out.

Fissival is at war with Salazsar, the traitors! Sign up to defend your homes! Join the City of Magic’s army! Win a promotion to First-Class Citizen! Level casting spells behind mage-shields, not dying in the press of bodies in another Walled City’s armies!”

Even their regular [Soldiers] were armed with wands, as opposed to bows or swords and shields. Fissival was famous for their long-ranged, magical combat. It worked well…aside from when someone engaged them in hand-to-hand combat. Like Niers, Ilvriss, and the other forces to battle them had done rather successfully.

Valeterisa’s face closed off when she saw the army, and she and Montressa stepped back as the [Recruitment Officer] marched about this place. This…Human-centric district.

“Second-Class Citizens, you’ll win a promotion! You, Miss? Or you, Sir? Anyone who can cast a Tier 2 spell is guaranteed a bonus on signing!”

Few Humans looked interested, and there were many of them in this area. A Second-Class district. Close to Valeterisa’s home.

It didn’t look as poor as Montressa had thought it might. Most of the Humans seemed to have decent clothing, but she noticed few shops selling goods for public display and few prices—again, marked up so high due to the tariffs there were even fewer buyers.

How could they survive paying 15%? Maybe it was only for trade goods? Somehow, she doubted that. She saw a number of [Tax Inspectors] here and arguably more than in the first plaza.

Yet, Valeterisa brightened up as she came to a large line of people waiting at what seemed to be a public kiosk tied to the local Mage’s Guild. Fissival, obviously, had more Mage’s Guilds than any other city, but this one had a public service, and she lined up with Montressa.

“Let’s stop and get my weekly, Montressa. Oh, and we’ll find our inn here and do a bit of trading. And visit Milaw.”

“Here?”

This didn’t seem like the hub of magic or commerce that Valeterisa wanted, but Montressa waited in line as it moved at a brisk pace. Even so, the famously impatient Valeterisa waited seventeen minutes as Humans shuffled out of line until a Drake at the counter asked for her identification.

“Second-Class Citizen…Valeterisa? And a Foreigner? There’s nothing for you. If you were a Third-Class Citizen, you’d get a food card.”

The Drake shoved Montressa’s papers back, but he clearly knew Valeterisa. The Archmage of Izril waited patiently.

“I would like my weekly, please.”

“Your weekly?”

The word still confused Montressa, but she had seen Humans stepping out of line with little cards. They turned out to be food cards, which they could trade for, well, food. But the Drake seemed reluctant to hand over the small stack.

“Aren’t you the Archmage of Izril?

He stared accusingly at Valeterisa. She smiled brightly.

“I am. I’m also a Second-Class Citizen. I would like my cards and my weekly supplies. Thank you.”

The Drake stared at her. Then he reluctantly forked over eight cards, one for each day of the week, and, to Montressa’s amazement, placed an ink pot and ten sheaves of parchment, decent quality, on the counter.

“Fine. There.”

“Only ten? I should get sixteen.”

“It’s been lowered. Next!

The Drake scowled and snapped. Valeterisa collected the ink and parchment and made Montressa carry the cards.

“We can use them for about a meal’s worth of food. It’s usually a bit less. The ink isn’t that good…here, for you.”

She handed the ink and parchment to Montressa. It was far worse than the stuff Bezale had, but Montressa looked back.

“What was that?

“Weekly food cards and supplies. Every citizen, even Second-Class Citizens, gets ink and paper. We are citizens of the City of Magic. Our taxes pay for them. Although you cannot live on eight food cards easily. I remember lining up all the time.”

Food cards. Another complete surprise to a Terandrian citizen of Pheislant. Yet it did explain the copious taxes. Sort of. But Montressa’s sense of oddity only increased the further Valeterisa went into the Second-Class district.

For it seemed like everyone knew her. And she knew everyone. Valeterisa stopped by a stall, and the owner, an old woman, looked up.

“My, is it…?”

“Valeterisa.”

Valeterisa! It’s you! Oh, it’s been so long! Sit down, my dear. Did you want a sunrise mango? I’ve got some, fresh! From the islands, you know. Oh, don’t mind your coins. Here, have two, and two for your friend.”

“That would be lovely.”

Valeterisa reached for her coin purse, but stopped as the old woman gave her two fat sunrise mangos. The exotic fruit hadn’t come from Oteslia? Montressa saw Valeterisa peer at the old woman’s face.

“Aren’t you…M…no…B…?”

Bestre! Bestre—you silly girl.”

“Of course, Bestre. Here. I’ve brought you a gift.”

Montressa, to her great surprise, saw Valeterisa produce a handful of pieces of jade and other precious stones she’d brought from Salazsar. She’d gone shopping! But the old [Shopkeeper] just glanced at the stones and only plucked two from Valeterisa’s hands.

“Are you sure? You shouldn’t have.”

“No, go on. I’m rich.”

Bestre hesitated, then plucked two more after glancing at Valeterisa’s face. The old woman watched as Montressa and Valeterisa took a bite of her sunrise mango, and Valeterisa asked about her children.

“Doing fine, my dear. And you’re so tall! But do something with your hair, would you? And stop by again!”

Then they hugged—and with Montressa choking on her sunrise mango, staring, she watched Bestre pull Valeterisa’s cheek, pinching it gently. Valeterisa smiled, and they were on their way.

“Wh—who was—did you know her, Valeterisa?”

“Nope.”

The Archmage kept eating the tangy mango as they walked on. Montressa choked again, but Valeterisa had stopped once more as an old man waved at her.

“Is that Valeterisa? It’s you! Stop a second—I’ve got a handful of scrolls, and I heard Milaw was on your path. Would you take him some gears? Pallassian steel I just got done filing. And can I give you anything for the road?”

“Me? No, but have a mango. Aren’t you Toruth? Didn’t I date your son?”

Montressa nearly spat out her second mango—until she saw the old man laugh and produce a bag of delicate gears, as finely done as anything you could find in Pallass. She glanced at the two as they hugged, and he asked if Valeterisa would take pity on the poor lad—who’d been divorced, didn’t you know?

And in the background, Montressa saw a Drake [Tax Inspector] glaring at Valeterisa’s back. And the two shopkeepers. The female Drake sighed, loudly, as the mango stayed with the man and Valeterisa walked on with a bag of steel gears.

Then Montressa got it. When they stopped at a local inn with exorbitant prices—fourteen silver for the cheapest rooms—Valeterisa knew the owner.

“Archmage, it is a delight to see you. I wouldn’t dream of charging the Archmage of Izril for a room!”

The [Innkeeper] spoke loudly, and Valeterisa smiled.

“Then you must accept a gift. Here. I have some stones from Salazsar—”

“Ooh! Those would make delightful little presents for some friends. Expensive, now that the markets are closed and we’re at war.”

“I thought so too. A present, a present. I can’t take your money.”

And there it was. Montressa saw the [Innkeeper] swing his gaze to her.

“And will your apprentice need a room? Free of charge as well, naturally!”

“You’re too kind. Can I offer you…how about some of these food cards? I don’t know if Archmage Valeterisa and I will stay long enough to use them.”

“Montressa, those are legal tender. You can’t give them away.”

Valeterisa scolded Montressa noisily, and the [Innkeeper] nodded. He nudged Montressa and smiled into the inn, which had mostly Human customers and a few Drakes. And at least one was listening a bit too hard, Montressa thought.

“Exactly. We exchange them for coin. I wouldn’t dream of taking that as a gift.”

“Oh—then would you accept this charm I made? Just in case. It repels bugs.”

Montressa had few tradable items, and the [Innkeeper] laughed when he saw it and heard what it did.

“What a lovely gift! I think we’ll have a fine banquet prepared for the Archmage and her apprentice. Thank you, thank you!”

The Drake said nothing as he ushered them to their rooms high up in the inn. Only when he let them put their things down did Valeterisa enter Montressa’s room.

“You overpaid him.”

“I know! I didn’t have anything less expensive, and it’s fine.”

Valeterisa shrugged.

“You’re learning.”

She gave Montressa a rare look of approval, and she seemed so—present—that Montressa had to know.

“Is that how it works here?”

Valeterisa’s eyes lit up with actual mischief, and she sat down on Montressa’s bed. The quilted bed was lovely and soft, but now Montressa wanted to see the rest of this Human district. Valeterisa clicked her fingers, sealing them off from any eavesdroppers.

“Of course. Everyone’s a friend around here. It’s a little game, and the [Tax Inspectors] and the eavesdroppers know what’s up. They’ll pop up and fine you for a mistake, but a gift is a gift. Just be careful; they’ll play tricks on you too, and not all the Humans are on the same side.”

“It seems ridiculous to do it this way—funny, but ridiculous.”

Valeterisa just sighed heavily. She leaned back on Montressa’s bed and stared up at the ceiling.

“Yes. Yes, it does, especially having lived in other parts of the world. I thought it all just…worked like this when I was young. Heorth told me otherwise, but I didn’t believe it. The Scholarium is like this—but worst of all. Incidentally, I’m sorry to tell you, but your bug-repelling charm has been stolen.”

“It has?

Montressa felt at her remaining charms, but that wasn’t what Valeterisa meant.

“Not the [Innkeeper]. Whomever you sold it to. They probably ran it to the Scholarium and filed a patent. Now, they’ll be able to claim they invented the charm. Patents, applying to use a spell—it’s easier to learn a Tier 4 spell here than in Wistram if you have the coin. But grand magic is few and far between, even with the plazas.”

Patents? So the Hot Spoon™ wasn’t even a joke! Montressa threw herself back and closed her eyes.

“Ugh! Imagine begging to learn a spell—is this it? Is this the City of Magic? Are these the finest spellcasters in the Drake lands?”

“Yes and no.”

Valeterisa looked tired as she sat next to Montressa. Tired…and younger than she had ever been before. She seemed alive, there, and—nostalgia was neither good nor bad, but it cut you either way. She patted Montressa on the knee and then felt the bag of gears.

“Sit up, Montressa. It’s time I introduced you to the finest spellcasters in Fissival. Then we will see if my great [Teacher] lives. Fissival is still the City of Magic, and there are lessons for you to learn from spellcasters who taught me.”

Montressa sat up. Unlike before, she didn’t argue or ask questions. Not when Valeterisa looked out on the street and smiled like that. Montressa rose—and that was how she met Milaw.

The [Clockmaker].

 

——

 

When Earthers came to this world, they spoke of intricate parts. Of electricity, harnessed to create a conceptual web of interwoven ideas. They talked about flying in planes, and cars, and the basis of that was a level of machinery they claimed far outstripped even Pallass in design.

One of the things they said they had were clocks. But this world had clocks. Everything from the sundial to magical timekeeping—but it wasn’t as if most people had a clock. The sun was a decent timekeeper, and most people used that.

However, there were sun clocks. How they worked was similar to the sundial, which was a piece of stone placed such that, with adequate sunlight, the light from the sun would always strike what time of day it was. It was susceptible to other forms of light, clouds, and it needed to be calibrated to wherever it stood, making it highly, highly immobile.

Sun clocks were different. They had an open case to the sky and actual arms that pointed at each hour of the day. The case reflected, via pieces of glass mirrors, light downwards into it, whereupon a simple spell measured what angle the light was coming from. Unlike a sundial, the sun clock had multiple sensors, because it used the mirrors to reflect the light into the enchanted timekeeper.

It was a far, far more complex piece of magical machinery than Montressa’s Cloak of [Protection]. Mostly because the enchanted stone had to both calculate angle and match that against the position of the sun to get the arms to swing to the correct time. In fact—if you shone a [Light] spell, you could ‘trick’ the sensors and get the arms to move to any time you wanted.

That was how Milaw, the [Clockmaker], was testing his latest clock. He had inserted the tiny gears Valeterisa had brought him into the device, and he was shining a [Light] spell, a ray of it, at different angles inside his shop.

Accordingly, the arms of the sun clock swung around to each time he wanted. Montressa held her breath.

It was so mathematically complex it hurt her head, despite her knowing how he had done it. The magic was very low; just the configured timekeeper. Everything else was an assemblage of gears. Yet—that single piece made the sun clock more advanced than most Wistram students could hope to make.

And he was doing it. Milaw wore a small cap over his vest and polished shoes, and his beard and mustache were grey. He winked at Montressa, and he was a [Clockmaker].

Not a [Mage]. But he was a citizen of Fissival, and he knew Valeterisa. Actually knew her. She sat in his shop as he spoke.

“Lastly, 12 o’clock…and we are done. A perfect sun clock for the Scholarium. Some noble buyer from there. A perfect—worthless clock.”

He placed it delicately in a box designed to hold it, closed the lid, attached the latch, and Montressa’s mouth opened.

“What? But it’s beautiful!

The lacquered wood of the clock showed a pair of Drake [Mages] holding wands along the redwood clock, and the dial that showed the times had the moon and stars on it. You could open a hatch in the back to adjust the gears, and it was as rich as anything she could have seen in the du Valeross household.

And yet—the [Clockmaker] poured himself a cup of tea as Valeterisa sat with him and smiled.

“It is a lovely piece of art. A poor clock. Light must dictate the time, and I think even someone who trusted the clock would look out the window—just in case it were wrong. It fails if there’s a storm and tells no time at night. What kind of a useful clock is that?”

Montressa hesitated.

“I know it’s not always practical, but the Mage’s Guild has the time even in the night.”

“Correct. And they transmit the times to each other to make sure they’re right and ask Fissival, or Wistram, what time it is. They’re off a few minutes some days, but they can always confirm with Wistram or Fissival. Because we have better clocks. Take a look at this.”

So saying, Milaw showed Montressa a completely different type of clock. It had no sensors, nor did it take in light. There was no ticking sound from within, but as Montressa watched, a minute-hand moved slowly, and the hour hand seemed in the right place.

“This is a Math Clock. Far less popular because they require manual setting and they require mana stones, rather than the almost mana-free Sun Clocks. They run purely on numbers.”

“How?”

Montressa stared at the clock, and, for answer, Valeterisa lifted one finger. She projected a beam of light straight up, and Montressa’s eyes narrowed.

“[Measure Distance].”

Milaw produced a wand and performed the same spell.

“Light is a constant, Miss Montressa. So—a Math Clock shoots a beam of light in a tiny part of the clock. Constantly, and it measures how long it took for the beam to travel. It must add, and add, and add—until it reaches what we call a second. Then it moves this gear here.”

He opened the panel and showed her a gear. Then it was simple. Sixty seconds equaled a minute. Each minute, the turning second-gear rotated the minute-hand, and the entire clock moved.

“There are other methods. Some have hourglasses built in, which measure one minute and simply rotate. Others? They let a single drop of water fall. I use light. It takes the most energy, so my clocks need constant recharging.”

“And they are the most accurate clocks of all the Math Clocks. Milaw taught me [Measure Distance], Montressa. He works part-time as a [Builder].”

“[Supervisor]. I’ve changed my class.”

“Oh. Congratulations. I should have bought you a ‘cake’.”

“The gears will do, and seeing you is a treat enough. I thought you were dead. Everyone did. You didn’t answer any [Message] spells, no one had seen you in years…”

Milaw rested a hand on Valeterisa’s shoulder, and she flinched.

“I was trapped. I made a mistake, and I nearly died.”

“That’s Valeterisa, the greatest [Mage] to come from our streets.”

The conversation was so surprisingly serious and intimate that Montressa was almost as embarrassed as Valeterisa, who looked away from the old [Clockmaker]’s proud expression. He knew her. He must have helped raise her. Because she was curious, Montressa had to ask—

“How are you a [Builder]—er, [Supervisor], Master Milaw?”

He chuckled.

“Only because I help make sure everything is straight. All the numbers line up—and that everything is level. I keep telling the others they can do it with a glass of water. Just see if it’s straight. But magic is in Fissival’s blood. If you can’t do it with magic, it can’t be done at all. So—”

He pointed his wand, and a line of light shot out. A little number popped into being over the counter.

0.0003411…

Montressa’s eyes narrowed.

“What is that?

“A number. How flat it is. I keep trying to go below four zeroes, but it’s too difficult, and no one can notice after the second one. Would you like me to show you how? Light and numbers. Everything is light and numbers. You can calculate anything, not that it’s very useful!”

He laughed cheerily, and Montressa thought of the Earthers and their math you couldn’t see that required precision without end. She looked at Valeterisa, and the Archmage of Izril dangled her legs over a stool, sipping her tea like a girl, as Milaw smiled.

“So this is the greatest spellcaster in Fissival?”

Instantly, Milaw turned beet red and looked at Valeterisa in shock. But the Archmage of Izril only nodded.

“Yes, he is. Milaw, are the others coming off work?”

“The crafters of Heneith Street are all coming now they know you’re back. What was that about…? An apprentice? You came to Fissival so fast—I thought you’d be a month travelling from the Great Plains, even if you can fly! A joke. You always had a strange sense of humor.”

He spoke, giving Valeterisa a strange look. But the Archmage just shook her head.

“The world is changing, Milaw. It is not the age of magic. Not yet. But this is my apprentice, and I decided she had to meet Fissival’s true masters of magic.”

He laughed, uncertain. Waving his hand and telling her not to tease him in his old age. But now Montressa saw—she stood as Valeterisa turned to greet the [Crafters], [Artisans] of Fissival’s district. And Montressa bowed and shook their hands as they exclaimed over their lost child who had returned.

Men and women with white hair. Not even just Humans; some were Drakes who hadn’t won First-Class Citizenships, and not all were Valeterisa’s great spellcasters. But some were.

It was not about the level of magic, as Montressa had realized, it was how it was used. For instance, a single [Tailor] lifted her hand and showed Montressa a trick.

“You can thread any needle in the world far easier than with your hands, my dear. See? Not that I’d ever manage it with a hundred tries, but it keeps me employed, even at eighty years old.”

For proof, she raised a shaking hand which couldn’t perform that task. Montressa glanced at her—and then at the needle moving in loops and arcs. That was one thing—moving a thread into a needle’s eye was already tough. Telekinesis via magic…Telim could do it, probably. High Mage Telim could do it. Montressa couldn’t, not on the first try, but the old [Tailor] could do it every single time.

Like moving a single, tiny thread of magic with perfect control. Valeterisa copied her. It was hard to thread a needle—but another to thread six needles at once and have each one sew neat rows of stitches.

Could Archmage Viltach, could Nailihuaile manage that? They could throw a [Fireball], but work on six sewing projects at once? Every artisan of Fissival was a citizen, and so they incorporated magic into their craft seamlessly.

Like the [Smith], already so old he had all but retired, and his son who had taken up his mantle. They had no ability to cast [Fireball], again, but he had learned how to heat up his steel to degree-perfect forging temperatures without the need for a fire.

“I met a traveller, a Stitch-Man from Chandrar, who once told me I could work for the Tannousin Clan! I didn’t realize it was a compliment for years.”

He laughed at Montressa and, like Milaw, like the others, made very little of it.

“It’s just a single spell. Control is all. Your teacher, Valeterisa—she can perform actual magic. All we taught her were some craft tricks; she was the one who beat every student, even the [Mage Lords], and won every duel and wrote her papers.”

They were endlessly proud of her. Just as clearly—they didn’t see how Valeterisa’s own magic echoed theirs.

Control. The old [Tailor] was performing a cat’s cradle with some yarn, but doing it magically, and Valeterisa was copying her.

“Oh, you’ve gotten better! How about this? Can you unthread this ball of yarn? I made it specially for you.”

The [Tailor] cackled, and a look of chagrin passed over even Valeterisa’s face. Milaw groaned.

“Ierythe, don’t…”

The ball of yarn was tightly wound, and it had a simple rule: you could only unravel it from the string buried on the inside. You had to sense where it was and then untangle it, moving it through the countless layers of fiber internally until the ball came apart.

Montressa couldn’t even sense the thread inside it. Valeterisa stared blankly at the ball as the conversations continued, and Montressa had to tell stories of her, because Valeterisa refused to. In turn, she heard the ones they told of her.

“Archmage Valeterisa. I remember a girl who would walk to the weekly line and stand there with a book in her hands. Day in, day out. And who could keep up with Ierythe when she needed hands for her sewing.”

The old [Tailor] cackled.

“None finer! To afford lessons, she helped Milaw make clocks, worked with me—and was always chatting with our Djinni down below. He likes and loves no one, except the little girl who began bringing him ‘snacks’. Like other Drakes and Humans made mud pies, she’d enchant some quartz with magic.”

Valeterisa blushed faintly, but the Humans were so proud of her. Proud…and never once did they speak of the Scholarium or ask where Valeterisa had been.

“Archmage. Did you learn a lot in the Draconae Scholarium?”

Montressa had to ask. Valeterisa looked up, and everyone fell silent. Slowly, the ball of yarn fell apart in her hands, and a single thread spooled into the air and into Ierythe’s lap. The old woman smiled, but her face clouded as Valeterisa sat there. She took a long time replying as everyone looked and didn’t look at her.

“I learned a lot from the people of Heneith Street. Not just this street; there is a [Butcher] I will introduce you to who learned to find rot in any piece of meat. Drakes who can carve wood along every unseen seam. Fine teachers, but I did not level much as a [Mage], for I was young. A girl. I entered the Draconae Scholarium when I was eleven years old. I graduated at fifteen at Level 23.”

“In half the time, at the top of every class. No matter how much they claimed you cheated—”

Milaw raised his voice. Valeterisa spoke quietly.

“I graduated at Level 23 and applied to Wistram. When I left the Academy of Magic, I was Level 35. In both cases, my growth as a [Mage] was clear. My roots were ever here. My levels I gained as a student of the Scholarium. Those are the numbers and the facts.”

And how they lied. Montressa sat there as Valeterisa turned her head, unseen, to the distant Scholarium, the last point on their visit. And she wondered, if Valeterisa had never entered an academy—much less the Scholarium—would she still have leveled like that, if she had started here, on this street?

 

——

 

That night, Milaw closed his shop, and he and the crafters spoke late into the night as Valeterisa cast magic.

Simple magics, like enchanting a pair of knitting needles, unwarping a beam in the [Clockmaker]’s shop. She cast simple magics for the Drakes watching her from outside, through the glass windows.

The Archmage of Izril cast the grand ones in secret, hidden in illusion spells. She reached out, and Ierythe raised a trembling hand.

“Are you sure, Valeterisa? I have nothing to barter and nothing to trade for what it should cost.”

She looked afraid, not of the spell or Valeterisa’s ability, but of what she felt it should be. And to that, the Archmage of Izril, that unfeeling bit of magical code and logic—she bent down, like a younger woman, eyes sparkling with passion and righteousness, and Montressa saw a light as beautiful as the Grand Plaza’s spell knit around her.

“It should cost nothing at all. It’s just mana. [Restoration].

Like a sigh, a glow enveloped the old [Tailor], and her hands stopped trembling. She cried out—but when the others leapt to their feet, she stood, clutching at her back, and collapsed back into her chair.

“Don’t stand—your muscles are weak. It’s restoration, not a cure for all.”

Valeterisa helped her back down, but the old woman was weeping.

“I stood! Did you see it? I felt I could stand, and I did.

“The Healer of Tenbault’s magic. How did you learn it?”

The others stood around as Valeterisa gazed about blandly. She took her time in replying and recharging her mana as she beckoned another person over.

“Goblins.”

That, of course, made no sense. But Valeterisa had both the spell and the means to teach it. If only the [Crafters] had the means to cast it. Montressa thought they did. She thought even old Ierythe could—if only she had the mana reserves, the training in the kind of magic to produce the spell. The complexity was not beyond her.

“What a tragedy.”

“A tragedy?”

Milaw didn’t understand what she meant, and he was shaking his head. He looked at Valeterisa.

“You could patent that in the Scholarium. In front of them all. They would have to make you a Mage Lady of Fissival, then. First-Class? They would make you the Draconae Magis. One of Three.

Valeterisa just shook her head as she laid her hands on the next person.

“No. They wouldn’t. I would rise, but I don’t think I would ever become one of Fissival’s Three. I see that, now. It was good I never learned this before.”

“It should be for everyone, Valeterisa. Even if you can’t cast it—will you please listen? Ten. Ten times. I will sell everything I have to pay you.”

Ierythe whispered desperately. Valeterisa bent over her and embraced the old woman so awkwardly it hurt. Because she did it.

“I can only cast it three times per day, Ierythe. Even the Healer, with all her Skills, can do it ten times each day, with every mana potion she has.”

“Oh…”

“So I will stay three more days. But I do not know if I will show the Scholarium. I have met the Healer of Tenbault. I did not care for her. I will not make more of her kind.”

That was what Valeterisa had been pondering. She turned to Montressa, and the [Aegiscaster] jumped. But Valeterisa just beckoned her over.

“Apprentice, link with me. Try to learn the magic; we may be able to do it four times before we need mana potions. Then we will dine. And rest.”

That night, Montressa felt so drained she and Valeterisa ate every dish the [Innkeeper] brought out, and as promised, he had sent a feast. A Tier 6 spell. Valeterisa knew a Tier 6 spell.

Perhaps Eldavin knew it, but Valeterisa was no ancient [Mage] of days, but a new one, however old she claimed to feel. Wistram’s return to glory was far from here.

Montressa…Montressa wanted Valeterisa to shine brighter. So much so that she felt, in her heart, that this was the right thing to do.

Returning home was unraveling Valeterisa like the ball of yarn, but what had been buried was better than the yarn itself, if that made sense. They were both a bit travel-worn, so that night, Valeterisa inquired, and it turned out both could refresh themselves at the inn.

“I didn’t know Fissival had such good plumbing that it has private baths everywhere.”

“Hm. It doesn’t. Come, we’ll refresh ourselves together.”

A public bath? Montressa hoped so, or that Fissival wasn’t that intimate. But it turned out they would be using neither. Instead, the [Innkeeper] directed them to a private room out around back, and they found themselves sitting in a wood-lined room with a pot of steaming water and some coals in the center.

A sauna. Montressa had never been in one before, but Drakes loved hot baths and saunas. Valeterisa added water until it was steaming, and then both just sat there, towels for modesty. It was only then that Valeterisa referred back to the crafters.

“Fissival is the City of Magic. Its great spells are built upon each citizen’s own talents, and they have kept this city floating even in the days when great magics have left it.”

That was all Valeterisa said. Montressa glanced up at her.

“They truly were inspiring. Archmage…”

“Valeterisa. I am a Second-Class Citizen, here.”

Montressa stared at Valeterisa’s straight face. She amended her statement.

“Valeterisa, is it alright to show me [Restoration]?”

For answer, the Archmage just scrubbed at one arm.

“You swore to be my apprentice. If I teach you—I teach you. If you are a liar, a thief, someone to steal my magic or claim credit for my work—you would not be the first.”

Montressa stared at her, then burst out.

“I never will. I swear!”

Valeterisa just nodded. She sat there and gazed out one steam-clouded window.

“The Scholarium will not be pleasant. If Wistram’s politics are something you know—think of the Scholarium much the same.”

“And Fissival’s Three? What is that about?”

“The ruling body. The Draconae Magis, the Draconae Pricepe, the Draconae Duxel. Magic, governance, and war. The Mage Lords and Ladies and high spellcasters have equivalent power to your [Lords] and [Ladies]. Wall Lord Dragial was able to command armies to march even after his exile.”

“Magic rules.”

Valeterisa closed her eyes. She lay there as the sauna cooled, and Montressa stoked the coals. She murmured.

“A certain kind of it, yes. This should be my city. Why isn’t it? Ieka is my family in the north, and these are my people and teachers here. I belong to Izril more than Wistram. But what I crave I have never found. Those who hunger for magic, and magic alone, without distraction or compromise. Do I not see it? Or am I still looking?”

Montressa didn’t know what to say. She went to sleep, and the next day, they visited the Draconae Scholarium.

 

——

 

Archmage Valeterisa stood in the Draconae Scholarium, the heart of Fissival’s magic. Learning and education, where [Mage Lords] gathered with the greatest [Mages] of Drake-kind. Izril’s seat of magical power.

From here, the [Mages] ruled. Not as Wistram did, but with classes, some sitting outdoors, lecture halls filled with more students than even Wistram could boast of.

But fewer [Mages] could fly here, even compared with Wistram Academy. Students graduated under great teachers like Wardmistress Geyasa and went on to fulfill vital roles wherever they went in business, war, and on other continents.

However, the Scholarium was a riotous place, and their greatest members—from the teachers to the aforementioned [Mage Lords], who were both nobles and successful spellcasters—formed the Scholarium’s Court. They convened, unofficially or in formal settings, often in the largest courtyard, which could also be a font for lessons as it overlooked much of Fissival.

A green courtyard of obsessively-trimmed grass across from a wide fountain, a sizzling stretch of coals that Montressa just bet new students were hazed upon, let practitioners use the elements. Students sat on a glassy plaza, tails stretched out as a Drake [Professor], an actual one, gave them a lecture about a rock.

Here stood the Wardmistress, demonstrating a level of defensive barrier that made even Montressa look twice. A group of idle Drake [Scholars], speaking to a [Mage Lady] about the impending war.

The Scholarium’s Court stood here, and their peer did likewise. The Archmage of Izril. A student of this very place who had gone on to define Izril as their chief spellcaster.

Montressa could have admired the buildings that led deeper into the private libraries, the remaining magical towers that enabled such great feats as a scrying tower capable of reaching even Rhir with perfect accuracy, or the famed teleportation network that transported goods across Izril and had once done far more.

But she was unable to; her face was almost as fiery red as her hair. She stood, the staff of the [Pyromancer], Fyres, in hand, anger smoking off her like magic. Valeterisa?

She said nothing. She stood there, like a younger [Mage], as the Scholarium buzzed around her. And ignored her. Completely and utterly as the Archmage of Izril stared down at her shoes. Some Drakes, like Geyasa, glanced her way, but none dared do the unthinkable and breach the bubble of isolation around her.

First, the Archmage of Izril petitioned to meet the Scholarium’s Court in formal redress. They accepted, in two month’s time.

Second, the [Mage] of the Scholarium requested to meet with the [Headmaster] of the Scholarium, [Professors], and received polite refusals, as was their right.

Third and last of all, they could not stop her from entering, so Second-Class Citizen Valeterisa stood and stared at her feet in the Scholarium’s courtyard. And still no one said a word.

 

——

 

“Archmage Valeterisa of Izril? Now there is a name I have not heard in a long, long time. Almost a decade. If she has the gall to enter Fissival, let alone approach the Scholarium after her involvement in the war, let alone her long absence? That would be unwise. The Scholarium will light her aflame if they don’t ignore her completely. She is no mage of Fissival.”

A Drake disembarking a ship caught wind via [Message] spell that Valeterisa was in the City of Magic. He glanced high, high up the plateau as the ship finally unloaded its passengers. Drakes, tired from circumnavigating Izril, and Humans, equally sea-sick and wary of their new home.

A new prison, a better one? Or just more of the same with different scales? The other [Mages] were tired too; they could have disembarked at Zeres and arguably come here faster. But then, likely, some of the Humans would have ‘disappeared’ or become ‘guests’ of Zeres or Pallass. Manus and Oteslia too. Let alone the damn war with Salazsar.

Politics. Were they in this together or not? Ah, well—they were home. Another Drake, nursing a scar from his encounter with Cognita of Wistram, glanced up as one of the [Mages] commentated.

“You’re too young to remember Mage Valeterisa, aren’t you, Magus Reinall?”

Mage Lord Ascoden spoke lightly as one of the [War Mages] who had participated in the raid on Wistram stared up at their home. Reinall shook his head.

“I’ve only heard of her. You would have been close to her age, Mage Lord?”

Ascoden nodded.

“I am younger, but I remember Magus Valeterisa. Top of her year. We lost her to Wistram.”

He had graduated around the same time as Magus Grimalkin, and Reinall shook his head.

“Not one of ours. I heard she’s a Second-Class Citizen, still. Which is amazing that we kept her as a citizen.”

“Not a [Mage] of Fissival.”

Ascoden nodded. He glanced at the Earthers, disembarking, and caught the eyes of some of them. Eun, Saif—along the way, he walked past Reinall and kicked him into the surf, over the edge of the landing boat.

The other Drakes watched as a flailing Drake with pearlescent blue scales went head-first into the sand and came up, spluttering.

Mage Lord!

Ascoden leaned over the landing boat and fixed Reinall with a long stare.

“I studied [Valeterisa’s Complex Seeker Projectile] spell. And it was almost as hard to memorize as that name. We lost her to Wistram. The Archmage of Izril. If she’s here, I hope she stays long enough for someone to greet her.”

“The Scholarium won’t appreciate that, Mage Lord!”

Reinall sounded nervous. But Ascoden just smiled.

“The Scholarium is never united unless someone manages to bully the others into silence. Dragial is dead, and Valeterisa has returned. Two good events in one month.”

He turned and smiled upwards, but his smile was wan, and as he walked off the boat, he was conscious of the stares and politics enfolding him like the magical aura of home.

Bad magic. Poor magic. If he had the chance to meet Valeterisa, he would shake her hand. And tell her to leave. Fissival did not deserve her. Even if it needed her, perhaps he had to wait and see if the great plateau the City of Magic was built on broke and fell into the surf below, first. Then, and only then, would he learn if Fissival, the Walled City of Magic, could truly fly or not.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: Aaah. Do you feel it?

I’m dying. Which is the dramatic way of saying I’m reaching my natural endpoint before I need a vacation. It doesn’t feel like dying and, being conscious of the fact that my words can be taken literally, I shall now continue to dramatize how it feels.

It feels like knowing I can do better, and failing to produce it. Chasing for the same easy eloquence or noting that I fall bad into writing habits. To go even further, if there’s a perfect chapter, a ray of sunlight I can tell exists in the distance, at the heart of each chapter, all I’m producing is murky waters. And that becomes more true the more fatigued I get.

Also, you don’t deal with negative emotions as well the closer to burnout you get, although that’s a nebulous term and mine is more like fatigue, not a complete meltdown.

It feels…like being Squidward from the Spongebob show and watching that stupid sponge make words of art. And the irony for writers and I suspect, a lot of tasks in general, is that the key to getting some of the inspiration and quality back is to take a break. Perhaps the ideal state of mind to be in means taking as long as 2 weeks break per chapter—but then I’d fall into the trap of some famously unfinished series. Balance.

But it’s also true that I can do a chapter in two parts, which I’ve strayed from. I don’t like to do it because it feels like I can, with effort, create contained narratives. But perhaps that’s pushing too far and the best stuff comes out of a state of grace. Seeing where the chapter goes.

This wasn’t quite that graceful, but I’ll write one more chapter which should do it, however long or short it is, then take my weekly break. It’s been sort of a hectic writing cycle with my failed vacation and other things interfering at times, but then, there have been good points too. I hate banks. I appreciate family.

I still hold a grudge against Canada but I’ll give it another shot. Airlines suck. I just wish fatigue didn’t seem to creep in faster than when I started writing, but then—I probably managed to write non-stop for years because they were 14,000 word chapters, or 8,000. I can do 8,000 chapters all year long.

That’s my musings for the day. Hope you enjoyed and see you next chapter!

 

Bela Fishing, Void Goat, and Goat Walking by Brack!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

Tom by maniclittle!

 

Rags Laugh by butts!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.15 VM

[I am on break until the 20th of September! Also, Blood of Liscor, Book 8 of The Wandering Inn is now available for pre-order on Audible!]

 

 

Archmage Valeterisa Imarris of Izril had met with the children of Earth briefly to understand their world and witness one of the great phenomena occurring in the present day.

Another world’s people, crossing over with this one. She had made numerous observations, mostly simple, including their ages, the patterns of location that occurred with some ‘groups’, and, of course, their lack of levels hither-to arriving.

She listened while other [Mages] asked questions of what they thought was interesting or dangerous. Guns and airplanes and internet, oh my.

Unlike some, Valeterisa took every statement at face-value. Space travel? The movements of stars? Relative speed-to-time? She believed it all—or a part of her did. Then she compartmentalized that full credulity and cross-checked it against factual evidence and her own understanding of physics and sciences.

—Yet, Valeterisa would well admit she had not spent nearly as much time with them as even the other Archmages. Not for lack of interest! It was just…

They had less to offer her. Their scientific understandings could be read once collated; culturally, a Human-only world was interesting, but Valeterisa had asked one Human—ironically, the same one now climbing the beach towards the City of Magic—a question.

Saif, the young man who carried an airsoft gun, now enchanted to be even more of a threat than it was before, had answered the Archmage of Izril’s most pressing question: what did he know of magic?

Stories, myths, pseudo-magic—Valeterisa had wanted to know. Saif had obliged her with a tale of a certain wizarding school, then found George for a legend of Elves, Dwarves, and a middle earth which assumed there were two other earths—whereupon they’d begun arguing about the deep lore of Tolkien.

The end result was incredibly disappointing for Valeterisa, and she had ended her direct contact shortly after that. Not because there were no depictions of magic on Earth or that they did not long for it. Rather, their magic sounded mundane.

Mundane, in the sense of fireballs and teleportation. There was a certain board game which made sense to most [Battlemages] as a representation in numbers of how much damage a spell could do. Magic in popular culture was still fantastical.

But it wasn’t magic. There was something behind the ability to conjure a storm of wind or levitate a cup. Something more profound, more useful, and simpler altogether.

Valeterisa had written her thesis on the subject. She’d almost failed to graduate. So she’d gone back to listening to Elena talk about celestial bodies. Magic had a place amidst the Earther’s knowledge of science, and that made more sense to the Archmage of Izril.

She might never have realized that, growing up, and become another [Mage] of Fissival. But despite the Scholarium having changed so little—as she stood, ignored, amongst her former peers, Valeterisa glanced around. If nothing else, she had once had an excellent teacher.

 

——

 

Ignored. Montressa du Valeross saw Valeterisa staring at her feet as they stood in the Draconae Scholarium, in the great plaza overlooking the rest of the city. The font of magic and authority was gathered here, professors and magical nobility and more.

All deliberately ignoring Valeterisa. Pretending she didn’t exist. Montressa was as red-faced as her hair, and she realized some of them gave her amused looks out of the corners of their eyes. She couldn’t help it.

This wasn’t right. It struck a chord with how she had been exiled. It—reminded her of Pisces, but this was worse than both in its way.

Because the Drakes here didn’t shun Valeterisa because she was a [Necromancer] or for anything she had done. They ignored her because she was the Archmage of Izril. The greatest [Mage] who had come from their ranks. And they refused to look at her. Refused to grant her a meeting—and Valeterisa seemed like she was a girl again, just studying the ground, too shy to speak.

For eighteen minutes, they stood there. Like a silent plea to be heard, as classes ended and Drakes moved around. The [Professors] and [Mages] milled about, talking, loitering, and sending their message.

In that time, Montressa waited for Valeterisa to do anything, but the Archmage held her ground, so Montressa did likewise. And the [Aegiscaster] realized there was a small benefit to that.

Because not all the Drakes were so studiously united.

In fact, the younger [Students] and [Mages] began to realize they had an interesting guest when they noticed the two Humans standing there.

It was not that they stood there; more than one citizen or tourist would do something similar, peer around the Scholarium and poke their tail everywhere, disrupt classes, and so on. Prospective candidates, etc.

Yet a pair of Drake [Students] trying to hold their [Aerial Shield] spells steady under Wardmistress Geyasa’s watchful gaze stopped teasing each other and trying to break the other’s focus. One of them cast around.

“Hey, you feel that? There’s some kind of…aura or something around here. It’s pretty strong. Cassa. Cassa, do you feel…?”

“Nope. I failed my detection class, remember?”

The other Drake grumbled, but she too picked up…something. Both the male and female [Student] glanced about, then they focused on the Human woman standing next to the shorter one with red hair and red face.

“Hey. Hey, Cassa. That Human’s got skin almost as red as your scales. That’s hilarious. Is that, uh, that sunburn thing that Humans get?”

“Don’t be mean, Toris. She’s probably a new student looking around.”

“Nah, she seems too old. And she’s got some magical power. Feel that?”

They were students, but still capable of detecting relative magical auras. Especially in Geyasa’s class; they might go on to be magical bodyguards or to ward houses, even venture into dungeons and remove traps. Even the negligent Cassa hesitated.

“Yeah, but not from the young one. Who’s that?

They gazed at Archmage Valeterisa, and both of their ward spells flickered at the same time. The two Drakes flinched as someone spoke.

Failure! Focus! Even if you turn your heads and chatter, I expect you to keep a spell up!

That was accompanied by a thack, and a newspaper, rolled up, hit both on the top of the head. Both students groaned as the [Wardmistress] glared at them.

“If that hurts, consider how an arrow feels! Cassa, Toris, you have the luxury of remedial practice. See the assistant instructor for a date to make up your work. Everyone else? Class dismissed, well done.”

The two Drakes groaned as their fellow students grinned at them and relaxed in relief. Geyasa had been probing their basic air-shields, trying to disrupt the magical flow and even tossing flames or other hazards they had to weather.

“We didn’t fail because our shields failed! We just lost focus!”

Cassa glared at the sniggering classmates. One rolled their eyes.

“Same thing. What were you staring at? Hey—who’s that?”

And once again, the conversation repeated itself. Toris rubbed at his head and frowned.

“Some Human who wants to send her kid to school? But they’re both pretty good. Actually, even the red-haired Human might be on par with a full [Mage].”

“Did you fail your lessons like Cassa, Toris? She could be a teacher. And that’s the younger one. The older one…she must be from Wistram. Or she’s a new [Professor]. Check out her aura.

The other students were noticing Valeterisa as their classes finished. Only the distracted students had noticed at first, but now…

“Who is that?”

They didn’t know. But they could tell Valeterisa was something. The students of the Scholarium pointed, but none of the teachers had approached the Humans, and so maybe they were waiting for someone?

The students were mostly Drakes, as befit Fissival, but they had a minority of Humans, even Dullahans and other species from further abroad. Stitch-folk from Chandrar were rare given the mage-schools on the continent, and likewise for Terandria. Lizardfolk were not common, so Humans were the second most common students. Dullahans, Selphids, and Centaurs along with Drowned Folk combined made up similar numbers to the Human minority.

Even so, it took ages for one of them to identify Valeterisa. Not simply because her name was almost unknown here, but because the Archmage of Izril had been gone for eight long years. Only when someone remembered a brief image they’d seen from Wistram did they suspect who it was. Then the whispers began.

The Archmage of Izril? Really? I didn’t know we had an Archmage! Why’s she here?

“I heard she was dead!”

“Maybe she’s come to exchange knowledge with Fissival? Or trade with our [Mages]?”

“Didn’t she fight in the Meeting of Tribes? Why’d anyone let her in?”

“Because she used to be a student here. Duh.”

A cluster of students broke up, and the younger Drakes parted. The other students backed up as a far older [Student] of the Scholarium broke in. He was thirty-four years old and, like High Magus Telim, an essential fixture of the Scholarium.

Unlike Wistram, which was notorious for being an expensive school to attend, much less get to, even with scholarships, the Draconae Scholarium offered generous scholarships that included room and board. Some students were so fond of the arrangement they became permanent students rather than graduate.

This Drake was, in fact, Cassa and Toris’ assistant instructor. As well as taking classes and studying in his own time, he often helped the busy [Teachers]. Even so—he’d been a student longer than some of the new students had been alive.

“No way, Kadril. That’s another lie, like kissing the statue of Obridein. I’m not falling for your lies again.”

“You kissed the statue? Gross.

By that, they meant the statue most of the students were gathered around, which was named Obridein, a Drake kneeling on the ground in a surprisingly humble pose. But that was, perhaps, because the entire Walled City of Magic, in miniature, rested upon his back. It might have been a commentary on the role of [Mages] serving the city. Or maybe it was just ego. Either way, one of the favorite pranks on new students was to tell them it was good luck to kiss Obridein.

That was both highly unhygienic and unwise, because the older students would chill the statue so your lips stuck to the stone.

Anyways, Kadril ignored the younger students as he watched Valeterisa.

“Yeah, that’s her. Valeterisa, the Archmage of Izril. I saw her in the yearbook. Top of her class. Four year graduate. Pioneered her own magical spell, quit for Wistram, and then became Archmage of Izril.”

Cassa was still stuck on the first part. She raised a claw as she gaped at Valeterisa in amazement.

“…We had an Archmage? Graduate from here? Why didn’t anyone ever mention that?”

To that, Kadril just flicked his tail in a rude gesture and turned away with a snort. The younger students regarded each other, then they began to hurry off to spread word. The Archmage of Izril!

They neither knew her reputation nor her history. It was just her title that impressed them. But some of the Drakes, like Wardmistress Geyasa, paused a moment. She glanced around at her peers and didn’t break the veil of silence. So the [Wardmistress] stormed to her next lecture, seeming more annoyed than usual.

And still, Valeterisa waited. She traced her eyes over the worn flagstones of the Scholarium, and Montressa looked around.

Here was a level of magic few places in the world could boast of. She wished she didn’t hate it so.

Here was Fissival’s famed teleportation network. Somewhere in the Scholarium, goods from cities in the region would teleport in and be traded out as needed. Once, this network had criss-crossed Izril. These days, it had errors that sometimes lost entire shipments of goods, and no one dared use it for personal teleportation.

It had been co-opted by Fissival to steal the Gnolls’ magic. But once, it had been great. Just like the legends—once, Fissival flew. It still did, technically.

“Archmage. We don’t have to stand here.”

They’ll never speak to you. Montressa interrupted Valeterisa’s silence after another two minutes had passed. The Archmage’s head snapped up. She glanced around before turning to Montressa.

“I know. I hoped…”

A hand went up to touch her brow, but it hesitated, and she didn’t cast a spell. Valeterisa just glanced around and sighed.

“The classes are changing. Wait another few minutes. I want to see if someone is still here.”

“Who, exactly?”

A [Mage Lord]? Or lady? More than even Salazsar, Montressa had noticed the aristocracy of Fissival was present here. A blend of noble classes and magic. She could only guess that being well-connected in this Scholarium would be akin to being favored in Pheislant’s royal courts.

However, Valeterisa just shook her head.

“My teacher. Oh…I think he’s here. See if you can spot him.”

A rare smile crossed her face as her head rotated across the new classes coming into the courtyard. Montressa stood on her tip-toes, but she just saw a sea of Drake heads and robes. Valeterisa, though—she was smiling.

“It must be the start of a new semester.”

Who was she looking at? Montressa saw new classes beginning, and indeed, the most raw [Students] were taking their first steps to becoming [Mages] here.

[Students], not [Mages]. That fascinated Montressa. There were few of that class in Wistram, but Valeterisa spoke absently.

“Oh, yes. We have [Teachers] and [Professors] and [Students] here. Classes devoted to learning. It’s not always considered optimal, but I had a [Student] class which I consolidated into [Scholar]. Then it all became [Mage]. I have always missed that. Wistram has a different kind of magic—but its teachers are often quite poor at…teaching.”

Montressa was about to object to that with pride in her former academy—then she remembered Illphres’ entire class had been freezing a classroom and daring her students to unfreeze it for an entire semester. She had to admit—it was a fair point. Eldavin had been a rare [Mage] who was as good at teaching magic as casting it.

So, the [Teachers] in Fissival let the Scholarium take students who didn’t even know how to cast spells yet. A group of young Drakes and two Humans were holding their wands, some of them barely ten years old, and a kindly [Teacher] was showing them how to channel magic into their wands.

“No, don’t cast anything—just focus. Good. Pass! And you—”

“How do I focus, Teacher?”

A Drake girl seemed distressed as she tried to push magic into her wand. She was probably not a native of Fissival if she didn’t know how to even put magic into her wand. Montressa saw the Drake draw his own wand with a flourish.

“Like this. [Learn by Example] and [Illustrated Point]. See? The magic comes down the arm, into the wand, and it gathers here.”

Montressa blinked. She could read magic flow, but that was an advanced trick. Now, with only her mundane eyes, she saw magic running down the [Teacher]’s arm into his wand. The class oohed, and the young Drake stared at her wand excitedly.

“I get it! You pull it from here—I get it!”

Teaching Skills. Montressa had to admit—that wasn’t bad. Other [Teachers] and [Professors] clearly had Skills that had little magical utility but a lot of power in these classroom settings. One spotted a snoozing Drake and snapped her fingers.

“[Focus, Class].”

The Drake blinked, snapped up to guilty attention, and she gave him a reproving look. But a lot of Skills also extended to identifying struggling students or clarifying points.

Yet Montressa’s interest in each teacher was also in finding Valeterisa’s own mentor. Who was it? The teacher showing wands? Another illustrating how to draw runes? That teacher, over there, making his students run across the ground?

Testicles! If the Sinew Magus has proven anything, it’s that a [Mage] can be fit and cast spells! I studied under Grimalkin himself. You want to take on a Wyvern bare-handed? Well then—

“…Definitely not that one.”

It seemed like old graduates of Fissival could influence the Scholarium even after they’d left. For proof of that—Montressa saw a familiar face in another open plaza area in the vast courtyard.

Not that she knew Archmage Zelkyr that well, but only he would be standing amongst a corner of one of the buildings, in a small plot of grass, with the familiar Truestone Golems—one of them—flanking him.

Interestingly, it was not Cognita, but the Gnoll Golem. Montressa really would love to know what Cognita thought of that. An entire class was sitting in the shadow of the statues.

They were eight feet tall. There, along the low stone edge you could sit on, a Drake was lecturing his class. It didn’t seem like a magical lesson. His prop was a simple object too. Montressa sharpened her gaze and amped up her vision, but…

Nope. It was just a rock.

The [Professor] sat with the rock laying just within arm’s reach, his entire class of students, some of whom seemed like they were close to graduation, listening to him.

“I have a profound conundrum to start our course, students. You see here, I have a rock. It is unenchanted, ordinary, and it is right here. I should very much like to lift it up to, say, around head-height. How might I effect a solution to my problem?”

The students glanced at each other, and some laughed, but the Drake had a completely serious face. One bold student sitting close to him stood up.

“I can help, Professor. What about…?”

She picked up the rock and held it up. The [Professor] gaped at her—and then he exploded into fury.

What have you done?

The unlucky student nearly dropped the rock in fright. Montressa raised her brows as the Drake shot to his feet. She glanced over and saw Valeterisa was watching him. She had a slight smile on her face, and so Montressa’s interest reached a zenith. She listened, and both Human [Mages] walked over a bit as the [Professor] began to rant.

Do you know what you’ve done?

N-no, Professor Pexalix, sir? What did I do?”

Pexalix glared at the Drake and gestured to the rock.

You picked up the rock!

She hesitated. Now, the class really was laughing, and some of the older Drakes and students who were familiar with Pexalix were rolling their eyes. The student hesitated and peered at him.

“Yes. And…?”

“You’ve wasted your life. Look at her, class! Look what she did! She had to stand up, walk over here, and pick up the rock. She’s wasted five seconds, six, perhaps, of her life! Her life. She’ll never get that back. Six seconds. Are you fine with this, Miss…?”

Now, the young Drake was certain she’d stepped into a trap and was trying to make the best of it.

“Naithorne, Professor. It’s only a few seconds. What’s the problem?”

The [Professor]’s eyes glinted. He glanced up and saw Valeterisa, but he went on as if she weren’t there.

“Oh, to be so young. Miss Naithorne. How many rocks or objects do you think you’ll pick up in your life?”

“Um. I don’t know. Thousands? Tens of thousands?”

“Thousands. And if each time you wasted six seconds, how many minutes does that become? Hours? Let’s assume you picked up only a hundred thousand objects in your entire life. Multiply that by six seconds. How much time have you wasted? Anyone? I know most of you graduated from your basic mathematics course.”

Six hundred thousand seconds divided up…one Drake raised his claw, amused.

“About seven days, sir.”

“Seven days of her life. Gone. Just like that. And that’s assuming only six seconds.”

“Even seven days doesn’t sound that bad, if I live to be a hundred, Professor.”

Now, Naithorne was trying to be difficult. But Pexalix’s eyes were still glinting.

“Oh, how charitable. But that rock is there not to just be your personal lifting device, Miss Naithorne, but a metaphorical rock for us all. Let’s assume you are content with wasting seven days of your life. Tell me. How many citizens live in Fissival?”

No one knew that off the top of their head.

“Millions, sir?”

“Millions, correct. Every single person now loses seven days of their life. How many years would…three million Drakes lose to lifting that rock?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, although Valeterisa was working on it. Pexalix spun, and Montressa began to understand what he was saying as he strode back to his seat.

Lifting that rock can be easy. If you have an arm and you feel like standing up, you can lift it. But let’s say I want to save myself the time. How else might I lift the rock? And since I’ve taught this class, no ‘smart’ answers like your tail, your other hand, your foot, or your mouth. Assume we are limbless, bodiless people.”

The students were warming to his lesson now. A hand shot up, and a Dullahan boy spoke, cautiously, as he held his head up.

“Magic, sir?”

“A classic answer for a [Mage]. Yes, magic. Levitation, teleportation, a pillar of earth, even wind—”

Now, the [Professor] gestured, and the rock gently floated up. It fell, then a pillar of earth lifted it before a wind spell blew it around and nearly brained a passing [Professor]. Pexalix raised an apologetic claw as his class laughed.

“I apologize for that. I’d teleport it, but as we know, only our vaunted teleportation network works in a Walled City. Ahem. Magic, indeed. Now…what about ways other than magic?”

His class was stumped for a second. Then, someone else raised her claw.

“What about…one of the lifts in Pallass? Or something like that? A contraption to pick it up?”

Aha.

The Drake was smiling now. He nodded.

“Perfect. You’ve gotten farther than some classes. A contraption. A sling, a lever—good, good. What else?”

They stalled for a second. The [Professor] waited, then supplied them with the answer.

“Let’s say you were not my students and I, this bodiless, magic-less voice, had the issue. You, Miss Naithorne. Would you waste your time once more and pick up the rock for…six copper coins?”

“Sure.”

The [Professor] nodded about.

“She doesn’t even haggle. And like that, I have exchanged six copper coins for six seconds of her life. Is that a fair deal?”

“Does that count, Professor?”

A student looked interested, and the [Professor] raised both his brows.

“Count? Of course it does. I’ve paid someone else to do work for me. It’s entirely valid. Or do you think a [Carpenter] builds you a chair out of the goodness of his heart? You could, perhaps, do that work yourself, but how long would it take you to make a chair? Why not buy one pre-made? Could you make one with magic? Of course. But it seems to me many questions we have are about how to efficiently lift a rock—or balance the cost. The rock, if you hadn’t guessed, is a metaphor and the topic of this course.”

His students peered at him, some blank-faced, but Montressa got it. Pexalix sighed as he flicked his claws, and an illusion of marching Drakes wearing armor appeared. He glanced up again at Valeterisa.

“[Soldiers] fight battles to protect citizens like us. Adventurers kill monsters. [Miners] mine ore in Salazsar, and everyone has their profession. Some people will spend every second of their professions in the service of others. And this is a necessary thing to keep Fissival running. Consider our sewers. Who would enjoy a job, say, cleaning them every day? Unclogging toilets?”

He cast about. No one raised their hands, and the Drake nodded.

“And yet—it is necessary. We do make people do it. Is that fair to them? I will point out, by the way, that those who clean the sewers are by and large either Second-Class Citizens or Foreigners under working visas. Let alone their species.”

“We pay them. It’s a job, Professor.”

One of the students retorted, seeming a bit annoyed by what Pexalix was putting down. The [Professor] shot back calmly.

“So will you do it? How much are they being paid? If they had a choice, do you think any of them would say that sewer-cleaning is their ideal occupation? It is a huge, disgusting rock, and someone must lift it. The question is…why are we lifting it that way? Could we lift the rock of sewer-cleaning another way? Say with…”

He waggled his claws and produced some colorful sparks, which faded as they showered into the air and onto the ground. Then, Naithorne spoke up.

“You mean magic, Professor?”

“Exactly. Magic or a Pallassian gadget or something more inventive still. Why don’t we do that? We have [Cleanse] spells. Why not send a [Mage] down and, though it may be disgusting, just [Cleanse] the damn sewers rather than do it manually?”

His students eyed each other. Some of them murmured, and Montressa herself was curious. Now that he mentioned it—why not indeed? It sounded easy. She’d heard of Pisces’ sewer-cleaning Bone Horror, but why not just scour the damn place? Maybe Liscor lacked for the right [Mages], but she was sure Fissival could do it.

Pexalix knew the answer, which was why he’d brought it up. He ticked the points off on his clawed hand.

“A few reasons, class. Firstly? Magic is money, and many [Mages] consider the work beneath them. It is far cheaper to hire some Second-Class Citizens than to hire a Level 30 [Mage]. Second? Size. Fissival’s sewers are vast and—consider the [Cleanse] spell. It scales up the mana cost with the amount it needs to clean. Perhaps there is a [Mass Cleanse] spell, but who could cast that? But lastly—we have found that if you obsessively [Cleanse] an area of filth, the resulting overly-clean area can have dire consequences and backlash of its own.”

Really?

The class was fascinated. Pexalix grimaced.

“I will be assigning you books on magical disasters, and the Sewer Purge disaster will be your reading material tonight. It happened in our very sewers. We shall discuss magical mishaps—but suffice it to say that [Cleanse] was not a cure-all.”

Montressa eyed Valeterisa, and the Archmage of Izril refused to meet her eyes. She muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

“It only applies to huge quantities of filth.”

“So you were still courting disaster, Archmage?”

The reply popped out of Montressa’s mouth before she could help it. Valeterisa blinked and then narrowed her eyes as Montressa turned red. Then she smiled and glowered at the same time.

Yet Pexalix was going on.

“And yet, my class. And yet. It would be all too convenient to say, ‘oh, magic cannot solve everything. We must hire [Cleaners] and that is that’. If [Cleanse] cannot do the job, we are stuck. Is that fair?”

By this point, some of his students, like Naithorne, were wise enough to wait. But Pexalix had baited a few nods from his students, and his next explosion was the most gregarious still.

Are you insane?

He was on his feet again and striding past students recoiling, leaning back, but his eyes were ablaze with passion for his subject. The [Professor] slapped his chest with one claw and the ground with his tail.

“You are all students of the Draconae Scholarium, the greatest magic-school of Izril! If you give up on a problem because one spell does not work, you do not deserve to be [Mages]. Magic can solve the sewer problem. It is my belief it can solve any problem. Perhaps not efficiently, but it can be done. Magic is more than a [Fireball]. How else could you clean the sewers? Anyone?”

He swung around and almost fell to his knees.

Anyone. One spell! One original thought in the Scholarium, for the love of Dragons!”

“Well, what about enchanting a mop? Or summoning a familiar? Or just casting [Tidal Wave]?”

Pexalix glanced up. Montressa du Valeross saw his students glance at her, but she hadn’t been able to resist. The [Professor] smiled.

“Ah, now there’s an idea. And Fissival has employed all those things. And Golems. Then we used our Golems in war, and the sewers became the job of citizens once more. Yet magic remains. Magic can do anything, even make magic simpler. Isn’t that right, Archmage Valeterisa?”

Every head turned, and the students stared as Valeterisa bowed slightly. She peered at the old [Professor], who had broken the code of the Scholarium, and smiled.

“Yes, Professor Pexalix. In these days, magic is a single spell. But what is a ritual of old, or a grand spell, but a thousand little spells built upon each other? That rock you hold is a mundane rock, but upon millions of its kind we made the Walled Cities. Can a spell create food? Or if not food, can a Golem plow a field? Can a spell cast a spell? I believe it can. We have simply forgotten how.

Montressa’s head turned, and her eyes opened wide in disbelief. Can a spell cast a spell? Valeterisa sounded like one of the [High Mages] of Wistram, like Telim, higher still on Sa’la’s more recreational herbs.

Yet Valeterisa and Pexalix held each other’s gaze in perfect seriousness, and the [Professor] chuckled slowly.

“She just gave away the last part of my course. Ah, and here is a former student of mine and Fissival’s. Archmage Valeterisa. We may have to cut the class short, students.”

“Not for me. Studying, magic, are their own rewards.”

She stood there, and the old [Professor] looked her up and down. Montressa wondered who had aged more in the time they had not seen each other. From the deep fondness, sadness, and regret in his eyes—she felt like it was not him. Yet Valeterisa still smiled, and she met her old teacher’s eyes as he exhaled, proud.

“Yes. So great [Mages] have always said. Later, then. Where was I? Sewers? Well, since we have been spoiled on the premise of magic—yes, we’re going to review spells. Why do we cast a [Fireball] with the woven-method? And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, then we had better get the idea into your heads that spells don’t have to be cast the same way. It’s just that most [Mages] don’t vary a spell. Why, there’s a fine example with the famous Archmage of Memory in his duel with Archmage Feor that illustrates my point. But to start from the beginning…”

Montressa stepped back with Valeterisa as Pexalix found his spot again. Soon, he was teaching a course that Montressa wished she’d taken in Wistram. She studied Valeterisa.

“So, he’s your great teacher?”

“The finest teacher I could have asked for. He teaches ideas, not spells. Methods, not outcomes. I wondered if he was still here.”

Now, Montressa understood the forces that had shaped Valeterisa. The rules of Fissival and how they treated citizens. The [Crafters] and their mastery of magic. And Pexalix, the [Professor] whose ideas had echoed in Valeterisa until now.

Yet, and yet. As Valeterisa gazed fondly at her former teacher, someone cleared her throat, and both Montressa and the Archmage turned. A Drake stood there, wearing the bright blue robes embroidered with the Scholarium’s crest. She spoke sharply.

“Valeterisa. I cannot believe you have the audacity to show your face here. I cannot believe you were not arrested for your treachery at the Meeting of Tribes. Have you come to beg the forgiveness of the Scholarium or just see everything you abandoned?”

“Sooral.”

Valeterisa blinked at the other Drake. She had a very shockingly bright set of yellow scales, and combined with the blue, it contrived to make her stand out vividly. She seemed…well, furious, but also somewhat lost. Like someone who had been following the north star only to fall off a cliff. Nervous?

“Magus Lady Sooralese to you, Valeterisa! We are not students anymore. Nor are you any close confidant of mine. I hold you responsible for Wall Lord Dragial’s death. But for you—we would have won a great victory at the Meeting of Tribes!

Oh. Her hostility suddenly made sense to Montressa. Valeterisa took a long breath.

“Were you a close supporter of his? He was exiled from Fissival, if I recall. You were always fond of him, although he barely noticed us, being three years ahead.”

The other Drake’s cheeks blushed with fury.

“Don’t speak of him that way! He was exiled purely on political reasons; the Scholarium never revoked his status. He was a [Mage Lord] of Fissival.”

“A graduate. So was I. I never liked him. He bullied me quite often. I was surprised he died at the Meeting of Tribes. I would have thought he knew better than to join a war. He was always bad at direct combat magic. Summoning was his forte.”

Valeterisa sounded oddly dispassionate as she stared at a distant memory. Sooral gasped for outrage. Her voice trembled as she aimed a finger at the Archmage.

“You never fit in the academy. You and your…‘self-proven theories’. Just because you won a few duels and patented a spell, you think that gives you the right to look down on Dragial?”

Her tail was lashing the ground in irritation. Valeterisa shifted, and Montressa, glancing at the other watching Drakes now, thought the Archmage was almost trying to hold a smile.

“Not for that. But he was three years ahead of me. And I graduated before him.”

Sooral gasped in fury. She had a wand at her side in one of the holsters there, and her claw twitched for that.

“I should have you expelled on the spot! Not just from the Scholarium, but from the entire city!”

“I am a citizen of Fissival. And a [Mage] of the Scholarium.”

I am a Mage Lady of Fissival—

Valeterisa cut her off suddenly.

“—And I have done nothing wrong. You cannot play tricks on me anymore. I just realized that. You can probably still make my life more difficult, but if you would like to directly punish me, you would need to duel me. Formally. If you would like to issue a challenge, go ahead.”

Slowly, Valeterisa drew her wand, and the Mage Lady hesitated. Montressa, in her shoes, would have hesitated. She had seen Valeterisa’s poor duel against Fyres—but she’d also seen how it ended, and somehow, she didn’t think Valeterisa would be as inept against Sooral.

A crowd had gathered, now, mostly of students, and the [Mage Lady] looked around as she unconsciously took a step back.

“I…don’t have the mana to waste on you, Valeterisa. Nor the patience!”

She turned, and Valeterisa called at her back.

“Drakes don’t run. Coward. Isn’t that what you said to me, Sooral?”

The yellow-scaled Drake froze mid-step and nearly turned, but she kept walking. Valeterisa focused on Sooral’s back and then turned. Montressa was beaming, but Valeterisa was not as she began walking away.

“Archmage, that was incredible. Who was that?”

“A Drake. Who was in my year. I did not like her. I wish that made me feel better.”

Valeterisa wasn’t smiling as Montressa glanced up in astonishment.

“You embarrassed her publicly! She didn’t dare challenge you!”

She pointed out, hoping it made Valeterisa smile, but the Archmage just shrugged.

“No. I was the one who bullied her. It doesn’t change what a younger Valeterisa went through decades ago. Dragial is dead. He would have caused trouble, laws or not. She might, but he…”

She slowed and glanced around blankly.

“Not even the Drakes who hated me most are alive anymore. I’m not their enemy. Almost all of them just forgot about me.”

She shook her head. Montressa’s feeling of vicarious pride and satisfaction faded away. Valeterisa turned, and a few more Drakes were watching her. She nodded to them.

“Professor Worpell. Magus Lord Cureq. General Hexa. And…”

“Magic General Vors. On leave. To correct you, Archmage, it would be Supreme Magi-General Hexa.

Four Drakes stood facing Valeterisa. One was a professor, almost as grey-scaled as Pexalix, but female, with a monocle floating in front of one eye. The Mage-Lord was a hostile, scowling Drake of around Sooral’s age and, Montressa guessed, much of the same mindset as Sooral.

The two [Generals] of Fissival were an odd contrast, though. General Hexa wore enchanted cloth-plate armor; cloth shaped much like plate armor but far lighter. General Vors, on the other hand, was wearing an oddly exotic-looking scale plate set and stood slightly apart from the rest. He had some kind of a staff with…glass shards on top?

“I don’t know you, Magic General. The rest? I greet you.”

Valeterisa peered at Vors with some interest and inspected Hexa’s armor. The [Professor] spoke curtly.

“Magus Valeterisa. You have caused something of a stir in the Scholarium. I trust you will not disrupt the students’ academic studies or the peace of the Scholarium unduly?”

“I simply asked Sooral if she was challenging me to a duel.”

Valeterisa pointed behind her, much like a student excusing herself to a teacher. Which…perhaps she had been. She certainly seemed to know all the other Drakes and at least the [Professor] and [Mage Lord] intimately.

“That is your right, Valeterisa. As is your right to take your…apprentice?…on a tour of the Scholarium. Within reason. I regret that we did not have the opportunity to offer you an earlier date for your audience. But it is pleasing to see you looking so well. I thought you had passed away years ago.”

Worpell’s voice was calm, even polite-sounding, but Montressa was familiar enough with Wistram’s politics to detect something akin to Nailihuaile’s tones in her voice. And her comments clearly stuck in Valeterisa’s skin. She lifted her chin and spoke unhappily.

“I am the Archmage of Izril. I have met with Archmage Eldavin, and you all have seen his great magic from Wistram. Yet I was denied a single audience. Do you have no interest in magic?”

General Vors’ eyes shot sideways as his brows rose, but Mage Lord Cureq replied without looking directly at Valeterisa. He focused on a point over Montressa’s head as he spoke.

“Your presence, Magus Valeterisa, is unwelcome. You are both a theoretical agent of the north as well as a representative of Wistram, whom we have recently clashed with. Not only that; you took up arms against Fissival. As Supreme General Hexa points out, the army is within its rights to expel you as a direct threat to the city. That we have not is a sign of good faith. But to return to the Scholarium after decades of silence and expect an open-armed welcome is extreme, even for you.”

Valeterisa stared at him and exhaled slowly.

“Not everyone can pay to be remembered fondly, Magus Lord. Nor do I regard my studies here as positive. Some of my classes and classmates were unpleasant.”

She peered long at Worpell, but the [Professor] just met the gaze unflinchingly. Cureq shifted.

“Our student years are more than half our lifetimes ago, Valeterisa. It seems pedantic to bring up grudges from then.”

“I am a citizen of a Walled City. I suppose I have Drake-like qualities.”

Valeterisa snapped back. Montressa’s mouth opened. She was getting angry! The Archmage was so agitated that the Supreme General tensed slightly, but it was Vors who spoke up.

“—I believe, at least, we should hear Archmage Valeterisa out. I was unaware she had petitioned for a meeting. I, myself, came directly to meet with her out of pure curiosity when I heard she had arrived in Fissival.”

“Vors! She is an enemy of our city! She fought against our people at the Meeting of Tribes!”

Hexa hissed at him as he broke ranks. The Drake grimaced.

“You mean, that she fought for Salazsar? The record clearly shows Wall Lord Ilvriss hired her. I would regard that more as working for Oteslia and Salazsar in conjunction with the Gnolls’ side.”

“Still traitorous. I would be ashamed of any Drake who conducted such an act that I had personally approved as a student.”

Professor Worpell observed calmly. Valeterisa’s eyes narrowed.

“So, did you approve stripping the Gnolls of their magic? Part of my request to meet with Fissival’s Three or the Scholarium was to ascertain who was aware of that act. Wistram is curious.”

Then there was silence. All the Drakes paused, and Montressa saw Cureq’s eyes dart left and right, taking Worpell and Hexa’s opinions. The Supreme General of Fissival spoke carefully.

“Is this a formal inquiry on behalf of Wistram?”

“No.”

“Ah, then—”

“Archmage Eldavin expressed curiosity in whatever I might find. We are part of a faction. Terras. The theft of Gnolls’ magical power is a worldwide concern which the Terras faction stands against.”

Valeterisa’s words made the three Drakes consider themselves for the first time since they’d begun the conversation. They weren’t afraid of her, but Wistram? Eldavin?

Were they blind? Montressa wondered. Maybe the old Worpell, but…what did they see? Perhaps even Hexa, who was clearly younger than the older Mage Lord, Professor, and Valeterisa…perhaps they just saw her as she had been.

However, Magic General Vors was different from the rest, and he spoke slowly as every head snapped towards him.

“It is a disgusting act. A shame upon Fissival which has jeopardized our position on the continent and worldwide. As I have said to Fissival’s Three—and I will repeat myself, General Hexa, with apologies—even Rhir has not looked kindly upon Fissival’s detachment. Our Gnollish allies fighting the Demons…let’s just say that it is a rare instance when any [General] is given a vacation from Hell. But my remaining would have been as disruptive as my departure.”

So General Hexa was now one of Fissival’s Three? Montressa was amazed—either that meant she was a temporary appointee or the Drakes here had enough sway to make her a peer, not the outright leader. All three Drakes glared at Vors, but he’d stated his case, and Valeterisa gave him a slow nod.

“Ah. You went to Rhir.”

“I did indeed. I have been serving in a combined-unit with an excellent mercenary force from Baleros—hence my armor—and Avel’s archers. We’ve seen battle against the Demons twice, but no Death of Magic. Thankfully.”

“Avel?”

Montressa spoke at the same time as Valeterisa brightened up.

“Ah, I forgot about the Death of Magic. You wouldn’t happen to have run into any of her spells, would you?”

Montressa bowed, blushing as Vors studied Valeterisa and then her. She introduced herself, and he nodded.

“Avel, indeed. Amazing archers. They have better aim than even our [Sharpshooter Spellslingers]; with those bows, they can hit almost any target. As for the Death of Magic…I regret to say we have fought with her damned summoned Demons. Two thousand fake Demons wearing plate armor who kill like the real things while swarms of insects assailed us overhead. And she can conjure fake armies every week.”

He grimaced. Even the other Drakes of the Scholarium seemed uneasy at that level of sheer magical power, but Valeterisa was fascinated.

“Expendable armies. Eldavin is capable of the same thing, but I cannot imagine he has the scope yet. Highly efficient. Professor Pexalix, did you hear…?”

“Ah, that would be the flip side of the positive world of magic I hope my students will build. I see we’ve finally decided to talk to the Archmage of Izril, have we? Good evening, Miss. I never got your name.”

Pexalix had finished his class in the time since they’d begun talking. Now, he stepped into the circle, and Worpell glared at him.

“This conversation of Rhir is a separate issue to Fissival’s concerns.”

“Yet the Demons concern everyone, with the greatest respect, Professor. I was dismayed at their power. One Deathless is countering countless nations sending forces to combat her. Frankly, I believe her to be a greater threat than the King of Destruction by far. I returned to present my opinion to the Scholarium to find us at war with Salazsar!”

“Over their treachery!”

Hexa glared at Vors, in clear disbelief at this break within Fissival’s military ranks. However, she was no Chaldion, and Vors shot back, his tones rising in anger.

“Because they sided with the Gnolls? We did not have to march on the Meeting of Tribes! And I have yet to get a clear answer—who convinced Fissival’s Three to send our armies there?

“Wall Lord Dragial.”

Cureq spoke, and the silence that followed was complete. Vors exhaled.

“Then it seems as though his ambitions have cost us dearly. And ended with him.”

“No. Not ended.”

Vors’ head snapped up, and he focused on Valeterisa. She gazed at Cureq and cast around. The angry Mage Lady Sooral…even Worpell, Hexa? Valeterisa’s head moved around, and then Montressa felt an itch between her shoulder blades. She turned and saw a Drake watching her.

He didn’t look much distinguished from the other Drakes. Turquoise, which Montressa supposed was handsome or unique? He wore robes, and he was probably either a full mage or close; his aura was fairly good, but he was young. What made him stand out, perhaps, was the intensity of that glare.

It was venomous. And he stood next to Sooral and a lot of younger [Mages]. Valeterisa spoke slowly, glancing around. She was replying to Vors, but putting something together with a resigned air.

“Ah, I see it now. Dragial never really lost power, did he? I didn’t know he was so famous, but he was always well-loved here. Teachers liked him. And the students went on to become leaders. Dragial’s dead. But it seems…he had a son.”

Montressa felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. Worpell’s mouth closed tightly, and Vors glanced around and then clenched his jaw as something went click in his head. As for Valeterisa? She nodded.

“It makes sense. He was famously promiscuous as a student.”

Pexalix snorted, but Valeterisa was already turning. She gazed at Worpell and sighed.

“Will the Scholarium at least hear me?”

“Not formally for two months. We are unfortunately busy. If you would like to speak to other members, that is, of course, your right.”

The [Professor] replied with that same fake polite tone. Valeterisa exhaled.

“I will not be staying two months. Will anyone speak to me or listen before then?”

She cast around again, and the students watched her avidly, whispering, and now hearing rumors spread from her enemies mixed with old tales of her glory. Vors began to nod, but Hexa just turned away.

“You and I will have a cup of tea, Valeterisa.”

Pexalix spoke, patting Valeterisa’s arm, but no one else moved. Montressa saw, for a final time, Valeterisa’s head dip and how she focused on her feet. Worpell did smile at that. Right until a Drake floated up over the side of the plaza.

Magus Lord Ascoden could fly. And he knew how to cut an entrance. It was only, unfortunately, undercut by Eun, the young man from South Korea, clinging to one leg. The moment they landed, Eun fell to his knees and curled up. Montressa stared at the familiar face from Wistram.

Hadn’t Nailihuaile introduced her to…? And while she was cut off from Wistram, Bezale had said there was a break…out…

Those tail-wanking, shit-stealing [Sneak Thieves].

Hexa recoiled as Montressa breathed, realizing what they’d done. So this was where the Earthers were! She was furiously composing a message to the academy before she realized she was still expelled.

As for Valeterisa? She blinked as Mage Lord Ascoden strode forwards.

“Archmage Valeterisa.”

“Mage Lord Ascoden. You’ve returned.”

Worpell sounded uncertain as the Drakes turned to face him. They clearly knew him, but like Vors, he wasn’t with the majority of the group. And Ascoden was locked onto Valeterisa.

“I’m delighted to have arrived just in time. Archmage Valeterisa, it is an honor to meet you!”

He had his claw held out, but Mage Lord Cureq intercepted Ascoden. The scarred Drake—he had some kind of fresh wound, Montressa noticed—had to halt or run over Cureq as the other Drake spoke loudly.

“The Archmage was just leaving the Scholarium. She has been unable to meet with any members, save her closest friends…friend.”

He gave Ascoden an intent look, which was as un-subtle as you got. In reply, Ascoden calmly elbowed Cureq aside.

“Then she will meet with one. I would be delighted to hear anything she wishes to say.”

The Drake reached out, and Valeterisa gave his claw a blank, surprised look. Then, hesitantly, she took his hand and seemed just as astonished when he shook it. Ascoden gazed around, and if the Scholarium had been a solid wall against Valeterisa—

There was now a crack in it. Worpell almost hissed, but she turned it into a smile, conscious of the students.

“—And what would Magus Valeterisa wish to discuss with the Scholarium? If we are entertaining her requests.”

She glanced at Valeterisa, and the Archmage of Izril looked Ascoden in the eyes. Then she turned. She adjusted her spectacles and peered around at the Scholarium.

“…I was wondering if my old rooms were still here. I would like to see them. Oh, and if the Scholarium was interested in making me a Mage Lady of Fissival.”

Sooral gasped in outrage, and the crowd made similar noises. But Valeterisa just raised her voice calmly.

“If so—I would live here, take up my role as Archmage of Izril here, and teach and study magic. I am…”

She hesitated.

“I am still a daughter of the walls. I came back to see if there was a place for me here.”

She peered at the blank, surprised expressions of the other Drakes. At Montressa and Ascoden’s raised brows. But…even if she were an Archmage, she was no [Archmage]. Not yet. And that was why, despite Montressa desperately casting [Detect Truth] over and over—she couldn’t find a lie in Valeterisa’s statement.

Predictably—the fights began almost minutes later.

 

——

 

If you didn’t know about Archmage Valeterisa before today—well, you did now. The City of Fissival was abuzz with her name and her offer.

However, the real drama was about whether or not the City of Magic intended to take the Archmage of Izril up on her offer.

Her highly egotistical, nay, outrageous, provocatively dangerous offer. At least, to hear Valeterisa’s detractors describe it.

You see, two narratives were dueling. Or maybe two perspectives, between Valeterisa’s allies and her enemies, and they had everything from tales of her as a student to recent events like her participation in the war at the Meeting of Tribes.

It was charitable to say that Valeterisa was starting from a position of weakness in getting anyone on her side, but then again—Wall Lord Dragial and his followers were essentially the same bloc who hated Valeterisa and didn’t want her near any official position of power in Fissival.

They did not speak for all of Fissival. In fact, Dragial’s own actions, such as battling Lehra Ruinstrider and sullying Fissival’s name until he was expelled, spoke to the existing rift in the City of Magic. He had enough power to call upon an army, but the revelation that Fissival had stolen Gnolls’ magic had entrenched the differences such that while Valeterisa was being slandered by some powerful members of the Scholarium, that same divide was giving her allies who hated Dragial.

That was the broad overlay. Now—what were the stakes? Simply put, if Valeterisa got her way, Fissival got themselves the Archmage of Izril in residency. They would grant her all the rights of a Mage Lady of Fissival—and that was a powerful position theoretically on par with Ilvriss’ own authority.

In practice, it would probably be limited, but it was a lot of funding, free space, and authority that even Valeterisa would like. It would give Fissival a powerful, if erratic and sometimes-absent, ally and Valeterisa her base to continue magic studies and a lot of the Scholarium’s in-built resources.

A win for both sides, in theory. Montressa didn’t like it. She didn’t think Valeterisa needed to be part of Fissival or that the marriage would be good for either.

Surprisingly, Valeterisa’s closest allies seemed to agree. Wall Lord Ascoden, General Vors, and the [Crafters] were all shocked by Valeterisa’s announcement and tried to talk her out of it. This all took place as the Scholarium argued, students began to take sides and even duel over the issue, and the Earthers were introduced to Fissival.

Montressa knew Saif, the kid with the airsoft gun. Eun, from South Korea, Andrea, and Jacques were the only other ones she could identify by name. However, there were nearly two dozen more Humans, who found the City of Fissival as dismaying as it was interesting.

“Here comes the new jail cell, same as the old one. Speaking of which, I saw that Valeterisa person at the banquet. And Miss Montressa. Did we come to another continent just to see the same faces? How are they here when we were on that boat for weeks?”

Saif was complaining loudly. Magus Lord Ascoden was poking around the house that they’d allotted the Earthers. Montressa was still staring around.

An entire street would belong to the Earthers, entrenched in one of the districts alongside the Scholarium. Either the city had a bunch of houses they’d left unused or someone had been evicted, but that was a Walled City’s power.

They wanted to show the Earthers some hospitality, so Fissival food, including the weird Sap String, was being carted to the hungry Humans, who had come off a ship just hours ago.

And already, the other Walled Cities were getting mad. Ascoden came out of one of the rooms, tucking a bit of scorched paper into one pocket.

“Eyes of Pallass. The Cyclops must be mad; that seemed too obvious. Which means there’s something I’ve missed. Call for Geyasa.”

“Are we hostages now?”

Eun was sitting in a chair, and the Mage Lord nodded to him.

“Guests is the term. But mandatory guests, so yes. The other Walled Cities will argue, and some of you may go to the other ones.”

“We’re not parcels to be—parceled up!”

Jacques snapped, furious. He was from Ireland, and Ascoden leaned on a counter, seeming serious.

“No, and if High Command is smart, they won’t make Wistram’s mistakes. I’ll advocate for you all as hard as I can, but you have to understand, we do need information. So you’re not parcels. You’re citizens of what you all readily admit is a world power—or world powers—who may or may not be hostile. And who make movies about killing alien species. Think of yourselves like that.”

He was more up-to-date on Earth terminology and ideas than most people that Montressa had met. Nor did he lie, which some of the Earthers grudgingly appreciated.

“At least this place is bigger than Wistram. Do we have minders or something?”

“If you want to walk around, we’ll have a guide. Unobtrusive if you like. You’ll never see them. So this explains what I saw on Rhir.”

General Vors glanced at the Earthers, and Mage Lord Ascoden’s head rose sharply.

“Earthers?”

“They must have been. The ‘heroes’ of Rhir. You’ll need my full report. Later.”

Both of them were glancing at Montressa, who well knew that Rhir had some Earthers, but her ears were sharp. And besides—

It was Valeterisa’s presence that was the most uncertain. The Scholarium would have to vote, and by proxy, Fissival. That was the claim, at least.

In truth, Montressa doubted that the [Crafters] who had come racing to find Valeterisa had much of a ‘voice’, along with any Second-Class Citizens, but it was theoretically possible for public pressure to influence any votes. However, Vors, Ascoden, and other members of the Scholarium had the real authority.

…Which begged the question. How did either one know Valeterisa? Vors was easy; he didn’t know her personally, but he had been to Rhir and had been given the eye-opening experience of working in combined-arms units. He was opposed to the traditional Fissival views, especially the ones that led them into conflict with any force except for Demons.

But Ascoden knew Valeterisa. How?

 

——

 

“Professor Pex.”

The Mage Lord had a residence in Fissival that was quite large and quite magical. He invited Valeterisa and Montressa into it with Vors and a few guests to come. It was mostly empty, because of his long absence, and as Drakes loved to say, they had no [Servants].

Just employees who did the same job. And who were sometimes entire families who had a history of working the same non-servile job.

“Professor Pex?”

“That was what they called him, for a while. Not his nickname?”

“Professor Pexalix is what we called him.”

Valeterisa seemed uncertain if she found the nickname offensive or not. Ascoden drained a cup of purified water. He motioned, and a flying familiar offered a decanter to Montressa and Valeterisa.

His home was exceptionally…magic-techy. Every room’s walls looked oddly plain until Montressa realized that was because they were smooth and only had the semblance of wallpaper or rich wood. The interiors were richly decorated, but at any given time, the walls could turn transparent or vanish, such that a suite of many rooms became one, giant and interconnected.

It was fascinating…and sounded like a completely uncomfortable place to live in. Ascoden clearly agreed, because he only turned the walls off for guests.

“Some [Architect] decided a mansion full of magic walls was the thing to do. The last Mage Lady died in here. No one found her body because it was closed off. Guess who found it when he was touring the real estate?”

He held up a claw. Montressa shuddered, and Ascoden smiled.

“The bright side was, I got this entire place dirt-cheap. But I’m not often at home. As one of Fissival’s actual combat-ready Mage Lords, they have me on interesting assignments everywhere. Like breaking a bunch of Earthers out of Wistram. I thought it was a suicide mission, and after eating a punch from Cognita Truestone—or rather, a Golem she was controlling, I know it was a suicide mission. If it wasn’t for Archmage Amerys and Gazi Pathseeker causing havoc, we’d have never made it out. Even with Depth Magus Doroumata.”

“You fought Cognita?”

Montressa was awed. Ascoden motioned the familiar away as Valeterisa sipped from her cup.

“‘Fought’ is generous. She was somehow—taking over Golems remotely. Which no, I didn’t know she could do and wasn’t in any of our records about her. She still tore through every [Mage] she came across, proxies or no. I watched her shred through half my barriers and ran, screaming. I think she let me go out of pity.”

“You’re exaggerating. You have more magical competence than most [Mages] in Wistram on the Council.”

Valeterisa was more direct, and Ascoden smiled tightly.

“That’s gratifying to hear. Fissival hasn’t fallen that far behind. But I’m behind you in as many levels as years, I suspect, Archmage.”

That was surprising to Montressa. She knew Valeterisa was Level 52, but Ascoden was Level 48.

“Level 48, after surviving the breakout. Hugely gratifying. They’re already planning my 50th, whenever that is. But Level 48 and Level 50 are worlds apart. It’s easier to get from Level 40 to Level 46 than it is to gain one level for a capstone.”

This was all true, but it was still only three levels. Yet Ascoden was purely admiring.

“Even without the level difference—[Mages] are among the slowest-levelling classes past Level 50. That’s true of everyone since it’s exponentially harder, but Archmage Valeterisa is still far more capable than I am in magic without having the levels to show for it.”

“And why is that?”

Montressa saw Valeterisa shift, seeming embarrassed by the compliment. She replied in a low voice, cheeks slightly flushed.

“Consider deeds. Like Professor Pexalix would say—the size of the rock matters. Or if you lift one at all.”

Montressa raised her brows, and General Vors sighed.

“I knew I should have taken his class. Now, can someone explain what the hell that means?”

Ascoden smiled.

“[Warriors] level by fighting. The dicier the situation, the more levels. You can reliably level in many classes from [Strategist] to most fighting ones by surviving, say, an Adult Creler. But a [Mage]? We gain some experience from fighting, but that’s not magic. To level as a [Mage]…”

“…Perform great magic.”

Montressa sighed. It all made sense. Valeterisa chimed in.

“It is also harder to work such great magics. It would be akin to a warrior scaling a mountain. Most spells cannot, in one cast, tax a Level 50 [Mage].”

“That’s just a lack of our spellcasting knowledge. Which is why I admire and am a proponent of anyone who can discover or create new spells. Like Archmage Valeterisa. Professor Pex referenced you, and I looked up your history. You have a few fans among the students.”

“For what?”

Valeterisa looked blank, and Ascoden chuckled.

“For graduating in four years? For winning countless duels and even knocking Dragial down? For being the Human who did all this, not a Drake? Becoming the Archmage of Izril didn’t hurt either. You created [Valeterisa’s Complex Seeker Projectiles]. It was the hardest Tier 4 spell I have ever learnt—harder than most Tier 5 spells, and even some Tier 6 spells. I leveled twice the night I learnt it, and I admired the ideas that went into the magic.”

Valeterisa was lost for words. General Vors rubbed at his chin.

“Valeterisa’s…of course. Practically impossible and impractical to use in a battlefield, but it has real application in tight confines against [Rogues] or at range.”

He gave Valeterisa another look, and Ascoden nodded. As he leaned over, another familiar rushed by with a dustrag. His weren’t shadowy, but bright, luminescent.

“Arcane Familiars. I had no idea anyone else had mastered [Familiar]-summoning.”

“I was Professor Pex’s finest student. In my year.”

Montressa blinked at Valeterisa.

“Professor Pexalix knows familiar-summoning?

“Did you think I taught myself the subject? It is why he teaches his philosophy and other courses. And why he can talk to me without being removed.”

Ascoden nodded. He drained another cup of water and handed it to a familiar to carry off. Unfortunately, the crystal glass was either heavy or slippery, and the familiar dropped it with a crash. Sighing, Ascoden pointed a claw.

“[Repair]. They’re useful, but inept.”

“That is why I have Shadow Familiars. They can stick to their objects.”

Really? I should have done that. Mine just glow and do interesting tricks with mana. Now, Archmage Valeterisa—what possessed you to apply for a Mage Lady position? I advise you, frankly, to withdraw your application, leave Fissival, and never come back.”

General Vors blinked. Montressa glanced up as Valeterisa frowned.

“Is that a threat?”

“No. A genuinely concerned statement. Fissival doesn’t deserve you. It may need [Mages] like you, but it will never be grateful. Wistram was in the midst of an upheaval when I left; that Eldavin and your return shook up the old corruption. I envied them, frankly, because Fissival is not better. Dragial is dead, and his son is already being put in his father’s place. He’s even studying summoning magic, and he’s better at spellcraft than his father was.”

“Hm. But he is not all of Fissival.”

“No.”

Both Vors and Ascoden chorused at once. The General uncrossed his arms.

“I have to object, Mage Lord Ascoden. With respect—we need Archmage Valeterisa if she’s willing to stay in Fissival. The City of Magic can offer her a lot, and we are falling behind Wistram with Archmage Eldavin returning to power.”

“And whose fault is that? Incidentally, Archmage, Miss Montressa, I will swear on any truth spell you want that I had no idea about Fissival’s conspiracy with the Plain’s Eye tribe. I don’t think General Vors did, either.”

The Drake instantly shook his head.

“Not I. I’m now trying to think if I ever heard references to it…but [Generals] are still below the highest level of Fissival’s authority. The Three—and a handful of [Mage Lords], [Generals], and yes, even Professor Worpell might conceivably have known.”

Montressa blinked, recalling the teacher.

Really?

She was that important? Ascoden just shook his head. He produced a handkerchief and spat into it, then seemed so aghast he gave it to another familiar to be cleaned.

“…And that’s why Archmage Valeterisa will have daggers at her back if she stays, Vors.”

“But we need her.”

The [General] insisted. He turned to Valeterisa as Ascoden raised his brows. Vors gestured passionately at the view of the Scholarium in the distance.

“Yonder lies the Scholarium, our teleportation grid used to hurt the Gnolls—have you seen it, Valeterisa, Ascoden? It lies below the Draconae Scholarium proper.”

Valeterisa nodded.

“I know.”

Vors studied the academy.

“We have great teachers. Better than Wistram, I would dare say. They don’t often make great legends—but so what? The foundation is fine. After the revelations about Doombearers and the Plain’s Eye conspiracy? Our next generation, arriving in the coming months and years, should be Gnolls. Gnolls, a continent’s worth of them! They should be students of Fissival and go on to make Izril stronger. But they won’t come because we were part of their betrayal. We will never mend those rifts. Not unless we can prove Fissival is changing. And no Gnoll will trust our voice. But they might trust a Mage Lady of Fissival.”

He turned to Valeterisa, and Ascoden sighed.

“I hate it when people make sense. I see that point—although if you think more than a handful of Gnolls would trust that, I’ll sell you this mansion, Vors.”

“A handful is better than none. An Archmage is better than no one. If it is Valeterisa’s will, I will support her and drag as many Drakes who’ve been to Rhir into voting with me as I can.”

Vors turned to Valeterisa, and the Archmage sat there. So quietly, thinking. She stared at the Scholarium and murmured.

“If they will have me…General Sserys asked if I would fight for Izril. His ghost.”

Both Drakes went quiet, and Montressa felt another chill run down her spine. Valeterisa went on quietly.

“What do I have to do to win Fissival’s favor? Even if it isn’t the Scholarium.”

Ascoden had been about to break open an expensive bottle of Amentus wine, but he sighed and left it corked.

“No time for drinks. If you want to win—do it publicly. Prove your magic is better than theirs. Looks like I’m not done with duels. But are you sure we’re worth it, Archmage?”

He focused on her, serious, and Valeterisa exhaled slowly. She looked at Fissival and nodded.

“I came back home to show them my magic. Whatever they decide—let them see it.”

The Scholarium said the exact same thing that evening. If Archmage Valeterisa wanted to become the first non-Drake [Mage Lady] in an age, if she wanted to claim her magic was so advanced the City of Magic needed it—

Let her prove it.

 

——

 

It was like some task of old. Some ancient fable, a Herculean myth where Valeterisa had to perform incredible tasks of magic.

The only problem was—the game was rigged. It always was. This was a contest of popularity, and as citizens of Fissival and students followed Valeterisa’s war with the Scholarium’s Drakes, Montressa realized the greatest problem.

Valeterisa had no stage presence.

She had, in fact, the opposite. The Archmage of Izril was so un-flashy, so quiet, that even though she had the magical power of an Archmage of Wistram, people still took her for an ordinary Human woman. She was no Elia Arcsinger or Saliss of Lights, who attracted the eye, like it or not, just by breathing.

Nor was she even an Erin Solstice, who could turn on a kind of magnetism when she needed to. Yet Valeterisa tried.

 

——

 

Mage Lady Sooral and a cabal of the Scholarium’s [Mages], many of whom had been close associates of Wall Lord Dragial, were the vocal face of Valeterisa’s opposition. This number included Mage Lord Cureq and the younger Drake who had been pointed out as Dragial’s son.

Professor Worpell, General Hexa, and the rest were more circumspect, carefully appearing neutral.

They were having their showdown on the central channel of Fissival Today, the premiere broadcasting news network that…no one outside of Fissival knew about. Pallass was supreme, and other Walled Cities, even, had declined to pick up the broadcasts.

Still, you could get a pretty good image even deep in the Scholarium’s bowels. More precisely, even the Teleportarium’s work teams got to watch the magical contest while waiting, transporting, and loading up goods for long-range transit to their vassal cities.

It was supposed to be lighter work since they were at war with Salazsar and thus a lot of cities were abstaining from the network’s trade, but in reality, now the Teleportarium had to pull in military supplies, send ‘secret’ documents that everyone knew contained something High Command wanted their allies to get that couldn’t be contained in a letter or was too dangerous to put in a [Message] spell.

It was obvious. You got a ‘top-priority’ delivery, and no one was allowed to sneeze on the boxes as they were loaded in. Then one of the members of the work teams you never saw regularly, or some Drake with the right clothing but who got in the way of everything, would linger around the boxes. You never saw them slip anything inside, but maybe they were just checking for tampering? Then away it went, and you’d never see them until the next delivery—or unless a pallet got lost.

The Teleportarium was a vast underground space filled with cargo docks and magical sending spaces; it was built into the very bones of the Scholarium, and if you glanced up, you could see magical power high above, laid into the very foundations of the ceiling.

[Transporter Chief] Istrix also got to rub shoulders with the technical mages who made sure the actual network was running. They repaired breaks in the magical circuits, dealt with magicore spills, and sometimes warned him to turn everything off like when the Magical Hurricane was present.

Istrix suspected the Drakes who maintained Fissival’s ancient teleportation spells only half-knew what was going on. He had a better sense for when something was off. Eighteen years at the job had given him an instinct. Plus, the Scholarium-trained mages looked down on the loader crews who performed the manual labor.

However, both groups were watching the scrying orb while ‘working’. A [Mage] who looked like he hadn’t seen the light of day for a long time peered at the contest.

“Is that her?”

He was doubtful. Archmage Valeterisa was…not impressive. Oh, she had faintly green hair, which was unusual on Humans, but she wasn’t as striking as, say, Mars the Illusionist. In fact, her hair was a frizzy mess, which was at least somewhat interesting, and she was blinking into a cup of tea as she cast around for her spectacles.

Which were on her head. Some of the [Mages] clearly against having her here, flunkies for the Mage Lords and their leaders, snorted.

“And this is the Human we should bend over backwards for and give a noble title to? Our Archmage of Izril?”

“Mm.”

Istrix kept his voice carefully neutral. One of the younger [Mages], a [Ritualist] in charge of sitting and watching the Teleportarium’s mana flow all day, scratched at his tail.

“I’ve seen worse. You know, she graduated in four years?

“Probably an exaggeration. Aren’t you supposed to be on monitor-duty?”

The [Supervisor] snapped irritably. The younger [Ritualist] twitched his tail.

“In twenty minutes. I’m on my lunch break.”

“Well—don’t be late. I’ll be checking!”

The other [Loaders] rolled their eyes in sympathy. Everyone knew that the magical supervisors were cushy, boring jobs most of the time. The [Ritualist] ducked his head—then carefully cast a [Subtle Stench] spell on his boss and anchored it with a little rune.

Istrix grinned. Then everyone turned back to the scrying orb.

“Oh, look! The contest’s starting!”

On the screen, Magus Lady Sooral was speaking.

“—the Archmage is so assured, let us see some feats of great magic! She is one [Mage]. Fissival’s Draconae Scholarium has trained every class of [Mage] known to the world! From our own [Archmages] in times past to [Druids] of today! Observe!

A Drake wearing a headpiece of bone stepped forwards and tossed a few seeds into the grass in one of Fissival’s parks. He struck the ground, and everyone strained to see—then a tree began to blossom in the dirt. First a tiny bit of green, almost impossible to see, then a rising stick blooming with leaves and branches. It grew wider and taller at an impossibly fast rate, and the citizens of Fissival gasped.

“Dead gods, it’s like Magician’s First Eve. That’s a powerful [Overgrowth] spell, though.”

One of the [Loaders] commentated, and Istrix nodded. He had never gone to the Scholarium, but there were still smaller classes you could take, and you didn’t get to his position without casting at least Tier 4 spells.

Magician’s First Eve was an upcoming celebration in the fall where magic was on full display. This was a contest of magic, so it reminded him of Mage Lords and Ladies competing for a vote by impressing the public.

However…down here, the Teleportarium crews were fairly jaded. Actually, a lot of citizens might be making the same comments as the [Ritualist], who snorted.

“[Mages] of every class, did she say? I haven’t seen any [Blood Mages] graduate, have you? I tried to sign up for a seminar on it.”

“They had a seminar?”

“They had a seminar about the existence of blood magic. We read sixteen books, and I submitted an essay on nations who still had blood magic. We don’t do [Necromancers], [Chronomancers], uh…who else?”

“[Shamans]?”

There was some nervous laughter. The [Supervisor] glared around.

Silence.

Archmage Valeterisa cocked her head, studying the tree as the [Druid] gave a bow with a flourish and stepped back. Were they…testing her? Challenging her to match the green magic? She was an Archmage, so Istrix was curious to see her rebuttal. He knew Mage Lord Ascoden, General Vors, and the young [Mage] were on her team. But how would Valeterisa impress Fissival’s citizens?

She stepped up to the tree and inspected it. Then Valeterisa began walking around it and started speaking as she fiddled with her spectacles. She completely forgot that the scrying spell was there, so the camera-Drake had to hurry around to get a shot of her; she’d stopped with the tree in the way.

Valeterisa even spoke like one of the Scholarium’s [Professors]. That was to say, boring. Dragial’s fiery speeches back in the day had been ear-catching, even if what he said about Gnolls was sometimes insane.

But then Istrix began to listen as Valeterisa spoke, despite her poor speaking skills. She had a flat voice, which grew excited and sped up, but she lacked projection. Yet—and yet—

When she spoke about magic, he believed her.

“If we are competing, I would like to make a few points. The [Overgrowth] spell is…traditionally quite effective. In emergency settings. My own research into the spell suggests that it is often employed by Silver and Gold-rank adventurers. I cite, um, [Green Mage] Moore of the Halfseekers as a member currently using the spell. However, I would like to add that this spell is not traditionally employed by any [Druids] in any Circle on Izril or elsewhere.”

The citizens watched Valeterisa blankly, and she took this as a sign to go on. Mage Lady Sooral was smirking as Valeterisa fumbled with her bag of holding.

“I used to have a study…no. My notes are at home. The [Overgrowth] spell can create a tree like this in seconds. However, in 99% of all cases, the tree will wither and die within a week or less. The spell destroys the seedling’s potential for growth.”

The [Druid] had stopped smiling and glowered at Valeterisa as the citizens murmured. Istrix wondered if this was true. He’d seen this trick before…but come to think of it, he didn’t see random trees just littered around the parks.

Interesting. Valeterisa searched around and found an acorn on the ground. She levitated it up, and then some dirt and grass scooped itself out of the ground.

“Here is my spell. [Create Mana: Death].

Something flashed in her hands. Valeterisa raised something, and her audience recoiled in alarm.

“Did she say—?”

Istrix saw the Archmage of Izril lift something up. Valeterisa held…a tiny bit of quartz. A plain little gem with mundane stone still clinging to it. Yet the clear bit had a dark luster that was unnatural and remained even in the light. Slowly, Valeterisa inserted it into the handful of dirt—and then produced another stone.

“[Create Mana: Earth].”

She repeated the process with four more pieces of quartz, inserted them into the dirt, and looked around vaguely.

“I need a pot.”

Her apprentice began to hurry around desperately, but Valeterisa pointed, and a granite bowl resembling a common planting pot rose out of the ground as the soil shifted. She dumped the dirt, acorn, and magical stones into the pot and stared at it blankly.

“[Water Spray].”

A jet of water hit the pot, and Valeterisa gazed at the muddy mess. She pointed, and it rose. She turned to her audience and spoke once more.

“—The fastest way I have discovered to grow a plant without Skills that will last and bear fruit is to embed mana stones into the ground. Not just life magic, but death magic. Noelictus’ fields are famously productive because plants consume and flourish on death mana. Fissival could buy quartz from Salazsar and enhance fields with mana.”

She put the pot down on the ground, then straightened. She peered around vaguely, met Sooral’s eyes, and coughed gently into one hand.

“I’m done.”

The Mage Lady blinked at her opponent. Then she chuckled behind one claw.

“So that is the Archmage’s rebuttal? Observe!”

She pointed at the muddy pot and the tree, full-grown. The audience laughed along with her, but Istrix did not. He rested his chin on his claw, mildly fascinated.

He had never known plants ate death magic, and to judge by the younger [Mages] of the Scholarium chattering, neither did they. Yet, clearly, Valeterisa was not showing off.

She might need to. The next [Mage] to step forwards had more muscles than most of the [Loaders]. He announced himself as a disciple of the Sinew Magus, Grimalkin. His demonstration was to have someone conjure a huge block of stone.

It looked like solid granite, six feet across and tall. The Drake inhaled and exhaled as he lowered his stance. Then—his clawed hand began to glow as it clenched into a fist. The Drake [Battlemage] leapt—and the impact shook the scrying spell.

He cracked the entire block of stone, and the fissures split the cube in half as pieces fell off. It wasn’t a complete shattering, but Istrix imagined being hit by that.

Valeterisa waved dust out of her face. She waited, patiently, as another block of stone was conjured. Everyone waited for her rebuttal. The Archmage of Izril floated over to the stone block and poked it.

“[Dispel Magic].”

It vanished with a gentle pop. Istrix fell out of his chair laughing. The expression on the affronted [Geomancer]’s face was priceless! However, Sooral objected at once.

“This is a show of magical ability, Archmage.”

“Does that not count? It is magical stone. If you want me to cast another spell, I can.”

Archmage Valeterisa sighed and waited as another cube was created out of the ground. She stared up at the sky for a moment—then poked the block.

This time, Istrix didn’t even hear her speak a spell. However, from the way the stone cube cracked and split in half before crumbling into pieces—

“That had to be some kind of shattering spell! [Fissure]? She split it! I bet the [Miners] would love her in Salazsar.”

“Well, they can take her.”

Again, the crowd was split. The [Battlemage] was shaking his head, denying Valeterisa’s spell. But she had broken the stone cube. The Archmage of Izril looked around, clearly wondering why people were booing her. Sooral’s smile grew wider as General Vors rubbed at his face.

Because that was the battle here, for Fissival. Show over substance. The Teleportarium’s crews watched, split just like the populace above.

 

——

 

—But one was the better [Mage]. Even if she didn’t show it directly, Valeterisa was higher-level and, more importantly, more adept at magic than almost anyone in the modern age. Anyone non-immortal, almost definitely.

He felt bad for her, though. This was not his arena. Nor had he known she was going to do this.

Archmage Eldavin watched Valeterisa, but hadn’t forwarded Fissival’s isolated broadcast to Wistram News Network for pickup. He wasn’t sure if that would be doing her any favors.

He was certainly not on Fissival’s side. They spoke to him of the same complacency and idiocy he’d seen in Wistram. Only magnified by bigotry.

So this was where she had learned the magic she spoke of. Efficient, even radical by today’s standards.

Function over form. Valeterisa was levitating blocks of increasingly-heavy materials, seeming exasperated by the contest. She could, upon request, cast [Fireball].

“But why would I? Magic is more than combat magic.”

“Then show us, Archmage. Can you create a Golem?”

The unpleasant Drake, Sooral, sneered at Valeterisa. The Human woman replied without hesitation.

“Yes, of course.”

Eldavin chortled at the supercilious expression on the Drake’s face. But she was quick on her feet verbally.

“Then—kindly make one for us now.”

“I have no materials. And the process takes weeks even for skilled [Golem Artificers].”

“Weeks? Then how, pray tell, will Archmage Valeterisa contribute to Fissival? Will you personally sow the fields with magic bits of stone? How would you help us? Provide a Golem every two months? Will you commit to that?”

Eldavin rolled his eyes as he sat in a tub of mana-infused water. He glared at the scrying orb bobbing in the waters.

“Can you make a Golem? What do you provide? Say that, Valeterisa. [Urgent Message]. Valeterisa…”

He angrily jabbed a spell through the air, but Valeterisa’s image was probably five minutes delayed. She replied absently as she lifted a hand. Eldavin watched, groaning.

He should be there. Should he try to make it in time? He doubted he could risk it, even if he wanted to try a teleportation spell. And—he received a reply to his [Message].

 

From Archmage Valeterisa to Eldavin:

I have this in hand. Thank you for your concern. This is my city.

 

She even added subject lines. Eldavin sighed—then he sat up in his tub as the Valeterisa on the time-delay began to reply to Sooral.

“Oh no. Don’t do it! Not here—”

The Archmage of Izril raised her hand. She spoke slowly, glancing around.

“Help farmers. I would not use Golems for that. If I were to change Fissival’s farms, I would infuse the soil with mana. And to till the ground in place of citizens, I would do this. [Summon Skeletons].”

In front of Eldavin’s horrified eyes, a glowing pile of bones rose. It wasn’t the same as [Animate Dead] because she had no body to use as a vector. And yet—it didn’t matter. The horrified Drakes cried out as Valeterisa pointed at the skeletons.

“In Khelt, skeletons till the fields. It was proven by the Archmage of Death, Perril Chandler, that skeletons can provide for a nation’s food supplies. When he lived—”

 

——

 

—even Calanfer and the Dawn Concordat, nations like Pheislant, Desonis, and even Avel were experimenting with undead laborers. The stigma against necromancy does not diminish its ability to create a workforce superior to Familiars, Golems, or summoned beings. If we did teach [Necromancers] as Mage Lady Sooral suggests—

Valeterisa got no further before a lick of fire magic blew the skeletons to bits and the crowd’s booing and shouts drowned her out. She glanced up, and a stone bounced off a magical barrier protecting her—and then her apprentice raised a shield.

Sooral stood, triumphantly shouting at the death magic on display. Like a demagogue leading the most passionate members of the crowd. Yet Valeterisa didn’t flinch. She stared dreamily upwards at the rain of stones, around at the booing figures—then straight into the scrying orb.

She knew it was there. She knew she was being watched. It was not that Valeterisa didn’t care. It was that she was competing in her way.

Madness. Yet—she was also correct. [Overgrowth] was a poor spell to raise plants. Skeletons could till fields.

She spoke to Eldavin like a [Mage] of old times, but the half-Elf barely remembered the names and times—only that she had that echo in her voice.

Yet there were still people who remembered, fully, what [Mages] had been like in days before Zelkyr had become the Archmage of Izril and everyone had followed after. Someone remembered that yes, other nations had asked for his students to provide them with cheap, inexhaustible labor. And he had modeled his skeletons upon Khelt as well.

Az’kerash, Perril Chandler, the [Archmage of Death], was watching her too. He had not concerned himself with Valeterisa any more than Amerys; they were living ‘Archmages’ on the level of Feor.

But she invoked his name. So of course, he watched her. A [Mage] who belonged in a different era.

Not even his. Not the flash and drama of the turbulent Naga Incursions, nor the rise of Az’kerash, but an older guard. She should have been a scholar of magic wandering ever upwards in Wistram’s ancient halls, pushing the boundaries of magic.

Not here. He stared at the crowd hurling so many objects that the contest had to be postponed, and Valeterisa just…flew off as her supporters and apprentice took over for her. She was not ashamed.

“Look at what the City of Magic has become. Zelkyr, you always hated it, and they made statues of you. This was one of their greatest students?”

His eyes picked out people in the crowd who didn’t jeer or shout. Humans, staring up at one of their own. Drakes, listening, watching her magic.

Could they see it? He thought they could. Look at her. Listen to her words and radical ideas, and she was a radical in any time, a distracted [Scholar] compared to the pragmatist-[Mages] you needed. But if Fissival had eyes—and they were a citizenry of [Mages]—surely they saw what he did.

Her magic was better. Her opponents used magic like someone fired a crossbow. They loaded up a spell with magic and fired it out. Valeterisa was akin to an [Archer]. She drew an arrow, pulled only as much magic as she needed, and loosed each spell perfectly. Her control lifting a block of stone wasn’t of someone heaving it up with pure mana, but instead holding it, balancing it with half the magic her opponent needed.

Yet. Perril Chandler’s fingernails dug into dead skin as he watched her. And he saw a future written ahead of her in his own image. A man, kneeling before a throne where no one would speak up for him.

“They will always betray you, Archmage of Izril.”

Az’kerash whispered in his quiet castle devoid of life. Save for a single slime—a world of death. Then he went back to his own studies and his children, his Chosen. For he was reminded of a vision. A Walled City in ruins, where death walked.

But he kept the scrying orb with him. Waiting, perhaps, to see another ending to the story he knew so well.

 

——

 

It became bloody after that. Although blood didn’t spill right away.

But it was the passion. The revulsion of Valeterisa’s enemies, their palpable, simmering dislike of her and everything she espoused.

As for Montressa? Likewise! She stood with Fyres’ staff in hand, glaring daggers at the Scholarium’s [Mages].

Contest! A Magistorm Battle! Mage Lord Ascoden and Magus Montressa challenge the Scholarium’s [Battle Mages]! How many?”

Ascoden stood there, next to Montressa, and she looked up in surprise. The duels were inevitable. What was surprising was that Ascoden bellowed the challenge.

“What about Archmage Valeterisa?”

He winked at her as Vors glanced his way. It was bad form for a [General] to enter the fight, but Ascoden watched as Mage Lord Cureq and a cluster of overly-eager Drakes lined up.

“In truth, I would love to see Archmage Valeterisa fight. But I think I can swing some tails her way. She…is not the most flamboyant spellcaster. Her duel would be a thing of beauty, but sometimes we need a hammer to smack sense into brick-heads.”

He nodded to the crowd. They’d gone back to the Scholarium, and the ‘Magistorm Battle’, Fissival’s fanciful term for a duel, was best done in a place with enchanted walls.

Montressa was nervous; she didn’t know if she would win. She said as much to Ascoden.

“I’m a defensive caster, Mage Lord. I’ve fought with other [Mages], but I’m not a Gold-rank adventurer. Nowhere near.”

He nodded amiably.

“I know. That’s why I demanded a battle, not a duel. I need someone to cover me. We’ll be fighting across the Scholarium at range, if I know this lot. We’ll face six. Any six you want!

The Mage Lord cupped his claws to his mouth, and Montressa saw Cureq stiffen in outrage. The Earthers were watching with interest, and so was the crowd. Ascoden knew a bit more of how to put on a show.

“Come on! Any six of the Scholarium against two [Mages] who support Archmage Valeterisa! Her apprentice and someone who’s studied her magic! Or would you like me to make it eight? Ten?”

His opponents grew increasingly furious. They had to know Ascoden’s level, but six [Mages] versus two…Montressa gulped as Cureq motioned another Mage Lord over. But Ascoden just winked.

“Don’t worry. So long as the military doesn’t join in, we’ll be battling [Battle Mages] at most. General Hexa has seen a battle, but this lot don’t like close-quarters combat. What’s your best barrier spell?”

“[F-Fivefold Arcane Barrier]?”

Ascoden’s eyes brightened, and he grinned toothily.

That will do. Just buy me…ten minutes. They’ll open up slow.”

Ten minutes? Montressa grew more nervous, and she searched around for Valeterisa, but her mentor had just floated off after the booing. Where was she?

“Why would Archmage Valeterisa be a better duel? Or—more boring?”

Ascoden sighed as he watched his opponents arguing over who got to face them. He nodded at Professor Worpell and the silent, older members of the Scholarium watching with the students and citizens.

“Even Worpell…no, any [Mage] in Fissival. I would love to see Valeterisa duel them. It might not impress the citizens, but I would love to see her duel. Because unlike us—hers would be a thing of beauty.”

“How do you mean?”

Ascoden chuckled slightly.

“I mean, she wouldn’t win because of her levels. She would win because she knew better magic. She was an acclaimed duelist in the four years she spent at Fissival, and even Wistram. Not because she was some multi-class fighting expert. Rather, because she thought about how to break her opponent’s spells. I have always regretted not seeing that and that no recordings of the duels existed.”

Montressa thought back to Valeterisa’s duel with Fyres. She nodded. Then, at last, a team of six stepped forwards.

The duel will take place in the Scholarium’s halls—endangering the public or students is unacceptable! This is not a duel to the death!

Professor Worpell announced loudly. Ascoden muttered to Montressa.

“That means they’ll still be throwing [Lightning Bolts], but they can’t look like they deliberately want to kill you. Keep a personal barrier up and surrender if you need to.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Mm. Just cover me and yourself for ten minutes. I’ll finish the battle, but I need to cast a spell.”

It must be a high-Tier one. Montressa licked her lips. The ‘Magistorm Battles’ were a lot more organized than Wistram’s random duels. The other six [Mages] even had time to find a spot and fortify. But instead, they hurried into the Scholarium, disappearing through the open doors, and Montressa pointed in outrage.

“They’re hiding in the classrooms?”

The other students were still going to class or out and about. Ascoden grinned.

“Of course they are. Or I’d [Fireball] Cureq with impunity. In a sense, it’s more realistic. But they’ll be sniping at us. Ready?”

Montressa gulped. She planted her staff, and she was conscious of the scrying spells on her. Worpell counted down, her voice magnified and echoing throughout the Scholarium’s plaza.

“—four! Three! Two, one—

“[Fivefold Arcane Barrier]!”

Montressa shouted and thrust the staff down before Worpell even finished. The Drake stared at her and stepped back.

A layered barrier of shifting, violet magic anchored itself around Ascoden and Montressa in a dome. It encased them from above and all sides—and just in time.

The first arcing [Lightning Bolt] crashed down five seconds later. Montressa flinched, but her [Arcane Barrier] took the impact without even the first layer going down, and it began to strengthen as she fed it mana.

She knew [Barrier] spells. Whether her opponents guessed it or not, she was a bad matchup for them at range. More spells began flashing out of the air, and Montressa gulped.

This wasn’t a rain of Tier 2 or even Tier 3 spells from low-level [Mages]. At least two of the Drakes on the other side were Mage Lords, and even if they weren’t almost Level 50 like Ascoden—

A hundred arrows of light crashed down on her shields followed by a boulder like a catapult’s shot striking her. More lightning crackled as her first ward went down. Montressa brought it back up at once, pushing more mana and restoring the broken ward.

“Not bad. You could find a place in my forces. Alright, nine more minutes.”

Ascoden stood there, one eye open to check on Montressa’s spells. Now, he closed both his eyes and stood, his wand glowing as he flicked it in subtle gestures. Montressa glanced sideways at him. She couldn’t even see his spellcasting—was he keeping it hidden?

“Nine minutes?”

She didn’t know if she’d be able to do it! All six [Mages] had spread out, and it seemed like they had found spots to snipe spells at her from all angles. They were cautious at first, waiting for her to reply, but when it became clear Ascoden wasn’t casting any spells, they started unleashing everything they had. No [Siege Fireballs]—ironically, their splitting up due to caution had prevented them from casting link spells.

She could stop at least one [Siege Fireball], but Montressa didn’t have unlimited mana. Ascoden just gritted his teeth.

“Sorry, I’m working as fast as I can. Don’t talk to me unless you’re going to lose the barriers. This is a stupidly tricky…”

He lapsed into silence, and Montressa raised her arms, her staff glowing as she just—held the barrier.

It reminded her of the Adult Creler smashing itself into the barrier, spitting that horrific deadly projectile as Crelers swarmed around her. She had failed, then, as well.

You could not defend forever. Maybe, if she had unlimited mana—but Montressa saw two wards vanish and then a third before she restored the first one. Five layers…the last one was toughest, but two minutes had passed and three were down and the fourth was melting under the onslaught.

And still, Valeterisa was nowhere to be seen. The bystanders were watching avidly. The sight of Montressa holding her spell up in front of six of the Scholarium’s spellcasters, even at range? She was doing Wistram proud.

Yet—yet—Montressa heard someone cheering her. Was it Milaw? She almost thought it was. She saw, out of the corner of her eyes, Saif and Eun cheering her. But the thought crept in as Montressa saw Ascoden’s lips move.

She was no battlemage or adventurer herself. That was true. Not everyone was cut out for the split-second decisions in battle, yet Montressa had at least survived close encounters with death.

And yet—even if she were no great warrior, Valeterisa could be a terror on the battlefield. Montressa studied her best spell, her barrier. And she knew it was worthy of a Gold-rank adventurer.

Yet how inelegant it seemed. Surely…

Was this all there was to my magic?

 

 ——

 

The Earthers were watching the magic duel, and some, like Eun and Saif, were cheering on Montressa. But others, like Jacques or Damla, were just…resigned.

“We left Wistram for the City of Magic. We’re still useless captives. What’s the point?”

He sat there, glaring at nothing in particular. He was wearing native Fissival clothing, which didn’t make him stand out that much. He could have been any Human from anywhere, and he certainly had no great class or levels, and he hadn’t picked up magic like some of the others.

The only interesting bit of apparel he had was, in fact, a glove on one hand. But only one hand. It was odd, and to many, practically useless.

Because unlike regular gloves, his was skin-tight, made from some kind of advanced material beyond cotton, and it exposed his fingers. The tips of his fore and middle finger, and both his pinkie and ring finger completely.

Why? It fascinated some of the [Crafters], especially the [Tailor], Ierythe, who had never seen the fabric before.

That single bit of clothing was Jacques’ only real possession from home, along with an object that was completely useless. Telim had been trying to help him, but the moody young man held what appeared to be a polished stick of wood with a chalk tip across his lap.

That, too, was the only thing he’d been holding when he arrived in this world. Damla patted him on the shoulder.

“Maybe you can build your game here.”

“Game?”

General Vors glanced over, and Jacques raised his head.

“Just a recreational game. No one had the time or ability to make it back in Wistram. It’s not as interesting as Saif and his gun.”

He scowled down. The [General] glanced around for an explanation, and Damla whispered to him. She had an accent, and she was another non-native speaker to English, an odd concept to the Drake.

“He’s actually a professional player at his game. It’s called pool or billiards.”

An expert in a game that didn’t exist. General Vors nodded in sympathy, then he watched Montressa faltering.

“She’s not going to last until Ascoden finishes his spell. Not like that. She’s running out of mana, and her barrier’s going down faster than she can replenish it.”

That was the opinion of the Scholarium, which meant that Ascoden would be in trouble. In fact, several [Teachers] were giving impromptu lessons to their students on the way some of the [Mages] were curving spells or sending rains of arrows high before aiming them down. They all needed line of sight, but they were doing that with scrying spells or sharing the coordinates.

It was hard to hit a target hidden in the Scholarium’s corridors, and even if Montressa had been intent on firing back, she couldn’t see her opponents.

And her barriers were failing. Vors heard a loud voice as one of the [Professors] decided the firestorm was too loud for her liking.

You can see, class, that the [Aegiscaster] here has deployed her barrier well. It’s anchored, and she is replenishing multiple layers simultaneously. Even so, it’s wasting mana because it’s covering a wide dispersal. Nor can she block the spells; each strike eats away at her reserves.”

Vors raised his eyebrows as one of the world’s finest barrier-experts, Wardmistress Geyasa, began critiquing Montressa’s work less than three dozen paces away from the Human.

 

——

 

Montressa didn’t hear Geyasa at first, but when the [Wardmistress] began insulting her spell, she turned red with outrage. The Drake pointed at her barrier as her class scribbled notes.

“This is the kind of casting I’d use in a battle to protect magical artillery at range. But it’s flawed here. Our [Aegiscaster] is trying to bet her mana pool against six enemy [Mages]. She has…hmm. [Arcane Toughness] on her barriers and perhaps [Reinforced Wards], but they’re only buying her minutes at most. Shoddy.”

“Shoddy? You try blocking this many spells!”

Montressa nearly screamed back at Geyasa, but it only came out as a whisper. She was so frantically trying to hold the barriers up, it didn’t occur to her what the Drake was doing until Geyasa produced a little shield of her own.

“Some spells still defer to physics, and given the angle they’re coming down, I would have changed the shape of the barrier. But perhaps she never studied shaping her spells at Wistram?”

Her class laughed, and Montressa’s cheeks flamed with anger—then she blinked. She glared at Geyasa, with her back deliberately facing Montressa. The [Wardmistress] also ignored Worpell’s meaningful looks. She waited—then smiled as, behind her, the [Aegiscaster] suddenly dropped her shields.

Watch it!

Ascoden dodged a flaming arrow, and his eyes snapped open. But the next flare of a [Valmira’s Comet] spell flashed as it detonated in the air. He searched for Montressa—and saw her spell had shifted.

The dome was gone. Instead, Ascoden blinked at a hovering…shield? It seemed like a shield cut out of perfectly straight lines and angled such that it was surrounding a far smaller barrier around her.

“What? Ah, interesting.

Montressa’s wards had changed. Now, a single layer ward was protecting the two of them. But while that seemed like a risky move…four hovering shields of arcane light were deflecting spells raining down on them. Montressa’s hands were moving as she directed them left, right, and Ascoden saw [Arrow of Light] spells bouncing off the magic.

“Deflection, not blocking, is ideal for an [Aegiscaster]. No mana wasted. If she’s wise, class, Mage Montressa will also reduce her mana in the two exterior shields to a bare minimum. That way, if that [Siege Fireball] Mage Lord Cureq is building comes her way, she can sacrifice a shield at minimum cost—like so.”

A roaring fireball blasted down at Montressa from a tower, and she threw one of the four shields forwards. The explosion made everyone duck—but the remaining three shields and her forcefield were completely unscathed. And even as they watched—Geyasa nodded as the fourth shield popped back into place.

“Technique triumphs over power. And the Archmage’s apprentice has some technique, it seems.

Montressa laughed in gratitude. She was learning in a duel? But she might never have conceived of the floating shields without seeing how Tailor Ierythe could hold so many needles up. She gazed at Ascoden, and the Mage Lord grinned.

Well done. Now, let’s show them some magic of the Archmage of Izril, eh? Sorry I took so long.”

He raised his claws, and Montressa’s eyes widened. She finally realized the spell he had been working on.

Clockmaker Milaw blinked as Mage Lord Ascoden shouted for the benefit of everyone watching.

[Valeterisa’s—Extremely—Complex Seeker Projectiles]!

He aimed a wand straight ahead as the onslaught of spells slowed and his opponents ducked. But they were out of sight, hidden in the Scholarium. How was he going to…?

Then Ascoden’s wand lit up, and Milaw blinked again. Because the Mage Lord fired ten—no, a hundred different spells in a moment. Montressa peered up, and she blinked as well.

…[Light]?

 

——

 

A thin ray of light burst out of Ascoden’s wand. It was bright blue, close to a piercing white, and it shot into the nearest open doorway. But instead of just…stopping there like a laser pointer from Earth, it did something Jacques recognized.

It bounced. Like a pool ball ricocheting off the side of a billiards table—which he knew by heart—the ray of light bounced off the wall and then struck the opposite wall. Then it bounced again and again, criss-crossing the hallway. And it was one of hundreds.

Light spells. Just a thin ray of light, bouncing around the Scholarium. It probably seemed like a dazzling display as the spells struck students, bounced from classroom to classroom, and crisscrossed the Scholarium at, well, the speed of light.

The little rays did nothing, incidentally. A few [Students] flinched, but the light wasn’t even blinding, just intense. So what was the point? It was only when Milaw muttered that Jacques began to figure out what the Drake was doing.

“My [Measure Distance] spell—”

Then the Mage Lord grinned. His eyes were flickering, and it had taken him ten minutes to cast a Tier 4 spell. Most took seconds, if that. But the complexity had meant…he muttered.

“Four, five…six. Got you. Phase two. [Seeker Arrows of Lightning]. [Enhance Spell: Paralysis].

Then he raised his wand and began firing dozens of crackling arrows into the sky. Jacques saw the arrows spin up—then curve crazily. They flew in six directions, into one of the towers, through a dome, and a dozen shot into the hallway that the first light ray had gone. Then—they began bouncing, copying the vector of one of the light spells precisely.

“Oh. Seeking.”

Eun slapped his forehead. Saif was gaping in amazement and delight.

He just scanned them! Eun! No one at Wistram could do that! Did you see that? He just detected them and—

—And now he had their locations. In fact, the light rays were still bouncing, so that even if the other [Mages] were moving—

Jacques saw a screaming Drake dive out an open window. He got up, began to cast a barrier spell, and a little beam of light shining on his back guided a dozen crackling arrows right into him. The Drake jerked as they struck him with flashes of electricity, and then he keeled over.

“Cureq!”

His friends shouted in horror as the paralyzed Drake did his best impression of a dead racoon. The students were pointing in delight and amazement. Only General Vors grunted.

“Too complex for anyone to cast except if they have time. The math required to fire those spells…it’s easier just to cast [Magma Wave]. But it is elegant.”

Light. Light and numbers and you could find anyone, no matter where they hid. Ascoden fired a second volley as he detected his targets decreasing in number. Some blocked his spells or evaded them, but the Mage Lord just stood behind Montressa’s barriers, cheerfully unloading on them until the last [Mage] surrendered and emerged, scorched and twitching with static. Ascoden raised his claw in a fist and shouted.

To the Archmage of Izril! Has any [Mage] in Fissival created a spell like this in recent memory?

The Scholarium rang with cheers, more booing, and arguments. Mage Lady Sooral scowled around as Montressa sagged in relief, and the [Mage Lady] hurried over to confer with Worpell. But where…where was Archmage Valeterisa?

 

——

 

The audience watching Fissival Today had witnessed Ascoden’s demonstration of Valeterisa’s spell. It was indeed complex. But did it change your mind about her? Already, a Drake was demanding Valeterisa show herself.

“I am Mage Dorigal, son of the great Mage Lord, Dragial. If the Archmage is so confident in her abilities—let her face me.

“Oh, Ancestors. Look at that. He can summon monsters! It looks like he’s summoning some kind of Battle Golem.”

His audience watched as the Drake planted himself in the ground and, ignoring the Drakes trying to dissuade him, began summoning a monster from the ground.

[Transporter Chief] Istrix knew summoned monsters were both mana intensive and hard to create. It was easier to have a pre-made Golem or animate something. But some [Summoners] had powerful beings they could control.

By the looks of it, Dragial’s kid had inherited his father’s minions. A lot were not fans of this kid or his father, so they were somewhat eager to see the Archmage take him on.

“No question he gets knocked out. Did you know that the Archmage once dueled Dragial? Apparently she spanked him when they were students. She’ll swat his son like a bug.”

“No doubt.”

The Drake [Supervisor] had stormed off as the delighted [Ritualist] and other [Mages] and [Loaders] gossiped. They watched as the first head of the Battle Golem slowly rose out of the summoning circle.

“How do you summon a Golem, anyways?”

That was a puzzler for Istrix and most of the [Mages]. Someone replied after a beat, coming back from studying the teleportation circles.

“You would need to essentially ‘capture’ the essence of the monster, person, or creation you want to summon. He probably has the Golem’s Heart. So while it costs a ridiculous amount of mana, the Golem may be summoned again and again. People are even more complex, but heirlooms, even body parts, can be used to summon them.”

“Wild. But it’s still a Golem. You saw the Archmage fly. She could probably blast that Drake to pieces, even if he’s got a dozen summons.”

Everyone else agreed. However, the same voice sounded…dispirited.

“Of course I could kill him. But what is the point? We are more than killers. Is combat the only way to prove anything?”

Istrix opened his mouth, then he caught onto an odd word in that statement.

‘I’?

He turned his head and peered at the Human woman hovering behind him. Valeterisa stared at the [Transporter Chief] and then at the scrying orb. The Drakes turned and nearly leapt out of their scales.

You? How did you—?

“I was just curious. I’ve taken all the transcribing I need. I didn’t touch anything, but they never let me work here when I was in the Scholarium. I suppose I need to answer that? Good day to you all.”

Valeterisa cast around and then sighed as she watched the scrying orb. She flew off as one of the Drakes ran to tell the [Supervisor]. Istrix’s jaw dropped. He swung around—then his eyes flashed back to the scrying orb. She had been there. Now—

He turned to look at the boring room where goods appeared and disappeared. So few [Mages] ever came down here after the first time. There was nothing to see. The Teleportarium was old magic. Old and broken.

So why did his scales prick with a sudden chill? Suddenly, Istrix had a burning certainty that something was wrong with the Teleportarium. He called an immediate halt to the day’s teleportations and told everyone to go on break while someone inspected it. He practically ran up to the Scholarium to see the rest.

 

——

 

“Hello there. What are you doing?”

Dorigal jumped. He was a tall Drake and had inherited his father’s features. Dragial had been handsome, though a lot of what that meant was about the way your neck spines looked in conjunction with your tail, along with your face. His scales were turquoise, like a bright river flowing into a brighter yellow down his tail.

Striking. And he had a lot of magical potential. No wonder he was so popular. If he could summon at his age…

He was very much like Dragial. His glare was almost the same, but there was more uncertainty to it.

He was afraid of her. Valeterisa hovered in the air as everyone gazed up. Sooral stood next to Dorigal like she was trying to protect him, but he just pushed past her.

Face me, Archmage. I challenge you to a duel. We may be levels apart, but I challenge you to a duel of summons!”

Valeterisa regarded him blankly. That would favor him, if he was a specialist. However…she just shook her head.

“What would be the point? If I win, what does that prove? I have beaten Dragial, your father, and I have bested other [Mages] of Fissival. Ascoden has defeated six [Mages].”

Ascoden is not you, Valeterisa. Do you have the magic to impress the Scholarium?”

Sooral blustered. The Archmage of Izril floated downwards, studying the Mage Lady.

“Is the power to kill someone magic? Should I impress the Scholarium by winning a duel? I came home to show Fissival what I had learned. I have been gone for two decades. In that time, I have gone to every continent, studied thousands of spells. Is this…all you respect?”

She watched the rising Battle Golem, so disappointed that it made Sooral’s scales flush in anger.

“Spoken like an elitist Wistram Mage. Magic should be practical. We are at war with another Walled City. The Death of Magic is back, and the King of Destruction is awake! If magic cannot defend us, what good is it? I would lay down my life to defend Fissival. You want to be a Mage Lady and you cannot even stoop to a duel, Valeterisa?”

Valeterisa stood there, stooped, looking at Sooral. She glanced around, at the watchers, at the camera recording her, and spoke slowly.

“Then should I duel and kill you, Sooral? If you want me to prove myself that way—I will.”

The Mage Lady froze. Valeterisa drew her wand slowly. But Dorigal barred her path. He lifted a staff and glared at her.

A true [Mage] should be a leader, a visionary, and inspire as well as defend. You are a self-interested Human, Archmage Valeterisa. That is why I intend to oppose you. You claim Fissival needs you so much we should make you a Mage Lady. Why should your magic supercede all of the Draconae Scholarium?”

That was the crux of the argument. Students and teachers nodded as they watched her. Valeterisa eyed the rising Golem and replied, again, without waiting, without hesitation.

“Because I am a better mage than you. In levels, in knowledge.”

Dorigal clenched his teeth, and Sooral hissed in fury. But Valeterisa just straightened, and now, a firmer tone entered her voice.

“A [Mage]. A [Mage] should be a leader? They should inspire? Why is that? A [Mage] should care about only one thing: magic. Magic is not good nor evil. It is more than a tool; it is the greatest mystery. It can solve any problem, perform any task. But we dip our toes in it and call ourselves [Mages]. This entire contest is not magic. It is a show of lights.”

Dorigal was outraged. He planted himself behind his summoned warrior.

“Then prove yourself better! Archmage! Face me!

The Archmage of Izril turned and eyed the Battle Golem. She looked at Dorigal. Then she shook her head.

“I do not need to. But if you wish me to—fine.”

She walked away tiredly, and Dorigal sneered as he waited for her to summon a creature. He waited…but Valeterisa just stood there, tired.

“Will you face my creations with spells alone, Valeterisa? Can you summon nothing?”

She stared up at the sky, disinterested in him. Dorigal glowered, and the summoning sped up as Sooral stalked away. He hated to admit it, but he couldn’t fight her directly. But this?

“—ge Dorigal. Mage Dorigal, a word?

Someone was calling out to him. Dorigal glanced over, irritated that he was being interrupted. However, he’d finished the summoning spell, so he was just pouring mana to complete the Battle Golem’s body. He saw someone gesturing to him from the crowd.

He’d thought it was Worpell, but it was just some Drake. He wore, of all things, a butcher’s apron, slightly stained, and he was one of the observers.

“What is it, sir?”

His father had always said it paid to be polite and mingle. So Dorigal bit back what he wanted to say and walked over. The [Butcher] was one of Fissival’s citizens, First-Class, obviously, but he was no [Mage]. Just one of the endless workers in the districts. Yet he was staring up at the Battle Golem.

“Young man. I hate to say this but—something’s wrong with your summon.”

“What?”

Dorigal instantly lowered his voice and turned around. He had sensed nothing wrong, but the [Magical Butcher] gave him a serious look.

“I can’t tell what it is—but it’s off. Like bad pork loin.”

“My Golem is like a pork loin? Are you mad?”

Dorigal glared at the [Butcher] then stormed away. Or tried to, because a Drake sitting in a chair floated up half a step. The [Summoner] blinked as a Drake who was practically all-gray raised his voice.

“It’s the second line, inner circle, young man. I’m fairly sure that’s where it is. I used to mess it up all the time. It’s the inverted ‘L’. You connected it backwards is my guess. Not hopeless! What you do is you splice in a secondary instruction circuit. Not sure where.”

“We could take a look at it. I’ve done it before. I used to work in the Teleportarium. Had to do that with magicore running around your ankles.”

Another Drake broke in, and Dorigal saw…what, a [Housewife]? But a number of other observers were calling out.

“What about freezing the spell circle? Do a quick-adjust—”

“Do you want to kill the boy? If that goes wrong, all the mana explodes! He can resummon the Battle Golem!”

A group of friendly…civilians were all calling out tips. Not a single one was a member of the Scholarium. Dorigal’s cheeks flamed red, and he spun on his heel.

“I will not be lectured by amateurs!”

The crowd fell silent, and the helpful chatter petered out in moments. Dorigal stalked back, trying not to stare at his rising Battle Golem. But the [Butcher] called out urgently.

Something’s wrong with how it was made! Recast the spell! Recast the—

The angry [Summoner] ignored him. Dorigal stood as the Battle Golem finally finished creating itself. It flashed as it moved, a beast of a war machine. Twenty feet tall, superior even to modern Golems, ancient armor now recreated out of mana, glowing with power. It had a face like a Drake, and it could exhale magical ‘breath’. One sweep of its tail could knock [Soldiers] flying in battle, and it was armed with a shield and sword.

…Normally. Dorigal couldn’t pay the mana cost of the sword and shield, so this one was bare-handed. It also couldn’t breathe any mana, but it would still do for whatever Valeterisa summoned. She still hadn’t done anything. Dorigal opened his mouth to call out to her, and then he saw the Golem turn around. He blinked up at it.

“What—”

The Golem swung a fist down at him, and Dorigal stared at it until his summoned monster punched him half a dozen feet.

 

——

 

Valeterisa watched Dragial’s son’s jaw and ribs break and him go slamming backwards into the ground. She wished it gave her any pleasure.

Treachery! Save Dorigal!

Sooral shouted as the Battle Golem took a swing at the nearest Drakes. The crowd ran screaming, and Valeterisa raised her voice.

“I didn’t do anything.”

He had summoned it wrong. The Battle Golem whirled, fists raised, and Professor Worpell hit it with a flash of blue lightning that burned a hole straight through one side of its head and out the other. Unfortunately—that didn’t end the summoned being. It charged, and Worpell vanished.

Valeterisa studied the glowing material making up the summoned being’s ‘flesh’. At the heart of it, a copy of the Golem’s Heart that Dorigal had in his possession. Great magic. Elegant work.

It was still…there. Still functional probably thousands of years after it had been made. That was beauty and craft and, yes, magic. Now, a scion of Fissival couldn’t even control it and lay on the ground as Sooral poured a healing potion over him.

“This isn’t magic. Magic should inspire. Magic should be wonderful. Even when it is as simple as threading a needle.”

Valeterisa whispered. Did anyone hear her? Her apprentice, shielding a group of students from one fist? Ascoden, blocking the Earthers? The scrying orb, capturing the Golem’s rampage?

Slowly, she raised a finger. The Battle Golem turned towards her as Valeterisa aimed at its chest where the copy of the Golem Heart resided. It began to charge—and she shot a thin beam of light straight through the Golem’s chest.

“[Piercing Shatterbolt]. [Alter Spell].”

The first spell punched a hole straight into the summoned being’s chest. The second—the Golem stopped. It froze, mid-step, and Valeterisa saw it relax. As the citizens and Scholarium stopped panicking, they saw the Golem come to rest. It walked back to where Dorigal had summoned it and then bowed its melted head. Slowly, it began to fade away.

Archmage Valeterisa stood there, tired, though she had barely cast any magic today. She gazed around, opened her mouth, and Sooral, Sooral, beat her to words, as always.

“That—proves nothing. Dorigal made an error in summoning the Golem. He’s young. You have shown the Scholarium nothing.”

For a second, Valeterisa debated killing her. It would be so easy. Her thoughts were a milling rush, disorganized. She felt her old teacher’s eyes of disapproval and scorn on her. She felt…angry.

Hot, like someone pouring a bucket of melted slime parts over her head as she sat in the courtyard. Cold like seeing a room full of silent stares when she walked in.

Old, because this had all happened long ago. As young as the day she’d left. Nothing had changed.

Perhaps nothing would ever change. Valeterisa bowed her head and gazed at Sooral. She looked at Montressa, who was red-faced and angry. For her. She glanced sideways at Milaw, at Ascoden, lining up to kick Sooral with her apprentice.

That did make her feel a bit better. But Valeterisa just peered at Sooral’s furious face, around at the citizens, and saw interest or fear. Friendliness, support, opposition—

She didn’t see magic here. She eyed the Scholarium, home to the ancient teleportation grid, and focused on her shoes. She saw the magic running through the City of Fissival. But it seemed like a lie.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

Valeterisa replied to Sooral at last, and the Mage Lady blinked. Slowly, Valeterisa turned. Her feet left the ground, and she muttered.

“[Levitation].”

She began to float off, away from the plaza. Sooral’s eyes flickered as she tried to figure out Valeterisa’s trick. She decided for a parting shot instead.

“You cannot even fly, Valeterisa! If we had to take an Archmage, at least Eldavin could cast [Flight]!”

Valeterisa turned her head once, and Sooral ducked at the expression on the Archmage of Izril’s face. But Valeterisa just snapped back.

[Flight] is a faster spell and far more maneuverable, it is true. But [Levitation] costs less than a quarter of the mana, because once you are levitating, you do not incur more mana drain. If you could cast either, you would know the distinction.”

Then she turned and flew off. She left her apprentice behind, her supporters, the people she had grown up with. The Scholarium, and even the City of Fissival.

Valeterisa flew into the air, away from it all. That was easy—but even if she flew high and far, this was her city. She peered down and saw the entrances to the Grand Library where Heorth resided. She gazed down and saw a few Drake children pointing up at her.

They were wearing robes and wands. She cast around and wondered if she could see a little Human girl, waving a wand and laughing at magic.

It should be wondrous. It should make sense. It should be logic and grace and art and deeper than all those things combined.

It would be easy to leave now. To say she had heard Fissival and depart. But. Valeterisa had shown Fissival no magic yet.

 

——

 

If you stood outside the City of Fissival, just past the walls by one of the guard-towers or the edge of the basin where it rested, you could see the greatest claim of the City of Magic.

The city flew.

Look at it. It was a tiny bit off the ground. Half an inch. See?

Plenty of people tripped or even broke toes on that little lip. Wagons broke wheels—the guards at the ‘gates’ had seen it all. And what a few had realized was that the ‘height’ of the flying city actually changed subtly.

It was like…breathing. Or floating in water. The city actually varied in that half an inch of clearance from the ground. A bit up, a bit down. At its ‘highest’, it might be two entire inches off the ground, and you could see a tiny bit of compressed dirt, then it would sink until it was actually level or lower than the ground.

So it floated in the air. Good for the city. Did it matter?

Well…the Human woman lying on her stomach and studying the slowly rising and falling city clearly thought so. One of the [Guards] was about to tell her to get moving—not that she was doing anything wrong—until they realized it was the Archmage of Izril.

“Er…Archmage Valeterisa, what are you doing?”

She didn’t answer at first. Her lips were moving, and she was…counting? She only raised her head when the [Guard Captain] spoke.

“How long does it take for the city to rise and fall in a full cycle?”

He blinked, but he was familiar enough with the city’s phenomenon that the answer sprang to his lips.

“Er—about fourteen minutes. Why?”

“Hm.”

The woman stood up, dusted her robes, and stared across Fissival. She backed up and peered around the huge city that was home to millions. Far, far too far for anyone to circumnavigate without a horse. She gazed down the long road leading up the plateau and then up.

“I suppose I can only try. Very well.”

She drew her wand, and the Drakes backed up. One raised his spear, and Valeterisa focused on him. The Drake lowered the spear.

“I am not doing anything illegal. I think. If I fail—pretend you didn’t see me?”

“See what?”

The [Guard Captain] got no answer. He saw Valeterisa take a few steps back, then mutter.

“I’ll have to time it—very well. [Delayed Spell: Earthen Spire]. No. [Expanded Range]. [Reinforce Spell]. [Delayed Spell: Earthen Bulwark]. [Synchronize Spell].”

She aimed her wand at the ground, and all the Drakes glanced back. The [Guard Captain] scrambled away, but no rising pillar of stone flew up. And besides, she’d aimed it—he turned, and Valeterisa spoke.

“…[Flight].”

Her feet left the ground. Not gently, but in a blur of motion that left the Drakes recoiling as a cloud of dust and grass swirled up after her. The Archmage of Izril flew up, arms still stretched out, and then she turned, curving through the air.

She skimmed along the rising wall of the City of Magic. Then she dipped—and her wand flashed as she recast that spell. The [Guard Captain] gaped at her—then he raced for his tower.

“What is she doing? High Command—Watch Captain—anyone, come in!”

She was a quarter of the way around the city before he managed to climb to his post and get ahold of someone in charge. No less than Supreme General Hexa snapped back at him.

What is Archmage Valeterisa doing? Report!

“Casting some kind of spell at increments around the city! They seem to be at systematic intervals. One spell at every sixteenth of the perimeter of the city?”

She was flying in a perfect circle, around the city of Fissival. The [Guard Captain] ran back to the lip of the floating city. Wait a second. Wait…Hexa was barking at him to apprehend her as if he could fly himself. But the Drake threw himself down.

“The gap.”

“What gap?”

The Supreme General had never gazed down at the edge of the flying city. She didn’t know that you could actually stick the tips of your fingers under the city and pretend you were ‘lifting’ it if you were a small child. Or an idiot. You could, then, lose the fingers as they were slowly crushed into less than paste.

But it was a popular thing for some tourists back in the day, until too many lost digits had forced the Watch to prohibit the trick. And yet…the Archmage of Izril hadn’t done that. But she had aimed her spell somewhere just underneath the city.

He could see it, if he bent down, the residue of glowing magic beneath the floating city. The city sank, and it disappeared from view, but he reported what she’d cast. Hexa muttered in a distinctly unconfident manner that the [Guard Captain] wished she wasn’t sharing with him.

“[Earthen Bulwark]? Why that spell…wait, did you say [Synchronize Spell]? What’s she synchronizing to?”

The [Guard Captain] glanced up as he saw the Archmage of Izril flying in a complete circle. She had almost reached his position, and she was so fast—he saw the city slowly rising up.

An entire city. Millions of people. How many pounds of weight he couldn’t even guess. A mountain’s worth of stone and steel and magic. Yet…it had floated, and the spells had endured for generations.

Impossible, even if it was less than impressive. Fissival flew. But as Valeterisa had said—

Once it was in the air, even half an inch, it was easier to stay there. He saw and felt a spell activate. The earth shook—and just like it did every fourteen minutes, the Walled City began to rise.

But this time, it kept going. The [Guard Captain] slowly got up as the magical towers came alive. Then he stood back, and his eyes were climbing to find the Archmage of Izril, whom he’d been laughing at with the day crew in the tower. Then he stepped back as a shadow crossed over his face.

And he looked up.

 

——

 

Montressa du Valeross didn’t blame Valeterisa for leaving. She sat with her head resting on her arms, staring across the City of Fissival. She would have jumped over the plaza’s high guardrails if she could fly away.

…She just hoped Valeterisa hadn’t flown off and left her behind. Behind her, the Scholarium was busy posturing and sneering about Valeterisa into the camera.

Montressa didn’t notice Hexa’s sudden agitation, but General Vors did as he congratulated Ascoden on his victory. Nor did Montressa notice anything else was amiss at first.

It was only when she heard Valeterisa’s name and saw the woman come soaring across the city like a loosed arrow that Montressa yelped.

Archmage Valeterisa?

Every head turned. Sooral’s jaw dropped.

Valeterisa was flying. Faster than she had even moved with Montressa. Her robes billowed out behind her, and her hair whipped like a storm. She seemed so incredibly unhappy about the wind resistance that Montressa understood at once why she hated flying.

“Archmage! What are you doing?”

General Hexa roared, attracting the cameras back to Valeterisa. The Archmage didn’t reply to Hexa directly. She came to a stop overhead, and Montressa saw the camera-Drake aiming the scrying orb almost directly up—

“Aah!”

She kicked the Drake in the shins, and the female Drake lowered the camera—then realized she had nearly given the entire city of Fissival a dangerous viewpoint from underneath Valeterisa. The Archmage of Izril floated down as the Drake retreated to a better angle.

Valeterisa was…panting. Montressa saw her drop to the ground, and the Archmage spoke a bit breathlessly.

“I have one last thing to show Fissival. If I can. If not—forget I mentioned it. But magic is more than this. It has to be. If I stay in the City of Magic—this will be my gift. My only gift is this search. I cannot do it alone. So…”

She peered around. Then Valeterisa shook her head. She took off in another jet of debris as Montressa shielded her face. She saw Valeterisa soaring off across the city, then she dipped down out of sight, below the lip of a building’s roof.

Everyone looked about in confusion. After a second, someone began laughing. Mage Lord Cureq shook his head in frank scorn and disbelief.

“I think she’s actually lost it. What are we supposed to see?”

He glanced around, and everyone searched—Ascoden cast a [Scrying] spell after Valeterisa, but predictably, she was warded.

“…She’s not answering her [Message] spells. However, Hexa is kicking up ten hells. Something about Valeterisa casting spells at the edge of the city?”

Vors reported in. Ascoden frowned, and he gazed at Montressa.

“I had no idea she could actually cast [Fly]. Did you?”

“No. I don’t get what she’s showing us. Milaw? What is Valeterisa doing?”

The [Tailor] and the [Crafters] were just as anxious. And upset, frankly, about their beloved childhood hero’s treatment. The [Clockmaker] peered around and shook his head.

“No sign of anything in the city. Maybe she’ll come back. She never lied. Not that girl. When she told me she could make a spell out of my magic…I believed her.”

He cast around, and Montressa gazed across the city of Fissival again. She saw a lot of Drakes craning their necks, looking for Valeterisa too. Probably two-thirds of the city were in range of a scrying orb, and she had to believe everyone had heard of Valeterisa, even if some were dismissing her.

But what was it? Montressa stared further, into the distance. You could see for miles upon miles from the Scholarium, the highest point in the city save for the towers. Of course, the great Scrying Tower could cast a spell anywhere, but visually, she could even see Salazsar’s city in the distance, a speck on the horizon. The southern mountain range, and if she went to the other side of this plaza, she could see the sea, beyond which the eastern edge of the world lay. Southwards, Chandrar—not that anyone could see another continent from here.

A breathtaking view. Montressa didn’t love heights, but she could admire how high Fissival was on its coastal plateau. Why, even the magical guard-towers seemed small from here, and she knew they were forty feet tall, even if they were at a lower elevation.

In fact, it was dizzyingly high from the Scholarium, and she said as much.

“The Scholarium must be a hundred feet—no, close to a hundred and fifty from the ground, is that right, Mage Lord Ascoden? It didn’t feel like that.”

She was peering down at what she could see of the plateau from here. Ascoden raised his brows.

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration. We’re barely…thirty feet up from here? Some of the walls are higher, though you can climb the Scholarium to maybe eighty feet. The towers…but not a hundred and fifty from here.”

“No, it has to be higher. Look. The guard towers are tiny.

Montressa was insistent. Ascoden snorted, but then he walked over. General Vors had gone silent as he put a speaking stone to one earhole. The Mage Lord peered over the balcony and hesitated.

“Ancestors. They are small from here. But they’re taller than the walls of Fissival. It must be some trick of the light. You know, I never noticed that.”

“I didn’t either. I could have sworn they were of the same height. And see down there. There’s a city.”

“Uh…Kallisope? That’s fascinating. Vors. Vors. Look at this. I’ve never seen Kallisope from here. They should be all the way down the coast. Vors? Professor Pex?”

Now, Ascoden turned, and he saw Vors’ expression. Then someone began laughing. Professor Pexalix was laughing wildly as Professor Worpell glanced around. The Scholarium’s students and teachers gaped at him uncomprehendingly…but then Montressa began to feel something. It was subtle, but she had felt this before.

On Pallass’ elevators, when she’d gone riding them. A kind of…pressure when it went up and the opposite when it went down. A subtle resistance. It was replaced by a sudden lurch in her stomach. She turned—and Ascoden whirled around.

“No way.”

Montressa du Valeross began to run, searching for a better vantage point. The citizens glanced at each other blankly, and some followed her. But the [Crafters] just turned to Milaw as he realized what she had.

But unlike Montressa, he trusted to something else. The trembling [Clockmaker] raised a wand. He cast one spell.

“[Measure Distance].”

He aimed it at the nearest guard tower, seeming small, barely in sight. Then Milaw turned white. He looked around, and then word began coming in from the edges of the city.

For if the Scholarium, in the center, couldn’t detect what was happening—the guards on the walls, the citizens at the edges of the city, and especially the Drakes gawking up at the City of Magic saw it.

Fissival was flying.

 

——

 

They were only actually fifty feet up. Montressa was exaggerating, because they were so much higher than she could have imagined.

Only fifty feet into the air. A young Drake woman of about fifteen years of age peered over the edge of the City of Magic and saw the [Guard Captain] staring straight up at her. She gasped, stood, and nearly fell.

Someone hauled her back, and at this point, the Watch began urging citizens to stand back from the exposed city’s edges. Yet…even they couldn’t stop themselves from gaping.

Fissival was flying. Drakes were screaming to their relatives, sending [Message] spells to friends and neighbors in other cities and demanding they check the scrying orbs or spells.

Fissival is flying!

And they’d get a response like, ‘yeah, yeah, Fissival ‘flies’, I’ve seen it before, good for Fissival. What’s this really about?’

Then the disbelief would change to incredulity. The first [Scrying] spells captured the City of Magic leaving the ground—slowly.

Slowly. Painfully. At first, the audience had no idea why Archmage Eldavin himself interrupted Drassi’s broadcast about equal pay for female Drakes and cut to an image of the City of Fissival’s network.

Then…they began to pick up on what was happening. Yet—oh—

It was hard. Harder than she’d thought, and she had tried to calculate how much Fissival weighed.

She didn’t have to struggle with that element of the city, thankfully. It was floating, which suggested it was a net-zero weight. But as the Earthers who knew more advanced physics could have told her, even if something of Fissival’s size ‘weighed’ nothing, shifting it and displacing all that air?

Let alone moving it? The first fifteen feet were easy. That was because of her spells.

Sixteen [Earthen Bulwarks] of reinforced stone, grey and tough enough to withstand direct hits from [Lightning Bolt] spells, rose and pushed the Walled City of Magic from below. At equidistant positions, they rose simultaneously, pushing the city higher like fingers pressing it up. As one might hold a bowl with a sixteen-digit hand.

That…wasn’t bad. They were just spells, and even if she’d had to time them and anchor each one, they were only Tier 4 spells. Enhanced for radius and strength.

But the city began to rise, and she knew it would work. Fifteen feet was easy, but then Valeterisa knew that she needed another method to raise the city of magic. Which begged the question—how?

Even the highest-level [Warrior] in the world was only as ‘strong’ as his reach. And only half-Giants would have been able to reach the City of Magic once it had cleared fifteen feet of ground. The earthen spires kept rising, but they began to crack.

“[Pillar of Obsidian]. ”

A central spire rose directly underneath Fissival’s base as Archmage Valeterisa flew around, stopping the cracking spires and continuing to lift the city. Could they feel it yet? Most wouldn’t notice. The flying Archmage saw the city continuing to rise and tried to guess how high she could raise it with the mechanical advantages of geomancy alone.

Fifty feet? Sixty? The higher the spires extended, the more fragile they became and the wider their bases would need to be. There was a diminishing cost, and so she prepared herself. As soon as the base of the City of Magic cleared the divot in the earth, the smooth basin of dirt it had rested in so long—she would fly under it.

Something caught her attention. Dirt and debris were cascading down from the City of Magic’s underside, even root systems that had clung to the base of the Walled City of Magic. This least-defensible Walled City had never been impressive with its short walls. Even the Antinium had come close to attacking it.

Yet…Valeterisa had long wondered why Fissival, of all the cities, had such shoddy defenses. Her answers had come in the history books and studying its defensive protections: the city could project a dome to cover the entire City of Magic at need. She had wondered why. A dome was not as efficient as Pallass’ more pyramid-shaped [Cage of Pallass] spell, which could stop entire armies attacking.

That had led her to understand where the Walled City of Magic was supposed to be. Walls? Walls were for cities that feared conventional attacks. Walls were no good against foes with wings. And Fissival…had never been on the ground during wars.

For the first time in an age, someone glimpsed the Walled City of Magic as it truly was. As dirt fell away from the rounded underside of the City of Magic, Valeterisa saw something staring at her.

It was a Dragon.

Not a real one, obviously, but a mural. Raised stone, colored, but so old it had worn away. A Dragon, one of the long ones with a flowing mane like water and twin whiskers, was twined around the basin of the City of Magic. Riding upon its back were Drakes, even some Gnolls. It was chasing or flying with another Dragon that Valeterisa associated with storybooks, the Dragon’s scales…her scales?…glowing a faded white as she blew frost breath across a series of cities in the distance.

Crests. Cities. Valeterisa’s eyes widened and she spoke.

“Memorize this. [Capture Image]. Capture…”

She flew in a circle, eying the Walled Cities, ancient crests. Some she recognized, like Pallass. Others…others were gone. One had even been removed, visibly chiseled away from the rock face. The Dragons flew over tiny Drakes, building higher, learning magic from their Ancestors, until some stood upon a newly-built City of Magic. The greatest [Mages]…

And still the city rose. Now, Valeterisa sensed the [Pillar of Obsidian] faltering. Twenty-five feet while she watched? Barely enough space—and she was aware she might not have the strength.

But she had to try. This was already…already…

This wasn’t enough. Magic should be more. So Valeterisa dove and noticed that each eye of the Dragon and some of the murals had glassy orbs. Spells? Placed to do what? Rain fire or help the city levitate?

They were dead and dark. But they watched her as the daughter of Fissival flew down. Valeterisa gazed up at a second sky and got a bit of dirt in her eye.

“Ow.”

The City of Fissival was almost as dirty from beneath as Montressa thought her underwear was. But—Valeterisa put her hands on the stone.

“How to lift something like this? A puzzle. [High-Speed Flight].”

She upgraded the spell to a level she didn’t dare fly normally—even with barrier spells, she could and nearly had killed herself. But if she pushed

“[Stoneskin]. [Body of Diamond].

—She became the lever that moved mountains. And the lever could not break. Her arms began to scream, but the spells reinforced her, and the city…

Didn’t move. Of course it didn’t. How did you lift a rock? Valeterisa hadn’t enough force in her.

“Lift a rock, lift a rock…”

Her eyes alit on the rubble below her. Then Valeterisa blinked.

Rocks. Professor Pexalix. She swooped down as the city deadlocked twenty-five feet up. Then the first stone rose with the Archmage of Izril.

“[Levitation]. No—[Reverse Gravity]!”

Far better. Of course! Her thoughts were straining, trying to balance flight with the spells she had to maintain—Valeterisa began casting the spell again, then realized the rocks were trying to tumble around the dome, fly into the sky.

“[Sticky Webs].”

She anchored them to the underside of the City of Magic. This was pushing—pushing the boundaries of anything she had considered. She was not Xrn, the Small Queen. Yet look.

The city was still rising. Now, the [Earthen Bulwarks] were reaching the limits of their usefulness, so Valeterisa halted them, and they fell to the ground, breaking. The obsidian spire collapsed, and then it was just her and the city, floating as more rocks stuck to it. However—now it was like Montressa’s battle.

Mana. She had to maintain the [Reverse Gravity] spell on every single boulder. The larger they were, the more mana they cost.

“I cannot…keep enchanting stones.”

The city was slowly moving up. Inch by inch. Not fast. Why was it so hard? Maybe she didn’t understand the physics. She thought she had overcome the weight limit, so every extra stone should move the city faster, but it resisted her.

Valeterisa pushed with her own arms, and Fissival kept rising. She felt the mana burning out of her veins. Now it was forty-five feet in the air.

Higher. She gazed upwards and then looked around. Valeterisa wondered what they saw.

Show them magic. She only wished she had more of it in her veins. The first mana potion touched her lips as a single Shadow Familier held it up for her to gulp. 

Higher.

 

——

 

They rose so slowly, but when Montressa reached a place where she could look out over the edge of the City of Magic, they were rising.

The Scholarium was in chaos. Students leapt out of classrooms, running, or grabbed scrying orbs.

They were flying! But every inch took almost a minute. Something was wrong.

“It’s too heavy. We’re sinking! She can’t lift it alone! The mana cost—”

Ascoden was trying to imagine how Valeterisa was managing it! General Vors gaped around as Montressa just stared into the distance. It was almost midday, and she could see so much of Izril. But Vors heard Hexa muttering into a speaking stone.

“—keep the stabilization spells—

He turned, but the Supreme General was already hurrying away to find the others of Fissival’s Three. The [General] saw citizens gaping out—but then—already—

The Walled City began sinking. He felt it as the sudden feeling of going up reversed. Slowly, the City of Magic sunk an inch. Then a foot. Then—

The Archmage of Izril appeared. She flew up back towards the Scholarium, wobbling, and the city held as she burned her mana, keeping it aloft. A crowd surrounded her as she dropped, and Vors knew, at once, Valeterisa had pushed too far.

Her face was not pale or white—it was gray. She was gasping for air as her body tried to recover some of the energy it felt leaving. But it was magic, not anything else. She almost fell to her hands and knees, but Montressa caught her.

“Archmage!”

“I cannot make it fly higher. Too much downwards pressure. It’s not enough.”

Valeterisa was whispering. The students and teachers of the Scholarium watched her, listening.

Not enough. Her head rose, and sweat ran down her face. Vors saw the scrying spells focus on her, and then someone spoke.

How he had the ribs left to draw breath, the [General] didn’t know. How he had the gall to speak…he beggared belief.

For Dorigal spoke, leaning on Mage Lady Sooral’s arm.

“Fifty feet.”

Every head turned to him. The son of Dragial pointed a claw at Valeterisa. He spoke, his voice carrying.

“Fifty feet. That is all the Archmage of Izril can show us. It is more than I can do. But some day, I swear to you all. I will see Fissival fly beyond the clouds.”

He gave her a long, frustrated look. And almost—Vors almost tossed him over the edge of the plaza, but the boy did look at her with the barest glimmer of respect.

It was more than his teachers. Valeterisa’s head lowered, and their descent began to pick up. Ascoden reached for his mana potion.

“If we could link…”

His voice was frustrated, and it belied his realization that even if he, Vors, and Montressa linked, they probably wouldn’t give Valeterisa more than…what, five more minutes? She had already, clearly, gone through a number of mana potions.

Montressa was already giving Valeterisa some magic. She heard Valeterisa whispering.

“I don’t understand how to lift it. I just—tried. No data, no studies. How do you lift something that high? Stones. Professor…”

She glanced up as the old Drake approached. There were tears in his eyes as he beheld his student.

“You have taken the first step. The rest is up to us.”

He laid a trembling claw on her shoulder. More mana, but a drop in the bucket being emptied. The Archmage of Izril’s head sagged, and a hand caught her arm.

“Look at you. A hundred spells. It must be a hundred and you’re doing it without sitting, or even help? Milaw? Milaw, come here!”

Ierythe had hold of Valeterisa’s arm. Magic ran down her fingertips, and General Vors blinked. His mana was like a roaring torrent, reaching Valeterisa in a rush, as much as he could channel. Instead of that, he saw an old woman, a [Tailor], whose own clothes were hand-stitched and could probably last another age and be as comfortable as could be. A knitting needle stuck in her hair, holding it in a bun, a comfortable apron-skirt around her legs and woolen socks.

Just a citizen, no [Mage]. However, from her came a thin line of magic that connected her hand to Valeterisa’s arm as the Archmage turned. Pure, refined mana, like a shimmering thread, thinner than a vein, running into the Archmage.

Almost lossless transmission. Then a [Clockmaker] with a cap was running forwards, his mustache blown almost sideways by the wind. He joined Ierythe, and a [Butcher] followed, a Drake who linked so fast that he put a [Battlemage] to shame. A Drake flew a dozen feet, and his chair nearly brained the other [Crafters], but he was already adding his flow of mana.

The [Crafters] of Heneith Street joined in, and they were another drop in the river. Yet—Montressa saw the hands supporting Valeterisa, and her head rose. Her eyes closed and then focused.

A razor’s edge of concentration. The hazy mana leaking from her stopped, and Montressa saw, like threads, each spell connected to her refining itself, reducing the wasted magic. The Archmage exhaled, and the city’s fall slowed. General Vors stood there, feeling like a new student before masters.

How had he never seen this?

But they were still sinking. In desperation, Montressa cast around. If only someone had something to teach Valeterisa! If only…

Her swiveling head caught a group of young men and women. Humans, staring over the edge of Fissival. Montressa ran.

You. How can she do it?”

Aah!

Eun screamed as she grabbed him, then turned. Saif, Eun, Jacques, Damla, and the other Earthers focused on Montressa.

“What? Do what?”

“How do planes fly? How can she—lift a damn city? A rock?

Eun blinked at her. Then he understood what she was asking. Saif gave Montressa a look of disbelief, then he slapped his forehead.

“Airplanes? We know that! And she’s never seen or heard of a rocket! Guys—”

“Shut up and show her! It’s like this. You have this—”

Damla was trying to sketch in the air, and Eun found a piece of parchment. They began babbling about aerodynamics, but then one mentioned a jet engine. Then…a rocket engine.

Valeterisa’s head rose as the Earthers followed Montressa back. Even now, fighting for distance, she listened as Montressa and the Earthers surrounded her. She smiled.

That’s how.

Then her face fell. The Archmage of Izril’s eyes fluttered—and she raised a hand as her nose began to bleed.

“Ah. I’m out of mana. If only Eldavin were here. Or anyone else.”

She stared up, strained, disappointed in herself, and Montressa’s face fell. She closed her eyes, and Eun stared around. The South Korean man knew something of what was going on, even if the magical details escaped him. He saw all the Drakes and Humans trying to fuel a leaking battery, like pouring buckets of water into a breached reservoir.

Then—a beam of light illuminated the air. Eun recoiled at his first sight of the Grand Plaza of Bliss beginning to activate. He pointed at it.

“What is that?

Ascoden explained briefly, sweating as he poured mana into Valeterisa’s shoulder. It probably wasn’t even filled much, but Eun just watched it. Then he grabbed Saif’s arm.

“Saif. Saif. This sounds stupid. But what if she used…the power of friendship?”

He tried to explain it, but all the other ways of saying it left him, leaving only the dumbest method. But his pointing finger found the beam of light, and Saif gazed up.

“No way. No way. You mean like Dragonball Z?”

“I never watched that.”

Valeterisa peered around as Jacques covered his eyes. But then her own head rose. She looked up, and she came to the same conclusion Eun had in a moment.

“Let go of me. I can try.”

The others backed away, and Valeterisa slowly began to rise into the air. She flew higher, and Eun saw her streaking up. Chasing after that beam of light coming from the plaza.

“What’s she…? I see. Get to Bliss Plaza, now!

Vors roared. The Scholarium focused on him, then—Milaw began to run, and Eun saw more Drakes and students and citizens following. But a hand touched his shoulder. He turned and met two bright orange eyes.

“You have a future here, young man. We need thinkers like you.”

Professor Pexalix told him solemnly. Slowly, his and Eun’s heads rose. They saw a single figure streaking into the air.

Valeterisa’s hair streamed behind her as she shot higher, so fast she left the running people far below. She was racing, trying to reach the Grand Plaza before the magic ritual unleashed.

She flew into a glowing beam of pink light turning to viridian at the center. There were only a few Drakes and Humans below, and they stared up as the Archmage of Izril closed her eyes. Then Valeterisa spoke.

“[Absorb Mana].”

She reached out—and stole the Grand Ritual’s spell. Drakes standing on rooftops, citizens peering out at their floating city, saw the Archmage of Izril floating in the air.

“It’s her.

A family peered up at Valeterisa. Then—their mother pushed them.

“Go downstairs, now.”

“She’s not going to kill us, Mom—”

“No, the plaza! Get to the plaza.

The idea caught hold like a bolt of lightning falling among pieces of metal on the ground. Drakes looked up and realized what Valeterisa needed. It might not have been the power of friendship as they streamed into the plaza and the gentle drain on mana began taking from thousands—but another beam shot up into the air as someone manually activated the Grand Plaza of Strength. Valeterisa turned to it and saw another beam shoot up, bright ochre. She closed her eyes.

Maybe it wasn’t friendship or even liking her. Maybe they just really wanted to see what she could show them. Maybe they wanted to see—

Magic.

She would try to answer them, then. Valeterisa flew across the City of Magic and began to cast a new spell. She took the mana floating up from the Grand Plazas and dove.

They were barely thirty feet above the earth now, and if the City of Magic sank further, she might well be crushed to death, unable to teleport in Fissival’s contained network.

Yet—Valeterisa had an idea. A theory, born of Earth’s knowledge. Fire. Fire and air. There was nothing gentle about it, no [Levitation] or [Reverse Gravity]—but sometimes magic was fire and science.

The Archmage of Izril dove for that narrowing gap between earth and sky, and realized…she was too late.

Someone had beaten her to the center of the City of Magic’s base. His wings cascaded around him, turning to clouds, and his scales flashed with iridescent cream turning to a golden sunrise. His eyes were gleaming with pride.

The Djinni of the Great Library, Heorth, was carrying the City of Fissival as he slowed its fall. Just like that statue in the plaza. Valeterisa stopped a moment, and he spoke.

“In the Age of Reckoning, when they first bound me to the library and the Gnolls reemerged from far below, six young Dragons would lift this city into the sky. The lazy ones called me to help. They did it with wings. A full Dragon could do it without help. Valeterisa. Show me what an Archmage of this era can do.”

His eyes glowed brighter, and Valeterisa exhaled. She saw the city sink another inch and placed her hand on the City of Magic’s base. But she did not heave nor push—she was no Magus Grimalkin.

Nor could even he do this. Valeterisa’s own eyes began to glow. The Djinni, Heorth, felt the winds pick up.

He was a being of Clouds-Knowledge-Magic. At his heart, in his very inception lay the synergy of essence to manage the Great Library. He had seen this magic before, and his pointed teeth flashed as he laughed.

“[Directed Spell: Windstorm of Karaz].”

The first spell that Valeterisa cast blasted so much dirt into the air that the Drakes closest to the edges of Fissival saw it rise like a wall of dirt. It wasn’t enough, of course. Valeterisa bound the spell, aiming it straight down as Heorth bought her time.

What…can you show me?

“I have to—remove the limiter on the spell. [Mages] suffer no backwash of spells. But I have to inflict it on us.”

Valeterisa’s lips moved as the Djinni whispered to her. She pointed down, then touched his arm.

“[Greater Fire Resistance]. But I can’t cast it on you—”

Mundane flames won’t harm me. Do it.

Valeterisa pointed her wand down as the ground closed in.

“Then—[Empowered Spell: Flame Jet]. [Whiteflame Jet].

The first wave of fire blasted downwards, and the heat baked the dirt. Then it turned white, and the Djinni felt the first sear of flame on his body. But he grinned—because the roaring wind stoked the fire. And it grew warm.

 

——

 

Thermals were rising across the City of Magic. Flame and dirt and smoke—but the air magic the Archmage of Izril was casting was intensifying.

After all, hot air rose. Birds floated on thermals from warm areas, and it could, perhaps, even propel larger beings into the air.

Maybe even a city. Now, [Earthen Spires] were trying to push the City of Magic higher along with the increasing jets of flames and air currents.

It should be working. It should—for a city of one solid mass like Fissival? Even if it wasn’t perfectly aerodynamic, so much force was pushing upwards and it had no weight—why wasn’t it flying?

[Ritualist] Kories knew the answer. He sat in the Teleportarium, watching an image of the Archmage of Izril. His supervisor, who was sniffing one robe and wondering why it stank—was growling.

“Our gravity stabilization spells are fighting, General Hexa! We can’t pour any more into the spell.”

“We’re flying.”

Kories spoke quietly, and the rest of the team below glanced at him. None of them had been allowed to see it with their own eyes, but they had felt it, seen the news coverage. She was on Wistram News Network, and they were flying—but there were spells anchoring Fissival to the ground that were now fighting the Archmage of Izril.

Fighting Fissival. Its citizens were pouring magic into the Archmage’s spells, and here he was. The [Supervisor] snapped at him.

“This city only flies when it wants to! Keep an eye on the Teleportarium!”

The [Ritualist] opened his mouth—then he stared at the magicore network that showed the cities nearby Fissival. It was a small, broken part of the continent. But what had astounded the few Drakes allowed down here was…

This map was one of the most complete in the world. For it showed the new lands of Izril in perfect detail. It only looked a bit like a butt. The network had reconfigured itself in the days after the Meeting of Tribes. Yet…only the Walled City of Gems, Salazsar, and a tiny circle of lights indicated places where the Teleportarium’s power could reach.

No wonder Fissival had sacrificed the network in the Great Plains. Kories studied the map as he watched Valeterisa fighting, refusing to give in. As his [Supervisor] stomped past him to speak to General Hexa more privately, he nudged Kories.

Pretty hard, because the young Drake slammed forwards with a cry of pain. The rest of the team peered at him as the [Supervisor] backed up.

“What? What—sorry, General Hexa, just a klutz. Kories, pick yourself up and—oh Ancestors.”

The [Ritualist] pushed himself up and then noticed his claws. He stared at something on his claws. It was…a little jade key. Multicolored, from the green everyone thought of to a pearly white. It had been inserted in a little socket at the magical panel he had been sitting at. Right now, it was attached to his thumb-claw. He’d accidentally pulled it out.

“Put it back! Put it back—

The [Supervisor] began freaking out. But it was no good. The key was part of a magical link. When the link was severed, you had to restart everything. You couldn’t just jam it back in. Of course, it was supposed to be locked, but the [Supervisor] must have forgotten to turn it in all the excitement.

Supervisor Linnej. Report! What is going on?

Supreme General Hexa was shouting, and Linnej was frozen in place as the entire panel went dark. Kories helpfully answered for him.

“Er…the gravitation spells, Supreme General? They just went offline.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, but ran for the upstairs. And as he did—he felt the ground suddenly lurch beneath him, and his stomach dropped for a second before it got used to the acceleration. He was laughing as, delayed in the scrying orb—

Fissival began to rise.

 

——

 

They were flying. Not by inches, not by feet, but up, faster, faster. Valeterisa knew that whatever force had been fighting her was gone. She climbed with Heorth, and he grinned at her.

“Go and see. Just go and see.”

Flames and wind blew down in a hurricane below, a pillar of flame. A copy of…another world. The Archmage of Izril flew out of that world of heat and air, and she saw the wind rising.

Leaves and grass floating upwards. It carried her up. She floated upwards alongside the rising City of Magic. This time…when she rose, she saw a sea of Drakes, scales of every color, staring at her. Staring as they rose into the air.

A hundred feet. Two hundred. Valeterisa flew higher, the mana of an entire city running through her. It was in her veins. But she almost didn’t feel it or the triumph.

She was gazing down at the City of Magic. And they were looking right back at her. Valeterisa gazed down through familiar streets she had run through as a girl. Then—her gaze picked out a single, tiny figure, frozen in place.

A little boy with dirty brown hair, no more than maybe five years of age, was gaping up at the Archmage of Izril. He had a wand in his hand that was fit for a child. Maybe he could cast spells with it; maybe not. He had robes cut short so he wouldn’t trip on them, and his round cheeks were slack.

He was gaping straight up at her as she flew overhead. The Archmage of Izril gazed down at him, and it was unclear who seemed more stupefied. Then she flew past him, glowing like a second sun of magic.

The City of Magic began to slow when it reached six hundred feet. But it was still climbing. Valeterisa didn’t know if it were her waning magical control or Heorth slowing it down. She knew from experience it grew harder to breathe the higher you went.

A thousand feet. That was more than enough. Her body was revolting against every second that it was chaining so many spells together; the mana she was conduit for was scorching her.

But Valeterisa closed her eyes as Fissival floated. The city looked out across Izril, and then—

Then, they saw. The students, the teachers, the citizens—

And the other cities.

 

——

 

The Teleportarium was in chaos. Supervisor Linnej had fled, and there was no point restoring the gravitational spells. The city was flying in Valeterisa’s hands.

So why was [Transporter Chief] Istrix here? He couldn’t have said why. He had looked out across the continent of Izril, and something had pulled him down here.

He stood in the map room of Izril and stared at the cities that pulsed when they wanted to send him something. He had long since stopped marveling—until the new lands had appeared and Fissival had sent dozens of ‘experts’ to confirm that this was legitimate and sell copies to the other Walled Cities.

Even now, the Teleportarium surprised Istrix. But he had forgotten…not all those surprises were bad.

Right now, the Drake was the only person seeing what was happening to the map. The glowing dots of the cities illuminated by Fissival’s Teleportarium network were…expanding.

Slowly. As the city rose, the bubble widened with increasing speed, and Istrix’s stunned eyes saw cities that hadn’t been part of the network for hundreds of years, thousands, beginning to glow. He didn’t understand—until he thought of the spell.

The spell. What if altitude…? Like someone trying to draw a straight line to the City of Fissival? It would be impossible unless the Walled City of Magic were in the right place.

Like a thousand feet straight up in the air. He saw shining lights appear and felt so weak at the knees he sat down.

“Zeres?”

 

——

 

Walled Admiral Asale worked in his section of Zeres as the Admiral of Supply, the Quartermaster of the Fleet. He had traditional office spaces accorded to him, although he hadn’t understood why until he studied old maps of Zeres.

This was the spot where Zeres had used to receive shipments that didn’t come in via harbor. But that was ages ago. Even so—the rooms that held so many goods were still used for that same purpose, even if no one sent anything anymore.

He was also watching the scrying orb showing Fissival along with the rest of the continent. So that was why, when he saw and felt the flash of magic running through the entire room behind him, he didn’t run screaming. Drakes and Gnolls streamed out of the storerooms where magical lines long buried flashed to life. Admiral Asale slowly reached for a cup of coffee and sipped at it.

“Someone find the Serpentine Matriarch. Check that. We might only have a few minutes. Ask them if they can send me a bunch of those sunrise mangos. I love those.”

 

——

 

The Walled Cities were aflame with [Messages]. In each city, rooms had begun lighting up. Some were still used for the same purpose—

In another, Watch Captain Venim freaked out as the Watch Barracks began to glow. He ordered a complete evacuation as Grand Strategist Chaldion himself came to look. The Grand Strategist stared at the rooms that could send things or…people and muttered.

“The Defense of Manus, Antinium Wars. Zeres’ Battle of Gorgons, Naga Incursions. Someone make a list.”

“Sir?”

A junior [Tactician] looked up as the Grand Strategist leaned on a cane. Chaldion glanced over.

“Make a list of every single encirclement or siege of a Walled City that isn’t Fissival since its Teleportarium network began failing. Make me three copies.”

“One for…?”

The Gnoll saw Chaldion remove his fake eye and rub at his eye socket.

“Each of Fissival’s Three. Which I will ram up their worthless behinds with my cane. There has to be a reason they stopped.”

“Well, yes. I doubt they get much foot traffic up there.”

Venim panted. He stared at the floating city in the scrying orb, already beginning to drift downwards. Slowly. Held aloft by a Djinni and a storm of winds. And the Archmage of Izril. Chaldion nodded slowly.

“Yes. If they can’t use the network, I suppose so. You’d need a great [Mage] to do that.”

He stared long at Valeterisa. Then he cursed.

“A shame they got rid of this one like all the rest.”

He scowled at the display, and Saliss of Lights walked past Chaldion, stared at the glowing Watch Barracks, and slapped Chaldion cheerfully on the back of the head.

“It’s a tradition in every city, old man. Take a good look around before you throw stones. They have a lot of high ground.”

 

——

 

Istrix was gazing at the network of Izril when he noticed something strange. The map of Izril had always been a picture of weakening magic, of failure as Fissival could only maintain the local region.

When he saw it light up…he had thought it showed a great mistake of the ages, some lost idea. But then he realized it wasn’t all incompetence and forgetfulness.

Because…Pallass was active, but the steady blue light wasn’t green for a ready delivery or red for a problem or telling him not to send.

It was orange.

Distinctly orange. There was no median point between blue and red. If anything, the orange-yellow color was crossed with a violet center, like someone really wanted you to tell this was not a normal status.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Istrix whispered. More Drakes were running downstairs, and General Vors and Mage Lord Ascoden stopped when they saw the map of Izril. Istrix just pointed.

“Look. Pallass…Hectval…that must be Liscor. All the cities in that region. Heading down…Zeres is clear, but—”

Dozens of cities in a kind of downwards stain were all showing the same color. As if something was…wrong. But what? From Liscor to Pallass, every city wasn’t ready to send. Dead gods, Zeres seemed like it was ready to send fish or something, and someone was trying to load a crate of mangos in exchange for ‘coffee’.

But what was this? Then Vors whispered.

“No. Forget that. Look. The north.

Every head rose, and Ascoden’s scales shivered. He saw no cities there. This was an old map, and the new area had been added in. But…there were some dead lights in the north.

General Vors slowly turned, and he was no student of Magus Grimalkin. But he thought the Sinew Magus would quite have approved as Vors gave an order.

“Get me all the paper in the Scholarium. Copy—write everything down.”

There were even cities in the new lands. Old or new? But the map was already fading.

 

——

 

Fissival was sinking. Drifting downwards, unable to sustain its altitude. Maybe there was something about gravity that the levitation spells couldn’t fight.

Yet the proof was more than a permanent fixture in the heavens. Every single person in the city had seen the City of Magic truly flying.

That vision could inspire. It was something to reclaim.

It was already changing the world.

For instance, [Chief Engineer] Bellien was someone whose name you probably shouldn’t know. He had no expectation anyone would know his name.

[Chief Engineer] was a class. It didn’t mean he was in charge of all of Pallass’ Engineering Guild. Good thing too, because that was a political role, and he liked his place where he was on the day-crews. It was a fine time to be alive, working on huge projects and learning new concepts of…well, everything.

Ideas were flooding into the Engineering Guild so fast that even the best were sleepless, dreaming of new concepts. But they needed…industry. And more knowledge! And more points of reference.

Yet they had a guiding star, and Chaldion had promised more, soon. Bellien was eager to meet them.

Especially if they were easier to deal with than Troydel. The young man had given a lot of erratic lectures, and they needed someone who could start from the bottom, not tell them a Drake could fly and go from there.

He was a work in progress. For example…Bellien was hunting for a sheaf of documents. Every week, Troydel had to submit a new one, and he had achieved the Engineering Guild record for most proposals refused already.

Then again, most junior members didn’t have the right to submit proposals for budgets, but it was how Troydel was learning to submit and create blueprints. Bellien had to admit he’d gotten better, but that wasn’t, uh, a huge first step.

Most of what Troydel wanted to make was highly, highly complex, and while some ideas were being greenlit and in progress—like copies of the bicycles and Felkhr’s entire wing of support staff—Troydel’s ideas had thus far never survived on their own merits.

It took a second for Bellien to find what he wanted, but then he pulled out a bunch of hand-illustrated images. They were pretty good, and the entire idea had been one of Troydel’s best, but he had personally refused to greenlight it.

The dangers of being above the earth were not unknown to Bellien. A two-floor elevator fall killed anyone but Grimalkin, or so their [Safety Consultants] loved to say. Besides that…it had been hard, even with Troydel’s explanations of physics, to believe.

Yes, birds and hot air and all that. But believing fire and air could lift people? Much less…well. Bellien stared at the image of Fissival. He had seen it rise. So, calmly, he hunted for his stamp and struck the paper describing a giant cloth balloon. Normally, he demanded a miniature proof-of-concept, and Troydel had never delivered one of those. But he supposed someone else could do the work for the lad. He struck the wood stamp down.

Plan approved.

 

——

 

Amidst it all, she descended. Archmage Valeterisa landed in the middle of the Scholarium, and Fissival’s citizens and students and [Mages] surrounded her.

“This changes nothing.”

Who said that? Montressa raised her foot to kick—

Mage Lord Ascoden. He stared up dreamily at Valeterisa. Smiling, but sadly. She landed on the ground and eye him.

“That is what I wanted to show them. I was challenged to demonstrate magic. So I have. Regardless of anything else—that is magic.”

Her eyes were alight, and she was almost smiling, but it faded as Professor Worpell and the Scholarium’s elite walked forwards. The Drake was not smiling. But even she looked at Valeterisa differently.

“Archmage of Izril.

The whisper ran through the crowd. Valeterisa studied Worpell and waited.

“Valeterisa. You are without a doubt one of the finest [Mages] living. No one can deny that after this moment. You have done what Fissival has long known it can do. You seek the magics of old, and for your accomplishments, you have been acclaimed an Archmage, a title that speaks for itself.”

Worpell sounded exhausted, but Montressa didn’t miss what she’d said. Her eyes widened with outrage, but Valeterisa forestalled her. She simply listened.

“I have not the…the…strength to watch over the Scholarium. Headmaster Tierres, I leave it to you. I am tired. My great students pass, and I will not stand against Valeterisa’s instatement in the Scholarium.”

The old Drake seemed as though she aged with every second. The [Professor] sagged, and someone, Dorigal, helped her step back. Her scales were grey, but another Drake took her place.

Montressa had never met Headmaster Tierres before, but one look told her that the second of Fissival’s Three stood before her.

Magic’s director glanced at Valeterisa, and she blinked at him. He was as old as Worpell, and she knew him too.

“Oh, Headmaster Tierres. What would you like to say?”

The old Drake had gold-rimmed glasses, and unlike Worpell, he did use a magical tool to keep himself upright. But unlike Chaldion, his cane was magical and hopped; it was tall and shaped such that he could lean on it wherever he went.

Montressa could see why he didn’t move around much. But he was not ignorant of Valeterisa and the debate around her. The old headmaster spoke slowly.

“…I still oppose it.”

The Scholarium buzzed. Students were incredulous, citizens aghast. The second of Fissival’s Three went on as Hexa and a female Drake that Montressa didn’t know hurried forwards. Tierres went on.

“Your magic is undeniable. By deed, you have won over the hearts of many, perhaps, Valeterisa. But we are a city united by magic and…love of Fissival. You have left. You are the Archmage of Wistram and the north. You could have stayed. You were always rebellious, and when you graduated, I told you that the Scholarium needed great mages. But not of your kind. I oppose it—but I cannot stop your instatement as Mage Lady of Fissival.”

He turned away. Not once had he met her gaze. He gazed past Valeterisa. Then his head lowered as Montressa burst out.

Why?

She was vibrating with fury. The [Aegiscaster] met the old [Headmaster]’s gaze and guessed he might be Level 40. At least. He had enough power in that gaze to be that strong, or even, perhaps, Valeterisa’s level, but he was faded.

“What do you mean, Miss?”

Why do you resent her so? She could have been your Archmage. If only you—and every Drake who was around her—hadn’t pushed her out of the city, she might have stayed. Was it so hard to admit a Human could do magic on par with you?”

“Human? This has nothing to do with her species, H—Miss. It was always about her attitude. She questioned, but she did it loudly. She pushed, alone, rather than worked together. She walks the loneliest of paths where magic is her only goal.”

Mage Lady Sooral hissed. Montressa turned redder. She opened her mouth to reply, then Sooral hesitated. Headmaster Tierres turned his head and focused on the Archmage of Izril. Montressa turned her head up, and her face fell.

“Archmage?”

Milaw gazed across the crowd in concern.

“Valeterisa?”

She was weeping. Tears ran from Valeterisa’s cheeks, hot and large, and she was no graceful weeper. Nor was she even the most talented blubberer, because the tears were not a waterfall.

She just cried. Yet it was the first such tears anyone could remember seeing, even people who had known her of old. Valeterisa’s tears landed on the Scholarium’s floor, and when she did speak, her voice was choked.

“He asked me to risk my life and fight for Izril’s sake. For nothing but pride in being me. It was a ridiculous thing for a [Mage] who loves logic and magic to answer. But he was there, and he looked me in the eyes and asked me, from one ill-loved child to another.”

“Who?”

Montressa knew. Valeterisa’s head moved back, and she stared, as she had stared at the Drake wearing Erin Solstice’s face once before. That burning gaze. The authority to command any army of Drakes.

General Sserys of Liscor.

Now, the crowd was wide-eyed and silent. Even Fissival’s Three listened as Valeterisa cast around. At her city. Her people. Second-Class Citizen Valeterisa. Mage of the Draconae Scholarium Valeterisa.

Archmage of Izril, Valeterisa recalled the words that the [Spear of the Drakes] had said to her.

“Are you a daughter of the walls? Am I a daughter of the walls? He saw me—and knew me. He did not even know my name, but he saw it in me. I wanted to be. I would have been, but you did not want me.”

She peered around the Scholarium. Her words fell like her tears, a soft confession. Then—the voices of disbelief rose and silenced themselves before they could quite voice any objections.

For truth spells existed. But even if they had not—a continent listened. It would be easy to disbelieve Valeterisa. But the Meeting of Tribes had seen miracles and impossible deeds. Not everyone believed. Maybe most didn’t. But those that did felt it in their bones.

 

——

 

Wing Commander Embria’s forkful of noodles finally fell into her bowl and splashed some of the hot broth into her face. Imani’s attempt at ramen was growing cold in her new establishment, Barefoot Kitchens. You needed a reservation these days, and Wing Commander Embria had gotten one for the leaders of the other companies from Liscor’s real army.

Wing Commander Xith and Narkr sat next to Embria, open-mouthed. Narkr almost rose in outrage, her tail twitching in disbelief. Then she looked around at the silent Liscorians. They had all heard that voice, and an entire city listened.

General Sserys. She had seen Liscor’s army turn on Zeres and Manus. Slowly, Wing Commander Narkr sat down. She looked at Valeterisa, and those words made her scales chill without end. Not crawl, nor her stomach sink.

Daughter of the Walls. She had seen that in her very dreams. A helmeted head glancing the way of a girl born in Liscor’s army. A wild grin, and a voice. If you heard it, just stand up and go. That glorious [General] who had escaped even death to jump into one last fight.

 

——

 

“I am a Daughter of the Walls. If you had called me like him, I would have come. For twenty years I waited, but not once. Not during the Antinium Wars, nor any time since have you ever needed me.

Valeterisa’s voice reached more than just Liscor, though it echoed throughout the entire city. A Wall Lord lowered his head and pressed his claws into his forehead.

Ilvriss, of Salazsar, wondered if he were looking at a mirror. Not of Valeterisa—but of the stupid faces of the Scholarium. He saw a reflection of an older Drake, but still, his head rose, and he looked at Valeterisa. He spoke to Osthia, Nerul, and Xesci.

“Her. We need her.”

 

——

 

Ilvriss’ gaze followed Valeterisa along with Fetohep of Khelt, sitting upon his throne in Khelt. The king’s golden flames burned brighter in their sockets, for here was an outrage to his nation. A servant, poorly served.

“They were unworthy of you, Archmage.”

 

——

 

The King of Destruction agreed. He looked at Valeterisa and turned to Amerys.

“Now there is your peer, Amerys. If she had stood on Zeres’ walls or against the Antinium, where would we be now?”

The Archmage of Chandrar turned to Valeterisa, and her gaze sparked with sympathy. But disappointment as well.

“If we had met on the battlefield time and time again serving two great causes, Wistram would now be free and I would be an [Archmage] in truth.”

Her eyes shone with fury for a rival lost and magic cast aside. The King of Destruction just nodded sadly.

 

——

 

And Rafaema of Manus looked at Valeterisa and wondered if that was how she would look in four hundred more years. She raised her claws to her face and wondered if Valeterisa’s tears were hot or cold.

For hers crackled with lightning, and they wouldn’t stop.

“No more. At least use us well. No more.”

She turned away, then turned back to keep watching, like someone seeing a vision of the future. Rafaema’s wings opened, and she almost flew out the window, but she waited.

Waited, because there was something else. There had to be. She looked north and then at Valeterisa.

Not her. She could not live like that. The Lightning Dragon spread her wings and roared until Manus’ fortress shook. She had a thousand questions to ask her kin. A thousand questions, like thunder, of how to stop this. How many had they thrown away? How many children of the walls? Rafaema turned back and watched the sorry end to this tale.

If only she had been a Dragon. They would have loved her too well.

 

——

 

Valeterisa had been called. And she had answered. Now, the Archmage of Izril stood in the City of Magic, weeping.

“I am a citizen of Fissival. Second-Class Citizen Valeterisa. [Mage] of the Scholarium. Even if my home has never loved me—I have always loved it. I always wanted the Scholarium to be a bit proud of me. Just once. I stand here, in front of you. Can’t you acknowledge me? Even now?”

She gazed around, and thousands of students, her people, watched her. But the eyes of the people she wanted passed over her face. As if they were afraid to linger.

Even Dorigal saw that. The [Crafters], Montressa—and Valeterisa herself. Just as she had known. She hiccuped and then shook her head. Valeterisa slowly produced a handkerchief, blew into it, and stared at it.

She probably hadn’t [Cleansed] it in nine years. She tucked it away and then nodded. Her voice was slowly returning to normal. And like the old memories…Montressa heard a sigh in Valeterisa’s voice.

“Yes. I have loved Fissival. Coming here, I have felt all the reminders of why I left. Love. Pride in my city. Exasperation. Frustration. I see what it could be—but what it is. But if General Sserys asked me a second time, I would go. Because that is what it means to be a daughter of the walls.”

Ascoden closed his eyes. Montressa saw Valeterisa touch her chest slightly, and someone exhaled. Then, the Archmage of Izril’s eyes opened, and that clear gaze sparkled, the only bit of magic in her. A dreamy cloud as deep as a foreign world waiting to be explored.

“I have come home. It was painful, joyful, and all these other things. Now, to do what I have put off for a while. For you are right, Headmaster Tierres. Sooral. I am a [Mage] who loves only magic. It is so hard to balance that against my love of home. So—”

Her finger rose, and it touched the side of her head. Valeterisa whispered.

“[Clear Emotions].”

Montressa’s face slowly turned to one of dawning realization. The crowd susurrated. Did she just—? Pexalix closed his eyes, but Valeterisa’s tears stopped.

Her expression cleared, and her back straightened. She dabbed at her face again and seemed mystified by the tears. Then she gazed around.

“That’s better. Ah, now I see. I see you all, with neither love nor hatred. Headmaster Tierres, this is an optimal time. In witness of the Scholarium, I would like to submit a patent. After all, a spell need only be witnessed by three members of the Scholarium in good standing.”

“A patent?”

The Drake seemed wary, but he could hardly refuse her. Valeterisa nodded, and Cureq spoke derisively.

“If it’s ‘Valeterisa’s Uplifting Magic’, we have seen it, Archmage.

She gave him a blank look without anything more than a vague impatience.

“No, this is new magic. I am casting it now. Please stand back, Montressa. Or hold me, but do one or the other.”

Montressa clung to Valeterisa’s arm gently, gazing up at Valeterisa’s face. But she did not see a wreck of emotions buried by magic. Just…a kind of sadness. Valeterisa had cleared her emotions, but not erased them.

She took nearly a minute to cast her spell as everyone watched. Not even Ascoden and Vors, closest to Valeterisa, could see the spell. But Montressa could. Valeterisa patted her on the head.

“Stop crying, apprentice. It was a good visit. Now—”

Her voice echoed a bit, then popped, and Montressa stumbled slightly, though she hadn’t moved. Valeterisa caught her, and she kept speaking.

“—it’s time to go.”

That was all. Montressa felt nor saw anything else until she looked up. Then…she saw Tierres’ white face. His scales had turned dead white. And Montressa had to crane her head to see Worpell’s expression. Because…

She and Valeterisa were about two dozen paces left of where they’d been. The Archmage of Izril turned. A few [Students] seemed puzzled.

“That’s it? That’s just [Lesser Teleport].”

Cassa, one of the young students who’d first seen Valeterisa, muttered. Then someone kicked her in the tail.

“You idiot. You idiot.

Kadril, the older student, muttered to them. He was shaking. He pointed a claw at Valeterisa and said what had all the other members of the Scholarium speechless.

It’s impossible to [Teleport] in Fissival. Even [Archmages] of old couldn’t do it. Only the Teleportarium works! Only—”

Then his voice choked off. Valeterisa turned, and her eyes caught them all.

“I submit my patent: [Network Teleport]. It makes use of existing magics. I would prefer not to scribe the exact methodology of the spell.”

She stared down at her feet again, and this time…Montressa saw her tracing the Teleportarium, staring at the leylines written long ago. Valeterisa glanced up, and Headmaster Tierres was frozen in shock.

He only spoke after half a minute of dead silence. His voice wavered.

“Accepted. And I want to say, Archmage Valeterisa…”

His eyes searched hers as Valeterisa took his clawed hand and shook it vaguely. She neither smiled nor scowled. The Archmage of Izril bowed and then nodded to Montressa.

“Thank you, Headmaster. Now, I believe it’s time to go. Apprentice…no. Montressa. Are you fit to travel?”

It took a heartbeat for the Scholarium to realize that Valeterisa was walking for the edge of the plaza. Montressa began to follow, and someone called out.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

“North. Somewhere. I’ve missed my niece’s birthday for eight years. And I have other engagements. Including Wall Lord Ilvriss.”

Valeterisa called out absently. Someone ran after her.

“W-wait. When will you be back? We need to learn that spell.”

“Learn? Why?”

Valeterisa turned, and Mage Lord Cureq’s mouth worked.

“Because it’s teleportation. Along Fissival’s networks! We can go anywhere with it! If we restore the Teleportarium—”

“—You could go anywhere it reaches. Or build a new, self-contained grid. Yes.”

“So you need to teach us, Valeterisa—

“Why?”

The Archmage of Izril stared at the Mage Lord. Slowly, she tapped her finger against her chest.

“I have the patent. For economic purposes, that seemed like a very wise investment.”

But you have to teach us!

Cureq shouted. Valeterisa just gazed at him.

“But that would devalue my magic. And it seems to me Fissival was never the right spot. I thought about the Great Plains, but…no. The High Passes.”

“The High Passes?”

He couldn’t catch on, but everyone else did. Montressa looked up, and Valeterisa spoke musingly.

“There is a door, but it barely works. I wish to study magic. Together. With apprentices and [Mages] and resources. I will do it somewhere with access to north and south. Building a new teleportation network is not impossible, and the most value is in the center of Izril. Liscor, maybe. If Fissival ever figures out the spell, I will, of course, expect my patent to stand. It has been witnessed by most of the Scholarium.”

Now they got it. Ascoden saw General Vors slowly sag as Hexa and dozens of other [Mages] tried to run forwards, but Valeterisa was just…going.

“Valeterisa, wait! Your position—give us a chance to say—”

“I heard you the first time.”

She looked back once, and they froze in their tracks. The Archmage of Izril gazed about and then down at Montressa. The [Aegiscaster] closed her eyes, smiling with that same bittersweet realization as she understood. Valeterisa stood in the city she had entered humbly, without ever showing them the spells she had learned. Either of them. 

The calm Archmage bowed her head to Tierres.

“I have always been a fine student of Fissival’s Scholarium. I learned all the lessons you had to teach, Headmaster.”

Then she took off.

 

——

 

Mage Lord Ascoden found Valeterisa before she had left Fissival proper. He rapped at Milaw’s door, and Eun and the Earthers crowded in as the Archmage of Izril shed her concealment spells.

“You are supposed to be chasing my illusion. What was wrong about it?”

The Mage Lord shrugged.

“Nothing. The Human element made me think you were here.”

“Ah. That’s not magic. Hence my failure.”

Valeterisa stood up and embraced Ierythe. She stood amongst the last gathering of Heneith Street, their Archmage. The last in Fissival.

Not just Heneith Street. The [Butcher], a [Baker], and possibly even a [Chandler] were among the Drakes and Humans and even a Stitch-man speaking quietly to Valeterisa. She remembered them all, and she had forgotten to change her clothing or what day of the week it was.

“Are you going to be okay? I have gold, I think. Sooral might be petty. I must go.”

Ascoden watched as Valeterisa cast a spell, checking Ierythe’s health, but the old [Tailor] looked healthier than she had been in years. And she was patting Valeterisa’s hands, squeezing her fingers tight with a grip so strong it shocked them both.

“My dear. My dear. You always had to go. We should have never let them take what they did from you, but you kept shining, even in all the mud they slung at you. Now? The entire city sees it. The only thing that’s changed is…”

Her eyes were awash with tears. Tears…but Milaw spoke with the same kind of terrible heaviness in Ascoden’s chest.

“The only thing that’s changed is where we’re supposed to be.”

The Archmage of Izril had lifted the City of Magic high and dropped it. Now, everything, all the anchors and ties were coming undone. It was still hard. As hard as something you loved and hated to break. Like family or home. But the Archmage of Izril simply tapped her forehead as her eyes watered.

“[Clear—”

“Stop that.”

A hand slapped down her fingers, and Valeterisa gently squeezed Ierythe’s shoulders. She sniffed.

“But tears are so inconvenient.”

 

——

 

They had a long time for Valeterisa to say her goodbyes to each person and cast [Restoration] the last few times she could. As she finally stepped back, the Archmage noticed Montressa trying to fend off the Earthers begging her to take them with her, name-dropping an inn. Valeterisa watched with urbane amusement, and she and Ascoden stood aside.

“I can’t let you have them. Although they’ll be going to other Walled Cities, some. I guess I am a son of the walls. I’ll have to study [Clear Emotions]. You know, if you call and the best [Crafters] of Fissival go—and some students and teachers and even a rogue Mage Lord or two—the City of Magic won’t allow it. It can’t allow it.”

Valeterisa turned, and Mage Lord Ascoden met her eyes, then stared into a vision of the future. She glanced back at Milaw and shook her head.

“Why would they give it all up? Even if I asked?”

“Because it would be better. When that day comes, though, even if you had a Level 50 ally on your side, an entire Walled City would be holding them back.”

Valeterisa was silent for a bit. Then she nodded.

“If Fissival holds back its people from doing what they wish, then we never were a free city of magic, and they were never truly citizens, even Second-Class. If they do—I will come against them with Salazsar’s armies. As the Archmage of Izril.”

Mage Lord Ascoden smiled. He laughed and then held out a claw. Valeterisa took it, and his grip was light as he met her eyes.

“Call. No matter if it tears out Fissival’s heart and leaves it bleeding. It is a long process to fix this city or build a new one wherever you go. But call. Better to fight for our heart than lose it.”

The Archmage of Izril nodded, then she turned and beckoned to her apprentice. Side-by-side, they walked out the door, and the City of Magic flew quietly behind them, low to the ground, as they flew away from it.

Valeterisa looked back several times, but when Montressa asked her how she was feeling, she just shook her head.

“I’m leaving again. I’ve left another Valeterisa behind, and I will never know how she lived or whether she was happier. But I think this one will be fine.”

And then, empty-handed, they continued on their way. But someone noticed everything that had happened. So there was a reward. There had to be. It wouldn’t have been fair, otherwise. Even if magic was its own reward—

For the people of levels, there was always this.

 

[Aegiscaster Level 34!]

[Skill — Spell Reflection Barrier (Lesser) obtained]

[Skill — Enraging Taunt obtained!]

 

[Grand Magus of Mind and Studies Level 54!]

[Spell — Conjure Midnight Familiar obtained!]

[Skill — My Mana Runs Thick as Blood obtained!]

[Skill — Arcane Discovery (Weekly) obtained!]

 

…What was that last one? Did that mean what it sounded like? Two people woke up in a small tent with very mixed emotions.

Valeterisa! Valeterisa, guess what? I leveled! I got a new Skill for my barriers, and—”

“Eight years.”

“Hm?”

“Eight years ago, I reached Level 50 and consolidated my class into [Grand Magus of Mind and Studies]. I gained [Parallel Thoughts] and leveled twice that year, without Skills.”

“A-Archmage?”

“Eight years!”

 

——

 

So the City of Magic’s student left it sitting on the coast and waited. Waiting for the day, once more, when she returned home.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: This chapter is about 33,000 words. I have done some editing on the third day, but no rewrite of Volume 1. Mainly because it is my understanding I wrote about 30,000 words in two days.

On my final chapter before my break. Let’s just say that it’s tiring and say that’s an understatement.

However, I swear to you, I had plans for a more sedate, slice-of-life Valeterisa chapter. Then I realized I had two chapters instead of one and it grew ambitious.

It’s not my fault. I just like writing this story. Anyways, I am going to rest and I’ll come back stronger than ever. For now, the Archmage of Izril has her chapter. Everyone deserves their own chapter.

But I’ve got a lot of time. I’ll write your chapter for a million…two…eight billion…I don’t have time to write your chapter, but I wish I did. I hope you understand Valeterisa now, and I’ll see you in a bit. Wish me lots of rest! Thanks for reading.

 

 

The High Passes by Enuryn the [Naturalist]!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.16 R

The life of an average citizen in Terandria was said to be better than most Izrilians, Balerosians, Chandrarians, and especially Blighted Kingdom citizens. Not because their levels were higher or any nation was more magically or technologically advanced, but because Terandria, as a continent, was safer.

As a Human-dominated continent, the interspecies wars, such as the Drake and Gnoll conflicts, had been replaced by, uh…intraspecies war. But civilized war, such that the average member of the common folk’s slaughter by invading armies was frowned upon and largely condemned. Even Baleros with its mercenary armies had less of a genteel approach to warfare.

Similarly—Terandria’s systems of organization were completely different from city-states in Izril, for instance. Unlike how, in Izril, you might be subject to a Walled City or noble’s authority or simply be a largely free agent only bound to whatever local city laws there were, Terandria was about identity.

Almost no farm or village was independent. They fell under the authority of a local noble who reported to and was overseen—in theory—by a larger noble, who reported to the biggest noble still. This was all under the aegis of the crown, and every kingdom in Terandria had, well, a [King] or [Queen]. Or both.

All this meant that you got interesting scenarios about responsibility and duty. If a plague or natural disaster or monster were not addressed, the blame lay, in part, on the person governing the area. Whether or not they were held accountable was one thing…but it meant that, in theory, the ‘common folk’—again, a term that Rabbiteater kept hearing more and more often—grew to depend on their rulers.

He looked at it as similar to Goblin tribes, where you had a lot of Chieftains…but in this case, the Chieftains were not necessarily reliable. They were appointed by a super-Chieftain and…

Well, at that point his head began to hurt, and the [Knight of the Dawn] would try to get Meisa, Talia, or whomever it was to change the subject. He had no problem with the concept because he didn’t think hard about it.

If it was a good system, it was good. If it was bad, someone should do something about it. What he didn’t appreciate were all the attempts to…rationalize it to him. As if, somehow, he should be taking notes and making all the Goblins or Izrilians copy this method of governance.

“You have [Lords]. I have [Chieftains]. If things are good, one is like the other. Doesn’t matter, does it?”

The Hobgoblin muttered, and instantly, no less than four people began arguing.

Rabbit! We have been trying to tell you—”

“A [Lord] is not a [Chieftain]—”

“I say, Rabbiteater, I understand your logic, but it’s somewhat insulting to—”

“—the historical [Chieftains] came out of barbarous tribes, it’s true, but Terandria distinguished itself with the right of kings and—”

Four outraged [Knights] all began nattering at Rabbiteater as he put his fingers in his ears. He got to do this because they were in a carriage with curtains, so he’d taken off his helmet to relax. He was regretting it.

Dame Meisa, Dame Talia, Ser Ilm, and Ser Markus were all defending their beloved Terandria. However, they fell silent as the last member of the carriage spoke.

“Yep. That’s what I think, too.”

Ser Greysten grinned as he wedged a travel pillow behind his back and put his feet up on the far seats. The carriage was very spacious, a twelve-seater, so the five [Knights] were being well-accommodated with Rabbiteater. Not that the Summer’s Champion was so indecorous with the junior members of the Order of Seasons.

He was just copying Rabbiteater, who was enjoying lying stretched out, bridged across both seats. It took some core strength to keep himself level, but Talia’s look of mild outrage was worth it. Greysten chortled as the [Knights] chose their words carefully.

“Ser Greysten. Surely you can’t be serious.”

Dame Talia, was, predictably, the first one to speak. For a response, the Summer’s Champion, Greysten, still nursing several bandaged wounds and healing from his duel with Ailendamus’ champion, Ser Uzine, just shrugged. He scratched irritably at the visible gauze under a tunic emblazoned with orange and yellow, like a sunburst itself.

“You are lecturing a Goblin, Dame Talia, about [Kings] and nobility. I remind you, Goblins have their Kings and Lords…I don’t know if encouraging Ser Solstice to monarchy is wise.”

The other [Knights] fell silent, and Rabbiteater grinned at this mention of his species’ most objectionable trait to non-Goblins. He looked across at Ser Markus, who eyed Rabbiteater’s gauntleted feet resting on his seat. Ser Ilm cleared his throat.

“…It is that very issue we hope to resolve in some manner, Summer’s Champion. Hence the ethical dilemma the Fall’s Sentinel has proposed: [Knight] or not, it would be wrong to help create a Goblin King. But that danger is remote indeed, and countered by injecting…”

He hesitated, and Dame Meisa spoke snippily.

“What? Civilization, to Goblins?”

“Say, rather, alternate viewpoints Ser Solstice might carry to his people.”

Ser Ilm was quick on his verbal feet. Not as much on the training field, but he was still one of the better Autumn Knights in a fight. Rabbiteater grinned wider as he peeked out the window. He was fiddling with the doorknob, but Ser Markus deftly handed him a helmet before the Goblin could go out. Rabbiteater glanced over his shoulder.

“Goblins know lots of viewpoints. We just don’t do any of ‘em.”

“…Because you believe you have a better way of doing things? Because you refuse to accept some ideal of the presented modes of organizing?”

Ser Ilm had a quill at the ready; he was writing notes, which would be private, about Rabbiteater and his culture. It would join scant writings on Goblins, so everything Rabbiteater said was valuable indeed. It was flattering and why Rabbiteater didn’t really get mad at Ilm. The Hobgoblin’s grin widened.

“Nope. No one lives long enough to do anything fancy. [Farmer]? Most Goblins die in five years or less. No time to swing a hoe.”

Then he shoved the helmet on his head and popped out of the carriage. The other five [Knights] sat there in an uncomfortable silence. Ser Solstice, or Rabbiteater, could generate it quite often when discussing his home, and the [Knights] really only had themselves to blame. Ser Ilm, for his part, just scribbled Rabbiteater’s reply down with a sigh.

“…I’m beginning to realize most of Goblins’ issues boil down to that reply.”

Dame Talia’s lips compressed. Perhaps she’d been about to say something to the effect of, ‘when they have freedom to grow, they become Goblin Lords’ or something like that. Which would have started a fight with Meisa. However, Ser Markus just looked thoughtful, and Ser Greysten cracked one eye open.

“Then don’t try and solve a species. Just watch our Ser Solstice, Ilm.”

The Fall Knight ducked his head, abashed. Everyone looked out the window, and Markus rolled up the blinds now that Rabbiteater was jogging alongside the rolling wagon. They had to admit—part of this discussion and trying to show Rabbiteater all these Terandrian ideas?

It was because they liked him and wanted him to stay. After all, even if the war wasn’t officially over, the Order of Seasons, like the Dawn Concordat, was celebrating their great victory. The advent of many other nations into the battle against the previously-indomitable Ailendamus meant everyone could breathe and peace might follow soon, or at least, a less dire war. The problem was…

Rabbiteater seemed to be growing less happy and more restless by the day. So they had to show him reasons to stay. Unfortunately, what the Goblin saw and listened to was less the philosophy of state. He was more interested in…

[Peasants].

 

——

 

Actual [Peasants]. Rabbiteater stopped jogging alongside the carriage and peered at them almost as hard as they gawked at him. He had never seen one before.

Peons. Peasants. Rabbiteater knew the first term from, well, Lyonette. It was a catchphrase of hers, and peasant was…a word. Yep. One that he heard very rarely, and probably only Numbtongue would use it in common dialogue.

But as a class? [Peasant] was so…so…

Weird.

Think about it. A class was who you were, even if it were an aspect. Within everyone was the—the potential to become a [Fisher]. Or a [Warrior]. Some people could become things others couldn’t; not everyone had the magic to become a [Mage] or the birthright of a [Lord], for instance, but you could obtain these classes.

But…[Peasant]? The Goblin stared at them. How did one [Peasant]? What was [Peasant] as a class?

The answer was: it was Terandrian. Not just Terandrian, but the first [Peasants] he met were part of the Eternal, Glorious, something, something nation of Calanfer. The carriage was passing down a road headed straight for the capital, and even close to the Eternal Throne of Calanfer, the largest and most famous city in the nation where their famous throne resided—

The farms and peasant-ish lifestyles continued. Rabbiteater supposed that made sense. You wanted farms near where you ate. But not too close! Or you got chickens in the throne room, and his observations of the [Princesses] were that they had never seen a chicken uncooked. Every nation needed farms. Every nation needed artisans who could make basic goods. Herd sheep for wool, grow food, cut wood, mine ore…very stereotypical things.

However—it seemed like Terandria didn’t have specialist classes. Or rather, instead of starting as a [Miner], some people started as a [Peasant]. And they got weird Skills.

“Ser Knight! Ser Knight! Thank you for fighting at the Archmage’s Pass! Are you bound for the capital? Bless you!”

Some of the people in the fields were cheering as Rabbiteater jogged past. They had been calling out all this while to the Thronebearers and other riding [Knights] along with members of Pheislant’s army. Rabbiteater saw two dozen people working in a vast field that grew, of all things, turnips.

They were harvesting a fall crop, and by the looks of it, doing fairly well. It was not a hugely productive field.

Rabbiteater had seen—or rather, raided—the best farms around the High Passes. If the Redfangs had descended on Calanfer, they would have passed this field up unless pickings were slim. It wasn’t poor—but Rabbiteater had seen Level 30 [Farmers] and what they could produce.

Turnips as big as your head. These ones? Regular-sized. However, it seemed like this farm fed an attached field of cows, another of pigs, and an entire herd of sheep. The most classic farmstead he could imagine. There were some horses grazing and resting from pulling plows, and a pair of dogs had been racing up and down, barking at the passing warriors.

Right now, they had stopped, smelled Rabbiteater, and were staring at him warily. He kept wearing anti-scent charms, but dogs sometimes recognized Goblins anyways. One growled—and a [Peasant] in his mid-thirties quickly shooed the animal off. He tipped a wide-brimmed hat at Rabbiteater.

“Apologies, Ser Knight! Calanfer’s Eternal Throne protect you!”

He bowed, and Rabbiteater was amazed to see all two dozen other people do the same. It was a single bow, but it looked like a lot of work to bother doing.

“No problem. Uh…nice dog.”

At this, the [Peasant] seemed amazed by the response. He beamed and, emboldened, stared at the coach that Calanfer had sent for the Order of Seasons.

“Thank you, sir! Are you Pheislant’s [Knights]? Or…Noelictus’?”

He didn’t know, and Rabbiteater had no heraldry, so the Goblin shrugged and pointed to the [Knights] nodding and waving to some of the very young workers in the field. Ser Markus seemed most at home—he came from the common folk, while everyone else did not. His eyes were knowledgeable as he scanned the field and farm.

“We’re Order of Seasons. They are. I’m from Izril.”

Instantly, the [Peasants] focused on him. The first man’s eyes widened. Rabbiteater got a chance to look him up and down now they were close, and he began to understand what a [Peasant] was.

Peasants were poor. And that wasn’t even bias. Rabbiteater had visited a few cities in his time living around Liscor, and he had observed a few basic facts that Erin took for granted.

For instance, she had found Liscor pretty close to her actual home in terms of dress, sanitation, and whatnot. The clothing, if different, was not notably worse.

Calanfer’s [Peasants] were hardly raggedly people bathing in mud; they looked rather clean, and Rabbiteater saw only a tiny, artful seam hiding a tear. They seemed fed enough, but the difference between them and, say, someone from Celum or Liscor was this:

They wore wool, not cotton. It looked like nice wool, but it wasn’t cotton. The man wiped his brow, with, yes, a handkerchief that had embroidery on it, a blue stitch around the faded and washed linen.

That was all. They carried steel-tipped hoes, their hand-carts looked well-made, and Rabbiteater didn’t see any notable injuries or malnourishment that Goblins were all too familiar with. But their clothing budget was definitely not, say, the same as the Order of Seasons’.

At any rate, the man seemed in awe of Rabbiteater’s attire, which was full-steel, rich by any citizen’s standards no matter where you went, let alone the magical cloak hanging from his shoulders and his enchanted axe. He took it all in and came to a quick conclusion.

“Then—could you be—Ser Solstice? The Goblin Slayer?

Now, the Hobgoblin was getting embarrassed. They stared at his armor and seemed shocked it didn’t glow. But since he was bad at lying, Rabbiteater shrugged.

“Yes?”

Instantly, all twenty-one of them tossed down their tools and flocked towards him.

“Ser Solstice! We saw a recording of your duel with the Dame of the Hills!”

“Ser, you rode with Princess Seraphel the Dutiful! Please, Ser, will you take some water?”

“May I shake your hand, Ser?”

The carriage halted as the Hobgoblin was suddenly surrounded by an odd group of…fawning people? It wasn’t like a Goblin mob where they’d tackle you and cover you with affection or Erin’s friendliness. They were both around him and not pressing in, as if afraid they’d upset him.

Ironically, that made Rabbiteater’s skin crawl harder. But the looks of enraptured admiration were real. Someone ran for a well, and more kept bowing.

“Uh oh. You alright, Rabbit?”

Dame Meisa called out, which made the [Peasants] hesitate, but Rabbiteater nodded. He shook a few hands, which delighted the [Peasants]. He declined water, but the head of this farm was insistent.

“For the Lightherald’s successor—”

“—I’m not. I just, uh, got some light temporarily.”

“—then for the champion who helped fight for Calanfer! Anything you need, Ser! I am sure the capital will want for nothing—it is a glorious place. But if you wish for food, drink—anything our humble farm can provide—”

He was almost insistent. Which was weird. Rabbiteater began to wonder if something was up. Talia was giving him an encouraging look, and even Markus gave Rabbit a covert nod. All the [Peasants] looked ready to run for a cup of water or…

Why? Because he was Ser Solstice, the [Knight] who had fought with Seraphel? Rabbiteater wasn’t shiny—Lyonette’s boon had worn off, and he was really unhappy because it had been so useful. Even so…he gave in out of sheer desperation.

“Um. Turnips.”

“Turnips, Ser Solstice?”

“Yep. Can I have one?”

Rabbiteater hadn’t eaten a turnip in a long time. He had a vague image of roasting one over the fire with a stick—or if you wanted to be decadent, putting some with oil in a pan, some salt or something for flavor, and giving it a good fry.

That was a Goblin meal. He only really wanted one, but at this, the [Peasants] ran towards their carts and promptly began hunting for the best turnip. Only the best! Dozens of misshapen ones were tossed aside, and they came back with nearly fifteen turnips.

“I, uh—only want one.”

“As many as you need, Ser Solstice! It’s not the finest fare, but I do have [Pestless Crops]! For you, sir! Someone wash it off—”

Eventually, he had three turnips, and the beaming people had bowed so many times Rabbiteater was afraid the older ones would snap their spines. He backed away to the carriage, feeling…vaguely unnerved by all of it.

“Turnips? Of all the things to ask for, Rabbiteater…”

Dame Meisa was patently amused as the Hobgoblin retreated into the carriage. Rabbiteater waved at the [Peasants], who were cheering the Goblin Slayer, and he muttered.

“Let’s go. Now.”

The [Driver] urged the horses, and Rabbiteater waved a bit and stared at the people in the field. He looked around.

“Is Calanfer all like that? Like—friendly but because I’m a [Knight]? What’s the word for…”

“Sycophantic?”

Ser Ilm suggested. Rabbiteater shrugged.

“I don’t know what that is. Sick?”

“No, ah, flattering. Flattering to the point where it’s not quite real. Especially to the nobles and those of higher station?”

“Ah. Yes. Do they do that for everyone?”

Ser Markus snorted.

“If a local noble or—perish the thought—one of the [Princesses] had gotten out of their carriages, it would have drawn everyone in twenty miles to bow and kiss their hands. Good thing you didn’t ask for a slice of beef. They might have slaughtered a cow on the spot.”

Rabbiteater shifted and felt a crawl down his spine.

“Weird. Why?

“Because you’re a [Knight]. Thronebearers are treated like that, and while Pheislant has far less of the peasantry…Calanfer does well to make its citizens love the Eternal Throne. Especially so close to the capital.”

Ser Greysten seemed to understand Rabbiteater’s uneasiness. So did Markus; Talia looked slightly miffed that Rabbiteater found the experience unpleasant. As for Ser Ilm…he was watching the farmers. Rabbiteater looked at Markus.

“Why do all that? Markus?”

“Well, a noble could be quite unpleasant if he didn’t get that response. Not that my family was in fear of our local [Lady]. But you hear stories.”

The Spring Knight spoke cheerfully, and instantly, Talia grew patently uncomfortable.

“Not in Pheislant.”

Markus ignored that pointedly.

“Nor were my family [Peasants]. But every class and kingdom does it differently. Just look back at the folks who gave you turnips, Rabbit.”

The Hobgoblin did. They were rolling away at a good pace, but—the Goblin’s eyes suddenly narrowed. He peered through his visor, wishing the slits of metal weren’t in the way. Wait a second.

What’s that?

Ser Ilm commented, jotting a few notes down.

That would be the reason why you have a generalist class like [Peasant]. They’re not as adept as [Farmers], but they are good at one thing: tithing and supporting higher classes. What Skill would you call that, Markus?”

“I don’t know. My family didn’t get those Skills. But I’d guess it’s a [Tribute]. What are they holding, Rabbiteater?”

The Goblin was…goggling. He pointed out the window at the man who’d given him a turnip.

“That’s a—but that’s—that’s a blue fruit!

A fat blue fruit was sitting in the palm of the delighted [Peasant], and another was yanking turnips out of the ground with amazing vigor. The last one was just beaming about, still waving. Ser Ilm categorized all three.

“Let’s see. One seems to be a strength boost. The smiling woman? I daresay a mood-based Skill. But the last fellow might be high-enough level to gain something. [Tribute: Hometown Gift] or some such. If he was warier of us, he wouldn’t be so open about it. Or he might fear you’ll steal the—Rabbiteater, no!

Ser Ilm grabbed for Rabbiteater, but the [Knight] had kicked the door open. Talia, Markus, and even Greysten tried to stop him, but the Goblin was running back down the field.

The [Peasants] looked terrified, and Talia groaned.

“Don’t let him steal the fruit back! Markus, come on—”

“Wait.”

Meisa barred the others from stopping Rabbiteater; he was pounding towards the man in front, who looked like he was going to faint in fear. She peered at Rabbiteater and remembered something he had said once. All five [Knights] saw Rabbiteater skid to a halt. They couldn’t hear him, but he didn’t snatch the blue fruit proffered by the terrified man.

Rather, he pointed at it emphatically and gestured, and the looks on the [Peasants]’ faces changed from fear to relief—straight back to horror. The man nearly dropped the fruit, and Talia hesitated.

“Wait, what’s he saying?”

Ser Ilm slapped his forehead.

“Bright blue…wait a second. That must be an Amentus Fruit! Dead gods! He’s saving them from dying of poison!”

“Poison?”

Talia was horrified. Ilm explained the deadly nature of the blue fruits, and sure enough, Rabbiteater himself produced a knife and cut up the fruit carefully, before giving pieces out to the cautious people. He showed them the core and handed it to the man, who gingerly pointed at a plot of land. By the time Rabbiteater came jogging back, Greysten was sitting up.

“Never a dull moment with you, eh, Rabbit? Was that an Amentus fruit?”

“What? No. It’s a blue fruit. Super poisonous. I showed them how to eat it—and told them to plant it if they wanted.”

Rabbiteater hauled himself back into the carriage. Ilm opened his mouth and shrugged. Rabbiteater wiped at his forehead as he yanked off his helmet.

“That Skill is dangerous.”

“Not usually. But as you can see—it’s a [Peasant]’s reward. Normally.”

“Huh. Weird class.”

Talia Kallinad shook her head, exasperated, but pleased at this object-demonstration.

“But that’s how it works, Rabbiteater. You see? The common folk support the [Knights]. And some can be [Knights]—”

“Not in Calanfer.”

Markus muttered, cutting Talia off. She sighed, but carried on.

“—but in return, they fear neither monsters nor bandits! Not everyone must work in the fields, but there is a place for everyone in a fair kingdom.”

Rabbiteater sighed. They were back to this again. He stared at the ceiling, and Ser Greysten murmured.

“A fair kingdom, indeed. And an unfair one…well. The Order of Seasons rights what wrongs it can, but not every battle can be won with a sword. That is the Season of Fall’s prerogative, to fight with words and tools.”

Talia nodded grudgingly, and the other [Knights] waited. Rabbiteater could have pointed out this was one system that assumed, no, demanded a large group of people ‘willing’ to support a small group of higher-class people. He could have pointed out the way a [Peasant]’s class rewarded them for subservience. Or he could have simply contrasted this with his understanding of Izrilian cities and customs.

But the Goblin was, alas, no great ponderer like Headscratcher or even a surreptitious nerd like Numbtongue with all his words and his books he refused to use as kindling. Rabbiteater just stretched back in his seat and thought for a while.

“Hm. Well. It’s your way of doing things.”

The [Knights] waited. After a bit, Rabbiteater went on.

“It’s okay. I guess. Reminds me of Antinium. Lots of Workers and a Queen.”

Rabbiteater!

The outrage began anew, and only Ser Greysten saw the Goblin’s subtle grin.

 

——

 

Whether or not you agreed with any philosophical takes on the efficacy of how it operated—the [Peasants], the classic ideals of Terandria—

That was Calanfer. And perhaps no other city in the south of Terandria exemplified the idea of countless lives, millions, all devoting their time, effort, products, gold, and their very existences towards one thing.

One place. The Eternal Throne, the city that literally shone by day.

Even at night, in places. Calanfer was one of Terandria’s wonders. Even the ancient half-Elven cities of old were said to be only a match for its marvels.

And that was because Calanfer was made of ancient stone, of metals and magic so wonderful it could only have come from a time far before the modern day. Never mind that it was only six thousand years old, having been formed after the Creler Wars—the heart of Terandria was a secret only a few people knew about:

A Dragonthrone. And it was that material which lined the streets, which provided the foundations and inner city, and made it so wondrous to visit. And frankly, live in.

For instance, think of it like this: a native Calanferian citizen who spent all their life in the capital might never appreciate this, but…other cities, even capital cities, did not have litter laws.

Oh, tossing something on the ground might be frowned upon, but it was not a finable offense. Calanfer? Any citizen would instantly take offense at seeing a piece of litter discarded. And why not? Their streets were beautiful. No cobblestones, but flat, smooth ground, tiles of semi-lustrous stone in various colors, such that some citizens could tell which street they were on just by looking.

The inner city and many streets of the outer city were built of this material. Which—fine? It was a nice street. A walkway like an ocean current, even cooler than normal on the hottest days, was a fine street to live on. But was it really the bee’s knees?

Seraphel had seen bees since leaving home. She had even been stung by them. She had also observed that other streets…broke.

Cobblestones were ripped up. The street got muddy. Entire sections just vanished because they were dirtied or flooded. Regular streets did not have a surface so fine that even the heaviest carts couldn’t dent them—and so easy to clean that the [Sweepers] could literally scrape off any substance and leave them lustrous once more.

The quality of a street mattered. Calanfer’s capital had streets that would never break, that were pleasant to walk on, and always beautiful. And that analogy extended to the rest of the architecture.

Buildings did not break in the inner city. Those founded on magical materials barely flexed during earthquakes. Even the ones built later were held to a higher standard, and the same went for the limited sewer system. Calanfer did not rot, corrode, or break. Therefore, it built ever higher and ever better.

You could walk into the Chelinese Tower and go up eight floors, each one to a different restaurant, pub, or eatery, each in a different style, and dine in the commonwealth tavern, or ascend to the top and stare out of crystal windows at the city below as you ate ingredients imported directly from Baleros.

Or, if it took your fancy, you could tour the Gardens of Twilight, a publicly-accessible garden that had plants growing from many different biomes, selected for beauty. Or walk across the Sunbreak Bridge over a lake within the city or rent a boat to ride across it. Calanfer had a lot of light-based names.

It was also the most-visited city in all of southern Terandria, and both tourists and citizens came for a chance to experience the delights of the Eternal Throne—and see the majesty of Calanfer’s seat of power, which was a life-changing experience.

It meant that you could get trinkets or the latest fashions from overseas here, that a lot of trade came to Calanfer via Nadel or Pheislant, and that the service industry was exceptionally good.

…All of it bored Seraphel, and she grew more and more gloomy, apprehensive, and oddly happy to be back by turns as she rolled through the streets of Calanfer.

She had lived here for sixteen years before her first marriage. Sixteen years spoiled anyone, especially when a [Princess] could visit the finest establishments and had the run of the city. It might surprise Rabbiteater to have even farmers wave at him, but Seraphel was so used to the experience she barely did more than wave back as she rode with Vernoue and Aielef back to the capital.

Oh—there was a parade. But there was always a parade whenever three [Princesses] were together, and this was to celebrate their victory, so Seraphel barely noticed. She smiled, waved, blew kisses, but she was on complete autopilot.

That was the boredom. The gloominess was seeing how Calanfer hadn’t changed. The fashion changed, they had new advertisements for ‘plays’, ‘song shops’ that sold the Singer’s crystals, encouragements to enlist in the army, support the war—

But the city hadn’t changed. Her family hadn’t changed. Seraphel was apprehensive about that. About her new Skills—her disobedience—especially her class. Her mother…would have words. Her father? She didn’t know what would come next.

Yet—the odd elation was because the people were cheering for her. They always did; the [Bards] and Thronebearers could make even Lyonette beloved. But this time, there seemed to be genuine enthusiasm in their voices. They cheered her, and it was the [Princess] who realized the words had changed!

Seraphel the Daring! Seraphel the General! Your Highness, I saw you ride!

Princess, I love you!

Princess Seraphel, I fear no curse! I’ll marry—

Seraphel actually saw one of the Thronebearers tackle someone out of the crowd. She turned back to Aielef, who was waving as her daughters rode behind her.

“That’s new.”

“Yes, well, someone is the dashing hero of the hour. They’ll quiet down—but let the Order of Seasons have their moment. We are all triumphant victors in the Dawn Concordat’s finest hour.”

Aielef replied, and Seraphel tried not to snipe back. Her older sister was simultaneously jubilant, petty, and full of herself. But Seraphel let it be.

They had won. She had ridden out and…done something. Fought—not that she’d swung a sword, but even Ser Greysten had assured her that her contribution might have swung the battle at Krawlnmak’s Pass. Then they had marched on Ailendamus and…seen strange sights. Whether that was a victory or not—Seraphel had experienced another revelation, then.

Even now, she couldn’t quite tell if it had been real. It was so vivid, she couldn’t doubt it, and yet—had that really been Marquin the Radiant, the actual founder of Calanfer, speaking to her? The whispers, the voices…

If she had not been seen on the scrying orb, Seraphel would have doubted her very mind. But the ghosts had been there. So Seraphel believed.

But oh—ghosts did not say easy things. There were no polite nothings from the ghosts who had surrounded her and given her blessings, warnings, and advice. As for Marquin—

What a strange woman to have founded this place! Calanfer shone like a polished gem sitting in a jeweler’s cloth. It was, uh…in contrast to Marquin herself.

Seraphel had never realized that, in contrast to all of the images of Marquin—and she had statues and tributes everywhere, including a copy of the famous mural of her battle against the Crelers that Wistram had a duplicate of—that the woman had only had one breast.

Or that she had been taller than the former Lightherald and could have probably beaten an Ogre in an armwrestling competition. She had been a warrior, a leader. Seraphel wondered when Calanfer had changed.

At any rate, her homecoming was the best it had been since…it was the best homecoming ever, even with her reservations. But Seraphel had to own—it was still a boring, slow ride through the city. She kept turning her head when she could, pretending to be smiling at the people behind her.

As the three [Princesses] rode to the first square, the Midday Plaza, Seraphel saw no less than Shardele, a [General], and several dignitaries waited to give a speech.

Fifteen minutes. Calanfer was good at speeches. Fifteen minutes at most was what Seraphel knew was a rule for public addresses, and they would be repeating the speech and having [Bards] circulate pre-written copies of what was to be said. It would probably even be a good speech—but all three [Princesses] simply lined up with the army of Calanfer, Pheislant, and the other people being lauded and talked about in loud whispers.

Aielef produced a fan, and the three [Princesses] spoke while Shardele beamed down at them with a subtle glower that said she knew they were not paying attention nor did they have to stand and look proud for an hour straight. Vernoue sniggered up at her.

“Look, they even hauled Shardele down to the Midday Plaza. She must be higher than the Starlight Peak’s tower.”

Her sisters snorted. Aielef glanced up.

“Not if that stare she’s giving us is any indication. Father must really want to show how grateful he is.”

The Midday Plaza was a bad place for a [Princess] to be—it meant you were receiving each wave of visitors with speeches, and you had to smile in the company of other officials, not get up for one meeting at the palace or show your face for a bit. Shardele, as the oldest, was probably furious at having to stand for hours.

It was a perspective only Seraphel could have. A [Princess], ignoring all the awe and grandeur. She glanced over her shoulder.

“It looks like another half hour till the palace. More like forty minutes. Anyone got a snack?”

Vernoue hesitated.

“If they see you eating it…”

“Oh, hush. I know you have some frozen blackberries. Give some here.”

Aielef and Seraphel bullied Vernoue until she covertly gave them some blackberries, which they popped into their mouths. They had some honey, and they were a wonderful sweet. Aielef glowered at Vernoue as she fanned herself.

“You little rat. Where did you get these?”

“The last inn we stayed at had some.”

“So that’s why the [Innkeeper] claimed she had some and was out! You thieving…you’re worse than Lyonette.”

“Ah, you can’t say that anymore. She’s the darling [Princess] married to our Drake allies, remember?”

Vernoue’s eyes flashed with mirth, and Seraphel nearly choked on her snack. Aielef sighed.

“Dead gods. I wonder what Father is doing. I imagine there will be a huge reception now that we’re no longer backed against the wall. I shall be having a bath before then. Oh, look. Shardele is speaking now. Wonderful.”

Aielef made a gesture with her fan, a ‘get on with it’ motion that Shardele probably saw. The [Princess] spoke with a compassionate gaze for the crowd, clasping her hands and staring upwards as she used a Skill—and she gave Aielef a single blink of annoyance.

Boring and boredom. Except for…Seraphel finally saw one of the last people to enter the square, accompanied by huge cheers. Vernoue turned, and even Aielef smiled genuinely.

“If only we could have ridden with him. Now there’s someone interesting. Will he be staying at the palace?”

“I can’t imagine Father and Mother would have it any other way.”

Who, exactly, Vernoue meant was obvious. Ser Solstice’s head was swiveling around as he stared about the cheering square, and radiant lights were being cast by the [Wizards]. He looked amazed and overwhelmed, but Seraphel…

She had things she wanted to talk to him about. She found him interesting. But most of all—the [Princesses] had gotten to know the enigmatic [Knight] of Izril, and not only was his worth even higher with the Order of Solstice in Izril—

He was just interesting. Seraphel stopped chewing her snack, and Aielef hesitated. Even some of the common folk had—well, not stopped cheering, but begun to point. Shardele stumbled over her speech, and all three [Princesses] craned their necks to see. Seraphel’s lips moved.

“…Is that a turnip? Why is he carrying a turnip? Why is the Summer’s Champion eating a turnip?”

He was just fascinating.

 

——

 

Ser Solstice. A name and idea fascinating enough to attract acclaim even now. On par with the Summer’s Champion as a name to meet ere they left.

Even now. Calanfer’s palace included more than Pheislant’s army. More than [Knights] and Noelictus’ [Hunters] who had fought in the war. Instead, to their vague displeasure, they were quartered, gratis, in richer parts of the inner city.

No palace rooms? Only a few of the Order of Seasons were afforded that luxury. Ser Solstice being one of them, obviously, because Calanfer’s diplomats were very good at their job. But Calanfer’s palace that housed the Eternal Throne itself was vast. It could hold literally thousands of guests. Something had swelled beyond even the regular pale of influential guests.

In fact, a Naga was being evicted from his rooms that very moment, and he was not happy.

“I represent the Roving Fireball company, a very prominent group serving on Rhir!

The Naga was protesting loudly, craning his neck back and forth as a very apologetic [Negotiator] effected the transfer with a bevy of servants cleaning up. He was hoping someone in power heard him. However—like everything in Calanfer, he had the suspicion that this was a calculated insult.

“I am extremely sorry, [Emissary] Xorespe, but circumstances outside of the crown’s control have necessitated this state of affairs. The [Chamberlain] himself has been held to account by His Majesty—a new set of guests of extremely high rank have required more rooms than the palace has.”

“And they all outrank an [Emissary] of Baleros’ mercenary companies?”

The Naga was furious. And curious—he had come to see if Calanfer needed Balerosian steel for their war. Sadly, it seemed like they had received last-minute reinforcements, but his commander had thought it was worth the risk. Establishing friendly ties was not a bad idea. Even so, one had to have dignity. The Humans here weren’t as bad as Drakes, but even so!

The Naga was about to press the poor [Negotiator] when he heard a strange sound. It sounded like clicking on the hallway tiles.

Pale white framed along black here, such that the center of every hallway was an ongoing line that a visitor could use to find their way around the wing of the hallway. Each wall held dignitaries of note, some portraits, Xorespe understood, commissioned after a visit.

A reminder of Calanfer’s friends and an incentive for a bit of immortality, here. The Naga turned at that strange sound, and he saw something odd indeed.

A lion walked through the halls of Calanfer’s palace. She scattered the lesser Humans and servants before her with an imperious stare, stalking like the great predator of the plains. Walking side-by-side with her was a Human like a lion. A huge mane of hair made the Naga think—for a moment—that it was a Beastkin.

But no, the coat was trimmed with an actual lion’s mane, and the pair of green eyes in the dark-skinned face were framed, once again, by a coat like fire that hung around a tight, tucked-in shirt with a strange emblem that the Naga vaguely recognized from his memorization of Terandrian heraldry.

It looked like…a kind of castle underground? And above were hundreds of swords, hanging above the emblem. Like stars in a kind of flag. But the Naga wasn’t able to focus on that.

The lion. All the Calanferians backed away. It was an actual lion, just walking about, staring at the Humans with curiosity. As for the Human—

He grinned and came to a stop. His coat, hanging loosely around his shoulders, shifted and exposed a longsword.

Longsword and cutlass. [Duelist] equipment. The Naga was a member of a [Mercenary] group. He twisted around and realized instantly that if this were a battle, he was outgeared. Whomever this person was, they were rich—and clearly noble.

Hundredlord Cortese! I apologize, sire, your rooms—”

The [Negotiator] turned pale instantly and began bowing, leaving Xorespe practically ignored. But the ‘Hundredlord’ ignored the man completely and gazed at the Naga.

“Baeris smelled something. So these are the rooms she’ll sleep in? It’s fine. She’s not picky about creatures. Perfume—otherwise. Go on, Baeris. Does it sort with you?”

And with that, the lion padded by the Naga, entered the room, and eight screaming [Servants] fled. She emerged after a few seconds and rumbled.

Xorespe had never heard a lion make any sound. He had thought—lions? This one bared her teeth, and the Hundredlord nodded.

“We’ll send the rest of the pride after.”

“Wh—yes, my lord! At once! Can Calanfer oblige the kingdom of Kaaz any further?”

“No.”

The Hundredlord turned around. Then he seemed to think of something and swung back. He glanced at Xorespe again, but the Naga was still processing what had happened.

Had he just been kicked out of his rooms for a pet? Yes! But that name—the Hundredlord addressed the [Negotiator] without looking at him.

“The…Ser Solstice. The Goblinslayer of Izril. Is that [Knight] here?”

“Yes, Lord Cortese, but they have not been settled—”

“Then, later. Good that they’re staying here. I wondered if the palace would run out of room with all our dignitaries.”

With that, the Human stalked off, and the lion hurried after him. The two strode down the corridor as the Naga’s scales prickled. He unclenched his hands.

He was a tall being, even curled up, and Xorespe had a level of spear-fighting that made him need no bodyguards. Even if the shortspear wasn’t on him, he had a pair of long, long daggers.

And yet—the [Negotiator] hurried to clear the [Servants] out and calm them down.

“Leave the rooms. Attend to the Order of Seasons next. Emissary Xorespe—your inn will accommodate your every need. Please accept my personal apologies.”

He might have feared the Naga would object more upon learning who was taking his place, but the Naga just shook his head.

“Kaaz. The Kingdom of Kaaz has sent its nobility? Here? Kaaz Dorem Laegriser, the Kingdom of the Infinite Dungeon?”

The man nodded without a word. The [Negotiator]’s face was pale, and he stepped over to murmur.

“Emissary Xorespe, thank you for remaining cordial.”

The Naga’s eyes narrowed. He could think on his tail, and he glanced at the nervous Human’s face.

“As opposed to objecting to a [Lord] of the Restful Three? Perish the thought. Why did that Hundredlord come himself? Not to check on his pet. Was he hoping I’d make a fuss?”

The [Negotiator] hesitated. He weighed a polite lie with the truth both of them probably had a handle on and nodded covertly. He glanced the way the man had gone and whispered.

“Yes. He probably hoped you would object. So he could duel you.”

The Naga had noticed the way that Hundredlord had stood. A practiced [Duelist], then. But he hadn’t missed the hungry look in the man’s eyes. Xorespe shook his head. Suddenly, he thought some distance between him and the palace was the most diplomatic thing of all.

“I believe I’ll find my inn. Just one question. If the entire palace is full—how many dignitaries are attending?”

Again, the man hesitated, but it wasn’t secret, so he nodded carefully to the rooms.

“As I understand it, at least twenty nations have come upon the Eternal Throne’s hospitality.”

Xorespe whistled. So this was more than celebrating the war. He nodded and began to slither off to tell his commander that opportunity had come knocking. No matter which nation it was…everyone needed an army.

Then again—if the Restful Three were getting up, perhaps the Roving Fireball company should weigh who they were fighting against.

 

——

 

Of the nations of Terandria, Rabbiteater knew precious few. His head was still spinning from the crowds and the speech one of the [Princesses]—another one, besides Aielef, Vernoue, and Seraphel—had given that he almost didn’t notice what was going on.

He kept looking over his shoulder, back towards the plaza. What was that? Rabbiteater had grown up staring at rocks to try and tell if an Eater Goat was hiding behind one or if it was actually a Gargoyle.

He was no Antinium to gawk at the sky and admire grass, but that? He looked down as the procession headed up the hill towards the inner city and palace. To get there, they crossed the lake fed by a river. It separated the old part of the city from the new. A huge bridge spanned the gulf over placid waters that had their own throngs of little boats where people waved, colorful sails blowing in a crisp breeze. Even directly below his nervous horse, they stared up—though no one was allowed to sail directly underneath the bridge.

…Because the entire walkway was glass. Or some kind of transparent crystal. It wasn’t precisely glass, or those below might have been baked by the refracted light. Rabbiteater saw the people below, fuzzily, through a warm radiance that captured the sun’s rays.

“At night, the bridge lights up like a ray of moonlight. We must see it, Ser Solstice! I say, they’ve gone all-out for us!”

Ser Markus called back, and Talia, Meisa, and Rabbiteater’s friends agreed. The Goblin had to admit—that was true.

Colorful petals were still falling from the balconies, and if he gazed backwards, he saw Shardele du Marquin still waving. He hadn’t really paid attention to her speech; like the [Generals], it had been welcoming the heroes and something something.

He’d been admiring the clouds. She stood, head uplifted, and seemed to be standing amidst the sky’s distant, fluffy clouds. Only, hers were of every color, chartreuse pink and lime green, swirling around her like some…vision.

Wild. And the citizens had cheered her, then continued to throng the streets, following the heroic [Soldiers] and [Knights]. Not just because it was fun; [Bards] were singing, composing verse on the fly, and there were stands of food being passed out to anyone for free.

Not just to the citizens; more than one tired soldier was more than gratified to receive a treat—or a kiss—from an admiring passerby. Rabbiteater just wanted the snacks, but all he got were some snappy verses.

“Ser Solstice, Ser Solstice entered the fray, and Ailendamus’ [Generals] all ran away! The Kingdom of Glass and Glory’s champions shat their pants and the Goblin Slayer saved the day!”

“No, I cut off their heads—”

Markus laughed, and Talia looked scandalized as Rabbiteater shouted at a [Troubadour] who twisted around, looking astonished. But the Goblin was quite pleased.

They even had [Jesters]. It was a concept Rabbiteater hadn’t ever seen before, and a class somewhat unique to Terandria. Right now, people dressed up as Ailendamus’ famous [Knights] were letting children beat them with sticks, pretending to ‘fight’. Calanfer was a riot of entertainment on the streets, but the Order of Seasons were accorded their dignified passage to the palace that housed the Eternal Throne.

Which was too bad, because the [Soldiers] looked like they were having fun. And—as they began to enter another plaza leading up to the palace, a few hurrying [Diplomats] intercepted the [Knights] and began to direct some away from the palace to the best inns and places to rest. That was when Rabbiteater began to realize there was more going on. Not that he cared where he slept, but the [Knights] did.

“Dignitaries? How many? Are we to be displaced by travelling [Negotiators]? We fought for the Dawn Concordat and shed blood and broke bones!”

Dame Talia was upset. On behalf of her fellow [Knights]. Apparently, only she, Dame Voost, Ser Greysten, and a handful of others had been given rooms in the palace. A huge insult or something—except that there was a good reason. Dame Voost herself held up a hand and Talia instantly fell silent.

“Peace, Talia. Our choice of where to sleep is hardly important. Six of our own will have rooms in the palace. Which is as many as they can afford. Nor are we being snubbed; Calanfer has called for a summit in light of what it is calling the great victory against Ailendamus. An unofficial one; the pretext is a banquet. But we have representation not just from the southern kingdoms but further north. These are not [Negotiators] but nobility and their escorts. Even royalty. Twenty kingdoms have sent emissaries.”

“Which twenty kingdoms?”

Ser Greysten, normally amiably uncaring of politics, glanced up suddenly. Ser Ilm had been chatting with the woman who had informed the Order of Seasons about the inconvenience. He actually took a second to re-confirm, then his brows rose all the way.

“…Cenidau of the northernmost kingdoms. Noelictus, Desonis, Nadel, Pheislant—as we are all united by common enmity, Summer’s Champion. But—I am told Taimaguros and Ailendamus have their own diplomats here.”

“The enemy?”

Meisa was outraged, but Ser Ilm shook his head.

“Calanfer would be in negotiations. What is outstanding is—the Kingdoms of Tourvecall, Samal, and Avel have all sent diplomats and representatives. And the Restful Three.”

Greysten’s brows had been rising, but at the mention of the ‘Restful Three’, he actually jerked in surprise. Talia was no less amazed.

What? Tourvecall is notoriously reclusive! So is the Kingdom of Keys!”

“No doubt they felt it was too important to miss.”

“The Restful Three? Are you sure?”

The Summer’s Champion looked at Ilm, then shook his head.

“Well, if it’s true, we’ll see them soon enough. And all this with Ser Solstice here! Of all our number who shouldn’t be in the palace…”

He gave Rabbiteater a meaningful look. The Goblin had already been talking with his friends about the risks of being uncovered in the center of a Terandrian kingdom. Calanfer was unlikely to spy on him as he slept, but…there was a lot more danger here than at the Order of Seasons.

However, he had to admit, he was powerfully curious about these kingdoms. As Greysten conferred with Ilm and his senior [Knights], Rabbiteater poked two people.

Meisa and Markus didn’t know Goblin language, but both had picked up the ubiquitous Goblin sign. They stepped back, and Rabbiteater whispered.

“All those kingdoms. Who is they?”

“Who are they, Rabbiteater.”

Meisa corrected and got a poke in the side. She promptly slapped his hand. Ser Markus looked as amazed as Talia. He swept a hand through his hair.

“I’m sure we may meet them all. No, if you’ve been given a room, you will be invited to all the formal events.”

“Which is dangerous, because if someone flips up his visor or casts a spell out of curiosity—”

Meisa looked worried, but Rabbiteater tapped his visor.

“I have taken great precautions.”

“Such as?”

The two Spring Knights looked at him, and the Hobgoblin raised a thumb.

“I glued my visor shut.”

Meisa stared at Rabbiteater. He pointed at Ilm.

“He also enchanted my armor against spying. It sounds like fun.”

“Fun? I daresay there are as many trap spells…no, the Restful Three aren’t prone to war. But they are a touchy lot. Especially Kaaz. No wonder Ser Greysten is concerned. We’ll bleed more than on a battlefield if we’re not careful.”

Ser Markus shook his head. Rabbiteater stared at him.

“Who are they?”

For answer, Meisa grabbed his arm—the servants were waiting to show him to the palace.

“Let’s explain as we see them, Rabbit. It’s easier just to show you. Just know one thing. If you want a tour of some of Terandria’s most powerful kingdoms—a lot of them are here. But the Restful Three are the most powerful kingdoms in the center of Terandria. If Ailendamus is the power in the south—they would be the reason why Ailendamus hasn’t expanded north and why Taimaguros holds rather than make too many wars.”

“So they’re powerful?”

“…Yes, Rabbit. They’re powerful.”

“Just say that next time.”

 

——

 

It turned out that Rabbiteater did know more Terandrian kingdoms than he thought. As he strode through the palace of Calanfer, he found it was a chaos of servants, nobles, and the aforementioned dignitaries and their escorts, so that Meisa and Markus could point out each nation to him.

The chaos was due to the foreign kingdoms’ servants, not Calanfer’s staff. And the fact that the dignitaries were all-too-happy to talk to each other and ignore the people hoping to get them settled into their rooms. Also, there was a pecking order, and navigating a touchy [Baron] not getting his luggage in before a more powerful nation’s lesser [Lady] was—tricky.

Calanfer was managing it. Rabbiteater saw more [Diplomats] and related classes than he had ever seen in his life in the first ten minutes of being in the palace. Men and women, even, to his surprise, non-Humans like Gnolls, Drakes, and a Falcon Beastkin, all of whom were very good at being personable.

Not softly spoken necessarily; they had talents. For instance, one of the Gnolls had a grip like steel when he shook Rabbiteater’s hand, gave him a single look up and down, and growled.

“If you need an escort, we can find you one, Goblin Slayer, [Knights]. Otherwise, your room is numbered as 277. East Wing, Mercuous Suites.”

“Thanks.”

Rabbiteater appreciated the lack of fuss. And the Gnoll singled out another target for his straightforward approach. A [Lord] who looked both seasick and sick of being fawned over was standing, arms folded, with a group of four. The Gnoll’s conversation caught Rabbiteater’s ear as he saw someone wearing a velvet gown sewn with pearls…and a helmet almost like his, decorated with gemstones, pass by. He pointed at the Human wearing a helmet, and she turned to him.

She had gloves, high boots, and revealed none of her skin. But the helmet did not fit the elegant dress. Rabbiteater pointed at her.

“Whoa. Weird.”

Ser Solstice!

Markus stomped on his foot, and Dame Meisa bowed hurriedly.

“Milady of Tourvecall, please accept our deepest apologies—”

The [Lady]—if that was what she was—halted. Her servants looked oddly pale, not in skin tone necessarily, but…pale, as if they were about to faint. She was part of a group of eight, all of whom wore some kind of strange helmet. Each one was complete, and—unlike their servants who were bareheaded, they were all clearly noble.

One had a completely round…sphere over his head, as polished as a mirror, with two fake ruby eyes that were just cut gems roughly placed where his eyes would be. He also had, to Rabbiteater’s great hilarity, some kind of easily-wipeable ink, and he’d drawn a curved line like a smile under the eyes.

The laughing Goblin was pointing at the figure, and the [Lord] turned, wiped out the smile, and drew an unhappy line in its place. The [Lady] just offered a muted chuckle behind the helm.

“We take no offense. The famous Goblin Slayer is known to be quite—interesting. As we mask ourselves, so, likewise. We shall speak later, but our travels have exhausted us. Excuse us, [Knights].”

At this point, Markus was punching Rabbiteater in the side, but since that was how Redfangs expressed affection, Rabbiteater kept laughing. Meisa just stared at him, and Rabbiteater stopped laughing.

No sex. He coughed into his hand.

“Who are they?

“Tourvecall. Kingdom of Incantations. They all wear helmets and seldom show their faces. They’re small…but unique. Rabbiteater, you could offend foreign powers! This will be a disaster if you cause an uproar—we would all be in danger of our lives!”

Markus was sweating. Unfortunately, he could swear Rabbiteater was grinning behind his helm.

“So? Nothing’s changed for me.

Ser Markus whispered a prayer to valor as he considered Rabbiteater in a diplomatic setting. He had already seen how he did with the [Princesses]. Worse—Rabbiteater was not only desired, but if he stayed at the palace, it would be rude not to attend a gathering!

Meisa shot Markus a look that said they’d have to talk to Greysten, but they kept moving. As they did, the Gnoll [Diplomat] came back into focus, talking with the annoyed [Lord] dressed all in greens, a huge recurve bow on his back, and a familiar-looking crest. He was accompanied by four others, one of whom was being served by a porcelain…Golem.

“Milord Veltras. I can give you a personal escort to your rooms, and the Five Families have all been placed in the Beiten Suites. If you would prefer to find your own way…”

“At last, someone who isn’t trying to hold my hand. As for together—we could be apart.”

The other four nobles looked at the representative of House Veltras, who was none other than one of Lady Buscrei’s sons who had drawn the losing straw and had to play politics. Terland, Wellfar, El—even Reinhart—had sent a noble son or daughter, each.

“Yes, I’ve quite tired of my cousins’ infighting. But then again, we Izrilians will be the odd ducks out here. Tell us our rooms, and we will be off.”

A [Lady] with a not-quite-a-smile flicked open a lacquered fan, and a black serpent cast on lurid green stared at Rabbiteater on the fan’s back. He eyed the [Lady] and guessed at once she represented the Reinharts. As for Buscrei’s son—he frowned, then raised a hand.

“Is that the Goblin Slayer and the Order of Seasons? Some friendly faces! Hail! I’m Lady Buscrei’s son, Lord Palec of Oswen! Greetings, although if you’re going to try to hit me, Ser Solstice, I’d rather us keep our distance.”

It was probably his cloak. The red, billowing cloak—or his battered armor without a crest that made him stand out. Or his gold-jade axe or…Rabbiteater glanced at Lord Palec and grinned. He raised a gauntleted hand, and the other members of the Five Families peered at him.

“Ah, the redoubtable Ser Solstice. And the Order of Seasons, whom we—at least Wellfar and Veltras—are allies with in the war. The House of El salutes you.”

A sprightly [Lord] stepped forwards, the oldest of the lot, with white hair and a rather interesting vest festooned with pockets. He unbuttoned one, and the gold clasp fell away even as he shook Meisa and Markus’ hands. He was personable—even for a member of the nobility—but the reason became clear the instant he shook Rabbiteater’s hand.

“For you, Ser Slayer. And I hope to meet Ser Greysten at least, of the Order of Seasons. This is a little pamphlet, which shows in some delightful illustration our kaalblades and a few upcoming projects which include the Archmage of Izril’s own handiwork. For funding or private purchase.”

“Er—thank you, Lord…?”

“Heye. I will be speaking to all the groups present, and I encourage you to leave a note with my servants. I will speak to anyone as time permits.”

The man raised two white brows, and Rabbiteater unfolded his piece of parchment and whistled.

“Ooh. Nice magic. Expensive?

He showed Markus the price tag, and the [Knight] paled.

“Eight hundred gold per blade? And that’s on orders of ten or more?”

“Perhaps a conversation for the heads of your Season, Ser Knight?”

Lord Heye spoke tactfully. Meisa thanked him, and the Lady of House Wellfar rolled her eyes and stamped a bare foot. She jerked a thumb.

“Shall we find our rooms and agree when to meet, cousins? I have a fleet of my family hounding Ailendamus at sea, and I have no time for El’s advertising. As for you, Ser Solstice—hello. Goodbye.”

She stomped off. Rabbiteater stared after the Five Families. On Izril, they were, he knew, the most important members of any political group in the north. Here?

They were practically lost amidst the other nations. Meisa folded up her paper as Ser Markus speculated on how many years of pay he’d have to save up for to buy some of the items the House of El were advertising.

“Well, that settles it. This is a huge event, Rabbiteater. Tourvecall—you just saw them. The Five Families? Calanfer is either trying for a lot of allies to join them fighting Ailendamus or something even bigger. Come on—let’s not stand in the way. I’ll point out more groups as we go. Though you do know them.”

Rabbiteater followed her as Meisa gestured far more covertly than his finger-pointing.

“No I don’t. I don’t know Terandrian Kingdoms.”

Markus hurried after them, trying to fold the colorful paper.

“Come now, Rabbit. Even you know some by reputation. The names likely trip you up. For instance. The Kingdom of Samal, over there? They are the Kingdom of Keys.”

Rabbiteater peered at a group of people and brightened.

Oh. Paradise!

His voice was too loud. A woman swung around, and her dress swirled. Several items clicked on her wrists, and Rabbiteater saw that Samal’s representatives were, uh…

Unsubtle.

The dress was patterned with keys. Camouflaged keys against folded green and blue, such that you had to sort of stare and they’d appear, subtly woven into the fabric. But less-subtle were the bracelet…and the lock dangling from one wrist. In fact, the woman had a locked choker and even an earring in the shape of a key.

One of the warriors standing next to her was one of their [Knights]. He had…a key-shaped sword hilt. Rabbiteater scratched his head, but the [Lady] simply lifted a hand.

“Goblin Slayer. Hello.”

“Does everyone know me?”

He waved back, and the [Lady] laughed lightly. She called back.

“How not, in Samal’s paradise? As you aptly said, we have scrying orbs aplenty, and I found a key the day I saw you duel the Dame of Hills! If you have an appreciation for Samal, perhaps you will be a welcome guest!”

“Highly gracious of you, milady!”

Meisa bowed, and the [Lady] waved her off. Rabbiteater stared at the rest of her escort.

“Keys and locks. Paradise nation, right.”

“Famously gracious abroad. Both in errantry and their…interest in the world. For a paradise, they have a number of their own who decide to leave. Then again, I have heard it has something to do with their culture of locks and keys.”

Markus murmured. Rabbiteater nodded. Meisa pointed as they strode past a group unloading their wagons.

“One guess which group that is, Rabbit.”

He turned his head and frowned. He was about to say ‘not fair’, but then he noticed that every single member of the group, from the warriors in light leather armor to the nobility waiting patiently for a pair of hunting hawks to stop screeching—all carried bows.

“Aha. Avel!”

Meisa smiled.

“See? You do know some. The Kingdom of Bows.”

Rabbiteater raised a hand.

“Is it stupid they all look like their names? Kingdom of Keys. Kingdom of Bows…seems obvious.”

Markus laughed, but Meisa just sighed.

“We are seeing their representatives, Rabbit. I think they…play into their image a bit when it befits them. Not everyone in Samal wears so many key-themed items. Although it is part of their day-to-day lives.”

“Yeah, like the choker. Does she have a lock on her underwear?”

Ser Markus choked as Meisa gave Rabbiteater another look. The Spring Knight fanned himself.

“One does not speculate, Ser Rabbiteater!”

The Goblin poked him playfully.

“Yeah, but I’m not blushing. You’re the one who thought Aielef was—”

Markus ahemed and ahemed louder as Rabbiteater tried to go on. The Goblin whispered.

Ser Markus the Sexually Indiscreet!

The nickname he had come up with with Meisa made Markus turn purple. A passing [Servant] gave Markus a wide-eyed stare and moved slightly away, across the hallway. Markus gave them a pained look.

“Ser Rabbit. How about that group?”

He pointed to a pair of cordial men speaking to each other in a hallway. They were both dressed in what Rabbiteater would call ‘generic’ clothing without anything as amazing as the other guests. However, one did have a nice pair of shoes. Aside from that? He squinted at their crests and saw a wavy pattern over a rearing…Hydra head? And the other was just some anchor crossed with a complex filigree bird. Markus nodded at the duo.

“Which two kingdoms are they, Ser Solstice? Here’s your hint. They’re neighbors, and both are southern kingdoms. Traditionally friendly.”

“Uh. Uh…”

“One specializes in…dancing…or at least one member is known for that. And the other is specialized in—well, it’s marshy—

The Goblin snapped his fingers.

“Nadel. Desonis!”

He felt proud about that and recognized the two smaller nations, both arguably known for individuals as much as their cultures. The Kingdom of Nadel—who possessed the Lord of the Dance. And Desonis—the Kingdom of the Bedtime Queen. Also, the Earl of the Rains, Altestiel, but Rabbiteater did not know the connection between Altestiel and The Wandering Inn.

Onwards, then, to find Rabbiteater’s rooms! The Mercuous Suites were, interestingly, based off the strange alchemical metal ‘mercury’. Not that there was actual mercury lying about, but Rabbiteater saw a lot of silver designs dominating this area of the hallway.

“Spring’s growth! What an amazing display!”

Here, another wonder of the Eternal Throne was on show, just as part of the guest rooms. Rabbiteater slowed and saw himself, a figure in slightly-battered armor with a magnificent, flowing crimson cloak, as tall as the slightly green-blonde haired man with a long stride walking next to the brown-haired [Spring Knight], a woman who had a marigold blooming amidst her hair. Rabbiteater glanced at Meisa and saw a second marigold blooming across the cuirass of her armor.

Her aura of spring was growing if flowers were appearing around her. But the reason Rabbiteater could see Meisa, Markus, and himself without looking at them was…the forty-foot mirror-wall.

A perfect reflection of everyone walking past it. Forty feet, an entire mirror hallway that blended seamlessly with the floor. Rabbiteater waved at himself, delighted by the trick of the light like a child. Markus and Meisa were more impressed by the…cost.

“Seamless. Beautiful. Why, this would cost tens of thousands of gold pieces! And the silver!

Markus touched the mirror and was astonished when his ungauntleted hand failed to leave a smudge. Someone spoke lightly ahead of the [Knights].

“Not just silver, Ser Knight. A compound of mercury, silver, and other potent materials. Though if you knew alchemy, you would be relieved to hear that the mercury is not poisonous.”

Markus jerked his hand back, but the newcomer just laughed. He came walking forwards, a crutch in hand, as a pair of figures strode next to him.

“No longer. And this hallway has no purpose. In times past, mercury and silver and other powerful elements were a deterrent to a kind of monster—but that is old knowledge. Still, this hallway being so faithfully reproduced is a sign of Calanfer’s culture. And memory. We of Terandria respect memory. But as Ser Solstice of Izril will note—we also quite like what is new, in appropriate doses.”

Rabbiteater turned and saw the oldest Human he’d met yet. Even Venoriat wasn’t as old as the fellow dressed in huge, heavy robes. Some deeply warm fur and pale blue, like a far lighter sky in winter.

Winter being appropriate, because the armored figures also had fleece-lined armor and looked hot as hell, even indoors. It was probably why they were in the Mercuous Suite; it was slightly cooler despite the mirrors everywhere as fewer windows let in light.

“Warmth be yours, though we are far from frozen Cenidau.”

The old man nodded, and the warriors of Cenidau, one of the coldest and northern-most kingdoms of Terandria, nodded slightly as well. They carried axes and shields, and—Rabbiteater realized—they were both akin to nobility.

Strange. They were as war-ready as House Veltras and almost as casual. The man introduced himself.

“Here stand our Hearthlords, Voloke and Iyr. I am the [Wisdom] Hellei of Cenidau; a wise man, or so my class says. Consultant to our Frost Queen. Here for a great banquet of Calanfer’s hospitality. And you are Ser Solstice, of the Order of Solstice of Izril. Also, Dame Meisa and Ser Markus.”

He knew their names! Ser Markus redoubled his bows to the Hearthlords, but Voloke, who had an impressive beard and a pair of hatchets, spoke with a surprisingly soft voice.

“We’ve come to eat and drink ourselves sick. Seeing so many famous faces is the pleasant surprise to southern ‘hospitality’. Ser Solstice—I saw your duel.”

“You and everyone else.”

Rabbiteater was getting sick of the mentions of the duel. It wasn’t even a good one. Not against the Dame of the Hills or when he’d cheated against the other [Knights]. But there was also him parrying the Greatbow bolts…

As his friends had observed, Rabbiteater was actually less enamored with this visit to Calanfer than most people would be. Aside from seeing all these new kingdoms, he was halfway towards riding back to the warfront with Ailendamus…or going to the Order of Seasons…

Or persuading Meisa to go back to Izril with him. Which was what he wanted to do because Erin was alive.

Erin was alive—and it felt like his battles here were, if not over, then even less important than they had been. He’d had an adventure.

He wanted to go home and tell Erin about it.

—Yet this was important, and there were interesting things here. Such as Hearthlord Voloke drawing his axes.

“I could not let this moment go, especially if we don’t have another chance. Will you give me a few minutes of your time, Ser Solstice?”

Hearthlord! This is hardly the place, surely!”

Markus looked uneasy, but when he turned to the Wisdom—and the other Hearthlord—they just looked amused.

“They’re both wearing armor. Voloke is more in danger unless Ser Solstice has no Skills or enchantments.”

Wisdom Hellei pointed out. Meisa looked resigned as Rabbiteater brightened up. It was true; Voloke had no full-guard helmet, so there was a face-gap and a tiny gap across his neck when he put a helmet on, but he even had a flat noseguard and enchanted armor.

“You sure? I hit pretty hard.”

“Cenidau’s [Lords] aren’t made of the same stuff as Calanfer’s. Cenidau is a cold place. We have gigantic bears. Have you seen black bears, brown bears, Ser Solstice?”

“I’ve eaten Mothbears.”

The Hobgoblin accepted an axe. Voloke grinned through slightly yellowed teeth. Iyr laughed.

Ours are bigger. Though if you came north and hunted one of our polar bears, we’d gladly feed you a stew! Come, just so Voloke can brag he fought with a [Knight] of Izril!”

He turned to Markus, and the Spring Knight looked worried as Voloke let Rabbiteater appreciate the balanced waraxe. The Hob frowned at the back.

“Ooh. Nice back spike. Why does it look…”

He thought it should have less spike; it was too long for a close-quarters fight to be strictly efficient even if it was balanced well. But that was because it had a double purpose. Voloke gestured at the little serrated teeth on the bottom.

“It doubles as a climbing pick. There are walls of stone and ice we climb. Not that I’d truly use it for that, but Cenidau has mighty cliffs, larger than any of Avel’s or Pheislant’s coasts could dream of! We live in a world of tundra; ice and snow and rock.”

“And enough hotheads to keep a kingdom running.”

Hellei commented, and Voloke grinned. Meisa gave a sniff in defense of Pheislant, but that description warmed Rabbiteater’s heart, and he gave Voloke a nod.

“I lived on a mountain, too. The High Passes. It got pretty cold the higher you went. No one I knew ever survived climbing too high.”

“Ah, a mountain man! So this will be twice the fight. Will you use that axe or yours?”

“Yours. Do we hit each other?”

“However you wish. I’ll see what one of the best [Knights] in this war can do!”

Voloke grinned. The servants in the hallway had seen the impending fight, and some had gone to seek authority—the others had just put down their burdens and were watching, along with some of the guests. Rabbiteater stared at the axe in his hand.

“No face-blows.”

“Agreed. Then shall—”

Rabbiteater punched Voloke in the chest, and the man stumbled back as his heavy armor caught most of the force of the blow. Nevertheless, the surprise attack had him mid-word, and he was catching himself when Rabbiteater jumped up and kicked him in the chest.

“I say, Rabbit! Unsporting!”

Ser Markus shouted anxiously, as if he hadn’t personally seen Rabbiteater unchivalrously fight his way across half of Kaliv. Still, Voloke was as good as his words, and he blocked Rabbiteater’s first swing as he rolled over, and the two went for it.

Cenidau’s [Hearthlords]—at least Voloke—were no graceful dancers like Dame Voost. They fought much like Greysten; powerful blows, solid guards, and practical, battle-honed moves. Rabbiteater followed suit. His armor shook as he slammed the axe into Voloke’s, finding the man intensely strong!

However, Rabbiteater had used his [Champion] Skill to give himself [Enhanced Speed]. Voloke was careful and held his hatchet two-handed, repelling Rabbiteater’s one-handed assault—but Rabbiteater held his axe in only one hand for a reason. As Voloke swung and missed, the [Knight] grabbed his hand and began slamming the axe into Voloke’s side like he was trying to cut Voloke in half.

“All right, Rabbit—enough! Enough!”

Markus was worried by the intense fight, but Voloke just grabbed Rabbiteater’s own axe arm, and the two struggled—until Rabbiteater felt a freezing cold running down his arm. He jerked back and saw his arm was covered in frost!

“[Frozen Grip].”

Voloke murmured. Rabbiteater grinned.

“Ooh. My turn. [Lightsoaked Armaments]!”

His borrowed axe began to glow. Instantly, Voloke raised his guard, but the first swing of Rabbiteater’s axe was easily repelled. The engraved blade was light, fast—but no more powerful, just glowing with some light, like it was dipped in a ray of summer’s light. Voloke was still careful, but after eight blows, he performed a two-handed block above his head as Rabbiteater swung the axe down.

Only then did the light coating the axe flash. Voloke went blind. Rabbiteater stepped back and inhaled.

“[Body: Solar Storage]! Unleash!

He charged forwards, and the [Hearthlord] shouted.

“[Glacial Wall of Ice]!”

The man swung his axe wildly, and a wall of ice rose in a flash, hit Rabbiteater, and sent him tumbling past Meisa and Markus. Voloke backed up, swinging at random, and then blinked the spots out of his eyes.

Rabbiteater sat, sulking, with the axe on the ground as Meisa teased him.

“You can’t use your Skill! Unleash? I told you, shouting the Skill doesn’t work!”

The Hearthlord rubbed at his eyes and then saw Iyr and Hellei chuckling. However, after only a second, Voloke lowered his axe, then strode over to clasp Rabbiteater’s gauntlet. He laughed, gripped Rabbiteater’s forearm as the Hobgoblin returned the gesture, and accepted his axe back.

“Good fight.”

Rabbiteater offered the comment honestly, and Voloke’s smile was knowing.

“I can say I fought the Goblin Slayer of Izril—but if I were a Goblin or a foe, I think you’d have been more cunning, eh?”

For a second, Rabbiteater felt his heart skip a beat at a reminder of his name. But he forced a chuckle out.

“Yeah. I don’t fight fair. Probably would have fought you in a hot tub.”

Voloke laughed.

“And I would have fought you in a blizzard—and thrown javelins at you from behind! So tell me, now we’ve shed some of each other’s blood, even under the armor—just what is this Order of Solstice?”

Iyr and Hellei stepped back, but Markus and Meisa suddenly looked worried. Rabbiteater hesitated.

I’d love to know that too! He had seen Erin make the Order. It had made him miss home intensely.

“It’s…my Order. I took my name from it.”

“Ah, a pseudonym for [Knights]?”

“Yeah, pseudo-whatever-that-is. Fake name. It’s a nice order. Has an inn. Free drinks.”

Iyr and Voloke found that hilarious. Iyr grinned behind a huge mustache and beard of his own.

“Now there’s a [Knight] order half of Cenidau’s warriors could get behind! We have fewer [Knights] than the southlands—but what did you say about the inn?”

Before they could continue, a servant was striding forwards, leading a very upset [Diplomat].

“Hearthlords! Ser Solstice, members of the Order of Seasons—I must ask on behalf of the Eternal Throne not to conduct any matches in the hallways. The crown has prohibited them, aside from dueling courts, out of courtesy to all guests—”

“Yes, yes. Apologies.”

Voloke groaned, and the Cenidau guests stepped back. He looked…less pleased to speak with Calanfer’s people, and when the [Diplomat] left, he rubbed at his side where Rabbiteater had given his armor a thrashing.

“I might need a small drop of potion if I’m going hunting or whatever this week entails! Or not—I’ll consider the bruises a gift.”

“I’m taking healing potion. I don’t want your gifts.”

Another laugh. Voloke nodded at the servants.

“They reminded us—politely—that we are first honored by visiting the Eternal Throne. I confess, I’m curious to see it, but I hope to see you and the Order of Seasons at length. Calanfer’s welcome is…”

He paused and glanced at Hellei and Iyr, but neither one stopped him, so Voloke went on.

“…Conditional upon our value as allies. They do a good job of hiding it, but Cenidau has known them six thousand years. Still, our fellow guests are reason enough to come, but I take their point. Beware the Kingdom of Kaaz, Ser Solstice. If you think we’re a rough lot, the lion-lords and their duels almost always end in blood. I’m sure they all want a piece of you, literally.”

With that, he bid them farewell, and Rabbiteater decided Cenidau was probably nice. As for Kaaz…he leaned over to Meisa.

“What’s that about Kaaz?”

“One of the Restful Three, the mid-northern powers. The Hearthlord isn’t wrong; they’re known, among other things, for having duels to the death. The nobility are as good [Duelists] as they come; many Gold-bell fencers, there.”

“Oh. Like the King of Duels?”

“I think he studied there.”

Markus put in. Rabbiteater felt that only added to Kaaz’s value, but he took their point about overzealous opponents. He nodded as Meisa warned him.

“I will be careful. I never underestimate my opponents. Besides. I realize they’re dangerous. Nobles are crazy. So are most [Knights].”

Rabbit!

Meisa looked aghast. Markus tapped his chest.

“Wait, what makes us crazy, Rabbiteater? I daresay I’m fairly level-headed, at least among my order.”

To that, the Hobgoblin just gave them a huge grin as he walked on to find their rooms, though they couldn’t see it.

“Easy. You’re friends with me.

 

——

 

The Restful Three were a hard concept for Meisa and Markus to explain to Rabbiteater over their walk to his rooms and even afterwards. Not just because it involved talking about their culture, heritage, and so on, but because it took him a while to get around the idea of a ‘sleeping giant’.

“Giants are dead.”

“Yes, Rabbiteater, it’s a phrase from antiquity. Sleeping Giants are dangerous if they wake.”

“So don’t wake them up. Easy.”

“It’s an expression. Based on history!”

“Yeah, because you killed all the Giants. Couldn’t you let them sleep?”

The point—past Rabbiteater teasing Meisa—was this.

The Restful Three were powerful kingdoms who did not make endless wars like Ailendamus. They certainly had the capacity to, but they preferred to, well, enjoy life at the top. Not going to war earned you some concessions, and reminding your enemies and allies why you should be humored every few hundred years wasn’t hard.

They were three nations, and their status as the ‘Restful Three’ was also due to the fact that all three nations tended not to fight each other. Like the Dawn Concordat, but more casually—it meant they could focus on opponents.

They had watched Ailendamus expand without doing much. Whether that was arrogance or a disinterest in meddling in the southern section of Terandria…well, their presence in Calanfer now did not make Ailendamus happy.

Three nations. Kaaz, Golaen, and Erribathe. Respectively, they were better known by their nicknames.

Kaaz, the Kingdom of the Infinite Dungeon. Because it had…the world’s largest dungeon.

Golaen, the Half-Giant’s Kingdom. Notable for a lack of half-Giants…or rather, an odd take on them.

Erribathe, the Kingdom of Myth, one of the few nations that was still traceable back to the first Hundred Families of old who had settled Terandria.

Two of the representative kingdoms were already settling themselves in, and Rabbiteater saw Kaaz’s nobles first.

They had lions. And tigers. And other big cats. Apparently one was called a ‘puma’, and the thing looked extremely dangerous as it prowled behind a noblewoman with a serrated dueling sword who strutted along, practically inviting a duel.

“They’re touchy—as touchy as Taimaguros nobles, and both Taimaguros and Kaaz have fought entire wars—or killed each other over petty insults. They have only one Knight-Order—and it’s the strongest in the world. They have a lot of Named-rank adventurers because of the Infinite Dungeon.”

“Is it really infinite?”

To that, Markus could only shrug. Rabbiteater was amazed that the Spring Knight would call one other Knight Order definitively the ‘best’, but he supposed there were reasons.

“No one’s found the end. Like Medain of Chandrar, it has sustained their nation for a long time. As for Golaen’s folk…well. You can tell who they are.”

“How can I—whoa.

Rabbiteater turned and blinked. Striding through the Humans gathered in the hallways came…taller Humans.

Just that. They weren’t half-Giants. Not exactly. Moore was notably taller than everyone, and he was…giant-ish. In the sense that you felt like no one could be that tall normally.

These? These were Humans who got as tall as eight feet. Not really nine like Moore; some were six feet tall. Six, seven, eight.

Tall Humans. Strong Humans, too; one of their leaders wore huge, tailored breeches of Wyvernhide, and he looked like he had seen a few battles from the way he walked, confidently patting people he met on the shoulder. That was it. Confidence from Golaen, and why not?

Their entire population was bigger than average. But again, they had apparently come from meeting with half-Giants so long ago that they were more like just…taller Humans.

Oh—and their kingdom? They had taken one spot as their home:

The last and only city Giants had ever built. That was Golaen, who, in their way, were as brazenly arrogant as Kaaz. Indeed, whoever the [Lord] leading the group of nobles was, he was clearly talking down to a number of other dignitaries in multiple senses of the word.

Politics were weird. When the [Lord] spotted Rabbiteater, he strode over, engulfed Rabbiteater’s hand in a strong grip that Rabbiteater returned mildly—he was wearing a gauntlet, so he didn’t really feel it—and then tried to flip up the [Knight]’s visor.

“Lord Etrogaer!”

Meisa instantly snapped as Rabbiteater batted away the hand. The [Lord] laughed hugely and patted Rabbiteater on the shoulder before turning to Meisa and snatching a hand to kiss it.

“Ah, forgive me, Dame Knight! I had to try. So you are Ser Solstice! I heard you dueled our distant cousin, the Dame of Hills!”

“Mm. She was pretty big. You’re tall yourself. Who’re you?”

“Lord Etrogaer, a Duchal title. My class is [Titanguard] of Golaen. One of the sworn protectors of our lands—not that most monsters trouble Golaen’s folk. I’ve wondered how many [Knights] I would have a chance to spar! Would you be interested?”

Rabbiteater gave Etrogaer a blandly calm reply.

“I don’t think it’s wise. I cut off fingers.”

The [Titanguard]’s eyes flashed as he bared all his teeth.

“If you’re concerned for me, I’ll wear gauntlets! Come now, are you nervous?”

Rabbiteater rolled his shoulders in a shrug.

“Nah. But I won’t duel you.”

“I heard you took on one of Cenidau’s Hearthlords not twenty minutes ago. Have you lost your nerve suddenly?”

The [Titanguard] teased him as people turned and regarded the two. Rabbiteater saw some of Kaaz’s nobles watching him, and he replied steadily.

“Nope.”

“Then…?”

The Goblin turned and gave Lord Etrogaer a long look. He replied in a carrying tone as Meisa and Markus watched, tense. Well, Markus was wondering if the two came to blows—how in the hell would he pull Etrogaer off Rabbiteater? Even with Meisa’s help? Yet Rabbiteater’s stare through his visor was level and perhaps—unsettling.

What did the man see? A blank visor? A hint of…something hidden, cloaked by magic such that you couldn’t even see with light shining on the visor? But you imagined it. A disfigured face? A Drake? A Gnoll? And that voice was so calm, even with the [Titanguard]’s Aura of Might bearing down on him. His felt like…to the nobles…

Home. Rabbiteater replied simply.

“If I lose, you’ll try to take my helmet off. Especially if I’m unconscious.”

Etrogaer laughed. He threw his head back and laughed, then clutched Rabbiteater’s shoulder.

“You have me, Ser Knight! It was my intention from the start. I suppose that’s a ‘no’?”

He turned, chuckling, and Rabbiteater called out after him.

“If you want to wager your life, I’ll do it. But I don’t fight fair.”

The [Titanguard] turned, and a silence fell as Markus’ hand meeting his face was the only audible sound for a second. Then Etrogaer strode back over, clapped Rabbiteater on the shoulder, and turned.

“Now there’s a [Knight] with some proper bravery! I rather like you, Ser Solstice!”

Then he nodded to them and left. When he was out of earshot, Rabbiteater leaned over to the tensed Meisa and Markus.

“…I don’t think he actually likes me. Which is good. Because I don’t like him.”

Meisa exhaled slowly and nearly punched Ser Greysten when the Summer’s Champion clapped her and Rabbiteater on the shoulder. The older [Knight] watched the Golaen lord leave and murmured.

“He might not care for someone he can’t intimidate, but he respects Rabbiteater enough that he won’t try that trick again. How powerful is that glue, Ser Solstice?”

Rabbiteater felt at his helmet.

“…I might have made it impossible to get off.”

Ser Greysten laughed and then turned to the other two. He nodded around the bustling palace of Calanfer.

“Banquets, toasts in our honor, sports like hunting—Calanfer is putting on a grand reception. I don’t know if it’s wise, but Ser Solstice is invited to everything I am—including tonight’s banquet in honor of our victory against Ailendamus. We even have the chance to approach the Eternal Throne, and of all the experiences, I would say that one is the only one we must go to. Dame Meisa, Markus, Ser Solstice, any thoughts?”

The two [Knights] murmured that they too would like to see Calanfer’s wonders, if cautiously. As for Rabbiteater? He looked around at the fascinating nobility, the palace full of architectural marvels, and the city that people flocked to in luxury, and he raised his hand.

“I think I’m done. I’ll go to Nadel or Pheislant and get on a ship back home. Anyone want to go now?”

Ser Greysten’s jaw opened, and a passing servant of Calanfer slipped and nearly toweled one of Cenidau’s Hearthlords. Even some of the other eavesdroppers turned to stare.

…What?

 

——

 

“Did you just say Ser Solstice is leaving?”

When Princess Seraphel heard that, she was surprised. Not because she didn’t see why—but because she had never heard someone who hadn’t spent at least two weeks in Calanfer say that! And he had, by all accounts, been here one hour and decided to go.

“He must be having another joke. Like how, on the campaign, he kept inviting Vernoue to send a wedding invitation to Ser Venoriat on the basis that his name started with a ‘V’ as well. Or to the Small Queen because ‘she would probably accept’.”

Aielef laughed it off. She was having Seraphel over in a rare display of sisterly affection—and because both of them were avoiding Shardele. Vernoue had even come by, although she was reading from her spellbook as usual.

Surviving a siege had made them—closer. But even so, they were still wary allies at most. Which was a sad thing to have in a family, wasn’t it?

Seraphel had never realized that until she’d seen a few families up close actually loving and caring for each other. In Noelictus. Here—it was just the politics of court.

However, in this case, Aielef was on the same page as Seraphel and Vernoue. The [Deathtouch Princess] nodded along with her younger sister—until one of the [Court Servants] whispered the rest of the story.

“Actually, everyone thought so, Your Highnesses, and that he was making a statement. No one said any more, even when he went to the stables for a horse. It turns out he was sixteen miles south of here when he ran into more of the nobility heading up from Nadel! Ser Greysten himself rode out to bring him back!”

“He actually left? Why?

Aielef’s fanning slowed in disbelief. The [Court Servant] said something unbelievable.

“He said he found the Eternal Throne…boring.”

All three [Princesses] stared at each other. Then they stared out across the city of the Eternal Throne’s seat, where, as a sign of hospitality and entertainment, [Bakers] were making loaves of bread in the style of every single nation represented by dignitaries and passing them out for free as a festival ran through the streets. A Grand Elephant from Chandrar was slowly marching towards the menagerie, followed by a [Carpet Rider] doing tricks. Seraphel shook her head in amazement.

The odd thing was—she didn’t doubt that Ser Solstice, or ‘Rabbiteater’ as she had heard his friends nickname him, was telling the truth. She was actually curious. Why boring?

 

——

 

Meisa scolded Rabbiteater for an hour on the ride back. Despite Rabbiteater pointing out reasonably that he’d said he was leaving now.

“How is all this boring, Rabbit? Really?”

His reply was simple.

“I’m tired of people telling me I won a battle. I know I won a battle. I’m tired of eating stupid food and saying ‘we won, good job’. It’s boring.

Meisa gave him an astounded look, but Ser Greysten’s was almost admiring. Because—that was what he meant.

Rabbiteater liked celebrating victories. After they’d leveled up and beaten the Great General, Dionamella, he had mourned the dead and celebrated levels and the incredible victory. In between trying to hit Tyrion Veltras, he’d drunk himself silly.

After Ailendamus, despite not taking the capital or ending the war, he had engaged in a lot of victory sex, a very important Goblin—and Human—tradition. On the way back, he’d gladly toasted their victory with the Dawn Concordat’s [Generals], even shaken hands with the Griffin Queen, talked with the Griffin Prince…

A week after the victory at Ailendamus, Rabbiteater had stopped chiming in every time someone raised a mug celebrating their win. He had started staring at soft brie cheese and caviar and begun sneaking out raw potatoes and other ingredients to make snacks.

Two weeks after the ‘glorious victory of the Dawn Concordat and Ser Solstice’s famous duel at the keep’, Rabbiteater had begun avoiding parties. He had, twice, taken a look at charcuterie boards being set up and ‘accidentally’ let some of the warhounds in to eat their pick. Or grabbed a bunch of regular ants and dumped them on the board.

This was week three. Three weeks of celebrating, being cheered everywhere he went, and told what a glorious battle—if underhanded—he’d won. Fighting with the Archmage of Memory! Riding with the Princess Seraphel!

Enough! The Goblin found it insulting. He liked celebrating wins. Goblins loved that. But there was something…repulsive about how the Humans were doing it.

Redfangs? Redfangs celebrated a huge battle. They’d do up to four days straight of enjoying themselves depending on how much leisure they’d had. Talk about it for the week—then bring it up reminiscing around fires or on the march.

But they didn’t glorify like this. If Rabbiteater had gone back to The Wandering Inn right this second, Erin’s Minotaur Punch might be a drink he ordered once a year as opposed to what felt like every day.

“If this is how much you celebrate two battles, how are you going to win the war? You’re still at war.”

“Yes, but the Order of Seasons is pressing the attack. And Wellfar’s ships have engaged Ailendamus’ fleets—without Taimaguros, they are being harried in smaller engagements by multiple armies! We have earned a break to let other [Knights] win a fair share of the glory and do their part, Rabbit.”

Meisa pointed out in what she clearly thought was a reasonable tone. Rabbiteater just gave her a blank look. He flexed one arm.

“I’m still healthy. I’m not hurt. Either I fight—or I go home. I don’t want to celebrate. I don’t want to talk to dignitaries. I don’t want to eat your stupid food!

He almost shouted the last part. And of all the fair complaints…that last one was apparently the line in the sand that everyone started arguing with him about.

“Our food isn’t bad, Rabbiteater.”

“Yes it is.”

“You have been feasting on the best dishes we can imagine! I myself haven’t eaten so well in…well, ages! Every kind of delicacy!”

Rabbiteater clutched his stomach and made a vomiting sound in his helmet as Greysten and Meisa argued with him.

“Too many cheeses. Brie. Camembert. Blue cheese. ‘Gruyère’. ‘Chervrot’. It’s rotten milk. It has mold. And you eat guts!”

“Guts? Oh—is this about the tripe again? I told you—”

It’s guts. Goblins don’t eat guts if they can avoid it!

Tripe offended Rabbiteater to his very bowels, and it was his bowels that he feared when he saw the dishes that nobles thought were good.

Tripe! He hadn’t known what it was, but—get this—it was stomach lining, internal organs which the nobility ate because it was apparently expensive and high-class. They ate it in sauce. They ate it in sausages. They ate it in soup.

That wasn’t even the worst of it. Rabbiteater folded his arms.

“You eat stupid meat, too.”

“Rabbit…how is our meat stupid?”

“It’s got no bones. It’s all ‘prime’ this, ‘fatty tenderloin’ that. But you don’t even like the fat!”

“Well, no, we like the actual meat, not the fat—”

Unless you drizzle it over a roast and eat it with all that other stuff! And your vegetables suck!”

“We have plenty of rare—”

Yellats! Where are Yellats?

The Goblin was throwing a fit on his horse. His horse got to eat Yellats, but not one for the Goblin in the last three weeks! Meisa replied faintly.

“Well—they’re a cheap vegetable, by and large.”

“Cheap is good! My butt leaks every time I eat your mushy, stupid food! The [Princesses] don’t even eat potatoes! Aielef didn’t even know what it was when I showed her one! I want to go home. I’ll eat Yellats and salad. I want a burger. I want…”

He felt a catch in his throat as they rode through the city’s gates. Rabbiteater looked around, and it came to him in a word. This glorious city filled with wonders…he would have been a thousand times happier if he were home, riding into Liscor’s gates, being turned away by the guard, and going to that inn on a hill. Then he’d sit down, and someone would offer him some, perhaps, unspiced, unsauced spaghetti, it was true. But it came with a smile. And he would be…

Home.

He had never felt homesick. Not even when he and the other Goblins had gone on their dangerous mission to slay an [Innkeeper]. That was because…his tribe had been home, and in another sense, he’d never had a home. But now, the feeling engulfed him, and it was the one foe, the one battle that Ser Solstice could never win.

Meisa looked at him, and it was Greysten who clapped Rabbiteater on the shoulder.

“You’ve said it plain enough for it to even get into our helmets, Ser Solstice. One day. One day and we have an audience with the Eternal Throne. Regardless, it would look poorly on us if you left. And I assure you—one day and you will see a wondrous sight. I would not want you to miss it. As for home? We can find you passage, despite the war at sea.”

Rabbiteater relaxed slightly. He nodded gratefully, but he didn’t miss how Meisa failed to chime in. He looked at her and then wondered.

In all his talk of going home, of seeing Erin alive and showing her Izril, finding the Redfangs and seeing Rags and…doing what he could do, Meisa had listened and talked with him. But she had never promised him she would be there, not exactly. Meisa was a [Knight], and she did not make promises she didn’t know if she could keep.

 

——

 

Princess Seraphel du Marquin was home. And it wasn’t home. She wanted to go home as well, but home…

Home was not here. Home was, perhaps, a small, quiet keep in a village in Noelictus. Home was walking with a singing girl and a ghost of a [Knight] under clouded skies.

Home was gone, and it was an idea. But even if she had a home—

It was not here.

Oh, how quickly she fell back into being in the castle. It never left you. Once you had become a [Princess] and experienced what it was to be a [Princess]—you would never forget, even if you thought it was for the best.

For instance. Seraphel could cough, touch her throat. This was by herself without being in the company of her personal servants. She’d never had many, and they hadn’t been ‘hers’, not in any loyal, meaningful sense. The rest had left after her marriage. But even so, while standing in the hallway of the palace, she could touch her throat, cough, and say, ‘I’m thirsty’.

Two minutes later, a servant raced forwards with a cup of cherry juice, her favorite.

“For you, Your Highness. Apologies for the delay!”

Seraphel accepted the cup. She sipped from the straw, finished a quarter, decided she wasn’t that thirsty, and held out the glass. Instantly, she let go, and someone took it such that it didn’t shatter on the floor.

Now, this was not an unheard-of maneuver. People handed each other things all the time. But that was not what Seraphel did. She stopped drinking from the straw, then, in the same motion, pulled the glass of cherry juice away from her body and released it.

She did not perform the mental calculation of making sure someone else had a hold of the glass. She let go with the certainty that someone would catch it or they would lose their job. And in the same breath, a cup of water was offered that she might ensure her teeth weren’t stained red and a napkin for her mouth.

Only after Seraphel had absently partaken in a sip of water and napkin pat did she catch herself and feel—well, ashamed. She looked back and saw a [Servant] stepping away with the cup of cherry juice and water.

“More, Your Highness? Another beverage?”

Instantly, the servant halted and came back, and Seraphel looked at some mousey hair, neatly combed and glistening, a young girl’s face of fourteen, wearing Calanfer’s bright livery. She looked—not apprehensive, just ready. Ready to get whatever Seraphel asked.

“No. I—I shall finish the drink. What do you all do, if I don’t finish it?”

The [Servant] blinked at being addressed. It was, perhaps, the first time any member of the royal family had ever spoken to her. Some [Princesses] and the [Princes] had their favorite servants, but this wasn’t usual. She stuttered.

“I—we dispose of the contents, Your Majesty.”

“Not drink it or use it?”

“No, absolutely not!”

The response was a bit too quick that time, and Seraphel wondered if one of the few perks of waiting on a [Princess] was sneaking a bit of unwanted cake. She thought of how many times she had left a meal unfinished.

It had never occurred to her that there was a finite limit of food until she’d been in a siege and been…hungry. Nor to look at servant’s faces except to see if they were badmouthing her or malicious. Seraphel looked at the cup and shook her head.

“I shouldn’t mind either way. Thank you…?”

She waited, and the girl realized Seraphel was waiting for her name.

“Beacle, Your Highness.”

“Beacle. Thank you.”

Seraphel nodded, and the [Servant] bowed.

“We are honored to serve, Your Highness. Your bravery in Calanfer’s name was an inspiration to us all.”

Did she add that in the hopes that it made Seraphel look kindly on her? Perhaps she thought Seraphel had taken an interest in her as a personal servant? Or was it because she thought that the conversation warranted it?

These thoughts ran through Seraphel’s mind at once until a simpler one presented itself. She looked into the girl’s eyes and saw a shining admiration so genuine it didn’t belong in Calanfer. Perhaps the poor girl just meant it. Of her.

“Thank you, Miss Beacle.”

Seraphel whispered. And then—as the [Servant] retreated, bowing—Seraphel looked around.

“Oh, I shouldn’t have come back.”

Even if her name were brighter in the books of the palace staff—even if she had leveled, and found more of herself—Seraphel du Marquin sighed and walked on, head heavy.

Home was a wonderful idea. But you could never go home exactly how you wanted. And worst, in another sense—

‘Home’ never changed.

 

——

 

“Seraphel. We understand you’ve consolidated your class into a rather unfitting advancement for a [Princess] of Calanfer. Your luck in interfering in the battle at Krawlnmak’s Pass notwithstanding, we would have hoped for something more…universally tolerable. Alas, Noelictus’ affairs may have rubbed off on you. But we are pleased to note your value as a bride has restored itself somewhat.”

The unfortunate class was [Deathtouch Princess]. And the point, while delivered bluntly—even in private, even between the royal family—wasn’t wrong.

It was hard to find a Terandrian who wouldn’t associate that class with necromancy, and that was hated the continent over. It was also not wrong to say that Seraphel had endangered the battlefield by riding to inspire Calanfer’s forces.

Just…it was also true that Seraphel had leveled up, a difficult feat for a [Princess]. She’d just passed Aielef. And she had helped win a pivotal battle in the war?

Seraphel thought of saying these things. And pointing out her value as a bride was diminished by three marriages…was there a stopping point? But she said none of these things. She said…

“Hello, Mother.”

To which Queen Ielane du Marquin, one of the two rulers of Calanfer, sitting in repose in her drawing room, studying a catalog of dishes for tomorrow’s breakfast—finally looked up. She was, as always, flawless in both her fashion and posture. Her dress had brilliant overtones like exploding spells across a more somber hem, tinged with blood and flowers, to commemorate the dead. Her hair was fashioned into braids that ran around her head and became a bun at the back, and the crown was perfectly placed, shining with protective spells and a soft golden light.

Her skin? Perfect, and not even Shardele could best her for makeup. But then, the Eternal Queen and the Eternal King should look the part, and Ielane was the model which her daughters emulated, not surpassed.

Not yet. Perhaps one would when she died, but she had perfect diction, perfect poise, and she did not forget names or make mistakes.

In public. In private, she pursed her lips.

“Yes, ‘hello’, Seraphel. We are extremely pleased to see you if that was not implicit. Sit.”

She said it in the way that hinted that it was uncouth of Seraphel to intimate that any of this had been up for debate, hellos or not. She gestured, and Seraphel sat.

Even in private, it was all of Calanfer, politics and power-plays. For instance, the chair that Ielane indicated was not comfortable. It was not backed with anything soft, and it hurt your bottom the instant you sat in it. It looked quite expensive and regal, but it was a nightmare to relax in.

Her children had learned it was both a test and power-play of its own. When they were good, they sat in comfortable chairs. But even if they were sitting here, they should never look uncomfortable. If they were clever, they might arrange for another chair to be there.

It was the same trick Calanfer’s rulers and diplomats played on their opponents, even allies. Seraphel had forgotten about the damn chair. Even if she’d remembered…she just sat there. Her face wasn’t as carefully polite-blank as she had been taught. She rubbed at her back, and Ielane frowned at her.

“Are you some kind of invalid or have you pulled every muscle after riding into battle?”

Seraphel sat up silently.

“It was a long ride into the city.”

The excuse didn’t really pass water, but Ielane nodded as she tapped an item on the catalog. Her personal [Handmaiden] took a note, and Ielane flipped a page, searching for more dishes.

“So we note. Shardele has already retired to her sanctum and, to judge from reports, has consumed eighteen grams of Dreamleaf.”

Seraphel kept her face straight.

“She’s leveled up her hobby.”

Ielane flicked her off-hand, which was holding a long, thin puffer of its own and drifting with smoke. It was a sign of approval, like a smile, but a quirk of the lips was the real good stuff. She inhaled and exhaled from the cigar softly.

None of the commonfolk—or even the court—knew that she smoked anything. That was a weakness, and Ielane’s own children had mostly passed their majorities before they found out.

“That wit, Seraphel, is exactly why I hoped you would do well in Avel. Alas, war ends all dreams. Ailendamus, once again. And your sharp tongue becomes an asset. A battle-capable [Princess], with unique…insights. That is how we shall frame it. Who knows? If you reach Level 30, we may have a considerable increase in the quality of suitor.”

She tapped another item from the menu, and Seraphel sat there. Her mother, Ielane, was one of the most impressive people Seraphel knew. She personally dictated some banquets, and she knew what dishes contained allergic or undesirable foods for her guests. She played politics so well that Reclis, her husband, Seraphel’s father, often turned to her when he needed the steadiest hand at the negotiating table, and people took the Queen of Calanfer for granted all the time.

Still—even before leaving home for some many years, Seraphel had never aspired to be her mother. Ielane was…what Seraphel had once told Cara O’Sullivan her vision of a ruler was.

She was a tool to fit Calanfer’s needs. She hid her hobbies, did what she needed to keep the kingdom running and prosperous. She had her wants, her desires, and she used her power to get them—but if she molded the kingdom, the kingdom molded back.

Ielane had taught her sons and daughters, but her daughters especially, that they would one day be married. It was a fact, and it would serve Calanfer, and that was not the end of their service to Calanfer. She spoke of Seraphel’s failed marriage to Noelictus and future ones not as…chores, or burdens, but opportunities.

It shall help Calanfer. So why worry about anything else? Seraphel remembered the blank stare she had received when she had protested her second marriage to Ielane’s face.

“Nothing you can do will matter more, my dear. Anything you wish to do can come after.”

“What is your exact class and Skills? I have the transcript, but if you would care to add anything to the royal archive?”

She knew Seraphel’s new levels and class and Skills. She had probably known before Seraphel woke up and heard the announcement. Not that Ielane’s Skills told her exactly what her daughters had—it told her their relative value in terms of dowry or connection.

“I have several new Skills. One reputation-related. The other was…purple.”

Seraphel hesitated, and Ielane’s brows rose. She took another puff from her cigar.

“Authority-related. Proceed.”

It hadn’t used to feel so—raw. Sharing her private levels and accomplishments. Ielane jotted down notes, like she jotted down secrets of state, carefully, asking questions.

Seraphel’s Skills. They were numerous, and even for a class consolidation for a [Princess]—rather impressive, if somewhat controversial.

 

[Ghost’s Hand].

[Hearts of Courage].

[Reputation: Infamy, Now My Fame].

[Royal Bodyguard: Two of Life, Two of Death].

[Induction: Royal Bodyguard].

[Lesser Toughness].

 

“…[Ghost’s Hand] is unknown in our lexicon. The exact nuances of your version of [Royal Bodyguard] are unknown, but seem straightforward, sadly. At best, we could make it some kind of themed…death-type Golem? At least the [Bards] will have an easier time with your reputation, indeed. Battle and protection-theme. It may play well in Kaliv, or elsewhere. Do you know what [Ghost’s Hand] does?”

And here, Seraphel rebelled. For the first time since she was seventeen, she truly pushed back in a small way.

“No, unfortunately.”

Ielane waved away a bit of smoke.

“We will have a tutor investigate. Do you have two favorite Thronebearers to pick?”

Seraphel didn’t need to think.

“Ser Dalimont and…Dame Neranthei.”

She named the Thronebearer who still served her and had gone to participate in Cara’s music video. Ielane’s brows rose only slightly.

“Good. Let us hope you can name the two without some undead. If not? Perhaps the Skill will function if the two undead are seperated. If not, we must play the Noelictus angle. Does anyone know of the Skill?”

She was going to tell Seraphel to keep it quiet. Ielane didn’t think her daughter would ever give away secret knowledge of Calanfer—and her levels were that—but again, Seraphel rebelled.

“I…the Order of Seasons and the Goblin Slayer know about my Skills.”

Seraphel didn’t know why she said that. It was just petty. And somehow, a joy to see her mother’s face as those two level eyes rose and a note of exasperation entered Ielane’s voice.

Why?

“Because they were present, and Ser Ilm, a [Mage Knight], accidentally cast [Appraisal] on me. My tiara was out of protective power.”

Seraphel lied to her mother’s face. Which she could do because she was wearing wards against truth spells. Her tiara. But it could run out of power. Ielane stared at Seraphel over the catalog and then resumed smoking.

“They took it normally?”

“They were aware of the Noelictus connection, and Ser Solstice is—unique.”

“So Aielef reported. And Vernoue, who wishes to marry Archmage Eldavin, the Fall’s Sentinel, and Magus Grimalkin of Pallass. If she had a chance of the first in any real way, we would extend the invitation. As for the second—more interesting, but doubtful. Possible, depending on the outcome of our unofficial summit. For the last? Aha. No. We think she would marry Ser Solstice as well, but she was wise enough not to say that. Your sister’s antics have put nonsense in some of your younger siblings’ heads.”

Lyonette. Even now, Ielane didn’t mention her outright, which showed how angry she probably was. Seraphel saw none of it behind the perfect mask. More perfect than their guests from the Kingdom of Incantations, Tourvecall. Seraphel wondered how Ielane would do in the rumored Court of Masks in Ailendamus.

“How is…?”

“Alive. Promiscuous. Rebellious as usual, but she has leveled outstandingly. Dame Ushar did not gain a complete picture of how much, but—significantly. Perhaps in a rare class. She is refusing to return home, and we have allowed it given the circumstances. Your man, Dalimont, has apparently proven himself quite well numerous times.”

Promiscuous? Had Lyonette broken the cardinal rule of a [Princess]? Well…Seraphel hoped she’d made it worth it. But Ielane didn’t want to talk about Lyonette.

“Ser Solstice. Do you know what lies behind the helmet?”

“No.”

“Mm. Good. Whatever it is, we would prefer it to remain a secret. Instinct tells us we would prefer not to know.”

Now that was fascinating. Ielane seldom did things without a good reason, but the fact that she wanted Ser Solstice to remain masked…she tapped the cigar, and some ash fell into a tray expertly held out at the right moment.

“Extremely helpful, that one. Potentially troublesome, but cannier than Golaen’s bullies or Kaaz’s troublemakers. A consummate warrior. If he can be persuaded to stay…no, I would rather not deal with whatever lies under that mask. An honorable guest.”

More and more fascinating. Ielane had a kind of sixth sense around trouble. If she wanted Ser Solstice gone…Seraphel was more curious still. But the Queen dwelled on him, a rarity. She frowned at her catalog, snapped her fingers, and spoke.

“Dinner.”

Another catalog was placed in front of her. This should have already been set, but Ielane went over it again. She spoke out of the corner of her mouth.

“What kind of eating habits does this Ser Solstice have?”

“He…”

“…Does not remove his helmet. Of course.”

“No, but I have seen him sip drinks, and he’s made plates of food. He eats mostly anything, I think. Including bugs. He’s lived in the wilderness.”

“Intriguing. Odd. We have…no delicate insects? No, we do have fried crickets for Drathians. So why…”

Ielane paged through the catalog, frowning. Then she closed it.

“Strange. However, not worth the effort.”

“What is, Mother?”

The [Queen] glanced up at Seraphel.

“We cannot locate a satisfactory dish among the catalogs of our [Chefs]. Perhaps he is indisposed; his mood being contrary to any dish would do that.”

She could sense whatever made her guests happy. So Ser Solstice wasn’t going to love tonight’s dinner? Seraphel was nodding as Ielane glanced at one of the traditional sun-clocks. She stood.

“I must greet Cenidau’s representatives with His Majesty. He sends you his congratulations. Please select a present for yourself, but be mindful that we are at war. I expect we shall see each other at tonight’s banquet and other events. We shall speak after all the greetings to our diplomats and heroes of war are concluded.”

And like that, she was rising, moving behind a privacy screen to change into appropriate attire, a five-minute process with her experienced staff—and out the room before the next five minute interval. Seraphel sat there.

The meeting with her mother was over. Fifteen whole minutes. She coughed, and someone offered her a cup of tea instantly.

Naturally, if she had wanted something to drink, Ielane expected Seraphel would have requested it. Naturally, she had to go. Ielane’s day was cut up into fifteen minute chunks, and while her younger daughter, Ellet, still needed good portions of the day, her elder daughters could take care of themselves.

It was the most approving that Ielane had been in a while. Probably because Seraphel hadn’t objected or protested, but just gotten down to business. The [Princess] wouldn’t see her mother outside of public events—which were obviously staged—for at least a day or two, and they didn’t need to meet.

It was done. Her father was even more abrupt, but he sometimes talked about philosophy, so you could sit there an hour or two while he grilled you for your perspective on things. Seraphel sat in the dressing room as servants cleared up. It was only after a while that one of them, the very same Beacle from earlier, glanced up.

Seraphel du Marquin sat in the uncomfortable chair, perfect posture, her face perfectly composed—which was to say, engaged, attentive, not just a blank mask—her lips almost parted as if waiting for someone to finish their thought before she replied. She stared ahead, and it was a perfect act worthy of any [Princess] of Calanfer.

The only change, the change in Seraphel, in home and how she lived in it—were the two streaks of tears running down her cheeks and her chin. They dripped into her lap as she wept.

 

——

 

The only people having less of a pleasant time in Calanfer than Ser Solstice and Princess Seraphel were the representatives from Ailendamus.

Noble nations of Terandria understood that while war was war, in many cases, there was still room for diplomacy right until the enemy soldiers were battering the door down. Obviously, the lives of [Diplomats] sometimes were tossed into the mix as hostages—but Ailendamus was currently on the back foot.

They were facing multiple hostile nations raiding and attacking from various sides, and while the Kingdom of Glass and Glory was a powerhouse, their [Diplomat] had orders to throw a wrench into Calanfer’s pact making, lest they form a coalition. Oh, and also to report back on any clandestine affairs and endear Ailendamus to any potential allies abroad. Find a chink in the unified hostility.

All this for four poor [Diplomats]. They might as well have been asked to fly. Calanfer might be something of a laughingstock on the battlefield—at least until recently—but the Thronebearers were famously dangerous off the practice courts.

And they were mean.

Woolen sheets misplaced for your silks. Soup that was never hot. While you were walking over to shake hands with Nadel’s [Coastwarden] top [Ambassadors], you tripped and tossed half your plate of food into their hair.

Let alone the actual Skills. [Distracting Cough] didn’t sound bad—until, in the middle of an earnest speech, you and you alone heard the loudest, wettest cough in your ear and lost your train of thought.

Needless to say, the diplomatic wing in Calanfer was miserable, and they were relieved that they were rotated out monthly. Although it had been a lot more fun when Ailendamus was pressing in through Kaliv and they were treated like horned Demons—but treated very well, mind you.

Their [Diplomat of Envy] hadn’t been prepared for this. He was a man used to touring Taimaguros, fifty years old, and his Skills included showing off Ailendamus’ largesse. After his first night of running into hostile house cats during a midnight stroll, the man practically begged to be let go to the capital.

He had a personal connection to the crown, obviously. He could call up Ailendamus’ [Generals] at need, and the Kingdom of Glass and Glory was not blind; their [Ambassadors] sometimes weighed in on military affairs with a loud enough voice to rein in [Generals] if they thought the political battle would outweigh the military one.

However, it was the Duke, Rhisveri himself, who told the [Diplomat] he would be staying.

“Your Grace, there is no chance we will call an end to the war without the Dawn Concordat feeling as though it is pressed back! I am well aware of our military capabilities. Our foes are viewing this as a decade-long war. They may well change their minds in a year.”

The [Diplomat of Envy] knew full well that the Dawn Concordat was bleeding from the bloody war. Ailendamus was too—they had lost Dionamella. However, there was a difference between the size and economy of both nations. Ailendamus could replace their lost armies. In time, Calanfer would stop preening its feathers and look up to see more legions of [Knights].

He felt, strongly, that he didn’t need to suffer in the interim. Especially because of how damn hard it was to make friends with all these nations enjoying Ailendamus’ moment of weakness. However—Rhisveri’s reply was curious.

I do not expect you to work wonders, Diplomat Corek. I never do.

“Slightly rude, Your Grace?”

Corek’s impishness and his backsass sometimes won him points in Taimaguros, where the people, including Queen Oesca, appreciated a feisty retort no matter who you were. Rhisveri’s voice just turned from ice to ever-frozen tundra.

You are not there to cease the war. Even if they nibble at our borders, time will overturn this setback. Rather, I want you to investigate why the Restful Three are moving.

Kaaz, Golaen, and Erribathe. Corek assumed that was obvious; they had come for the spectacle. If nothing else, Calanfer were excellent hosts for their friends, and this was tweaking Ailendamus’ nose. But Rhisveri’s opinion was different.

“They have sent their Hundredlords and Golaen’s [Titanguard]. This is no mere entertainment. Do you know who is coming from Erribathe?”

“That’s a tightly-guarded secret, Your Grace. I would assume only Calanfer’s crown has any inkling—”

The Heir Apparent, Prince Iradoren, is set to appear tonight or tomorrow.

Corek fell quiet. His eyes flickered, and his heartbeat picked up. He knew the speaking spells were top-quality and never had been broken by hostile mages, but he checked his connection and ward spells anyways.

“—Are you certain, Your Grace?”

My intelligence is not ever in error. This is no charade or worthless pageantry. Something has caused the Restful Three to move. If they are—foolishly—considering war, I want to know. Now. I don’t believe they are. If so, I would have noticed their forces moving. Something else is up. Find out. I will replace you the instant you do.”

Was that a threat or an incentive? Corek decided it was an incentive. He wondered what it could be. Perhaps the ghosts that had come across Terandria? If so…

He wondered what they’d said. Corek stared at his speaking stone. Then, groaning, he prepared himself for a terrible banquet in isolation. His only consolation was that at least he could enjoy some good food. He was, after all, a social, charming man if given the chance.

 

——

 

And that was the difference between a consummate [Diplomat] and, say, a Goblin. Or even Seraphel du Marquin. One person lived to talk, make connections, and, frankly, wanted to be friendly.

Seraphel…was all too aware how mercantile most relationships were. She, like every single [Princess] and [Prince], had gone through an experience growing up where she made friends with someone, only to find out that friendship was highly conditional.

In Seraphel’s case, she’d had a ‘best friend’, a certain Lady Erreta du Havrington, whom she had positively adored. They had gossiped, visited each other nonstop despite the distance between Calanfer and Pheislant—and Seraphel had refused to believe Erreta was actually just cozying up to her.

Even when her mother had told her to her face that Erreta was stealing secrets and badmouthing Seraphel behind her back, the young [Princess] had stood by her friend.

So, Ielane had arranged for Erreta to accidentally make some pointed comments with her true friends in the walls of Calanfer’s palace. Seraphel had listened behind a fake wall and—

Well. Ielane had let her stay away from court for two weeks. She had sympathy for her daughters when they experienced this lesson. It was a vital lesson in trust. Sometimes you had to learn it as many as four times.

But after that, ah, let’s just say that even the most charming [Courtier] didn’t exactly sweep Seraphel off her feet. She knew anything she said would be used against her and any promises would come back to bite her.

That was why [Princesses] enjoyed the company of people they knew. Or—people who were simply too honest to really exist in Calanfer’s reality.

Ser Greysten was one such. The fiery Summer’s Champion was like a breath of fresh summer’s air at times. The entire Order of Seasons were straightforward by and large; even their Autumn Knights only played the game of intrigue as obligation demanded.

Ser Solstice was another. Seraphel might have been long from home, but she knew how to tug on Calanfer’s rumor-nets. So she’d heard that, already, Princess Aielef had invited Ser Solstice, Ser Markus, and a host of other [Knights] to her chambers.

The odds of this being another affair were low. Aielef disappeared for her not-so-secret encounters. She was likely pursuing her other hobby and commemorating the victorious siege of her keep.

However, even the servants didn’t know that, and so the act just bolstered Ser Solstice and his friends’ reputations. Already, people were reminding themselves that Dame Talia was related both to the Games at Daquin and thus the Titan of Baleros and her brother, Wil Kallinad, of great note! Not much was known, scandalous or otherwise, about Dame Meisa and Ser Ilm. Fine, stalwart warriors.

Ser Markus, on the other hand, was apparently something of a ladies’ man. The rumor was that you shouldn’t get behind a closed door with him.

Seraphel supposed that was a Spring Knight for you. Always…libidinous. Did that go against his knightly vows? She’d heard of promiscuous [Monks], so anything was possible.

Anyways, Seraphel wasn’t looking forwards to the banquet. She would not be talking with the Order of Seasons; even the redoubtable Summer’s Champion and Ser Solstice would be sitting far back from the true nobility. She’d be talking with Golaen’s giants and have a crick in her neck all evening. Or trying not to start an honor-duel with one of Kaaz’s maniacs.

“Let it not be Taimaguros. I heard one of their [Ladies] bit the nose off someone who offended her. At a tea party!”

Maybe Noelictus’ envoys. Yes, that would just be like Ielane to sit Seraphel with people she could at least talk to. The [Princess] brightened up. Then she finally found what she was looking for.

She had been walking through the palace’s rich corridors, each one unique and so on and so forth. But they were all filled with servants, and servants watched and gossiped. There were few places you could find that were totally private.

However, a [Princess] who had lived here forever knew some. Ironically, the Eternal Throneroom itself was a great hiding spot since it was so vast. But there were a few other places.

Like the third kitchens. The third set of kitchens, each one capable of holding countless [Chefs], which only began churning out food when the first two were being used.

This one wasn’t active—yet. It would be in about an hour, for the desserts to come out fresh. However—the trick was that until then, aside from people restocking or checking the pantries, no one would be here. And there were a lot of hallways and servants’ corridors.

So—any good [Princess] knew that if she wanted a snack that Ielane wouldn’t approve of, she came here. All the sweets were here because this was where desserts were made.

—Thus, Seraphel found herself a prepared cone of gelato, the rich ‘iced cream’ that had taken Terandria by storm. Someone had decorated this one with a glaze of cherry and covered the top with little, brilliantly glowing bits of sugar mixed with something that shone like a little, magical yellow firefly in the dim kitchen.

A glowing ice cream cone, a red-glazed swirl shining with little stars. Seraphel admired it for a full eight seconds before she greedily took a bite of the tip.

Alright, there were a few perks of being home. She knew that some poor [Chef] had probably prepared these as one of the star treats. And yes, even a [Princess] could get in trouble for eating ice cream—especially the royal desserts.

That was why, when Seraphel heard the quiet clack of heels on stone, she froze. She whirled, put the cone behind her back as she stood against the back of one of the enchanted iceboxes—and someone walked into the kitchens, shedding their Cloak of Balshadow.

Vernoue, the 5th Princess, froze when she saw Seraphel. She and two younger, magically-inclined [Ladies] of Calanfer had been giggling and tiptoeing into the kitchens—until they saw Seraphel.

Seraphel!

“Vernoue, you sneak! You nearly gave me a heart-attack!”

“Me? What are you here for?”

The two hissed at each other as the younger [Ladies] bowed hurriedly. But Seraphel didn’t care about them. She glanced at Vernoue’s Cloak.

“You idiot, Vernoue! You don’t take guests here! You’ll get all of us caught! You always get in trouble, and I refuse to go down with you!”

“What? I’m not the one going around unenchanted! I use magic!”

Vernoue hissed back, cheeks reddening. Seraphel rolled her eyes and snapped back.

“That’s why you get caught, you fool!”

There was nothing more obvious than an ‘invisible’ cloak and three not-so-subtle young women trying to share it. Seraphel whirled and tried to yank the fridge door open, but she heard the next footfalls before she got the thick door open. Ice cream cone in hand, she whirled as Vernoue squeaked and tried to put the cloak back on—

Too late.

Here came a third [Princess]. And it was none other than…Seraphel groaned, and Vernoue glared defiantly.

“Here we are, Mother. As I said, your mysterious dessert thieves are up to their tricks.

“Shardele, you bitch!”

Vernoue shouted. Or tried to, because that last word vanished into the air. No one swore around Her Majesty.

Queen Ielane du Marquin seemed displeased to see her daughter again. Especially here. Ielane and several of her servants stared at Seraphel and Vernoue as a triumphant Shardele led her into the hiding spot of [Princesses].

“Well, you seem to be correct, Shardele. Vernoue. Seraphel. Your explanation?”

Ielane was not pleased to find her daughters were responsible for more than a few expensive desserts vanishing before their time. However, that was nothing to the 4th and 5th [Princesses]’ glares of hatred towards Shardele.

Shardele the Radiant. If Seraphel’s red hair, like Lyonette’s, was naturally fiery, and Aielef had to dye hers, Shardele was more like an orange sunburst. She wore hers straight behind her, the ends decorated with glowing crystals, and her dresses were always dreamy and light, often enchanted to float around her.

All to play up her image of the wonders of the Eternal Throne. Sometimes you could even see beautiful light or feel as though you stood on a vast horizon made of clouds. Of course—that was because her Skills let you see some of the visions she had while smoking dreamleaf.

—However, she was also the eldest sister. And never a pettier tyrant existed. She must have been so angry about the other [Princesses] laughing at her that she had gone to the most drastic option!

You craven traitor. I’ll see you dead for this. Seraphel mouthed the words. Every [Princess], from Aielef to—well, not Ellet, she was so young she got treats whenever she asked—every [Princess] had the third kitchens as a sanctuary!

But Shardele’s vacuous look of triumph was still earned because Seraphel’s ice cream cone was slowly melting behind her. And Ielane glanced pointedly at Vernoue’s friends.

“We were just going for a walk, Mother.”

“Yes. I enjoy my privacy.”

“We do not have time for lies. Vernoue, you are holding your Cloak of Balshadow. A servant saw and heard you talking about ‘sampling the desserts’ on your way here. We would believe Seraphel’s words—what is behind your back, Seraphel?”

Shardele’s eyes flickered with triumph. Seraphel exhaled, raised her hands—and showed her mother two bare hands.

Vernoue’s eyes bulged almost as much as Shardele’s. Hadn’t Seraphel just been holding…? But Ielane nodded.

She did not exactly seem convinced of Seraphel’s innocence, but she turned her wrath on Vernoue instead. Seraphel kept her face straight, wincing, as Vernoue’s allowance for spellbooks and magical items was revoked for two months. As for Shardele…Ielane did not stay long.

“If any more desserts are found missing, we will have each of our daughters report to us without their tiaras. Shardele—come. Cenidau is waiting.

“I’ll hex you in your sleep!”

Vernoue hissed as Shardele waved at them. Seraphel just locked eyes with her eldest sister, and Shardele gave her a vaguely miffed look. Her lips moved, and she swept out with Ielane.

The magical [Memo] appeared in front of Seraphel moments thereafter.

 

I thought we’d find you with a face buried in a meal, as always. Love, Shardele.

 

Seraphel calmly tore up the note. She turned to Vernoue, who was red-faced and looked ready to cry.

“Shardele. Have you done anything to her recently, Vernoue?”

“No! I may have pointed out how much she spends on her ‘hobby’, and father and mother cut her allowance because we’re at war—”

“Ah. You idiot.”

Seraphel sighed. Vernoue glowered—then turned abruptly. Her two friends were practically in tears and didn’t see Seraphel stepping back over to the fridge—or hear their conversation behind privacy spells.

“How did you hide that gelato? You don’t have a bag of holding!”

For answer, Seraphel simply walked over to the closed, and now locked, fridge. She eyed the magical padlock. Then she stuck her hand through the door and pulled out the almost untouched ice-cream cone.

Vernoue’s eyes went round. Seraphel winked at her.

“New Skill. Mother doesn’t know how it works. [Ghostly Hand].”

Ghostly—that’s incredible, Seraphel! Does it hurt? Can you make anything larger intangible?”

“Nothing as big as a chair. Only something I can hold comfortably. And before you ask, I need a hole behind the wall—I can’t just insert a rock into a solid brick wall. But I won’t be halted from having desserts. Just so long as they store them close to the front.”

“Lucky you. No one else will be getting snacks.”

Vernoue’s face turned dark with anger. Shardele had poisoned the communal well of sweets—which was like her because she had the smallest sweet-tooth. It would come back to bite her, though; her sisters would not let this go unpunished. If people knew Seraphel as having a ‘sharp tongue’, well, Menisi and Aielef were vicious.

At any rate, her mood was ruined, and so Seraphel handed Vernoue the ice cream.

“Here. A bribe. You might as well get something after this debacle. I will see you—elsewhere.”

Vernoue brightened up. She took the cone, gave Seraphel a kiss on the cheek, and hurried off with her friends. As for Seraphel—her stomach rumbled, and she sighed. Then she reached back into the fridge.

“What’s this? Oh. Oh. Is this tapioca pudding? Custard tapioca pudding!

Don’t mind if she did. Especially now that she had complete plausible deniability. Even Ielane made mistakes. And hers was not knowing how many desserts had been pilfered before she’d put a lock on the fridge. This might be Seraphel’s last free run on gelato.

So, if you could eat one pudding, why not two? And another ice cream cone. This one was peppermint.

 

——

 

Rabbiteater was upset. He hated the stupid food. He hated the banquet. But most of all—

He hated the food.

In fact, Ser Markus found Meisa loitering outside of one of the restrooms in Calanfer, calling out to Rabbiteater.

“Rabbit—how long is it going to be? It’s not even the third course!”

“Go away. This is your fault.”

It was definitely Rabbiteater in there. Ser Markus hesitated since it was, well, the toilets.

A word on lavatories in Terandria. Of all the aspects of the Eternal Throne of Calanfer, the one area where they might fall behind another city was…plumbing. The Eternal Throne had plumbing in its capital, but nowhere near the level of a Drake city.

A lot of households outside the capital just used traditional outhouses. While the nobility had toilets, some were, uh—manually emptied.

Not the ones in the capital! Nossir. However—if you understood how hard pipelines were to lay—especially amidst enchanted stone, which could not be replaced or easily altered—you might understand why there was a toilet problem.

Some of the guestrooms had personal toilets, but there were also communal ones. Why did this matter? Well, Pallass could afford and create internal plumbing for all. Calanfer?

Calanfer had toilet stalls for its many servants and guests. Quite a lot…and one Goblin was currently sitting in one having a bad time.

They were nice toilets. Porcelain, not wood where you risked a splinter. There was the scent of something in the air, an orchid, probably, and even washing basins with gold-plated knobs. Not that Rabbiteater was going to see them any time soon.

“Something wrong with our Ser Solstice, Meisa?”

“He’s protesting. He made it through two courses before he hid himself here.”

“No I’m not. I told you. Your food is bad.”

Ser Markus hesitated. A toilet was not a place for knightly…anything. Everyone had to do their business, but most preferred to act as though no one ever performed a bowel movement. He had never read a story where the [Hero] stopped behind a bush before fighting a Dragon.

Unfortunately, Rabbiteater had a tendency to bring reality into a lot of situations. Meisa opened her mouth to demand he come out of there—when a terrible sound made both her and Markus recoil.

“Dead gods.”

Markus promptly put his fingers in his ears and wished he had a nose plug. Meisa hesitated.

“…Was that you, Rabbiteater?”

Yes. Your food is bad!

“Oh dear, I think he’s not actually lying, Meisa. What did he, uh—eat?”

Markus muttered. Meisa hesitated.

The problem was…Rabbiteater had been enjoying Terandrian hospitality. Which, as he had observed, declined to eat ‘poor fare’. Which included Yellats, potatoes, and a lot of cheap food. In its place?

He got tripe, pudding, blood pudding—which the Hobgoblin had thought was properly cool—and Calanfer, in its richness, could afford a whole host of what some of the kingdoms considered exotic food.

Like oysters. The northern countries that were landlocked didn’t get lots of oysters, and even Cenidau held them in high regard. Steaks prime cut, cheese—all the cheese—and their liquid diet was wine and various alcohols.

Now, there was a bit more variety than some notably bad diets, but there was one more compounding factor in this mix, and it was this:

Rabbiteater was a Goblin. Goblins did not eat this kind of rich food. They would happily eat anything, but a prolonged diet like this was unheard of for Redfangs. Even Garen Redfang.

So—when you understood he was having a bad time on the toilet—

He was having a bad time. Dame Meisa pinched her nose. Something was overpowering the lilac scent. At this point, Markus was backing away.

“Should I, ah, tell Ser Greysten that Ser Solstice will not be coming back?”

“It’ll pass.”

Meisa tried to reassure him, but Rabbiteater croaked back.

“It’s all passing. Someone give me a sword.”

“Rabbiteater, don’t be dramatic.”

Meisa almost stepped inside—the bathrooms were mixed gender and mixed species; there were even some in the castle that could accommodate Centaurs and half-Giants. But she stopped and hesitated.

She had faced down Mothbears in their cave lairs with less trepidation than one step into that porcelain chamber. Meisa remembered her first battle alone, when she had heard the whoofing, growling sounds of the monster within.

She heard much the same noises, but more…gaseous. And what sounded like hubwigh. The sound of a Goblin Knight in agony.

Meisa asked one question.

“Rabbiteater? Are you…ah…urinating?”

No.

Ser Markus fled. Meisa backed away. Rabbiteater sat, clutching his stomach and praying for death. He hadn’t felt this bad fighting the Dame of the Hills. He had taken lesser wounds fighting Eater Goats.

“I, ah—I will check on you in a bit. Alright, Rabbit? Can I get you anything?”

“No. Go away. You did this to me.”

Rabbiteater heard Meisa retreat. The door closed, and he immediately regretted it. In his hour of need—had he thrust away the one person who could help him through his pain?

“Meisa? Come back. Meisa.”

He croaked, but he had not the strength—nor the confidence—to stand up. His…unpleasant experiences…were coming in waves. Every time he thought he was done, his stomach decided it was in fact, a bag of holding.

And the toilet paper! Calanfer had the good stuff. Rabbiteater had, as a Redfang, grabbed every leaf he could on a raid, even collected Carn Wolf fur. Calanfer had soft stuff.

It was going by fast. He got up, flushed the toilet a fifth time, and shuffled out of the stall. It was the most dangerous move he’d ever made. But he had to do it and risk his identity—

Mostly to loot all the other stalls of their rolls of toilet paper. He came back with an armful, sat back down, and groaned.

How long was he captive in the Dungeon of Porcelain? The prisoner did not know. He sat, held hostage by the seat.

Outside, a banquet was going on and people were eating the damned food that had sent him here. He heard laughter, cries of enjoyment—there was a play! Speeches about the war, sights and wonders beyond compare.

Rabbiteater’s experience of Calanfer’s hospitality was staring at the decorated toilet stall door. Even the toilets were decorated. This one had an engraving of Calanfer’s laws of the kingdom.

Rabbiteater familiarized himself with them. One by one. It was a crime to rob both a [Peasant] and a nobleman, but there were different penalties for both? You couldn’t spit on the street in the capital?

Nothing stopped his pain. He wished a Goblin Shaman were here. Meisa had thought he was joking when he asked her to find one. Goblin [Shamans] knew how to deal with bad poos. In that way, Rabbiteater realized they were superior to every [Healer] and [Sage] known to the rest of the world.

The world disappeared. There was only him. The drop below. Backsplash. Sound and pain and—unfortunately—sensation. Not much interrupted Rabbiteater’s silent war against the sewers.

Not to say people didn’t try to use the restroom. They did. Rabbiteater had run to the first one adjacent to the banquet hall, so the door opened quite often. Nobles, servants—technically this was not for the common citizen, but Rabbiteater couldn’t see more than the very bottom of the floor from his stall, so he imagined a brave servant would use this in their hour of need.

However—no one joined him. The first time the door opened, Rabbiteater heard a female voice.

“Oh. Eternal Thr—”

Then the door shut. Fast. The next time, a man walked in, made a choked sound, and removed himself. Rabbiteater suspected it was the smell. One brave soul actually got into a toilet, heard the sounds, and excused themselves. Rabbiteater didn’t blame them. It was one thing to fight side-by-side against a foe. Another to see a slaughter. Or at least…hear and smell one in the works.

Orangepoo was the bravest of us all. Rabbiteater’s misery had probably gone on for at least twenty minutes. Possibly forty. He was wondering if Erin had somehow, maliciously, used [Immortal Moment] on him. If someone had kicked open the door to his stall with a crossbow in hand, Rabbiteater would have smiled.

Then someone opened the door to the toilets. Rabbiteater heard a voice.

“Oh—”

A gagging sound. A moment of hesitation, and he expected whomever it was to run. Meisa hadn’t come back. He was going to die here. Of dehydration, if nothing else. He wondered if he was losing body mass.

But then he heard the clack of something on the tiles—and a figure rushed past him into the furthest stall. Rabbiteater was impressed. He could smell this place, and it was getting to him. A Goblin.

Someone was desperate. And as it turned out—he heard rustling, then someone sat down and—

Oooh. Rabbiteater listened. Then he winced. Then he closed his eyes. Then—like Ser Markus, he wadded up some toilet paper and stuffed it into his ears.

This was a level of intimacy that he didn’t want. And—now they were really cooking with the brown sauce.

Because here was a real situation that the Goblin had never encountered. And it was this:

Two people sharing a toilet. Not three. But two. So that each person could—unfortunately—hear. There wasn’t any guessing who was making that sound. And both would prefer that the other one didn’t exist.

But they could not turn off their minds. So Rabbiteater concluded after some sounds reached him through his makeshift earplugs—someone was having a time as bad as his.

Which was incredible, really. It just kept on going. And yet—unlike Rabbiteater, whomever was in that far stall had a will stronger than his own.

For no matter the torture, the second prisoner of the Porcelain Throne of Calanfer uttered no sound. Rabbiteater had, unashamedly, cried out for agony. This person was silent. Well—vocally silent.

But how long could they endure? The breaking point was a gasp, a cough—and then, as the sounds intensified as Rabbiteater cannibalized his earplugs for their intended use—the other occupant clearly realized they were stuck with Rabbiteater.

And that he could hear. And in a kind of desperation, a fugue state brought on by dehydration and an embarrassment that knew no end, they did something truly horrible.

They began to hum.

Hum. A loud sound, trying to drown out the noises that were both unmelodic and arrhythmic. Rabbiteater’s head rose in amazement.

That was a female voice. Her humming grew louder, and Rabbiteater winced as something else grew more hurried. He flushed the toilet again, and she did likewise.

The humming stopped. Now, they were engaging in repeated flushing. As fast as the toilets would allow. Rabbiteater began to feel embarrassed for whomever was in that stall because they were practically giving off an Aura of Embarrassment.

…Actually, they were giving off an aura. A familiar aura. Rabbiteater paused in unrolling more toilet paper. No.

“I—am extremely sorry for this. Let’s never speak of this again.”

A woman spoke, at length, sounding like she wished she was dead. She was trying to mask her voice, possibly by deepening it and pinching her nose. She likely had hoped to reach a more private venue, but it had been this or nothing. Rabbiteater supposed he should say something like, ‘me too’ and leave it at that.

Instead—the Hobgoblin spoke.

“…Seraphel?”

Dead silence. He thought he heard someone’s heart stop in the far stall.

“No?”

“Yeah. It’s you.”

No it’s—Ser Solstice?

“Mhm.”

More silence. Well…‘silence’. Then Rabbiteater heard the sounds of a muffled scream, and Seraphel tried to exit the stall and make a break for it. He saw a faint swish of a dark dress, shoes—

She made it halfway out the stall and the water was running from a tap when he heard a gurgle.

“Eternal Throne protect me. No, no—”

She tried to go for the door. Rabbiteater called out.

“Don’t do it. You’ll never make it.”

Three more steps. Then an ominous mgrgl sound—and he heard a slam as she threw herself back into a stall. Right next to his.

She barely made it.

Ser Solstice, I hope you will forget everything—

“I can’t forget this. This day is the worst. Ever.”

How did you know it was me?

“Aura.”

Damn auras! Damn gelato and pudding and—

“Oysters?”

I shall find whomever made the desserts and have them fired! Or was it—do—do you have earplugs? Cover your ears!”

I’m trying! Be less loud!

Their shared embarrassment was resulting in a screaming match. When the two realized it—they fell silent. Seraphel, in the stall over, covered her face with her hands and tried to pretend she didn’t exist. Rabbiteater just sat there.

The door opened. A servant stepped in.

“Cleaning serv…Hundred Families protect us. Is any—anyone here?”

Occupied.

Seraphel and Rabbiteater shouted. The servant fled. Now, they were existing in a state between embarrassment and—well. Mutual sympathy. Rabbiteater suspected Seraphel was still dying, but he almost felt better.

Misery loved company.

“Haven’t seen you in a bit.”

Ser Solstice! Please! Now is not the time!”

“Okay. Let’s sit here and listen to each other. Silently.”

Seraphel paused. Then she hurried on.

“Indeed! I haven’t seen you! How is the Eternal Throne of Calanfer?”

“I hate it.”

“Current experiences notwithstanding, truly?”

This is the only experience. Your stupid food, your endless parties—”

“In fairness, this is for the diplomats, Ser Solstice.”

“Don’t care. Your kingdom sucks.”

“I beg your pardon! I do not go to your…abode and insult it!”

“Yeah, well. My abode sucks too. Lots of rocks and goats.”

“Er—there is such a thing as decorum, Ser Solstice.”

“Not here.”

He was rather enjoying this banter. Seraphel was practically blushing through the bathroom stall.

“I wish you had not—heard this side of me, Ser Solstice! I shall never live this down!”

“Everyone poos.”

“Swear to me you will repeat none of this.”

“If I survive—sure.”

Seraphel sounded relieved about that. She spoke with a strained tone of patience and probably just strain.

“You understand—a [Princess], much less any lady, does not discuss this kind of issue. You are, by your own account, slightly indecorous, Ser Solstice.”

“That means rude, right? I say obvious things, and people call that rude. Everyone. Poos. Call me…Rabbiteater.”

“Rabbiteater. Is that a—a nickname? I never asked.”

“Nope. Well. Yes.”

“Do—do you like to consume rabbits? Is that the, ah—significance of the name?”

“Yep.”

“Ah.”

“Not very hard to get.”

“No, quite. I understand that. I, er—you were heading to Nadel? Are you planning on leaving Terandria…?”

Before he could reply, someone opened the door. Again. This time, Seraphel and Rabbiteater expected sounds of disgust and for someone to run—but they heard what sounded like—

—the Thousand Lances shall never fail. Never fail—

Rabbiteater heard it all come out in a rush. He saw and heard fancy boots striking the ground—then someone struck the far wall so hard he and Seraphel jumped. Then whomever it was crashed into the far stall.

That was an amazing entrance into the bathroom. Rabbiteater had never seen someone charge into the toilet like that, but after a flurry of dropping clothing—he heard a familiar horror replay itself.

“Dead gods.”

Seraphel whispered. Someone made a terrible sound as they came to their senses in—relative—safety.

Lion’s teeth! This disgusting privy—and this is the glorious kingdom of Calanfer?”

Rabbiteater realized he had entered Seraphel’s previous toilet. Which—might not have been flushed. It had certainly been used. Seraphel seemed to be trying to not exist.

Rabbiteater? He started laughing. The outraged voice in the far stall stopped—and then someone spoke.

“You…whomever you are…I warn you to be silent. Or as soon as I leave here, you will answer to me by blood, sir or madam.”

It was a low, dangerous tone—undercut by the note of pain and sounds of splashing. Rabbiteater called back.

“Not going to be any time soon.”

Silence. I am in the mood to kill someone—”

“Oh yeah? You’re stuck in there.”

Who are you?

The enraged voice was followed by shuffling, and Rabbiteater suspected someone was trying to bend over and see under the low stalls. He could only get a view of boots and what looked like a lion’s mane, along with a male voice.

Armored boots! Who are you? A [Knight]? And yonder—oh.

The other person realized there was someone else and fell abruptly silent. Seraphel, at this point, spoke in a tremulous voice.

“I, ah, think I might be going.”

She tried to get up and once again failed to exit. And unfortunately—Rabbiteater’s observations were echoed a second later.

Your Highness. Er—”

The nobleman fell silent. Seraphel made a sound like a dying frog. Rabbiteater started laughing harder.

Who are you, you scoundrel? Answer me! I can sense—two auras? Wait a second. Are you…?”

“Ser Solstice. The Goblin Slayer.”

The Goblin S—

The angry voice mollified itself slightly. As if Rabbiteater’s reputation alone extended to these circumstances. Rabbiteater felt compelled to throw this newcomer a bone.

“We’re all stuck here. Bad poos.”

“The less said the better, sir! I suggest we forget we ever heard or saw each other. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Seraphel repeated. Whereupon amiable silence fell. For five seconds. Then a torrent of sound came from the far stall followed by some rather exquisite cursing. Rabbiteater spoke up, feeling better than ever—mentally, at least. A river still ran through him, and it was turgid. At times. At other times, it was like whitewater. But not white. Or entirely water.

“So anyways. I was going back to Izril, Seraphel. I want to go home. No more fighting in the war for me.”

She was silent. Possibly unwilling to continue the conversation now there were three people, but Rabbiteater knew silence would kill them all. So he went on.

“What about you? Going to stay here?”

“I, um…I don’t know if this is an appropriate venue, Ser Solstice.”

“Silence or talking. You pick.”

A groan from the far stall. Seraphel spoke up hurriedly as sloshing began.

I think I will stay! Not that it is my decision—I may tour our allies, although not near the front lines, but I have no marriage arranged for me.”

“So…what?”

“So I have no engagement as of yet.”

“Right. I remember. You only do what you’re told. Stupid. Not going to practice swinging a sword? You suck at it.”

The far occupant of the toilets broke in.

“I heard you were a direct fellow, but you are rather unscrupulously rude, Ser Solstice. Her Highness is…a member of the royal family.”

“Yeah, and we fought together. Shut up.”

Rabbiteater kicked the wall of the stall to his left. The figure bristled once more.

“I may reconsider my oath of vengeance, Ser Knight!”

“Who are you, anyways?”

Rabbiteater was curious who this angry fellow was. To which the man finally replied.

“Hundredlord Cortese of Kaaz! And if I had not eaten—something—I would be glad to both take you to the dueling court, Ser Solstice, and never spend another moment in this hell of tiled privies. A public toilet!”

“Urgent poos wait for no class.”

Rabbiteater observed sagely. Lord Cortese groaned.

“I…I fear that’s the only thing you’ve said so far I can agree on. I—”

The door slammed open. Someone rushed in, and this time, Seraphel groaned along with Rabbiteater as she heard the urgency. This time, the person shot into the stall next to Seraphel’s, and Rabbiteater heard her make a faint sound. A torrent of noise followed.

“Kill me.”

Someone croaked. But before Rabbiteater could toss his axe over the stalls, a fifth person entered. And the occupants of the stalls realized—

It was a plague.

 

——

 

Disaster in the halls of Calanfer. A quiet one that Queen Ielane was fighting. She had found the dish which had caused all this and consigned it to hell, where it belonged.

A fiery hell—but it was too late. Even with all the [Chefs] and [Cooks] and, yes, taste-testers, sometimes something slipped through all the Skills.

Not in the preparation or ingredients—but afterwards. That was the irony; it had been cooked to perfection, and no soiled ingredients were let in. But if it sat out in the open for two hours while cooking…or if the hands were not entirely sanitary when carving it up?

Mistakes happened. Possibly sabotage. Fortunately, only a few people had been struck down. And doubly unfortunately—the rich dish had resulted in a certain privy of hell. Normally, they would be attended to instantly—but Calanfer’s staff had a larger problem to deal with. So the sufferers were left to their pain for a while as there were only a relative few affected.

A few—but the closest one to the banquet was full. Six stalls, a normally pleasant, nay, elegant chamber. Now slowly being remodeled into a scene of nightmares. Only five occupants were in here so far…but five was more than enough to chase any but the desperate far, far away.

What was unique about this one was that they were talking. At least, Rabbiteater was. The other occupants, once the pain had subsided somewhat, were aghast, but the Hobgoblin was, at least, cheerful.

“This is the second-worst poo I ever had.”

Ser Solstice, please!

Seraphel cried out. But the Hundredlord Cortese leaned over, sweat beading on his brows.

“Impossible, Ser Knight. What could be worse than this?”

“When the poo fights back. Ever pooed worms? I don’t see any in mine. How about you, Princess?”

Ser Solstice!

A male voice interrupted, urgently, from Seraphel’s right.

“Dead gods! Who is speaking?”

Someone else chimed in on the furthest stall to the right. Female, breathy, and for some reason, slightly muffled and echoing. But nevertheless, quite insistent.

“Please, enough! Of all the misfortunes—am I sharing space with Izrilians?

The other two newcomers cried out in outrage at this point with Seraphel, but Rabbiteater heard more than one surreptitious rustling and sighs of covert relief. Then the new male voice spoke again.

“…Did someone say ‘Ser Solstice’? What a coincidence. Is that ‘Ser Solstice’ the Goblin Slayer of the Order of Solstice?”

“Yes, yes. Hi.”

The speaker next to Seraphel paused. He was quite eloquent, his words precise and flowing, an excellent conversationalist. Also, laced with undertones of splashing so the refined effect was rather lost. He spoke louder.

“Well met. I had hoped to meet with you, Ser Knight. Just not like this.”

“I as well.”

A quiet voice, the second female occupant, spoke. So there was the Hundredlord Cortese, Princess Seraphel, the Goblin Slayer, and…Rabbiteater craned his neck happily, trying to stare at their boots. Oh, interesting. One had some sensible metal boots, and he thought he saw another dress.

“Who is you two?”

“I’d prefer not to say.”

The female voice retorted, and the other fellow muttered an agreement. But now, Seraphel and Cortese seemed prone to vengeance. If their identities were public…Cortese called out.

“I can sense an aura from one of you, sir and madam. A wet one. It reminds me of rain. I daresay I know which country you hail from. If not your identity.”

Seraphel was trying to see if her tiara could ameliorate her pain. She called out.

“Magic in the stall on the far wall. Would that be from Tourvecall? The Kingdom of Incantations?”

Both parties were silent. At length, the woman responded.

“Lady Menrise of Tourvecall. And I believe I am adjacent to…”

“Earl Altestiel of the Rains.”

“You mean the mudslides.”

Rabbiteater shot back. Cortese began laughing.

Hah!

Even Seraphel chuckled, but Altestiel was not amused.

“This is no laughing matter…Ser Solstice. I have half a mind to conjure a storm to engulf this entire city. Who allowed this travesty of—whatever is upon us?

Seraphel stopped laughing abruptly and spoke hurriedly.

“I can assure you, Lord Altestiel—this has to be the most incredible of accidents. Or perhaps…something else. I have never, ever heard of someone encountering—this at a banquet.”

Rabbiteater snorted.

“First time for everything?”

The three other non-Calanferian guests muttered dark agreement. Seraphel bit her lip. Then Altestiel spoke.

“I suppose…‘Ser Solstice’…it’s fortuitous we meet. You have a very interesting name. One so fascinating, I cannot help but equate it with a young woman I happen to know personally. And the Order she established. An [Innkeeper] of some renown.”

Rabbiteater sat up in his stall. He turned to his right.

“Wait. You know…Erin?

Seraphel and the others had no idea who that was, but they blinked as Altestiel sighed.

“The [Innkeeper] of The Wandering Inn. I do indeed. She is a great friend of mine.”

Seraphel’s eyes lit up. But Cortese broke in, sounding fascinated. His tone became sly.

“Oh, the [Innkeeper]? And that odd scene with the Order? Ser Solstice—is that where you come from?”

“…No?”

A knowing silence enveloped them until Altestiel responded.

“I, uh—take it you are a mutual acquaintance of hers? She did not mention you outright, ‘Ser Solstice’.”

He said it like he knew quite patently it was not Rabbiteater’s real name. Rabbiteater just wondered if this was a friend or foe. If he liked Erin…probably a friend?

How did she know a Terandrian Lord? He decided to ask just that.

“She’s a friend. I stayed at her inn. How do you know her?”

“I, ah, encountered her on my visit to Izril. A quite striking young woman. A magnificent chess player. Whom I propositioned to marry.”

Rabbiteater roared.

What?

Seraphel nearly fell off her toilet seat in shock.

“What?”

Cortese stared blankly at the ground.

“Does anyone have any more toilet paper?”

Rabbiteater kicked the door of his stall and almost tried to climb over the side to see Altestiel.

“You did what?

Ser Solstice! Please!

Seraphel remonstrated with him. Altestiel sounded amused.

“She rejected me. Is that so inconceivable?”

“Yes! I don’t know you! I’ll fight you.”

Altestiel bristled in his stall.

“Why? Are you one of Miss Erin’s suitors?”

“No! She saved my life! Cortese, give me your glove. I’ll slap him with it.”

The Hundredlord broke in with a note of growing urgency in his voice.

“I might trade my glove for a…a roll of toilet paper? I appear to be out.”

The other four occupants fell silent. Rabbiteater had been sparing—and he’d stolen half the paper from every other stall. But he was careful about his supply. Cortese was not.

“Does anyone have anything to spare?”

A chorus of voices answered him.

“Nope.”

“I fear not.”

“Er…I think my own supply might not exceed my demand, whomever you are.”

“Sadly…”

Cortese shouted back.

“Dead gods! I am Hundredlord Cortese! Just send me a scrap or two, would you?”

His identity established, the man waited…and no one came to his rescue. After a second, Rabbiteater called out.

“The stall next to us is empty. Maybe it has something.”

The Hundredlord’s lips moved silently as he calculated the maneuver. Then he whispered.

“I cannot stand up, sir. Not without attending to my distress! Nor do I fear I will make it.”

Rabbiteater shrugged.

“Then crawl under? Maybe get a long stick?”

Sir! Just throw a bit of yours to me!

Earl Altestiel sat there and counted the squares he had left. He made a quick, strategic assessment.

“I would not do that if I were you, friends. We’re all going to run out of paper. Lord Cortese is simply the first casualty.”

That was too much for the [Lady] from Tourvecall. She tried tossing something over the stalls, and it landed on Seraphel’s lap, causing the [Princess] to gasp.

“Dead gods! At least give him some help! Here—toss it to him.”

Seraphel slipped it under the stall, and Rabbiteater gamely tried to toss a three-square length over the stalls. In silence, all five occupants realized…

“…It’s landed in the empty stall, hasn’t it?”

Cortese sounded like he might cry. Rabbiteater grunted.

“Yep. Sorry.”

The Hundredlord was rapidly losing sanity. His voice almost broke with desperation.

“Can anyone spare anything else? A handkerchief?”

Lord Altestiel shuddered darkly.

“That’s a handkerchief that will never be used again.”

“I have already forfeited mine.”

The Hundredlord was losing his sanity rapidly. Seraphel shuddered in her stall. She rummaged in her bag of holding, and everyone did the same. At length, Altestiel made a sound. He had found something.

“Oh no.”

Seraphel looked up, wishing she had a flyer or something. But [Princesses] didn’t carry much if everything appeared when they called.

“What?”

Altestiel was silent for a long moment.

“I…have a backup. But I don’t know if I want to try it. I have a scroll of [Barkskin]. Very coarse. I might have to hold onto it.”

“I have some spellpaper.”

The Lady Menrise volunteered. Hundredlord Cortese grunted.

“And I…am increasingly desperate. I will take both. What else?”

Rabbiteater spoke.

“Your socks.”

All the Humans fell silent, and Seraphel spoke quietly.

“That would be a dire strait indeed, Ser Solstice.”

“Well, you have socks. I have a hand.”

Everyone contemplated this. Cortese replied softly.

“I would rather die. But I will take the scrolls.”

Altestiel was just about to pass his over when—the door opened. And Seraphel heard the voice of a saint.

“Your Highness?”

Was that—Seraphel called out suddenly.

“Miss Beacle? Is that you?”

The servant had somehow found her! She pushed open the door to the privy, speaking cautiously.

“Your Highness? I—uh—”

The realization that the lavatory was occupied and the smell hit the girl, but she had found Seraphel despite the rapid exit the [Princess] had made. And even more—

“Your Highness, can I get you anyth—”

Toilet paper!

Five voices shouted at her. The [Servant] shut the door, fled—and within two minutes, she was back. She tossed rolls of paper over the stalls, and Cortese cried out.

Who is that servant? I shall commend her to the Eternal Throne!”

Altestiel nodded rapidly.

“A credit to her entire class. A [Saint], if ever the class existed.”

“Dead gods. I can put my shoes back on.”

That came from the [Lady], much to Seraphel’s mild horror—and she had to admit—hilarity. Everyone fell silent—and then they all started laughing. Seraphel spoke.

“Please—I know this is all highly embarrassing, but we’ve all been revealed. You are Lady Menrise, yes?”

“You speak to the [Spellbound Lady] Menrise. Magic run through you. And nothing else.”

Rabbiteater craned his head.

“Ooh. Magic?”

Altestiel industriously tore strips off his roll of toilet paper.

“Endemic to Tourvecall. This may be the most…unguarded we have ever met the reclusive nobility of Tourvecall. I have always wondered what lay under their helmets. No offense, Lady Menrise.”

“None taken. It is hardly as if we are half-Elves. I fear our appearance would be more distressing than…alluring. I may oblige you all.”

Hundredlord Cortese was as surprised as Seraphel, who understood the same thing. Though he blurted it out, which was typical of Kaaz’s folk.

“Truly? I thought it was entirely intimate.”

The Lady chuckled darkly.

“It is embarrassing more than anything. But I can hardly imagine anything worse than this.”

Cortese hesitated before barking a pained laugh.

“True.”

“Yup.”

The Goblin, sitting in the middle stall, nodded. Rabbiteater found himself imagining the woman as she explained.

“It would appear—to preface the issue—as though my skin were too pale. Regardless of color. The sheer magic in Tourvecall has changed our very skin. The helmet is not to hide our appearance, either; unguarded, our skin leaks mana.”

“It does? That—is not something I’ve heard of.”

Altestiel was astonished. The [Lady] sighed.

“A side effect of our magical blood. Not a single Spellbound of Tourvecall is born without the ability to cast spells. But we are exposed to too much of it, perhaps. The mana is so dense in the air…well, the common folk are not nearly as surrounded by it.”

“Huh. Sounds cool. I like magic.”

Rabbiteater offered. He was the common folk in the room, and the others chuckled at that. Hundredlord Cortese interrupted.

“If you think that is a sight, visit the Infinite Dungeon of Kaaz, Goblin Slayer. If your axe is half as sharp as your wit, you might clear a number of rooms.”

“Or lose a hand in the interminable duels.”

“That is an exaggeration of Kaaz, Earl Altestiel.”

The Earl of Rains’ reply was to toss one of the spare rolls into Cortese’s stall.

“Is it? I have three scars from visiting Kaaz. Dueling is ‘optional’, but you lot like to press your point, pun intended!”

“We pursue excellence in combat, and we settle matters with blades as well as words!”

Cortese hurled two rolls back. Seraphel shouted as one landed on her head.

Would you two stop throwing toilet paper?

“…Apologies, Your Highness.”

“Yes, Earl Altestiel quite forgot himself.”

Before either man could bristle, Rabbiteater broke in.

“So. One of you likes duels. One of you is super-magical. One of you is responsible for this stupid kingdom.”

“Hey.”

“And what’s Desonis known for?”

Altestiel began to speak, but the other three cut him off.

“Rain.”

“Swamps.”

“Hydras? And a sleeping [Queen].”

The [Earl] spluttered as he raised his voice in outrage.

Oh come now. Desonis is a proud nation!”

“A wet nation, more like.”

“It rained my entire three-week visit.”

“Lovely hot tubs, though.”

Rabbiteater rubbed his hands together, grinning as the other guests roasted the Earl of Rains.

“Hot tubs, huh? And you wanted to marry Erin? Earl of Hot Tubs? No wonder she said no.”

Altestiel made a choking sound.

“I should like to get a good look at you, Ser Solstice.”

“Yeah, me too.”

A moment of silence as the two men bristled. Then…Rabbiteater poked at his stomach.

“We’re going to die in here.”

The other four people fell silent. Seraphel spoke up after a moment.

“I am sure Beacle is fetching us a potion for our stomachs.”

Lady Menrise almost sobbed aloud.

“What a relief! But what caused this?”

Rabbiteater frowned and poked at his gurgling stomach.

“Uh—what did you all eat?”

The other four compared notes as Altestiel decided to track down the dish, lest it offend anyone else. Lady Menrise passed him a quill and inkpot, and he used the toilet paper to take notes.

“Let’s see. I bet it was the oysters. Who had that?”

Seraphel shuddered politely. She knew the dangers of undercooked oysters.

“No.”

Cortese snorted.

“I hate the foul things. I fed them to my lion.”

Menrise’s voice rose in disbelief; she had clearly not seen Kaaz’s folk.

“You have a lion?

“Yes, and if it was the tripe…I fear to see the banquet hall because half our cats partook. And they have quite the appetite.”

Seraphel shuddered in horror as Cortese spoke, but Rabbiteater objected.

“I hate tripe. I didn’t have any.”

The Princess scratched at her head.

“Then…what about the pudding? The gelato?”

Altestiel brightened up.

“There’s gelato for dessert? I don’t recall seeing it served, yet.”

Seraphel bit her lip and hoped that revelation didn’t reach her mother.

“Not that, then. Pudding?”

The Goblin smacked his lips.

“I had blood pudding. Anyone like it?”

Everyone else disagreed with Rabbiteater. They were talking further when Lady Menrise spoke.

“Pray—could it have been Golaen’s gift to the occasion? That new dish?”

Seraphel hesitated. Now that sounded…

“Which one? Wait…the ‘do-nots’?”

The Hundredlord instantly disagreed.

“Donuts. Surely not! They were just a frosted piece of…baked goods. But I did have one, come to think of it. The novelty. Anyone else?”

“I did.”

Altestiel spoke up and felt a stir on the back of his neck. It had been a strange food. But he’d been taken to the restroom so fast—

The Hundredlord Cortese grunted.

“But that would mean—I did recall sampling a delightfully frosted one right before I—those giant-blooded bastards. I repent all my accusations, Your Highness. If anyone would have made the mistake—”

Seraphel buried her face in her hands.

“I had one too. Rabbiteater?”

“…Yep.”

Altestiel decided it was case-closed. But it was strange. They looked like fried goods. Indeed, Cortese was now throwing a fit.

You have to boil those damned things in hot oil! How can Golaen mess up a simple treat? It had none of those bacteriums or whatever they’re called! I’ll stab that [Titanguard] myself!”

“What’s a bacterium?”

Rabbiteater held his stomach. Seraphel tried to calm Cortese down.

“Lord Cortese, I would not do that. The [Titanguard], Lord Etrogaer, is a dangerous foe.”

“Do you think I fear that? A [Duelist] fears no foe. I may not be a Gold-bell fencer, but I earned my silver bell when I was seventeen.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Rabbiteater cautioned him, and Cortese turned his wrath on him.

“Oh, and you think I haven’t seen combat, Ser Solstice? Should I duel you first?”

The Goblin decided he might be done. He tapped his empty stomach and shrugged.

“If you like. But that [Titanguard] will still stomp you flat. He’s over Level 40.”

Cortese hesitated.

“…You’re sure?”

“Yep.”

Altestiel muttered an agreement.

“That squares with Desonis’ intelligence. How can you tell, Ser Solstice?”

“I recognized his Skill when he patted me on the shoulder. Something super-heavy. He can probably crush your bones to dust.”

Cortese muttered in his stall.

“…That is more concerning. Well, our neighbors in Golaen produce mighty warriors. I should like to see if our Lance of Kaazaldrin, Gorethem, would duel Lord Etrogaer in my stead. That would be…amusing. He was a Named-rank adventurer before he was accepted into the Thousand Lances.”

“One of the Thousand Lances is here?

Rabbiteater sat up, worried. His stomach decided it had more to expel—out of worry. Named-rank? 

“What’s a Thousand Lance?”

Seraphel was gingerly debating leaving the restroom herself.

“The greatest knight-order in the world. The Thousand Lances of Kaazaldrin are just that—a thousand [Knights] who are inducted into the greatest knight-order. Even the Order of Seasons or Ailendamus’ [Knights] may be invited. Named-rank adventurers are also sometimes admitted.”

“…Only a thousand?”

“A thousand is all you need. Each noble family ensures a member of our Thousand Lances want for nothing. As a Hundredlord, I have more members of the Lances in my house than all but the crown.”

Hundredlord Cortese picked up the explanation. Rabbiteater sat there.

He didn’t like the idea of that. Or at least, fighting that. A thousand armored enemies wielding artifacts sounded like a really unfair time. But Cortese assured the other people they had nothing to worry about. Beacle stepped back in, issuing huge apologies, and relief finally arrived in the form of a tonic. It was, ironically, brown.

“Kaaz has no designs on conquest. Unlike Ailendamus. We do have a history of answering grudge for grudge—but once settled, friendships bloom from a bit of strife.”

Rabbiteater brightened up. He flushed the toilet one last time and stood up. His stomach finally stabilized.

“Hey, that’s true. I feel better.”

Menrise was industriously flushing the toilet as she sighed in relief.

“Myself included.”

Seraphel gasped.

“Me too!”

Altestiel sighed.

“Praise be to all [Healers]. I think…our ordeal is at an end. Ladies, gentlemen…I think this has been a positive experience. Discounting the pain. I should like to leave now.”

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

Lady Menrise agreed as she delicately opened the stall door.

“And I will shake all your hands. After we have washed them. Thoroughly.”

 

——

 

And so they did. There was something bonding about mutual suffering. As any good [Diplomat] knew. This was such the case that as the door to the condemned lavatory opened, five people emerged all at once, not independently.

Rather than pretend they didn’t know each other, they came out, shaking washed, cleaned hands. Ser Solstice, eying Earl Altestiel, who nodded to the Hundredlord as he peered at Lady Menrise and she flipped her own visor up. She bowed to Princess Seraphel and exchanged the smile of a survivor.

A friendship forged in troubled waters. It was so notable that a passing [Diplomat of Envy], Corek of Ailendamus, halted on his rush to the restroom. He’d just had a bite of a treat he’d been saving on his plate, and none of the Thronebearers or servants had seen fit to save him from his fate.

He felt the terrible pain in his intestines, looked at the group of five, and realized what had happened in a flash. Corek shook his head.

Dead gods. Is it—the legendary Umbral Throne diplomacy?”

Even more famous than the Winebreath Blaster. If he didn’t know better, he might have guessed Calanfer had set this up! But even they weren’t this dramatic. Corek rushed into the toilet, inhaled once, and paled as he opened a stall.

“Kingdom of Glass and Glory preserve me.”

 

——

 

What a day, eh? Ser Solstice actually sounded more cheerful after his harrowing journey. Perhaps because he’d found a more entertaining group of people than the food or celebrations.

Or perhaps because, as he emerged from the restrooms, he came face-to-face with a silver-and-purple haired man, who did indeed feel like a rainstorm, both in temperament and aura. Prone to moods, the Earl Altestiel of Rains.

He paused, drying his hands with a cloth, and the Goblin Slayer looked him up and down as the Earl adjusted his violet coat, flashing with golden epaulets. For a second, Rabbiteater debated punching him—then the Earl of Rains held out a gloved hand.

“—I was exceptionally relieved to hear Erin was returned to life. My [Strategist] and most trusted right hand, Kiish, made sure of it. I like to think I helped, in some small way.”

“You did?”

Rabbiteater forgot his anger in a second. He took the hand, and the two looked at each other. Perhaps the Earl saw a crimson flash behind that visor. Or expected to. He gave Rabbiteater a knowing look, and the Hobgoblin waited. But all the [Earl] did was smile.

“You’re far from home, Ser Solstice.”

“Yeah. I was having an adventure. This part sucked, but the rest was…something.”

The two stood there, and a man with dark brown skin and a flash of red running through his disheveled locks practically kicked his way out of the lavatory. Hundredlord Cortese looked around, saw his pet lion prowling around him anxiously, and bent down to pet her. But she took one sniff of him and backed away.

“So this is Ser Solstice and the Earl of Rains. Amazing. That wasn’t all a hallucination.”

He wiped at his brow as his handkerchief was no longer…and turned. The three men saw a woman push open the door and freeze. Seraphel flushed, but Lady Menrise stepped out into the hallway, her visor shut, her hands folded demurely in a star-lavender dress.

“Needless to say, gentlemen, Your Highness, I shall deny this event ever took place under torture or truth spell.”

A laugh escaped Seraphel’s mouth despite herself. She looked around, and Beacle was waiting, along with some very apologetic Thronebearers who had been alerted to the—distressing incident.

“It looks like a bit of chaos. Food poisoning and Golaen in the spotlight. Earl Altestiel, are you interested in taking these fools to account?”

The Hundredlord Cortese went for his rapier as he looked around, spotting Thronebearers interposing themselves between offended guests and the defensive Golaen group. Altestiel raised one brow.

“I think that would be fair. Ser Solstice?”

Rabbiteater was just about to join in the fun of punching someone when Seraphel objected.

“Guests, I must insist on civility. Can we not pretend this incident never occurred altogether, as we just promised? Allow me to make it up to you.”

“How?”

Rabbiteater was as skeptical as the others, but Seraphel turned, saw the sun fading in the distance, and clicked her fingers.

“Beacle, alchemical dawn cider. A tray, and something—cooked. We shall all retire out of the palace to the Skybridge.”

Cortese hesitated, a hand on the hilt of his sword. He looked at Altestiel, then Ser Solstice. And then, the Goblin bent down and pulled out a huge, practically uncooked leg of mutton out of his bag of holding. Altestiel actually stepped back in amazement as he offered it to the lion.

“Do you just…walk around with meat in your bag of holding, Ser Solstice?”

Lady Menrise was patently disbelieving. Rabbiteater shrugged. He patted his bag of holding as the lion sniffed the un-spiced, frankly bloody meat. Far better than everything else! She padded over, and he patted her on the head like a Carn Wolf. The Goblin answered the [Lady].

“I’m storing toilet paper in there too. Lots of it. Important gear anywhere you go. Like food. Good cat.”

“Incredible. Impossible. Baeris takes to almost no one. You’re not the least afraid?”

Cortese looked astonished—and approving. Rabbiteater eyed the huge lion; she was not the maned kind, being female, but she was a huge predator and on Earth, an apex killer. Here? He thought she was sort of cute.

“I used to grow up with Carn Wolves. They’re bigger. Roll over.”

Baeris bared all her teeth in a warning snarl that made Seraphel step back. The lion was far too intelligent for her liking, doubtless the product of Skills. Rabbiteater instantly stuck his gauntleted hand in her mouth. The lion backed up as Cortese’s eyes widened in shock. Altestiel began chuckling.

“Go on and bite me. Dare you. I’ve got metal hands.”

Baeris growled—then licked his gauntlets. Rabbiteater ruffled her head, and Cortese exhaled. He let go of his hilt and guffawed so loudly everyone in earshot looked at him.

You! You must come to Kaaz! I’ve decided—Ser Solstice is no rogue but a friend! So sayeth the Hundredlord of House Withred! What is your name, Ser Solstice?”

He proclaimed it like a royal announcement—which it almost was. Seraphel herself was amazed, but Ser Solstice just rose and shook Cortese’s hand.

“You can call me Rabbiteater. Some of my friends do. Did someone say drinks? What’s alchemical dawn cider?”

 

——

 

You might think a Goblin could make no friends in Calanfer, with all the Humans and their views on Goblins. But a masked Goblin [Knight] had a lot in common with a Lady of Tourvecall. Lady Menrise even had her own glass straw she brought everywhere.

“So, how do you eat with your helmet on?”

Rabbiteater found out that alchemical dawn cider was a kind of cider brewed in Calanfer. It glowed, like everything else in the Eternal Throne, but the alchemical part was something that made it fizz in a lovely way as he took a sip from his own straw.

And he stood on the Skybridge, the crystal bridge now glowing softly, a cherry red as the sun fell. As the moon rose, Seraphel assured them, it would be like standing on a moonbeam.

Menrise answered with a low chuckle.

“I am allowed to take my helmet off if not in the company of outsiders, so it is a far less strenuous obligation than yours, Ser Solstice. But as to your question? Either a privacy screen or—how large is your helmet?”

“Eh. Not very.”

“Mm. I have a very small pouch of holding. So I would transfer in an acceptable bite of food—something handheld—and then, inside my helmet, levitate the food out—”

Amazing. I just drink soup.”

Altestiel nearly snorted his own drink out his nose. He looked around as the bridge began to change, taking on a glow from the blue moon above, the only one out as the green moon waned in the sky to a sliver.

He kept looking down, despite knowing he stood on solid ground, because it did feel like standing on pure light. It was a magnificent sight—and even for a visitor to Calanfer, he had to admit it was unique.

Mainly because no one else was on the bridge but Beacle, a few Thronebearers keeping people from walking on from both sides, and the five guests.

Princess Seraphel du Marquin could reserve the Skybridge to herself. In fact, for a royal family member, that was the default; no pedestrian would cross while she stood there. They’d use the other, lesser bridges.

The [Princess] was almost completely ignorant to the changing Skybridge, which amazed her other newfound friends. And they were…friends? They were something.

“A fine drink. A fine view, I will admit.”

Hundredlord Cortese himself admitted to being slightly satisfied by the occasion. Seraphel looked up. She was hesitantly petting the huge lion, Baeris, on the head as the lion began chomping the bone from the mutton leg Rabbiteater had given her.

“Here’s to ordeals never spoken of and to Calanfer. To the Dawn Concordat’s victory in battle and Ser Solstice and the Princess of Calanfer!”

Altestiel proposed a toast, and Rabbiteater glanced up.

“Bah. I was starting to like you. Let’s toast getting drunk.”

Chuckles from Lady Menrise and a scandalized sound from Seraphel—until she realized she was the only one. Menrise was pithy, and Cortese, once he decided he liked you, minded no coarse language or poking. Seraphel took another cup off a tray, and Rabbiteater poked her. She jumped, and he laughed.

She stared at him, then tried to poke him back but found poking an armored [Knight] was impossible. The Hobgoblin chortled—until a finger poked him.

Gaaah!

He stared at Seraphel’s translucent hand, felt a finger jab him in the side, icy-cold—and leapt so high and back that he hit the railing.

Ser Solstice!

Cortese and Altestiel grabbed for his legs as the Goblin nearly toppled over the edge of the bridge. The Thronebearers went running as Seraphel clapped a hand to her mouth—then hurried to try and pull him up! Lady Menrise saved the three struggling figures from hauling the heavy Goblin by pointing a wand.

“[Featherweight]. Heave him up!”

“Ser Solstice, Rabbiteater, I am deeply sorry—”

Rabbiteater was laughing. He felt at his side, delighted, then pointed at Seraphel.

“Great poke! Great trick!

Seraphel exhaled, and then the Hobgoblin was asking her if that were her new Skill, and Lady Menrise was offering Baeris a drink, much to the lion’s delight. Cortese gave Princess Seraphel an admiring look and then drew his sword.

“Well, if we’re displaying Skills—Earl of Rains, I know you have a few interesting ones. Between friends, let’s show some off. Ser Solstice, surely you have something new from your victories.”

Rabbiteater thought about it as he smiled behind his helmet.

“I’m a plant.”

“…Hm?”

 

——

 

They spent hours on the bridge. Seraphel was sure Ielane was putting out fires and avoiding feuds in the palace, but as expected, by the time the slightly drunk group parted ways in the corridor, there was little sign of the disaster in the banquet hall.

“Tomorrow, anon! Tomorrow!”

Cortese blew a kiss, and Menrise performed the same gesture. Rabbiteater was walking off to talk to Altestiel a moment longer about their shared acquaintance. But both stopped and waved at Seraphel, and she bowed.

She had scarcely felt so—ebullient in her life. As if time had flown past, rather than dragged in smalltalk. Not that they had been discussing the affairs of the realm! Half the time had just been showing off Skills or daring each other to silly things like getting Baeris to roll over and beg for a treat. Or Rabbiteater jumping off the bridge for a dare, followed by Cortese and Lady Menrise. Somehow, Altestiel was the hesitant one with Seraphel!

Remembering it was almost as delightful—but she was so exhausted, Seraphel would have liked nothing more than to lie down. And see her newfound friends tomorrow.

Of course, the banquet and politics awaited and her mother would probably wish to ensure that Seraphel could leverage her new connections and that the friendships were not too friendly.

Doubtless, the others thought that way, too, and were aware of their obligations to their countries.

And yet the [Princess] had to admit—it was a rather fine thing to meet some of the dignitaries in such an…unguarded situation. She actually thought she might genuinely like them, and the reverse might hold true.

As for the rest of the gathering, well, the stomach-churning dish was a footnote in the discussions to come. Seraphel was just heading to her room, wondering if ‘Ser Solstice’ played chess as well as the famed Earl of Rains. Perhaps they could have a second—carefully vetted—breakfast? She was just about to look into it when someone burst into her rooms.

Seraphel! Seraphel!

“Aielef, get out!

Seraphel reached for something to hurl at her elder sister. She had no time for any courtly intrigue—but she stopped when she saw Aielef.

Her dress was bunched around her, and she was wild-eyed, her hair a mess, the dyed red tangling around her face.

But that was what made Seraphel stop. A [Princess] of Calanfer should never look that way. Ielane had drilled that into her daughters. But even more than that…

“Where’s your tiara? Aielef?

The [Princess] stumbled forwards, still clutching her stomach.

“I—I ate something horrible, Seraphel. I rushed to my rooms, and when I came out—my tiara was gone! And someone’s stolen two crossbows from Noelictus’ [Hunters] and burgled half of Golaen’s guests!”

Seraphel shot up, and her eyes widened. A thief had come in the night. It was almost as significant as…

The donuts.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: Shorter chapter! Shorter chapter, and a two-part story for Rabbiteater! I’m taking it easy and not pushing for everything!

Wait…why is it still 30,000 words?

Where did I go wrong?

I know, energy. I have too much energy. Too little ability to condense and I suppose, expedite affairs. But every scene has its place. Even the toilet scene. No one ever talks about Aragorn in Lord of the Rings. I bet there was a bad poo at least one time, especially with all them Hobbits. Unless Legolas eats air or something.

The point is, I hope you enjoyed. Some of the Twitch stream-readers found it funny, but maybe they’re all children at heart. I probably am. Thanks for reading and see you later!

 

Palass, The City of Inventions by Enuryn the [Naturalist]!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.17 R

Now, the Dragonthrone.

They called it different names, those Humans who had never looked upon a Dragon’s face except set in stone, captured in some snarling mural where their only purpose was to be a beast, mentor, or companion to Humans or other species.

That was not the fault of later generations. Every species told that kind of story; self-centered and narrow. Even, nay, especially Dragons.

What you had to know was this: the Dragonthrones were crystallizations of selfishness and nobility. They embodied everything that was best and worst of Dragons, much like the Walled Cities defined the Drakes.

The Dragonlord of Flame had not made his Dragonthrone. It had been a labor of love and pride from countless Dragons, entire elements coming together to build it. It was a haven, a great, fortified structure, even a trap.

Terrium Archelis Dorishe had been a child the first time he was allowed entrance to the Dragonthrone and saw the Seat of Flame in construction. Even a Dragon hatchling had to be on his best behavior, and he had peeked out behind a semi-translucent wing like a waterfall of copper, and seen the first blocks being laid.

Fiery stone, quarried from the heart of an active volcano by Magma Trolls and with the help of the great Giant of Ash, Rhetorisel. Or rather, with her permission.

In millennia, countless millennia later, the last of her kind would seek shelter in Khelt’s sands and breathe her last. That was how old the Dragonthrones were.

Teriarch’s had been made to rule over other creatures. So each throne empowered the very nature of the Dragons who sat upon them. They were pure vanity, however; all that time and effort capturing the very essence of flame could have been spared to light a hundred thousand fires for cold, shivering souls across the world. Seldom had the Dragonthrones ever been used directly in war. They were trophies, the greatest prizes to be taken.

And many broke.

Eight had ever been built; five had been lost or deconstructed, parts hauled off to form the foundations of Walled Cities or just destroyed. Fissival’s Grand Librarium and the base of the Walled City of Magic was made of a Dragonthrone’s broken dreams.

Three remained in any capacity. Of the three, only one was in the public ‘knowledge’, and it had been given to a Human after the end of the Creler Wars. There was no owner left to contest it.

The Eternal Throne of Calanfer was technically the entire city. Entire streets had been laid using the vast Dragonthrone as the basis for a city. Did it outrage him?

No. Not really. It was the most generous, most useful a Dragonthrone had ever been. Calanfer had been given it, and of all the things ever done—

Teriarch thought Queen Marquin the First would have approved of that. Little else of her current nation perhaps, but then, he didn’t know.

He hadn’t gotten a chance to ask her. Now, the Brass Dragon watched the Eternal Throne shift. To be precise, the single seat in the entire, endless chamber that was the true Eternal Throne of Calanfer shifted.

It was a kind of anchored reality you could step into. That was what lay at the heart of Calanfer’s famous palace. Past the walls of more mundane make—through two doubledoors etched with the likenesses and names of every [King] and [Queen] to rule Calanfer, with so much space yet left—then you would step into another world.

Teriarch’s Dragonthrone had been meant to rule. It was a conclave of Dragonthrones, arranged in a vast circle such that supplicants would step into the last conclave of Dragon, Wyvern, and Wyrm.

Not so for this one. There was only one throne. This had been built for the first Dragonlord of Dawn, who declared himself Dragonking. Well, he had died, but no one had seen fit to change the throne’s design.

Despite that—what halted the literal thousands of Humans, mortals, even the Goblin [Knight] in their tracks as they were admitted entrance today—was the nature of this throne. For all his folly, the Dragonking, Raendersolis, had chosen a unique setting.

If you looked out of Teriarch’s lonely throne, you could see a world of brilliant clouds. Pink skies; an endless vista shimmering with green and red on alien horizons. As a girl, Magnolia had once said when he first showed it to her—a truly magical world.

But that was all. The space ‘only’ extended ten miles in every direction. Pure, unfilled space. No bottom, no sides. If you flew in any direction, you would loop back on yourself. It was impossible to die of falling unless you landed on the Dragonthrone. One time, hilariously, a child had fallen for six hours straight until someone noticed him looping through the sky. That had been—

Ah. Well.

The Brass Dragon looked across the Eternal Throne and saw a difference of opinions. For this Dragonthrone had no great marble dais. Instead, as you walked through those doors, you saw a strange substance like glass underfoot.

Like a perfect circle; a dais of crystal and light. It floated in the air with neither supports nor logic. Some found it so disturbing they could not take a step forwards, but most were too busy looking at everything else.

The Eternal Throne was filled with such daises, which floated, controlled by whomever sat on the throne. Right now, they were forming a vast circle, and Calanfer’s court would speak and stand, always looking up at that throne. But if ever they should look away from that shining platform or stop climbing the stairs of light that connected platform to platform, they would see the true reason so many called the Eternal Throne a wonder.

Teriarch sighed as he bowed along with the [Knights] and courtiers of a dozen kingdoms. Even the most arrogant stopped if this were the first time seeing it.

 

——

 

The stars. Of all the things Rabbiteater expected, it was not stars. He walked through the doors to his audience with the rulers of Calanfer, wondering if he would hate it and why Greysten said he had to visit.

Then—he was standing among stars. The Goblin looked around as he rose and felt like he was floating in the night sky.

“Dead gods.”

Markus whispered, and even sound was different here. The walls and floor were gone. Gravity felt…weaker. Rabbiteater did an experimental hop and nearly leapt off the side of the dais he was on.

A Thronebearer caught the Goblin and steadied him.

“Careful, Ser Knight. The Eternal Throne does have protective spells, but one can fall and be quite—disoriented. Pray, do not leap or run here.”

Rabbiteater nodded, then looked around again. Everyone was staring about, wide-eyed, and he could not blame them.

It was beautiful. So beautiful it hurt his heart, and he saw more than one person was misty-eyed.

There were some places in the world, like the High Passes, where, on a perfect night without clouds or above the cloud layer, you could look up and see the sky. Not just one or two stars, but countless brilliant lights. The same was true of Earth—but those places were harder to find with so many competing lights polluting the sky.

But if you did look up, you might have an inkling of what the Eternal Throne looked like. A constellation in slow motion, even comets and other celestial bodies like…wondrous fog or a stellar cloud—nebulas—slowly moving throughout this Dragonthrone.

At the speed of a universe turning. Then, you could stand there and see a comet passing, sometimes so close you could reach out and try to touch it.

That was the Dragonthrone of Calanfer. That was the Eternal Throne, and Rabbiteater had no idea how this place had been made or why. He had no idea that Void Dragons of old had captured reality here; to him, the idea of space was so abstract he could barely process it.

Nor did it matter. It was beautiful, and that was enough. He stood, inhaling the cool air, and realized why much of Calanfer’s court was bundled up more than usual. Rabbiteater was plenty warm in his armor, but he saw one of the [Princesses], Seraphel, blowing into her hands as her sister, Shardele, wore a scarf and strolled up the stairs.

After all—the Eternal Throne awaited. You could talk with other guests, but Rabbiteater had been invited here. Along with the Order of Seasons and many of Pheislant’s officers.

So, he climbed the steps as the Thronebearers bowed and saw a final dais, floating above all the rest. There sat King Reclis and Queen Ielane du Marquin.

The rulers of Calanfer. As for the thrones themselves? They were almost overshadowed by the final dais. A crystalline pair of high-backed thrones, which glowed with the strongest light in the room. Right now, they sat golden upon a dais that burned like the sun.

Solar flame, lapping at their feet, a miniature sun somehow transformed into a dais. It dazzled the eyes—but didn’t blind. Here, you could indulge in a child’s fantasy and stare at the sun without paying for it with your sight.

That was the inspiration for Calanfer’s motifs, and the dais itself almost overshadowed the thrones. As they walked up, the Order of Seasons and Rabbiteater felt like they were approaching a distant star, and it held their gazes.

—Of course, that was the true throne. The chairs upon it were for Humans. Not a Dragon, who might rest upon the entire dais of light.

Rabbiteater felt like the glow was burning through his armor and kept checking to make sure the rays of light weren’t piercing the mundane steel. He felt…like the sun was warming him up from the inside. He wanted to run, to laugh, to race from one end of Calanfer to another—but he held it in.

For the eyes of the King of Calanfer were upon him. King Reclis du Marquin sat, waiting, as [Heralds] acknowledged the noble guests of Kaaz, Gaiil-Drome, Tourvecall, and so many others. But he had already met with many, so his eyes were upon the heroes of the hour.

“Let the Order of Seasons of Pheislant and Ser Solstice of Izril approach the Eternal Throne!”

A [Thronebearer] called out. Rabbiteater saw a shimmering line of steps appear; beams of light, pure white-gold, as solid as stone, waiting to be climbed that they might stand within two dozen feet of the final dais.

“Uh oh. Don’t fall.”

Rabbiteater muttered as he eyed the steps and the plunge into the void. Markus gulped, and Talia turned her awe-struck gaze away from the Eternal Throne.

“Ser Solstice! Decorum!”

He couldn’t help it. Rabbiteater walked slowly with the other [Knights] until he was halfway up. Then he grabbed Talia’s shoulder and whispered.

Waaah!

She nearly leapt off the stairwell. Her face turned white then crimson with fury, and Meisa looked like she was going to kill Rabbiteater. Ser Greysten was turning purple with the effort of not laughing. Dame Voost gave both a reproving look, and Ser Zulv’s face was a mask of pain. A Thronebearer standing on the final dais before the throne looked outraged and almost spoke—

But then Rabbiteater heard a voice and realized that Calanfer’s reputation was not unearned. Poor at combat, dazzling in the courtroom, despite yesterday’s thefts and food poisoning—

Queen Ielane du Marquin chuckled. She laughed, and the voices from the Eternal Throne were magnified that, in audiences, anyone could hear them from around the entire room. Her laugh was infectious, made Rabbiteater start—

And was perfectly calculated. But it sounded so natural it fooled all but Ielane’s own daughters. Many of those watching picked up on Rabbiteater’s trick and snorted. The ‘unguarded’ amusement made the Thronebearers relax, and Rabbiteater began to like the [Queen] before she even spoke a word.

But what of King Reclis du Marquin? His eyes turned to Rabbiteater, and the Goblin saw a man much like Lyonette. His hair was a deeper red than fire, and his eyes had faded from blue to grey as lines in his face had appeared. For all that—he sat upon fire and flame, and when he spoke, his voice was slow, surprisingly low despite not being nearly as physically large as Greysten, and yes, amused.

He sounded rather like a Dragon, in fact. A trick Calanfer’s children had picked up from memory and practice from Marquin’s meetings with the last of Dragons. Reclis looked straight at Rabbiteater and said this for all to hear, and for the cameras and gossips and rumors:

“You are not the Lightherald who knelt here last. Nor do you bear that brave man’s mantle, nor carry his armor or sword and shield. Brave [Knight], Ser Solstice, I have heard many call you the Lightherald of Calanfer. But you are not him, nor who will follow after.”

Rabbiteater froze up, then nodded slowly. He wondered if he should kneel, and those watching shuffled, wondering if this were a rebuke. But Reclis’ tone did not sound hostile. It was, if anything, intimate. He went on after the smallest of pauses.

“I say this before all as my witness that there will be no confusion. Ser Solstice of Izril is not the Lightherald, nor does he represent Calanfer. He is touched by another blessing of Calanfer’s children. Dawnguard, they called the companions of Queen Marquin. A fitting title bestowed on the most valiant champions Calanfer can recognize. So I name thee. Ser Solstice of Izril, the Goblin Slayer, as many call you. Ser Greysten, the Summer’s Champion of the Order of Seasons, and Dame Talia, of proud House Kallinad of Pheislant and the Season of Summer.”

All three [Knights] hesitated, confused—then one of the Thronebearers standing before the throne opened a box. Markus made a noise, and Meisa elbowed him—and Rabbiteater saw a brilliant flash from a rising sunburst.

It was just gold. Truegold, but it captured the light of the Eternal Throne, and it was pretty enough. Reclis beckoned, and slowly, Rabbiteater ascended the steps with Talia and Ser Greysten. He knelt, and a loop of silk was draped over his neck. He felt the tiny weight of the medal chime against his armor and looked up.

Reclis du Marquin nodded to him, smiling. Before he sat and spoke onwards, thanking Pheislant and the other heroes of the war—and awarded a medal for Tyrion Veltras to his representative—the man spoke, just to Rabbiteater.

“My daughter is fortunate indeed to have met a man of such valor as yourself, Ser Solstice. I pray to speak to her someday, if it can be done.”

Rabbiteater didn’t know what to say, but Reclis just stepped back. And the Goblin thought—he wasn’t so bad. For a fellow who stood on flames, at least.

 

——

 

It was slightly disappointing, to Seraphel du Marquin, to see Ser Solstice had fallen for her father’s ploys.

But then—he was very good in his element, and the Eternal Throne for a newcomer was just cheating. Reclis du Marquin was a powerful speaker, and Ielane was just as good. That laugh. Seraphel had never heard her laugh like that in private, except to demonstrate how it was done.

Well, Ser Solstice was in the crown and public’s favor, and those two did not always align. Since he had both, he was a fine guest of the Eternal Throne, milling about as Thronebearers personally served food off platters.

It was all a life-changing moment, a memorable occasion to dine and speak in the Eternal Throne. Unless you’d done it before. Seraphel noted some of the noble guests were slightly immune to the grandeur. At least, the [Earl] who peered at a simple caprese salad offered to him as a refreshment.

“And is this going to give me another date with the privy?”

The Thronebearer, a woman half Altestiel’s age, gave him a perfect bow. They were graceful and adept at their jobs, the Thronebearers. Just not so good on the battlefield. This Thronebearer, despite being new to her class, was every match for Altestiel’s grace. She offered him an apologetic and reassuring smile.

“The food and drink have all been personally vetted and sampled today, Earl Altestiel. The unfortunate incident of last night will not happen again, I assure you.”

The Earl helped himself to a small bowl and nodded as Seraphel walked over.

“And has anyone found the missing items the [Thieves] took?”

“I am afraid I cannot speak of matters of state, Earl Altestiel.”

The reply was very smooth, and the Earl grunted.

“Naturally. I suppose I should ask—ah, Princess Seraphel. Your Highness.”

He gave her a bow, and Seraphel eyed the salad. She took a bowl as the Thronebearer bowed deeply.

“Earl Altestiel. I am glad you attended today’s gathering.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it, to see Ser Solstice awarded the Dawnguard medal. I imagine one only sees a sight like that once in his lifetime. And the Eternal Throne is, in and of itself, a wonder, as always.”

The [Earl]’s eyes twinkled as he took a huge bite of his salad. Seraphel kept her face polite, but she felt interested as she took a bite of some tomato and mozzarella. Not too spiced or fancy; sometimes you could just enjoy a fresh bite of food.

Why would Ser Solstice be interesting? The Earl had been to Calanfer enough that it might not be as appealing. But that moment of mischief…he was a good statesman, but a bit obvious. A quirk of the lips, a subtle shift in his aura, like a spring shower overhead as you were walking—

Then again, Ser Solstice was interesting to Seraphel too. And she smiled, because Altestiel was a friend.

…Right? Seraphel’s warnings from her mother and all her history warred with the fact that Umbral Throne diplomacy was not something even Calanfer stooped to. In fact, Altestiel seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“I wondered, when I saw you, whether it was appropriate to approach, Your Highness.”

“I should be delighted, Altestiel!”

“Ah, myself included! But it is a funny thing to, ah, be—”

“Friends bound in strife?”

The [Earl] snorted.

“I would have said, ‘companions of porcelain’.”

Seraphel had to cover her mouth to hide a laugh. She looked around for Ser Solstice, but he was being mobbed—in a refined way—by Calanfer’s court. She sighed, and Altestiel followed her gaze.

“I imagine that we shall be getting down to proper talks today. Our last guests of Erribathe are set to arrive today. You wouldn’t…be kind enough as to hint what’s going on, would you?”

Ah, there it was. The favors. Seraphel’s elation ended—until she looked up at Altestiel’s smile. He was just teasing her. Or asking without expecting her to give away crown secrets. Right? She smiled cautiously.

“The Kingdom of Myth’s representatives are arriving today. That is all I know, Earl.”

“Ah, well. I shall amuse myself until then.”

He nodded lightly, and she was left wondering whether she was wrong for thinking he was probing. Or whether he was a better actor than she thought.

She hated that. And now, she wanted to find the helmeted man with the cloak. Ser Solstice was too genuine to distrust that way. Mostly because…

 

——

 

He was a Goblin. Earl Altestiel kept staring at him.

The [Earl of Rains] knew that Rabbiteater was a Goblin. He had already known. Even if he hadn’t visited the inn, the name ‘Rabbiteater’ would have tipped off anyone who knew Goblin culture. Which no one did.

But he had asked Rabbiteater outright, and the Goblin had pretended like he didn’t know what Altestiel was talking about. Which was fair—and Altestiel had gotten the feeling Rabbiteater was plotting to toss him off his balcony when he called The Wandering Inn.

Kiish had left some speaking stones, and even if it wasn’t the Titan’s ostentatious chessboard of himself, Altestiel had roused the inn at the late hour and gotten…Ishkr.

Which really hadn’t helped since he wanted Erin. But between Ishkr and a sleepy Selys vouching for him, Rabbiteater had declined to try and silence Altestiel. The [Earl] knew that Erin was on vacation, but he had thought she’d be back by now. Well, maybe something had happened. Even on vacation, you got bad weather. Hadn’t a river begun to flood or something around where she was staying?

At any rate—the Hobgoblin was wary, but Altestiel assured him he was an ally. And frankly—if he trusted the Order of Seasons, he could add an earl to the list.

He was currently the center of attention. Even Princess Seraphel seemed to like him, and Altestiel understood why.

If you knew he was a Goblin, it all made sense. You see—Calanfer’s people, from nobles to the crown, were quite good at social environments.

There were expert grifters and [Diplomats] who could pretend to friendship or any range of emotions and personalities. There were crazy, genuine people from Taimaguros and Hundredlord Cortese of Kaaz. But they still fit a range of options.

No one had ever met a Goblin. Only a Goblin would begin chatting in the middle of a bathroom dilemma. Even if you had met people like him—his reactions were genuine and different enough that he was like a speckled, colorful stone in a riverbed full of grey rocks.

And that was why he was a target of interest. But the Goblin clearly wasn’t happy with a lot of the nobility. He was looking around, that helmeted head craning because he, like Seraphel, craved a certain type of person.

He’d found them. At least, four of them. They were bound by blood and toilet paper and other stuff. Whether by chance or luck or design—Rabbiteater’s new acquaintances were interesting people too.

 

——

 

Princess Seraphel had found Lady Menrise of Tourvecall but had hesitated over approaching her. Altestiel was one thing, but would the lady of the reclusive, masked and helmeted Kingdom of Incantations really want to associate with Seraphel afterwards?

She was the Cursed Princess, after all. And Tourvecall was a hard nation even for Calanfer to get a read on. The helmets really didn’t help.

For instance, a [Lady] who was speaking to Menrise had a fishbowl on her head. No, that wasn’t a joke. The inside was closed off, but there was a glass exterior section where several fish were swimming about. This was the largest helmet of Tourvecall’s folk to contain the entire aquarium, and by that metric, Rabbiteater assumed she was in charge. The [Lady] even fed the fish with little sprinkles of food now and then via a hatch on the top of the tank.

The [Lady] was also lecturing Menrise, who was looking at the shimmering dais below her, gloved hands held in front of her. Seraphel winced as she heard the conversation.

—the most shameful display, Menrise. Jumping off the Skybridge? Nevermind your acquaintanceship—the decorum of Tourvecall rests on us.

“I’m sorry.”

Seraphel wanted to interject, to protest, but she knew it might make things worse. The [Lady] continued haughtily.

“Much less talking about any—issues—in the bathrooms—it is not to be brought up. Calanfer is already embarrassed; do not compound the issue, is that clear?”

“Yes, Mother. I understand, Mother.”

The fishbowl [Lady] paused, and Seraphel looked at Menrise. She had seen—for a second—the woman’s face after they’d emerged from their brown caves.

A pale face, so translucent you could see her veins in detail. If she had been a [Princess] of Calanfer, Ielane would have made her wear illusion spells. Eyes a bit too wide to be natural. A crooked tooth in a smile. But her eyes flashed with magic that moved even when her pupils did not, like a nimbus of green sparks.

Another prisoner of a cage, only hers was actual enchanted metal. For all that—she had jumped off the Skybridge after Rabbiteater and Altestiel! She had something Seraphel wanted.

Something Rabbiteater had told her—then her great ancestor, Marquin.

Do something. Anything.

But had she actually seen the ghosts? Standing in the Eternal Throne was a wonder, but not of the same kind as a thousand [Kings] of Terandria taking the field. Even now, Seraphel wondered…and she had been there. It was the folly of Humans to doubt their own sanity. Or maybe that protected them from the things creeping up in their head.

That day had changed everything. Khelt had declared a war to end things. And yet…here she was, back home, waiting for her next marriage.

Seraphel supposed she had hoped, privately, that the Eternal Throne had exploded or something would have changed it all for her. Because belief was harder without constant proof and vindication.

As for Menrise—the older [Lady] went on after a moment.

“I expect you to at least mingle with your newfound acquaintances.”

She hadn’t spotted Seraphel, and the [Princess] was happy to bail Menrise out. The [Spellbound Lady] bowed lower, and a few servants, Thronebearers, and even other nobility were watching out of the corners of their eyes.

“I’ll do that, Mother. I promise.”

The second time, the [Lady] paused—and then she leaned forwards and hissed. The fish swam about, agitated, as the water in her fishbowl head turned ochre-red.

Would you stop calling me ‘mother’? People are getting the entirely wrong impression, Menrise!

“Sorry, Mom.”

Menrise’s helmeted head rose, and Seraphel’s jaw dropped. The [Lady] turned and—impishly—walked over to the man with the completely circular head. He was talking with a Noelictus nobleman, and Menrise touched his arm.

“Father, do excuse me. I would like to circulate among the guests, if I may?”

The man stared at her with—Seraphel realized—not outrage, but a kind of confused dismay. As for the nobleman, he blinked, then bowed.

“Ah, your daughter is Lady Menrise, Lord Ostevar?”

“She is not my—that is to say—”

Menrise strolled away as the first [Lady] tried to pursue her. She was lying! Blatantly, too! Seraphel saw Menrise appear next to a group of Kaazian nobility, which included Lord Cortese.

“Ah, Lady Menrise. This is the Tourvecall [Lady] I mentioned.”

Their cats were freaking out in the Eternal Throne, but Menrise happily took Cortese’s hand as he bowed. Even Kaaz’s nobility were clearly fascinated by Tourvecall, and they introduced themselves, eyes on Menrise’s helmet.

“You, ah, must forgive our interest, Lady Menrise. We seldom see your queer visages abroad.”

That was a Kaazian [Lady] for you. A direct insult that she clearly hoped might result in a challenge. But Menrise just chuckled behind her helmet.

“I’m quite familiar with the stares, thank you, Lady Ruusa. You are delightfully strange yourself. I have the honor of visiting Calanfer for this grand occasion—you see my mother, the Lady Ficombe, and Lord Ostevar? My father.”

My. How interesting.”

Lady Ruusa lied, politely nodding their way. Menrise nodded happily.

“I am so glad to be here. You see—I haven’t seen my mother, Ruusa, ever since she bore me out of wedlock. It has been thirty-one years, and Lord Ostevar has finally returned to court.”

Every head swung back to Menrise. The Kaazian nobility stirred, and Seraphel choked on a lettuce piece.

“…Could you say that again, Lady Menrise?”

The [Lady] flapped a hand as the two nobles turned to stare at her. They couldn’t have heard, but she spoke quickly and airily.

“It is one of those classic Tourvecall stories. A tumble in a pigsty in a barn—disgrace, no marriage—they look lovely for sixty years of age, don’t they? Lots of preservative charms. But Lord Cortese, there’s Seraphel! Would you mind if I stole you…?”

And she was off. Leaving behind the frantic two nobles from her kingdom, who—if Seraphel’s perfect memory didn’t fail her—were almost exactly Menrise’s age.

Cortese seemed to understand Menrise was playing some kind of prank, although even he wasn’t sure how much of what she was saying was true. The [Lady] and he bowed quite gracefully before Seraphel, and the [Princess] was lost for words.

“Lady Menrise—I am sure Tourvecall is quite playful, but are you certain you don’t go a bit far?”

That was all she managed. If she had done that to Ielane…! But Menrise just giggled like a girl behind her helmet.

“They’ll live. And I am far too old to be lectured, Your Highness. Nor do I regret any part of yesterday. Which reminds me—who are all these interesting visitors, Lord Cortese, Princess Seraphel?”

She pointed discreetly, and Seraphel glanced to one side distractedly. The Eternal Throne had everyone from [Mercenary] company representatives from Baleros to dignitaries from the Five Families. And further envoys still.

“Oh, the usual run of diplomats.”

“You must have over a thousand!”

Cortese was astonished, and Seraphel recalled that most nations were not nearly as worldly as Calanfer. Kaaz was land-locked, further north, and while they got adventurers, they seldom offered much.

By contrast, Calanfer meddled, so Seraphel found herself pointing out people, not by face, but by clues like their dress or species.

“Ah—then you don’t have a diplomat from the Blighted Kingdom?”

“Never. How can you tell?”

Menrise peered at a serious nobleman, and Cortese checked his sword, but Seraphel nodded to the two serious, plain-looking [Bodyguards]. Unarmed, but highly competent.

“The Blighted Kingdom never goes without guards, even in the Eternal Throne. You can also see the Blighted Kingdom’s crest on a pin on his lapel, there. See? An iconic shape.”

Cortese squinted, but even the faint outline of the Blighted Kingdom—a bastion wall, like the rook chess piece—was a familiar symbol. Menrise nodded.

“And there?”

“A diplomat of…Manus. They don’t tend to fare well, especially in the current climate, but you can find a few Drakes.”

The sullen-looking Drake was scowling as someone upbraided him, possibly about the Meeting of Tribes. Fissival hadn’t even dared send a representative.

From Nerrhavia’s Fallen, when they deigned to show up, to the Great Companies of Baleros. A Centaur trotted over to shake the hand of…Seraphel frowned.

“Oh. Now, how interesting. That must be a rising star. Shardele would not be speaking to her otherwise. What kingdom is that?”

She eyed a woman who she took to be Human at first—until she spotted the telltale stitch-marks up one arm. Flaunted, not hidden. Seraphel crooked a finger, and the Thronebearer with the salads appeared.

“Your Highness?”

“For our guests—which nations does yonder emissary come from?”

The Thronebearer glanced over and replied instantly.

“The Empire of Sands, Your Highness. They control trade and most of Chandrar’s northwestern ports.”

“They do? When did that happen?”

“This year.”

Cortese tapped his lips, looking impressed.

“I barely knew. Not that we do much more than trade goods with Chandrar—but the King of Destruction is most of what I know from Chandrar. Him, and—have you seen that, ah, documentary about the Antinium?”

“Ksmvr of Chandrar?”

Both Seraphel and Menrise were eager to talk about that video series. And yet—Cortese used an interesting word, there.

“Did you say ‘documentary’, Lord Cortese? What might that be?”

Menrise tilted her head left and right. The Hundredlord hesitated, then smiled much the same way Altestiel had and looked about.

“Oh, just a term. But while we are here—why don’t I introduce you two to some fascinating guests? I think they’re…aha! [Swordservant].”

Like Seraphel, he raised his voice, and a scarred man appeared and bowed. He had a sword—or at least, a scabbard, since no blades were allowed in here.

“Hundredlord?”

“Bring forth our honored guests. Show the [Princess] and [Lady] Menrise their trinkets.”

The [Swordservant] hesitated.

“My orders are…”

Cortese’s eyes flashed, and his hand strayed towards his sword, again missing.

“It will hardly do to insult Calanfer’s hosts! Besides, look at Lord Etrogaer!”

He growled, and Seraphel looked left. The [Titanguard], eight feet tall, a giant among Humans, was laughing amidst his own hangers-on and company. And then Seraphel spotted what she had taken to be three servants.

Only—if they were Golaen’s servants, they were too short. Because they were ‘only’ around regular height and looked like actual children compared to Golaen’s stock. They were covered in the Kingdom of Giants’ livery.

It marked them as…what? Inducted nobility? Seraphel thought it was like fostering children, but Cortese saw something else. So the [Swordservant] bowed.

There was an interesting contrast to the six young men and women he brought back and Golaen’s group. The Kingdom of Giants’ three looked rather overwhelmed, hanging back and quiet unless Etrogaer turned to them and asked a question.

However, the six that bowed before Seraphel were a bit bolder. And the reason was clear when Cortese introduced them.

“I have the pleasure of introducing you to Silver-rank Adventurers, Cassy, Lan, and Bronze-rank Adventurers Fabrice, Hallbera…”

Seraphel saw the most interesting group of young men and women who looked to each be from a different country from skin tone alone!

Fabrice was closer to Cortese’s skin, but tall and lanky. Hallbera could have perhaps fit in with Cenidau’s Hearthlords, and Lan was Drathian.

And yet he was not Drathian, because his accent was all wrong. As for being adventurers, Cortese looked indulgently proud.

“Of the—group of them, these six are the only ones who have gone into the dungeon and slain a few monsters. Visiting the Eternal Throne was a reward.”

Indeed, the six children seemed as amazed as any guest, but what Seraphel found fascinating was that one of them was holding up a brick.

No, wait, it was thin. Some kind of artifact? It kept flashing, and Lan kept tugging down Cassy’s arm, but when she saw Menrise, the girl spoke.

“Oh my god. You’re so cool! Is that a helmet? I have to take a picture. With my—scrying device!”

Cortese looked indulgent, but the [Swordservant] looked so nervous that Seraphel and every Thronebearer in earshot instantly noticed. Menrise peered at the device.

“That’s not magical. Oh! It’s me!”

“A new artifact recovered from the Infinite Dungeon, Lady Menrise. Nevermind how it works—look! You can take a mage-picture in fine quality! Cassy—show them a picture of Kaaz’s nobility.”

Indeed, there were dozens, perhaps hundreds of mage-pictures on…Seraphel’s brows rose higher and higher.

Was this made by an [Archmage] of old? She glanced at the Thronebearer, whose blink told her this would be going to Ielane and Reclis immediately. But then she noticed the nobles of Kaaz posing.

“Oh, what’s this?”

“A peace sign. Just do this—”

And Lady Menrise was standing with her back to Calanfer’s Eternal Throne, both hands each holding two fingers up in a ‘v’. She waited, then clapped her hands in delight at how it looked.

She was so free, it disconcerted Seraphel. So much so that even in between trying to ask Cortese who these children were—she turned to Menrise.

“You don’t seem to be much shackled by your helmet, Menrise. I—I quite confess, I envy your freedom.”

The [Spellbound Lady] of Tourvecall looked at Seraphel in astonishment, then she touched the helmet on her head.

“Oh, this? It’s for safety so I don’t vent mana. It is hardly a helmet. Yes, it’s customary not to take it off, but I can if I wish. Only—I find people are more allured by wondering what lies beneath.”

Seraphel could have sworn the [Lady] winked at her beneath the helmet. Menrise touched it gently.

“It’s a choice. It’s stylish. But freedom? We are the scions of the Hundred Families. If we aren’t free, who in this world is?”

“Here’s to that!”

Hundredlord Cortese laughed, and Baeris, his lion, threw up over the edge of one of the daises and watched the vomit float away through space. Seraphel looked between the two and didn’t have the ability to join them, nor the heart to protest.

As for Altestiel—his gaze was sympathetic as he joined the company. And sharp as he glanced at the Earthers. Cortese never noticed; he was locking gazes with Lord Etrogaer.

So that was why they’d come to Calanfer. At least—part of the reason. Seraphel smiled politely in response to Menrise’s words.

Inside—she was screaming. But the person to whom she needed to truly speak to—

Well.

The words never quite came out.

 

——

 

Queen Ielane looked up, and Princess Seraphel froze. Her mother spoke briskly.

“Your father is waiting for you.”

“I know, but I was hoping I could—”

“Talk?”

The [Queen] was distracted. Outside of the Eternal Throneroom, after the guest reception, she had three veteran Thronebearers and several of Calanfer’s staff, including a [Bard], gathered around a plan of the palace. Ielane was patently impatient as she replied.

“Later, Seraphel. We must investigate this [Thief].”

“The one who stole Aielef’s tiara? You haven’t gotten them yet?”

Ielane sighed, and one of the Thronebearers bowed to the [Princess].

“Not just the tiara. Golaen and several others of the nobility were burgled in the same evening during the poisoning incident, Your Highness. Please keep this information to yourself.”

“Seraphel is an adult. Although the warning is not lost. You have some…capital, Seraphel, after your actions in the war, advisable or not. Your father will speak to you, but remember, you speak with Calanfer’s authority.”

“Y-yes, Mother. But how has a [Thief] escaped our Thronebearers?”

They might not be warriors, but against [Assassins] and [Thieves]? They were practically ten levels higher! For answer, one of the [Bards] spoke.

“We are dealing with a [Thief] on the level of one of the most famous in the continent. Perhaps it is one of them; we are investigating. For instance, the ‘poison’ that passed all detection came from stale confections Golaen stored improperly. But it was also coated in an alchemical aid.”

“Not a poison?”

A Thronebearer looked embarrassed and coughed into his hand.

“It has the same effects as one, Your Highness. It, ah, provokes—”

Ielane broke in without turning her head to Seraphel.

“We believe you should be going. As for the thief, they have some ability. Thank you for mentioning Kaaz’s strange guests, Seraphel. We had quite noticed, but it is good one of our daughters picked up on it. Shardele did not, nor did Aielef, though her distress is quite understandable. As for Vernoue…she overslept. Your father?”

Seraphel had to go. Her father was someone she could speak to, in theory—but Reclis du Marquin was also hard to approach.

For different reasons than Ielane. He sat in a personal study, and like the Queen of Calanfer, his public persona and private one were—

“Seraphel. Sit down. Ielane gave me some time. I wanted to speak to you—here, take a cup of this and drink. Tell me your thoughts, then speak to me about your thoughts on Tyrion Veltras and the Goblin Slayer. In order—we have to get to your newfound authority or your mother will be upset, but I am passionate about all the underlined subjects.”

Reclis du Marquin was often as short of time as Ielane, but he made up for his lack by a few things. Firstly—in private, he spoke quickly, without the regal pauses and intonation he worked hard on.

Secondly, he had a cup of some black liquid he proffered to Seraphel, and he was watching a scrying orb on low volume while she sat. His daughter saw Reclis glance up and saw a familiar Drake she liked on the orb.

I would like to be free of my duties as a [Princess].

…Was what Seraphel thought. What she said was—

“You watch Drassi and Wistram News Network, Father?”

“How could I not? Have you watched this latest development…? No? Ah, you were riding. Well, to summarize—Reporter Drassi has brought up an inequity in her pay compared to Ser Relz and Noass. Literally half their fee. A lot of the coverage is finding who dictated the terms. Whether it is Wistram or Pallass—Pallass being likely.”

“And you find it interesting because…?”

Seraphel was not fooled by her father’s attention as she sipped the drink. She made a face and pushed it back. Reclis glanced up.

“Not to your taste? ‘Coffee’. These events matter, Seraphel. Each one, from the drink to the discussions of pay between men and women—matter. They will ripple out from Izril to the world, and I would be a fool not to listen.”

“Of course. But—how exactly?”

Reclis du Marquin had on a pair of spectacles. He took them off and used vision spells when he was on the throne. When he spoke, it was absently.

“…Statistically, women do not serve in Drake hierarchies on the same ranking as most male Drakes. The same can be said of [Knights] at times, and a [Lady] can lead a battle, but rarely. In my reign, I have encouraged the Thronebearers of Calanfer to induct more female applicants. In preparation for a scandal and revolution. Perhaps it will come in my time. Perhaps not. The fact of the matter is that Calanfer should be poised to lead by example as well as words. If the upheaval is great enough. I take my clues from large reforms like [Peasant] rebellions and Golem uprisings as well as the landed revolt that formed the Five Families. If an entire gender is up in arms—Calanfer should come out the better.”

Did he think that was likely? Or was this just a low-chance idea? Either way, it dovetailed with Reclis’ belief, and it was his mission: let Calanfer endure.

Seraphel was used to these conversations, and her father was used to talking. He waved his spectacles as he polished them, again, looking at the scrying orb.

“Scrying orbs. They will have a profound impact on the world. We see it already, but I have devoted our [Bards] and [Mages] to perfecting what Wistram has begun.”

“Our own scrying network, Father? I hardly think that we can make one. It is beyond complex.”

Seraphel was amused, but Reclis shook his head.

“Not the system, Seraphel. How it is used. What people see—and how we present ourselves. Observe—Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Captured in an interview with Drassi, quite unfortunately. Observe—Jecaina of Jecrass. Transformed her nation from a casualty of the King of Destruction’s war into a political powerhouse via her poise. However, I take an even longer view. The crown—this crown must be simultaneously within this view of the public and yet carefully make sure the public sees only what we want to show. Nothing ‘live’. Calanferians should not see the Eternal Throne, but the city? Yes. Scrying orbs must not overturn the mystique or dignity of monarchy.”

He leaned on his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, like a [Scholar] trying to unravel a secret. Or a puzzle-master attempting a difficult box of tricks. Seraphel looked at Reclis.

“If we did look poorly on camera, Father?”

He glanced up, serious. With all the passion in the world.

“…Then part of what makes a monarchy a monarchy unravels. Perhaps it endures, nevertheless. But monarchy should be stronger than whatever a scrying spell can unravel, Seraphel. A kingdom must be. So. If I found scrying orbs intolerable to the rule of [Kings], I would try to unite public opinion against them, at least in Terandria. Instead, I find them a worthy tool, but one that must be mastered before holding.”

His eyes were firm, and unlike the authority he had on the throne, Seraphel believed him. Reclis du Marquin was a man who believed in ideas. And one idea he had devoted his life to. He went back to the orb, jotting notes down in a private journal.

“The peasantry will be another issue. Nothing breeds jealousy like witnessing first-hand Khelt’s largesse. No…no, Khelt’s citizens are as rich as to be foreign. Other nations at their finest—we should temper any discontent with holidays, perhaps laws to uplift.”

“Why not do it anyways?”

Reclis glanced up. Seraphel stared at Drassi, who was arguing with Noass.

“What, Seraphel?”

“Why not announce the Thronebearers will have as many women as men or pass those laws for the peasants now, Father?”

He smiled fondly at her, indulgently, and rose.

“Ah, I can see why Ielane wanted me to speak with you. That is a fine question to ask here, Seraphel. Be cautious, from now on, when speaking of Calanfer. You are a war hero—and your opinions have too much weight. Which is good! Ielane believes she might be able to use that, but make no promises on behalf of the throne.”

Seraphel bit her tongue. Her newfound fame? Her parents approved of it, amazingly! And told her—

“What about the laws, Father?”

He turned back to her sympathetically.

“Ah, Seraphel. The answer is simple. We are not Khelt. Nor do I need to lower taxes or declaim a holiday to keep Calanfer running as it is.”

“If it would make them feel better…I was in Afiele in Noelictus, Father.”

“Yes, the siege. Ridiculous business from Ailendamus. And?”

Seraphel saw him listening, but she wondered if he heard her. She tried to place her words carefully.

“The people there were wonderful. Brave, courageous, kind—hardworking. If they did not have to struggle as hard for taxes—if the crown had given funds to the [Lord] there…the disaster might not have come about. Can Calanfer not do the same?”

Reclis nodded sympathetically. He sat back in his chair, sipped the coffee, grimaced slightly, and replied.

“Indeed we could. But if I were Noelictus’ king—I would look at the net results.”

“Net results?”

Reclis stared at something unseen, like a man weighing the scales.

“Cast aside the events at Ovela which had different circumstances. Afiele was a tragedy—but the loss of life was localized. Levels were gained, and a single province nearly overrun by undead. It was horrific, and I wish you were not there. However. Is that commensurate with the idea of enacting a kingdom-wide reform? Even if I, as Noelictus’ [King], focused on a single province, I invite envy of other provinces. I believe I would find it unnecessary. Especially to the body that matters.”

“The peasants?”

Reclis shook his head.

“No. The kingdom. What serves the people or the nobility or even we, the royal family, the crown, does not always serve the kingdom, Seraphel. And the kingdom should—must endure. What matters is the kingdom. If serving the commonfolk serves the kingdom, then it should be done. As it stands? I don’t believe we have the time nor the will to push for some kind of…Samal-like paradise. Let alone Kheltian. Ailendamus is still at war with the Dawn Concordat, and I have not forgotten it. Fortunately, the Order of Seasons is pressing them, they have multiple raiders on several fronts, and House Wellfar has sent their ships into the war.”

He turned to Seraphel seriously.

“I convened this invitation to unite sentiment against Ailendamus as well as pursue other goals, Seraphel. The Restful Three’s presence is a huge chance—if confused by their own ambitions.”

“The young men and women. Why are they here?”

Seraphel felt like a child again. Reclis was listening to her, explaining the thoughts of a [King] in far more expansive terms than Ielane would. And yet—did he hear her? Reclis drummed his fingers on the armrest of his throne.

“Apparently, to look to the outside world which they seldom do. Those children…I have promised them nothing, nor will I push hard for an alliance. One step at a time. The throne must not move dramatically.”

“Not even when we were nearly wiped out by Ailendamus? They were a hair from taking the capital!”

Seraphel’s voice was snippish, and Reclis startled before smiling.

“Ah, there’s my sharp-tongued girl. Rest assured, I might be stoic—Ielane will not be. She is the sharp edge of the battleaxe and swings hard—I am the haft. We will try to build a new wall to hold Ailendamus in check, Seraphel. Do not fear. Calanfer has failed to keep them at bay…I do fail. The Eternal Kingdom does fail, and you are old enough to see how desperately we’ve played our cards, including you, to try and stop them.”

He stood, as the scrying orb turned off, and put the coffee down as he walked to a window. Seraphel rose and followed him. Reclis turned his head as she hesitated.

“Father. I—I don’t wish to be married again.”

She said it so hesitantly, with such a jolt through her heart. Reclis turned to her—then reached out and took her hands. Seraphel froze—and Reclis smiled sadly.

“Neither do I, my daughter. But duty calls.”

“But—”

“It might not happen. Ielane will calculate—perhaps it will be a marriage of convenience. Or another role, like an ambassador to Noelictus. Yet Seraphel, we must do what we can for Calanfer. All of us.”

He stared at her. He stared right through her and thought he was looking her in the eyes. Seraphel’s cheeks went red, and she raised her voice.

“Is that why we’re an insect in the Kingdom of Glass and Glory’s way? Is that why we—I saw Marquin, Father! I thought I did! She was a hero of the Creler Wars, and look at us now! Why, if the kingdom is all that matters—is the kingdom so poor?

For answer, Reclis du Marquin stepped back, but not in shock or fear. He looked at Seraphel gravely, then sighed.

“The answer is—sometimes we fail. My mother was the Queen of the Eternal Throne, Seraphel. A wise, canny woman, and she played against Ailendamus for her entire life as it expanded. She lost. She played very well, but Ailendamus is governed by a group as intelligent and resourceful as any I have seen. They smashed through barriers we wove out of promises and friendship with sheer force. The powers behind the throne enable their attempts at hegemony—House Shoel, to name but one. I wish we could uncover more, but all our [Spies] can only reach the Court of Masks, not whatever lies beyond.”

Seraphel had never known that. She felt a twist in her stomach, but Reclis was still not hearing her. Seraphel took his hand, and he looked at her.

“Why can’t we do that, Father?”

He laughed softly, taking both of hers and squeezing them.

“Do what? Succeed? We try. Calanfer was a border nation when we were first established, Seraphel. The other kingdoms gave us blasted lands ruined by Crelers and thought we would be the first nation to be sacked if Terandria were invaded. It has come far, far since. But not far enough, I agree.”

“No—not just that. Why can’t we all aspire to be Queen Marquin? Lyonette left for Izril. She’s leveled—many times according to Ser Dalimont! Why not do that? Be—become someone else and level? I could try. If not lead armies. Why don’t you or Mother or the [Princes]? Lothen and…”

She fell silent. King Reclis du Marquin was giving Seraphel the blankest of all looks. When he responded, his tone was puzzled.

“It is true that in adversity, we level, Seraphel. But for every [Prince] who reaches Level 30 before the age of 30, a thousand lie dead. It is the height of selfishness to abandon Calanfer like Lyonette did. If Marquin taught us one thing, it was that we should not fear sacrifice. I do not gamble with the fate of Calanfer. Would you?”

Seraphel looked into his eyes and saw there was nothing more to say. Nothing more, but a hundred ghosts whispering in her ears. They had all been there, all stood and waited and found a decade passed, a lifetime of unhappiness. Seraphel opened her mouth, saw her father looking at her, and wilted.

It was the hardest thing in the world to do, and she had tried three times before. She had raged and run away, and she knew what had happened to Menisi, the 2nd Princess of Calanfer. Or had she done that to herself, to get away forever?

At last, Seraphel whispered.

“Father. I would like to not be a [Princess] with such a heavy duty any longer. I have watched husbands and too many people die. I would like to choose my own path.”

King Reclis’ absent gaze moved away from the scrying orb. He looked at Seraphel, his distant blue gaze like a faded dream sharpening to a point of understanding. At last, he saw her. The [King] blinked, looked Seraphel up and down, and hesitated. Then he nodded to himself. He reached out, took Seraphel’s hands, and tucked them together. Reclis met Seraphel’s gaze, well and truly, and replied.

“I must forbid it, Seraphel.”

He squeezed her hands once and let go. When he looked at her again—

Now, he was watching her.

 

——

 

A [Princess] wept

Fleeing down the stairs

Running home without home

Realizing she had none to leave behind.

—Teriarch, Poetry in Disguise, 23 A.F.

 

He had seen it a hundred thousand times. So it really didn’t matter. It didn’t bother him. Not one bit.

The irony, of course, was that the Dragon had thought this very thing before many times. At Wistram, as Eldavin—but he didn’t remember that.

He had seen the same look on Seraphel’s face across every species and identity. Even his own face. But he had also known rulers like Reclis du Marquin.

So here was the irony for you. If you scorned Reclis—remember this. Though neither father nor daughter would appreciate it, Reclis’ very approach to ruling, his morality and conscience that dictated how he led Calanfer?

It was much like Fetohep of Khelt’s. Only, the mirror that reflected the two varied the outcome between life and death, and the kingdom that had been bequeathed to Fetohep was far different than the Calanfer of now.

At any rate, the Dragon was busy inspecting the rest of the palace. He stalked through the halls, still fuming enough that he tripped up the Thronebearer striding after Seraphel.

That arrogant Wyrm. Teriarch had lingered long enough in Ailendamus to have a few more deeply unpleasant meetings. But he’d done what he could, and he was on his way back home when it occurred to him that he really hadn’t seen the Eternal Throne since he’d helped give it away.

He’d been really unhappy about the donuts. Fortunately, he, at least, could cure his problems. And he was biding his time.

A Goblin in a suit of armor. That’s not going to cause a fuss. Nor will I.

This was known as irony. Also, lying. Teriarch rubbed his hands together. Then he finally found that damn [Thief].

There you are. His eyes narrowed as he saw someone slip out of a room. A very plain…oh, not so plain. The Dragon raised his brows. She was doing a good job looking like a [Maid], but the Thronebearers were on high alert.

Doubtless, she had figured out when she had an opening and somehow bypassed Calanfer’s magical locks. She might have gotten away with it, despite the Thronebearers checking the servants and each other. Wonderfully subtle shoes with the tiniest compartment of holding. And she could probably remove it and hide it if she were searched.

Yes, she might have really stuffed one of Tourvecall’s amulets into its hiding place if she hadn’t tripped, gone sprawling, and the first Thronebearer that Teriarch had tripped up then spotted her.

Thief!

The [Knight] roared, and the young woman turned white. She had a commendable sprint, and Teriarch decided to let it go at that. If she got up to her tricks? Well, justice had been served. He pointed at her back.

“[Crippling Indigestion].”

The Dragon dusted off his claws, then decided to get back to prepping for his big moment. He had to time it carefully. There had to be…gravitas. Theming. And besides, not all the big players were there. The last of the Restful Three…he sighed, and his face soured.

He hated the Kingdom of Myth, Erribathe, more than most places in this world. More than Khelt or Germina. Or even A’ctelios Salash?

…No, less than A’ctelios Salash. But there was a reason. Ah, it was like Calanfer itself. Teriarch sighed as he walked on.

Glory, faded. Memory and regret and…

Visions. Ghosts. At least, the Dragon reflected, he wasn’t the only one who had seen them.

 

——

 

Ser Markus and Meisa retired quickly after visiting the Eternal Throne. Which was astonishing to Talia, because she couldn’t stop shaking with excitement. Rabbiteater embarrassing her or not, it had been a wondrous time.

Not least because of all the people she had met! The rare nobility from distant kingdoms were one thing, but even Talia had felt a bit star-struck when some of the nobles started introducing themselves.

“[Duchess] Greina of Noelictus and [Key Princess] Telleis of Samal! Two of the most combat-ready of the Hundred Family’s nobility. If Princess Ozena were here, that would be the three top-leveled bachelorettes in Terandria!”

…Mind you, some people had to be odd about it. Talia glanced sideways at Ser Lorell, one of the Summer Knights who’d gone to fight against Belavierr at Riverfarm. A good man, if not a close friend of Rabbiteater or one who had taken as well to the revelation. Currently?

“Mind your drool, Ser Lorell.”

The man colored and gave Talia a reproachful look.

“You may slander me at your peril, Talia. Or did I not catch you introducing yourself to Earl Altestiel? And remarking on the Lord of the Dance?”

She turned red as well, and both of them represented the Summer in all its…fiery dignity.

“It hardly hurts to introduce oneself, Lorell.”

“And I am allowed to dream, Talia. Even if a man such as myself would not be looked twice at with all the competition…”

Lorell went back to admiring the people emerging from the Eternal Throne. The [King] and [Queen] had already left, but the other first-time guests lingered. Even they looked impressed, and in turn, failed to realize they were stars akin to, well…

Wil. Talia could not believe how many people had come up to her to tell her they’d seen his adventures at sea. Wil! The shy younger brother who’d gone off to the Titan’s school had somehow surpassed her.

She was a mix of fond affection and exasperation with him. Although, he was a credit to the family. Enough so that she could smile as a [Lord] walked out of the Eternal Throne’s chambers.

“Why, Lord Corrost du Havrington. Good day, sir! I was entirely grief-stricken to hear the marriage between our families failed to go through. How is Lady Cassicel taking the news?”

A [Lord] froze, and a man with a sharp, hawk-like face and glare like thunder sketched a bow to Talia.

“Dame Talia. It was entirely regrettable that your father broke off the marriage. I am afraid I cannot comment on Havrington affairs.”

He stormed off, and Lorell raised his brows.

“What was that in aid of? You seldom snipe at anyone, Talia.”

“Entirely deserved, Lorell. Havrington are mongrels. We were going to marry and make peace—but it turns out they were trying to embarrass the entire family. My younger brother helped discover that, actually. We owe the Titan of Baleros a favor.”

“Which would have been worse?”

Talia chuckled darkly.

“Oh, having to smile at Havrington and invite them as family? Definitely the former. Oh, look. There’s your [Duchess]. Any signs of, er, Earl Altestiel? I was hoping I could invite him to a game of chess. I did play Wil a lot, you know.”

Lorell peered with great interest at the Noelictus group. Who, as it turned out, were mingling with Samal’s Kingdom of Keys. In fact, the friendship revolved around the two young women.

Duchess Greina and Princess Telleis. Such an odd pair to see together. Well, both were famous, but Talia really didn’t see what Lorell saw in Greina.

She was as short as Telleis was tall. Also, more heavyset—it was rumored she had Dwarf blood in her immediate parentage, or perhaps it was simply her heritage. She did not appear like Telleis, who was what many [Ladies] aspired to. Tall, even lanky, and walking with the Kingdom of Keys’ distinctive type of sword with a key-like handle attached to the blade.

Nevertheless, the [Duchess] was…impressive, Talia had to own. Talia was a [Summer Knight] and a consummate warrior. Noelictus’ [Duchess], by contrast?

From that dreary land of cloudy skies and [Hunters], not [Knights], had come Greina. And she was both star-struck by the Eternal Throne and starry-eyed.

Literally. Her pupils, accentuated by the black-and-white irises that flared in an unusual pattern, gave the starburst effect until you got closer and saw how they were an illusion. But she was doubly-striking because she had a nali-stick in one hand and was chewing on it while animatedly talking with Telleis.

“Duchess Greina, an autograph? I am such a fan of your adventuring—”

Talia was so glad it wasn’t Lorell who embarrassed himself but another young [Lord]. Charles du Trevalier, a [Lord] who she understood was supposed to be a [Mage] of Wistram, was hurrying forwards, eyes on Greina. Or perhaps her chest. He seemed to be having a hard time deciding which one he wanted to focus on. In reply, Duchess Greina turned away from Telleis as the [Princess] made a face.

The Gold-rank adventurer and [Duchess] wore mostly black, a kind of ‘combat dress’ as she had scandalized the ballroom society by claiming. She had an infectious grin, no reserved smile like much of Noelictus’ people, nor did she keep her voice low.

“And I, sir, am a bit busy to sign autographs even if I cared to. But don’t let my harsh words deter you. Good day!”

Then she winked mightily. Talia and Lorell stirred, because the huge wink, as she closed one eye in an exaggerated motion, was accompanied by a stir in the air.

Her aura slapped Charles so fast the [Lord] never saw it. Talia was amazed. She had never seen someone with Greina’s control outside the Order of Seasons! A huge, grinning face in Greina’s perfect image appeared behind her, intangible, rising through the Noelictus and Samal crowd—and the wink of one eye slammed down on Charles’ face.

He stood there, completely floored and stunned as Greina walked past him. Only thirty seconds later did he look around and come back to himself.

“Dead gods, she knocked him straight out for half a minute!”

“Yes….she’s quite the storied person. A [Duchess] of wealth, acclaim, and a mastery of aura. Why do you fancy her on par with Princess Telleis?”

The [Princess] of a literal paradise seemed to be the greatest catch if Talia were keeping score. Lorell looked slightly offended at the question.

“The [Princess] is…an inspiring figure, Dame Talia. But having met the Duchess Greina, I can assure you—she makes a fellow feel alive. I felt inspired to join her on a quest of errantry. Someone with that kind of…derring-do makes me believe in adventures.”

Talia supposed it was an incomprehensible appeal to her. Speaking of which…she saw Altestiel and then blinked.

Because he had come out of the Eternal Throne talking animatedly with no less than…Rabbiteater? Unlike Meisa and Markus, he wasn’t heading abed, and three other people were in the group, including no less than Princess Seraphel.

“Now there is a sight. Yonder lies Ser Solstice. Should we weasel our own way in?”

Lorell asked merrily, and before Talia could stop him, he was hailing Rabbiteater.

“Ser Solstice! Not tired like Dame Meisa and Markus?”

“Nope. They’re weak.”

The Hobgoblin broke off from his group. Princess Seraphel smiled wanly as Talia introduced herself, and the touchy Kaazian [Lord] eyed their blades with interest, but the [Princess] looked somewhat subdued.

Nevertheless, Talia was—mixed about Rabbiteater. They hadn’t really had a chance to talk after the entire war. Meisa had made it clear she held Talia in some contempt. As for Rabbit?

He was, as always, a mix of offensive honesty and strangeness. Ser Lorell chuckled as he tried not to mention ‘Goblins’—you could practically see himself trying to hold the word in.

“What, er, could have kept them up all night?”

“I kept Meisa up. About six hours. Oh, and at dawn for four hours.”

Talia was treated to the Winebreath Blaster from none other than Earl Altestiel. The man hit the poor Hundredlord, Ser Lorell, and a Thronebearer actually threw himself between Seraphel and the spray.

Amazing. The Earl was laughing so hard that Cortese’s howl of outrage was lost for a moment.

“That is it, Earl! I will have redress for my suit in blood!”

Ser Solstice! That is quite untoward!

Lorell was trying to wipe himself off, and Rabbiteater grinned, knowing perfectly well what he’d said. Menrise was laughing as hard as the Earl of Rains.

“What? Markus got a workout too.”

“Dead gods, Ser Solstice, your mouth!”

Talia snapped, so crimson she felt like she was generating a second Aura of Summer. She knew [Spring Knights] were notoriously…even so, to gossip about it!

Worst of all, Princess Seraphel and a lot of Thronebearers were there! And doubly worse—the Duchess Greina and Princess Telleis turned around at the laughter and commotion. And they headed right back.

“Is that the redoubtable Ser Solstice of Izril? Quiet nights! I am Duchess Greina, and this is Princess Telleis. May we take a moment of your time, Ser?”

Charles opened his mouth but couldn’t find a way in as a group surrounded Rabbiteater. The [Princess] bowed and was surprisingly soft-spoken.

“A key for every lock. Your Highness. What a gathering of faces. Is this Talia Kallinad? Forgive me, Dame Talia? I saw you at Daquin and your brother at sea.”

It was Talia’s turn to be astonished as the [Princess] turned to her. To her mortification, she began to stutter.

“No, I—it was hardly anything to be—Wil? He is doing quite well, thank you for asking.”

Telleis had not. Duchess Greina smiled politely, and Rabbiteater came to Talia’s relief. He glanced at Greina and then Telleis.

“Nice crossbow. Nice sword.”

The two glanced at him, and Talia saw, for the first time, that Duchess Greina carried an absurdly large crossbow on her back. Practically a hand-ballista!

“You notice, Ser Solstice? Then your reputation isn’t for granted!”

“Uh. It’s on your back.”

Rabbiteater scratched his head, and Greina and Telleis laughed. Talia got what was meant. For two of the noble flowers of Terandria to bear weapons was scandalous, but the Goblin barely saw the difference.

Rabbiteater recognized their aptitude. And again—the [Princess] Telleis saw Altestiel fending off the enraged Hundredlord Cortese.

“If there is a duel to be had, would you care to demonstrate your own abilities on the field, Ser Solstice? I confess—I had hoped to duel some of those present. Even one of the Thousand Lances if I had but the nerve. I have had two honor-duels with Kaaz’s nobility, and those were pressing affairs.”

At this, Cortese turned.

“Ah, Princess Telleis! I heard you’d left two of my kin disarmed, not bleeding. One a Silver-bell at that! I would be remiss if I did not offer you my blade and blood.”

The [Princess] bowed, and Talia saw something on her wrist. It did not chime, but it was a silver bell.

A [Fencer]’s mark. Greina responded to Cortese.

“If you have an honor duel, count me out. It is simultaneously neither battle and yet bloodier than it must be for my tastes. But I’ll happily let Ser Solstice school me in combat; I am no great blademaster, but I should be honored.”

“Sure.”

Rabbiteater gave her a thumbs-up. Talia gasped in outrage, but the casual confidence was infectious. The Goblin peered at Telleis.

“You’re pretty good with a sword?”

“Moderately, Ser Knight. Shall we find a dueling ground?”

“I as well! I wished to test myself against Ser Solstice—come, Altestiel. No backing out of it.”

“Oh dear. Well—if everyone’s going—”

Seraphel looked like she was as interested as Lady Menrise, who was delighted to see Rabbiteater fighting. And then the almost-remembered [Lord], Charles, tried to stride forwards.

“I say! If we are talking about silver bells—”

One jangled noisily as he halted. Rabbiteater, Talia, Greina, Telleis, and all the others turned back. Charles stood, posing to show off the rapier and silver bell at his side. That bell had once belonged to Pisces Jealnet.

Not that anyone here could have known it. Charles waited for something, and the Princess of Samal coughed into one hand, looking as politely reserved as her people were. Rabbiteater was more direct. He peered at Charles’ feet, the way he held himself, and nodded.

“Where’d you get that? Give it back.”

The [Lord] went white as Duchess Greina laughed, and he was still standing there minutes after they left. Then his rage knew no bounds, and Rabbiteater had made a great enemy!

Too bad Ser Solstice didn’t even know his name.

 

——

 

On the dueling courts, Talia Kallinad had to admit—Rabbiteater was one of the better [Knights] around. Even before he had leveled up, he had been good.

The Redfang Goblins trained their warriors as well as, well, a [Knight]-Order. A ridiculous concept that Talia would never admit, even in her mind, but Rabbiteater had carried his training through countless battles. So the Goblin that arrived at the Order of Seasons’ keep had already been far past the level of Ser Markus and the Spring Knights.

Now? He was no Named-rank Adventurer. He was not Ser Greysten’s rival when the other used his full aura in battle or even a match for Earl Altestiel’s full range of Skills.

Indeed, the [Earl] had won against Hundredlord Cortese in a duel that had carried them into five dueling pits and only beaten the charging Hundredlord with a jet of water. Cortese had a longsword and dagger and, like a lion, stalked forwards in endless, rapid attacks.

Altestiel could conjure tidal waves. As matchups went…he was [Knight Marshal of the Rains], Desonis’ great marshal of battle.

Rabbiteater stood one rung below Altestiel. He had bested the Dame of the Hills, yes, with a blessing, and yes, with her trying not to kill him. But he had also beaten Ailendamus’ [Generals] in combat.

He had leveled, had two auras—but mostly? What the renowned Princess Telleis and Duchess Greina found was—

He really didn’t fight fair.

The Princess of Samal used a keyblade to fight in the old Samallian dueling style of fencing. It had different ‘keystrokes’ and a school of locks—which was their way of categorizing styles. It was an annoyingly technical school that focused on fast heel-turns and lightning redirects, attacking from angles.

She was better than some Silver-bell duelists, and that was a category even Gold-ranks fell into. Telleis was blessed with height, reach, and natural ability.

But she had, possibly, never in all her duels and exploits, had someone throw dirt in her face. Rabbiteater even did it sneakily. He was using a practice-sword, and she had a practice rapier as well, non-bloody. His shield-hand had over-extended to try and bash her rapier down. A bad move—until he dropped the shield and flicked dust up in her face.

“[Automatic Parry]!”

She deflected his thrust, and Rabbiteater blinked. She had combined the first Skill with a second one! [Disarming Parry] knocked the sword out of his hand. What a trick! He grinned, saw Telleis leap back, and jumped forwards and booted her as hard as he could in the stomach. When she recoiled, he punched her in the face.

The Goblin might have continued—although Telleis was swinging her sword in a defensive pattern—when Talia and Lorell grabbed him.

“Ser Solstice! You can’t offer bodily violence to—”

Lorell cried out until Duchess Greina’s glare and aura nearly pulled him off the Goblin. Rabbiteater looked miffed.

“Why not? Oh, right. Chivalry. You can look the other way? Dame Voost never gets hit when you duel her.”

“Even so, to strike barehanded is—”

“A novel way of fighting. Unhand Ser Solstice, please? I fear I’ve learned a valuable lesson about fighting.”

Telleis held her stomach as a horrified servant raced over with a potion. She waved it aside, looking embarrassed. Rabbiteater picked up his sword and shook his head at Samal’s horrified crowd.

“No wonder you got kicked. Tsk, tsk.”

Altestiel was laughing his head off. He was easily amused. Seraphel was horrified, but she watched as Telleis ducked her head.

“Few opponents have the gall to do that, Ser Solstice. And—I might add—few are as quick as you! I have dueled [Martial Artists].”

The Goblin shrugged. He was using his Skills and feeling fired-up after bathing in the light of the Eternal Throne. Which reminded him—his smile grew wider under his helmet.

His new Skill.

“Want to try again? This time, I’ll be not-nice.”

Telleis’ answer was to salute him and back up, wary.

“At your leisure, ser.”

“Careful, Telleis!”

Greina called out. Rabbiteater lowered himself as his shield and sword came back up. He concentrated. He had been in armor all day…but this time, he felt like the sheer amount of light in the Eternal Throneroom had done something to him.

[Body: Solar Storage].

He charged at Telleis in a blur, threw his shield out in a [Giant’s Parry], and caught air. She touched his shoulder with a clang that made half of Samal’s folk jump up.

Point!

Shut up!

Rabbiteater shouted at them. He whirled, slashed, and saw her cut in a [Ninety Degree Instep]. Rabbiteater’s response?

[Shield Ram]! Once again, his shield came up, and Telleis sidestepped the ram—only to see him pivot.

[Long Backstep]. He moved left, turning and backing up, but she stepped with him. They hadn’t swung their blades once that entire time. They were just angling for—

Aura of the Brave. He was pushing at her, and she was pushing back. Her aura smashed his aside, hoping to knock him off-balance, and Telleis blinked.

She ran into a second aura. And was reminded, for a moment, of sitting and turning her first key in the lock of her room. Home and hearth and—

“[Grand Slash].”

He went for her in the middle of the backstep. The sword came along, impossibly wide, a cleaving blow that crossed the entire practice court. And she—

[School — Countless Keys: Skill-locking Slash].

She cut his Skill! The Goblin staggered, had no idea what she was doing, and went for a second slash.

[Steelcut Sunder]!

He carved towards her blade, and she stepped back—and returned back as his sword missed her.

[Feint Dodge].

It was a whirlwind of high-level Skills. And Rabbiteater had just run out of almost all of his slashes. He had [Lightsoaked Armaments] left and [Mistreach Cut]—and she’d seen both.

He might have changed his [Aspect of the Champion] to another type and chanced a blow if this were a fight to the death, but he couldn’t do that in a fancy schmancy duel.

But the light. The light was still in him. There was no view of his face for Telleis to see, so if she had known that as she lifted her rapier for a piercing thrust—

She might have dodged.

[Body: Solar Storage]. 

[Raythrust of Light].

The Skill hit Princess Telleis at the same time as her rapier struck his shoulder. Rabbiteater twisted his shoulder. Telleis, though, hadn’t expected the shining blade to come at her.

It struck her light armor, and the shining, Skill-enhanced practice sword stopped, rather than run her through. Altestiel, on his feet, sighed in relief. Then he saw the [Princess] turn dead white. Rabbiteater’s blade had—nonlethally—hit her square in the stomach at full force. And Telleis was having an instinctual, bodily reaction.

She clutched at her stomach, dropped her rapier, a shame for a [Fencer]—but it was so she could cover her mouth. Unfortunately, it was too late.

First the toilet incident of yesterday. Now? The [Princess] of Samal hurled, and it spewed out between her fingers as everyone winced or closed their eyes. Rabbiteater dusted off his armor and heard a sob as Telleis stood there, frozen. He patted her on the shoulder as one eye swiveled towards him and held up a thumb.

“Great duel. You want to try again?”

 

——

 

Everyone wanted to challenge Ser Solstice, but duels between the various kingdoms were happening everywhere. It was what Ser Markus referred to as ‘codpiece measuring’, which made Rabbiteater laugh until he was nearly sick.

The outcomes of such duels were often loudly publicized. For instance, Lord Etrogaer had publicly stood nineteen challengers and brought them all down with his bare hands. Serious injuries were to be avoided at all costs, but a few broken bones?

The Thronebearers wisely avoided the duels. They were busy with the thief who continued to elude capture. However—

Another minor incident was occuring. Not in the palace, but on the streets.

One of the Thronebearers was smoking a pipe as he came to a stop, investigating the Watch’s report of a disturbance.

A Dragon was measuring something with a long bit of string, eying the palace, but he too had wandered over as the main street filled with people. The Watch was dispersing them, but it was too late.

“What happened, exactly?”

The Watch Captain indicated a figure slumped over. It was, surprisingly, a [Knight]. Not just any [Knight], but one of Taimaguros’ [Gura Knights].

Weird class. The Dragon peered at the fellow, but he was alive. Just unconscious. The Watch Captain was reciting witness statements.

“Apparently, Ser Thronebearer, another [Knight] challenged him.”

“Not uncommon.”

“No, Ser…but this [Knight] declared himself the ‘People’s Champion’. The duel was over Taimaguros’ treatment of the common folk. This [Knight] was roundly insulted, and the two dueled. Whereupon he was apparently knocked senseless in a single blow. And as you can see—”

The Thronebearer winced as he puffed on the pipe. Someone had added insult to injury. The armor of the downed [Gura Knight] was graffitied with insults against Taimaguros’ crown and monarchies in general.

‘No more tyrants.’ 

‘No more primae noctis and people owning people.’

‘No more arrogant [Kings].’

Someone had prepared well. It was hard to write on armor, so you probably needed a good brush and some steady hands. The Dragon heard the Thronebearer curse softly.

“Get the crowd out of here, and alert the Order if this happens again. And tell the Watch to carefully look for a [Knight] matching this description.”

“In the city now, Ser Knight?”

The Watch Captain was uncomfortable. Even with Ser Solstice, there were so many [Knights]…the Thronebearer just stowed the pipe.

“Then look for someone with impeccable swordsmanship. This is the seventh [Knight]. All taken out with a single blow.”

Now that was interesting. Teriarch finished drawing a line across the street that only he could see. The people were muttering. But the Thronebearers had them dispersing fast. Even so, Teriarch recognized the play. It might not go well in Calanfer, but if word reached Taimaguros, there would be trouble.

The twinned states of Taima and Guros, independent kingdoms joined in unhappy matrimony, suffered from all the pains of a giant nation. Their populace knew more classes than even [Peasant]. There were actual [Peons] there, and that was not an insult but a sadness. The writing on that armor would resonate loudly with more than one nation.

But who was the People’s Champion? Another interloper? The Dragon shook his head. This was a grand meeting of Terandria, and all kinds of motives were coming to light.

 

——

 

Seraphel du Marquin felt poorly for Princess Telleis. Fencer or not, having that happen in public had to hurt for a [Princess].

And yet—she was free. Free in a way Seraphel no longer was. Duchess Greina? The same. Lady Menrise had even begged Rabbiteater into letting her have a go at him. Which was mostly letting him block some enthusiastically poor sword swings as he yawned.

Seraphel hadn’t asked. She was conscious of the Thronebearers watching her. Then Duchess Greina had taken revenge for Telleis and managed, in the middle of an axe-and-sword duel that had gotten quite dirty, to boot Rabbiteater between the legs. Whereupon, despite the pain, he had done the exact same thing to her.

He was popular, needless to say. Cortese and five of the duel-happy nobles of Kaaz had lined up to challenge Rabbiteater, but they’d quit volunteering after Rabbiteater had decided to test everyone’s internal fortitude and will.

…In other words, during duels against all five, he’d made an opening to kick them in the groin as hard as he could, male or female. Only Cortese and the [Lady] had had the will to continue afterwards.

A maniac with the sword. The Thronebearers hadn’t even tried to challenge the other [Knights] and famous warriors on the field. It was Cortese who had promised Rabbiteater to introduce him to one of the Thousand Lances, the greatest [Knights] in the world.

Seraphel fair envied Rabbiteater. She envied all the others…and she was glad she’d told her father her will, even in such weak terms.

But she was still here. And so, the [Princess] could only rebel in small ways. Yet she did rebel.

“I am going to test my Skill. Clear a dueling court for me. Somewhere quiet. Or—if you would like, you may invite an audience.”

She informed one of her servants, and the man practically ran to evacuate a court for Seraphel. As she knew he would.

After all—she was going to use the forbidden Skill.

[Induction: Two of Life, Two of Death].

In truth, as Seraphel headed to the private training court in the evening, she didn’t know if it would even work. Dame Neranthei was here, and Seraphel would induct her if possible, but did she need to induct all four at once? If so, Ser Dalimont would need to be here. And what about…death?

The private practice courts were where you could make mistakes out of the public eye. Each one was a contained room, much like this gymnasium that her father had told her he wanted to build, a Pallassian idea. Not in the palace, or if so, only for guests, but on a national level, perhaps, and certainly for the [Knights].

At any rate, these private workout areas were perfect. And the royal family kept one door locked at all times. Seraphel waited as a servant opened the lock. Dame Neranthei was on the way, and Seraphel was about to tell the servant to find her a zombie to see how far she could push this when she and the manservant heard something.

Someone was within the practice room. Seraphel knew that Reclis sometimes practiced—and the [Princes], those…brothers of hers…had often trained here. Sometimes, a [Princess] would hide here, but this time, it wasn’t Vernoue reading a book.

Someone was actually using the training dummy and practice equipment. Seraphel fell silent, and the servant cracked the door open as a Thronebearer reached for his sword and prepared to sound an alarm. But it wasn’t a thief.

It was…

Princess Aielef.

“Hah! Ha! Haaah! Take this!”

Seraphel, the [Servant], and the Thronebearer stared through the open door and saw Aielef, her hair disheveled, wearing a dress, hacking at a training dummy, which rotated when she struck it. She had—even to Seraphel’s limited knowledge of fighting—abysmal form.

Yet she was attacking with commendable vigor. In fact, from the sweat running into her dress, she might have been doing this for a while. She stepped backwards, nearly cracked her head open on the ground as she trod on the hem of her dress, and then surged back into the fight against the dummy with renewed vigor!

“For Calanfer! In the name of Marquin! Take this and this. And—”

She was tossing her head back like a [Battle Princess] of old, triumphant, high on adrenaline. Then she saw Seraphel, the servant, and the Thronebearer watching her.

Seraphel really felt bad. She had pulled worse pranks before—but this was actually unintentional. Aielef had gone still as a ghost, and the servant and Thronebearer immediately fled.

“Your Highness, excuse us.”

“Aielef—”

Seraphel began, but Aielef had turned beet red. She lowered the sword, hid it behind her back as if she could pretend nothing had happened, and glanced past Seraphel. She snapped, icily hostile at once.

“Did Shardele put you up to this? Just because I chased her out of here?”

“Shard—no, of course not! Is this where she smokes everything, now? I should have known. I was going to practice a Skill.”

“Oh! Well—”

Aielef’s fury at being made fun of turned to embarrassment. Then back to fury. She had tears in her eyes.

“Well—go ahead and laugh! I know it’s a foolish thing, but they called me Aielef the Fierce, and you were the one who rode out against an army. I know I was a coward, and—even I can be inspired! Even if it will never come to be.”

She sniffed and averted her face. Seraphel hid her hands behind her back and squeezed her fingers tightly as she bit her tongue. Aielef, mother of three—it was harder to see who was more ashamed.

“I wouldn’t mock you, Aielef. Throne knows, I’ve wanted to wield a sword too. And I’ve seen masters. Were you—actually intending on gaining a [Warrior] class?”

Aielef didn’t respond. Seraphel had thought she would be relieved by the end of the war and return to normalcy after Kaliv nearly being overrun. But she was astonished to see tears leaking from Aielef’s eyes. Her older sister, so—so—bossy and—

“I blame Shardele for all of this.”

Aielef’s voice wobbled. Seraphel instantly agreed.

“Shardele. Obviously. She—she revealed the third kitchen and nearly got me and Vernoue in the lobster water just yesterday.”

“That vacuous bitch.”

Aielef sniffed, wiped at her eyes, and saw Seraphel looking away. The [Princesses] exchanged another glance, and Seraphel almost thought she saw Aielef. In a way—she had known less of Aielef than Rabbiteater. But before Seraphel could say anything more—

“I say, is everyone practicing at this late hour? What’s going on—Your Highnesses.

Seraphel’s heart sank. Aielef tried to hide behind the practice dummy, but it was too late.

More visitors had come to avail themselves of the lit indoor courts. And so Seraphel and Aielef turned to meet—Dame Talia and several [Summer Knights], including the famous Dame Voost, the great swordswoman of the Order of Seasons. Also, Ser Markus and Dame Meisa and Rabbiteater. Both groups were independent, and, in fact, joined by Princess Telleis and Hundredlord Cortese and a number of martially-minded nobles, possibly to practice in secret to defeat Rabbiteater.

All of them had come here after the banquet. And all of them saw Aielef and Seraphel and…Rabbiteater pointed at Aielef. The [Princess] of Calanfer froze as the Goblin chuckled in his visor.

“Your form sucks.”

Aielef turned pale and ducked her head. Seraphel swung around, and the Seraphel of old, the 4th Princess of Calanfer came out.

Not Seraphel the Diligent or Seraphel the Brave as some of the [Bards] wanted to rebrand her. This was Seraphel the Sharp-Tongued, sister to Calanfer’s [Princesses].

Also, Seraphel of the Right-Handed Slap.

Her ghostly hand passed straight through Rabbiteater’s visor and encountered a cheek. A—cheek? She felt skin, not scales or fur. Was he actually Human—?

The slap made Rabbiteater stagger. Then Seraphel jerked her hand back.

“Ser Solstice, I—”

Thronebearers appeared, interposing themselves between the Goblin Slayer and Seraphel as he staggered. Rabbiteater rubbed at his face as the others exclaimed. He looked up as Seraphel breathed hard.

“Ow.”

“Don’t—don’t make fun of her.”

Aielef was looking at her younger sister, wide-eyed. Seraphel stood there and saw the Goblin Slayer raise his helmet. He looked at her as Markus, Meisa, and Talia all grabbed him in case he tried punching a [Princess]. The Goblin looked around and then, annoyed, pointed at Aielef again. Half the Thronebearers tensed, but all Rabbiteater did was crook his finger.

“Don’t hold your sword like that. Let me through, and I’ll show you how to hold it. And kick someone in the balls. Works even if they don’t have them.”

The Thronebearers stirred. Rabbiteater adjusted his helmet and gave Seraphel a long look. Then another thumbs-up.

“Nice trick. Next time, use a dagger? Powerful Skill.”

He tried to step forwards, but a Thronebearer blocked him with one arm. One of Ielane’s hand-picked guards.

Dame Vensha. A name the entire royal family knew and feared. That was to say—high-level, capable of ordering [Princesses] around, and female. A tough old woman, so there wasn’t a chance of impropriety.

She scared Seraphel almost as much as Ielane. And her voice was polite, but firm.

“Princess Aielef was amusing herself, Ser Solstice. I pray you, forget this moment for the dignity of Calanfer’s crown. She is not aiming towards any warrior class.”

It sounded like an echo of Ielane. Aielef ducked her head, and Rabbiteater peered at the arm in front of him.

“Wow. I knew Thronebearers were good, but you can even read Aielef’s mind. Your [Throw Voice] Skill sucks, though.”

He glanced up as Cortese inhaled—in delight, Seraphel thought. She felt the same way. The old [Knight] smiled coldly.

“Beg pardon, Ser Solstice. Please desist.”

She glanced over her shoulder, and like a perfect [Actor], Aielef knew her lines without even reading them. She came forwards, handing the sword to a servant as her hair was straightened and a perfume applied by a bevy of her people. None of them looked at Aielef, perhaps preparing to sell the lie that this never happened.

And yet…Seraphel saw her own servant, Beacle, helping dress Aielef. And she saw, just for a second, a flicker of something. Scorn? Or perhaps…? Aielef bowed to Ser Solstice apologetically.

“It was my fault. Let us leave it at that.”

“Fault? Were you training or playing? If you were training—I will teach you how to hold a sword. You painted a picture of me at the keep. Good trade.”

Seraphel blinked. Aielef still painted in her keep? She had thought her sister had given up that hobby long ago.

Aielef hesitated. She shook her head as the old Thronebearer motioned her sideways subtly.

“I wouldn’t want to disrupt your training, Ser Knights, guests, with my fanciful nonsense. It behooves you all to practice even as guests of Calanfer. Excuse me.”

Head bowed, she began to walk left, flanked by Calanfer’s staff. Seraphel vibrated—but she didn’t know what to say, and one look from her old nanny made her go quiet.

Until someone spoke up.

“Begging your pardon, Princess Aielef. But if you would like to hold a sword, you are never too old. I was twenty-three when I picked up a blade. Nor can I claim I am that diligent at practice and training. Say, rather, I was inspired. Inspired and humbled by the last great event of the war I participated in.”

The ranks of watchers parted, and a woman strode forth. Younger than the white-haired Thronebearer, but older than most [Summer Knights] in her company.

Dame Voost. She was the great expert of the Summer Knights—and that was about all Seraphel knew of her since she hadn’t arrived at the keep during the siege.

And yet.

And yet, the woman stood there, and something caught Seraphel’s gaze. Dame Voost had hair that had no product to make it glossy. It looked like hazel turning slowly to iron. She had a scar on one cheek, and yet, she hardly seemed like an iron maiden. She blazed with a youth that was so well-remembered it still was reality.

Summer’s child. A woman for blazing days and great deeds. And she spoke to those congregated here.

“I do not know, friends, if you saw or witnessed the last great battle at Ailendamus’ gates. I was there, but few speak of it directly.”

“How could we not have seen it, Dame Knight?”

Hundredlord Cortese spoke, sounding fascinated. Dame Voost sketched a bow towards him.

“Then perhaps you saw the apparitions which came to us.”

“Naturally. [Historians] and [Bards] and the like still argue over whether or not the spirits were…accurate to form. And what it might mean, of course. Their like has not been seen again, but I would wager every kingdom had seen—something. One hears stories. A fantastical day. A mystery.”

The Hundredlord hesitated as he replied, and that great doubt entered his voice. Seraphel had met ghosts before then. Even she wondered if it had been real.

She had known great ghosts of old—but the ones who had come to the battlefield were too real. They had been the first [Kings] and [Queens] of old. So many legends that it beggared belief. If one had come and spoken omens, that would have been more believable.

In this mundane event, as Seraphel’s left buttock itched—it did not seem to be the same reality as the one Queen Marquin had inhabited. However, Dame Voost’s voice was steady as she replied.

“Do you say so, Hundredlord? For I would swear upon Summer’s heat and my very class and soul that they were those great legends. Each and every one. I locked blades with a swordmaster whose name I did not know. And while his sword cut me in naught but spirit—I have begrudged every passing moment, even visiting the Eternal Throne, that has kept me away from what I must do. Which is practice. Practice for the greatest war to ever come, for a battle my entire Order is not ready for. Like a [Squire] standing before one of the Thousand Lances, I was ashamed. And I still am. If Princess Aielef feels the need to train—with respect to the Eternal Throne, I say let her.”

The company of people fell silent. Seraphel herself caught her voice at Voost’s tone. Polite, as careful and considered as Ser Solstice was not—and because of that, even more of a brick smashing through half a dozen windows.

“Dame Knight. Your words were direct and inspirational. I shall convey them to their Majesties, but I have my orders.”

The older Thronebearer replied so fast that Seraphel wondered if she’d heard—but then, maybe it was to stop everyone from considering Dame Voost’s statement. She motioned Aielef away, and Seraphel nudged her arm.

Just a bit, and she froze when the Thronebearer looked at her. But that was enough. One of the Spring Knights, Dame Meisa, spoke.

“Dame Voost is correct. Though I do not know of Calanfer’s affairs, I was there, and I felt helpless before the battle I saw waged unseen. With respect, Dame Thronebearer.”

She bowed, and the old Thronebearer’s smile was…pained.

“This is all true, and I do not doubt what you saw. However, Princess Aielef was not at the battle. What she saw was merely on a scrying orb, and this entire matter is overblown. I believe we shall all laugh of it later. What, pray, is the concern?”

She turned and ran right into a smile. The Thronebearer bounced off Duchess Greina’s aura and stepped back before catching herself. The [Duchess] spoke calmly.

“That would be—whether or not Princess Aielef has a mind to practice swordplay. For if she does, I too have seen the great ghosts of old. I stood in Noelictus’ throneroom as a Tombwarden warned us of a terrible battle. Neither I nor any there spoke of it. We felt ashamed, as though repeating fever dreams. Now? I am twice shamed.”

There was a murmur from others. Altestiel, Cortese—Seraphel saw, even in her growing feeling of—something, that more than one person had seen something that day.

Yet the Thronebearer was good at her job. She stepped forwards, took Aielef’s shoulder, and, ignoring Greina’s aura, pushed away.

“Your pardon, guests.”

Aielef was hesitating. Until someone glanced right, glanced left, and started for Aielef.

Rabbiteater. Five Thronebearers blocked his path, and the [Champion] tried to walk through them. They had to struggle—politely—to stop him. But Aielef was being led away, right until the Thronebearer Vensha felt a hand on her shoulder.

She stopped, turned, and looked into the Summer Champion’s gaze. Ser Greysten smiled like summer’s fire.

“Ser Greysten. Will the Summer’s Champion interfere in Calanfer’s will like he did against Ailendamus? That would be a poor precedent.”

Dame Vensha spoke softly. But Ser Greysten just dipped his head without looking at her. Aielef looked back, and the Summer’s Champion called out.

“Just so long as you, Dame Knight, do not deny that Queen Marquin the Radiant stood with Princess Seraphel against Ailendamus. So long as you do not say you didn’t see Lord Veltras himself ride against his descendant of ages! Say it is not so, Dame Knight! Or I would take you and every man or woman here to a duel as bloody as any Kaaz could imagine. For I do not doubt it.”

He turned, and Seraphel remembered looking up at a giant of a woman staring down at her. She found her hands were trembling.

“I would not deny it, Ser Greysten! But perhaps only the Order of Seasons was so convinced? I thought all who were present witnessed the same thing!”

Ser Markus volunteered. The other Order of Seasons murmured agreement, and then someone spoke up. One of the Thronebearers blocking Rabbiteater abruptly stepped back. And with a shaking voice, the man spoke.

“I was there. And if that is the question asked, Summer’s Champion—I would never deny I saw Queen Marquin. I would sooner deny the Eternal Throne’s existence. It was her.”

Seraphel felt a chill in her veins. She turned, and Seraphel’s eyes sought out the young man’s. He had blonde hair and tears in his wintergreen eyes.

“I would have gone after her. If only I could. I would have followed her wherever she went. She looked at me but once. I thought I was mad and held that moment inside me, even to my sworn comrades in arms. Because I cannot reconcile that day with now. I feel the mountains should have cracked.”

“They did. But only on Izril.”

Altestiel murmured. Then someone else spoke up.

“I stood next to a boy in Pheislant’s army. A warrior wearing a stag’s helm sought him out and told him he looked like his son. He told him of a long-lost keep, buried, and I was never the more jealous of any man or woman. That was but one of the things I saw—and I witnessed Dame Voost dueling with a ghost. I wish to believe it was real—but can I? If so, why have I stayed here, admiring the Eternal Throne and hoping to court the [Duchess] Greina and Princess Telleis?”

Seraphel turned. It was Ser Lorell, who scrubbed his hands through his hair. He looked up, saw Greina and Telleis looking at him, and went on, without even really seeing them.

I should have thrown myself off a cliff. Not to die, but to learn to fly! Journeyed to Rhir and thrown myself against Demons that I might be half the level they ask of me. But was it real?”

Yes.

Ser Greysten, Voost, and the Thronebearer chorused. Seraphel looked around and then spoke in a tremulous voice, though Vensha’s eyes dared her not to.

“I saw Queen Marquin.”

The words didn’t come out. Like before, she tried to say them, but this time, it was not fear that held her tongue. It was a hand.

Vensha. The words struggled in her mouth, and, outraged, Seraphel tried to speak them. But the old Thronebearer had Skills all to one purpose. Seraphel struggled—and Aielef looked at her sister. She stared at Vensha and then glanced down.

The Thronebearer wore all armor. So Aielef gave up on stamping on her foot and pointed.

“The thief! My tiara!”

Vensha’s head swung around despite herself. Seraphel spoke.

I saw Queen Marquin. But what—what am I supposed to do?”

Every head turned to her. Seraphel spoke her confession aloud, almost in tears.

“I was there, like you all. But if it was true—I sympathize with Ser Lorell. How is that day real if the most mundane of moments like being trapped on a privy for two hours is also real?”

Dame Talia’s mouth was open. Even Ser Greysten’s lips twitched. Yet that was the folly of Humans.

That day, even remembering that day made Seraphel’s heart race. It felt like fire, racing through your veins. A calling. It sounded like the Dragonward bells ringing a hundred times in your ears and Khelt screaming war a world across.

It was the most alive Seraphel had ever felt, like riding with the flag of Calanfer in her hands as she saw Rabbiteater fighting ahead of her. Life and death.

A hundred ghosts kneeling in repose before the Lord and Lady of Afiele and a [Singer].

But could you believe it in mundanity? How did you believe in the impossible without faith? And faith was such a hard concept in this world of dead gods.

The Goblin knew. He looked around, and Rabbiteater’s gaze found such familiar, silly faces. Doubt and wonder and disbelief, until it threatened to draw tears from your eyes. So he gave them this: a Goblin’s wisdom for those catching up to what he knew.

“It was real.”

Every head turned to him. The [Princesses], Dame Voost, Talia, and the others. The Goblin smiled and looked back at memories. More than one. It was unbelievable—that day. Oh yes, he had not expected the ghosts, nor could he reconcile the [Princess] who had knighted him. Or all the rest.

But he had gone through such days before. Days as strange as a handful of Goblins, monsters, fighting for a Human. Someone welcoming him into the inn. The sky falling.

Dueling a Goblin Lord. So he looked around and met Altestiel’s gaze, Cortese’s, and Seraphel’s.

“You’ll believe next time.”

How they stirred at that. Then they began to understand. Rabbiteater went on urgently, pointing at Aielef, hesitating.

“You’ll believe next time. But you’ll miss it. Again and again, unless you’re ready. So be ready. Someday, your time will be all out. And then what? Do something, anything. Stupid.”

He looked right at Seraphel as he said that. But like a good brawler, his swing went wide and hit everyone. From the Humans listening, the [Knights], the [Princesses], he even hit the Dragon.

Everyone fell silent as they thought of this. Aielef slowly pushed down Vensha’s arm, and it was that simple. After all—the Thronebearer could not drag her off by force. But that little gesture…

Someone spoke challengingly. Of all the people, it was Hundredlord Cortese. He gave Rabbiteater a suspicious look.

“Then—if you did believe, Ser Solstice. How has that day not changed you?”

He pointed accusatorially at Rabbiteater, who had been doing everything normally. The Goblin looked at him. Then he threw back his head.

How he laughed.

 

——

 

Each and every night began the same for Rabbiteater and his friends. Ser Markus and Dame Meisa stood in a practice court at midnight—like they did before dawn as well. Exhaustion was in their bones, and their bones were doubtless cracked. For no one had been drinking healing potions.

This was not because the Goblin understood how potions limited the growth of a body. Nor was it any masterful plan worked up by a master [Trainer] or [Instructor]. He was fumbling, if not in the way he carefully showed them how to exchange hand-to-hand blows in the Redfang style or took on both in a fistfight—then mentally. Spiritually.

Fumbling forwards, like a man grasping in the dark for something he thought was there. The next level. The next step in a long journey as wildly ambitious and arrogant as any dream mortals had ever conceived.

To the Dragon—who watched, unseen, among the three [Princesses], the nobility, and other [Knights]—the Goblin’s journey was, again, familiar.

Again and again, they rose. What marked Rabbiteater apart from the other [Knights] was that his fumbling, his search in the dark was urgent. Some, like Ser Lorell, barely believed in what they had seen. Others, like Dame Voost, had a goal. She practiced the same forms again and again, straining to replicate the moves of a true master.

But Rabbiteater? He let Meisa take on Duchess Greina barehanded, left the younger [Knights] of the Season of Spring to perfect fighting with different weapons against dirty tricks. Ser Markus swung wildly, then remembered to control himself, putting his back against the wall. He was blindfolded.

Even Hundredlord Cortese felt the need to take it easy on Markus as he played the role of an attacker. Rabbiteater? He walked past Markus and booted him in the back as hard as he could. No one took it easy on you when an adventurer cast [Blindness] on a Redfang.

Then he stood silent for a while. The Hobgoblin stared at something he had seen. A [Princess] with fangs longer than his, perhaps. A war unseen. The first [Queen] of Calanfer. Or perhaps just a half-Giantess’ smile. The Great General of Ailendamus.

He could take his pick. Perhaps it was Tyrion Veltras riding across the Floodplains or the Goblin Lord. Did he listen to a [General]’s voice?

Not even the Dragon could know. But…Teriarch’s heart pounded a bit painfully, and it did beat louder than it had in his cave. As if reminding him how weary it was.

But look. See there. See how he stands. Whether or not he made it, Ser Solstice stood like men and women who had followed that insane dream. A naive dream, in another reality. A dream only possible with machines and armies.

Here? A precious few like that had once gone on to challenge Giants and Dragons. Even then, they lost, facing foes as old as time with all the cunning and pride equal to their enemies.

But they kept coming. So the old Dragon thought he saw a spark. Like someone striking flint to steel. It was a burning piece of an aura, a bright flame like bravery.

It grew upon a memory of home. Hearth and bravery, and in the Goblin’s mind, one could not exist without the other. A [Knight], a [Champion], had to have a cause. And—Rabbiteater’s head rose.

If you could not protect it, you would lose that home. Someday.

His control over his aura was improving faster than anyone could imagine. Two auras, feeding off each other, began to burn brighter. Was he grinning behind that helmet? Of course he was. The Dragon didn’t have to cast a spell to see through the helmet to see that smile.

It was the same as the one mirroring him. The Summer’s Champion drew an axe, and the Goblin Slayer stepped forwards. Their auras began to clash, and the heat of summer pressed around Rabbiteater.

He knew what to do, even if he didn’t know how. Challenge himself. The two figures turned slightly, and the roaring heat of Ser Greysten’s aura ran into a storm. Rather than turn to steam or clash—it just made Earl Altestiel’s own aura into a summer tempest, like a hot, tropical monsoon at sea. He had one hand raised, and water ran down his sword arm, trickled around his boots, as if an unseen rainstorm were already falling. Soon—it would become a treacherous current.

Altestiel had put on armor for this moment. He was focused and no longer laughing, the eye of his own storm.

Pitted in the far corner, the fourth contender, the [Princess] Telleis swallowed. Her own aura, made up of impossible barriers and piercing insights—lock and key—flickered. Rabbiteater and Ser Greysten, flanking her on either side, saw the weakness. Both of them went for her as Altestiel raised an arm. A tidal wave swept across the room. Ser Greysten turned, and then there was an explosion of steam.

“Eternal Throne! Your Highness!”

A Thronebearer shielded the [Princesses], Seraphel and Aielef, and the spectators threw up their hands. However—neither [Princess] would leave. Nor did Dame Vensha have the means to compel them, not in this hour between dusk and midnight. There was something so fervent in the eyes. Even—Aielef learning how to swing a sword properly.

Perhaps it was reflected in Beacle’s gaze or even some of the Thronebearers. Beyond the adoration for their [Princesses], more than love of nation. A bit of respect for someone chasing that dream.

Still, Seraphel du Marquin sat there and watched the [Knights] charging forth. Presently, she rose and accepted a wand from Lady Menrise to show her the few spells a [Princess] learned. She looked around, triumphantly unhappy, because she had to know that Dame Vensha was speaking with her parents. This oasis of rebellion would not last.

As for Teriarch? He stood there awhile, watching. Wondering, perhaps, how long ago it had been since these emotions had run through his blood.

“I am old. And mighty. I have seen it all before and given lifespans even as my people know it, only to see it all fall apart.”

He whispered, like a confession only to himself. Only—it sounded like an excuse, even to his ears. He was reminded of the raging Wyrm, arrogant and selfish and young. The curious mix of Lucifen and Agelum, clinging together at the end of myth.

What was wrong with him? He touched his chest and felt more than a weariness from his ages of sleep. He truly was missing something. Part of Teriarch had gone out and set fire to Wistram. In contempt for what they had forgotten, in passion for a better world.

It had never come back. Though magic had restored his heart—what was left in the Dragon? Regrets and memories. But he had to fulfill his promises.

He had to fly. So, like a long-lost traveller seeking the road back, Teriarch watched the Goblin and the mortals on the start of their long road. Plotting his great journey.

 

——

 

That night, a figure slipped through the palace, hunting for items to be stolen. The Thief. She was flitting from balcony to balcony, performing leaps as long as thirty feet, then stealthing out of sight, waiting until no one could see her before she continued.

She had a list, and even though she had revealed herself once, her reign of terror over the rich was not over. She was just creeping over to a room in the Mercuous Suite and listening to the sound of snoring from within.

Aha. Not everything she wanted was an artifact. This was about prestige. And there was nothing more prestigious than learning who this ‘Ser Solstice’ was. Information was a type of currency in her markets, and this would net her a tidy profit.

She heard two breaths from within. But both were tired out from their training, and she made not a sound as she slowly unlatched the balcony doors. Rabbiteater’s suite looked out onto the gardens, and a pair of drapes blew as the [Thief] put her hand to the window.

She was good. A Dragon was eating chips he’d stolen from the kitchens as he peered up at her from the gardens. He shuffled sideways a bit to make room for everyone.

Good enough to have a Skill that let her remotely manipulate the door latch through the window. A low-grade telekinesis. Someone had trained this [Thief].

…But she was still in Calanfer. So what was interesting to him was not so much her theft of the Goblin’s helmet, which he might have objected to. He was really curious how she was going to get out of this one.

The [Thief] had just raised the latch when the blowing curtains on the balcony shifted. She looked sideways, and Dame Vensha swung.

The blade would have beheaded the [Thief]. She didn’t react fast enough, but even as her eyes were widening, she ducked. It was an automatic reaction. Teriarch saw the [Thief] roll out of the way as Vensha lifted the blade and prepared for a thrust, but she was already running for the balcony.

Nor was that her Skill. [Plan: Emergency Dodge]. 

Interesting. There were no less than six people in the gardens who’d been watching the [Thief]. Minders. Her team saw the Thronebearer appear and then a dozen others leap out of the shrubbery.

Thronebearers! We’re made! Get to the escape route!

A worried voice called out, muffled by a hood. Instantly, a pair of figures drew enchanted blades and began fighting with the Thronebearers coming at them. They fell back instantly; the Thronebearers weren’t the best fighters, but these were anti-criminal specialists.

[Preferred Enemy: Rogues]. But whomever this [Mastermind] or [Plotter] was, they’d hired good backup. Teriarch cast [Appraisal], and it failed.

“[Greater Appraisal]. Whoops.”

He shuffled sideways, fanning his wings, as Dame Vensha leapt from the balcony after the [Thief]. She was fleeing with her escort. Teriarch’s eyes narrowed.

Aha. [Storm Sailors]. No, wait. What does that mean? ”

He eyed the cloaked figures holding off the Thronebearers. Then the [Thief].

“Interesting leg. Interesting Skill.

Now it all made sense. She was good, but Dame Vensha nearly had her—until the [Thief]’s escape turned into a blaze of speed and crackling light. She blasted past the Thronebearers, who gave chase. No wonder they couldn’t catch her. She might not be on the level she needed to be—but that Skill was. He wondered how she’d gotten it.

Five minutes later, a sleepy Goblin stumbled to the balcony in full armor and looked around. He stared at the empty garden, back at Meisa, and grumbled.

“Weird.”

He could have sworn he heard something.

 

——

 

The following day, Calanfer was abuzz with gossip. Not just because the Eternal Throne was going to announce a proposition for the gathered nations, but because word had spread about the passionate duels going on in secret.

“‘Duels’ is a fine word for it. I should like to see Kaaz’s nobles have a sack put over their head and be beat about with sticks!”

Ser Markus rubbed at his copious bruises as he scarfed down food. Redfang training left you with a tremendous appetite. Rabbiteater nodded as he grumpily sucked soup through a straw. He could and did ask for food in his rooms, but he missed the social aspect of it.

Altestiel just chuckled as he rubbed at one shoulder. He felt his older age and was envious of the younger men and women.

“I believe they would enjoy that.”

Earl! I object!”

Cortese began to stand up, and Altestiel threw a breakfast bun at him. It bounced off Lady Menrise’s helmet, and the lion, Baeris, chased after it. Altestiel instantly flushed, but Lady Menrise put her hands to her helmet’s sides as if they were cheeks.

“Oh dear, Earl Altestiel. You flirt so directly. Is all of Desonis like that?”

Some of the soup came out of Rabbiteater’s visor. Greysten began choking on his own mouthful of food. The breakfast table was as merry as could be.

How Seraphel wanted to sit with them. Instead, she was dining with Aielef, Vernoue, and the rest of the [Princesses] present as well as Ielane and Reclis. The royal family was waiting for their final guests to arrive.

Also—Aielef and Seraphel were in hot water, and Ielane was speaking in the privacy spells set up while appearing to be amused, casual, and relaxed.

“—Now that you have countermanded Vensha, you will return to this nonsense of training. And if you are so insistent upon fitness—a rarity for both of you, which we wish you had pursued while you were younger—you may forgo dessert and the snacks you are so fond of, Aielef. To better guide your growth.”

Aielef was silent, chewing on her food as her two daughters looked at the matriarch of the family and poked at their plates. Seraphel chomped down on her own brioche bun, laden with more food than usual. Exercising really did produce a lot of muscle pain—everywhere.

She barely reacted to the ban on sweets and desserts. That tended to work on [Princesses] who were not close to thirty or older. Well…if Ielane banned Dreamleaf, it would probably work on Shardele.

The [Queen] seemed displeased by the lack of reaction, but then, this ‘public’ dressing down had a lot of targets as usual. An anxious voice interrupted the [Queen] on Reclis’ left side.

“Mother, sister Seraphel and Aielef are trying very hard. Shouldn’t they get one or two sweets? None at all sounds—m-mean.”

Seraphel turned, and even she and Aielef smiled at the girl sitting and nibbling on grapes. Ellet du Marquin, the 7th Princess of Calanfer, was young, cute, and earnest. Even her sisters didn’t bully her since she was in the innocent phase. Ielane, however, just turned to Ellet and smiled…ish.

“A [Princess] must perform her duties to enjoy all the luxuries of her station, Ellet. Your older sisters have been—naughty.”

The childish phrasing sounded awkward in her mouth. Shardele, Vernoue, both were silent as they ate, though Vernoue looked sympathetic, and Shardele seemed to be enjoying this. Aielef muttered to Seraphel out of the corner of her mouth, using a [Discrete Murmur] Skill.

“I believe I shall have Kaliv go after Shardele’s contraband [Smuggler].”

Seraphel lifted her cup and twitched her pinkie slightly, which made Aielef hide her own lift of the lips.

Anyways, Ellet seeing Ielane dressing down her older sisters was fairly rare. But even rarer was the straight-backed young man sitting next to Vernoue.

Prince Lothen, the 2nd Prince of Calanfer and, technically, 4th oldest just after Menisi, spoke with a curt voice.

“Do try not to emulate your older sisters, especially Lyonette, Ellet. Their affection towards the kingdom waxes and wanes unbefitting of their station.”

“Lothen.”

Reclis reproved him with a word, and the [Prince] ducked his head instantly as the nervous [Princess] looked at her rarely-seen brother. Reclis changed the subject directly. He spoke candidly since this was not a public moment.

“It is not the poorest thing to inspire a nation via valorous conduct. I’ve often regretted my failure to earn a Silver-bell or distinguish myself martially. However, the personal attributes of a ruler shapes the rule unduly…”

He was musing about the personal nuance of a class that a [King] could have. Any second, his son and daughters knew, he was going to bring up the King of Destruction. Or the Blighted King. Or the King of Duels. However, Lothen seemed to take this as a critique.

“—I have made some displays in Avel, Father. However, they value the bow more than the sword.”

“Hm? No, of course you have. How does fair Avel?”

Lothen cut another square of food away. He had excellent posture. But then, the good [Prince] often did.

Three [Princes] for the seven princesses. They were seen far more seldom than their sisters, and two were among the oldest of the siblings. That was for a good reason. You could say that, ah, Ielane’s methods of teaching her children had been a work in progress. She’d had a harder time with Shardele, Agenote, Menisi, and Lothen.

It showed. Lothen was the good son. He had four children and a tie to one of Avel’s own earldoms. He was so straight-backed that Seraphel had wondered if she pushed him too hard if he’d snap like poor Agenote.

Gaiil-Drome. The half-Elven kingdom of the forests. He seemed happy. As for Kanmis, the youngest, just older than Lyonette? Well, he’d taken the lessons better than his older brothers.

Even so, Taimaguros had eaten him. Metaphorically. Lothen replied to Reclis directly and in the most unsatisfying of manners.

“The [King] is—entertaining as always. It is hard to gain his attention, but I have made several inroads in court. I delivered a missive.”

“Yes, yes, and you are quite thorough. But how do you feel King Itreimedes views the war in Ailendamus?”

“Negatively. Avel did declare war as I successfully convinced him after the battle—”

“No, no, philosophically. He has his views on the strength of the coastline. Did, mm, Pheislant’s involvement seem to adjust his temperament or was it more of seeing…?”

Seraphel had introduced none of her siblings to Rabbiteater and her newfound friends, but she might introduce Ellet to them if she had the chance. Certainly not Lothen. Knowing him, he might try just because it would behoove him to meet Ser Solstice. Maybe he’d even make the mistake of asking for a duel, in which case Rabbiteater might oblige.

Here was all you needed to know about Lothen. As part of his class, he had gained—after his marriage to Avel’s [Countess]—the Skill called [Hints of Affection]. Which was probably the only reason why his marriage was still in good order. He could play his part well so long as someone held up cue cards.

Anyways. Seraphel saw Rabbiteater getting up and stretching, and she began to eat faster. Ielane stared at her, then Ser Solstice, and spoke.

“The emissary of Erribathe is arriving, Seraphel. We shall see you at the reception.”

There was no need to say ‘or else’ in front of Ellet. Seraphel patted her lips with a napkin and smiled. Politely. So long as Rabbiteater and the Order of Seasons were here and the banquet continued, she could have actual fun.

And when they left? What then? Marriage or being sent on tour? Perhaps Cara would come and sing her away. Or perhaps she should do something rather than wait. But that was the thing.

Lyonette had run away successfully because her servants had disliked her so much they’d covered her escape. She had also, frankly, done a great job at hiding her plans and organizing her exit.

Seraphel? She turned her head and saw Dame Vensha stepping out of the line of Thronebearers. Aielef looked at Seraphel as a red-haired ‘[Princess]’ looked up.

“Farewell, Seraphel. I trust you’ll have a fine day with Ser Solstice!”

Lyonette’s body-double smiled demurely as Seraphel rolled her eyes. But she looked back and saw Reclis and Ielane glancing her way.

No, the 4th Princess of Calanfer could not run so easily. They would bring her back if she tried. So how else? Seraphel walked, head turning as if trying to escape a cage. But this was Calanfer.

The very walls were made of ancient stone and magic. Unbreakable.

 

——

 

Rabbiteater was of a mind to have fun today. You had fun in the day, beat each other with sticks at night. If he must be stuck in Calanfer, he would rather see Seraphel laugh.

She was the gloomiest of the Shitty Five.

“Don’t call us that.”

Earl Altestiel looked askance at the name. Rabbiteater tried again as they walked out of the palace into the city.

“How about—the Crappy Five?”

“Do we need a name that refers to that incident, Ser Solstice?”

Cortese muttered. Rabbiteater just thought it sounded good. He had a…nostalgia for the number five. But it was also true that Seraphel was the gloomy one.

“Gloomy? I fair think the [Princess] is far more outgoing than Kaaz’s own royal family.”

Cortese was blind. He was the dupe, the innocent one. When Rabbiteater told him that, the Hundredlord reached for his longsword in outrage. But Lady Menrise stopped him.

“You’re the direct fellow, Cortese. I get that. Who am I in your list, Ser Rabbit?”

She teased him, and Rabbiteater grinned.

“You’re the funny one.”

“Aha! Well and truly spoken! So Seraphel is Miss Gloom, or at least, the one who needs most cheering. And you would be…?”

“The mysterious one.”

“Fair enough.”

Altestiel grunted. He waited, smiling expectantly.

“Which would leave me as the handsome heartbreaker? The experienced leader? The romantic strategist?”

Rabbiteater snorted.

“No. You’re the emotional one. I heard you cried when Erin rejected you.”

The Earl of Rains froze up—then his face turned into a thunderhead. Rabbiteater and Menrise high-fived and skipped ahead as Cortese laughed. Then Seraphel hurried over.

“What have I missed?”

“Altestiel crying.”

She gave him an astonished look, and the [Earl] was protesting the entire walk out of the palace. Of course, there was Ser Markus and Meisa, Talia and Greysten, and the others they knew, but the Ivory Five made it a point to meet up.

Mind you, it wasn’t five. That was just how it felt. There were people on the street bowing to Seraphel and asking for autographs—and probably no less than two dozen Thronebearers and servants, including Beacle, but Cortese and Seraphel barely noticed them.

Even Altestiel and Menrise were at home, as all of them were used to having staff around them, but it weirded Rabbiteater out. And he was a Goblin growing up in a tribe! He supposed that the difference was that he was used to being surrounded—but the Goblins had opinions and wants.

Seraphel and the other four Humans sometimes seemed to forget the security and other people existed. They only had eyes and laughter for their friends, and it was a fair obsession that drew them together.

Because—probably—they wouldn’t have this moment again, and it seemed all of them knew it.

“What is the most interesting thing in Calanfer at this moment, Your Highness? Something even the Earl would call new. I don’t often visit the ports, so I am well entertained, but Tourvecall does keep up with the curios, and Ser Solstice is widely-travelled.”

Cortese challenged Seraphel, and the [Princess] pursed her lips.

“What am I, a [Bard] tour guide, Hundredlord?”

He hesitated, and Rabbiteater nudged Menrise.

“See? She’s also the sassy one.”

Instantly, Seraphel poked him, and he jumped a good foot in the air, much to Altestiel’s delight. She was the only one who could do that and so countered his flippancy. He grumbled, wishing he were inured to poking. Goblins did it all the time, but wearing armor had made him soft. However, Seraphel did have an answer.

“There are those plays from Izril, but we have no Players of Celum—just every [Bard] and [Troubadour] in the world. Fanciful, but we could simply watch those recordings if we had a mind to it.”

She wounded the local performers airily, but Rabbiteater nodded.

“Yeah. You see the Players of Celum once and the other ones are bad.”

Altestiel didn’t look surprised, but the other three gave Rabbiteater an astonished look. He sighed. Everyone was always astonished that he’d ‘seen the Players of Celum at the start’. He wished that he’d seen them later. The start hadn’t been that great!

“Then—what about in lieu of our training, we visit an Adventure Room™?”

Seraphel pronounced the word in such a way that instantly, everyone was curious. She pointed to a rather flashy building, even by Calanfer’s standards. It had…what looked like a mural of a furious monster? Some kind of thing with lots of heads and eyeballs fighting a generic-looking warrior, impractically bare-chested, holding a greatsword while a [Mage] that looked suspiciously like Telim cast a fireball behind him. Rabbiteater stared blankly at it—then when he heard what it was about, he practically dragged everyone there.

 

——

 

The Adventure Room was a giant warehouse converted into, well, a magical reality zone. Like virtual reality, but you didn’t wear a headset, and it was illusion magic, not technological achievement that provided the dungeon you would enter and monsters you would vanquish.

Mind you, there was a lot of technology in it. This was a new trial, but Calanfer was one of the places Wistram thought they’d find a lot of varied clients, and they were right. There was a huge queue, and Seraphel skipped it for the five.

Rabbiteater was excited to see the Adventure Room—right up until he realized he couldn’t use his axe. He instead was given an enchanted, blunt sword, which was way too light, and an enthusiastic [Mage] told him he had 70 HP. And 50 SP for special attacks since he’d chosen a [Berserker] build.

“We could give Her Highness an unlimited class-set…”

One of the supervisors offered, but Seraphel decided to be a [Knight]. Altestiel got a bow, but no arrows—the [Mage] showed him how to fire it.

“You’ll just loose arrows by pulling the string back and releasing, Earl. This is all—illusory, so please, don’t damage the walls.”

“Fake monsters? Fake weapons? I hardly know if I shall enjoy this.”

Cortese looked offended. Menrise? She was delightedly raising a staff. She got to play as a [Mage], complete with a list of spells you could read off a scroll. Rabbiteater was about to agree with Cortese, but the five lined up.

You are entering the Dungeon of Thorut-Vergash. The great tomb of the Horrific Thorut himself. His minions will assail you, and his traps guard bounties of treasure. Each time you descend, you will level up and gain more abilities. If you are cunning, you will find Relic-class weapons to defeat Thorut. Beware though—few have ever made it to him and triumphed. Current conquerors of Thorut: 15.

A [Mage] was reading from a notecard, making his voice sound spooky and echoey. Then they motioned the group into the warehouse proper, and the door closed behind them. Rabbiteater sighed.

“This is stupid.”

“I daresay you’re right, Ser Solstice. They gave me less HP than Princess Seraphel!”

“You’re a [Fencer], Cortese.”

“And am I a pushover? No! How entertaining is it to swing this badly-balanced weapon around?”

He meant the actual balance of his fake, silver-painted rapier. Cortese sneered around at the blank stone walls that had appeared around him. They looked mossy, run-down, with water leaking from the ceiling—the most dungeon-like dungeon ever. It even smelled vaguely cave-like. Although, as an expert, Rabbiteater had to point out that the smells were mostly sanitized to give people the impression of a cave.

Anyways, Rabbiteater didn’t have high hopes for this whatever-it-was—until the first ‘Mothbear’ appeared in front of him.

….It looked exactly like a Mothbear. A huge, roaring monstrosity appeared, and Rabbiteater shouted in horror.

Bear! Kill it! Kill—

He launched into a flying kick and bounced off the illusion. Instantly, he felt a tingling ‘pain’ as the bear swiped at him, and something flashed up. It looked like a red bar that he saw at the top of his vision if he looked up.

It had just gone down by a bit. Rabbiteater tried punching the bear, and his fist bounced off something hard. He drew back his fist, and Menrise shouted.

“Ser Solstice, your weapon! Your weapon!”

She threw a ball of fire, and Rabbiteater rolled away. He lifted his ‘axe’—and saw to his astonishment it was a huge, double-handed greataxe! As light as a feather and with all kinds of ornate designs that would suck if you had to wipe blood off it all the time.

Indeed, he looked back, and Princess Seraphel, wearing a full knight’s plate armor that looked more impressive than his, charged forwards, swinging her sword wildly. The bear howled as her sword cut into its body. Rabbiteater began to grin. Hey. Maybe this would be fun after all.

 

——

 

Twenty minutes later, Rabbiteater kicked his way out of the Adventure Rooms, fuming mad. Seraphel, Menrise, and even Altestiel were chuckling and waving at the [Mages]. Cortese and Rabbiteater had huge scowls on their faces.

There wasn’t much pain in the simulations. Just the simulation of it. You got to feel like you were actually fighting monsters, if you didn’t account for the feedback of hitting the illusions or the weight of your weapons.

Unfortunately for Cortese and Rabbiteater—they were slow learners to the fact that this was a game, not reality. Altestiel was good enough to fight with his ‘Skills’, but Rabbiteater kept punching monsters, and forgetting to use his axe.

He also kept forgetting that his character had HP and his armor wasn’t armor. So when he thought a Goblin was sneaking up on him with a knife and tried to yank it out of the Goblin’s hand, he lost 20 HP from being repeatedly stabbed in his shins. Which had armor on them!

Only, his character did not. And even when Rabbiteater learned the rules and tried to play—he died.

When you died, you became a ghost who had to wait for the others to find a way to bring back the body. You got to do bits of damage and scout ahead…and Rabbiteater had died 5 times. In twenty minutes.

Cortese had died 3 times. Their reflexes, battle-honed senses, and own ability in combat had not availed them. Whereas Seraphel, because she could remember to shout ‘Impenetrable Guard’, got to activate what was probably a Level 50 Skill, and Menrise got to shoot chain lightning every ten seconds.

“It’s not even realistic.”

“No indeed. No balance for the proper levels one would have. Would this team of ‘Gold-rank adventurers’ really be fighting eight Trolls in twenty minutes? No!”

Cortese and Rabbiteater were complaining loudly, which proved they really weren’t the target audience. The [Lord] who had gone on actual adventures in a dungeon and Rabbiteater, the Goblin, were mad as hell.

By contrast, Altestiel was urbanely amused—mostly by their fury—and Seraphel and Menrise were delighted.

“I think it’s very entertaining, Ser Solstice. Come now. I thought you were the mysterious loner, not the emotional one.”

Menrise teased him. Rabbiteater tried to throw her off the Skybridge. They were headed back to the inner city, and the [Lady] skipped ahead, laughing as he chased after her. Seraphel was about to suggest they now visit a shop selling the Singer of Terandria’s songs when she heard it.

Her head turned as a great cheer came from the gates. It was still a festival in the capital, but Seraphel and her friends had not seen the crowds at the gates and had avoided the plazas. Yet she felt a stir in the air, and in an instant—knew what was happening. The Hundredlord Cortese himself raised his head.

“I knew Erribathe was sending someone. But him?

Rabbiteater felt the air change. The very air changed, but not in the way of hostility or bloodlust in the air. It was an actual shift in nature. All five turned, but only his reaction was different. Then he saw it, heard it.

The Kingdom of Myth, Erribathe, had finally arrived. It began as a dignified blowing of trumpets, heralding some great visitor at the gates. Applause, cheers, manufactured by the impressive Thronebearers and [Bards] riling up the crowds.

Then—something peculiar happened. Rabbiteater could not see, from the Skybridge, who or what was coming. But he did see and hear—the silence fall at the gates.

Silence. For a good two minutes, the horns stopped and the cheers ended. He thought, possibly, someone had tripped or a horse had thrown a rider or something silly. Then there was a roar, and wild, spontaneous cheering rose from the gates once more.

Rabbiteater jumped. What was that? He looked at Cortese, and the Hundredlord was craning for a view.

“Who is Erribathe? I mean—what kingdom are they?”

“Golaen’s neighbor. Third of the Restful Three.”

Seraphel supplied, and Cortese nodded distractedly.

“That is what you southlanders call us. As if any of our kingdoms are alike! Age, perhaps. All three nations hail back to the founding of Terandria’s Kingdoms. Our Thousand Lances are an ancient tradition, and Golaen’s city was built by Giants. As for Erribathe, they are an original founding. Somewhat—unique.”

Menrise exchanged a glance with Rabbiteater. If Cortese said unique, what did that mean? Altestiel was frowning into the distance.

“I have visited Erribathe. You might like it, Rabbiteater. It is the third-largest nation in Terandria after Taimaguros and Ailendamus, now. It used to be first. It is a wild land full of old magic and disparate groups. But their leader…that’s not an aura.”

A strange phenomenon was sweeping through the city. It began with the dignified cheers—which would go silent. Then, they would explode into wild shouting and cheers in the wake of…something. Someone, moving through the city.

They were coming this way. Of course they were; the Skybridge was on a direct route to the palace. So the five waited. And again, something was changing the air.

Rabbiteater felt a nervous feeling in his stomach. He didn’t know why. He looked right and left, and Altestiel was frowning slightly, but he didn’t look afraid. Seraphel, Menrise, Cortese? They seemed the opposite of nervous. Their heads craned. And then, coming down the main street, Rabbiteater saw the representative of Erribathe.

They had sent the heir of their nation. A [Prince], but an older one. A man in his mid-thirties. That was all Seraphel knew aside from his name.

Prince Iradoren, Heir Apparent to the throne. She had a list of the royal genealogy, cities in her mind developed for courtly greetings, but she had not met him. Nor did she recall in her lessons what made the Kingdom of Myth unique. Perhaps she had thought it wasn’t interesting.

Seeing it was enough.

Pale petals like snow were still falling from the rooftops. A fanciful image that fit the splendid streets covered with magical tiles from bygone ages. The wind stirred the ground, sending a gust into the air.

Like a storm of pale pink and green, a figure emerged into view. He was not Prince Iradoren. In fact, he was so strangely garbed that Seraphel started.

She had seen, plastered on the Adventure Rooms and superimposed on Rabbiteater’s armor, the look of a [Berserker], a wild savage class from the antiquity of Terandria. But that was the imagination of people who had little grounding in reality aside from stereotypes.

A true nomad of older times did not go bare-chested. Nor was he poor in cloth; if anything, his clothing would have made him a noble as House Veltras reckoned it. There was little metal on his person, but he wore a travelling cloak of hide and footwraps of cut leather. His armor spoke of some beast’s pelt, pale silver in fur. A wolf? Or something else.

He carried a staff in one hand, to walk with, and his hair was kept from his eyes with a band across his forehead. A strange man. If he were not here, perhaps some of Calanfer’s noble would have called him a [Savage] of untamed places.

He was one of perhaps a dozen who walked down the street. Next came a woman with blue paint drawn into a sign on one cheek. A kind of cross between tattoo and face-paint that made Rabbiteater start and his heart beat faster.

Shamanic magic. He had never seen a Human [Shaman] in all his travels. Yet here came a warrior armed with what was clearly that kind of magic. Women and men, wearing the attire of nature, akin to [Druids].

They were a sight to stun Calanfer’s folk and completely unlike any other visitors from the other nations. Even Cenidau’s Hearthlords had their frozen kingdom.

But this? This was…like a tribe of Gnolls, only Humans. And they were the first. For while Seraphel then expected more of their kind and the [Prince] to look the same, the next group caught her equally off-guard.

After came a clatter of hooves, and riding after the straight-backed wild folk were soldiers, bearing proud standards and garbed in armor.

Mithril armor. They looked like [Knights], so well-armed were the [Soldiers] that rode past with a captain with his sword sheathed. Fearsomely armed; they slowly followed the folk on foot in perfect formation, their armor gleaming, passed down from generation to generation.

Yet this group was together; the nomads and soldiers had a place, and though they were distinct, it was the same procession. When the third group appeared, Seraphel began to understand.

After the soldiers came robed [Mages]. Humans and half-Elves, striding along, carrying tomes and staves. They had enough magic that Menrise murmured in astonishment. And like the soldiers—they stood apart.

Representatives of a different group. Now, Seraphel saw the subtle insignias that varied on the [Soldiers]’ armor and the [Mages]’ robes. She could not pick them out, nor did she have time to.

Another faction had emerged, unlike the other three. Here came Briganda’s folk, if Rabbiteater had known the [Shieldmaiden] and from where her class emerged. He saw helms and armor akin to Cenidau’s garb and shielded warriors on foot, carrying long axes. They were followed by giant dogs, not as large as Carn Wolves, but armored and padding along, sniffing the air.

Dogs, not wolves. Then Rabbiteater saw the heart of the procession arriving, and his heart skipped a beat. For, flanking the Humans who walked bare-headed, carrying long spears and tower shields despite the weight, were light-footed folk with pointed ears.

Half-Elves. Like the nation of Gaiil-Drome. Then—Rabbiteater looked up and saw a figure riding under a bough of leaves, held aloft to protect him from the sun. Two figures.

The [Prince], Iradoren, his hair blowing in the wind. Light, auburn brown crossed with the red that Terandria called royal. His eyes were faintly golden, but what was really golden was his companion’s hair.

The Human man rode with his wife. A half-Elven woman, staring ahead, eyes finding Seraphel and the company on the bridge. They rode on a pair of white horses, stallion and mare.

Perhaps now you saw it. Certainly, you felt it. The company of different Humans was marching through the city, and the polite cheers spurred by Thronebearers fell silent as they passed. Men and women looked up as they lined the streets. Children gazed up, and babies fell silent.

Then they knelt.

Not all of them. Some held their ground, like Seraphel, Altestiel, Menrise, and Cortese. But the urge was there. Rabbiteater did not, but he had not the feeling the Humans did. Even Thronebearers knelt—and the gaze of the [Prince] swept over the crowd like crackling energy. Only after he passed did people get up and that cheer began again, spontaneous and wild.

That was how it felt. A surge in the bones. Inspiration in the mind. And that company was vast. No wonder the palace had to be emptied!

Here came a cluster of Dwarves, walking proudly behind masked strangers armed in cloth, garb smelling faintly of mist and strange, mountainous homes. Yet beneath those masks they were Human.

On the [Prince] rode, and now—now it was a realization pressing at Rabbiteater’s mind. He alone, out of his company, felt it.

Perhaps the Naga did—and the Gnolls and Drakes and other species in the city. Of a surety, the Dragon knew.

Whether you were half-Elf or Dwarf, you would know this [Prince] and his kingdom, the Kingdom of Myth, by his sheer presence. His class was as old as the founding of his kingdom. A promise that unified the different tribes and factions behind the royal line.

Tradition, which Terandria loved. Like the marriage between half-Elf and Human. That was so old that even when half-Elves had made their kingdoms of old, Erribathe had been spared their wrath. They were Dwarf friends, and while they married half-Elves—the royal line was still Human.

Practically unheard of anywhere in this world. But that was the nature of the class. Just like their rulers shared a bit of immortality with the half-Elves by that old pact—that was why the Goblin shuddered.

He felt no great gift of courage and hope. He felt no desire to kneel. He had only experienced this horror once, and that was feeling Elia Arcsinger’s presence from afar in Tyrion Veltras’ army.

For Iradoren’s class was the unifier of allies of Terandria. Anathema and enemy to all the species his nation had ever vanquished from Terandria’s shores.

Here came Iradoren, Heir Apparent of Erribathe, leader of the unified lands which had first formed a place for Humans when the Hundred Heroes had emerged and taken Terandria piece by piece. Here was the bloodline that had spoken to and slain Dragons. Even now, he bore that class:

[Prince of Men].

A class for Humans. That gaze passed over each person, and Iradoren nodded to Princess Seraphel as she gave him the reply of state, knees trembling. Even she felt the urge, though she was the master of it. Those eyes stopped on Rabbiteater, and Iradoren recognized him.

If not the species—he recognized that Rabbiteater was no Human. And the Goblin was doing everything in his power not to reach for his axe or flee. The Dragon exhaled.

“Now.”

Kaaz, Golaen, and Erribathe had come with many other nations to Calanfer. Now…if there were aught to happen, it should. He watched the [Prince] ride towards the capital, followed by the adoring crowds. He did not look twice. It was a familiar sight. He was sure that if he slept, for many nights thereafter, he would dream of Dragons dying.

 

——

 

Prince Iradoren had some notion of state. In that way, he was no [Titanguard] like Lord Etrogaer, nor the many nobles of Kaaz like touchy Hundredlord Cortese.

He carried himself with the same dignity that Reclis du Marquin met him with. And with his arrival, the summit truly began.

Yes, it was a banquet, a meeting, a social event on paper. But Iradoren had not come just for the sight of the Eternal Throne. As Rhisveri had predicted, the Restful Three wanted something.

“This war has taxed the southlands greatly, Your Majesty. Erribathe has grieved the loss of life and sent what small tokens it could to the Dawn Concordat. My father wished to express his relief that Calanfer’s Eternal Throne continues to shine. I shall assure him it was a sight to be cherished until my dying days.”

And my dying days will be hundreds of years, not a mere hundred unaided. King Reclis du Marquin smiled and inclined his head. Just so.

Of his opponents—Iradoren was one of the better ones. He had a presence and a carefulness with words that Reclis returned as they dined at a luncheon. Formal informality; Lord Etrogaer was on his best behavior, and Hundredlord Cortese was among those lightly speaking, but mostly listening.

Even if the giant Etrogaer did not want to admit it, Iradoren outranked everyone here in influence. Likely Reclis as well given the relative strengths of their kingdoms. But Reclis was equal to Iradoren.

He did not mention how sparse that aid from Erribathe had been. Nor that Erribathe was largely aloof at most times. Instead, Reclis honed in on Iradoren’s statement.

Reclis was the statesman, not Iradoren. The [Prince of Men] was someone who could lead armies and conduct affairs of state. Reclis was the [King of Intrigue]. Any opening Iradoren gave him might well have been a door.

“The war has disrupted much of Terandria’s south, not just the Dawn Concordat. I fear that is the nature of war, Your Highness. Even now, brave Wellfar sails with Pheislant and Calanfer’s own small navy.”

He nodded to the [Lady] of House Wellfar, who looked gratified at the acknowledgement. Iradoren smiled politely.

“Perhaps Ailendamus had not considered the effects it might have on us all. I note Taimaguros has held itself in check. Which is well; given the portents all saw at the final battle, escalation is undesirable.”

He turned, and a [Lady] of Taima hesitated before answering stiffly.

“By Taimaguros united, we have not been asked by the Kingdom of Glass and Glory either way, Your Excellencies. I note Ailendamus has battled many nations alone.”

“Yet your war interferes with us all. No less than twelve nations have declared hostility towards the Kingdom of Glass and Glory. If you think your entry will shift the odds, perhaps you should remind yourselves how our wars have always gone—”

Avel was, as always, hotheaded. Their [Emissary] fell silent. Reclis hid a smile, watching the myriad folks of Erribathe eating. Many picked at the various delicacies or were exploring the palace. They seldom left the Kingdom of Myth. Reclis chuckled as the Lady of Taima bristled and reached for a dagger.

“Ah, well, Ailendamus has always done as it pleased. As befits the largest nation of Terandria. King Itorin II may well consider that Ailendamus’ state of affairs are the affairs of Terandria, at least, the south. Taimaguros, with respect to Taima’s pride, is often likewise self-absorbed. As befits the second-largest nation.”

The [Lady] smiled in response to that and sat back, practically preening. The other emissaries scowled or held their tongues; the two powers were closely allied, and that alliance had, unfortunately, helped both remain on top.

But it was also a careful sniping shot, and it hit its mark. Prince Iradoren’s own complacent smile slipped slightly.

He did not like being reminded that his kingdom was third-largest. He had some pride. Which Reclis would happily use against him; pride was a wonderful thing and a huge weakness in a [King].

“Yes, Ailendamus is large. But the rules of war demand trade be held sacrosanct. Of all their actions, the blockade which stopped all ships at sea annoyed the [Titan King]. Golaen objects. Loudly.”

Lord Etrogaer broke in, and Reclis sighed. If Iradoren were not the best person that could have been sent, he was at least good. Etrogaer was not.

Interesting. Reclis held his face straight and rubbed a hand on the inside of the table against a ring. It buzzed—and Queen Ielane smiled as her ring gently vibrated as well.

“Lord Etrogaer, it is the crown’s intent that we should come to an amicable agreement here. We are all Terandrian. This war? Unfortunate, but yes, trade should flow despite strife. You find no argument here.”

The [Titanguard] nodded, looking smugly mollified. Ielane’s gaze never wavered, but Reclis was sure she’d look into it. She was probably sending an invisible [Memo] to their Thronebearers already.

He didn’t know why, but he had heard Kaaz was seeking out Pheislant and Nadel’s representatives. They were quiet, but Calanfer had ears everywhere, and Cortese was no great master of subterfuge. Desonis and the stormy Altestiel were far better at the game of games—mostly because the Sleeping Queen’s court was hard to infiltrate if she was always napping.

 

——

 

It would have been easy for most people to simply see this was Golaen wanting to import brie or something. However, if you knew what to look for—it was easier still.

Wellfar oversaw a lot of trade. And while they were not always friendly, at least here, the Izrilians banded together. So, a [Lady] excused herself from the table after helping herself to all the gelato she wanted.

That was the funny thing. These arrogant kingdoms, the Restful Three, pretended to superiority. But their people gobbled down gelato like everyone else. They still hungered for the most worldly goods—including the attention of the scrying orbs denied to them.

Lady Cosoi Reinhart didn’t mind going abroad, even if her House were given the cold shoulder. It was entertaining, and she had flirted outrageously with Lord Altestiel in front of the scrying orb. The Goblin Slayer was an intriguing issue, and Calanfer entertained her.

Besides—it was always good to have Magnolia in her debt. So the [Lady] strolled back to her rooms, set up a privacy ward, and took the single-use scroll out of her bag of holding. She wrote, watched the words and scroll dissolve, and reflected that even the Thronebearers wouldn’t detect that.

Magnolia used to come to Calanfer to sharpen her wits against the Eternal Throne. A number of Reinharts had, actually. As for what she’d written—well, Cosoi had no idea why it mattered. But she was interested.

 

To Magnolia: 

The Restful Three are all after your sulfur, my dear. At least, Kaaz is, and the other two are poking about. That’s most likely it. Inquire with your servants. Polite kisses,

—Cosoi.

 

As for the reason sulfur was so easy to identify as a clue, well. If Cosoi had access to Magnolia’s own logic, she might have realized that a commonality between Earthers was that they were sort of stupid.

Stupid in the sense that not a lot knew how to make gunpowder, but everyone ‘knew’ sulfur was part of it. And bat crap. Probably because they’d all heard variations on the same recipe. Whether it worked or not didn’t matter.

They asked about oil, aluminum, and other common words. All you had to do was look for which nations were suddenly, passionately interested in importing such materials. The smart ones never made a sound and never gave you a clue something had changed.

 

——

 

Trade was one of the things the Restful Three were angling for. But subtly. And they were still guests of the Eternal Throne. Seraphel du Marquin was present for the luncheon, and her outing with her friends had been cut short.

But then—Cortese, Menrise, and Altestiel had all begged off because they had to attend. Only Rabbiteater seemed bored by the lot. The politics reminded Seraphel they were still from different nations, and it made her sad.

Because their friendship was ending sooner than she thought. Already, her thoughts had turned maudlin. If Ielane could arrange it, there were worse things than being married to Cortese or Altestiel. Not that they were likely to accept. Altestiel would be a victory without question…

It was arrogance she saw in the Restful Three. They really weren’t a match for Calanfer’s politics. They had a good show of power, but what they lacked was, well, what the Eternal Throne lived in.

Uncertainty. The Eternal Throne survived by playing diplomacy for real stakes. The Restful Three were powerful nations that, if not utopias, had the power to be the model for Terandrian kingdoms. They were why people said Terandria was so safe; their citizens benefited from the power of the kingdoms and lack of wars.

The southlands, exposed to the sea, were often under far more threat. But what was interesting about the Restful Three now was that, even if Seraphel didn’t know of the Earthers—she could tell they were upset.

Something had rattled their complacency around and made them realize they might be the classic fish in a small pond. Or—maybe a big fish in this pond, but they’d just heard there was another pond that was close to them. And the fish there had guns.

So they had come to the table. But they were hardly going to stick out a hand to help the Dawn Concordat unless they had something they felt they could gain, even if Ailendamus were on the back foot. They would rather take pieces out of Ailendamus if they felt it were worth it.

No, Reclis and Ielane had to have a plan to force or coerce some aid from the other nations here. And Seraphel saw the plan ahead of time.

It was easy. All you had to do was look around. Like, for instance, while you were sneaking cream puffs out of the third kitchen for Aielef. And Ellet. Cultivating disobedience in her sister from an early age seemed like a worthwhile use of a cream puff.

The three [Princesses] nibbled on cream puffs under the disapproving gaze of Ellet’s Thronebearers. Seraphel didn’t care how mad Ielane was. The sight of Ellet’s round gaze as she tried to make the cream puff last was so adorable. But she’d also seen Ielane’s trick.

“Have you seen the cake they’re about to bring out, Aielef?”

“No, and I dearly hope you haven’t touched the cakes or the [Royal Baker] will behead you.”

Aielef was serious. The cakes were being made with some unique powder and a recipe from Izril. Ielane’s fury over pilfered desserts would turn into wrath and ruin if the cake for the lunch were interrupted.

“Bah. Not at all. But guess what it is?”

Aielef glanced up from the balcony where they were observing the rest of the banquet hall.

“Oh…just tell me. What’s the plan?”

Seraphel lifted a finger, and Ellet’s trusting head turned between her two big sisters, as if she were admiring their adult intelligence and foresight. It made Seraphel feel so…uncomfortable. And slightly fuzzy. So yes, maybe she was showing off.

“It is a quite lovely cake. Of a certain landmass. Not at all buttocks-shaped. Only if you look very closely.”

Aielef’s stare was blank for a second, then she snorted.

“Oh, Izril.

“Oh!”

Ellet clapped her hands and stifled a giggle with delight. Even she got it. Seraphel glanced out with a knowing look as a cake was brought out to much ceremony.

It took fifteen servants to bring the damn thing out. She suspected it had been made out of many parts that were then connected by the [Royal Baker] into one huge, frosted piece. It even had frosted High Passes and an artistic version of the new lands.

The new lands. Obvious, but sometimes you had to just throw it in people’s faces. Plus, the grandeur of such a rare and expensive dessert had all the guests on their feet, admiring the Magnolia-type monstrosity. Ellet’s eyes grew round as she imagined her slice of cake.

Seraphel, knowing perfectly well that she would not get any, just watched people’s reactions. Then she saw one of the servants carrying out the cake wobble as they stepped on some drool from one of Erribathe’s dogs.

Oh no. The foot slipped, and the grand cake was in danger of falling—

Ielane’s finger twitched, and the foot amazingly, improbably, stabilized. The guests gasped, then applauded as the servant caught the falling piece of cake.

“[Elegant Save]. She can throw her Skill to any servant she wants, Ellet.”

Mother did that?

The applause grew louder as a knife was presented and the cake was about to be sliced. But there was Father with his trick. He took the knife from the servant—and the woman pretended to be surprised before bowing deeply.

“I should like to show you all the magnificence of this new development in Izril. Ah, but then, I believe the honor of the first slice should go to Prince Iradoren, who has journeyed far to reach us. Your Highness, do you have a preference?”

With a teasing smile, he held the knife, looking to Iradoren as to what cut he might prefer. Then, Reclis handed him the knife. And the [Prince]? Seraphel rolled her eyes.

Of course he took a piece of the new lands. And [Historians] wrote down this kind of thing as clever. It was pure ego and presentation. She didn’t miss how Lord Etrogaer was handed the knife—and now Reclis was letting people serve themselves. The [Titanguard] took a chunk out of the new lands twice as large as Iradoren’s.

“Seraphel?”

Aielef broke in. The 4th Princess looked up at the 3rd, and Aielef watched the furor and murmurs rise in dismay.

“Yes, Aielef?”

“Do you ever get the feeling that we are, in our own way, as straightforwards and predictable as Ser Solstice?”

“All the time, Aielef. All the time.”

 

——

 

The luncheon was going to last until dinner. It was less a single banquet, more like an ongoing discussion with food.

Rabbiteater had no idea why it suddenly turned to the new lands of Izril. Suddenly, everyone was discussing attempts at colonies, the existing half-Elven and Drowned Folk cities, logistics, and an ‘agreement’.

Suddenly, the topic had come up, and it felt spontaneous. In that way, Rabbiteater was below even Ser Markus for points on politics. To be fair, he was distracted.

…Mostly with trying to slowly squeeze his cake through slits in his visor. Meisa and Lady Menrise were watching the maneuver with silent horror. But then Rabbiteater heard and saw the Eternal Throne’s real army enter the room.

Their [Diplomats] and Thronebearers. They were all on the same page, and even Lady Menrise began speaking to another woman.

“The new lands? Yes, Tourvecall is interested…but we hardly have an army to spare even if we intended to enter the land-grab. Touchy Drakes and trouble at sea. I heard a famous [Pirate] of some kind has been attacking ships. Even the half-Elves aren’t safe.”

“Of course, Lady Menrise. Calanfer is not immune to troubles at sea, and few nations have a standing armada. Not least—any convoy would either have to leave a more northern port, say Taimaguros’, or travel to one of the southern kingdoms to make exit.”

“True…”

“—and that would mean paying tariffs or Taimaguros interfering or just the hassle of sending so many so far. You can’t build a new city without [Crafters]. All the while, you may be dealing with magical misfortune, monsters, and, frankly, competitors.

Hundredlord Cortese and Altestiel were speaking to Duchess Greina, who had been talking Noelictus’ own royalty out of the maneuver. Yet one of the Princes, Lothen, spoke with a half-smile that didn’t look quite real.

“Indeed, Duchess. On the topic of competition, have we not seen enough bloodshed in Terandria?”

The question was so poorly phrased and delivered as to make Ielane close one eye in a wince, but Lothen went on.

“Calanfer has a proposition to render to however many countries are interested.”

“We will not enter your war with Ailendamus—or Taimaguros, even if Kaaz has shed enough blood with them.”

Hundredlord Cortese looked blatantly amused by the [Prince], but he was surprised by Lothen’s shake of the head.

“Not at all, Hundredlord. Rather, this would be far simpler than a sworn contract. Given the countless nations and issues of each ruler signing a magical contract, say rather an agreement between gentlemen of the same species and culture.”

“And ladies?”

Greina raised her brows, and Lothen bowed.

“Absolutely, from the Sleeping Queen to any other, Duchess. A simple agreement—not to make war on another Terandrian kingdom. To, perhaps, form a unified front and common entry point. So, perhaps, if Tourvecall wanted for laborers…”

“Aha.”

Altestiel muttered. He glanced around, gave Queen Ielane a slight bow, and went back to listening. Not necessarily in appreciation, but he got it.

“Every nation present would agree to a ceasefire. In the interests of avoiding needless further bloodshed.”

The [Diplomat of Envy], Corek, was relaying this to Ailendamus in real-time. The Kingdom of Glass and Glory was moving to interject and stop this if it could—or at least, insert itself into this agreement.

But therein lay the problem. Every nation invited was, carefully, not at war with any of the others. They might have historical rifts, but even Taimaguros was there. And a venture overseas that could be so appealing?

New land. It was like an aphrodisiac, sweeter than cake and more tantalizing than toilet paper in a bathroom stall of agony. If they agreed to—even temporarily—a unified front abroad…were you going to jeopardize it at home?

Not for a bit. And if Taimaguros agreed…Ailendamus stood alone, now watching every side. Of course it could just stop fighting.

The only cost was getting everyone on board with the idea. The only cost was the new lands that Gnolls had raised for Gnolls.

But the Humans weren’t really considering that. Some were already visibly excited like Etrogaer and Cortese. As for the others, they were taking the temperature of the assembly and wondering quite frankly if they could afford to miss this opportunity. So if you were Altestiel, of course you bowed to Calanfer’s politics. You had to admire the play even if you hated the game.

 

——

 

The irony of it was that Reclis was entirely cynical about this affair. Seraphel just knew it. Her father was not a man who prized land except in how it mattered. She just bet that he didn’t care if this worked. He did not necessarily dream of Calanfer gaining a colony. Perhaps he factored it into the equation, but he might not even care if they got nothing more than this agreement.

Because this was what mattered. She wondered how much Calanfer was going to send to the new world. How many Thronebearers, experienced in how you held a teacup to check for poison, were going to try and settle land no one had explored?

Whatever the case, she was sure it would be far less than the benefits to Calanfer. And that was good politics. At least, as Reclis saw it.

It was also going to work. Probably. Etrogaer had all but committed, and once you got one voice saying that Golaen was definitely on board, you got more. By the time the banquet was in swing, Calanfer had brought out the good wine, and they were toasting and giving speeches about glory.

Ere the last of Giants walked across the sea, they stood by Golaen’s men/the horrors of the Children and the Adults thrown back and back time now and again!

A [Bard] was singing a song of how, in ages past, Golaen’s mighty warriors had held the line against another threat. They were reciting, very plainly, each nation’s history of military might. Why not go to Izril and prove it? Which nation could stand against Kaaz’s Golden Bells?

Or their Thousand Lances?

The famous [Knight] from the Thousand Lances, a former Named-rank Adventurer, had arrived late, like Prince Iradoren. He was currently speaking to the Kaazian nobility, perhaps the voice of reason as they argued passionately. He would represent Kaaz’s crown and the Thousand Lances itself—but he was not immune to the plays.

Soon, someone was going to challenge him to a duel. And it might just be Rabbiteater. Or Ser Greysten. Or Dame Voost or half a dozen others. It was not every day you got to see the ‘best [Knight] Order’ in the world. And everyone liked to challenge that idea.

Now, Seraphel understood why the Order of Seasons was here, as well as so many warriors. Erribathe’s folk were looking to their [Prince], who seemed patently interested, although he was harder to read.

Might and glory and nostalgia. Humanity in its multitudes, looking southwards. A single Goblin, hearing everyone talk of his home and the new part of it with eagerness. What Rabbiteater thought was impossible to tell behind his helmet, but even had he the purest inclination to stop this, he wouldn’t have made a dent in the combined ego.

Dead gods, it might have been a match for Jecaina, Raelt, Flos, and Fetohep’s combined egos. Here it was, and the [Princess]’s head lowered minute by minute as the banquet dragged on. She did not care.

 

——

 

It was now. Now, in this moment, that the timing was right.

Now.

You didn’t act when everything was reaching the zenith. It was when all the players were present that you made your biggest move.

So if you were waiting—now was when you arrived.

Think of the stories. If you knew stories—this was how it went. A great conflagration of noble folk, knights, all gathered together.

Then, out of nowhere, came the interloper. The foreigner. The challenger, who pushed open the double doors and set everything to chaos.

Of course—it was one thing to see that or read in storybooks, quite another to set it up.

For instance, when you pushed open the doors to the banquet hall, you really had to ask—what about the guards? They were going to stop you at the gates, and you couldn’t just walk in unless you had a really old-fashioned castle. You had to know when the moment was right, and if a servant came in right after you had made your grand entrance and announced the 5th course, well, you were done.

That was why you had a team. A team, possibly even a plant or two in the staff. Hell, you bought off a Thronebearer, and you had a bunch of plans and the willingness to wing it. Then, if you were the best in the world, you might actually burglarize even the Eternal Throne and their guests and get away with it.

The [Thief] was an interesting character. Not many people had even seen her. She went from disguise to disguise, evading even the Thronebearers and spies of Calanfer. Which was amazing, because it was hard to disguise…her.

Not her features, maybe. Brownish skin was not the most uncommon, especially with so many guests. She had a clever face, sharp eyes, but acting went a long way, and the highlights of azure in her hair were easily fixed with dye. Wigs existed.

…But the artificial leg was a trick. It was some kind of glassy sandstone, possibly a type of crystal, yet it moved and acted like the real thing. She managed to hide it with long trousers and shoes, but it was still notable.

Anyways, she was about to go for it. And by ‘it’, that meant her big entrance. Which was to head in as a serving girl, and, while waiting the tables, snatch the Prince of Erribathe’s crown straight off his head.

Also, the Goblin Slayer’s helmet. If she could wing it, the Summer Champion’s blades and a number of other valuable items she’d hand-picked. The Thronebearers at the doors were checking the servants, but there was a queue and they were slipping up. Some of the Thronebearers were investigating a lot of their number who had fallen foul of the laxatives.

Yes, the entire moment was ripe for a [Thief]. A suitable moment, and if the young woman had made any mistake as she held a serving platter at the ready, it was this:

She thought of herself like the principal actor of the scene. Everyone did. But sometimes—

Someone had the exact same idea as you.

The first sign that something was up was the shouts of surprise at the gates. But they were done with so fast that the Thronebearers hesitated before one reached for a speaking stone. However, they too realized something was up when someone began striding down the corridor.

“Banquet hall. Someone’s coming—”

A Thronebearer turned as the servants froze, and a figure walked down the hallway. A cold wind blew, and the [Thief] shivered.

What the—was that snow?

Actual snow? Yes, it was coming down the hallway, and it heralded a single figure walking forwards, fur-lined armor as ancient as the name.

The Winter’s Watcher. The Order of Seasons’ champion of Winter had come, and frozen Thronebearers were trying to block eight [Knights of Winter] who were helping set up their big moment.

The [Thief] did not like this one bit. However, she was already shrinking against a wall, plotting how to use this. The Thronebearers were talking with Queen Ielane, but they were striding forwards to stop the Winter’s Watcher. They drew swords, and the Winter’s Watcher was fast.

He—she—put a hand on their sword as four Thronebearers advanced and drew their blade so quick—

The first Thronebearer collapsed, eyes rolling up in her head. She fell to the floor, and even one of the Winter Knights murmured softly.

“A blow faster than mine eyes can see?”

“No.”

Another looked around. Then the helmeted figure fell forwards, and one of Winter’s sons hit the ground. The other seven reacted in moments. They spread out, and half of them were asleep before they hit the ground.

The Winter’s Watcher and the [Thief] both paused, staring at the slumbering people. Servants, Thronebearers, [Winter Knights]. The Winter’s Watcher spun—and their sword pointed at a third figure.

He halted in place. Teriarch, Lord of Flames, in disguise, obviously, stared at the only two people his spell hadn’t worked on.

“Hm? Aren’t you the Winter’s Watcher? And that [Thief]. What are you doing?”

He pointed, and unconscious bodies began sliding to one side. He raised two claws, formed a square, checked behind him, and opened a window with a sigh.

Setup. Then he spun back and frowned as the Winter’s Watcher stared at him.

“Wait a second. Were you about to enter that banquet hall?”

Slowly, the helmeted figure nodded. The [Thief] was frozen in place, debating running for it, hitting the alarm trigger for her team in her pocket. The Dragon stared at the [Knight].

“Wh—you can’t do that. Are you, perchance, invoking the legend of the Green Knight? Or some such? I didn’t even think they told that story here.”

What story? The Winter’s Watcher folded their arms. It wasn’t like there was just one tale of the last-minute visitor. Teriarch frowned. He glanced at the [Thief].

“We can’t have this. This is my moment—clear out.”

The Winter’s Watcher and the [Thief] stared at the Dragon as he made vague shooing motions. He certainly looked the part, but—ego was a terrible thing.

The three stood outside the banquet hall, while the guests, oblivious to the standoff just outside, toasted each other and ate. Perhaps only the [Queen] realized something was wrong, but even if she was trying to fix the issue—people who just fell unconscious when they entered the [Field of Deepest Slumber] weren’t going to solve the problem anytime soon.

The real green knight, Rabbiteater, was oblivious to all of this as well. Behind the closed doors, Teriarch was arguing in loud whispers with the Winter’s Watcher.

“How about this? You can do tomorrow. I’ll do today. This is entirely fair. Why? Because I am giving you this moment to walk away, and I’ll say nothing more about it. Or you can enter, sit down, and watch, then have your moment. Listen to me. Just because your helmet is blocking a Tier 5 spell, you and I are not on the same quote-unquote ‘level’. I’m busy calculating a trajectory. But I will happily spare a moment for—oh, what now?

He turned with the Winter’s Watcher, and the fourth person strode down the hallway. A figure in a masked visor, not unlike Teriarch—although he had a more open helm—and the Winter’s Watcher.

Someone had really gone for the Green Knight aesthetic here. Vines twisted up the legs of the armored figure—a minor green spell, and they had a cape of flowers. Their voice boomed beneath a helmet as they raised a single, plain sword.

I am the People’s Knight. You, who feast here, face me first.

He had made his way into the palace from another route. And the fifteen Thronebearers he’d left behind him were a testament to his abilities. Each one felled with a single strike.

He was fairly confident—right up until he saw the Winter’s Watcher. Then he hesitated.

“Ah.”

“Go. Away.”

Teriarch growled at him and then did a double-take.

“People’s Knight? What kind of a stupid name is that? Why are you invoking the Green Knight? That’s my tale.”

He cupped one claw to his earhole and frowned. The Dragon could distinctly hear a female voice asking what was going on. The People’s Knight took a moment to mutter in his helmet.

“Cara—something’s gone amiss.”

Four people, each with a grand entrance in mind, stood there in a classic standoff. Teriarch swished his fake and real tail in vexation as he looked around.

Then the [Thief] ran for it. The [Servant] leapt away from the door to the banquet hall, and all three [Knights] moved.

The two fake ones, Teriarch and the People’s Knight, as well as the Winter’s Watcher, all drew a sword. The [Thief] froze—

A sword was at her neck. The People’s Knight actually moved it as she came to a standstill, so close it kissed her throat. The Winter’s Watcher had a blade against the back of the fake leg, and Teriarch had stepped to one side and idly pointed his sword at the [Thief]’s chest.

All four stopped, then. The [Thief] because if she so much as sneezed, she was the next course. But Teriarch was glancing sideways, brows raised, and the Winter’s Watcher was turning their head left and right.

Because the way each one had moved!

Teriarch was no [Knight]. Not in class, but he had dabbled in the art of swinging sticks about. Dabbled, lost interest, forgotten—he had had a few acclaimed matches. So perhaps he had some grace.

Just a touch. The Winter’s Watcher was one of the great [Knights] of their era. They had fought alone on many battlefields. With Skills, they had eclipsed Teriarch’s draw, if not the pure form of his movements.

But the People’s Knight? He had drawn his sword and placed it at the [Thief]’s throat before the other two had even cleared their sheaths. The move had no wasted space. It was beautiful, quicksilver, and the Winter’s Watcher and Teriarch saw it. The Dragon turned his head, and his teeth bared in a pointed smile.

“Well now. That was fascinating. Are you a friend of this…Singer?”

The Winter’s Watcher’s helm turned to him. The People’s Knight froze—Teriarch had a hold of their communication spell? The [Thief] was frozen, but she was fast enough in her own way.

She saw the blade leave her throat and slash. Teriarch—or, rather, the strange [Knight]—deflected the blade.

But it almost reached his chest. The Dragon wearing a mortal’s body stepped back and waited, but the second stroke never came. The People’s Knight looked astonished, even masked by the helm.

“No one has ever done that. Not when I was rested.”

He blurted out in less ringing tones than before. Teriarch glanced at the way the other [Knight] stood.

“Indeed not? It doesn’t surprise me. But meeting a true swordmaster in this age is something. Do you not have a followup?”

The People’s Knight hesitated and ducked his head.

“…No.”

Teriarch patted him on the shoulder.

“You may wish to spend a few decades working on it. That was a [Blademaster]’s draw, though. Pure artistry. Unfortunately—”

He grinned, and his slitted eyes flashed. Crimson scales twisted as he adjusted his neck, and dark black spines flexed across his neck and the unique armor built for this species. The Drake’s eyes flashed, and the People’s Knight backed up.

“—I have seen it before. This is not your moment. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Agreed.”

The People’s Knight had decided this was not their moment to make a grand entrance. Teriarch saw them back off and called out.

“You would have lost to some of the people within. Anyone wearing armor so fine you couldn’t kill them in a stroke. Although, if it were humiliation—well, well. That’s one sensible fellow. And you?”

He turned his gaze to the Winter’s Watcher. The figure hesitated. Ancient, frozen gauntlets tightened on the frozen blade. Teriarch eyed the figure idly.

“Believe me, young lady. You don’t know who I am. Would it be that hard to sit down? Because I will use you as an object lesson.”

The Winter’s Watcher froze, in a literal sense, and the [Thief] tensed. At last, she spoke. She knew it was a risk, but a desperate, defiant grin graced the [Thief]’s lips. She raised her hands.

“Hey—hey. Did one of the other contenders hire you? I know it’s a contest, but this feels like cheating. Don’t make me hurt you.”

She tensed, despite the sword at her leg. Then the Winter’s Watcher was stepping back, raising her blade on guard. Two of them faced Teriarch, realizing that was their only option. So that Drake opened his mouth wide, and his teeth glinted.

“I suppose it would be. Silly me. I’ve forgotten how it felt to be young and prideful. Let’s jog a few memories, shall we?”

 

——

 

The banquet hall was calming down as [Titanguard] Etrogaer leapt to his feet, demanding attention for another speech. Rabbiteater was just about to hurl a piece of bread at him, and Ser Greysten was getting up to challenge the Thousand Lance’s representative, Ser Gorethem.

Princess Seraphel was waiting for the final proclamation from Reclis that they had an agreement, whereupon she was going to get stinking drunk and embarrass the crown. Petty payback.

Lady Menrise was staring at a donut and wondering if she should take another chance. This one was from, funnily enough, Erribathe. And this one had sprinkles.

Then the doors to the banquet hall opened. Or rather—they were thrown open. A figure appeared in the doorway as everyone whirled.

Winter blew in. A blizzard like no other, provoking screams and cries of astonishment. But people probably assumed it was the Eternal Throne showing off something new. Only Queen Ielane’s frozen face revealed to Seraphel it was not. She kept still, though. Sometimes, the disaster was staring you in the face and all you could do was smile at the falling axe with dignity.

Ser Greysten turned with a grin of expectation on his face. Right up until he saw not the Winter’s Watcher in the doorway, but a stranger. Then—he heard the crash and the sound, the terrible screech of metal on metal. And with the influx of wind and snow came the Winter’s Watcher.

On her front. The figure threw her through the banquet hall like a frozen cannonball. With such force that the Winter’s Watcher crashed past the high table, leaving a trail of sparks drifting down through the air.

Mouths were already open in astonishment, and Earl Altestiel was on his feet, drawing his sword. He didn’t need to guess something had gone wrong.

Where were the Thronebearers? He looked for Rabbiteater, and the [Knight] was getting up with others who sensed an issue, but the figure bellowed.

HAIL.

One word blew through the room, and Duchess Greina’s aura winked out with all the others. Like a physical storm, wind blew, and pastries and candles went out. The figure stood, backlit by only the light from outside. Even the fireplace had gone still, and it was hard to see at first who it was.

Then someone else ran into the banquet hall, fleeing the mysterious intruder. A young woman, her dress torn, a flashing, crystal leg pumping as she ran for the balcony where Seraphel, Aielef, and Ellet sat. At this, the Thronebearers who were present, including Vensha, rose.

The [Thief]! Catch her!

They leapt for the young woman, and Rabbiteater threw a plate like a discus. Etrogaer reached out, and his hand closed and gravity shifted, dragging everything around into a grip. Faced with Thronebearers and guests using their Skills, the [Thief]’s eyes opened wide.

And her leg exploded into lightning. Rabbiteater barely saw her move. She blasted past him, up a wall, and across the wall. She was so fast gravity only caught up when she slowed—with Iradoren’s half-Elf consort’s circlet in one hand.

Erribathe, to arms!

Iradoren leapt up. A cry went up from the guests who knew their history. It was none other than Lady Menrise herself who pointed and shouted.

The Lightning Thief! His Skill!

“Who?”

Rabbiteater looked at the thief, who had stopped on a table, standing over the [Princesses] being shielded by their Thronebearers. The most famous [Thief], hero of the world-renowned book series—was not someone who Rabbiteater had ever read about.

But even Seraphel gasped, eyes wide, as the young woman turned. Yet Altestiel calmly spoke, eyes on her.

“That is not the Lightning Thief. He’s dead.”

He is?

Several fans of the series were horrified. Which was sort of besides the point, but the young woman turned. Her eyes flashed, and she pointed at Altestiel.

“He’s not. The great game begins—now.

Then she leapt off the balcony, followed by half a dozen spells and even two Thronebearers.

Rabbiteater had no idea what was going on. But he turned, because while that was all very interesting and whatnot—

His back was exposed to the intruder. And if the [Thief] could make his skin crawl interestingly, this person was making Rabbiteater’s [Dangersense] ring louder than Greydath of Blades had.

He had waited for the [Thief] to have her moment. Once she’d taken the limelight, he acceded with some grace.

After all—you had to admire initiative like that. And it was a good warmup to his act. The balcony doors swung shut as the [Princesses] hurried away from the pursuit of the [Thief].

The room was dark, fires blown out by the Winter’s Watcher’s entrance. Now—several began to flicker back to life of their own accord.

The light from the hallway beyond illuminated the figure once more. Voices rose in confusion, for a knight stood in the doorway.

But not a knight that you would expect. No Human stood in the doorway, garbed in ancient armor that shone like bright brass and gold, but another figure.

A Drake. His scales were perfect crimson and his eyes heliotrope and cerulean. Black neck spines stood out from his armor, perfectly tailored to accommodate him.

Drake armor. Those here had never seen armor meant for a Drake to wear like a [Knight]. It didn’t look the same. Even the way the figure stood, back slightly hunched, was different than the erect posture of a Human [Knight]. His head was slightly lowered, not chin raised, and his smile was full of teeth.

That was how he looked. His presence was far more than that. The Drake [Knight] stood there, looking at them all.

Each nation, each diplomat and noble or royal figure. With knowing eyes. With a gaze that burned like fire. A distant ember, reigniting itself. After all—he was the center of attention.

Someone had to break the silence. It was Prince Iradoren, rising from his seat. The [Prince of Men] called out in a level, wary tone.

“Who are you, stranger? Why do you disturb the Eternal Throne and this company of Terandria’s Hundred Families? You were neither invited nor wanted.”

In reply, the Drake chuckled. His voice boomed, loud despite his calm tone. It filled the room as he stepped forwards, and Rabbiteater felt a nervous sweat on his brow. He looked for Meisa, Seraphel, and the others and saw Altestiel wavering. They should have been spreading out, but something was almost literally holding them in place.

Invited? Wanted? Hail, son of Erribathe. Firstblooded, proof of pact between half-Elf and man. Hail to the Hundred Heroes and Erribathe the Peacemaker, who drove a hundred feuding blades into stone and settled the Kingdom of Myth as a bridge between countless peoples. You remember customs more than most. So why do you embarrass your history so? I have always had a seat at your tables. My invitation is older than your royal line.”

Another step, and he was into the room. Iradoren wavered, and it was uncertainty that flashed across a dozen faces, but some people were poor listeners.

Lord Etrogaer drew a hammer that could have flattened a pig’s entire skull in a single blow. He had the strength of Giants in his class. With effort, he approached the figure.

“Name yourself, Drake, or leave. This is Terandria’s soil. Which Walled City sent you?”

For answer, the stranger stopped and looked up at the eight-foot tall man. Even his neck spines didn’t reach Etrogaer’s chin, but the [Titanguard] felt uneasy looking down at the Drake. He glanced up and felt…as though he was being looked down upon in turn.

“No Walled City can command me. I have come before those gathered here to speak. To speak of the revelations of last month and the future. Stand aside, little son of the tall. You forget your place. When you were a dream of your first forefathers, they entreated the kindly Giants for safety and aid. Golaen has forgotten the vows it swore. Even so. The kindness of Giants is in your blood and bones. I would not want to hurt you.”

“And I will throw you out far less gently.”

Etrogaer’s face flushed pure red. He reached down, and the Drake caught his wrist. His clawed hand could not even encircle Etrogaer’s wrist—but the [Titanguard] froze. He strained, and Rabbiteater saw his muscled arm bulge. Then Lord Etrogaer whispered.

“—[Gravitas of the Monuments].”

The air twisted around him, and every loose object in ten feet went scattering in every direction. A fork threw itself with such force that it embedded itself in the arm that Dame Vensha threw out. Seraphel stared at the fork stabbed into the armor and swallowed hard.

And not once did the Drake’s arm move. Etrogaer lifted the hammer, and the Drake looked up. The [Titanguard]’s pouring brow was a mask of uncertainty. He froze—and the Drake let him go.

“Ah. Now that brings me back.”

As Etrogaer stumbled backwards, the scaled head turned. Left, right, and he smiled once more. Fondly.

“Here stands a knight who names himself not. He comes before a great banquet of mighty warriors on an auspicious day and lays a challenge before all and sundry. ‘Strike me. Strike me, and I shall answer your blow with mine. Let the victor be the one last to fall.’ In front of Terandria’s children, have any the courage to take up this old challenge?”

He looked right and left, and Rabbiteater felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Rabbit. Don’t…”

The Goblin turned his head. He looked at Dame Meisa’s worried face and whispered back.

“Do I look stupid? I don’t stick my head in a trap.”

And it was a trap. Everyone knew this kind of story. Oh yes. Even if they didn’t know the exact parable—who wanted to trade blows with someone who had just held Etrogaer’s hand like an adult held a child?

Even so. A single figure didn’t flinch when the Drake looked his way.

The Thousand Lance’s great [Knight], Ser Gorethem, a former Named Adventurer, could not run even if he wanted to. The man had a mane of hair almost as impressive as a lion’s, and it was impossible to read his face as he slowly rose and put on his helmet.

“You have the better of me, stranger. In the name of the Thousand Lances of Kaaz, you must know I cannot decline a challenge made before Terandria’s royal bloodlines. How shall it be done?”

The Drake paced forwards another few steps. Then he spread his arms. He had a single, plain sword at his side. Ser Gorethem had a wicked greatsword strapped to his back.

“By blade or spell or even teeth or claw, strike me. Then I shall return the favor if I am still standing. Tell you what. I shall give you three blows for one of mine.”

The sheer arrogance of the statement enraged some of the watchers out of their silence.

Ser Gorethem, do not hold back on account of our sensibilities. Strike this interloper, and if they play any tricks, let us have done with this.”

Hundredlord Cortese shouted, accompanied by a dozen of Kaaz’s voices and some of Taimaguros’ and Avel’s.

Even so—Gorethem hesitated. Because he didn’t know his opponent. Whatever he expected—killing a Drake might be entirely possible. Or maybe it was a trick. He turned.

“Summer’s Champion. Offer me your blade, I pray.”

Instantly, Greysten drew his smaller axe on his right side and handed it over. The Drake watched with an air of resigned patience.

“Are you called a great warrior of men, Ser Gorethem? If you are of the Thousand Lances, you should be.”

The old man tested the blade in the air and faced the Drake with an air of resignation.

“I was known as a Named-rank Adventurer. Gorethem Krakenblood. I drove one back from Cenidau’s shores in my youth. Will you not relent?”

The Drake’s only reply was a low laugh.

“No. Strike hard and waste your first blow. There is an order to folly, after all.”

The [Knight] hesitated—but then he drew the axe back. Everyone waited and watched as he judged his blow.

The first one was indeed kind. He swung for the Drake’s shoulder, which was relaxed as the patient intruder waited.

Not lightly. Not a ‘wasted’ blow in Rabbiteater’s eyes. Gorethem had already used a Skill, and so the blow was so quick that Seraphel blinked and the crash and flash of magical light as blade met armor was still crackling through the dim banquet hall, deafening and blinding all for a moment.

Yet the Drake just stood there, dusting off his shoulder with a claw.

“Next?”

“Your sword, Ser Gorethem.”

Greysten offered. But the Named-rank Adventurer was still unwilling to draw it. He set himself again, glanced at the Drake, and, more sure he wouldn’t cut his opponent in twain, spoke.

“[Blade Art: Twin Curves of the Moon].”

This time, Rabbiteater saw a crescent draw itself out of the air and an exact duplicate swung the other way. This time—he thought that if he had been struck like that, he would have broken bones and the blade might have cut through his armor and flesh and bone.

The impact was like thunder, and Rabbiteater squinted through it. Ser Gorethem staggered—and the Summer’s Champion’s axe skidded across the floor until the Winter’s Watcher stopped it with one foot.

The Drake was standing there. His mismatched eyes were glowing with impatience, and Ser Gorethem backed up. A voice came from the Winter’s Watcher’s helmet.

Muffled, almost guttural. Neither immediately male nor female.

“Draw your sword, knight.”

Gorethem looked at the Winter’s Watcher, then slowly drew his greatsword. It was ivory. And Rabbiteater realized the stories about Gorethem were probably great.

Because he carried a Kraken’s tooth or claw—carved into a greatsword. The air even smelled like salt and blood, and when he held it with both his hands, Rabbiteater muttered.

“Whoa. Whoa—”

He steadied Meisa—then both backed up as Rabbiteater ducked. A raging wave had engulfed the length of the greatsword. When held behind Gorethem, it was threatening to tap Rabbiteater on the helmet. And he stood fourteen feet behind the man.

“Better, stranger?”

For answer, the Drake spread his arms.

“Do you know how this story always ends, Ser Gorethem? Why do we repeat such stories? Why did you?”

The [Knight] paused as he raised his blade.

“I will not swing lightly.”

He refused to answer the question. So the Drake did for him as the blade drew back and Rabbiteater decided to stand behind Ser Greysten. Just in case.

“We tell these stories because we want to see them undone. Or see if they were true. Every villain meets their end. Every [Prince] rides off into a sunset. Then they forget. Again and again. Whenever I stand here, you say, you think—it cannot be true.”

The sword drew back. Ser Gorethem hesitated one last time. But the Dragon just looked at him, and the trembling blade steadied. Then the Thousand Lances’ [Knight] swung his greatsword down with a howl.

“[Sword Art: The Kraken Bleeds].”

The banquet hall quaked. Rabbiteater felt an explosion of mist and rain strike him like a slap to his face. He held his ground, tensing, as people ducked and the remnants of two tables went crashing into the far wall.

It was like a tidal wave striking a beach. When Rabbiteater saw the water stop falling, he expected to see a dead Drake. If you knew the story, like the Earthers, they expected to see a headless figure, kept alive by mysterious magic, vowing to return the blow in a month’s time.

What they saw was—a Drake. His scales were wet. His eyes were looking down at the greatsword, trembling, the edge of that krakenbone blade resting against his armguard.

It was unscratched. He looked up and with a delicate claw, pushed the greatsword down. Then his eyes began to glow.

“In another time, boy, I would have been cut. Sometimes. The story is the lesson.”

Ser Gorethem’s arms were shaking from the backlash. He stepped back, and someone—Cortese—made a strangled sound.

No one spoke as Ser Gorethem, panting, lowered his greatsword. He just dropped it. Then he stood as the Drake paced around him. This time, he faced Ser Gorethem so his back was to the audience in the banquet hall. Angling, as if choosing the exact spot.

“Strike your worst, stranger. I have taken your challenge, and I will not flinch.”

Gorethem looked pained, like a man facing…what? Perhaps he did hope this was a game, a story from out of legend now.

In reply, the Drake neither took out a sword nor spoke. He held up two claws, made a square, stepped just a hair left, and then nodded. He reached out—and poked the man in the chest with a claw.

Dink.

Silence. Then, someone began laughing. Ser Markus laughed as the Drake stood back. Everyone’s head turned his way, and then a chuckle rose uncertainly. But the Drake just sighed. Ser Gorethem stared at him.

“That was surely not your blow, stranger.”

The Drake raised a brow. He looked at Markus pointedly, and the man fell silent. The Drake snapped his claws.

“Of course not. [Body of Diamond]. That was for you.”

“For…?”

The Drake drew back a claw and made a fist. Rabbiteater saw the windup, lazy, like the swing, but it came faster and faster, and when it hit—

He didn’t think it was the Drake who hit Ser Gorethem. There was the briefest of moments between the impact and the fist appearing to strike the chest. Almost like that was an illusion.

But Rabbiteater really didn’t think on that for a while. Because he was trying to find Ser Gorethem. He tottered forwards on unsteady legs, his ears ringing. The rest of the banquet hall was silent or picking themselves up. But Rabbiteater?

He walked out of the corridor, following the hole in the banquet doors that had swung shut behind the Drake. The enchanted wood was smashed inwards, and one hung ajar. Rabbiteater saw the unconscious servants and [Knights], neatly piled up away from the trail of—

Destruction. Smashed stone. And still—the Goblin started running—

He didn’t see a sign of…

Rabbiteater came to an open window. Well, an open section of the corridor. Bits of stone were falling out the hole in the walls. He stared out the window.

There was an almost perfect shot to the Skybridge, he realized. And down the main street of Calanfer’s city. If you went through this wall. And that building. And that ground floor.

Amazingly, all of them had been evacuated. Almost like someone had calculated the exact path a bouncing body would go flying. Rabbiteater stared across Calanfer.

The street was torn up, shredded in a line, even the magical tiles scattered against the neat [Walls of Stone] that had been placed like an exit ramp on either side to stop the debris from shredding houses or hitting pedestrians. Rabbiteater ran down the street. Halfway to the gates of the city, he found a [Knight].

Well…his armor was ruined. It looked like someone had ground the entire set of Ser Gorethem’s armor against a whetstone for hours. There was a huge dent in his chest, but the man was breathing.

Rabbiteater made sure of that. The Thousand Lances’ [Knight] stared at the sky and made not a sound even when Rabbiteater waved in his face and snapped his fingers in front of Gorethem’s helmet a few times.

He left the man there, surrounded by speechless citizens. They stared back the way Rabbiteater ran towards the Eternal Throne and the trail of destruction left in Gorethem’s wake.

When he got back to the banquet hall, the fires were relit. Thronebearers, servants, and soldiers stared through the broken doors, and a single figure stood in the room as the grand fireplace relit itself.

Perhaps no one had spoken in the entire time Rabbiteater was gone. The Restful Three—the kingdoms of Terandria—were they truly taken hostage by a single stranger? If so, they did not care for this part of the story.

Ellet was hiding behind Seraphel and Aielef. Reclis and Ielane had not moved. They were watching the Drake, assessing. But the stranger saw.

He saw it all. For all hundreds of eyes fell upon him, he gazed upon the rest and saw something else.

Fear and anger were a close-run thing in the strained voice of Prince Iradoren. A flame slowly grew brighter, eating at the logs in the fireplace against the far wall. Little light came through the shuttered curtains on the balcony.

“Stranger. You invoke stories, and you are mighty indeed. Might alone will not bend any knee here. If you come to threaten and intimidate, you will find no victims. If you have come for blood, name the power you invoke. For the Hundred Families of Terandria will answer any insult.”

A cracking sound made the last words fall silent from Iradoren’s lips. But the Drake was not making any hostile gesture. A pair of wings slowly unfurled.

Wings? Rabbiteater hadn’t seen wings on his armor. But they opened, a thin membrane flexing. And the light that had gone from this room was growing brighter. As was the voice.

“I have not come to wet this soil with more blood. Nor have I come in wrath. Insult? Do not play games with me, Prince of Erribathe. Feuds and insults are a never-ending tale, a serpent that consumes itself and leaves only more grief to continue the wheel. Kaaz Dorem Laegriser should know that. I ask, and again you forget. Look at you. Do you fear me? Me?”

He stooped slightly and peered at the little [Princess] hiding behind Seraphel’s robes. Aielef and Seraphel both moved to shield her, but the Drake gave Ellet a toothy smile. She peeked at him, for his tone was not that harsh, and he chuckled.

“Do even Calanfer’s children not know how other species smile? Come now. Terandria, you continent of kingdoms. You Humans who claim to such tradition, as if the Hundred Heroes were the first who ever set foot here. Do you not remember anything? Guess. I have many names. I have many guises. Even if it were not me—think of my brothers and sisters. Who might be here?”

No one said a word, but now, Altestiel was shivering like he was a man drenched by a sudden downpour. He wasn’t willing to say it. Nor did many believe or even understand.

Teriarch knew that well. He walked forwards, and they drew back, a vast semicircle of faces as the firelight grew ever brighter. From one side of the room, the illumination rose, and then the Drake crossed a point across the banquet hall and something rose behind him.

Just a trick of the light. The Goblin saw it rise on the far wall. Everyone saw it, spreading out from the Drake’s shadow. Only…it was no Drake which rested there, nor did that great mouth move on a Drake’s body.

The firelight revealed the truth. As it so often did with forgetful creatures who cast [Invisibility] and the like.

The shadow of the Dragon smiled and laughed as every head rose, and tongues turned to lead in mouths open like clams upon a beach. He chuckled, and one magical eye winked at Ellet, the only child in the room, staring up.

“My. Have Humans such short memories you cannot think of one name for me?”

“You…”

Reclis du Marquin was choking on his words. Even he could not have expected this. Rabbiteater stared at the giant shadow. He slowly snuck over, tracing where it lay—and reached out. To what seemed like pure space behind the Drake.

A wing buffeted him in the face—gently, but with all the force of—

Rabbiteater fell on the ground and lay there for a while.

Now, Teriarch, the Lord of Flame, had their wonder as well as fear. Reclis du Marquin looked around. Then he bowed. Bowed, as few bows exist between [Kings]. But they had one for magical beings.

“Stranger. I have not yet welcomed you to the Eternal Throne. I am Reclis du Marquin, King of Calanfer. Do you come as herald of our righteous intent or this great hour in the world’s changing of eras?”

Even now, he tried to spin things. Not realizing that he stood upon a chunk of earth slowly rotating in space at a Dragon’s whim. Once again, Teriarch chuckled.

“Hail, King of Calanfer. Forgive my amusement. With our long histories, it always tickles my fancy that Humans come to my kind for reassurance their cause is just and correct. I did not come here to lend credence to any morality or justice of your deeds. Rather, I came to remind myself of this land I once called home. And see how it has changed and failed to change, even as the rulers have shifted.”

He looked again, and two emotions ran through the Humans. One was born of admiration and fear. A kind of wonder for a legend thought no longer to exist. The other was the knowledge buried in the roots of so many kingdoms.

Blood and fire. An old foe and ally stood here, and both were…impossible. But which? And why?

“If you are here, Drag—stranger. Then tell us. Is this due to the events of last month at Ailendamus’ gates and around the world? Come, lend some understanding to all present.”

Earl Altestiel called out urgently. He had the craziest urge to challenge the Dragon to a game of chess. And imagine being able to tell the others that! For a reply, Teriarch fixed the [Earl] with such a stare that Altestiel gulped.

“What you saw. What you heard on that day was real. Can I say anything more than the ghosts that came before you, your ancestors of old? Of course. Yet if you will not listen to them, my words shall surely fall upon deaf ears. I say again: I did not come here to endorse the Kingdoms of Terandria more than any other species. I have long been both friend and sworn enemy of your peoples, and many remember that.”

He nodded again at Prince Iradoren, who much looked like he regretted that fact. Yet his consort now raised her head, throwing back her hood and speaking.

“If not those days behind us, then surely the days to come. It must be Izril’s new lands, then, and this pact. You have watched us, great stranger. Are you one of the Forestheralds, an old friend whose name still remains in our tomes and books? Tell us, please, that we might honor you.”

Her voice was inviting, even friendly. The shadow of Teriarch snorted gently, and a gust ran through the room, hot air tinged with a laugh.

“Oh, that you might mark my exact name and nature and how to best use me in your interminable squabbles? I think not, little Rootfriend. I am here to challenge and upset, not give you any gifts. After all, I am not your friend. Or surely I would be one of your Thousand Lances, honored with such titles like the Dragonknights of old. Here is your hint: I have never sworn service as a knight to any crown.”

Another susurration. The half-Elf lowered herself back into her seat, but Ser Greysten approached next. Boldly, he planted his feet.

“Then, Ser Stranger. Make your claim. Challenge, but not threaten. Reassure us what we saw was real, but not explain. I am a simple [Knight] of the Summer. All this playing with shadows and words is slightly too much for my mind. Please tell us openly what you wish.”

He was right, of course. Teriarch was dragging it out, and the Dragon had to admit, he was enjoying it. He felt alive. Alive and sad and oh—the nightmares.

The Kingdoms of Terandria. He knew many forms they could take and many ways any nation could change. But to rise to the occasion he knew they must?

There was a horror in his chest. And it was the twin of glory and, yes, memory. 

He hesitated just once. It was so easy to play the mysterious wizard, the stranger who left clues and hoped that someone found the true path. Because the mysterious wizard was somewhat of a jerk. It was far harder to trust, to follow and let someone else lead.

So—the shadow on the wall paused, and then it vanished. The Summer’s Champion recoiled slightly, and the Drake who stood there looked at Ser Greysten.

Then he flickered out of existence.

“Summer’s Champion, you prat. You chased him off—”

Hundredlord Cortese burst out. Then he suddenly felt a breath on his back. He turned, and a Dragon stood behind him.

But not Teriarch. Not quite. Oh, he had the form of a Dragon, but his scales were pale white. He was trimmer than he might actually be, and a single armguard was on a shoulder. Etched with the oldest symbol of Cenidau.

Do you see me now, Summer’s Champion?

The Dragon turned, and Hundredlord Cortese was in sudden need of the bathroom. The Wisdom, Hellei, and the Hearthlords rose as one. The Dragon looked down at them. Then a claw touched at his face. Two eyes like winter, one the frost that covered the land until all was death, the other like the buds of green through the snow, regarded them. He touched that face of a dead comrade and turned.

Turn—a vast Dragon with scales scarred a hundred thousand times lay restless against the balcony, blotting out the light. Her mane was like stone, calcified, but still flowing like the bedrock of the very firmament. The Dragon exhaled.

“Do you recognize Cenidau’s champion? The last Dragonlord of War? Which one I am does not truly matter, does it? What form should I take?”

Suddenly, a half-Elf was sitting at a table. His hair was white—and now—he looked all too familiar. His brows rose as suddenly—everyone recognized the face—

And a Gnoll with fur like molten bronze leaned against the fireplace. He looked older, tired. And he clung to the stone as if the entire Eternal Throne should support him.

“…yes. Names are such dangerous things. The consequences of revealing myself do not come to mind lightly. Forgive me, those gathered here. I am old, now. If I give you no names nor titles, it is because they have no point. I did not come to be lauded. Nor to rule or seek authority. I came simply to show you that this world has not yet worn the last of us from this earth.”

Greysten’s voice was shaking.

“I invite you to Pheislant, Ser. Rest your bones in the Order of Seasons’ keep or wherever you please. Even if you seek no leadership, your very words are wisdom enough.”

“Are they?”

Flicker. A third Dragon folded his wings, his scales not just dark but voids of light. Xarkouth, his image, looked down at those who had inherited his people’s Dragonthrone. Grand and small. He prowled left and right restlessly, a perfect copy of how the real Dragon had moved.

For one person remembered his names and deeds. Teriarch shook his head restlessly.

“I should hope you are all wise enough. But if you were, surely, you all know your…expedition to the new lands of Izril will end in bloodshed. Every nation upon this world grabs, even if they hold a fortune in their claws. Even now, as I roamed the Eternal Throne, I heard a hundred plots for Humans to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with naught but their own kind.”

The emissaries shifted. Ielane spoke, sounding pleading.

“We are a nation of Terandrians, Ser Dragon. Dwarves and half-Elves were not lost from our minds, I promise you that.”

“But did you intend to go to Izril with Drakes as your foes?”

The Dragon challenged her, and Ielane hesitated.

“No one owns the new lands of Izril. If we were attacked, we might defend ourselves. Is that not fair?”

Teriarch grinned like Xarkouth.

“Of course it is fair. By all means, defend yourselves. I expect nothing less of proud nations. Perhaps those armies that ‘defend’ will march against a Walled City. In the name of safety. Then, if we speak of old stories, you shall see one upon the battlefield, Queen of Calanfer.”

Ser Markus gulped loudly. Seraphel caught her breath. Did the Dragon just say what she thought he did…?

“Then are you warning us away from Izril, Ser?”

Greysten pursued the question, and Teriarch shook his head once more.

“No, and no. In fact, I invite you there. Not just armies. Not just colonists. Come, brave [Knights]. I am sure many of you have already pledged your swords for your kingdoms. Then—beg leave for a quest beyond your shores. You have heard the <Quest> posted for the Crossroads of Izril?”

Murmurs. His eyes glinted as a Brass Dragon, scales like metal, rested his head on his claws. His wings fanned, refracting rays of light for the wondering Humans. The Dragon laughed.

“More will come. Seek out these old sites. Explore the lands yet untamed, and surely—some of you will meet a stranger on the roads. They might be Drakes of good or ill repute. They may be Gnolls upon their own stories. One of them, at least, will be me. Come to Izril. Challenge or learn from me, or teach me a lesson I have not yet heard of in all my years. But do not expect silence from me. If you threaten war, expect a Dragon and those who have slain Dragons to stand against you. Perhaps the might of Terandria is more than that of Rhir, Baleros, Chandrar, and Izril combined, eh? Or perhaps you might come more humbly.

A cerulean eye winked like mischief and amusement at the others. The voice rumbled.

“But come. Come and see. And learn. That is my invitation to you all, and I apologize for dragging this moment out. Call it playfulness. Dance far from your shores once more, sons and daughters of Humans. I would have you found better kingdoms on the new lands. But also—uncover every old secret. Find the City of Stars. And for those worthy—rise far beyond the [Knight] who struck me. I do not crave death. But I seek those who could slay me and rise above even that dream. For you will be needed. Do you understand?”

Then Prince Iradoren exhaled, and Earl Altestiel looked up. The Dragon didn’t change forms, just looked down at them all.

“You would have us level?”

“I would have every kingdom level. Each kingdom grow and break the traditions that have grown like weeds. Keep the most beautiful things about what you have made—and prepare for a storm like no other. Were you blind? Did you not all see and hear the warnings? Hence my invitation. It is a poor thanks for the greatest of Gnolls, to use their lands like a great training ground. But they have always been the most generous of species. And little has my kind repaid them that.

Teriarch hissed, and his voice grew sad. Then his head rose once more.

“That is for now. I will not give you orders. I will not stop you from making war on each other or other species. But bear in mind the consequences. And allow me to give you…a longer goal than your self-interest. After all, you must find your own heroes and leaders to rival Marquin. She was a woman who I saluted on the bloody fields where the last of the great Crelers died.”

His audience shivered, breaking into goosebumps. Seraphel could barely breathe. Now, she thought she knew the name. One of three. But Teriarch was going on.

“I seek a hundred Marquins. A hundred, a hundred thousand. Retemper yourselves, each nation. Try…please try to find that elusive path. I have seen you reach it and go astray. I will be there, taking sides, meddling, all for a day not long in the future.”

“And then? What happens on that day?”

Someone had to ask it. Of all the people, it was Rabbiteater. He sat up, and the Dragon looked at him. Now they came to it, he exhaled.

“There is a foe. There is a foe I found worthy after all this time. Yes. Even I. I, who once swore an oath against almost every nation here. I, who gave up vengeance, for the bones of my foes and those who committed the crimes were dust. Some deeds and monsters are worse than Crelers. When you are ready, that is the foe I hope we will all stand against.”

“Who?”

Now there was a dangerous question. The Dragon peered down at Altestiel. Once again, he spread his wings and vanished.

The Drake stood where he had been, and a shadow spoke on the wall. Mocking the Earl of Rains.

“Come now. Once more—is there no one you cannot name?

“Crelers.”

Lord Etrogaer spoke it like an oath, and someone else whispered a second name.

“Demons.”

The Drake’s disapproving glare found a single man standing in the back, and the Blighted King’s representative hesitated—and began to tremble, though they did not know what he might say next. Instead, Teriarch spoke.

“This is my promise to you. A day will come when this world must be purged of that which is intolerable. All swords raised, no matter the odds. You may disagree with nations and crowns. My people have always been both foe and friend. Some foes are beyond question. On that day—the true enemies will reveal themselves.”

Rabbiteater’s hand was trembling because even he was listening. That mismatched stare swept the room, and the voice rose.

“If need be, the fleet to end all fleets shall cross The Last Tide and seek truth at the end of the world. But I promise you this: Rhir. Perhaps the innocent shall flee. But a day will come when the sons and daughters of Terandria will sail to that blasted continent and put an end to Rhir’s nightmare for good. A long dream for a sin older than Rhir. The coming war will burn nations to ash. It will break all chains. Horrors lying buried in the sands shall be put to sleep for good. On that day…”

He closed his eyes, and a terrible smile crossed his face. Gentle enough to make Ellet burst into tears, and sharp enough to cut the Summer Champion’s heart.

“I swear to you on that day, the Dragonward Bells shall ring. One last time.”

The promise rang through the Eternal Throne and the banquet hall, and there were no words to follow it. The Dragon’s shadow grew larger—then it flickered out. Leaving only a tired Drake and a promise.

But like the ghosts and visions—they believed. Rabbiteater thought no moment could surpass that, and probably none could. The Drake drew his sword and planted it in the table in front of him. King Reclis leaned back as Teriarch looked down at him.

“So. Calanfer proposes a journey to new lands, eh?”

“Eh. Indeed.”

Reclis managed. Teriarch’s eyes were kinder, now, his vow said. Almost relaxed. But in a sense—he felt more of himself now. For his great promise was spoken—but there was always more for a Dragon. So he chose these words with as much care as the others.

“Then I shall have you back your promises with more than casual effort, esteemed guests. If you are to do this, know the secret to levelling. Passion. Throw yourselves across the ocean by sheer will of it.”

The mortal guests of the banquet hall looked at him. Powerful nations, all. Being invited to Izril by a legend as old as their thrones? Who could be upset?

Well—how about the Naga from Baleros? How about the Five Families? Because, at this, Lady Cosoi Reinhart had to break in. She was very pale as she called out because her family did not have a good relationship with Dragons historically.

Oh, how little she knew. But she did speak.

“I say—I say! Are we, the children of Izril, supposed to take this lightly?”

Teriarch swung his head to her, and she hesitated, but the Five Families were nodding, so Cosoi looked around.

“It is our home! No continent has a better claim than those who have lived and died on Izril.”

“Barely a mayfly’s time compared to the Drakes and Gnolls.”

One of Kaaz’s nobles snorted, and Cosoi resolved to give him a bowel movement that he would never forget if the chance arose. However, her eyes were on Teriarch.

“What is our reward, pray, noble Dragon, for being invaded?”

She meant the Five Families, not the Drakes or Gnolls. But in answer, the Drake just bared his teeth.

“Who said there is nothing for you? I will see you back on Izril. Give Terandria its moment now, Lady of House Reinhart.”

She started, compressed her lips, then bowed as graciously as possible. Well, now, that changed a lot.

The Dragon turned back to the crowd. His head found the guests, Iradoren, Etrogaer, and the representatives of Avel, Noelictus, Desonis, and more. Duchess Greina, Princess Telleis—and he called out.

“So I ask before all here: who will go to Izril and seek the Crossroads? Who will dare to meet every species in peace and strife and reach out across Terandria’s shores?

He turned and looked around. Now, he was waiting. He did not have to wait long. Hundredlord Cortese leapt to his feet.

By Kaaz, I swear I shall not spend the end of this month on Terandrian soil! I have been called, and I will go!”

Reclis’ head swung left, and Ielane’s eyes opened wide. This…this was everything they wanted. Surely? So why did all her Skills and instincts start blaring a warning?

But more people were calling out. Lord Etrogaer was hesitating, but members of his congregation were swearing it. Greysten wrestled with his own duties—and Dame Voost and the Winter’s Watcher’s hands—as he tried to shout out.

Teriarch turned, and it seemed as though the Drake were staring into every eye. But he really wasn’t. He looked and waited. That kindly old man.

 

——

 

A [Princess] stood frozen. She felt like she were walking through the Eternal Throne. On daises of light, but ones she had seen a thousand times.

And while she despaired, while she wept inside, a door and a garden, full of strange roads and paths forwards, opened. A terrifying sight compared to the well-worn palace around her.

Her mouth trembled at the thought. It wouldn’t work. But she thought she heard Queen Marquin’s voices and the other [Ladies].

“If you wait, that day will never come. Better to weep and gnash your teeth now than to do it forever later.”

Which of them had said that? Not Marquin. She had looked Seraphel in the eyes and laughed.

My grandchildren are timid. You looked better terrified, riding with life and death in your mouth. The vomit on your tongue and terror in your veins is how you know you were alive.

…As inspirational quotes went, it wasn’t the best. She had said more—but Seraphel got the meaning.

She was clasping her hands together so hard her nails dug into her palms. More and more people were standing up.

“Desonis shall go. And I swear it in the Sleeping Queen’s name.”

Earl Altestiel. Altestiel and Cortese, and now—Seraphel was almost afraid to look around. For two heads were seeking hers. And it was—it was just a fancy. It was not something you should make life choices around.

It was a bathroom encounter. Yet—that silly Menrise stood up.

Tourvecall shall send at least one [Lady]! Mother—”

She actually turned to Lady Ficombe. The goldfish bowl-wearing [Lady] almost had an apoplexy before everyone, and the Dragon actually chuckled. But then Menrise was bowing, and that just left two.

Rabbiteater, who glanced around and laughed in his own way.

“Of course I’m going home.”

He tilted his head, and Seraphel thought he was looking at her out of the corner of his eye. She closed her eyes, and her heart was beating out of its chest. Just like it had, once, when she saw a [Singer] appear in Afiele. Just like all the best and worst moments of her life.

It did not feel like that piece of lead when she stood before a wedding altar three times. Her head rose, and she thought she could hear Cara’s song. It and every part of Seraphel were pushing her forwards.

The only thing that held her back was her fear. So the [Princess] opened her mouth and called out.

“I—”

She coughed. She actually coughed, and heads turned to her. Prince Iradoren, Rabbiteater—Seraphel coughed and turned beet red. She fumbled for her words as Aielef and Ellet turned to her.

“That is—I promise that Calanfer will not forge this pact lightly. As a sign of our intent, our goodwill—the Eternal Throne will send one of its daughters to Izril. Me. By the Eternal Throne, I, Princess Seraphel du Marquin, will join this great expedition, for better or worse.”

She felt dizzy. Light-headed. Ebullient. And she couldn’t wait, secretly, to see how much of a punishment she would get.

There. I said it. Now, I’ll never make it. But at least I can say I tried. 

Tears ran down her cheeks. Because she just knew what was coming next.

Queen Ielane and King Reclis had realized what she was trying to do in that moment. Ielane couldn’t well stop Seraphel so obviously by holding her mouth shut—but she could still salvage a bad situation.

Which was with an apologetic laugh. A distressed one, to indicate that Seraphel was swept up and making promises that, obviously, she didn’t have the authority for. Reclis would, in turn, promise the Eternal Throne would put its support behind the effort but that Seraphel was spoken for, hinting at a marriage.

Before rumors spread, they took a loss to avoid this blunder. Ielane raised a hand to her mouth to crush her daughter’s dreams. She opened her mouth—and nothing came out.

“——”

The [Queen] blinked. She tried again, but her mouth didn’t move, and no one noticed her amidst all the cheers and exclamations. Reclis was giving her the urgent side-eye—now was the moment. She knew that. But why…?

Ielane’s mouth moved again, then she tried to rise urgently. But she couldn’t. Someone was holding her down. Ever-so-gently. Just like he held her mouth closed, or rather, the words inside.

She looked up, and a single eye of heliotrope found her. A Dragon nodded to Seraphel, and Reclis tried to speak. To rise. But the Dragon innocently blocked the words from coming out. It wasn’t much, he liked to lie.

Just a few words. A bit of hope for a girl. He looked at Seraphel, staring at her immobile parents, and remembered why he liked to wake up in the mornings. A tearstained face swung towards him, and he bowed. Time he was off.

Perhaps they would never remember this day. Perhaps, in the years to come, they would forget him as surely as he might forget some of them, no matter how hard he tried. But for now—[Princess] Seraphel du Marquin shed a bunch of tears as Rabbiteater and her friends approached and began to tease her gently.

A Dragon came to Calanfer’s Eternal Throne. Gently, as he set everything aflurry and aflame as he was wont to do, he pried a few bars loose. Then he left, and a [Princess] followed thereafter, looking around and blinking in the light.

As for the Goblin? He just laughed and laughed, because in the end?

He really was going home.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: I ran out of gas during the writing of this chapter. Which I hate to do because I usually manage my energy well. But sometimes it happens and I only hate it because it’s a sign my writing quality goes down.

Unfortunately, it was in the big, important moments. I will have time to edit, although I note that this 2-day writing isn’t really reducing word count. Let me just check how much it is before the third day of edits?

…36,000 words in two days. Yup, yup. I’m not reducing the goalposts, I’m just kicking the same goals and uh, also editing. I don’t have a soccer analogy for that. Or football.

I don’t care. I’m done! I hope you like it. I like writing, I just have very poor self-management. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m sore, I’m hallucinating bugs or monsters out of the corner of my eye, and I will see you later. Did you think this was a good side story poll? Let me know how you liked this and see you next chapter!

 

Xrn, Rabbit Poo, and Valeterisa and Mons by Brack!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

Rabbiteater by Kalmia!

 

No Gods, No Masters by Darko Jovanov. Commissioned by dado!

Artstation: https://www.artstation.com/darkojovanov

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Interlude – The Great Race

[I wrote an essay because…because. Check it out here.

https://wanderinginn.com/essay-ais-and-the-future-of-writing/]

 

Some day, huh?

What were you supposed to do after meeting a Dragon? Cold shower, lots of cuddling with significant others? Talk with friends and make sure you hadn’t gone crazy?

The funny thing was that the instinct to run around in the streets and scream that you’d met a Dragon or wait for your interview with Wistram News Network didn’t happen. Not a single noble, nor even the servants or staff, talked—publicly, at least.

There were doubtless a lot of late-night talks with family and friends, but the Eternal Throne had issued a clamp order, and the Thronebearers had a word with everyone. The second reason why the nobility didn’t talk publicly was because they were busy screaming at their respective rulers, who were busy screaming back lots of questions.

Now, if this were the archetypal fire-breathing Dragon that left a lot of ash and bones in its wake, of course no one would hide the truth. But if you felt like you had just received an invitation from a creature of legend—that was a different card you kept closer to your chest.

So no news leaked…immediately. Which was to say a lot of people heard that night, from the Iron Vanguard, who had a really bad time in their respective toilets at the emotions that produced, to the Quarass, to Rhisveri himself. Yet the populace was ignorant of the facts.

Some day. The world was full of enough exciting news as it was, frankly. Even if no one threw a Dragon into the mix—this felt like a year to be alive. New lands, wars, Antinium crusades? Why were you staying in your job scraping barnacles off a ship or grinding herbs in a mortar and pestle?

Adventure waited. If you stayed here, now—you could never again complain that you’d missed your moment to shine.

Even so, some people stayed put. They said, ‘yes, new lands, adventure, magic, the Archmage of Izril, the beginning of a better era. But…I just don’t have enough silver to buy a sword or something. Where would I begin?

And that was the end of that. The impetus to action was dividing families, driving young—and old!—out of their homes, provoking change.

For instance, Liska Coresh Silverfang was considering leaving her job. Coresh and Silverfang were her two last names, incidentally. She was technically a Silverfang; she and her brother, Ishkr, had been born before coming to Liscor, but they weren’t the ‘tribe’. So City Gnolls often took another last name and thus developed a middle one if they hadn’t already.

Anyways, Liska was seriously considering leaving her job. She didn’t like being the door-Gnoll in The Wandering Inn. Oh, it was exciting, but she hated working for family. Her annoying older brother was bad enough at home. At work? He was always giving her orders, and she had a hard enough time obeying the Watch.

But Shashi wanted a job at the inn, and she thought it was so fantastic—if dangerous. Which was getting on Liska’s nerves too. They might break up. But the dating scene was really poor in Liscor, and forget about Pallass. They’d actually arrest you.

Even Invrisil was apparently quiet. But Liska hadn’t gotten enough time off from her job to really find a contact point. Which was part of why she wanted to quit.

But she stayed. Oh, the Gnoll with light grey fur and a snaggle-tooth that other Gnoll boys found attractive until she spat on them was too young to worry about a permanent job. She liked the perks of the inn, like the weights-room, free scrying television, and food—but she didn’t like having to change the magic door every five seconds.

Or Ishkr. It was mainly Ishkr. Liska would admit, under torture, that she had some affection for him. He was just so…boring. He never got fired from his job. He took care of Liska in the sense that he often bailed her out if he found her in the Watch’s lockups, and he was always scolding.

‘Do this, do that, don’t kiss in public, stop antagonizing the older Gnolls, don’t throw rocks through a window of Peslas’ inn for being a speciesist.’

Brotherly stuff. But Liska stayed. Even though she was thinking of leaving with all the Antinium and Goblins coming to work here. Not because she hated them; they made her job easier. If anything, that was a reason to quit working because she wouldn’t leave Ishkr holding down an entire inn.

Erin and Lyonette had no idea how hard it was to work with just two Gnolls for an entire inn! Ishkr had kept it running for ages by himself. True…Liska might have quit, but even so, he’d been alone.

Anyways, she was staying out of solidarity. His girlfriend had just broken up with him.

Now, Erin, upon hearing that, might then expectorate all the liquid from in her mouth outside of her body. Ishkr had a girlfriend? Well, yes. Had.

Liska was angrier about it than Ishkr that morning.

“What did she say? Ishkr?”

He was combing his hair. Just the face and arms; they’d eat in the inn. It was so early Liska was yawning, but Ishkr replied quietly.

“She said she’s going to go with the Silverfangs. She was angry that I wanted to stay at my job.”

Keisha said that? Where is she?”

“Don’t go and fight her. And come on—you’re late. Where are your shoes?”

He meant the wide, cloth sandals that Gnolls favored. Liska gave him a blank look.

“Somewhere.”

She cast around the small apartment they shared. It was only two bedrooms and a tiny kitchen and dining room, but they made it work.

The deal was that if one person came back late at night from partying or working, they didn’t wake the other one up. They both had a key, and if you made noise enough to wake the other, you were immediately smacked.

The second deal was—if you saw a loop of cloth around the doorknob to the apartment, you never entered. Even if the apartment were on fire. Lest you see something you would never forget.

Ishkr growled. He looked around, and the two finally found Liska’s sandals under the table where she’d kicked them.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

The apartment was sorta clean. Neither Liska nor Ishkr cleaned up much; he did that as a job and refused to deal with her messes. If anything, her boring brother barely spent time here.

“Why do we have to get up at the crack of dawn? Why don’t we stay at the inn?”

Ishkr paused. He put on his apron; he was so ‘professional’ that he was never late. And he kept clothes from work.

“I don’t want to inconvenience Miss Solstice. She used to have only a few rooms. Besides, it’s dangerous sometimes.”

“Crelers?”

“Monsters. Bar fights—anything.”

“Hah, I bet there were only a dozen Crelers.”

Liska laughed, but uncertainly. She had never actually heard how many there were. Ishkr had been there, and he’d refused to talk about it. She’d heard from the Watch that an entire army had been surrounding the inn. If Ishkr hadn’t talked about it, it had probably not been that bad. Plus, Senior Guardsman Relc had been there, among others.

“What about now? We could get free rooms. Each!”

Ishkr sighed as Liska imagined a room of her own.

“Erin locks her doors at night. No coming back after dawn for you.”

“Damn. What if you get a room and I stay here?”

He did not dignify this with a response. Ishkr pushed open the door, and Liska trailed after him. Her brother snapped, looking vexed.

“Come on, we’ll be late.”

“Why are you so…like that? You’re not even crying that Keisha broke up with you.”

She waved her paws at him. He had been seeing Keisha for two months. She’d been really worried after his dry spell of three years. Keisha was another hard-worker who’d been apprenticing herself under Raekea’s Foundry, and Liska was privately glad she wasn’t going out to defend Ishkr’s honor. Keisha could probably take them both in a fight.

She was also very annoyed. Yes, Ishkr was boring, but he was reliably boring. Keisha just had to go off and leave him? She trailed after Ishkr, asking more questions.

“How is The Wandering Inn safe? I didn’t hear you sniffling last night.”

Gnoll noses and ears were too advanced to keep secrets. Ishkr just sighed.

“I wasn’t that surprised. It didn’t feel like it was working out.”

“Why?”

He gave her a side-glare.

“Because.”

“Why? Why? Why? Whywhywhywhy—”

She followed him down the stairs, lowering her voice since this was an apartment complex. But Ishkr finally snapped back.

Because she kept trying to drag me to her family and friends and kept hinting about having children.

Liska was so astonished she was still for an entire twenty seconds. By the time she ran after Ishkr, he was halfway down Scuttle Street.

It was named after Shield Spiders and had a bit of an octagonal design with the streets which branched off the main street into eight sub-blocks; a kind of suburb that was attached to a larger street. It often got crowded at rush hour, but they were too early for that. Hexel had apparently sworn to remodel this section of Liscor personally.

“She wanted to start a family? You didn’t say!”

“That’s private.”

“You could have told me.”

“I could have.”

“And?”

“You’re annoying.”

The siblings’ argument was punctuated by a scuffle that a passing [Guardswoman] saw. The Drake eyed the two hitting each other lightly and seemed to recognize they were siblings.

“Morning. No entry to this street. Please move along.”

“What? Why?”

Liska glanced up, instantly annoyed, but Ishkr just peered past the yawning Drake as she pointed.

“Sewers.”

“I thought they were clean!”

There had been the bad smells, and the sewers always had problems, but adventurers kept them clean, and they hadn’t had bad blockages for ages. People said that the city was using some new way to clean them, and that was great. Unfortunately…the [Guardswoman] grimaced, and the two Gnolls noticed she had plugs in her nose-holes.

“We hired some adventurers to supplement the bone r—the cleaning service because of all the influx of people.”

“And?”

“One of the idiots cast [Tidal Wave]. The backsplash has flooded this street and the next one.”

Ishkr and Liska sniffed the air and wished they hadn’t. You smelled the sewers and bad things all the time, but that was concentrated odor coming from ahead.

“Ah, we’re going to be late.”

Liska realized they’d have to cut through multiple streets to get around this spill. Ishkr just grunted.

“I have to open the inn. And get breakfast—come on.”

He began to jog. Liska kept up easily; of the two, she was actually more fit. Not just naturally either. She had a lot of experience running from the Watch, and she had done more physical jobs than Ishkr who lifted, what, chairs at most?

However, she was lazy, it was early, and so she whined.

“Ishkr, come on.”

Hurry up.

He sped up, and she growled at him. She was definitely going to quit. As soon as she made sure he wasn’t drowning his sorrows or really broken up about Keisha. In truth, Liska was a bit disappointed by the lack of emotion. Did nothing change his attitude?

She lost sight of Ishkr, and by the time she rounded the corner, taking the long, long way across Market Street, he was gone. He really did take being the [Head Server] seriously. She rolled her eyes—then groaned.

It seemed like the entire damn city was trying to stop her from getting to work today! Ishkr must have seen the mess in the middle of Market Street. It was a classic Three-Cart Pileup; nothing fancy. A [Merchant] was wailing as he pointed to the spilled cargo.

My Prelons! They’re the last shipment from Cellidel—”

“Ah, good riddance, then.”

A Drake [Guardsman] glowered as he turned to the angry Human [Trader] who hadn’t given way, leading to the collision. Liska debated wading through the Prelons—then gave up. Now she had to run down another street.

—Straight into a dawn-performance of a bunch of Drakes, Gnolls, and even Humans. The Players of Liscor were rehearsing as a huge crowd of admirers blocked the street. Liska was losing her temper. But she actually recognized the tired Human man shouting at them.

“No, no, it’s prithee! Not ‘pissy’!”

“Oh, that makes a lot more sense in context. Sorry, Manager Temile! Don’t fire me—”

The leader of the Players of Celum for Liscor and Invrisil had come up in the world, but Temile looked tired.

“Let’s take it from the top. Ladies and gentlemen, please, you’re blocking the road!”

He remonstrated with the crowd as Liska ran, now growling, to a fourth street.

 

——

 

By the time she got to the western gates, Liska had a stitch in her side. She was also fifteen minutes late, and she’d started running. She thought she’d beaten Ishkr. He wasn’t a good runner, and Liska staggered over to the door that stood next to the new Adventurer’s Guild, Mage’s Guild, and main Watch House.

It was a good spot for it, and while the door was often used for city-to-city transit, Liska knew she’d left it open. So she yanked the door open, stepped inside, and found herself in the new transit room. She stalked forwards, and a figure detached itself from the wall.

“Miss Liska. Thought you’d be ‘happening by’.”

Aaaah! Aaaah!

Alcaz raised his hands as Liska freaked out. She forgot the inn had security these days. Panting, Liska clutched at her heart attack and the stitch in her side.

“Sorry, Miss.”

“I don’t smell or hear you!

The Brother grinned and tipped his hat to her. Liska turned to the door that led to the trapped hallway. It was the coolest part of the inn to her. She loved all the hidden traps and weapons, though Ishkr had lectured her for an hour last time she’d taken one of the crossbows out to show Shashi.

“Sorry. There was a sewer backflow and a cart pileup and the Players and someone had bees.”

“Bees?”

Alcaz raised his brows. Liska shook her head.

“Some idiot [Beekeeper] brought bees to the city and had no idea we have Ashfire Bees. I saw, like, fifty of them chasing the small bees around. How late am I?”

“Er…twenty-four minutes, Miss?”

Liska groaned. They were supposed to have breakfast ready in six! And they’d put the chairs up to mop the floors because that was ‘responsible’, and they needed to warm up today’s breakfast and get the water and—she dashed into the common room as Alcaz stayed put.

“We’re going to be late! Who’s still here for breakfast? Did the Horns arrive back yet? No, it’s only been one day—is Ishkr here yet—?”

Even as a bad employee with little motivation, Liska knew the job from Ishkr making her do it. She entered the common room and came to a stop.

Ishkr looked up from pouring a hot broth into a bowl from a container on a table. The chairs and the tables were perfectly arranged, and plates and bowls were already set out as the first early-morning risers like Architect Hexel and Normen came down the stairs.

“Wh—Ishkr?”

He’d beaten her! And he wasn’t even breathing hard! And everything was in place. Her brother gave her a look, but just motioned to the side.

“You’ve got a bowl there. Eat fast.”

“How’d you get here? Did you miss the bee-man?”

“No. Architect, here’s your breakfast. Do you want it here or to go?”

“To go. Day of work. Must slither.”

Hexel was yawning, but he brightened up as Ishkr presented him with something.

“This is for you then, sir. Two ‘coupons’. A meal for you and Mister Elirr at Barehoof Kitchens. Miss Imani said to tell you this was better than a boxed lunch that sits around all day.”

Wonderful.

Hexel inspected the colorful bits of paper as Liska tasted the morning’s meal. Imani was still pulling double-duty, although she often just ran her food to The Wandering Inn. Today’s breakfast was a chowder. Yum.

Liska watched Ishkr out of the corner of her eye. No waterworks, and no one else knew he had broken up with anyone. She sat and ate, fast, trying to get to work. Even Liska had a conscience, and Ishkr had told the rest of the help not to turn up until after breakfast.

Which was odd. Now that she was sitting and watching Ishkr, rather than doing whatever chore he assigned her to, she realized the inn really was in trouble.

Oh, sure, Lyonette and Erin were recruiting Antinium, and there were allegedly Goblins coming to be employed, but this inn had permanent guests, a huge amount of space thanks to the [Grand Theatre] and all the improvements, and a regular crowd.

Who but stood in the way of the masses and all the dust, dirt, and unfilled orders? Ishkr. Liska saw the rest of the guests coming downstairs.

Kevin, on the days he didn’t sleep in Esthelm’s bike shop, Imani herself, Palt, Joseph, Relc, Hexel’s three Lizardfolk assistants, Normen, and that was excluding Alcaz, the adventurers, and the rest of the crowd since most were with Erin.

Nor were they easy guests, all of them. Some, like Hexel, only wanted a lunch to go and even skipped breakfast. But Liska had a difficulty chart.

It was one of the few things Ishkr liked and sometimes collaborated on in secret. The Wandering Inn’s secret files. Employee edition. If you read the sacred texts, you might get entries like the following:

 

(★★) Kevin Hall, [Mechanic or Something]. — Pretty ‘chill’, ‘dude’. Says a lot of funny stuff. Easy to deal with. Just wants food when he’s dying. Sometimes comes back late and hungry. Tips. Shows lots of gadgets and metal.

(★★★★) Pisces Jealnet, (but don’t use his last name), [Necromancer]. — Sniffy. Tell him anything cooked is ‘sous veid’, or if he asks if it’s prepared in such and such style, say ‘yes’ or tell him to talk to Imani. Sometimes goes invisible and complains when you bump into him. Asks for tons of things. Lots of bone dust everywhere.

(★★★★★-★) Mrsha, [Troublemaker probably]. — Steals everything from plates. Lies. If she’s smiling guiltily, something has gone wrong. Do not let her play ball with Ekirra or she’ll kick a ball into someone’s face. She has no ‘dessert permissions’. She has no authority. Get Lyonette or Ulvama to reliably deal with her. May attract monsters. Is rude. Never tips.

 

You were only supposed to have a 5-star difficulty rating in the system they’d worked up, but Mrsha demanded one more. She had been the worst offender on their system so far along with a few other 5-star guests. Until the latest entry.

 

(★★★★★-★★) Gothica, [Goth]. — Hides among the corpses in the basement. Sits in cupboards and screams at you. Stares at you in the hallway in the middle of the night or mutters just out of earshot while you’re alone.

 

Anyways, even if there were no 5-star guests here, Relc was a solid 3-star himself. He was pretty nice, and he’d gotten downgraded after coming back from Cellidel, but he ate a lot, was messy, and somehow at least one chair overturned itself in his presence every single time.

Juggle that with Joseph asking if they had something lighter than chowder and one of the Lizardfolk being uncertain whether or not he was allergic to the chowder and Ishkr got both different meals. This was in between serving everyone, bussing the tables free of plates, and going to let in the crowds at the pre-arranged times from Liscor, Invrisil, and Pallass.

By the time a guilty Liska jumped up, she’d seen Ishkr pass her table eleven times.

“Where do I go?”

“Door. Let in Silveran and the Antinium. They should be coming now.”

Liska went to do just that. She had just changed the dial to Liscor when an Antinium walked in with the new hires.

“Hello, Silveran.”

“Hello, Liska. This is Liska. She works here. You must be very conscientious of her and Ishkr as they are the only two employees.”

Silveran entered with the new Antinium hires. They’d been on the job this last week, but they were still new. And his presence was…if not unusual, slightly unnecessary. Yet ever since the cleaning incident, Silveran had realized he could come here as a paying guest. Which wasn’t bad, but he got 2-stars in the Liska book because he kept cleaning up things and pretending to work here.

Six Antinium trundled in after him. Each one had an apron on, and they were armed with cleaning supplies, and one had a hammer and nails. They’d be useful for fixing small things since four were Workers. The two Soldiers looked quite nervous; Liska eyed them, wondering how they’d use their ‘hands’ to help. But Erin had said it was equal-opportunity after a talk with Pawn, and she was the boss. The weird boss. She was still better than bossy Lyonette. The only appealing thing about her was her red hair.

Anyways, Liska eyed the Workers’ attire. They even had a pawprint in black next to a stylized inn.

“Silveran. Did you buy the Workers supplies?”

The [Cleaner] hesitated.

“If I did, that is within my rights as a related Antinium. Besides, as I note, this inn lacks for the Goblin staff. So if I saw any dust, it would be my responsibility as a citizen to do my duty as a good samaritan and clean it up.”

So that was the angle he was going for this time. Silveran inspected the floorboards as Liska rolled her eyes.

“Well, only a modicum of dirt here. But if we enter the hallway and see the criminally overworked—hmm. Wait. Where is my dirt?”

He hunted around as the Antinium presented themselves to Ishkr. He patiently assigned them each to a chore and watched them as Silveran glared accusingly at Ishkr.

“Ishkr.”

“Silveran.”

“I see you’ve mopped the floors. And waxed them?”

“Last week.”

“I see. I see. How good of you. But have you cleaned Bird’s tower?”

He hurried past Ishkr to the always-occupied Bird’s tower.

 

(★★★★★) Bird, [Hunter] — Leaves rotting birds in hiding spots. Asks for bird-related food. Lie and tell him that broccoli comes from broccoli birds. Sings okay. It’s mostly the rotting birds.

 

Silveran came down a minute later, looking mad. His antennae twitched as Ishkr innocently held a bowl of chowder out.

“Breakfast, Silveran?”

“I see Bird is attended to and the tower is moderately clean. Well done. Well done. Perhaps I shall have chowder after all. Oops!

The Antinium took the bowl and ‘innocently’ tried to toss it over a table as Liska poked her head back into the inn to ask if they had any more unscheduled guests. She saw Ishkr catch the bowl before it could tip. He and Silveran exchanged another glance as the Antinium turned to stare at them.

“Careful, Mister Silveran. You might not get to work on time.”

“Thank you, Ishkr.”

The two stared silently at each other. After a moment, Ishkr sighed gustily.

“…The Players of Liscor are putting on a performance tonight. Two plays. Would you like to clean up for a small fee afterwards?”

Silveran instantly brightened up. He stuck out a hand, and Ishkr shook it.

“Excellent service as always. Tonight? I will be there.”

Amazing. Somehow, Ishkr actually dealt with the problematic Silveran—which was an issue Liska had never thought would crop up. Indeed, he seemed to be on top of things as she monitored the door.

Liska was yawning by the time morning was done, but she perked up when the most attractive—

Wait a second, it was Gireulashia. Liska sighed. The gigantic Gnoll with brilliant dusky red fur, perfect features, and build was apparently fifteen. And she was accompanied by no less than three of the Ekhtouch Tribe.

Hot. Even the guys were moderately attractive. One older woman and two younger ones, maybe in their late thirties and mid-twenties respectively. Liska saw Gireulashia walk into the inn, and her ears heard them speaking inside from the open doorway.

That was the thing. Even if she had to stand and watch a door, she could at least hear fun things.

They were discussing something slightly fascinating as Ishkr got them a lot of food. Liska heard a growl.

“Chieftain Gireulashia—”

“Chieftain or Chieftain Gire.”

The [Paragon] corrected them. The Gnoll sighed.

“Chieftain Gire. The rest of the tribe is asking where to meet up. Our separated groups are already bound for the Great Plains, but where shall we go afterwards?”

Gire grumbled as she munched on what smelled like a steak. For breakfast? She answered with a younger girl’s complaint in her carefully-enunciated tones.

“Can’t you all do anything? It’s not hard. We’re still nomadic. It’s just—get me a map. A cheap one I can draw on.”

Without a word, Liska changed the dial to Liscor and opened the door for the Gnoll who went back to Liscor. Less than eight minutes later, she had to open the door again and let them back into the inn. She decided to find a seat. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She could just sit, read a book, and occasionally check the door, right?

She took one from the common room, despite Ishkr’s glares. She noticed he was carefully pouring…Liska’s jaw dropped.

“Is that acid?

A glowing vat of acid was being ladled into jars. Instantly, all the Ekhtouch Gnolls and Gire looked around. Ishkr growled back.

“Yes. Erin has the acidfly traps, remember? Someone forgot to check them yesterday.”

His look of accusation made Liska turn her head and whistle. Another jar was being filled with dead acid-flies.

“What do we do with the acid?”

Ishkr gestured to a bag of holding that the inn’s staff could use.

“I’ll take it down to the Adventurer’s Guild. They sell it. Or someone could do it. Or bag up the flies—”

“Why don’t I watch the door? I have to let in Pallass’ guests.”

He sighed. Then Ishkr waved away an Antinium offering to help. It was a dangerous job for rookies. You also used some acid for the bathrooms; you tossed it down the toilet. And Erin had a few jars—

“Should I do the toilets, Ishkr?”

Liska offered. Only for today, as a heartbreak younger-sister special. But Ishkr just shook his head.

“Done.”

“I could bring toilet paper…?”

“Done.”

“Really? But Menolit had a really—and I mean, I smelled him—a really bad time—”

“Done. It’s all clean.”

A mystified look passed between Liska and Ishkr, who was sighing at his annoying younger sister. She opened her mouth, then Gire began speaking.

“Here. This is where we can go. It’s very simple. Where’s the red chalk? Okay. Look…”

On the pretext of getting a few magazines and newspapers, like Chess Weekly and the Liscorian Gazette, for her spot, Liska managed a glance at the map. Gire was circling Izril’s south busily.

She was drawing countless red circles around each Drake city and Walled City of different radii. Liska had no idea what made each circle different, but then Gire explained.

“If we’re rallying or moving—we don’t enter these zones if we can. Duh. This is where most armies not on deployment from the cities could be in reach. They’re all hostile right now or untrustworthy. And here—pass me the blue chalk—here are all the tribes’ territories. And this is the uninhabitable spots or dangerous areas in black. Since Plain’s Eye and some big tribes are gone, that leaves us with…”

Liska eyed the map as Gire held it up. The [Paragon] peered at the spots not covered by one color or another. One of the Ekhtouch Gnolls glanced at Liska and then coughed.

“About half a mile on the southeastern coast, Chieftain?”

Gire glared at him. She threw up her paws.

“We go north past Liscor or to the new lands! Both are dangerous. We’re not self-sufficient, but it might beat fighting Humans. We could live in a neutral city too. We’re not that large.”

“Which is it, Chieftain?”

Gire folded her arms and seemed to draw into herself. She sulked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Have them come here, and we’ll strike in either direction. I want to see if the healing potion market is gone for good and if anyone else declares a war. Terandria’s coming to the new lands. So there’s even more danger there. Here’s where they’ll enter, so if we do go, the spots we could secure would be here, here—but we don’t know what’s waiting for us.”

She began pointing more spots out on the map, but Liska’s ears perked up. Terandria, the entire continent, was definitely going to the new lands? Then she saw Gireulashia glance up and realized all the Ekhtouch Gnolls were looking at her.

Flushing, Liska fled. But she did find one more object and put it in the portal chamber.

One of the temporary scrying mirrors that Palt had enchanted. That was when she got to watch Wistram News Network and Sir Relz break the news that a compact at Calanfer was going to send a lot of Humans to Izril.

And wasn’t that a day? Liska sat, yawning as she did her duties to the minimum requirements, and thought that Liscor would be abuzz with people talking about this, and more people would be speculating about leaving for the new lands.

Here she was, just doing her job. The new lands were tempting, vaguely. But if she went—Liska was no fighter. Nor was she a Plains Gnoll in her heart. Besides. If she left, who would keep an eye on Ishkr? He was so boring he’d fade away without her to watch over him.

She only blinked when Ishkr opened the door to Liscor. From Liscor’s side. He walked back in, and Liska stared at him.

“How’d you do that?”

He gave her a blank look.

“The inn is barely a few minutes from the gates. I went down and sold the acid jars.”

“But I thought—”

Liska had seen him less than eight minutes ago fetching Gireulashia half a cake as a ‘snack’ and telling her Mrsha was still at Riverfarm and wouldn’t be back for at least two more days yet. Ishkr sighed.

“Liska, just open the door on schedule, alright?”

He tapped the chalkboard with the times listed and underlined for each spot. Liska was so busy gaping that Ishkr went on overly patiently.

“Antinium can’t do it because it makes the other species who haven’t seen them before nervous. You get off work in four more hours. Break in eighteen minutes. Alright? I’m busy.

Then he headed back into the inn. Liska craned her neck after him. And all she could think was—

Odd. But then again, even Liska didn’t really think much about Ishkr, and he was her brother. He was so normal. The only normal person in The Wandering Inn.

Right?

 

——

 

If the Dragon wasn’t part of today’s news cycle, Calanfer’s diplomatic agreement was. Ailendamus had just lost a political battle, and the Humans were coming to Izril.

Wonderful. Yeah, what Izril really needed was more Humans. Because that had worked out so well, historically.

Even the Five Families didn’t like it. Here came their royal cousins, who sneered at them from across the pond, coming to lord it over everyone. It accelerated timetables.

In fact, even the Antinium crusade’s danger was getting a bit sidetracked by the new lands. It was amazing, really. One second, the Five Families were worried about the Black Tide, the next, everyone was discussing the land rush.

Then again, Ryoka Griffin supposed she was responsible for a bit of that. She had assured the leaders of the Five Families they had less to fear than they thought. Right now, she was eating as the nobility at the breakfast get-together in The Culpable Appetite, one of First Landing’s finest restaurants, were chattering.

“…just seems to me as if this is not simply a matter for one noble house, but a concerted effort by an entire Family. If not all Five Families. What do you think, Lady Oswen?”

A Terland nobleman was speaking to Lady Buscrei, who almost snorted her tea out of her nose she demurred so hard. He looked appalled, which compounded her point.

“That is a fine idea, Lord Telvin. I can’t see it working. The best is that all Five Families will make their efforts and we’ll try not to stab or step on each other’s feet.”

“But the kingdoms are presenting a united front.”

“Hardly united, Telvin.”

Those amused, mocking tones made Ryoka’s skin crawl a bit. But the slightly droopy [Lord] of House Reinhart smiled unctuously as he broke in, turning from his meal.

“Every allegiance has fractures to be exploited. If anything, joining arms threatens to drown all our endeavors together. Why pretend to civility when this is far more entertaining?”

“Lord Gorthes Reinhart, I have never agreed with you more. Which is really unfortunate.”

Buscrei retorted, and the man smiled coldly at her. He eyed Ryoka as if hoping the Wind Runner would chime in. But Ryoka had her hands full, thanks for asking. She was done with making messes. Yep, yep.

…Which was why it was so discouraging to have a mess all over her clothes. The Culpable Appetite made wonderful food, really. They hadn’t gone all the way into replacing taste with gimmicks like some high-level restaurants did. They mixed a reasonable amount of plain good food with a high-level set of Skills on behalf of their staff.

Such as their advertised ‘Free Brunch’. Which wasn’t free. The nobility would laugh at the occasional [Sailors] or visitors who inquired about it.

What was free was hardly the price in gold. What was free was that you could eat until your stomach was bursting with the sinful food, some of it cooked in butter, and you wouldn’t put on a pound.

And like that, Ryoka realized how Magnolia Reinhart was not dying of diabetes if this were what you could get with high-level [Chefs]. Of course, this appealing meal didn’t mean Buscrei needed it; she had declined the Skill on her food, as had Lord Veltras and a number of House Veltras. They had ordered light breakfasts—

Except for the huge plate of waffles, delicately crisped sugar caramelized on the outsides of the hot pastry. The pockets were filled with syrup, agave, not maple. Just to be interesting? Slices of sweetberry, raspberries, and strawberry were piled on top of the scoop of gelato placed on top of the hot meal.

Ryoka was wearing a quarter of the meal on her front. Sticky syrup was dripping down one leg, and some was, incredibly, mixed with a bit of ice cream sliding down past the neckline of her tunic. On the inside.

To say this was uncomfortable was an understatement. Clearly, at least Lord Gorthes found this mildly attractive for reasons Ryoka did not want to contemplate.

He was not the only one. A [Lady] with hair bluer than the sea reflected out the window was taking a third deep, deep draft of her morning tea as she fanned herself. Lady Ieka Imarris was practically unseen by the nobles as she watched Ryoka from afar.

She would have personally loved to help Ryoka Griffin clean up that appalling mess. Oh my, yes. Of all the coincidences to see the Wind Runner here on business? She was getting distracted.

—Unfortunately, Ryoka was with House Veltras, and even if Ieka would have liked to introduce herself, there was such a thing as timing. As well—the biggest impediment to her socialization was the reason why Ryoka was so unaccountably sticky.

…Ryoka Griffin did not eat like a starving Eater Goat. Even if her enemies would have believed it, the incredible amount of mess generated was not her fault. She had barely eaten a quarter of one of the waffles like a civilized person.

The starving wolverine in question who was adding to the mess was no less than Sammial Veltras. He was gulping down another mouthful of food as Jericha watched in mild horror, and Tyrion Veltras was lecturing him again about table-manners.

But the boy was on a sugar craze—and the second boy on Ryoka’s other leg, currently turning it numb, was Hethon Veltras.

“Hethon, Sammial, you are acting like pigs at a trough.

Tyrion lowered his voice, but one of the Veltras’ just laughed. Lord Swey, his good hand awkwardly fiddling with a fork, nudged the far younger man.

“Come now, Tyrion. They’re lads who know they can eat as many sweets as they want! Poor Wind Runner.”

“Even one of Oswen’s magical baths won’t save you from that mess. Maybe a dip in the ocean?”

Buscrei teased Ryoka. Hethon looked up guiltily, but he and Sammial were practically glued to Ryoka. Especially Hethon.

Ryoka felt embarrassed. And slightly pleased. When he had come to First Landing, escorted by countless soldiers, he’d run up and given her a huge hug. Now, he and Sammial were so dedicated to not losing Ryoka again, they had insisted on sitting on her lap. Well, Sammial had, and the table was so packed that Hethon had done it mostly to make room. In truth, he was more squeezed against her from one side by Swey; Pellmia; Pellmia’s wife and daughter, Betta and Keireen; their silent son, Gilam, looking annoyed with the gathering; Buscrei, her husband and oldest son who’d ridden out to meet her; two members of House Veltras Ryoka didn’t know by name…

At one table. Their servants and guards stood to the sides and walls, and Ullim, the old [Majordomo], stood with Jericha, Pellmia’s own faithful retainers, their guards…

Lord Tyrion Veltras looked aghast at everything. But half the eyes of the diners here were still on the young Lord Tyrion, who had magically de-aged himself. The other men looked envious, and Ryoka could see why a few [Ladies] looked appreciative.

Tyrion was sort of sharp-looking. He glanced sideways at her, a trimmed, thin beard combed to the exact standards his son lacked. Jet black hair, perfect posture—he glanced at Ryoka’s mess and then coughed and turned his head.

Did his cheeks turn red ever-so-slightly? Ryoka thought the tips of his ears did, but when she saw that, she stared at Sammial’s head very, very deliberately.

“—It would behoove us to let Miss Ryoka clean up. Unless you would prefer a [Cleanse] spell via Jericha, Ryoka?”

He nodded to Jericha, and Pellmia objected.

“We’re not savages, Tyrion. [Cleanse] is not something that is—pleasant—to use on skin. Not to be obscene, but I’ve heard that notion repeated by men on campaign. One poor fellow tried it when he was in—in difficulty in the privy. Excuse my language. He didn’t walk straight for two months.”

“Dear!”

Lady Keireen looked scandalized and horrified, but she covered a smile as Swey choked, laughing, on a bite of food. The rest of the diners glanced over at House Veltras as they exploded into laughter.

No wonder House Veltras hated First Landing. They were the rangers of the wild, untamed lands compared to the other Five Families. At any rate, Ryoka had spotted Lady Ieka, and she was fairly certain that fan-waving and the looks the [Lady] was giving her indicated that Ieka wanted to talk.

Ryoka did owe her a huge favor. So she was trying to interject—and ask if someone had a wet napkin—as Sammial talked in one ear.

“And then—and then I met the Waterbear, Hethon. She’s huge! This big!”

He raised his arms and punched Ryoka in the jaw. Sammial lowered his hands as Hethon, the fourteen-year-old, tried to be more dignified. But naked envy was in his eyes.

“What was she like?”

“Grumpy. She was nice at first, but she wouldn’t fight a shark I saw. And she said I talked too much. The Hundredfriends has so many tattoos! And they’re all animals! There was an orangutan, these big birds—even a huge fish-thing that pulled the ship! And—and—”

“Sammy, please don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He swallowed obediently and pointed at Ryoka.

“And she made us fly at the palace! Princess Oesca was okay.”

He told stories like, well, a child, with no real chronology. But Ryoka was just as glad she’d had a talk with Sammial.

“That’s all that happened at the palace, right Sammy?”

No other events? He remembered the injunction on not mentioning the scandalous parts and nodded.

“Nothing else. Nothing weird. Noooope.”

Hethon and even Tyrion gave Sammy and Ryoka instantly curious looks. But it beat him actually blabbing, so Ryoka sighed.

“And what about you, Hethon?”

The adults were talking, but aside from making sure he was fine, even Tyrion hadn’t asked what had happened while Hethon was gone. Ryoka stared at the back of Sammial’s head as she tried to look at the young man.

“Oh—nothing much. I just took my lessons and kept watching the news. I saw Father riding to battle—that was it. Ullim made sure I was well.”

Nothing had happened to Hethon, and he clearly felt like he had missed it all. But Ryoka gave him an encouraging smile.

“At least you didn’t get into any trouble. How’d Oswen treat you?”

He brightened up a bit.

“Oh—well, I did learn how to shoot a bow. And I did hunt a bit—”

You hunted? No fair!

Sammial furiously burst out as if this were some great injustice that had to be righted, of all the things Hethon had gotten to do while Sammial was kidnapped. Hethon smirked.

“I helped bag a Marshelk. I didn’t hit it, but I helped track it.”

“Really?”

Tyrion raised his brows, impressed. Lady Buscrei’s husband, Jaeke, leaned over. He was a commoner who had married into the family. Well, he had been Oswen’s [Governor of the Hunt], so it wasn’t purely scandalous.

“Hethon saw the beast faster than anyone else. He’s not learned how to shoot what he sees, but the lad’s got vision like a hawk—no, an owl!”

“I’m glad he distinguished himself to Oswen.”

Tyrion replied automatically. Ryoka blinked at him, and the [Lord] hesitated. Then he turned to Hethon.

“…I hunted my first Marshelk when I was seventeen. You got the chance before me; my father never allowed me to try until I could best a Level 25 [Knight] tilting. We hunted with lances. How was your hunt? Did you eat part of the elk?”

“We used bows and tracked it. It kept running even with arrows in it—we had some of the kill right then and there!”

Hethon described the hunt quite bloodily, and some of the Terlands paled at the thought of slogging through mud and marsh as leeches found you, not the dignified boarhunts or shooting from afar where servants beat the brush. Ryoka smiled as Jericha and Ullim shot her approving glances.

Sammial was fair jealous. He kept stabbing his plate.

“I want to hunt an elk when we get back! And I got to sail with the Waterbear and the Hundredfriends Courier. He called me his friend, and the Waterbear gave me a chunk of her hair when I asked.”

He said this, in the way of brothers and children, to one-up Hethon’s moment in the sun. Ryoka peered at Sammial’s head. She muttered very, very quietly. It must have been recent, but she turned her head to Tyrion and subvocalized.

“…that’s not all she gave him.”

Tyrion blinked at Sammial. Then his eyes focused. It probably hadn’t been the Waterbear. Maybe it was a horse or maybe they’d taken a while to germinate to the point where they were noticeable. Either way, Hethon’s own special eyes focused on his brother, and he practically leapt out of his seat.

Which meant the tiny little white specks that Ryoka was staring at and practically inhaling as he sat on her lap were almost definitely lice. Wonderful. Ryoka Griffin sighed.

“I think I need a bath after all.”

 

——

 

The breakfast in the restaurant broke up fast after that, but the great thing was this: Ryoka did not cut off all her hair.

She had been prepared to the instant she saw the white specks. But one quick visit to the nearest [Alchemist] solved the problem.

“A full soaking in your hair. And clothes. Lords and ladies, you will all need to stand there, please. The restaurant will be dealt with—I regret to say we don’t have enough bathtubs, so we shall go in turns. The afflicted Lord Sammial first. Miss Wind Runner?”

The liquid was deep purple and surprisingly runny. You know the feeling you got when you encountered thicker liquids than water? Syrup and the like? Well—this liquid felt more flowing than water, if that made sense.

It was also, apparently, a great delouser. The [Healer] took Ryoka’s clothes and soaked them briskly but quickly as Ryoka doused her hair. And lest the Waterbear’s good name be sullied, she opined that Sammial might have gotten his lice from one of the horses they had ridden about on or a sailor.

“In my experience, Beastkin do not suffer lice long, Lord Veltras.”

“Well, how dare they be on me? Can I aura them off?”

“I would not try, Lord Veltras. This is far simpler. Wind Runner? You needn’t bathe long.”

“Are you sure?”

Ryoka was understandably concerned about getting all the lice well and truly dead. But the [Alchemist] just smiled.

“We have our methods. Please, step out, and with permission, I shall direct my coworker, Magus Chemille, to enter. She must cast a spell, but I assure you, she will be brief in her observations.”

A female [Mage] entered, and Ryoka felt profoundly unhappy to stand in the nude. But the [Mage] was clinical—she cast one spell.

“[Detect Minute Life]. One moment, Wind Runner…ah, I see a small concentration on your hair. Right here.”

She directed Ryoka to obliterate the scourge, and then it was done. Ryoka felt a lot happier about this method. Sammial himself found it painless; the nobility, especially the male nobility, were vocally upset about being stared at by a man.

“We could ask Magus Chemille to do the same for you, Lord Pellmia.”

“That would be worse. Bring on the [Mage]. I—oh.”

It was the beginning of one of those days. The group outside the [Alchemist]’s shop was joined by several of the nobility from the restaurant who had to be inspected, including Lady Ieka. But joining that number and detecting lice with the help of the adjusted spell was none other than a man with lime green eyes that glowed violet and orange in the pupils as he cast magic. A huge, floppy wizard’s hat and bright indigo completed [Sorcerer] Leireit’s look.

Lord Pellmia! And the Wind Runner and Lord Veltras. You seem to find yourselves in need of my magical services quite often, don’t you? Don’t worry, [Lords]. I shall be discreet, as embarrassing as it is. Few [Mages] specialize in this kind of magic, but I, Leireit the Sorcerer, can do anything a [Mage] can do with studies with pure willpower and grit!”

He preened, and Magus Chemille rolled her eyes. But Sammial was delighted to see the ostentatious [Sorcerer] once more, and he disappeared as the [Lords] entered the curtained back of the [Alchemist]’s shop.

Ryoka didn’t hear much as she redressed in a new change of clothes until Leireit yelled so loudly everyone heard it.

What a weapon of war! I mean—excuse me, sir—”

Ryoka poked her head out of the curtains, but Leireit was silent. And when he emerged, he staunchly refused to say which man it was.

It was a really weird day. Lady Ieka, Lord Tyrion—the Five Families were entertaining, but despite the local chaos, all eyes were on the newcomers to Izril.

They had come, half-Elves, Drowned Folk, and even Dwarves, if not all to the new lands directly. Now, Terandrians were making their bid, and Chandrar and Baleros were both making their preparations in secret. The House of Minos had declared it was interested, but like competitors watching everyone else in a dash for the prize, a lot of powers, even the Five Families, were holding their tongues. Waiting to see who moved first, still.

What would push them towards true action was the scrying orb shining in Lady Ieka’s hands as she let a [Mage] inspect her for lice. It reflected a final group of people as they made their push and announcement to the new lands.

A final great power unveiled itself. And like the Dwarves and Drowned Folk—

They were singing.

 

——

 

They came first across the Floodplains. To Liscor’s gates.

That city in the middle of Izril had grown more in popularity day by day. The road passing the Bloodfields had made the city more appealing than a sea-route, especially with the changing tides.

At first, well, the first few minutes as they neared the gates, they were largely unnoticed, aside from the Watch, who called in the newcomers to the Watch Captain.

They were assured that this was not a threat, and so it was as this caravan came through the gates that people began to notice. And the first scrying orbs lit up, and Drassi took over the broadcast from Noass within barely a minute of this group’s arrival.

How could you not? This last power was undeniably more important than any news that could wait.

But that was as the event unfolded. The first person to really see them was actually a Human man.

Temile the [Manager], the [Actor]. He was trudging up to The Wandering Inn to head back to Invrisil and coordinate the Players of Celum.

He would have used the magic door to get to the inn, but someone hadn’t opened it for eight minutes so he decided he’d walk instead. Today, he was feeling a bit out of sorts. A bit…empty.

Oh, he was in charge of the Players of Liscor, who practically fell over themselves trying to impress him. There was some talent here, but there was talent everywhere practically begging to be accepted into the Players of Liscor, Celum, and now Pallass too.

Not that he oversaw Pallass’ branch; he had his hands full with two groups. He was a richer man, now. He had a home in Invrisil, and even if the A-team—Jasi, Wesle, and the rest—had gone north to wow First Landing—

Temile had made it beyond his wildest dreams. He’d been a humble [Guardsman], earning a living with Wesle until the day the man had told him that the new [Innkeeper] in the city had a fun idea.

Now look at him. Even if you’d told Temile the cost would be a thumb…he glanced at his hand and the stump of his digits.

…Well, he’d have counted it as acceptable.

So why was he so maudlin today? It was because while he loved acting, he was passionate for the future of the Players of Liscor and Celum—he had to admit.

He was bored of all the plays. Yes, he had good actors, and two of them were over Level 30, having gained a lot of levels after the A-team left. But all the plays, even Elisial, were done. Yes, Andel was now joined by a small host of competing [Writers] or—as Andel claimed his new class was—[Playwright]—but they were slow.

Plays? He wanted to see hundreds of plays. He wanted the same burning lines of Shakespeare to be filling his mind day in, day out! Erin claimed she couldn’t remember any more plays that were ‘topical’, but dead gods, he’d take the ones she felt she couldn’t give him!

What would make them incomprehensible? Something about where she came from? Temile was certain they were good. Frankly, though, he would have taken more acts on the lines of Frozen, which were just songs you based a narrative around.

“Songs. Songs. Dead gods dammit, we can’t wait for someone to write a musical about—about the Meeting of Tribes. We don’t need to reenact war and tragedy. Give me something purely fun! Give me something joyous to make the people sit up and laugh!”

That was what Temile felt they lacked. Too much of the storm and thunder like Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello. Too many grave men—or women—striding around on stage.

He wanted something funny. Something with music that children would love. Now, Emme thought that it was foolish to cater to youth. Temile was in the other camp. If children couldn’t enjoy an [Actor]’s work, then Kilkran had better stop writing about the ‘actor’s due gravitas’ or whatever because he didn’t deserve his class!

In a sense, Temile was struggling because he was straining towards a genre that well and truly existed—but had not yet entered his sphere of understanding. He was just about to write to their member from Erin’s home, Galina, and ask her if she knew what he wanted. She was one of those high-minded types who enjoyed talking about the art of the stage without the silly prat-falls and jokes that were written into even Shakespeare’s works that made it good.

Then he saw them. They were coming across the Floodplains, and they had emerged from one of those trick-valleys near the city. The man stopped as they rode towards the gates, and he turned his head, staring.

Why not? A few travellers were coming to the inn, but a lot were going in and out of the gates. [Builders] trudging to the new district for work, [Farmers] like the man dressed all in black, with an umbrella of all things, Farmer Himilt, heading to his farm.

[Traders] and [Hunters] and Menolit’s Liscor Hunted party. A bustling city of cityfolk and more, visitors from Invrisil, and Drassi herself. They all turned as this group appeared.

There were over a thousand of them. They rode, of course, on their journey here, and Temile’s attention was locked on them instantly. Drassi dropped her breakfast burrito and looked around for a personal scrying orb.

Who were these strangers? Well, at first Temile thought he saw a new species. Then he realized they were Drakes.

Drakes…with the oddest headwear he’d ever seen. It was a kind of helmet that covered their shoulders, a kind of protective gear that was closer to a second-skin than a traditional helmet. The distinctive covering was also compounded by the riders themselves.

Some sat in wagons, but most rode—ponies. Not horses. The shaggy animals were laden with packs and goods, and the Drakes were smiling and waving. They carried slings, and some had staffs or simple spears. In that sense, they might be warriors—but they didn’t have steel like Pallass’ forces.

“Who…? Who are they?

Temile had no idea. Even the [Guards] on the walls only knew this group by their designations—allies in the war against the Hectval Alliance. Only one Drake looked around, saw the thousand Drakes descending on the city, and broke into a cold sweat.

“No. No. No, not them!

Relc backed away, claws in his earholes. He fled into the city, but it was too late.

A thousand Yoldenites were headed straight for Liscor’s southern gates as Temile watched. But hardly in silence. Their laughter and odd calls were punctuated by a strange sound.

The sound was—a rider easily sitting in a pony’s saddle up front. His feet were almost touching the ground, but the Drake had both his claws holding something.

It was a guitar. At least, one variation on the classic stringed instrument so common among cultures. He was strumming on it, a fast, energetic song, and a female Drake was dueting with him in the band of a thousand. In fact, several dozen had stringed instruments, even lutes they began to play.

Temile’s mouth opened wider as the chatter fell silent. He had just one thought in his head: Numbtongue was going to be so upset he missed this.

But even he couldn’t have predicted what would happen next. For, as the caravan reached the city gates and Drassi raised her scrying orb, they began to sing.

A thousand Drakes looked up, listening to the merry tune as it filled the air. They looked at Liscor’s walls, and at the staring Gnolls, Drakes, and Humans. They stared back—but then, as one, raised their heads.

Question. Had you ever seen, or rather, heard a Drake singing? Aside from national anthems, it was a rare sight. But now, as one, the Yoldenites raised their heads.

And their voices blended together in the most incredible choir that Temile had heard in his life.

“♪Ooooh. Oooooh, oooh oo~♬

There were no words at first, just a combined voice as the first wagon rolled past a Silverfang Gnoll of the plains who craned his neck and pinched himself hard to see if he were dreaming.

Then the Yoldenites began truly singing. The female Drakes began first.

 

“They’ll look high and then look low—

—But we’re higher than you’ll know

When we draw our slings they’ll hear us cry.”

 

A trio of Lizardfolk hid behind Hexel as the Lamia looked around to see if someone was pulling a prank on him. Young men and women Drakes waved at the Lamia as they passed. Then the men, young and old, took over.

 

“A Walled City’s got a few neat sights

But you’ve never seen a wall like ours

Yayde Re—keep a helmet on your head!”

 

Both sides joined in on that part, that famous greeting from the Drake city of Yolden. By now, they were on Pallass’ news network as Noass and Sir Relz stared in the same dead silence.

Like Liscor and most of the world. Even the most worldly of Drakes like Sir Relz might know of Hectval—but not Yolden except as a joke.

Well, the joke had a song. And it was quite beautiful and patriotic in its way. If you managed to get to the words.

Lism stood with his [Councilmember] robes next to Krshia Silverfang, hand raised to shake…the first Drake rattling a tambourine? A young man whirling an empty sling? Olesm had written to him about Yolden, but he had left out the details.

 

“They’ve got crossbows, bows, wands, and swords

But so long as it comes from overhead I won’t feel a thing

So I’ll keep a helmet on my head and breakfast in my pack

For music I’ll toss a stone and hear their helmets ring!”

 

There was only one thought in Lism’s head when he saw the conflagration descending on Liscor. It was a mix of chagrin and a realization—

Liscor needed an anthem.

 

——

 

This was news. Ryoka Griffin realized she was staring at the scrying orb with the rest of the nobility. Some of the Five Families looked horrified or amused or both.

In fact, while not everyone would see this live—any number of important people would watch the Yoldenites’ entrance into Liscor.

There was just something…purely cultural about them. Something unique. And yes, you could be mean about it.

Or good-spirited. Or both. For instance, the King of Destruction, that conqueror of an entire continent, nearly met his end this day. He laughed so hard he actually cracked two ribs.

 

“They’ve got [Archmages] and they’ve got Named-ranks. 

They’ll set them at our flanks, but so long as I’ve got a rock we’ll be fine.”

 

However…Ryoka Griffin saw someone tapping their foot and nodding to the song. Lady Buscrei was listening appreciatively, and Ryoka realized—this was her kind of music. Hells, the Yoldenites might be her kind of people.

They entered Liscor like a musical storm and a single song.

 

“Send a catapult or bring a hundred mauls

You’ll never get past Big Wall

Yayde Re, keep your helmet on your head!”

 

Proud as could be. Which, to be fair, was far beyond Ryoka as an entire people. If you were going to enter a city, well.

The Yoldenites certainly had style.

 

——

 

Donei! What a city! Hoi there, are you Commander Olesm’s uncle? I told him we’d be by to visit now we’ve got Hectval running tail-first!”

A Drake officer swung herself out of her saddle as a crowd gathered. It was impossible not to gather. Even if you just wanted to stare. And many people, like Temile, were just watching. The [Manager] was taking notes as fast as he could, and since he didn’t have parchment, he was writing on his arms and shirt.

At this, Lism finally managed to smile. He reached out, and a beaming young woman took his clawed hand and pumped it up and down.

“Oh. Yes. Councilmember Lism at your service. And you are…?”

“Captain Voita! Ah, doine! It’s [Major] Voita! Yayde Re, Councilmember! Hey there! It’s the Councilmember of Lism, and he’s not an egghead! Get over here, you lot!”

She said the word again. Then three dozen Drakes were lining up to shake his hand.

“How do you do? Yayde Re, Councilmember! I’m a [Mayor] myself. Lemel.”

A [Mayor]? Then he was like a city governor! Lism turned to the Drake who was in charge of Yolden’s city—but an older Drake with bright silver scales, a rarity, elbowed him aside.

“I’m [Mayor] Brieese!”

“Another [Mayor]? Er—”

“Hold on—[Mayor] Zollost here! Hello, Miss Gnoll! Who’re you? Doine, look at all the Humans and Gnolls here! That [Commander] didn’t exaggerate, did he? And look! An Antinium!

How many [Mayors] do you have in your city?

Lism exploded until he realized his mistake. The Yoldenites practically fell off their ponies howling with laughter as they dismounted. Voita grinned.

“Good one! Big Wall’s got tons of towns behind it. And we all wanted a place to visit Liscor!”

They were so merry and friendly that Lism felt shocked. But that was nothing compared to how the Lizardfolk and some of the Plains Gnolls reacted. They stared as Drakes shook their claws and backed away.

“Are they sick? I’ve never seen a Drake smile for that long. Most of them probably think it’s unhealthy.”

Krshia whispered to Lism, but in range of Drassi and the scrying orb’s hearing. Which just provoked further hilarity. And in response? A Yoldenite heard Krshia and tapped her shoulder since he couldn’t really remove his helmet that easily.

“Hey, we hear that time and enough. ‘Least you’re not spitting our way, Councilwoman!”

Krshia instantly ducked her head, abashed.

“I did not mean that as an insult, no, Mayor. My apologies.”

He grinned in response. Or rather, he never really lost it.

“We don’t mind! If you can’t smile at least once a week, what a life to live, eh? Which is pretty much all of Hectval, Luldem, and Drisshia. But we’re a proud city come to visit our new friends and neighbors! ‘Sides, we don’t see many other species that often. Not that we mind! We’re just too far away to visit. Look! That Gnoll is a giant!

He whirled and pointed, and Gireulashia froze as she poked her head through the gates. Instantly, all the Yoldenites shouted almost as one.

Donei! She’s huge!

“Is it something she eats? Get me some of that and load up my plate!”

The last Yoldenite turned in delight to her companion.

“Look! More of those Antinium everyone hates! Just walking about! I told you Liscor was going to be weird. In a good way.”

She glanced over and saw Watch Captain Zevara staring at her with mouth slightly ajar.

“Hi.”

These were the greatest Drakes that had ever been seen. Drassi was delighted and already pushing forwards to interview the first Yoldenites. But it begged the question.

“Er—may I know why you’re coming, esteemed friends? Liscor is a great ally of Yolden. But we had no word you were coming on diplomatic business. We would have prepared a reception—”

Voita chuckled along with the leaders of the towns.

“We wouldn’t make you host a thousand of us! Mind you—your city’s big enough, but no. We’re not here for diplomacy. Things are going well enough; we’ve come here to buy!”

“Buy?”

More than one person perked up at this, including the two [Shopkeepers]. Voita produced a full bag of coins and jingled it as she patted the loaded packs they’d brought with them.

“That’s right! Heard we could get to Pallass and Invrisil too. We’re hoping to buy and sell, but buy more than we sell, even! We’ve got helmets and goods from Yolden for sale. All kinds of magicore and stones. But the helmets’re the real good stuff.”

“Helmets?”

Some people snorted at this, but Watch Captain Zevara’s head rose, and she remembered a popular phrase that every [Soldier] serving around this region knew.

Nothing kills a Yoldenite from above. In fact, an impatient [Strategist] was, at this very moment, hammering on Pallass’ side of the magic door. Chaldion had sent him to requisition as many helmets as their budget would allow.

Unfortunately, Liska was too busy watching the spectacle. And the Yoldenites knew how to sell their goods.

“See, a lot of folks laugh at our helmets, but they’re comfortable as a second skin. They don’t dent or knock your head about. And you can do this and not feel a thing. We live with rocks falling all the time, see?”

Voita drew a hammer from one of the wagons. A real hammer, used to repair the wagon. Without even giving the Drake next to her a warning, she smacked the hammer straight across the back of their head.

The other Yoldenite, Mayor Brieese, didn’t even move as the hammer bounced off their head. It didn’t look like Voita had held back, either. Gireulashia herself blinked.

That wasn’t bad! However the Yoldenites made their helms—even a [Knight] in unenchanted plate would notice that kind of blow. But Brieese didn’t even seem to react, which suggested it hadn’t even been felt.

“That’s quite something!”

Lism was as astonished as everyone else, and he saw the value of those helmets instantly. But that begged the question—

“What are you intending to buy? I am a [Shopkeeper] myself, and I could happily sell you whatever you need.”

“Ah, doine! What luck! We’ll be going browsing for fun stuff, but we need a lot of supplies. Mostly nails. Raw iron and steel by the wagonload. We can forge it decently, but Yolden’s too far from any good material. All we have is magicore. We’re planning on heading to the new lands. We’ll need a lot of stuff we can’t get back home, and Liscor’s far better than the Heckies.”

“You’re going to the new lands?”

By now, Krshia’s brows were lost in her own mane of hair. Major Voita grinned in reply.

“Why not? I heard everyone’s going, and us Yoldenites know the wilds better than anyone else. We reckon we’ve got the best shot to make something special. We’re planning on heading out within the week if we get everything we need from this trade caravan.”

She looked straight into Drassi’s scrying orb as she said that. And then she really set the rooster among the hens. Or as the Yoldenites would say it—she tossed a stone straight up the mountain and watched the avalanche float down.

 

——

 

“They’re going to the new lands of Izril? Those half-literate yodeling idiots?”

“Yoldenites.”

If they’re going—I’ll be damned if we’re stuck behind a group of helmeted fools camping on the prime ground!

That was the broad sentiment that went up from countless cities. And it was what triggered the flood. Not the idea of the King of Destruction or the House of Minos making a bid for the lands. Not the half-Elves beating everyone to the punch.

The casual, perceived arrogance of Yolden. It was one thing to have a world power steal a march on them, but the idea of a group of Drakes on ponies shouting Yayde Re as they passed you by?

Intolerable.

It put a fire behind every single person planning on their own moment. It did remind them that, despite this new area being a vast amount of land, the best spots were finite, and even small cities were moving. So, in many cases, timetables were expedited.

And as everyone knew—that was how you beat the competition and enjoyed successful ventures.

So who were the competitors? Actually, what were the stakes? The interesting thing about the new lands was just that; they were new and an unknown quantity in terms of riches.

This wasn’t like magicore—which was actually extremely valuable if you had the buyers and industry. Yolden might have been a rich city if it had only been more accessible, although Wall Lord Ilvriss had no idea what the quality of their magicore was.

He added it to his notepad as he sat with Alrric, planning out the venture. The Gnoll [Administrator] was humming to the Yoldenites’ song, which, you had to admit, was catchy.

Then again, Alrric had been in a fine mood for weeks despite the tragedies at the Meeting of Tribes. It seemed like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Ilvriss suspected that, perhaps, another child was on the way. But that was just supposition, and he didn’t inquire into personal affairs that deeply.

“So—do we know anything about the value of this land? Or is the entire grab purely based on it being free land and speculatively wealthy?”

“…The latter, Wall Lord.”

Ilvriss sighed. It reminded him of companies bidding on new mining seams. They sometimes dazzled themselves with the idea of grabbing possibilities without exploiting known veins. Like the Adamantium vein that had so profited the Gemscale company.

Speaking of which, Alrric glanced at his notepad.

“I won’t say it’s not profitable, Wall Lord. But if you want to launch this project, we need to cooperate with as many other companies as possible. You, personally, and our company at large are not prepared for this kind of undertaking financially.”

“We have vast reservoirs.”

Ilvriss knew that, and Alrric raised his brows.

“Oh, of course. We’ll be eating into them month by month unless we supplement the costs. I don’t know if your family would appreciate the next generation having nothing in the treasuries, though.”

Does it matter if we’re all undead? Ilvriss kept his face blank, and he made a show of nodding.

“Fair, fair. Then let’s start from the beginning. What are the stakes? Who are our competitors? What are the known risks, and what kind of assets can we bring to the table?”

He folded his claws, and Alrric checked his files. The Gemscale Company of Salazsar was not blind. They had already been making preparations for this endeavor, but it spoke to each person or nation’s culture and personality how they wanted to settle the new lands.

For instance, Ilvriss treated it like a corporate endeavor. He had a meeting with the other big houses that Alrric had reached out to regarding a joint venture. This was a quick summation right now.

Frankly, Ilvriss wanted to explore the new lands. The young Drake in him was calling out for adventure, but he had other…projects he wanted to work on. Putting on a good show would be important. Plus, if all these workers were moving around, he could probably hide a few hundred [Miners] in all the chaos.

He had a lot of digging to do. Alrric was just beginning the brief when a Drake entered the room. Ilvriss instantly stood with consternation.

“Father.”

Wall Lord Zail entered the room, using a cane, but walking fairly upright. The dent in his skull was covered by a fashionable cap, and his eyes were steady.

“Ilvriss. Are you beginning a meeting regarding these new lands?”

“Yes. Of course. I was planning on meeting with…”

“House Erchirite? Among others. I had a word with Zazse Erchirite. She’s amenable to the idea and has spoken to the board. I’ll go with you.”

Ilvriss blinked as Zail took a seat. Zazse Erchirite wasn’t serving on the board of Wall Lords and Ladies that ran that company who had famously created the Erchirite Spears. But she was the former chairwoman and would have a lot of power.

Zail sat as Alrric coughed into one paw. Normally, Ilvriss didn’t expect the two to get along, but the [Administrator] didn’t snipe as always. And Zail…

“By all means, Ilvriss. Don’t let me stop you. I’m just observing, if I may, Wall Lord.”

He deferred to his son, and Ilvriss hesitated before sitting back down. Now there were three people in the room as Alrric found his notes.

“Let’s see. Back to Ilvriss’ themes. Value, competition, dangers. We have no reports of any new resources outside of purely land-related objects. There have been Garuda and Oldbloods flying the area, but [Scrying] spells are impossible to use since the area is not coordinate-charted or however [Mages] do such things, let alone [Geomancers] analyzing the substrate. I expect this will persist for a long time, even with the Archmages and other magic-users on the case. I’m also adding this to our ‘hazards’, because it will mean any exploration has to happen manually, and we will not be able to see what’s out there.”

Alrric got a nod from both Drakes. Ilvriss tapped a claw on the table, then stopped, adjusted his posture so he was sitting more professionally, and tried not to watch Zail out of the corner of his eyes. He felt like a boy again.

“And so where is our profit? Mostly in the land itself.”

Less valuable by far. Salazsar was not exactly cramped for room. Ancestors, northern Izril had yet to expand everywhere! But Zail shook his head slightly, and so did Alrric.

“That’s assuming there’s nothing of value, Ilvriss. But let me paint a picture. Let’s say an opportunistic group sets up a colonial-type area. It has no resources, even if others find anything. I would still call it a heavy incentive to be there for one main reason: our neighbors.”

“Ah. Oh, I see.

Ilvriss flushed. Alrric produced a spreadsheet of underlined items.

“These are a list of goods that Drowned Folk and half-Elves create, from their specialty woods, bows, sea-based alchemical items, and more. I don’t know about half-Elves, but Drowned Folk are hungry for our best gemstones for their ships’ protective spells. We stand to cut out all the Zeres tariffs we’ve been eating century after century.”

Now that did put a smile on Ilvriss and Zail’s faces. That alone was worth a massive amount of gold, so Alrric outlined a plan unique to House Gemscale.

“My proposal, Wall Lords, is not to prospect. Some nations will do that. I suggest that House Gemscale mobilize a force with the express goal of finding a suitable trade route and capturing it. Invrisil has become a rich city not just due to the patronage of Magnolia Reinhart, but because it is where everyone goes. One city that provides access across the new lands safely?”

“We’d be rich. We often forget how important free travel is. The Walled Cities maintain the roads to keep commerce alive.”

Zail murmured. Alrric nodded.

“Worth established. I’d also like to point out this: there are almost certainly things to find in the new lands, if only relics of old.”

Now, Ilvriss was hungry again, and Alrric produced several mage-images and sketches taken by Zeres’ expeditionary fleets. He grumbled in the back of his throat.

“We had to pay a small fee to receive the mutual intelligence from our friends, but all the Walled Cities will have seen this—look. A city.”

It was just broken ruins, from what Ilvriss could see, set against a blasted beach stretching for miles upon miles inland. Still—there was a lot of green for what had been seabed before. He suspected that the Gnoll ghost who had cast the spell had accelerated the greenery’s development. Another action that might make things interesting.

“A ruined city. There are artifacts, possibly even spells or blueprints here. Or nothing at all. What I am certain is—this is not a simple venture. We need specialists.”

“Adventurers.”

Ilvriss nodded. More profits, more risk. Alrric handed Ilvriss and Zail a sheet with the word ‘Hazards — New Lands Venture’ at the top.

It had about eight entries in red on one column, and the other column had over three hundred, all in black with question-marks appended. The [Administrator] smiled as Ilvriss and Zail eyed the unusually brief paper.

“This, Wall Lords, is a list of possible dangers we might encounter. I have eight known threats. The rest is a list I compiled, and I’m sure we’ll add to it.”

Ilvriss glumly inspected the sheet. Known threats?

[Pirates], Shifthold*, competing forces, crabs…

“Oh come on, crabs?”

“The only wildlife spotted so far by ships, Wall Lord. The point is that we have no idea what’s out there. We’ll be fighting them and other cities, other species—not to put too fine a point on it, but how likely is it a Lizardfolk colony would clash with, say, Manus?”

Ilvriss ground his teeth together and cursed Alrric for being right. Zail just nodded.

“So the competition is…?”

The Gnoll gave him a happy smile.

“Everyone.”

The two Drakes waited. Alrric spread his paws.

“Gentlemen. Ilvriss, Zail. Even with all my Skills, I do not have time to write down every single nation, [Merchant] over Level 30, and [Innkeeper] in existence. Everyone wants to go to the new lands.

“Yes, but the amount of people who can venture out is low.”

Ilvriss smiled at Alrric’s exaggeration, but the Gnoll just gave him a long look.

“Yolden has made its move. You…haven’t been walking past the Merchant’s Guild lately, have you, Wall Lord?”

Zail and Ilvriss hesitated. They had people to get them coin, and the Merchant’s Guild was on the lower floors. Alrric nodded.

“You might want to take a peek.”

 

——

 

It was not unique to Salazsar’s Merchant’s Guild. In fact, the largest notices were plastered across many guilds in a region, whereas the smaller offers were specific to a few cities depending on the power of that particular guild or [Merchant].

 

[Merchant] Concie’s Venture to the New Lands! Sign up now with applicable classes* to journey to the new lands! Food, supplies, and even weapons will all be accounted for by the Level 34 [Enterprising Merchant], Concie!

Day pay 1 sp, 4 cp. Additional rewards for exemplary performance. Treasure splits to be negotiated. Inquire with Merchant Concie’s representatives.

 

That was one of the kinds of notices that Alrric fetched for Wall Lord Ilvriss and Zail. It was one of a dozen, and the Wall Lord just sat there.

“Does anyone actually take this kind of offer up? A silver piece per day…that’s rock-bottom.”

“I imagine that’s on top of other incentives. But yes, it is one of the weaker options. However, there are entire groups of [Merchants] pooling resources, Ilvriss. I saw a headhunter notice asking for anyone with [Settler] or applicable classes over Level 20. There was a 20-gold signing fee.”

“Still low.”

Zail grunted, but Ilvriss was starting to get worried. If that was what you got from the public advertisements…he tapped a claw urgently on the table.

“Alrric, how many pickaxes or—or wagons are left in Salazsar?”

The [Administrator] gave Ilvriss a proud look, like a [Teacher] finding a great pupil.

“As a matter of fact, I secured as many of them as I could. A pickaxe’s value is already 344% what it used to be. The smithies are working overtime churning out nails and other related goods—I can only imagine how much Pallass is doing in business.”

It was great to have someone like Alrric. Ilvriss exhaled, but Alrric continued.

“So, as you can see, Wall Lords, there will be thousands of individual ventures. And they’re all headhunting. Talented individuals are in a seller’s market.”

“Your point is made. The competition is everyone, Administrator Alrric. Now…how is House Gemscale going to do this? I’m sure Ilvriss has a plan.”

Zail sat there like he was still overseeing the company, and Ilvriss really hoped that this wasn’t going to become a regular thing. He had a bad feeling about this, especially because Alrric seemed used to Zail being here.

Ilvriss had expected the Gemscale company to tank in profits after he sold the Adamantium mine shares, but they had apparently found a new seam—well, an old one—and they were booming in profits. He was beginning to wonder how lucky that had been.

But the hazards and value of the new lands were established. No one knew what was there—everyone wanted to go. The methodology would set apart each individual group’s success or failure along with luck and all the other random events you could run into.

Even so—Ilvriss nodded to Alrric, and the presentation he gave to Zail was a warm-up for the other nobles in Salazsar.

“We’ve been busy. I am going to call up eight experts, Wall Lord Zail, whom we’ve contracted for the last two weeks, ever since we realized the extent of the new lands. They’ve all put together plans and lists which Alrric has helpfully compiled. We reached out to Gold-rank Adventurers, an [Explorer] from Baleros familiar with the Dyed Lands, a [Ranger], and, crucially, a [Quartermaster] in Salazsar’s own forces, and a [Caravanner] used to long-hauls from Chandrar. All of these experts advised us on how difficult it would be to travel across Izril, then to sustain a force in the new lands. We have compositions of classes to take and the kind of gear we’ll need.”

The Gemscale Company’s approach to this kind of problem was to turn to experts in the field and source experience. If they were going to go, it was going to be organized and based on previous known ventures. They’d take the most comprehensive group they could to handle any possible problem.

It was going to cost a fortune, but as Ilvriss now knew, the profits were there. Alrric’s model was one he could back. Play it cautious—or rather, play it reliable. If they couldn’t produce the most gifted [Explorers] or [Caravaners] to use their Skills to keep people safe and efficient, they weren’t spending enough gold. Zail nodded along as the neat papers were passed out. Alrric, of course, had copies for everyone.

 

——

 

Ilvriss was a boring Drake sometimes. Even with the Erin-influence, he knew how to organize a venture. In that way—his was the approach to compare every other group to. His methods of dealing with the problem would cover most foreseeable bases, so it depended on his competitors to see whether or not they exceeded his plans—or miserably failed.

For instance, Lady Ieka Imarris, in between trying to invite Ryoka to her estates in First Landing, made a rapid series of [Message] spells to her representatives in the south.

“I want you to send all the people we can. Now. No, don’t take wagons. Riders. On horses. Have them take two of the enchanted carriages. We will send the slower groups to catch up with you.”

When she saw the Yoldenites, she knew that she was running out of time. So Ieka hatched a different plan.

Speed. Speed was key. She had been hiring Silver and even Bronze-rank adventurers, as well as the most eager and promising individuals. Now she pushed them to hurry via the door in Invrisil to leave from Pallass that very day.

“Lady Imarris, what about materials to construct anything? A full push will still take at least a week—”

Ieka snapped a fan open as she furiously amended her plans. She hissed at one of her [Maids], echoing Magnolia’s style. She hated to admit it, but a lot of her success was in observing what worked in the other [Ladies] who were more famous than she in Izril.

But she was also Valeterisa’s niece, and she had never been more proud of her aunt. Ieka was a [Mage Lady], and she trusted to that.

“Magic. Load up their bags of holding and send them with tents. We don’t need to build anything—we need to find what’s worth building next to, first! I want a dozen groups exploring ahead of all these [Settlers] and [Colonists]. They can sleep in the wild for a while. As for food? Bags of holding have a 0.8 rate of decay on average. Chests and well-made ones can be 0.6 times as slow to rot food. These are not the days after the end of magic where people had to haul everything on their backs and bang rocks together to start fires!”

She had [Mages] on her payroll, and magic would provide almost anything but food. Fire? Magic. Protection? Magic. Ieka was tired of playing second-fiddle to Magnolia. This time, she was going to be first there.

The other thing Ieka had failed in was her attitude towards preparing the expeditions. She had made lists, had her servants find and secure good, talented individuals, and had bought or arranged for the supplies, even if she was throwing the first wave out first.

But what she hadn’t done was talk to experts. Or rather, all the experts.

Ieka had bought supplies and hired people she thought might be needed to establish a town. Wagons for timber, [Carpenters], [Guards], and [Rangers]. And, of course, [Mages].

She had forgotten to hire what Ilvriss wanted. Which was, for instance, a good [Blacksmith]. Or even better, a [Farrier]. She had forgotten that horses threw shoes. Lady Ieka had been doing a lot of thinking, but it was still in the mindset of a [Lady] used to Izril’s north. She had sent [Healers] with bandages, but no one who knew how to sew bandages.

 

——

 

Even so, Ieka was at least quick, and her [Mages] were a cut above some of the ventures out there. However, her lack of insight into one area or another was going to be a repeated theme.

For instance, the ‘First Landing Trade Company’ of the north, which combined no less than twenty Merchant’s Guilds into a single venture, was going to have a bad time.

Oh, they had funding to match and exceed Ieka Imarris’. They had resources, connections in many cities, and the motivation to set themselves up as the new landed nobility.

What the [Merchants] didn’t have was the sense to double-check their so-called ‘experts’. They had prepared their group with what they thought was needed to begin searching for wealth. They had sensibly hired [Rangers] and other wildlife experts.

Calidus Reinhart couldn’t stop laughing about it. He was using his spy networks to see what everyone else was doing just because it was so fascinating—and hilarious.

“They’re hiring [Rangers]. Rangers—

He wheezed to Zeom, his [Genius Polymath]. The older man looked annoyed by Calidus, who kept coming over to laugh about one group or another.

“What’s the problem with that? Seems like the tick-covered fools you want to scout ahead.”

Calidus wiped at his eyes. He waggled a finger in Zeom’s face.

“Oh, Zeom, Zeom. So smart, like the [Merchants]. But not at all practical. You must be thinking of a man or woman of the wilds, used to living out in nature, sleeping with wolves. Perhaps light on clothing—”

He sighed, imagining some toned woman with a wild look about her. Sticks in the hair and whatnot. Zeom edged away from him as he experimented with a vial, working up some kind of new poison for a blade. The [Assassins] were already availing themselves of his services. They were mostly unobtrusive, probably trying to get on Calidus’ good side. They didn’t realize that his good side was always best found reflected through a wine bottle.

But Calidus had been having a lot of fun thinking about the new lands, so he kept forgetting to drink. He conjured that image of the archetypal [Ranger], then snorted at his own fancies.

“Stories are not reality, Zeom. You don’t hire [Rangers] for exploration. That’s [Explorers]. [Scouts] at least! [Rangers] are used to their own territory.”

“Ah. The wrong class?”

Calidus’ eyes danced with mirth.

“I imagine there will be a spread. Some will be very competent at leading their groups—others will not. But the [Merchants] made another mistake—they hired highlands and forest experts from the Vail Forest region and Izril’s climates. And the new lands are…”

Zeom snapped his fingers.

“Buried coastal regions. They are stupid as shite.”

Calidus nodded again.

“Chandrar. Baleros—if they have local ‘experts’, those experts have to know they’re out of their depth. Literally. The only group that might be used to this terrain are Drowned Folk, and now it’s aboveland. Any Skills that use terrain as an advantage—no. Even the basic plant…stuff…will be different. You don’t need [Rangers], you need [Herbalists]!”

That was the hilarity to Calidus. Zeom actually abandoned the bubbling concoction of some kind of tar as he leaned over his table, genuinely interested.

“So what’s your take on how to fix it?”

Calidus shrugged.

“Search me. I know I’m no expert in what it takes to build a new colony. Take everything. Every class. The error in thinking is pretending you know it all. Dear Aunt Magnolia wouldn’t be so silly. Ah, if only she was doing this.”

He sighed, suddenly maudlin again, but then brightened up just as fast.

“Been hitting the crystals? You don’t smell like you’re on drugs.”

Zeom eyed the [Lord], and Calidus stepped spritely, twirling as if he were on a dance floor. He could move very agilely despite his size.

“Oh, Zeom. I’m having fun. A rarity without help, I assure you. Since Aunt Magnolia isn’t here to be outstanding, I, Calidus, will be organizing a few ventures to the new lands myself.”

The [Polymath] eyed Calidus in silence, then he began laughing so hard he nearly knocked over his poisonous resin.

“You? You’ll be a disaster!

“Exactly.”

Calidus beamed. Zeom hesitated.

“Wait, what?”

The [Lord] steepled his fingers and gave Zeom a serious look.

“I’ve been talking with some of the other members of the family and even some of the [Merchant] groups. I’ll sponsor my own forces, but I engineered some delightfully stupid ventures. Just to see what happens. For instance, I’m planning on sending a small group equipped to set up a village. They’ll have the appropriate classes, be led by decent folk who aren’t half as corrupt as the usual employees here—upstanding.”

“Go on.”

Zeom carefully began to scrape the resin into a tin enchanted to keep it airtight and sealed. Calidus’ smile grew wider.

“But they’ll need one thing. Security. Now, a lot of the [Merchants] and other groups will hire adventurers, which I think is stupid. They’re a selfish, unreliable lot. You can’t tell what you get. Or they’ll get [Mercenaries], [Guards]…guess who’s guarding this group?”

Zeom glanced up and then snorted.

“No.”

[Assassins].

“You’re mad. Just…”

Calidus spread his hands out.

“Just [Assassins]. They’ll be in charge aside from a competent leader. Monsters? Assassins. Enemy forces? Assassins. I want to see what happens.”

Dear grandfather Regis had actually given Calidus a budget. And this was how he was using it? Zeom nearly put his hands on his face before he realized they might be poisonous.

And people wondered why Magnolia was the best of Reinharts. The worst part was…he turned to Calidus.

“Do you think they have a chance?”

Calidus just shook his head, eyes glinting in delight.

“That’s the thing, my dear Zeom. Adversity builds character, or so my beautiful bastard of a father said. What it actually builds is levels. Why try for a perfect move when you can make a flawed one that might produce something better? Okay, assassin-colony is one group. Another is going to enter with a specific bent. Animals. Warhounds, [Beast Tamers], dead gods, I even arranged for a shipment of Sariant Lambs, and they were expensive! Their orders are to tame anything they see.”

Calidus was chortling. He was spending too much gold, he knew, but the outcomes promised to be so insane that he thought he wouldn’t sleep for days! Which of course left the best ideas out there.

“I’ve been trying to contact a bunch of [Pirates], but they don’t like the idea of work. So I thought—if you’re going to send a bunch of settlers to explore and tame new lands, do you know what they need?”

“Please, tell me.”

Zeom, despite himself, was like a man trying to look away from a beautiful, horrible disaster. Calidus’ eyes glinted.

“Nuts.”

“…Nuts?”

Zeom knew his employer was crazy, but he had always thought it was the stupid crazy of a noble, even with sharp wits at times. Now…he saw Calidus spread his hands.

“Peanuts. Walnuts. Cashews. Acorns. Their regular provisions will last them a good week into the new lands. Whereupon they will find in the timed locks I put on their Chests of Holding—nuts. Enough for at least a few months of provisions.”

He was mad. Zeom slowly packaged the poison, and Calidus followed him out, still babbling.

“Come on, Zeom. Give me another idea. I was thinking of giving another group all wine instead of water, but they felt too set up to fail. I need more ideas. The old man is doing his thing, but I advised one of the cousins that she should really invest in rugged folk at a cheap cost and introduced her to some of those [Bandits] you can hire. Zeom? Speak to me, man. What about a group of Drakes who find out the other half of their expedition are Lizardfolk? [Nudists]. Yes…how many of them are there?”

 

——

 

Some people were just doing this for fun. Then again, if Calidus was deliberately pushing the envelope off a cliff…filled with rats…

A few nations were just biased enough to be interesting in themselves. For instance, the Kingdom of Avel was sending their colonists out. You could count how many swords they had. But the amount of bows?

Incalculable. Many groups depended on what made them unique. If anything, having a type of expert like Ieka would at least guarantee an edge in that area.

…Calanfer was not going to be sending true experts in anything but diplomacy. And could you get water out of a rock? Yet they had pledged to send a [Princess]. So she would have [Thronebearers] and more funding than some, but Calanfer would not have the kind of true blue competence some groups did.

Even assuming they accounted for the biases of classes like [Rangers]. Even assuming they made all the logical preparations they could by speaking to people who knew what they were doing instead of relying on their own ego and judgment—a poor move unless you were doing it on purpose like Calidus—

Even then. The new lands might be appealing, but were you ready for them?

“Go to the new lands? You mad? It sounds like hell. I’ll sponsor it. I’m not going myself. And if we send a group from House Veltras, they’d better be ready for anything.”

Lady Buscrei’s opinion surprised Ryoka Griffin. She thought that the [Hunting Lady] would be all for the adventure, but Buscrei just shook her head as they walked through First Landing.

Everyone was talking about the idea, much like a thought experiment. Ryoka had Sammial in one hand—mostly because he’d walk off if you didn’t have a hold of him. Hethon was part of the group that included Buscrei and Swey.

Lord Tyrion was doing the murmuring and talking with the other nobles about alliances and such. Ryoka was trying very hard not to be caught up in it, hence the stroll.

Mind you—there was enough to see in First Landing. A group of Cenidau [Sailors] were having an axe-throwing competition they’d set up, and Ryoka was super interested in trying. But Sammial was all-too-eager as well, and she doubted his aim.

They passed by a young woman with clearly dyed black hair—she had a bit of blonde at the roots—who tried to get close to Ryoka. She wanted…an autograph? Ryoka saw several of House Veltras’ guards keeping her back then did a double-take.

“What the—”

“Wind Runner! Can I get an autograph? I’m going to become a Runner like you!”

The young woman had fairer skin than Ryoka’s, but she had the same unmaidenly trousers and t-shirt despite possibly being of the nobility. And she was barefoot. Ryoka stared at the cheap copy of herself, and Sammial’s jaw opened. Ryoka’s fan waved at Ryoka as another girl jogged over, wincing as her bare feet scraped on the pavement.

Buscrei’s mouth opened for a good five minutes until Ryoka spoke with the two girls. By the time she stopped chortling, they were headed to the park. Buscrei stared with a bit of dismay at the neat, manicured grass that had been pesticided or magically bombed out of all insects. Each tree was tended to, and there wasn’t any wildlife in First Landing but some squirrels and birds who were fed by some of the park’s guests.

“Look at this place. If that’s what a lot of the Five Families think is waiting for them in the new lands, they’re crazy. If I was trying to go there—well, I’d head out with light gear and tell the boys to bring all the supplies. But I’d pack very light and explore a good month. Slowly.”

Oswen’s folk were natural hunters, and Swey came from the plateau, which was why it was so interesting to hear the Veltras’ being cautious. Ryoka raised her brows as Hethon turned bright red; one of the younger Ryoka-clones was waving at him.

“You don’t think it’d be easier for you?”

Buscrei shuddered and gave Ryoka an incredulous look.

“You kidding? I know Oswen’s marshes, but my people have lived there all my life. What I don’t know is where a Mossbear’s territory is in this new place or if there’s hidden underground caves, faults in the rocks—new land is dangerous. If Veltras is going, Tyrion knows enough to send real rugged types. He’s the most city-like of most of the family, but he won’t go in with [Soldiers]. It’s a bad idea. Send people who can hunt for game and produce enough to eat over there.”

“But there are bags of holding, and it’s not impossible to ferry food out.”

Buscrei stared at the ceiling.

“Bags of holding. Chests of holding. Food runs out faster’n you think, Ryoka. If you can’t make sure there’s food coming in, it’ll be a short land rush. What do you think, Swey?”

He nodded.

“I think they’d better take [Druids] and dirt. We have Chests of Holding? I say—dirt, wood, and [Druids] and [Gardeners]. [Farmers] too. Even if they find pure rock, they can build a self-contained farm.”

“Dirt.”

Ryoka glanced at Buscrei, but she was smiling.

“Hey, now there’s an idea. That way they’ll be sure to have a crop coming in. Mind you, it’s fall…”

“One of those wooden structures filled with dirt and light spells. [Druids] have made them—they’ll grow food even in the snow. Warm inside. Speaking of which, they’ll need lots of stuff to bundle up with. No guarantees they’ll even have wood.”

“Right.”

Food and warmth. House Veltras’ priorities were some of the most basic for any colony. Nor did Ryoka think Tyrion would ignore their suggestions. She began to feel an itch in her feet herself, but Sammial clung to one hand, and Hethon grabbed the other arm.

“Look, Hethon! She’s going to run off again! Get her!”

“What? No, I’m not. I have plenty to do in the north. Er—visit Liscor. And, uh—”

Find a Dryad? That might be Invrisil. But Hethon just hung on as Sammial clung to Ryoka’s hand.

“You’re not getting away! Dad! Dad, she’s going to fly off again!

He began screaming for Tyrion, and Ryoka sighed. At least she could fly. It meant that if she needed to move, she could get across Izril in a fraction of the time of most. And it occurred to her that only one man in the world could probably follow her where she went.

Or any Garuda in existence.

 

——

 

Sometimes it distressed Magnolia Reinhart to see idiocy repeat itself.

Oh, not House Veltras’ approach to exploring new lands. They were very pragmatic. They focused on survival. House Wellfar and Terland?

…Less pragmatic, maybe. Wellfar was going to believe it could keep up a sea-route to supply whatever coastal colony it made. Terlands? Terlands sent their ‘specialists’, who would protect and build without getting tired.

Golems.

It might work, but it was so typical of them it made her sigh. The House of El, predictably, wanted to have some of their [Mercenaries] escort a group looking for new ideas. And as for Reinhart…

Well, she would not dignify some of the ventures coming out of her family with a compliment. But they were certainly ideas.

Nor could Magnolia stop even her family from trying to go to the new lands. The real question was—why?

“Why do we need new lands? Yes, trade and what not. Yes, the value in such and such resources yet undiscovered. But we are not yet done exploring Izril’s north, Ressa. Do we need more?”

“Half the pie’s never enough. Give a man a slice and he’ll ask for two.”

Ressa’s dour comment made Magnolia scowl harder. She stared pointedly at the pumpkin pie topped with the whipped cream that Ressa was guarding.

“I will have another piece, and thank you to keep your analogies about greed in general and not my diet.”

Silently, Ressa cut a slice of pie so thin that it was half the width of Magnolia’s pinkie. She placed it on the plate, and Magnolia stared at her.

Oteslia was growing on her—at least the local cuisine. She would also just like to point out that the pumpkin pie was pumpkin. At least, she assumed so. It was quite delightfully sweet.

At any rate, Ressa raised her brows.

“The local Drakes are still placing bets on you backing out of your promise not to go for the new lands yourself. Regis Reinhart had a few choice words for you.”

“Oh, delightful. Send me a copy if he was stroppy. I shall frame it.”

Magnolia purred. She sat back and sighed. It seemed to the world that Magnolia Reinhart had once again backed out, in her peacemaking ways, from a profitable venture to endear herself to the Drakes.

Which was completely true. But she was not idle. If anything, her staff were so busy that a recovering Reynold was up to his knees in paperwork.

“Well, have our best teams continue to muster, Ressa. I want our irregulars reminded of their promises to me and mustering in Drake cities or in ports, ready to go. Also—a list of all the Gold-rank teams and even Named-ranks who are unspoken for. What were, oh, those Horns of Hammerad doing?”

Magnolia could still pull a lot of people around from Oteslia. Ressa consulted her list.

“They haven’t agreed to go with any group, but they’re still headed back from the High Passes. I’ll keep them on the list if you want?”

Magnolia frowned, thinking about Yvlon.

“…Do. Keep the Silver Swords off that list, though. Ylawes is Ylawes, and he will be wherever he thinks he’s needed. The Horns might be erratic, but I do think they have promise.”

Ressa made a few notes. The reason Magnolia was thinking of Gold-rank teams was because she did have an expedition force planned.

No less than fifteen, in fact, and even Bekia, the Gnoll [Maid], was on a shortlist of reserves for more groups. They were armed, supplies were loaded in mobile wagons, and ready.

Magnolia could have stormed the new lands before Ieka got out of bed this morning. But she didn’t. If anything, she bemoaned the loss of her new carriage, and she hoped her…friend would come back. Let him come back, even if he didn’t remember her.

Magnolia squeezed her fingers together, but then relaxed. All was ready.

“Reynold?”

She called out to the [Butler], and Reynold jumped a bit.

“Yes, Lady Reinhart?”

“Magnolia, Reynold. I think you’ve proven you deserve at least that. Tell me, Reynold. Is there a betting pool among the staff on how soon the first colonial group gets wiped out?”

Reynold bit his tongue. He glanced at Ressa, and the [Head Maid]’s blank face led Magnolia to believe there was gold and pride on the books. Also, that Ressa might be the bookkeeper.

“There…might be a small bet placed, Lady Reinhart. Informally.”

The man coughed. Magnolia smiled.

“Put me down for two gold on a week or less. In which case, we will be busy indeed.”

She had no intention of fighting for land. Instead—Magnolia Reinhart glanced at the map of her people waiting in the wings.

The wings, placed to head into the new lands and grab the starving, hunted, or just desperate people who would fail in this damned venture. She did not like trying to best nature. Instead, Magnolia wanted to save as many lives as she could.

Not purely for acclaim or altruism either. She had to admit—it was because Izril would need the people who might die there. There would be more than innocent young men and women sent into the new lands. High-level individuals, even noble peers—a [Princess] was the first.

It rather reminded her of one of the mothers she had once seen in House Reinhart. The woman had told her children not to touch that or not to do all the sensible things. But she had let her children stick a hand into a pot of boiling water and then quickly bailed them out and applied a potion to the wound. Save people after they kick the beehive.

…Then again, that mother had been terrible. But at least Magnolia would not have to hear how her people had to defend themselves against another greedy force and have blood on the ground. She had spilled enough, so she sighed and began to count again.

“I want more spies. More spies, Ressa, in the other groups coming. Put them in the established colonies as they appear. Helpful people offering their services. When the real Crelers begin seeding Izril—I want them gone or to fail. When Roshal comes to Izril, let them smell the flowers. I intend them to all have poisonous thorns.”

Her real enemies were not the stupid, greedy, or naive. It was the snakes. It was the rot in the flowerbed, and they were corruptive indeed. Poison spread like an idea, and Magnolia could almost see her real opponents looking to sway minds just like she was. She slowly reached out for the entire pie, and Ressa slapped her hands.

 

——

 

The King of Destruction, Flos Reimarch, was sitting in his garden in the palace of Reim, talking excitedly. He gestured with his hands as Orthenon laboriously took notes.

Not in specifics, but in what he wanted. He had experienced vassals who knew their job. He had talent from multiple conquered nations. But it was still his vision, and so he spoke energetically to Teres and Trey.

“I think it’ll be simpler to expedite than most countries.”

“Oh, colonizing new lands is so easy.

Teresa raised her hands sarcastically, mimicking him. She was tetchy, and Flos looked insulted.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t even know how to build a house! You’re just telling Orthenon to deal with everything.”

Teresa pointed at the [Steward], and he shifted, whether in agreement or disapproval, it was hard to tell. Trey slowly fed Minizi a Yellat as the Lifesand Golem masticated the vegetable, then spat it onto the ground. The real Gazi eyed her duplicate.

Flos drew himself up with annoyed dignity.

“You start with the foundation of the house. Then add beams and such. I’ve helped build some. Drevish made everyone work on his damned plans. Besides, I have the broad idea in mind. We’ll treat it like a campaign.”

“Wait, so you are going to Izril?”

Trey was patently disbelieving. Flos sighed.

“Trey. Trey. Trey. How could I not? If I didn’t try to settle the new lands while conquering Nerrhavia, I would be ashamed of myself.”

Trey slapped his forehead silently and wished he were visiting Fetohep. Flos just took this as a sign of approval.

“A campaign. I don’t know how to explore entirely new lands. I’ve ventured into Zeikhal, Teresa, but you’re right. So we’ll just prepare for a long campaign.”

“That’s stupid. That’s insane! You can’t treat settling new lands like a campaign!”

“No, it’s actually not.”

Mars commented, and Teresa spun.

“You’re not one to talk! You need explorers—”

“[Scouts].”

The girl hesitated.

“You need people to build! Set up infrastructure—”

“[Quartermasters]. [Blacksmiths]. A war camp needs a huge supply line. [Handlers] for horses, [Cooks]—dead gods, they built their own camps all the time.”

“But—”

Teresa looked outraged that Flos thought it was this simple. But Trey thought Flos had a point, unfortunately. The King of Destruction grinned.

“It’s true we might need more supplies than not, but it’s not a bad idea, is it, Teresa? There will be fighting. But it seems to me that even if we lack the exploratory arm—it’s not who finds the treasure, it’s who has the treasure. We can always find more help while we’re there.”

“Oh boy.”

The [Glass Mage] muttered. He was already seeing why Flos was so happy about that. He saw another fight brewing, and he intended to go in ready for it. Teresa spluttered, but she had one last card to play. Unfortunately, it was a ‘2’. She pointed at the palace.

“Well—you’d better take all the armies, because there’s no way that the other nations will let your people be. The King of Destruction is the enemy of everyone. Do you have enough soldiers for that?”

For answer, Flos simply rose from his haunches and peered at his palace, hands behind his back. Then he turned.

“One of you guards…over here, please? Don’t I know you? L—no, Nerise?”

He nodded to a Stitch-man with that weird memory of his for names and faces. Flos Reimarch stood the guard just so and looked him up and down. The [Guard] wore armor that had seen recent use and carried a halberd. He also had a badge, pinning an enchanted cloak to his shoulders. It bore Reim’s symbol.

Flos pointed to the [Guard].

“Here stands a son of Reim, soldier of the King of Destruction.”

Then he reached out to the badge and removed it.

“Now, here stands a Stitchman of unknown origin. See?”

He turned to Teresa, beaming like a young man who’d won an argument by flipping the table over on his opponent. Trey slapped his forehead harder and heard a twin sound. He looked over and saw Amerys had done the exact same thing.

The King of Destruction just laughed as Teresa spluttered about [Detect Truth] spells. He turned and stared around.

“It’ll be fun, Teresa. Fun—and now that Amerys is back, we have mobility and magic. It’s time to conduct a real war on all fronts. I expect Orthenon will account for many issues and assign competent leaders. I will hand-pick some myself. If they end up in trouble they cannot handle?”

His eyes glinted as he looked back.

“…I’ll send some of my Seven. Amerys? Find me one of Nerrhavia’s treasuries. I want flying carpets.”

 

——

 

“And so we have an agreement. Sign here, here, and here. Thank you, Wall Lords and Ladies.”

Ilvriss finally scrawled his signature, and the magical contract flashed. He stretched and then shook claws with the Drakes who had been six hours at the meeting. But they’d finally hammered out acceptable terms.

“What a disaster.”

He muttered and saw Wall Lady Terith looking nervous. Ilvriss clarified.

“I meant the new lands. It is going to be the most chaotic scene ever.”

“I’ll keep my scrying orb handy.”

The Wall Lady chuckled, but Ilvriss’ smile was a bit pained. A lot of good Drakes were going out there. He might not know all their names, but they did not deserve shallow graves.

He had agreed to a comprehensive, competent push on limited terms, but he knew it was going to get messy. After all—it had just occurred to Ilvriss that this was the perfect time for the Necromancer to make his move.

But what could he do? Well…Ilvriss had just signed his contract. It locked House Gemscale into providing gold, supplies, and people, but there were clauses that let him add to the effort for proportional rewards.

He had asked for that, and it meant he could hire or send forces if he felt there was a need. Like the Erchirite Spears—but that wasn’t what Ilvriss was thinking of.

It was too bad Shriekblade had quit his employ. Or rather…he was still paying her to protect Erin. Yet a Named-rank would be a force in the new lands.

“…Even so, there are things I can do.”

Ilvriss retired to his tower and was moderately glad Zail wasn’t here. His father was taking an active role in the company, and Ilvriss was glad to see it.

It did feel stifling, though. Well, Ilvriss wouldn’t be in Salazsar all the time, so maybe it would actually be a net positive? Zail was going to be pulling strings, and he’d even hinted he had contacts he could prevail on to keep things working well between the Walled Cities.

Yet Ilvriss felt…there was something he could well and truly do to help ensure that the new lands were not disastrous. Or rather, that any disaster might be improved.

His claws twitched over a [Message] scroll he’d set up, one of those permanent two-way lines. Another new Wistram service, but he’d been cautious, and it hadn’t been used that much. He scrolled down it and saw a few new entries from the other side.

 

Mrsha — Hey, it’s me.

Mrsha — Hello? I am collecting money for the Liscor Cookie Fund. I accept donations in gold and gemstones.

[Prince] Merton the Fabulous — Hello, Wall Lord, sir. I am a [Prince] from Baleros who has fallen on hard times. I only require 50 gold pieces to reclaim my fortune. I will then send you 500 gold pieces in return.

Erin — Mrsha’s grounded. Sorry. How’s it going, Ilvriss?

 

He smiled at that. And Ilvriss’ quill hesitated as he dipped it in ink and studied his other [Message] scrolls and correspondence.

He was tempted. Oh, so tempted to ask a certain [Innkeeper] whether she’d be interested in setting up a wing of her inn or a temporary inn in the new lands. After all, everyone needed a drink. A place to stay. And surely there would be fewer places more equipped to deal with monsters and chaos, eh?

But he doubted Erin would go, and even with her impishness aside—he would not put a little girl in danger. Again.

That was what he needed, though. Salazsar was being competent. But Ilvriss well remembered how their competent, highly-trained army had once lost to a tiny group of Drake cities led by Zel Shivertail.

When you were up against the smartest and best, like Chaldion or the King of Destruction, and wrestling against foes who outmatched you—you needed a random [Innkeeper] with a frying pan to add some confusion to the mix.

So what was Ilvriss’ plan? He thought for a really, really long time. But he was rich. And he did have plausible deniability. And besides—he thought Erin might laugh about this for a while. Unless she punched him.

At last, Ilvriss wrote on the scroll a short reply to Erin, letting her know how ‘things’ were. Then he rolled up the scroll and reached for another one.

Alrric had not really said how he got the second scroll, only that he had a ‘contact’. Well, everyone said that, but Alrric had actually managed to go through the black market that Ilvriss knew existed in Salazsar. This…was still something.

Ilvriss slowly opened the scroll and chose his words carefully before writing.

 

To the Goblin Chieftain, Rags. I would like to hire your forces for a task in the new lands. If you are interested, please reply to this [Message] within the week. I am prepared to compensate you quite handsomely in gold or other means.

I may add that while our correspondence is not secret due to these scrolls, we have a mutual friend in the inn. Though I do not care for flies.

—‘Employer I’

 

He wondered if the [Rogues] or whomever were reading this would think it was advanced code. Ilvriss sighed. He sat back, heart beating a bit faster and smiled to himself as he put his feet up on his desk.

“Chaos.”

 

 

 

 

Author’s Thoughts: Did I do it? Is this a shorter chapter? Well, I have one thing I’d like to write.

And that’s Reasons to Hate Tolkien #4: his songs.

Hear me out. Tolkien has some famous speeches and songs that movies and fans have adapted. And some of it is great. Yes, they tinker with it, but Theoden’s speeches and Clamavi De Profundis, a Youtube group, are amazingly good at making actually good stuff.

And I hate Tolkien for it. Because he just had to be an expert in old English tales—even translate famous ones like Beowolf. He literally redefined parts of mythos. He was a professor, survived a war, wrote the most famous fantasy books of all time—

And he can do poetry and songs. In actual decent meter and verse.

I had a song from the Yoldenites earlier in the chapter and I think it works, but it’s not chained well to a melody nor is it sing-able as it is, I think. And that’s fine; the genre and speed of web serials prevents me from workshopping it since it was written very quick.

However, remember the survey I did? I haven’t forgotten about it! It’s just taking a long time to parse through like…two thousand entries. I’m sure there’s at least someone with song-writing abilities in there. It’s my intention to someday try and get some of the songs re-written and maybe performed if it’s good enough.

Of all the songs, Great Plains Sing is probably the one I worked hardest on, but I think music is a great part of stories. Too bad copyright laws suck. But my point is that Tolkien is too good at all the things he did and I hate him for it. Anyways, hope you enjoyed the chapter.

I hope I’ll recharge after this shorter one and get some editing done. Thanks for reading and remember—don’t go camping. Let alone colonizing land. It seems like a lot of work.

 

The Wandering Inn, by chinhdwc on reddit. Commissioned by dado!

 

Emotes and Erin Hill by butts!

 

Chess Towers by Enuryn the [Naturalist]!

 


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9.18 E

For the daughter of a legend, Wiskeria’s eyes were too normal. They were yellow and green, the two colors separate, not some blend of the two, and quite resembled a plain field of grass and daffodils on a sunlit day in nature.

Compared to her mother’s gaze—well, all Erin Solstice knew were stories. Numbtongue had described them like black rings in an orange glow, narrowing and narrowing towards the pupils without ever ending. Not that he’d gotten a good look at her up close.

Mrsha had all of Lyonette’s flowery prose, and she had stared down Belavierr longer than most beings in the entire world. She had written that Belavierr’s eyes, ‘instilled nothing so much as a grand fear within my soul, for I knew there were multitudes looking back at me, and I knew not whence they came and feared to find out.’

Erin, for her part, feared that Mrsha was becoming an old man in her writing style. But the image that had stuck with her most was actually Kevin’s. He had the misfortune of surviving Belavierr, and while she had not declared him a personal enemy, nor had he seen her up close, he had told Erin this:

“It felt like I was looking straight into the layers of hell. From Dante’s Inferno, you know that story? It looked like that.”

All in all, Belavierr’s mere gaze seemed like a suitable representation of the Witch of Webs, the greatest living [Witch] in this world. Wiskeria, though, was her daughter of twenty some years. She was the failure who did not encapsulate Belavierr’s dark myth, for better or for worse. She was the ordinary witch, the [General] of Riverfarm, so not that ordinary—

But she was Belavierr’s daughter, and the product of her mother raising her was everywhere about her if you looked. A [Witch] pretending to be normal without ever recognizing it. But she did try, and of all the [Witches] that Erin had met so far, she alone did not prod or poke Erin to become something.

That was why Erin liked her. And that was why, at the wee hours of dawn, Wiskeria and Erin met to begin her lessons in witchcraft.

This was, of course, before the announcement that Terandria was going to settle Izril’s new lands or the Yoldenites’ broadcast. Five days before that, to be exact. This was the day after the old man in the river had been unleashed and then pushed back to his resting place. Erin still felt ashamed and unsettled—but she wanted to learn.

Just not from Eloise, Hedag, Mavika, Agratha, Oliyaya, or any of the others. Anyways, Erin was nervous, and she had woken up and eaten her magical bisque extra early so that she could even get out of bed.

“Is this the witching hour? No, wait, that’s even earlier, right? Should we have gotten up then?”

She joked around. Wiskeria gave Erin a blank stare, which did not seem to be amused.

Unusually, Wiskeria seemed like she’d gotten less than adequate sleep, and she was a bit ruffled. She replied as she checked her hat and straightened her robes, both deep blue.

“You agreed to learn from me, Erin. Which means you do this my way. Ask all the questions you want, but when I tell you to do something—do it. If I think you’re not trying, I’ll stop and we’ll part ways.”

Erin hesitated. Her desired response was to be a bit funny. But it occurred to her that this was Wiskeria.

Belavierr’s daughter. And if Erin had learned nothing else from the ghosts of great [Witches]…she stuck a hand up in the air.

Wiskeria stared at it.

“What are you doing?”

“Question?”

“Just ask it, then.”

Okay. Erin took a breath and raised her fingers in air-quotes.

“By ‘part ways’, do you mean that if I screw up, you’ll just stop teaching me?”

“Yes.”

“Do I get second chances?”

Wiskeria looked confused.

“Why would you? No. Is that normal to…?”

A note of uncertainty entered her voice, but she caught herself and shook her head.

“No, maybe it is. But not for witchcraft. I won’t come after you or curse you or do anything else. We’ll just stop if I think I can’t teach you or you’re not trying. No second chances. We’re done.”

“For how long?”

An exasperated tone entered Wiskeria’s voice.

“Forever. Until the last Giants die. Until the marrow of the earth rots. Until time expires. I didn’t think I needed to explain that.”

Erin shrugged helplessly, but she felt a strange tingling in her stomach. Anticipation, perhaps. Nerves, as well as…well, Wiskeria didn’t understand why Erin smiled.

“I just wanted to make sure.”

Witches played for keeps. That was the true element of Wiskeria’s nature hidden behind her facade. When she said ‘done’, she meant it. If she threatened to hurt you—she meant it.

Wiskeria rubbed at her eyes and yawned. She gazed at Erin as they stood just outside Wiskeria’s home on the edge of Riverfarm, far enough out that their voices wouldn’t wake the regular citizens.

“I’m sorry. Perhaps I’m just tired. Poor sleep. I was up all night chasing a screaming mouse or something.”

“Are—are those normal around here?”

“Who knows? It doesn’t matter—seeing me when I’m not at my best will teach you how a [Witch] lives. Which is the point. You need lessons in what being a [Witch] means. You need a hat and to find your craft. Three problems. So—I am going to teach you like my mother taught me. Now—”

Wiskeria broke off and closed her eyes for a second. She stared at Erin waving her hands urgently, because the [Innkeeper] had some instant reservations.

“Um. Exactly like your mother taught you?”

Erin didn’t think she wanted to become Belavierr 2.0. However, Wiskeria just shook her head.

“Growing up as Belavierr’s daughter isn’t the same as learning witchcraft from her. It’s all I know. Now, we’ll pretend you’re learning the basics. Follow me.”

Thus began Erin’s lessons with Wiskeria. It would be a lie to say she wasn’t concerned about it all. She had messed up big with the Water Elemental, but Wiskeria was possibly the most concerning teacher out of everyone in Riverfarm she could have asked.

Belavierr’s daughter. Like it or not, that was a reputation that concerned even Erin herself.

…Let alone Mrsha, half-snoozing as she spied on the two from the corner of a house. Lyonette was yawning and holding Mrsha in her arms. Joining them was Numbtongue, wearing only pants, and Ulvama.

Not all in the same corner, even. Lyonette saw Numbtongue waving at her and pointing at Wiskeria. She made a face and shrugged as Mrsha sleepily frowned at Wiskeria.

None of Erin’s family and allies were exactly sure if this was a good idea. Nor, it seemed, was anyone else. Lyonette realized there was a hatted woman standing in the shadow of another roof and jumped as she saw Hedag, the massive woman with the axe and brown robes, silent as a statue.

Then Mrsha froze, sniffed the air, and looked up, and Numbtongue nearly drew his sword when he glanced up and saw Mavika perching on a roof’s ledge overhead. Both [Witches] glanced at Erin’s group. Then they pointedly looked at Gamel, trying to hide behind a wheelbarrow. Ulvama stared hard at Mavika, who ignored her completely. In silence, the groups eyed each other as Erin started her day.

 

——

 

Wiskeria asked Erin to copy her routine. She spoke as she worked, but not as much as Erin thought. The [Innkeeper] would learn by doing, so she ended up following Wiskeria’s morning routine.

The first thing they did was brush their teeth. Then, Wiskeria stretched for eight minutes, mostly her hands and ankles, though she had a few familiar arm and leg exercises. After that, she found two pieces of bread and toasted them over a fire she started from a candle, not any magic. She offered Erin butter and some jam.

When they started sweeping Wiskeria’s house, Erin had to say something.

“Um. Wiskeria. How long are we sweeping?”

She had been very patient. She had done the morning stuff, but the sweeping felt extraneous. Especially after eighteen minutes of methodically sweeping every part of Wiskeria’s pretty clean floors. They were in the living room when Wiskeria raised her head, as if she’d forgotten Erin were there.

“Hm? Until it’s clean.”

She gestured at the kitchen and other rooms in the home she’d been allotted. Erin hesitated.

“Is this part of the lessons?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, got it, got it. So this isn’t just part of your daily thing?”

“No, I meant to give the house a good cleaning. But this is an excellent lesson. Have you learned anything yet?”

Wiskeria glanced at Erin and couldn’t read Erin’s face. Anyone else in the world could have—Erin bit her tongue. Wiskeria just went back to sweeping. She did no magic. She didn’t even have an interesting sweeping form; Silveran would have called her ‘passable’, but it wasn’t like Wiskeria was even that good at cleaning. She wasn’t fast; she moved much like someone doing a chore did. Slowly, without wasting energy or trying to get the job done quickly.

Now, Erin had started as an [Innkeeper] by cleaning her inn. She knew cleaning. She hired Ishkr to clean because there were other things she could do with her day.

In fact, she began to speed up and used [Advanced Cleaning] to hurry the process along. Even that low-grade Skill was being used by a Level 40 [Innkeeper], so, to Erin’s delight, she saw that each pass of the broom carried all the dust and grit out in a huge sweep across the floor. She barely needed to move around chairs or lift things up; it was as if a magnetic force were sucking around them with the bristles of her broom.

Great! Erin guessed she might clean this entire room in, like, eighteen sweeps, and she’d already done nine when Wiskeria grabbed her broom handle with a huge frown.

“Stop that. No Skills. And stop rushing.”

Erin looked up. Wiskeria was methodically crouching to dust under the cupboards with a short-handled broom. At this instruction, Erin bit her lip.

“Alright. Question time, Wiskeria?”

“Go on.”

Erin waved her hands at the broom and cleaning.

“Is this…a metaphor? Or a hidden lesson? Because I’ll definitely do this if it turns out I’m training and I eventually learn how to sweep up a dust storm from practicing this. But if it’s a metaphor, I don’t get it. Am I waxing on or off or just sweeping?”

At this point, Wiskeria’s face suggested that she understood the problems every other [Witch] had had so far with Erin. She took a breath.

“If I told you, it would defeat the purpose of figuring it out.”

Ah, so there is a lesson! Yoda-style. Got it, got it. But do you do hints?”

“No. And my mother made me do this every morning wherever we stayed. This is teaching you.”

Wiskeria waited, but Erin just nodded and, now not using her Skills, went back to sweeping. She swept for twenty more minutes with Wiskeria, even moved a table so they could properly and mundanely sweep. All the while, she watched Wiskeria, stretched her magical, mundane, and aura senses for a hint of anything unusual, but Wiskeria was just focused.

If there were something to learn, Erin didn’t get it, but she did dutifully follow instructions. She knew there was something to learn. She just hoped it wasn’t one of those boring lessons about interconnectedness or humility. She had never, ever heard the other old [Witches] of yore talking about brooms except to tell Erin that there were better ways to fly.

After that, Wiskeria looked outside and saw the sun finally rise. It seemed too early to Erin, but the High Passes weren’t blocking the sun, so it was coming up fast, even for autumn. Wiskeria led Erin outside, and they began their day with an audience with Laken Godart.

 

——

 

“I’m not angry, Erin. I understand these things happen. The river is alive? Well, Wiskeria, Witches, what do you think?”

“Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. You should raise the embankments around the river and the bridge. Tell children to be careful when playing in the water. All the sensible things an [Emperor] should do. No more, for now.”

Witch Eloise and Hedag were present in the throne room as Laken discussed yesterday’s debacle with Erin. The [Innkeeper] fidgeted. Laken turned his head, eyes closed, to each person, and that was slightly uncanny. She spoke up as Wiskeria nodded along.

“I’ll take responsibility if something happens. I really didn’t mean to. Is Cade alright? Was anyone else hurt?”

Briganda had accepted her apology stiffly, and apologized in turn for decking Erin. Laken shook his head.

“No one is hurt. We’re just discussing how to make sure no one else is in danger. Once again, I’m not blaming you, Erin.”

“Well, maybe I’m blaming myself! You can be mad at me. I can take it. Or pay for…bridge raising.”

Erin saw his eyebrows rise, and she turned redder. The [Emperor] just chuckled, then looked sideways at Lady Rie for a moment as if he’d sensed something she couldn’t see. The oddly…alive…Lady Rie, looking faintly flushed with energy, also made Erin feel slightly disconcerted. Heck, all of Riverfarm wasn’t what she expected, even the Goblins who seemed almost content. Happy?

Laken, for his part, just turned back to Erin.

“There is no need, Erin, I assure you. In fact, I was just reminded that Ryoka herself arrived when Riverfarm was in danger of being burnt by Drake saboteurs…and there was a tornado, though that was a helpful event. Largely. Tell me—how many of our friends from home are there?”

Erin jumped at hearing that, but no one else in the room did. She did notice that Wiskeria, Eloise, Hedag, and Rie all looked very interested. Prost and Gamel just waited, either content in not knowing everything or already knowing what Laken was referring to.

But he was open about the secret. Odd. Erin hesitated.

“One, two, three…Inkar…uh, at least six? And lots more elsewhere. I could ask if they want to visit later. Why? I bet Kevin would, at least. He could bring you a bike.”

Laken grinned.

“I would love that. Truly. Well, the invitation stands whenever they would like. I just mention it because—Mister Prost? We had better make sure all our homes are earthquake-proof. Possibly typhoon-safe as well.”

Erin heard a huge snort of laughter from behind Laken, and Durene, the [Paladin], covered her mouth. Maybe it was a yawn; she’d come back late this morning with the Thronebearers who had run, killed a hundred undead, and run back before levelling up. All of them.

Erin’s mouth fell open, and she realized he was making fun of her! The [Emperor] smiled, and that was that.

 

——

 

“Was that [Witch]-y? Or did I mess up in there?”

Erin and Wiskeria walked out of the throneroom, and Wiskeria raised her brows.

“That was an audience with an [Emperor]. Not part of my lessons. My mother did not make a habit of…well, my encounters were different, and that wasn’t what I wanted to teach you. But I was watching you and seeing what you need to learn.”

“Oh, come on. How was that bad?”

Wiskeria tilted her head as she nodded at people in Riverfarm she knew—which was practically everyone. She glanced over her shoulder and glared. Erin turned her head and saw a pack of six Sariant Lambs hiding behind a parked wagon wheel. She raised her brows, and Wiskeria shook her head.

“We’re not allowed to kick them. Anyways, moving on—there are certain qualities that are [Witch]-like. I’m sure the ghosts taught you some of that. You’re very good at pretending, but not good at being certain. How would another [Witch] describe it…? You’re good at making other people think what you want them to think, but not much good at being it yourself. There, that sounds suitably confusing.”

Erin thought so too. She frowned, but Califor had said something like that.

“How am I good at pretending?”

This time, Wiskeria actually gave Erin a narked look. Her annoyance didn’t abate at Erin’s confused stare.

“You’re doing it to me right now.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re pretending to be confused when you’re only half-confused. You play the [Innkeeper] very well, I can tell.”

“But I am an [Innkeeper].”

Erin protested, but she did have an inkling of what Wiskeria meant. The other [Witch] took a deep breath.

“Yes, but you lean into her more than you have to. I’m sure a lot of your guests think you’re as…as…scattered as you pretend. Or as innocent. Or as confused. Eccentric.”

“I prefer zany.”

Erin felt highly uncomfortable at having her methods seen through so fast. She realized—all the other [Witches] had probably seen exactly what Wiskeria had. Even Grimalkin had fallen for it at first, the old Erin approach. But as Wiskeria explained…

“That’s pure witchcraft, Erin. No wonder Califor thought you had potential. Every [Witch] pretends. Even if they are. No, don’t ask a question, you understand. Mavika always pretends to be Mavika. Yes, she’s probably like that, but look—”

They passed by an open square, and Erin saw the Crow Witch sitting in the center. Laken had ordered a small tree to be relocated to the center of the square as a kind of ornamental piece. Right now, it was festooned with cawing crows, their beady eyes staring at the people who avoided the lone woman sitting with crows flapping their wings and eating from one hand.

That was a look. If Erin had seen that on Earth, she would have immediately bought every good-luck charm she could find. Wiskeria nodded to Mavika.

“She’s not lying—well, not right now—but she’s being extra her. Do you sense her pulling in their emotions?”

Erin did. Mavika was lightly drawing some of the nervousness or fear into her. Like someone skimming the cream off a vat of milk—a gentle, even elegant pull that fed her craft. But it wasn’t fear she wanted, no. It was more like…

“Superstition?”

Erin glanced at Wiskeria, and she got her first smile of the day. Then Erin saw Mavika more clearly.

If you assumed Mavika lived off fear or…crow-stuff, you only understood part of her craft. But she was a [Witch]. A [Witch] of [Witches]; she was the literal [Witch] in people’s imaginations. And because they thought that and she confirmed it, she could do what they believed.

That was the kind of [Witch]-logic that hurt your head, but it was a valuable lesson. Wiskeria nodded to Mavika, and both women tipped their hats. Mavika stared pointedly at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] flapped her apron at her.

Five crows took flight and chased the two young women for two streets. When they finally flew away, Wiskeria glared at Erin.

“You pretend as well as Mavika. But you’re not certain.”

“I’m certainly upset about that! Rude! I was just being funny.”

Erin pointed back at Mavika. Wiskeria eyed her.

“You…you knew she wouldn’t appreciate that. Do you have to joke about everything? Listen. This is easy. You’re not certain. You waver, you’re not…you pretend to be an [Innkeeper], but I don’t think you are one. Mavika pretends and is herself or whomever she wants to be. She could be a charming [Courtesan] if she had to.”

Erin could literally not imagine that. She put her hands on her hips.

“Okay. Maybe, sometimes, I get a bit…nervous about the future. Yeah. But I have stressful things to worry about! I dither. So what?”

“So learn to fix it.”

The young woman waved a hand.

“Do I have to? Is that a requirement for being a [Witch] or can we just say I’m working on it?”

It was incredible. Really—Wiskeria, the normal [Witch], looked like she was more peeved after three hours in Erin’s company than she had been fighting a war against Goblins and dealing with the nobility at the Summer Solstice party. The questions, the backchat—the jokes—she took a deep breath and looked Erin in the eye.

“Before I answer that, I have a question. Erin, how did the [Witches] in the lands of the dead deal with you when you annoyed them?”

Erin bit her tongue. She didn’t want to say, ‘how did you know?’ Instead, she scuffed a foot on the ground innocently.

“They might have made me go talk to other ghosts. Or said really—and I mean really—hurtful stuff.”

To her surprise, Wiskeria’s mouth opened, and the [Witch of Law] snapped her fingers.

“That’s so odd. It must have been because they were ghosts. Otherwise they’d have showed you that.”

She pointed, and Erin looked around.

“What?”

Wiskeria smacked the back of Erin’s head so hard Erin staggered. When the outraged [Innkeeper] turned around, she threw a punch. Wiskeria kicked her right under her kneecap, and Erin swore. She raised a fist, and Wiskeria grabbed a passing mallet out of a [Builder]’s cart as they set up to build another house.

“Whoa, whoa! What are you doing?”

“Escalating. If you hit me, I’ll hit you harder.”

Wiskeria stared pointedly at Erin’s knife. The [Innkeeper] innocently let go of the handle.

“That hurt!”

“Good. It was meant to. Here you are.”

Wiskeria handed the hammer back and nodded to Beycalt, the [Construction Supervisor] of Riverfarm.

“Everything alright, Witch Wiskeria?”

“Just teaching our guests a lesson.”

Beycalt grinned as Erin rubbed at her knee and the back of her head. She debated punching Wiskeria in the shoulder and saw the [Witch] glance at her. Erin uncurled the fingers of her fist.

“Califor wouldn’t have done that.”

Wiskeria raised her eyebrows, looking amused again.

“Not twice. Now, are you going to be serious?”

Her only response was a long exhalation from Erin, and then the [Innkeeper] snapped back.

“Alright. Fine. I’m not certain about things. So how do I fix it? I don’t like making mistakes, and I have. I had…a helper I mistreated. Toren. I got a friend killed, even if he came back. People die when I make mistakes.”

“Fine, but be certain when you commit. Dither too long or while you’re doing something and fail. You know that.”

Erin’s stomach clenched. She didn’t like talking about it, but Wiskeria seemed to understand her dilemmas. Erin whispered.

“What if I’m wrong?”

Her reply was Wiskeria raising her eyebrows and giving her a calm smile.

“Then you’ll be certain you made a mistake. Listen, you know this doesn’t mean certainty about everything. Just…what are you certain about? What do you know very, very well? We should find your craft and make that hat, so this is a great place to begin.”

Erin stood there, rubbing her head, and the answer was actually easy. She took a breath.

“Goblins. And chess.”

If there were any two things in this world that defined her and that she was certain about—Wiskeria didn’t scoff, she just nodded, pleased.

“Well then. That’s excellent, you know. I had to search for a long time to find out what I was certain about. That’ll be the basis of everything you do and how you decide things. I’m sure it is.”

“Yeah.”

Erin felt calmer when she said that. She began walking on, and then she realized one of the crows who attacked her was flying from perch to perch. She glanced over her shoulder, and Agratha stood behind one of the nighttime lantern-poles that Laken had ordered built. She was actually almost invisible despite being too wide to hide; a mundane little illusion spell kept her hidden.

But Erin and Wiskeria still noticed. Erin growled to Wiskeria.

“Is every [Witch] in Riverfarm watching me?”

The other [Witch] just raised her brows.

“They want to teach you, and they probably want our secrets. [Witches] can be grand and helpful and work together and be as petty as cats. And they’re better than most people at both.”

Erin sighed. So far, the day had led her to sweeping for half an hour, being made fun of by an [Emperor], and now she had a sore head and knee. And yet…she glanced sideways at Wiskeria.

“Well, what about you, then? What are you certain about?”

Therein was the charm, because Wiskeria only took one second before she told Erin, and that directness was what Erin wanted, even if Wiskeria were right and she didn’t do it herself.

“I’m certain in what I admire and love and find worthy. Hence—my craft, although it’s a strange connection.”

[Witch of Law]. Erin raised her brows, and Wiskeria nodded to Oliyaya, innocently pretending to plant mushrooms in a trough outside someone’s house, much to the homeowner’s dismay. The woman gave a huge, twisted smile to the two, and Wiskeria muttered to Erin.

“Even I don’t feel like elaborating right now.”

Understandable. Erin saw Oliyaya sigh—then Oliyaya’s head snapped up as the [Innkeeper] innocently put her hands behind her back.

“Do you know what your mother was certain about?”

Wiskeria’s eyes glittered.

“Not where it started. But yes. My mother is certain…that it was worth it. Despite it all, and however long it has been. It was worth it.

Erin shivered, and Oliyaya cackled as they went on. Wiskeria glanced at Erin and seemed compelled to offer Erin an olive branch.

“Even if you think the other [Witches] are only certain, they can be insecure, you know, Erin. But they just pretend and be certain when it counts. You’re allowed to be afraid. Like me. I’m never sure if I’m saying things right, or if people understand my words, or if I’m supposed to smile or pat someone on the shoulders. Every [Witch] is still a woman. They can be prideful or worry about their looks, or secretly love someone and know they won’t confess, or want to try on a necklace but fear they’ll ruin their image. Right, Mavika?”

She turned a corner, and Erin found herself face-to-face with Mavika. Again. This time, the [Crow Witch] was inspecting a shaking pigeon who had come to the wrong territory. The woman had clearly heard all of Wiskeria’s statements about insecurity.

Mavika, her huge, beady eyes black like a raven’s, thin as a rail, hunch-backed, with yellow teeth and a stare that could stain a wall. Mavika, worried about her looks, secretly in love, and wanting to try on a fetching necklace? The [Crow Witch] stared at Wiskeria, then Erin and replied.

No.

Erin looked at Wiskeria, and the [Witch of Law] amended her statement.

“Well, maybe not those examples with Mavika. But even you’re insecure about some things. Like…”

Wiskeria stared at Mavika, and the [Crow Witch]’s shoulders hunched. Her pet raven cawed warningly, but Wiskeria spoke as a bunch of [Washers] including Yesel hauled a prodigious amount of linen to be cleaned.

“Aha. You’re worried that you’ll be one of the last of the old ways, dying, gasping on empty shores as the death of magic—the literal death of magic, not the half-Elf—swallows up every wonder and leaves the world dark and empty. Until only half-people with shells for souls inhabit everything.”

Erin and Mavika stared at Wiskeria. Mavika’s raven, Sephraic, fanned its wings and took off from her shoulder as Yesel and the [Washers] turned as one to stare at Wiskeria. Instantly, the [Witch of Law] realized she’d said the wrong thing. She panicked—as if breaking the code of normalcy were the most disturbing thing she’d done. She turned and looked around.

“That’s completely normal! Just like, uh—Alevica.”

The Runner Witch froze as Wiskeria pointed at her, eating breakfast in Riverfarm’s first outdoor cafe. She began to cast a hex, but Wiskeria was already speaking.

“Alevica’s afraid she’ll die alone and unloved. See? Very normal.”

She turned to Erin and ducked as a hex shot over the tip of her hat. Once again, Erin and Wiskeria found themselves running as Alevica, howling curses, shot spells at them.

Six streets later, they stopped, and Erin clutched at her side. She felt like she was learning a lot. Maybe not about being a [Witch], but a lot.

Wiskeria glanced back to see if Alevica were following, but after she saw no more spells, she straightened her hat.

“That’s another lesson about what not to say in public, I guess. This is why I like being an adventurer. Everyone’s just afraid of dying, and there’s no shame in that, apparently. Any more questions?”

She turned to Erin as if they were still having a chat about certainty, and Erin had to know.

“Alright, what are you afraid of, Wiskeria?”

For answer, the [Witch] just sighed.

“Dying without having a fulfilling life, I guess. It frightens me every year I grow older—and at least a few times per month. Ending without doing something I think is worthwhile.”

She thought about it as Erin fidgeted. It was like speaking to…the most honest person in the world, and it was disconcerting and uncomfortable because of that. No…it was a bit like speaking to a child, like Mrsha. Someone who wouldn’t lie. But Wiskeria just went on.

“Or becoming my mother. But if this doesn’t pan out and I still don’t think I’m on the right track, I might think about giving it a shot. In a year or two.”

 

——

 

At this point, Erin needed a break from Wiskeria. Juuust for a second. She had a sit-down with Pebblesnatch and Numbtongue and Ulvama, who were all sipping coffee that Lyonette had brought from Liscor.

Laken had ordered some made for anyone who wanted to try a cup. So three Goblins were all sitting in one of the mess halls, alone but not hated.

Some Riverfarm folk even waved at Pebblesnatch and complimented her on a dish. It was so strange that Numbtongue looked as amazed as Erin.

“Hey, Pebblesnatch! How are you? How’s my favorite [Cook] doing?”

Erin hugged the little Cave Goblin, and Ulvama glared as Pebblesnatch clung to Erin with a cry of delight. Erin sat down and exhaled.

“Wow, that was a crazy morning. How are you two doing? Hey, Ulvama.”

“Person.”

The [Shaman] was moody. Numbtongue was amused.

“We slept in the Goblinlands. They’re healthy.”

“Really? Any want to come back to Liscor with us? Pebblesnatch? I invited another [Chef] to my inn, but we could always use two!”

Erin expected Pebblesnatch to leap at the offer, but the Cave Goblin just hesitated. She scratched at her head and then, to Erin’s amazement, spoke.

“This place nice.”

Aaah! You can talk?

Ulvama rolled her eyes.

“All Goblins talk, stupid.”

Erin danced around in delight and amazement.

“But Pebblesnatch never spoke! You can talk?”

“Am learn!”

“I am learning.”

Numbtongue corrected the beaming Pebblesnatch. Instantly, the Cave Goblin scowled and raised a ladle of wrath to hit him. He raised a fist, and she reconsidered. In that sense, Goblins were like [Witches].

“You really like it here?”

Erin tried not to show she was hurt. Pebblesnatch avoided her gaze, and Ulvama sneered.

“No Goblins want to go. They all…they all think here is safer, as if here is better. Maybe it is, but there’s no tribe here. Just the blind [Emperor].”

She burst out, too mad to even pretend to speak ineloquently. Erin saw Numbtongue nod.

“Weird place. There’s no real Chieftain. Some people like Raidpear and Leafarmor are sort of Chieftains…but not.”

Erin knew enough about Goblins to understand how strange that was. She harrumphed, not exactly liking Laken being praised for his Goblin-relations. Then she nodded at the door.

“Well, I was learning from Wiskeria, and that was intense. She’s…real. So real it feels like she’s going to throw me off a cliff and I’ll become a [Witch] before I land or go splat.

“Ooh. Splat-meat. Already mushy. Easy to cook.”

Pebblesnatch nodded knowingly in a way Erin didn’t like. As for Numbtongue, he nodded understandingly. Ulvama just snorted.

“Go jump already, stupid. You have the class. Go. Shoo. Annoying [Innkeeper] finally has annoying people to teach her. [Witches] this. Witches that. All hats and craft. Bleh.”

She pulled one eye down and stuck out her tongue in the most immature way Erin could imagine. She hadn’t seen someone do that in years. She gave Ulvama a long look as Numbtongue sipped his coffee.

“Don’t like your coffee, Ulvama? I love it.”

“Tea is better.”

That one comment earned Ulvama the approval of the [Tea Witch], who did not appreciate this competitor to her domain. Erin sighed and pushed herself up.

“Alright—fine. But if I get swirly eyes and start cackling at the moon, I’m blaming you! Anyways, I have to go. I’m apparently making a hat.”

Ulvama’s ears perked up. She watched Erin leave as Numbtongue nudged her.

“Psst. Ulvama. How important is a hat?”

For answer, the [Shaman] rolled her eyes.

“How important is your guitar, [Bard]?”

Numbtongue eyed his guitar. He glanced at Erin and raised his brows.

“That important?”

“Yup.”

All three Goblins watched Erin head out to get back to her training. No wonder her being here was so important. She really was a bad [Witch].

 

——

 

The thing was, it was hard to tell who was most offensive to the [Witches]. Erin…or Wiskeria.

One was a joking, irreverent, non-conformist as easy to pin down as a feather in a hurricane.

The other was the greatest heir to their class, who wanted to pretend to be normal while speaking the language of the Elementals and refusing to teach anyone else.

Both were not just offensive to sensibilities, either. They were actively, dramatically rude and insulting at times.

That was why only the most patient [Witch] would suffer them making a hat for Erin as part of the competitions to make a hat that Riverfarm’s folk would wear. Something stylish, something…well, impressive. It would certainly boost the [Witch]’s acclaim who won, but there was also personal pride.

Agratha versus Oliyaya. So it was no less than Agratha who let the two [Witches] work on Erin’s hat as she and her friends and apprentices designed a hat for the non-[Witches].

Agratha, the [Teacher Witch], was the third-most abhorrent [Witch] to many other [Witches]. In this room was the trifecta of irritation. What was really impressive, to the outside observer, was that even here, they annoyed each other.

Erin Solstice stared down at buttons and beads and thread. Oh, so much thread. Cloth to form a hat, pieces of wire to create supports to sew onto, scissors and bobbins and…

She was not a sewing-person. She didn’t see a sewing machine, and when she heard she’d have to hand-sew her hat, she nearly backed out altogether.

“You can have help. It’d be embarrassing, but the hat’s quality can vary. Knowing what it should look like is the first step. Do you have something in mind? Remember what I told you—base it around your certainty. If you knew your craft, that’d help, but a [Witch] can wear whatever hat she thinks is good. Think of Eloise or Hedag.”

“Hedag wears a brown shoe on her head.”

Erin muttered, and one of Agratha’s students laughed before clapping a hand over her mouth. Agratha’s own lips twitched as she worked on her masterpiece.

Agratha wanted to create a practical hat, a kind of all-purpose cap for [Farmers] and [Crafters] alike. She was engineering it to be a cross between the wide-brimmed caps you needed to work in the sun with something closer to a baseball cap for versions indoors. And she had put Riverfarm’s pyramid-logo on the front.

It looked almost too plain—until you saw Agratha’s vision, which was to make this so popular anyone would try it on because it represented Riverfarm. She was experimenting with colors to see what looked best.

Casual-wear. Oliyaya, apparently, had gone the opposite way. Like the argument between their ideals, she was creating a hat for a few. A hand-stitched eye upon the top of two ragged wings, dark as night, and all enchanted so that the wearer could walk around in the dark like one of the [Darksky Riders] and see in every environment. A tricorne hat oozing with macabre style that only one or two would ever be made of.

And Erin had to make her own hat. She didn’t want to. She eyed the sketches of a traditional pointy hat and some of the examples of Eloise’s gardener hat with flowers, or unusual ones like Alevica’s, which sometimes had glass goggles enchanted for flying hanging off them. And still, she said the most abhorrent thing for a [Witch].

“Do I need a hat? I just don’t feel like a hat-person. Is this the kind of thing I have to wear all the time, or could I put it on for special occasions like when I’m doing magic?”

Wiskeria and Agratha glowered at Erin as she raised her hands.

“I’m just saying! I don’t know if it’s my style. Once you go hat, you can’t go back. I think that’s a saying. What if I did the thing where I have a hat like this?”

She sketched one in the air over her head, and Wiskeria slapped her hand down.

“You don’t deserve that hat. If I thought you took it seriously, that would be fine. But you’re taking it too lightly. Don’t laugh, and don’t make fun of hats. Not here.”

“Or what?”

“Or everyone in here will poke you.”

The younger [Witches] and Agratha looked up. The thing about sewing circles was…if someone really got on your nerves?

Everyone had needles. Erin eyed them and mollified her tone slightly. She hadn’t realized how dangerous an angry [Sewer] could be.

“I get it. It’s just—I don’t think I’ll look good in one.”

“Then make one that suits, my dear. No one can look bad in a hat if it’s made for them.”

Agratha sounded kind, like the best of teachers, if somewhat annoying. Erin squirmed.

“Yeah, but I just don’t like having to wear one. You know, it feels like being forced to, and I hate that. I could never do a dress code.”

Even the [Teacher Witch]’s smile slipped. She almost snapped back, but Wiskeria eyed Erin’s clothing.

“Why? You wear that apron all the time, and you’re not at work. You don’t mind that. Why don’t you really want a hat?”

Erin froze. She was indeed wearing her innkeeper’s outfit, even though Selys and Drassi had sent her with tons of stylish clothing. She had chosen it…perhaps deliberately…as a kind of defiance against her lessons. She squirmed, fidgeted, and then turned her head. But fixed between all the other [Witches]’ stares, Erin turned beet red and finally admitted the truth.

“I—I—I’m not sure I’m cool enough to be a [Witch] all the time, Wiskeria. I can’t ooze style and self-assurance like that. I’ve been worried all day because Califor, the [Witches] of old like Somillune? I don’t think I can ever be that—wonderful. [Witches], I mean. They’re magic and stories, and I’m afraid I’ll let down their class. Can’t I look like this?”

She said it, and the hostile mood of the sewing circle changed at once. Some of the apprentices glanced up, fumbling with beads and decorating their own hats as they pleased. Agratha’s scowl turned into a beaming smile, and another [Witch] with her hair braided under a hat spiraling upwards in a swirl of different-colored cloths exhaled.

“Aah.”

Ah, so that was it. Another piece of the Erin-puzzle fell into place. The same doubt Wiskeria had seen was all over her. Wiskeria looked thoughtfully at Erin and nodded.

“Yet you tried to bind an Elemental to this land. That’s a level of witchcraft few people can do. You want that, but not to be a [Witch] at all times? I see. You haven’t learned my lessons yet. How about this? Help me sew for a bit. We need to teach you basic threadwork, anyways.”

So she began with showing Erin how to thread a needle and the most basic of tasks, and once again, Erin found herself slightly bored, but less so than sweeping because the [Witches] did talk. They talked about work, projects, gossiped about folks in Riverfarm—but more interesting than regular gossip.

“Cheating on her husband? Well, that will be a to-do when it comes to light. Tsk, tsk.”

Agratha’s coven discussed an affair occurring in Riverfarm, complete with salacious details like the couple meeting in the forest in the dead of night. Unlike gossip, though, this didn’t end with them all tut-tutting or one person speculating on what might happen. Another circle might be the leak from which the entire affair was exposed by. Agratha’s?

“We should have the truth out before it festers. The trick is keeping the husband from going off in a rage and the couple from becoming pariahs—for too long. How sensible is the man?”

Another [Witch], Qitene, the one with the curving headpiece of colors, was a [Cloth Witch], and she was even a Stitch-woman. She was best at working here, although she seemed oddly intimidated by Wiskeria, even though the [Witch of Law] wasn’t doing more than teaching Erin how to sew a straight line. She responded.

“He listens to [Witches], and I think he knows something is amiss. As for a temper—who doesn’t run hot? At least the other fellow has no fiancée or partner of his own.”

Agratha nodded.

“Then let’s pluck the thorn before it festers. I, myself, might go down and have a talk with the man. Does anyone have some small bit of craft for the daughter? Something to delight a girl of six. I need a suitable vintage if he might want to drink, and I will prevail on the [Chef] for a good meal. Then we will have a chat, he and I.”

“And the partners?”

Agratha’s smile was neither nice nor malicious as her fingers worked over the cloth with a needle of her own.

“I understand one of the two is a former [Trader] in class? A month or two of transporting goods to the Unseen Empire’s other settlements and allies might keep them out of Riverfarm. I shall ask His Majesty or Mister Prost about it.”

Erin listened thoughtfully as the coven agreed this might be for the best. In this way, she was reminded of her inn. She had bad guests.

Even Relc had been one, and Menolit too, at times. Agratha’s methods were more direct. She nudged and used very basic ideas like…talking to someone or reassigning the cheating couple to prevent the social wrath of Riverfarm from falling on them.

Her craft, her magic, was very mundane. But it was there, like the little toy that Agratha accepted from one of the other [Witches]. It was one of those wooden propeller-toys that you could spin in your hands to make fly. Only, this one could hover and spin for far longer than it should or return to you if you shot it high into the air. Agratha bowed and owed the other [Witch] a small debt.

“I shall take his daughter’s laughter and make him a brooch of it to wear, that poor man. If he is wise, and if his friends and family support him, that should balm the wound in his heart.”

Subtle magic, for a [Witch] in the modern day. Thoughtfully, Erin doodled on a piece of foolscap as Agratha’s own hat, the cheerful red hat over a sweater and robes, made her look so normal.

Yet she still had magic. Which begged the question—

“What does Oliyaya’s craft look like, Witch Agratha? I know you’re opposed to her. If this is how you help people, how does she?”

Agratha’s smile slipped as she tucked the propeller toy away. The other [Witches] glanced up, and Wiskeria sighed as Agratha replied a bit stiffly, but with a smile for Erin.

“Oliyaya is a [Witch] of traditions, Erin. I’m sure you’ve seen her penchant for drama and frights. Well, her craft is not to help people, I’m afraid. She would simply sell the man a hex to torment the couple or the cheating woman her own protections. She would let a community fall to ruin, tormenting each other.”

The other [Witches] nodded, and Erin winced as she imagined what would happen if you could literally buy a hex to cast on someone you didn’t like. She turned to Wiskeria, and the [Witch of Law] rubbed at one ear. She glanced around—then replied, not quite looking at Agratha.

“Some would say that leaving people to administer their own justice is fairer than guiding a place. If everyone has stones and throws them, they learn not to throw them unless they want a street full of broken windows. Oliyaya’s never been run out of any city, Erin. She has left—before they collapsed, but she would tell you they were already rotten. Good should be good, and bad should be bad, as vividly as possible. Otherwise, everything is just flat and boring.”

She paused as Agratha’s gaze sparked with annoyance, and she calmly met the [Teacher Witch]’s eyes.

“…Is what Oliyaya would say, if she were here. Perhaps not as politely.”

Agratha turned to Erin, smiling.

“That is Oliyaya’s perspective, Miss Solstice. I hope when you find your craft and hat, you’ll use it for the good of as many people as possible. A [Witch] does not need to be feared.”

“Sometimes, she does. They should fear you, or how else will they respect you when you need to stand against them?”

Once more, Wiskeria’s comment earned her a flash of irritation. Erin bit her tongue, and Agratha turned pointedly to Erin’s illustrations.

“Do you have a hat in mind, Miss Solstice?”

“S-sort of. I have a few things that I think would look cool. What about this?”

Erin showed her drawing around, and the [Witches] inspected it. It was just a first-draft, but the hat…Wiskeria glanced at Erin, and Agratha looked slightly dismayed, but some of the [Witches] liked it.

Her first attempt at a hat was a typical pointed hat, with a decently wide brim, all in blue, to match Wiskeria’s. But on the outline of blue, Erin had doodled the accessories that would really make the hat hers.

…Chess pieces. She had drawn little hooks and loops of string from which chess pieces would dangle around her hat or sit on the brim or higher up. A rook, a queen, a pawn…Erin glanced around.

“Whaddya think? I could have made the hat green for Goblins, but I feel like this is a good start.”

“Do you…like chess that much, Witch Erin?”

Agratha eyed the drawings, and Erin smiled at her.

“You have no idea.”

 

——

 

It wasn’t going to be her final hat, and both Erin and Wiskeria knew it. The other [Witch] didn’t even have to say anything; they just walked out of their first day in the hat-making process, and Erin scuffed a foot on the ground.

“Okay, maybe I wasn’t feeling it. But I’m warming up to the hat thing.”

“Good. Now, what I didn’t say in there was that Agratha isn’t wrong. She teaches more [Witches] than anyone—even Califor or Oliyaya—can. Oliyaya is a traditionalist, and her craft is powerful—but she teaches her apprentices to make the most of what they have or what they are.”

“Meaning?”

Wiskeria pointed to the witching street, where, at night, [Witches] would scare people or commit pranks. There were even warning signs posted about when the allowed mischief began. Oliyaya’s street even seemed darker, the shadows longer.

“Have you seen Oliyaya’s current apprentice? The one with scars?”

“She wears a scarf sometimes? Yeah…what about her?”

Erin sighed. It really was a…a scary face? No, but it was disturbing, and it wasn’t the girl’s fault; it had been a fire before Oliyaya found her. But she did seem to revel in the looks she got. Wiskeria nodded.

“Oliyaya took her in. She told her apprentice that if her face scares people—she could use that in her craft. Just like Oliyaya doesn’t mind being the ‘bad witch’. If you’re petty or you have a scar, if you are something—embrace it. It’s not always right, but a lot of [Witches] are that. Qualities, good and bad, taken and made into craft.”

“Aha. I think I’m more on Oliyaya’s side—I mean, the big magic—than Agratha’s.”

Wiskeria shrugged.

“Perhaps. But you don’t seem like you’d stand for another [Witch] causing trouble on your turf. If I were in your coven, I’d be careful about doing something to annoy you.”

Erin opened her mouth to object and then reflected, honestly, that this was true. The last spellcaster she had opposed had gotten a faceful of death curry right before she asked Grimalkin to punch Palt and the others. Wiskeria summed up Oliyaya’s entire ethos with a simple fact.

“Witch Alevica is one of Oliyaya’s best pupils. She pretty much represents the best and worst of Oliyaya’s teachings.”

Erin whistled; that made sense. She turned to Wiskeria.

“Okay, I sort of get what’s wrong about how I’m acting. I’m thinking of a hat—what do you think my craft is? Can I find it?”

She was hoping now was the time to do some magic, but for answer, Wiskeria just raised her brows.

“That depends on whether you can learn the lesson. Come on. It’s not even midday yet. I have a lot to do, and sewing wasn’t one of them.”

So she led Erin off, and to her dismay—the [Innkeeper] realized that, [General] or not, Wiskeria really was a normal [Witch]. She kept looking for the lesson, but she missed it as they patrolled Riverfarm, helped till a field since there were no farmhands, and went picking rare herbs in the forest. Wiskeria taught her about herbcraft, talked about basic spells to ward off insects, and the aspects of being a [Witch]—alchemy and spellcraft, people skills and herblore, and more.

It was the most boring stuff Erin could have dreamed of.

 

——

 

That night, Wiskeria let Erin go and watched the [Innkeeper] practically race away to catch up with her friends and the other people from Liscor. She thought Erin had been holding her tongue ever since evening began, and the impatience coming off her was practically an aura in itself.

“Is she going to learn? At least one more day.”

Wiskeria wasn’t mad—she was just curious whether this was a waste of time or not. She liked Erin and felt like Erin liked her, but they were diametrically different. But if she found out what Wiskeria wanted her to see, what Belavierr had taught her and ruined forever…

Well. That would be worth it.

With Erin gone, Wiskeria walked across the river and patrolled the riverbank, listening hard. She noticed a few crows sitting in the trees, and she’d seen Hedag and some other [Witches] doing this throughout the day, in between spying on her and Erin.

They were all listening to the old man. After yesterday, people had taken care when drawing water and moving around it, but it wasn’t like he had any power without a body. Erin had given him a body and magic—right now, he was the river.

What Wiskeria didn’t like was that he was quiet. He didn’t weep or speak or beg. He was quiet, as if he had died. Or as if he were a river or stream not old or magical enough to have a personality.

She didn’t like it. But once more, Wiskeria knew that if she wanted to slay him or stop him from doing anything else, she would need to perform a sacrifice or work a great craft of her own, and she had none. So, she just listened and went back to her home.

Once there, she took her hat off, stretched out in an armchair, and watched the scrying orb while she took a load off. She laughed and stared at the people on the various channels and television networks, trying to figure out why they did those things. After she felt rested, she got up and began to bake some bread so she had food for breakfast.

Something with almonds; she’d gotten a big basket as a gift from a [Forager]. She ground some up to add to her flour and kept watching the scrying orb. What a boon it was! She loved seeing other people like this, and this way she didn’t have to spy on them or watch out of the corner of her eyes.

Wiskeria was letting the bread rise in the stone oven and about to pop out to get some pumpkin soup for a lovely dinner that would be mildly appetizing to her. A fine, home-cooked meal that would never compare with the feasts Belavierr lavished on her as a child, from magical cornucopias and every great kingdom of old.

She was just opening the door when she heard the shrieking sound again. For a third time that day, when it had woken her up before dawn, in the sewing circle, and now—Wiskeria heard it.

A scream with no vocal cords, no voice. A kind of…was it even a scream? It sounded like that, but it was so foreign that Wiskeria froze—then she drew a knife and wand and was racing around her home.

“Where are you? Where are you? Come out and face me, come out from where you hide. Let you or I come to blood and one of us now dies.

Furious this time, she chanted a little spell and cast it wide, hoping to grab something and provoke it to battle. It would have worked if it were a screaming mouse like she claimed, but her spell found…nothing.

Nothing. Wiskeria searched, without rest, ears perked, until she sensed her bread was almost done in the oven. Cursing, she sheathed her weapons and took it out.

Where was that sound? Not even Erin heard it, and she heard the old man in the river. Is it just me?

Not once did it occur to Wiskeria that she might be crazy. She just wished her mother was here. Her mother would be the best resource for anything unknown.

To Wiskeria, a scream in your head, the flicker out of the corner of your eye? That was either an illusion of your head or something actually being there. Neither one was wrong, and she was almost positive it wasn’t in her head.

So why? Why, why, why? Wiskeria settled into her rest uneasily. She kept a knife right next to her hand in her bed, and she cast three wards to find invisible intruders. She didn’t expect the scream again, but to her surprise, it woke her just past dawn. The scream echoed in her ears, and she ran in her nightclothes, bursting out her door, head swinging around wildly.

It was in Riverfarm. Not her house. Then she realized two other things. Erin was covering her eyes and telling Wiskeria to put some clothes on and that she refused if this was part of her training.

The next thing? She heard it in the air. A snarl, this one audible and ongoing despite the scream. A snarl coming from across Riverfarm, from the rushing river…and Wiskeria felt it on her skin. She needed no pricking in her toes. She looked up as the sky began to sprinkle rain, which turned into a downpour and grew and grew throughout the day.

The old man was back. And this time—he was angry.

 

——

 

To most, it probably just looked like a stormy day. Granted, the signs hadn’t been there last night; the skies had been clear, so this was a fast storm, possibly magical.

The truth was that it was very magical. In fact, it was elemental. Natural, but not in the nice way of nature.

The [Witches] held a conference with Laken and a single [Rain Mage] specialized in weather magic. Their advice was simple: shore up the levies. Make sure the river, if it overflowed the embankments, wouldn’t threaten Riverfarm.

Fortunately, Riverfarm hadn’t been rebuilt on the edge of the river. So the [Emperor] listened and gave orders diverting a lot of the work to digging embankments that would rise above the highest flow of the river.

It would be a tough problem, given the size of the river, but Prost estimated they only needed five feet of raised land to contain the river on each side. Even the most wet years had never passed that much higher.

Besides, even if they lacked concrete as of yet, magic would provide. Stone could be raised and dirt piled around it. Similarly, the [Rain Mage] assured Laken he could try and remove the power of the storm.

So, it was a rainy day. Which wasn’t at all Erin’s fault as she went about another day of shadowing Wiskeria. Today, she did so with a huge glare piercing her shoulder blades.

Mrsha the Wet had had it up to here with this vacation. First, she got sick. Then, as she was getting over it, the rains began.

None of the children wanted to play in the rain long. Oh, it was fun the first hour or two, but then the rain got so intense that it just wasn’t fun.

Much less for a Gnoll covered with fur. She shook her fist at Erin as the guilty [Innkeeper] left with a raincoat on.

Meanwhile, everyone else was either ‘content’ or working in the rain. For instance, there was Numbtongue. Rather than being the cool older brother who’d run around with her or do something fun, there he was.

Snuggling. Mrsha balefully saw him sitting next to a fire minutes after he trudged in, wet, from helping the Goblins fortify up their spot from mudslides. He began playing his guitar next to Garia, who was equally soaked. They only had one blanket, which they were sharing.

Curse your boring lives. Mrsha hissed at him. The Hobgoblin shooed her away as he began to strum on his guitar. She didn’t see the point. Oh, there was some merit to a good snuggle with people. But when you were tired, not during the day! The only thing she approved of was his plate full of snacks, and he smacked her paw when she tried to steal some.

I will remember this.

Mrsha handed him a card. He flicked it into the fire, and she pulled the door open so rainwater would blow in and kept it wedged open with a boot.

Mrsha the Vindictive went to find someone else who was fun, but to her dismay, Griffon Hunt were helping dig the levees. Briganda didn’t have Cade anywhere near the river, obviously, but the children were reading books inside.

Books? Mrsha the Semi-Literate stared in dismay at them. Another task for when you had less energy! She wanted to run around. She tried to think. Who else was there?

Ulvama. Ulvama was—

…Sitting in one of the mess halls, making Pebblesnatch cook up food for her and the other wet and hungry Riverfarm folk. And eating a lot of the Goblin’s food. Mrsha raced off to find Lyonette.

Lyonette! A panting Ser Sest held the door open for Mrsha; he had the unenviable task of following her around and keeping her safe. Lyonette was—

Sipping tea with Eloise again and chatting about home.

“So do you think your family will be trying for an alliance at this banquet they’ve cooked up, Miss Marquin?”

“Oh, it’s not a banquet. It’s clearly some kind of meeting, but the Restful Three…dead gods, Mrsha, how wet are you? Come in here and have a seat. We have tea and—”

Mrsha dashed back out into the rain. She howled up at the sky silently as she raised her fists to the storming clouds.

No tea! No snuggling! No gods or masters! She tried to think.

Who else was there? Who had come on this trip that she could find that was fun? The [Emperor] was no good. One of the [Witches]? But they were, uh…intense. Not to be crossed, even by Mrsha the Cute and Lovable.

Of the people she knew, who was free? Not Erin; her [Witch]-training was boring. Numbtongue, Garia…Mrsha counted on her paws until she thought of the new, fascinating duo.

Tkrn and Inkar.

Now, Tkrn was a known quantity, but he was a bit different after his time in the south. As for Inkar, why, she was a Gnoll-Human! Entertaining and wise in Gnoll-ways. However…Mrsha’s face fell.

She knew they were a couple. A serious, full-time couple, not like Numbtongue and his open, multi-snuggling arrangement. No doubt they’d be full bleh-fest right now indoors.

And there Mrsha was wrong. For, right before her eyes, she saw Inkar briskly walking with a load of bricks, helping transport them to the levees. She was working! But seriously, so Mrsha didn’t bother her. Then she saw Tkrn and heard something amidst the rain.

“Now’s hardly the time to test it, Mister Tkrn—but then again, now’s the only time! I wouldn’t have you standing in the street, and we have wagons coming in still since no one expected the rain.”

“What?”

Tkrn and Mister Prost were lugging something with a team of people down the street. Mrsha smelled new steel and something interesting. She followed Tkrn as Ser Sest the Weak begged her to go indoors, offering her a hot drink of something.

What Tkrn and Prost had that was so important was going straight in the middle of the street known for all the traffic jams. In fact, it was so important that Durene herself came to help hang it up. They were trying to hang it from a rope, but realized it was too unstable; instead, they had a post hammered into the street as they cleared a spot with pickaxes.

It was fast with someone as strong as Durene; then they anchored the whatever-it-was to the top. Mrsha stared in confusion as a small guardrail was installed to keep someone from hitting the central post.

What was this strange thing? Prost was shouting about putting paint down to mark the sides of the street, but Tkrn was so wet he could barely hear.

All the while, the [Guardsman] was blowing his whistle and directing the wagons such that they didn’t smash into each other.

It was an even greater concern on a rainy day such as this, where rain made wheels slip and obscured vision. Yet Laken Godart had commissioned a solution, and now, Mrsha saw a strange metal…thing…standing tall on the pole.

It had a kind of triangular base and head and a four-sided rectangle for a body, pointing each of the cardinal directions. But what was odd were the three holes on each side. They were vacant, but as Prost stepped back and began shouting at the crowd, including [Drivers], Mrsha saw him turn to Nesor, the timid [Mage], and the young man raised a wand.

Then the entire apparatus came to life, and Mrsha saw a bright, nay, brilliant red, unlike most mundane colors, come to life. It shone down the street, not bright enough to blind, but visible to the confused drivers.

Who stopped. They stared at the red light, and Mrsha waited…but the light just shone. Shone and shone…and she realized there were green lights coming from the other direction. Tkrn waved the carts through on those sides, while the other two stopped. Then—

The light turned green, and the others turned red, and those two streets stopped. Tkrn waved the new drivers through, and they passed under the aegis of the world’s first traffic light until the light turned yellow and blinked. That meant it was about to turn red, and sure enough, only one wagon made it through before it turned red.

Red means stop! Green means go!

Prost wanted to put a sign up, but he bellowed the instructions at the crowd, who really didn’t need more than that.

Red meant stop, green meant go. And like that, the poor Tkrn could be relieved. Like that…the Gnoll [Guardsman] stared up at the beginning of something new. Something that would forever change the Five-Way Cart Fullbody Pileup for good—or create the Ten Mile Wagon-to-Wagon Jam.

Traffic lights. He couldn’t wait to tell Zevara about it, and as Laken had told him, this simple light was only the beginning. Why, you could create entire rules like turning right on red or multiple lights to direct streets—but you’d need paint for that. Proper intersections.

It was going to change a lot. Of course, this was only necessary in a bigger city with traffic, but Tkrn saw it. He glanced around and saw a little Gnoll staring up at the light.

Mrsha stared up at the glowing light as it began to show its signals on a nonstop loop. She admired it for about one minute, then padded off.

Boring.

Mrsha the Increasingly Desultory walked through the empty streets of Riverfarm, fast losing her will to persist in this cold, wet environment. Even with all the will in the world, even as a [Druid], this rain sorta blew. And it also was wet.

She was almost about to call it quits and join a snuggle-pile or eat herself sick with Ulvama when she saw something. Mrsha stopped dead in the street and craned her head. She sniffed, but the rain took away the scent.

Was that…?

 

——

 

“M-Miss Mrsha, wouldn’t you like to sample some cookies? I’m sure that we could find you one. A bushel! Let’s keep it between ourselves, and Her Highness need not know, eh?”

Ser Sest was so cold and shivering even in his armor that he was resorting to base bribery. It worked on the other [Princesses]; why not Mrsha? But then he saw her take off through the streets, and he had to run to keep up.

Once more, Sest cursed the lost hand of cards last night that had led him here. He was certain that Shriekblade was following Mrsha; even if he couldn’t see her, Princess Lyonette valued her daughter’s safety over her own.

Between an [Emperor]’s eyes and a Named-rank, what could he do?

Oh yes, keep her from catching another cold. And his head be it if the rascal got one, but Mrsha had taken his umbrella and thrown it into the air when he tried to hold it over her head! Her raincoat? He suspected she’d stuffed it in the oven when he wasn’t looking because he couldn’t find it.

Where was she going? Mrsha was following something down the street. Only when Ser Sest rounded a corner did he see her charging after a small shape almost as white as she was—only this one had a lot of brown cloth over its body. Sest stopped because, despite them being a familiar sight—

He had never seen a Sariant Lamb wearing a raincoat. It even had little boots. Somehow, the wretched creature was more adorable.

Sariant Lambs hated the rain, but this one was trotting off, and Mrsha was running after it. In fact…as the Thronebearer ran, he saw a line of Sariant Lambs appear. They were all trotting ahead of Mrsha, who was following them.

Dead gods, were the rumors true? The lambs stopped at the edge of Riverfarm, and Sest felt for his sword. They assembled, and he saw the most uncanny thing as Mrsha halted herself.

They were, sixteen of them, forming an arrow. The arrow was pointing out of Riverfarm, up a hill. Mrsha turned and gave Ser Sest a wary look.

“Perhaps we’d better, ah, find His Majesty, Miss Mrsha?”

She hesitated—but Mrsha the Fearless was not about to turn down this mystery. She slowly began running down the street, and Ser Sest ran, this time with a hand on his emergency speaking stone. The lambs dispersed behind him, and he felt worried.

If we ever get back to the capital, I might need to have a word with the Grandmaster of the Thronebearers about the lambs.

Then again, he had heard the [Emperor] had a Skill. So the lambs might be doing this for him? But what could they think was worth Mrsha leaving Riverfarm?

The answer, thankfully, wasn’t that far from the town at all or Sest would have called Mrsha back and triggered the alert. In fact, it was just a small hill overlooking the town. There, sitting under a tree as rain thundered down, running down the trunk and drowning the roots was…

A [Witch]. A young girl, sitting with her hat dripping with water over her wet robes. She made no move as Mrsha and Ser Sest came to a halt.

 

——

 

“A [Witch]?”

Ser Sest the Obvious was the first to react to the strange sight. Mrsha was entranced just seeing Nanette sitting there.

It looked like…well, it looked like some kind of fantasy painting. There was the tree, water running from every leaf. Below it was a girl dressed in dark cloth, blue, but soaked so much it looked black, water running down her pointed hat, face blank as a doll. The water ran past her legs, a veritable torrent heading to the river, and the storm was only increasing.

It would be a lovely painting…but the reality of it had to be the most uncomfortable thing in the world. It was wet. And Mrsha could not imagine sitting there like that.

But the strange girl never moved. Mrsha wondered if she were dead. But she could see the [Witch] breathing.

Yet not once did she move, even when Mrsha padded forwards and waved at her. Ser Sest tried to call her back, but Mrsha ignored him.

Hello? Are you okay? Are you cold?

She couldn’t say these things with writing, and obviously the girl didn’t know Mrsha-signs, so Mrsha tapped a speaking stone.

“Hello! Hello!”

The [Witch] blinked at that. A head came up, and Mrsha saw little round cheeks, pale and shivering slightly with cold, and eyes that should have been shy and rosy brown, wide and innocent.

They were as empty as a piece of glass. Empty and lost. Mrsha stared at the girl. The gaze fixed on her slightly curiously, but then drifted down as if the hat were weighing the head down.

“Miss Mrsha, let’s not disturb this good [Witch]. His Majesty is friendly with them…”

Sest the Stupid called out nervously. He actually tried to pull Mrsha away, and Mrsha leapt up, so that he tried to catch her. The Thronebearer tried to hold onto Mrsha and slipped as she springboarded off his chest. A windmilling pair of arms was followed by a crash as he went bouncing down the hill.

Mrsha spat after him, then turned back to the strange [Witch]. Not once had the girl moved, though she had watched the entire thing.

She was wet and cold. Even if she herself didn’t acknowledge it, the rain made her limbs tremble. Mrsha tapped her stone again.

“Hello! What’s wrong with you?”

She winced—but that was the only phrase that came close to displaying what she wanted to say. The semi-insult made the [Witch] glance up, but this time, she saw the speaking stone.

“I’m fine. Thank you, Miss Gnoll.”

She spoke politely, and Mrsha stood there, uncertain of what to do. She sensed a profound emptiness from the girl. Not even sadness…just a vacancy.

Ser Sest was coming back up the hill, swearing under his breath. He turned to Mrsha as the girl sat there, not responding. Even if Mrsha threw a rock at her like the bad kids, Nanette wouldn’t have moved.

Mrsha threw no rocks, of course. Instead, she turned as Ser Sest glumly hung his head in the rain and, to his amazement and relief, pointed down the hill.

“Food. I’m hungry. Let’s go back.”

“Back, Miss Mrsha? At once!”

In relief, Ser Sest escorted her down the hill, and that was that. The [Witch] sat there, staring at the clouds. Wiskeria hadn’t come by. The ‘old man’ she had talked about must be the one causing the storm.

Nanette wondered how long it would last. She wondered if the water would reach this hill or if Erin would make her go to Liscor. If Califor wanted it…

Her mother was dead. So Nanette sat there, vaguely recognizing the Gnoll, thinking of Erin’s words to her. But still, she could not move.

What she did not expect, nor recognize at first, was the little girl coming back up the hill, followed by a beleaguered Thronebearer. Nanette did not recognize the two at first because this time an umbrella disguised Ser Sest, and he was so festooned with objects that he could barely see.

Mrsha herself had a towel on her head. She parked herself in front of Nanette, and the [Witch] looked up.

If Hedag had not been at the riverside, helping dig the levees, she or Eloise would have come up here, if they’d seen Nanette, and taken her somewhere dry. That didn’t seem to occur to Mrsha. Instead, she grabbed the umbrella the [Knight] carried and clambered into the tree. There, she wedged it among the branches that it might not blow away and began ordering the [Knight] around with authoritative jabs from her wand.

“Er—Witch Nanette, isn’t it? This is for you. Do pardon the intrusion, Miss Mrsha—I am giving her it!”

The [Knight] had a dry towel. In fact, he had several towels and what turned out to be Mrsha’s raincoat. Nanette blinked at it.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

She tried to assure Mrsha she needed and wanted nothing. The girl offered Nanette a towel.

“I’m fine.”

“Miss Mrsha cannot speak, Witch Nanette. I pray you forgive her insistence. She is a gentle soul.”

Mrsha stabbed Sest in the leg with the wand and made him back up. Then she dumped the towel on Nanette and industriously tried to remove as much water from the dripping area as she could. The umbrella kept the rain from pouring down on Nanette, and Mrsha used up three crisp, white towels and tossed them one after another at Ser Sest. Then she produced, of all things, a quill and paper and wrote!

Ser Sest gloomily read the instructions.

“Miss Mrsha, these are not our provisions! I am sure His Majesty is generous, but I must remind you that I am also your bodyguard. I cannot leave you.”

Nanette saw Mrsha writing and, despite herself, craned her neck to see.

Then…get…Ushar…stupid!

Mrsha wrote word by word fairly fast and very legibly and handed it to Ser Sest. Instantly, he brightened up.

“Well, I suppose that if I must—Dame Ushar, I fear I must call you to action. I believe Miss Mrsha would like two umbrellas, yes, two, and six towels. I cannot explain, meet me at the hill—”

“I’m fine. Really.”

Nanette realized what Mrsha was trying to do and objected as the girl brought forth a fourth towel. But Mrsha just gave her a bright smile.

She had no words, but somehow, the smile managed to say everything it needed to. Perhaps it was Nanette’s own witchcraft, but she could almost hear the little girl mimicking a mother’s voice.

Yes, of course you’re fine. 

Then she proceeded to ignore Nanette and pat her with the towel. The [Witch] let her and had to admit, being drier was better than shivering. She only moved when Mrsha went to remove the hat.

“That’s mine. Don’t touch it.”

She caught Mrsha’s paw, and the Gnoll hesitated. Then she nodded and let Nanette pat it dry.

A second Thronebearer appeared, annoyed, but when she saw Mrsha and the [Witch], things made more sense. Mrsha grabbed the towels and kept drying Nanette; in fact, she then demanded a heat spell, which Ser Sest cast. Of all the spells the Thronebearer had—[Dry Clothing] and [Remove Minor Stains] were two of the cantrips he practiced.

Well, they came in handy here, and then Mrsha was in the branches, wedging more umbrellas up there. She wasn’t even done. To Ser Sest and Dame Ushar’s mild horror, she took the wet towels and, instead of removing them, made them cut holes in the towels and join them together so they formed a kind of cloth wall! Then she hung them over a branch, forming a barrier on two sides that she anchored with rocks.

“Miss Mrsha! The towels are—ow! Ow! Eight more towels, Ushar. Or just bedsheets, Lady Marquin? Bedsheets it is.”

She was making a fort! A fort out of umbrellas and towels and cloth. Nanette was well aware of how expensive cloth could be, but Mrsha was happily ignorant of the fact. It seemed to be her mission in life to shield Nanette from the slightest raindrop and gust of wind.

In fact, she was quite enjoying herself, and while she was young, she was a Gnoll; she had lived in yurts and their travelling tents and knew how one was made, in theory. Nanette kept trying to shoo her away, but Mrsha refused to go, and Nanette would not stand, so all she had were vague words.

Nor did the Thronebearers stop their wayward charge. At first, they protested the cost and imposition, but then they glanced at the wet little girl and saw past the pointed hat.

Soon enough, Nanette had a raincoat over her like a blanket and another to sit on. Mrsha wanted to reinforce the towel and bedsheet ‘walls’ and make sure the entire affair wouldn’t collapse when the wind blew too hard.

To that end, Ser Sest with a shovel was beginning to pile dirt up so the wall could be anchored in the ground, and Mrsha was beginning to demand lumber, long boards of wood. Which in turn required nails, and hey, if we were going to do this, why not some insulation? Two sets of walls—could Sest find a huge nail or something to anchor them together? A bedframe would do.

It never seemed to occur to Mrsha to move Nanette. Nor that it would be easier to make Nanette move. She regarded it as a challenge; if the [Witch] had a reason to be here in the middle of a storm, well, Mrsha would happily requisition an entire house for her.

The breaking point was probably the demands for boards of wood. No less than Lyonette and Eloise came up the hill to see why two Thronebearers were grabbing so much from the guest houses.

“Mrsha! Come here, young lady!”

Mrsha hid behind a tree, but Eloise saw Nanette and cried out.

“Nanette! I thought I told you to stay indoors. It seems your daughter saw what we had forgotten. Come, Nanette. You’ll die of sickness and wet.”

She strode over, and Nanette sighed. She didn’t move as the [Tea Witch] bent to pull her up, but to her astonishment, a Gnoll clambered through the branches. She aimed a wand down, and Mrsha the Sniper shot a little arrow of light at Eloise!

The spell bounced off the [Witch]’s hat.

Mrsha!

Lyonette was scandalized, and Eloise recoiled slightly. Mrsha blanched as her mother came striding towards her, but then she leapt down, waving her wand and a fist.

No one is taking her! Back, back!

She wrote on a card until Lyonette grabbed her—then she was a struggling, silently yowling fighter. She wriggled so hard that Sest, Ushar, and Lyonette together couldn’t hold her. All for what?

Nanette’s dignity? Mrsha’s furious fighting was putting her in hotter and hotter water. Especially when a waving foot kicked Lyonette in the chin and the [Princess] went tumbling down the hillside.

Then she was in grave trouble. Mrsha was racing around the tree, silently screaming while two Thronebearers pursued her, and Lyonette vowed no dessert until the end of the era! And then…Nanette stood up.

Mostly to stop the little girl from getting in more trouble.

“I’ll go. I’ll go, Eloise.”

No you won’t!

Mrsha clung to her and tried to make her sit! Now, Nanette was struggling to go, and Lyonette was grabbing Mrsha and apologizing to Nanette and Eloise—then realizing how cold Nanette was. Eloise stood back, sensibly, and her eyes were on Mrsha.

That was when the entire towel-house came down amid a downpour of rain and the branches and all three umbrellas. Everyone was drenched, smacked in the face by heavy, sodden cloth, and covered in mud. Nanette pulled herself out and reached out, and a little girl’s paw took her hand.

She looked up, and Mrsha, wet, fur dripping, beamed at her and pointed down to the big mess hall. Her stomach rumbled loudly, and to Nanette’s amazement, hers copied it.

Let’s go eat, huh? Mrsha patted Nanette on the hand. The [Witch] looked at her seat and saw it was a tangle of two Thronebearers, a crushed [Princess], and towels.

There wasn’t anywhere for her. So, vaguely, she followed Mrsha down the hill, stomach rumbling, and the [Princess] rose, dignity gravely misplaced, and saw her daughter and the little girl heading down, hand in hand.

Even Lyonette didn’t have the heart to stop them. She simply turned to Ser Sest and Dame Ushar.

“Perhaps we should all forgo punishments for now. Mrsha’s heart was in the right place. Let’s dry off, get some food—Witch Eloise?”

“That does sound like the wisdom of the Hundred Families, Your Highness.”

The [Tea Witch] bowed with a smile, and Lyonette noticed her clothes were dry as could be. The [Princess] sneezed, then looked at the muddy fort.

“Someone will have to clean this up. Ser Dalimont? Ser Lormel? We leave it in your hands.”

The two other Thronebearers looked askance at the mess. Far below, Mrsha pulled Nanette into a warm building and slapped the counter to demand a soup for her and the little girl. Then she sat with Nanette, towels wrapped around them, and the [Witch] found herself eating. She said not a word, nor did she want to move.

But Mrsha did not pull like the others, or push. And the thing was—Mrsha never said anything either. In that way, they were alike.

 

——

 

Erin did not have a day half as good as Mrsha. Her day was filled with wet. Wet, shoveling dirt to help build the levees. Wet, walking Riverfarm to see where the flooding would happen. Wet, following Wiskeria as the [Witch] walked through the mud, let the rain buffet her—and not once did Wiskeria seem bothered.

If she tripped and fell—and she did!—she got back up. If it took her twenty minutes to walk a hundred feet in the blowing wind, she did. If she had to dig for an hour, she did, with nary a complaint.

Erin could feel emotion. She knew Wiskeria didn’t mind. Either that or she was masking her emotions. But that was not true either, because Erin’s hands were wet with blood that evening as Wiskeria embarked on her most grisly task yet.

Butchery.

Erin knew that to eat meat, animals had to die. She was resolved to kill when necessary, but there was something about slaughtering animals that was still terrible. She did not want to do it, even if she would live with it to eat.

But Wiskeria was consulting with no less than Mister Ram, the [Head Rancher] who needed her advice. A pig had fallen ill of something and died, and under Laken’s new orders, the body had actually been burned. It had been the male boar, leaving a sow and piglets. But the female pig wasn’t eating. He hadn’t brought it up to Laken, but Ram was a bit uncertain as to what to do.

“Embarrassing as it is, I usually keep most of my animals fed until it’s time, but this one refuses to eat, even with Skills. I thought you’d have some insight, even if it it was that we could use the pork, Miss Wiskeria.”

[Witches] were good people to turn to for advice. And her response was quick and simple.

“She’s grief-stricken, Mister Ram. I’d tell you to butcher her.”

“Ah, well, I thought you’d say that. But I can’t see a way around it. The [Chefs]’ll be happy. That’ll be a fine meal after all this rainy work.”

Ram didn’t glance at Erin, the perpetrator, as he nodded. To Erin’s dismay, Wiskeria offered to do the job. Ram was surprised, but Wiskeria told him it was no problem.

“Call for the [Butcher], but it will be a good lesson for Erin. I know how to slit a throat.”

Erin did not want to do the job. Nor, it seemed, did Mister Ram. Which surprised Erin. He was a [Rancher], and she assumed it came with the job. But then she realized the same man who raised animals might not want to kill them. In fact, Wiskeria told her that some people would go from farm to farm and render the service for a fee.

“Do I—do I have to do it?”

Wiskeria knelt by the motionless pig and gently propped the sow’s head up. She was careful in case the pig tried to bite or attacked, but the female pig never moved as the piglets were slowly herded away.

“Of course not. Just watch. Hold the head for me. It will be fast. [Farmers] try to make it quick.”

That was when Erin decided she might be able to live without meat after all. It was one thing to see images of slaughterhouses and know there were inhumane ways of killing animals and ‘humane’ ways—that was, ways most Humans were happy about killing people that weren’t them—

Quite another to hold a pig and feel a shudder as Wiskeria ran a blade across the throat.

It was fast. This wasn’t a Shield Spider, nor a monster. It was a pig, but Erin swore she felt something leave. Wiskeria?

Wiskeria’s eyes never changed. But she did feel sad. Just a bit. That was all. And that sadness persisted as Ram nodded with the [Butcher] in tow.

“You’d be a fine [Farmer], Miss Wiskeria. And that’s a compliment if I might say so.”

“Thank you, Mister Ram. Should I do the rest too?”

Wiskeria glanced up, and Ram hesitated.

“The piglets? They’re hardly as old, and they eat. It’d be a waste. Why? Are they sick?”

Wiskeria gave Ram a strange look, and Erin saw her trying to recalibrate, but she didn’t manage it this time. Instead, she replied slowly, trying to understand what she was getting wrong.

“No…because they’re all grieving too. Grieving—now twice for their parents. They can smell the blood. They’ll know. I’m sure most if not all will eat and grow, but if you wanted to spare them the sadness, I am here.”

She spread her hands as blood ran from her blue dress, without staining it. Ram and Erin looked at her, and the [Rancher]’s laugh was uneasy. Even afraid.

“Why, Miss Wiskeria, you’re kind to offer, but—they’re just pigs. I’m sure the sow was—was sad. But they’re pigs. Not even magical pigs. Not like a dog nor…”

His voice trailed off uneasily. Ram tried to smile, but Wiskeria looked at him—and then a smile crossed her lips that was entirely fake.

“Of course. That was a joke, Mister Ram.”

“A joke—dead gods—you play too much with an old man’s heart.”

He laughed and laughed, far too loudly. Then Ram headed off, laughing, and Erin stood there. She looked at Wiskeria and knew—the [Witch] had not been lying.

Ram’s discomfort was one thing. He did not like how Wiskeria talked about the pigs. Like they were people. That had to hit him close to home, and Wiskeria almost reminded Erin of people who said animals had feelings and were as sapient as Humans and deserved not to be eaten.

Which was fine, and Erin could get on board with that. Only, Wiskeria…Wiskeria believed it with all her heart, and she had still killed the pig and offered to kill the piglets.

“Do you think they’re people, Wiskeria?”

As Erin washed her hands in the rain, Wiskeria gave her a blank look.

“I killed a father in front of his children two—no, three days ago. I heard him scream as I broke his neck. He was a racoon. Nanette didn’t realize what I meant either and asked me about it. Was I wrong? I killed a mother in front of her children.”

“I know why you’re saying it like that. But they’re pigs.”

Wiskeria nodded reasonably as Erin’s skin crawled. She responded without blinking.

“And I will remember that, especially after seeing how I made Ram feel. I’ll call them animals. But to you, Erin—what did I say that was wrong? That was a mother. She bled. She felt pain. She grew sad. A Drake can be a mother or father.”

“Yes, but is there a difference?”

Wiskeria laughed until she realized this was no joke. She looked at Erin knowingly.

“Sariants can write. Yet they’re pets. Magical cats can understand speech, if not say it. Wyverns are said to be far more intelligent than the smartest dog, but they’re monsters. Mother never saw a difference, only in who she was allowed to kill without repercussion. So I’ll remember who I can slaughter, but I killed a mother today. I’ve met some people who think animals have no emotions or feelings. As if fish cannot feel pain. They’re as strange as I.”

That just made Erin more uneasy.

“If you think that way, why kill the female pig? Why offer to kill the children? Why not let them live and tell Ram to let her grow old or just not eat until she passes away?”

To that, Wiskeria was silent as she washed and dried her hands.

“…Because it’s how he lives. He raises animals to slaughter, and Riverfarm uses them as coin for meat and hide. I understand people have to make a living.”

“It’s not right. Not the way you see it.”

Erin was wiping her hands on her jeans, again and again. To that, Wiskeria gave her a flat stare.

“Then make the world otherwise. But this is how it is, and I don’t mind it enough to change. People suffer and do things to each other that are cruel, but allowed. That’s how a city functions. I don’t want to change the way Riverfarm works. In fact, I admire it. That is why I’m a [Witch of Law]. Law be my craft. Law and consequence and rules. Of course it sacrifices a few people for thousands.”

Erin stood up and looked at the barn, where the dead pig was and the piglets were setting up a clamor. She shook her head.

“That will not be my craft. That can’t be my craft.”

Wiskeria nodded reasonably.

“I know. You and I aren’t going to be alike. But I still like you. Do you still like me or did that change everything?”

She looked Erin in the eye, and the [Innkeeper] was quiet for a while. She thought of Elirr’s cats. How close were they to people? She heard people hunted and ate monkeys, and Humans and monkeys were far, far too close. How intelligent were they? Didn’t someone teach a gorilla to speak with sign language?

 

——

 

Wiskeria did not teach Erin anything easily. In fact, Erin knew she was like the great coven of the dead because she didn’t teach Erin any spells.

Much to Erin’s frustration, Wiskeria was teaching her how to be, not how to do. Which was fine—unless you wanted to shoot a lightning bolt into the storm. Just once. But no—Wiskeria was adamant.

“Erin, that’s not witchcraft. That’s certainly not my witchcraft, and even my mother would say you’re being silly. You and I can practice spells or making something after you learn my lesson.”

They were now mopping one of the mess halls by themselves, and Erin foresaw two hours given all the mess from boots. They’d already cleaned each table. Without Skills.

They had [Cleaners] in Riverfarm! Wiskeria had told them she and Erin would do this building by themselves. Erin growled at Wiskeria.

“Oh yeah? Would Belavierr call me ‘silly’? That’s what she’d say?”

Wiskeria sighed.

“I can tell that’s sarcasm. Is that sarcasm? Irony? No, is that a joke?”

“No, it’s me being angry!”

Wiskeria muttered under her breath.

“I see. If you want to know how my mother would say it, she’d say, ‘you conflate the power of [Mages] with magic in all its forms. They are a single ray reflected through the narrowest of slits in the wall, but visible to the naked eye. If you would chase that—chase that. But do not come to me when you realize the zenith of their power is to step beyond their pale confines. For we have always been there, and the [Archmages] learn that lesson far later.’”

Erin turned and stared at Wiskeria. The [Witch] shrugged, and two faintly red patches appeared in her cheeks.

“She may have said that to me as well. I was young, too. I think I was six.”

“Great! Then I’m a six-year old! Well, I’m throwing a tantrum!

Erin threw her mop down. She was about to throw the most childish tantrum yet when she saw Wiskeria sigh. The [Witch] continued mopping, and Erin realized she was being unfair.

She had come to Wiskeria for lessons, and here she was, three days in, being—being—

Being a Lyonette! Being a Lyonette just like when she’d first met the [Princess], who refused to do anything and called everything hard and gave a lot of backsass. And at that, Erin turned beet red and felt ashamed.

Slowly, she picked up the mop and started mopping again. Wiskeria watched her, then spoke up.

“You’re going too fast.”

Erin almost snapped. But she ducked her head and copied Wiskeria’s pace.

Slowly, methodically, the two went back to work. Erin decided it was her penance and resolved to help Wiskeria clean this entire hall no matter how long it took. After all, this couldn’t be fun for Wiskeria. She was doing this to teach Erin, so, damnit, she’d try.

Erin stopped thinking about how tired she was or how to deal with the old man. She’d tried to talk to him, but all she heard was a snarl, manifesting itself in the growing river, the rain pouring down.

It was still raining, and it looked like it was going to go on all night. Erin was worried about it, but she couldn’t even swab fast because Wiskeria kept telling her to slow.

So Erin slowed and just…mopped. And in doing so, she lost focus of her vexation and just mopped.

It was like doing any repetitive task. Once you got into the rhythm, you lost focus, relaxed, and you could enter a kind of meditation. A zen, not dissimilar to running or exercise. Erin—

“You’re drifting off. Focus.”

Erin was going to kill someone. She stopped, hunched her shoulders—and reconsidered.

She had thought, privately, that the lamest thing Wiskeria could teach her was that there was a tranquility or state of mind she should achieve, such that a [Witch] wasn’t too good for any task. Like a [Monk]. Erin had considered that would be a lame lesson—but it seemed like even that far-flung idea was wrong.

Exasperated, she turned to Wiskeria to tell her that she needed the answer after all. Then she noticed, for the first time, Wiskeria’s expression.

The [Witch] was slowly swabbing the floor, eyes on the dirt and water and soap clearing it away. Again, she wasn’t the best mopper in the world.

Silveran would have given her a C-. Oh, she got the floors pretty clean, but it wasn’t great. Yet she really was mopping. Not fast, but thoroughly. Nor was she in that state of mindless zen that you could reach in repeated action.

If anything—she was as focused as the moment when she’d cut the pig’s throat. She was all there. And for the first time, Erin realized what was coming off Wiskeria.

Contentment. No, not just contentment—concentration. She was, Erin realized, swirling her mop in different patterns. As if trying to figure out how the best way of cleaning the floorboards was.

“Wiskeria. Have you ever mopped a floor before?”

“Um…twice, I think. Mother had me sweep, but I’ve only mopped a floor with a mop twice. Once when we tracked in blood to a manor from a kill, the second time when I came to Riverfarm. Isn’t it interesting?”

Wiskeria glanced up, and Erin saw Wiskeria was watching her. Erin frowned.

“Nope. I hate mopping.”

“Ah, well. It’s not the most fun thing in the world. I admit that. But do you see anything? I think you might be getting it.”

Erin hmmed. Then she went back to mopping, thinking hard and watching Wiskeria the entire time.

That was a clue. Wiskeria had just hinted that she didn’t enjoy mopping either. So why was she saying it was interesting? If you didn’t enjoy something, but you got something that made you so content. No—what was that emotion?

Wiskeria gave off so few emotions. But this one…Erin realized it had been coming off her all day. It wasn’t as much an emotion as something more abstract. Like Mavika’s use of superstition in her craft, Erin realized what it was.

Wiskeria was working hard. She was giving this a lot of effort. Just like when speaking to Ram—Wiskeria was fully engaged. She was close to sweating with sheer concentration.

Over mopping? Erin watched Wiskeria’s mop form a figure eight down one length of the hall. Then she tried the old back-and-forth. She seemed to realize it wouldn’t work, so she did a square. No, a zig-zag? What about…a zig-zag that connected the square? But that failed to be economical; now you were using way too many strokes in one section.

So what if you didn’t take it square by square, but zig-zagged across the floor? Then you alternated directions until you were filling in a huge area, such that when the mop invariably spilled water to right and left, it overlapped with dirty spots?

Erin watched Wiskeria crossing into an open area of the dirty floor and then realized the [Witch of Law] was tracing something in the dirt and mud and cleaner floorboards that even Erin could see.

It looked like a kind of strange symbol, almost like a magical rune, filled in a thousand different directions, a crisscrossing shape of intent. Erin gasped. Was this how magic originated? That brushwork with the mop! Was this—

“Wow, that is a terrible cleaning job.”

Wiskeria turned, beheld her creation in muck, and pushed her mop in a straight line through it all. She looked back and nodded.

“This seems faster. Erin, you’ve stopped again.”

Erin was hitting her head with the handle of the mop. Doomed, she was doomed. She would never understand what Wiskeria was trying to show her.

And in that sense, Erin was mistaken. Because she assumed this was a puzzle. She assumed Wiskeria was going the ‘ancient master’ route and trying to hide the answer. It never quite occurred to Erin that Wiskeria was a bad teacher. Or rather, that Wiskeria was such a bad teacher that she hadn’t even managed to show Erin what she wanted the [Innkeeper] to see.

The moment came as Wiskeria turned across the long mess hall, her mop trailing behind her. She had mopped criss-cross. She had been using the broom all day, had picked flowers and shoveled dirt.

Now, as she swung the mop across her body, it ran across the floor. Just a single mophead, dirty from use, the old braids of fiber worn out. As Wiskeria stepped forwarsd the smooth handle twisted in her hands, running the mop across the newly-finished floorboards, not a year old.

Then, Erin’s head came up as she saw Wiskeria step across the forty-foot room from wall to wall. Her foot rose, and she swept across the entire floor, leaving behind nothing. Not a speckle of dirt, not a drop of water.

Her path curved across the flat ground, erasing all the signs of the storm and grit people had tracked in. Far wider than the mere tool she held should have cleaned things. It looked like a brush of cleanliness had slashed across the room from above.

Then Wiskeria’s foot touched the ground. Forty feet away, she completed her step, and the wind blew through the closed room and across the [Innkeeper]’s tied-up hair. Erin felt the bandana she’d tied to her forehead rustle in a breeze that smelled fresh, like the same lavender soap. She saw Wiskeria turn—and then felt the same breeze run past her.

Erin looked down—and the sweeping stroke from Wiskeria’s mop ran across the room like a shockwave. Erin saw the mud and grit flow across the room and gently come to rest in a line against the wall where Wiskeria stood. She looked down and saw sparkling floorboards at her feet.

If Silveran the Cleaner had been here, he would have fallen to his knees and stared at the pristine floorboards. Then he would have looked up at the [Witch] he had disparaged and seen Wiskeria’s smile and the sweat she wiped from her forehead as she lifted the mop in triumph.

“I knew I could do it! There, did you see that, Erin? Do you understand?”

“Wh—wh—wh—what was that?

Erin stuttered as she pointed to the [Witch of Law]. For answer, Wiskeria planted the mop on the floor, and it stood upright as she spread her hands and laughed as she walked across the clean mess hall.

Magic. Just like Mother showed me. Real magic. Not a Skill. A perfect brush. Just like a perfect swing of the blade or heft of the shovel. I’ve been trying for two days. Mother? She could do it every twenty-ninth time she swept with a broom.”

What? Belavierr has super-sweeping Skills? What’s…”

Then Erin caught herself and looked, because this was it. She thought about what Wiskeria was saying and then the lesson the [Witch] was trying to impart. Then Erin looked at the mop in her hands.

“Wait. Is this why you enjoyed mopping so much?”

Wiskeria corrected Erin.

“I didn’t enjoy it. I was trying to master it. I wanted to be good at mopping. Just like everything else. Because it’s beautiful to see an expert work. Haven’t you ever admired that?”

Erin had been introduced to Jelov, the spitty [Carver]. She had seen him trim a curl of wood twice the length of her arm off a totem pole-in-progress. She had seen Ksmvr demonstrate his new school of swords, and yes, she had seen Relc’s spear dances.

All these things were beautiful and made her faintly jealous or purely admire the skill, not Skill involved. Erin would admit to watching Youtube videos back at home of an expert chef flipping pieces of pizza, and she remembered…she’d even seen someone handling a line of shopping carts a hundred long and maneuvering them into place more easily than she could swing a single one around in a shopping mall.

Wasn’t that cool? Of course it was. Just…that was work. It wasn’t like a skateboarder performing a trick or grinding down a handrail. Right?

Wiskeria never saw the difference. But she did see the dawning realization in Erin’s eyes. And the heart of the lesson? She broke into a beaming smile and lifted her empty hands. Then she brought them together in a clapping sound.

Only, something about the way she struck her hands together was perfect. It was the loudest clap Erin had ever heard in her entire life. Like someone who had looked at the very act of clapping their hands and worked on timing and angle until they produced the crispest, loudest sound in existence.

And unlike Earth—there was magic in it. The air rippled out from Wiskeria’s hands, and Erin’s hair blew back as her eardrums howled.

Every single window in the mess hall blew open. A door smacked Mister Prost in the face as it shot open—he had been coming to ask if they needed help. A shockwave scattered the last fragments of dust across the walls into the air, and they fell down like rain.

In the center of the room, a beaming [Witch] looked Erin in the eye.

“Not everything is an Elemental, Erin. You’re looking in the wrong spots. You’re making wonders, making the moment and the great magic you think witchcraft is. That’s half. The other half of all your magic can be in the way you breathe in. A single smile or stroke of the pen.”

That was the lesson that Belavierr had once taught her daughter. Magic could be as large as a floating island in the sky. Or encapsulated in a single clap of the hands. And Wiskeria?

Wiskeria had clapped her hands every single day for eight years until she had learned to perform a single gesture with hands that had blistered and turned raw with pain. What was the point?

The point was that Wiskeria could stride into the rain, with water sleeting off the dress her mother had made her—her mother, the greatest [Seamstress] of all time—who had also perfected something.

Wiskeria looked up at the storm the old man had called down in wrath, water falling so hard it blotted out the sky. And as [Witches] poked their heads out of windows, as Erin stumbled outside, Wiskeria clapped her hands.

This time, she blew open no windows. But Erin thought all of Riverfarm heard the sound. She saw a shockwave of air and water grow outwards, and it struck her in the face and knocked Prost onto his butt again. The rain halted for a second as a bubble of calm appeared. Wiskeria stood there, grinning at Erin—and then the rain poured down once more.

No Archmage living in this world save for the Death of Magic remembers this! [Monks] clapping their hands, a [Bard]’s guitar, the swing of a [Blademaster]’s sword—it’s all magic.”

She looked at Erin’s face, and the [Witch of Second Chances] slowly raised her own trembling hands. She didn’t clap them together, but suddenly, her wet hands were burning. Burning with a strange fire that flickered out so fast Wiskeria thought she’d missed it.

The [Witch of Law]’s eyes widened, and Erin closed her eyes. She looked down at her hands. But there it was. Out of a mundane, wet street—she pulled something as magical as a clap of the hands. It was coming upon her, slowly. Her craft.

The old man in the river was raging harder and growing with every passing hour. But so were they. Wiskeria tilted her head back, knowing the [Witches] were watching.

“I may have had the Witch of Webs as my mother, but I practiced clapping longer than many people their crafts, every day pushing myself to learn. Witchcraft is part grace, part earned. Part cunning, part wisdom. Mostly, it is doing something only you can do.”

Now, if only she could take power for her craft from the eyes watching her. Alas…Wiskeria reached out for the justice in people’s hearts. The reason in governance. The power of law.

She felt it not. Alas—Wiskeria looked at Erin’s face as the [Innkeeper], the [Witch], looked at her hands and a fluffy white Gnoll and a little girl with a hat full of sadness came running out to leap on her in the rain.

This was good enough for now.

 

——

 

“Oh, clap your hands. Sure, that makes sense. Like someone burping [Fireballs]. ‘Look at me, I’m a [Witch]. I get to rewrite the laws of magic because I’m unique.’

At least one person wasn’t happy about Wiskeria’s demonstration of magic. She didn’t think it made sense. Or was fair. Predictably—that person was Revi.

And no, it wasn’t because she was sulking. Especially because she had been ready to grudgingly hang out with Erin and was expecting Mrsha to pester her favorite Gold-rank team, and she hadn’t.

But there was more to it than just that. She stood with Typhenous under a magical spell that kept the rain from falling on them. A shimmering stream of liquid in the air curving in a parabola that was called, well, [Water Umbrella]. Tier 3 in complexity, pretty cool looking too.

Nothing like the way a [Witch] clapped her hands. Typhenous was, as always, studying, but Revi folded her arms. Her complaint was cut off by the sight of Erin bending down to talk to the blank-faced Nanette.

“At least she has her priorities straight. But I’m going to give her a piece of my mind. What do you think?”

“No one could stop you from doing that, Revi. In physical form or…? I could hold a pair of scissors.”

The Stitch-woman turned, and Typhenous skipped out of the Goblin-style jab she gave him. He stroked his beard, smiling. Revi folded her arms.

“Witches. Why do they have the power to do that, Typhenous?”

“Simply because they cannot throw a fireball the size of a house with the same…oh, ease we can, Revi. I have often been fascinated by other spellcasters.”

“Gotten anywhere with Eloise yet?”

Typhenous calmly plucked a flower out of his sleeve, and Revi snorted. He showed her the yellow rose and then winked.

“I picked up some tea from the south of Izril. Drake and Gnollish.”

“Is that why you volunteered to go to Invrisil? You rogue!”

“Only in a previous life, Revi. [Rogue] is so…well, it consolidates. As for [Witches]—you should know they gain something for not having direct magical power. You are a [Summoner].”

“I still have to obey magical rules.”

Revi sulked, but Typhenous was in his lecturing mood and enthusiastic.

“Ah, but a [Witch] does obey rules. Just not the ones any regular [Mage] who listens to Wistram’s claptrap understands. My observation is that we [Mages] and related classes are rather mathematical. We add together force and power in a steady chain, such that while Archmage Valeterisa and Eldavin and so on can perform incredible feats, if you understand the equation, you can see how they arrived at the result.”

Revi cracked an eyelid open.

“…Go on.”

Typhenous smiled.

“If five times five is an immutable law in magic—Skills can make a shortcut or add another multiplier. I do not suggest Witch Wiskeria can break the rules of magic entirely. Rather, a [Witch] cannot multiply as well as a [Mage]. But a [Witch] can turn ‘5’ blue. And if they add a bit of yellow they’ll get green.”

Revi considered that explanation as she watched Mrsha clapping her paws and demanding to learn Wiskeria’s ways. Then she shook her head.

“You can just say they get magical tricks, Typhenous.”

The old man heaved a huge, aggrieved sigh.

“They get magical tricks, Revi. There. Happy? What were you going to harangue Miss Erin about?”

“The poor Antinium!”

And with that, Revi went storming across the ground, finger raised. She was happy that Erin turned to her with a big smile on her face.

“Revi! There you are! How’s it going? Where’s Gothica?”

“Sewing up some new designs. Impressive Goblin you’ve got there—Erin, I have a bone to pick with you! I heard you said your craft was Goblins and chess! Where are the Antinium?”

Revi was outraged as Erin gave her a blank look.

“How do you know that?”

“Typhenous takes tea with Eloise. Nevermind that. Haven’t you ever been gossiped about? How dare you not mention the Antinium!”

Revi was deeply offended on behalf of the Antinium, none of whom could complain for themselves. She had a soft spot for people ignored. Something about home? No parallels.

Erin blinked at the [Summoner]’s outrage. Wiskeria turned, and Revi stepped behind Erin. She kept shaking her finger.

“And you’re learning weird magic again! From—Witch Wiskeria! Can’t you learn something normal?”

Nanette looked up blankly. Ser Sest had come out with an umbrella for everyone, but despite Erin trying to be as friendly as possible, the [Witch] stood there, not really reacting to a thing. And that was a struggle not even Wiskeria could solve.

Erin had no idea what to do. She looked at Wiskeria, then produced something.

A flame filled with quiet sadness. It burned blue, like the most precious, painful jewel in her hands. Mrsha’s laughter immediately stopped, and she punched Erin’s leg.

Not here! Not in front of…

Nanette? The [Witch] stared at the flame.

“It’s beautiful. Is that your craft, Miss Erin?”

She spoke! But it was a polite inquiry, and Erin’s face grew puzzled as she bent down and showed Nanette the flame. The girl actually touched the cold fire, fearless of the heat.

And it did not grow. Erin glanced up at Wiskeria, and the [Witch of Law]’s face was puzzled. The flame of sadness burned all those who could feel it. Pelt, Erin herself—an entire city had once gazed upon it and fed and felt its flame.

Not Nanette. Revi inched away from the fire as Erin tossed it to the street and it slowly began to die. Erin glanced up.

“That might be part of my craft, Nanette. But it’s sorta…weird. Like everything. Sorry, Revi, but magic is always strange, isn’t it?”

She glanced at Wiskeria and smiled, eyes lighting up with excitement. Revi knew that feeling, of learning a new spell, of a great discovery. But she pointed her finger warningly at Wiskeria even as she kept Erin between the two.

“Well, yes. I suppose if you wanted to learn something—Witch Wiskeria is the best teacher. But I just wanted to tell you that the Antinium should be part of that craft, Erin! It’s unfair to them. And—and you might learn too much. Especially with the two of you here.”

Erin’s head looked up, puzzled, and Wiskeria raised her brows.

“Why is that, Adventurer Revi?”

She spoke! To Revi! The [Summoner] kept Erin between them as she edged back. Erin was giving her the stupid look she sometimes wore, but it seemed genuine.

Didn’t they see it? Revi shook her head.

“You may be a Goblin’s friend, Erin—and I’m sure they owe a lot to you. But you matter more to the Antinium. Just like Witch Wiskeria over here.”

That was when Erin, Mrsha, and the others noticed that Revi was using Wiskeria’s title unfailingly. She was seldom that polite. Erin glanced up and recalled—

Belavierr was Wiskeria’s mother. And she was the legendary Threadbreaker, as old as the creators of Revi’s species. No wonder the [Summoner] was a bit nervous. Revi licked her lips.

“There’s a lot of power in having an entire people behind you. I’m a [Summoner]. I should know. But you don’t even acknowledge that. For the Antinium, I mean.”

She didn’t quite look at Wiskeria. Belavierr’s daughter just shook her head.

“My mother taught me a lot about thread and needle, Miss Revi. She never taught me the deep craft of how life was stitched together. You have nothing to fear from me. My vision, my craft, is incomplete. Clapping my hands is a trick. I see no clear way forwards.”

She stared about the rain, not angry, just sighing. Waiting to see if her future awaited. But Erin?

Erin had seen magic. She had begun awakening to something, and Revi saw it on her face. But the Antinium?

The [Innkeeper] slowly rose and spoke so Nanette and Mrsha and Revi and everyone else could hear.

“I didn’t forget the Antinium, Revi. I just didn’t include them in my craft because I was asked what I really thought was in my heart. And…I love them, and I’ll do anything I can for them. But I don’t know if where they’re going is where I can follow. Pawn especially.”

Lyonette had come out of the awnings, and she stood under another umbrella, looking at Erin. The young woman’s face was slightly sad, slightly happy for them.

“I don’t understand Klbkch’s people, either. I know that. I’ve only met two of them—well, three, if you count the Free Queen. I can’t make them part of my craft.”

“Well—just don’t forget about them. Don’t put Goblins over Antinium.”

Erin looked hurt that Revi even suggested it. She shook her head.

“I wouldn’t. It’s just that I understand one thing about Goblins. I know I haven’t met them all, and there are…secrets.”

She paused a second, then went on.

“I know that. But one thing makes sense to me. A perspective. No killing Goblins.

There it was, her oldest refrain. Wiskeria’s brows rose, because she had not known this about Erin. But the [Innkeeper] stood there.

“Some might be terrible. Some might be good but do terrible things because they don’t know better or they think they have to. But that is something I’m certain about. So it’s my craft. Chess? Chess is just in my blood. Antinium are my craft, but they’re learning to be themselves so fast I can’t keep up. I’ll help them and serve them food, but they’re playing a game I can’t see anymore. All by themselves.”

She said that so wistfully it made Revi’s skin crawl. Because Emperor Laken Godart had issued a ban on telling Erin or her friends about the Antinium’s crusade against the High Passes. Yet—it was almost as if Erin knew and expected something like this would happen.

And Wiskeria? She looked at Erin, straight-backed, the fire of sadness fizzling out in the rain, that certainty upon her.

So certain. Wiskeria had never felt that way about anything but her mother’s magic. She touched her chest and found only emptiness. Nor did she believe Erin was right about Goblins, not from the history that Wiskeria had learned from her mother, who had met and spoken to their Kings.

But Wiskeria envied that look in Erin’s eyes. As unyielding as pure mithril. Then her head rose, and she heard a shriek—she looked at Erin and then rotated around. But the rain fell on as Revi sneezed, and Erin laughed and Typhenous suggested they all have something hot to drink. Wiskeria though…she looked around for the answer to her mystery.

All she saw was rain.

 

——

 

“It’s raining, it’s pouring

The old man is roaring

He’ll get out of bed

Drag you to death

And devour your blood in the morning.”

—Creepy [Witch] girl, singing outside Laken’s window, 23 A.F.

 

It was a strange thing. The next day, the winds and rain were no less intense. In fact, the storm seemed worse, and by now, it seemed clear that the river was going to flood.

And flood higher than Prost had estimated by far. However, Riverfarm’s neighbors to the north and south reported an uncanny phenomenon; they had only a little bit of rain, and if anything, the river’s water levels had dropped.

It was pushing at the banks in Riverfarm, swelling in this one spot. That was magic. Not the kind you wanted to see, but it was deep and old and made the power of [Mages] look like a drop in a sea.

Why was it that on this kind of day, in between horrible events, that the most magical moments were found, before and after?

Erin wondered. She still, if she closed her eyes or walked in the garden, could see the chess club when they had first defied their Hive and stood around her when Skinner attacked. From that moment had come a tragedy that changed her forever, and she wished she had known what would have become of the two dozen Workers.

Four had lived, and they had gone on to shape their Hive in ways no one could imagine. She cried, imagining what Bishop or Knight would have done or all the others whose names she still remembered.

Yet—they had never seemed as vibrant, as heroic, nor as sure as that very moment. That was the basis of Bird, as much as all of Erin’s lessons. That was the hard part to reckon with.

Great strife and fantastical moments were very close together. Like watching a heroine save the day in the middle of a disaster, a runaway car bearing down on someone, for instance.

But it was never something Erin sought out. She wanted all the…the magic of those moments and none of that danger. Today, she realized something.

She craved it. She hungered in the way Fierre hungered for blood. Perhaps all Humans, everyone did, but that was the very thing that Erin had always wanted, always loved since coming here. An [Immortal Moment].

The basis of her craft. The pure envy and laughter bubbling up in her heart from seeing Wiskeria clap her hands. Magic in every single action.

Even [Mages] would say that was silly. They believed that you could make a body of magic. Everything from your toenails to your blood could be infused with magic. In that way—Cognita was the pinnacle of their existence. If she could cast Tier 8 spells, the Truestone Golem would be the most perfect spellcaster. Or perhaps, a Dragon, a being of magic and time.

However, a [Witch] cheated. A [Witch] did things even a [Mage] called silly. Clap your hands? It had no arcane preparation, no list of magical symbols and powerful incantations bound to the gesture. Wiskeria clapped her hands, and because it was the perfect kind of clap—because she found a true moment in a hundred thousand sweeps of a broom, she performed magic.

That was what Erin wanted. Something opposite of memorizing a series of logical paths and rules. But not easy. That was the trick; everyone wanted to wave a wand and cast any spell they wanted. That was just—that was too easy. You had to work for this kind of magic, but it was the kind of work Erin would do. Seeking it in dark forests and practicing something you loved, rather than memorization and academic study.

So when she woke up the next day amid the storm, Erin felt it coming on her like the storm. Only, it was in her blood. Even the voice in her mind seemed like it was waiting.

 

[Witch of Second Chances Level 13!]

[Skill — From Witchcraft, Sorcery Ariseth obtained!]

 

—And then she knew her craft was waiting for her.

 

——

 

Skills. Erin was a Level 13 [Witch]. She had gained many from that single day when she leveled up. This latest one compounded the others and made her heart skip with excitement. However. They were conditional.

[Infuse Witchcraft: Objects]. [Harvest Craft (Local)]. These were bog-standard [Witch] Skills that Erin had gained along with the more interesting ones. And as you might guess—they all required something Erin needed as much as that hat.

Craft. It was like being a [Mage] with no mana. Now? Erin’s new Skill suggested that her craft might fuel more than even [Witch] magic.

“My dear. My dear. That is the most wonderful—a Verse Skill at Level 13? Well, I have not seen a [Witch] with that Skill, but the meaning should be obvious, don’t you think, Witch Oliyaya?”

Agratha the [Teacher Witch] was beside herself that morning as everyone sat down to make hats. Amazingly, Oliyaya was there too, and despite their enmity, the two sat side-by-side, as polite as could be. The gnarled woman even tipped her hat as her slightly broken, crooked nose turned to Erin.

“A [Sorcerer]’s magic fueled by [Witch]’s craft. Indeed.”

It was the most astonishing thing. And it fit Erin to a tee; if she were honest, a [Sorcerer] matched her far better than a [Mage]. She had always wanted to cast magic, but she had virtually no mana pool of her own. And her new levels—her own understanding of witchcraft and her confession to the [Witches] had changed their attitude toward her.

It was, after all, all about perspective. When Erin had told the [Witches] she thought she was undeserving of their class, she had softened their hostility to her. After all—she thought they were cool. And Wiskeria had shown the other [Witches] a lesson of her own.

So Oliyaya and Agratha were chumming it up, and Erin herself was energetically stabbing her fingers with a needle. She did have gloves on, and she was working on a hat.

Agratha had lent her a normal, pointy hat all in black. Erin was right now attaching chess pieces to the brim. She had decided to try the chess hat on just to show willingness. She could always change it later.

A pawn piece dangled from her hat as she put it on.

“Tada. How do I look?”

She turned to one of the other [Witches], and the woman hesitated.

“Ah, well. It would certainly appeal to the chess-lovers of the world, Witch Erin. And one can always change their hat.”

Erin’s face fell. Even if they were nicer, [Witches] were savage. She poked a chess piece, and the little piece wobbled, then gently smacked her on the side of the head.

One of the apprentices giggled as Erin ruefully took the hat off.

“Yeah, I guess this would get annoying if I don’t change how long the pieces are. But hey—”

She put it back on her head and looked around. Erin felt strange with the hat on her head, but she beamed.

“I’ve got a hat.”

She was willing to try it on, and the [Witches]’ eyes gleamed with approval. It wasn’t just the physical hat, it was the attitude. Erin exhaled.

I am a [Witch].

“Yes. Today you look the part.”

Erin jumped, and Oliyaya cackled, to Agratha’s mild discomfort, but the old [Witch] seemed to read Erin’s mind. She nodded to the pouring rain outside.

“Now, Witch Erin. Shall we talk about how to quiet this old man? A promising [Witch] has come among us. Let us see how far her craft takes us. It has been long, long, since [Witches] battled Elementals.”

The [Witch of Second Chances] gulped hard. This was her mistake—and she feared Oliyaya was right.

 

——

 

The old man would not stop. Not until he drowned Riverfarm. He had been granted a view of the surface, a body that he had longed for.

You had to see it how he did. He was no person, but a force of nature. He was so old he remembered Dryads and Treants. He knew what he could be, but he had no morality that made him acceptable to the mortals he wanted to wander around.

As he saw it—someone had helped him complete himself, given him what he had begged the [Witches] for. Then taken it away, hurt him for being himself. Now he was going to murder Riverfarm and everyone in it.

It wasn’t even Erin’s fault. Okay, it definitely was. But…rivers were bastards. If she’d found a kindly marsh, she might have created another Khoteizetrough. Although some bogs and marshes could be murderous traps of land. Yet rivers?

Rivers drowned people. Name one river that, over the ages, hadn’t murdered someone who’d fallen into it. A few were great and generous and only took a few souls by accident, but most had rapids and sharp rocks.

A tree was a bit safer, even if it might begin kicking the shit out of every [Woodcutter] it saw. A meadow…well, some had sinkholes that dropped a group of picnickers a hundred feet.

Yet in another sense, it was just as well Erin had woken the river. Because now seeing his wrath—Wiskeria didn’t want him anywhere near Riverfarm.

She was going to murder him.

It was a calm certainty in Wiskeria’s heart. She didn’t know quite how; murdering an Elemental was very difficult even if you bound it to a physical form. She might have to, and that was risky, because she didn’t have the means or craft. But they were at war now.

The [Witches] fought the river with Riverfarm backing them up. But—like the fires that had ravaged Riverfarm and this region, Laken Godart was getting an unhappy wakeup call in a weakness of [Witches]:

They were bad at fighting nature.

Oh, they were using their craft. Hedag was pushing entire boulders to the levees, passing even Durene in strength. Eloise’s tea was sending waves of workers back out as if it were the highest-quality stamina potion. Even Mavika’s crows were out in the rain, gliding through the water as it didn’t weigh them down, showering down dirt and stones.

But it wasn’t, uh, exactly the same as a [Geomancer] raising a huge wall of stone. And a Level 40 [Geomancer] would be just the thing for this moment. [Witches]?

The problem was that [Witches] were good at dealing with problems. People, monsters, other magic-users were problems that a [Witch] could stomp, especially if they were wearing boots. But nature?

Nature was, by itself, normal. It was hard to stop a fire because a fire wanted to burn, and it had all the facts on its side. A purely magical fire? Easy. But a natural wildfire, no matter how it started, was so hard that even Califor…

Even she’d had to use great magic to stop it. And she had stopped it entirely, but the cost was too high. Laken needed a normal [Mage] who could arrogantly just dam or divert the river’s course. A Level 40 [Mage]. Good luck finding one of those for free.

Or, alternatively, Wiskeria could end the old man and the river would be a normal one. She had no compunctions about it. Even the pigs bothered her more. The old man was no innocent victim. He was a force of nature opposed to her.

And he reminded Wiskeria of her mother. He did what he wanted. So yes, like her mother—

She wanted to kill him. The [Witch of Law] realized that she was opposed to the old man. And that was her craft. So that morning, she realized something much like Erin was discovering herself.

The two met in the pouring rain amidst all this rain and the war against the river. Erin had a hat. Well, several hats. Wiskeria was standing in Master Helm’s smithy; even he was helping shore up the river.

She was sharpening a knife on a whetstone. But she was watching something else at the same time. Erin stepped into the shed, shaking water off her hood, and turned to see.

“Oh. Look at that.”

It was Mrsha and Nanette. Wiskeria had a good view of them playing under one of the eaves of a gazebo dedicated to the heroine of Riverfarm—Ivolethe. The circular structure was generous to afford the two with a good play area despite the pouring rain, and the statue of the Frost Faerie was larger than life—a lot larger.

Laken was as good as his word when it came to the fae. This was one of six statues of Ivolethe, and it was actually customary for pranksters to put a little token, like a stone with holes in it, or a gift at the statue before doing something untoward.

Wiskeria didn’t like that. It reminded her of…something she preferred wouldn’t exist. Obsessive belief, perhaps. A kind of variant of witchcraft that relied not on magic but something else.

However, her eyes were on the two little children. Mrsha was eagerly signing to Nanette as the girl sat there. She was…putting up with Mrsha.

The Gnoll girl would tap her on the shoulder, race around giggling, and innocently pretend she had no idea who’d done that! Or she would show Nanette some of her treasures, like her warhorn, or come back with some snacks she’d pilfered and share them.

Nothing would do but for Nanette to take a bite or blow on the horn. Mrsha badgered Nanette to play with her—and the strange thing was that the younger [Witch] seemed to react.

Every [Witch] took care of Nanette, but no one managed to get her to do anything. But she did squirm when Mrsha did a flying leap onto her in a dogpile or take a bite of a cupcake. Perhaps it was how annoying Mrsha was.

Or perhaps it was that they were only a few years apart, or that Mrsha was pushy, but didn’t make Nanette do anything. Erin laughed as she saw the two arguing.

“What is Mrsha doing? I’m glad the [Knights] are watching over her. Look!”

Mrsha was trying to give Nanette a ride on her shoulders. The Gnoll girl was younger, but she was growing up fast and she was a Gnoll. She puffed her cheeks and flushed under her fur as she tried to lift Nanette up and run around with her. The swaying [Witch] held onto her hat as Mrsha wobbled six steps—then both went plunging forwards.

Ser Dalimont and Dame Ushar caught them. Mrsha rubbed at her arms and clearly began reflecting that she needed to hit the gym more—which made her explain the gym to Nanette. Then she was pestering the Thronebearers to put both [Witch] and [Druid] on their shoulders.

“I’m glad you brought her. She’s who Nanette needed to meet.”

Wiskeria checked the edge of her blade as Erin watched Nanette look a tiny bit—exasperated. Which was a good sign to Wiskeria.

“Really? Why? Because they’re kids?”

“No. Because they’ve both suffered terribly. Nanette sees it; every [Witch] can. Yet the girl—Mrsha—wears it well.”

Erin turned to Wiskeria and realized the [Witch] was looking at Mrsha. What she saw…Erin had never tried to use her abilities on Mrsha. She didn’t need to.

She knew Mrsha’s long story. But now it made sense. Like Ulvama had once pestered her, Mrsha refused to leave Nanette alone. Even when the [Witch] hurried off through the rain, Mrsha raced after her.

Erin smiled at that, then Wiskeria spoke.

“You’ve got a hat. Is…is that going to be your hat? Because I don’t think it fits you.”

She eyed the hat Erin had asked Agratha for when she’d seen it among the teacher’s collection. Erin had her chess hat and even a bowler cap because she thought the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings would say it looked good on her.

But she was wearing another hat right now that Wiskeria was eying with clear distaste. Erin laughed.

“No! I’m just getting into the idea of wearing hats. How do I look? Milady?”

She tipped the fedora at Wiskeria with a wink. The other [Witch] eyed the hat. Then she slapped it off Erin’s head and into the rain.

“Hey! Okay, maybe that was justified. What about this hat?”

Her chess-hat made Wiskeria frown.

“Hm. It’s better. It still doesn’t quite fit you.”

Erin nodded.

“I know. I’ll give it more thought. But I’m warming to the hat thing. What’s the knife for?”

“Murder.”

The [Witch of Second Chances] hesitated, but Wiskeria simply sheathed her knife. Then she sighed and stared into the rain at the distant, heaving, raging river.

“The older [Witches] never taught you how to summon the soul of a place, did they? If they did, we could murder that old man right now.”

Erin blanched slightly.

“Murder? Wait, you want to kill him? Don’t you think he’ll get tired and stop if we keep him from flooding Riverfarm?”

She was appalled. Wiskeria gestured to the river.

“It’s already close to overflowing. How long is he going to rage? A week? A month? He might be back again and again. I want him dead.”

“No. This is my fault. I’ll try and talk to him, but he’s just—confused.”

Erin set her jaw. Wiskeria chuckled.

“Go ahead and try to reason with him. I don’t think he’ll listen or understand. I only wish I had a craft. I envy you; you’re almost upon it, aren’t you?”

The [Innkeeper] bit her tongue. She nodded slowly.

“I feel like I’m onto it. You really did teach me what I was looking for, Wiskeria. Why—why don’t you have a craft? Or the power, I mean?”

The [Witch of Law] shook her head.

“I don’t know. My class changed. I thought I found my craft, but whatever I’m trying to pull from Riverfarm’s folk isn’t…there. Perhaps it’s wrong or I am. My mother did not approve of my craft, only that I found it. It stands in opposition to what [Witches] are—even Agratha’s kind of [Witch]. I know that, but when I named it, I thought I was right. Perhaps I was not.”

A [Witch] should know when she was wrong. But she sat on the anvil, sighing. She was uncertain, worried about the future, and frustrated by her lack of power. Only Erin saw it. Slowly, the [Innkeeper] found a stool and sat with Wiskeria in the forge.

“Wiskeria. Do you mind if you talk about your craft with me? You’re the most honest person I’ve met. No one’s ever totally honest. Not even Revi. She’s just mean. But you say what you’re feeling. Like a Goblin.”

“…Thanks?”

That was the last thing Wiskeria wanted to hear as someone who wanted to fit in. But then—Erin was that person Wiskeria wanted to be. Someone who pretended so well that she fooled herself, the likable [Innkeeper], if a touch too eccentric and ‘zany’ for Wiskeria’s tastes.

And Erin wanted to be a [Witch] as sure as Wiskeria. They had passed acquaintanceship into mutual envy.

Envy…and opposition. They both felt it. At their cores, they believed different things. Erin might slay the man in the river if there were no other choice and he was a monster.

Wiskeria wanted to kill him. Now, Wiskeria tried to explain what her craft was.

“My mother. You may love her or hate her, but she is my mother. She spoiled me as a girl. She taught me to be a [Witch], but it was seeing her as others saw her that made me one. She has ruined so many things for me. I have eaten every feast, seen so many wonders that I was dull to them. As dull as her soul before she left Terandria. Do I hold a grudge about that?”

She paused, thinking. Water ran down the shed, and Wiskeria would not have minded if it were blood. She could have culled a thousand animals and waded through their entrails and not minded it. She knew these things were wrong and disturbing, but she had seen worse.

“She was my mother. Mothers make mistakes, and she did her best. For a being who has not died and lived longer than the Stitch-folk race…she did well, didn’t she?”

The [Innkeeper] said nothing. She thought of her mother, who tried to teach her daughter how to cook something, despite the younger Erin’s love of chess. Shauna Solstice was not perfect—but she had never stopped Erin from playing chess. She had driven Erin to tournaments and only asked if it was worth it when her daughter was in tears.

She was not Belavierr. Yet Wiskeria believed her mother had loved her. The [Witch of Law]’s voice dropped.

“Of course it was hard for me to find my craft. I have seen the cost of great magic. I walked A’ctelios Salash and felt the Carven City beneath the soles of my feet. I have seen my mother pull a whale onto a beach with a bit of string. The problem is—I do not admire my mother. I love her, in the way children love their parents. I hate her, because I know what she has done. But admire her? No.”

“Not even a little bit?”

The [Innkeeper] had never met the Witch of Webs, but she had heard that admiration in the tones of other [Witches], even the ghosts who had opposed her. Say what you would—but she was a [Witch] to define every other. Even Califor had told Erin that Belavierr was among the greatest to ever live.

Yet Wiskeria alone sat there and shook her head.

“There is nothing to admire. I know how to sacrifice blood to the moons and speak the old languages. But because my mother taught me this—I have seen her turn the tide back on itself. She can summon a hail of needles with the snap of a finger. Or, yes, if she wanted to, produce a blaze to envelop all of Riverfarm. If she wanted to, she could tear the old man from his river and eat him alive. But it is easy for her; why would I admire you for picking up that hammer?”

She nodded to the tool laying on a workbench, and Erin picked it up. It took some effort, and if she were a child maybe it would be harder or if her fingers had no strength or she were blind—but she was not.

It was a simple task. And that was what Wiskeria saw in her mother’s magic. Wiskeria whispered, cupping her chin in her hands.

“Perhaps if I saw her growing, those first days when she sacrificed everything, I would be more impressed. But I just see my mother, and so how can I admire an Archmage casting magic? It is not hard for them. Did you see the Archmage of Izril lifting Fissival into the sky?”

Erin shivered, and goosebumps ran down her arms. That had happened last night.

“Yes. Yes, that was amazing. You felt nothing?”

Wiskeria sighed.

“It was magic. I wish I had any wonder in me for it. But my mother has left me jaded. I looked at Fissival and knew it could fly; I only admired the cost and the way Valeterisa did it.”

She gazed out into the howling rainstorm, a force of nature so breathtaking that for all the malice in it, it was still a sight to inspire and frighten and wake some emotion in you. She saw only rain and force.

What a terrible way to live. Erin hesitated to say it, but Wiskeria seemed to read her thoughts like Oliyaya had.

“Don’t mistake me, Erin. There are still things in this world that make me laugh and smile. I can still enjoy a bowl of soup or the feeling of warmth in my hands on a freezing day. But what makes me feel passionate, what makes me admire and feel alive is not that great craft. It is here, in Riverfarm. It is why law is my craft. Do you see it?”

Erin didn’t. She cast around, thinking.

“You saw something in Riverfarm that made you love it more than Belavierr’s magic? Like what?”

For answer, Wiskeria pointed down at the ground of the smithy. There, Erin crouched down and saw in the wet mud from outside, crawling along the stone floor, a trail of ants.

They must have escaped the rain, and there must have been a crack or hole in the stone floor that they could form a nest in. Right now, they were hauling some of Helm’s old lunch off; a bit of bread, some scraps of meat fallen from a sandwich.

Ants, struggling through drops of rain, hauling the pieces of food around. Wiskeria smiled at them. Erin looked up as Wiskeria spoke.

“When I asked, my mother told me stories of how she would make war on kingdoms. How she would raze villages and cities and break armies against her. She went to the Meeting of Tribes and killed. I do not love her for that. I do not admire her for that. But I wonder—if you faced the Witch of Webs, the Spider in her wrath—what kind of courage does that take? A world of it. An ocean of resolve. A Gnoll with no great levels or Skills faced her with a spear in hand. In every age, women and men of every species stood against her. That is bravery.

“Oh. I get it now.”

Erin mumbled. She looked up at Wiskeria’s shining eyes. And what the [Witch of Law] saw was something else. She turned to Erin.

“I know you come from a different place, Erin Solstice. Laken hasn’t told the others, even Rie, the truth of it, but he has told me and Durene and few others. I know you come from a planet where magic is dead or forgotten or so quiet it doesn’t roar. And despite that—your people fly. You have gone further than we have, into the stars, and you contrive weapons to slay mountains.”

“Bad weapons. Laken told you about Earth?”

Wiskeria shrugged. She leapt from the anvil and lightly walked past the ant trail, never disturbing them.

“I guessed he was someone from another world. Or at least, another plane. That’s what I admire, Erin. Someone who struggles. Not someone who was born and raised with all the powers and secrets of the world. I admire…Riverfarm. It started as a village, and now it has grown until it makes the Five Families nervous. At the end of it, when flames burnt down around Riverfarm, I think that they might have taken up blade and fist against Belavierr. And if they had won—even if they tried—that is beautiful.”

She turned, and Erin caught a flash of genuine admiration, pure happiness from Wiskeria. The [Witch of Law] looked out, and it was a black world she saw.

Not dark, but a void so long it circled around infinity. A deep lake, where the mortal imagination was a little leaf floating over hidden depths. From the edges came things like Belavierr. Creeping dreads that realized themselves like the Seamwalkers. Monsters and horrors.

Faced with such things, people were like those ants, building a tiny shelter out of ideas and innovation, and when something rose up, they swarmed over it and died by the millions. But a single mortal soul sometimes killed the immortal Dragon or the deathless horror. That was triumph, to her.

“Law. People make all kinds of laws and live by them. Because of law—you can make a civilization thrive. Someday, if Mother ever comes to your world or if a nation rises large enough, it will not be one hero, but the laws, the entire nation which slowly kills her. It might be the end of witchcraft, the end of wilderness and magic itself. But I still admire it.”

Ah. The air left Erin’s lungs, and she saw Wiskeria for what she was at last. So that was why she disturbed the other [Witches]. That was the contradiction at the heart of her class, her craft.

She was a [Witch of Law] indeed. A witch of civilization, of the very idea that ran counter to [Witch] magic. A witch of mortality and the modern age.

“You would love it on Earth, Wiskeria.”

The woman turned, and Erin could almost see it. Wiskeria would love it.

“You could be a normal person if you wanted. Walk into…I don’t know, a cafe? Shop and sing karaoke, work any job, and fly without magic. Yes, I think Earth might make you happy. Because we can reach the moon, and maybe we could fight a war against Seamwalkers and the kind of thing A’ctelios Salash is with nothing more than ideas and a lot of courage.”

Wiskeria’s lips curved into a smile.

“I would like to see that. But you don’t love it?”

Erin shrugged.

“I’m like you. I was raised there, and so I don’t love all the technology that makes sense all the time. I wanted to find magic, and I did. Here. I can’t understand loving a world run by laws. Laws…do terrible things. Not all laws are good, and they make people suffer, sometimes, yeah, so that a lot of people benefit. People twist laws to their advantage.”

Home. She loved parts of it, like hot water and the internet—parts of the internet—and convenience, but this place made her feel alive. Would she want to go home? For her family, yes. For the rest?

Wiskeria reached out and gently touched Erin’s shoulder.

“We truly are different. I think, Erin, that I don’t have much more to teach you. But I should like to be friends. Either that or the best of enemies.”

She beamed, and Erin laughed at the strange [Witch of Law]. Then she hugged Wiskeria impulsively, and Wiskeria patted her on the head. Then Wiskeria heard the sound that had kept her sleepless night after night.

It screamed to her, a sound unlike any she had ever heard. Her eyes snapped open, and Erin jerked.

She’d heard it too. As they embraced, Wiskeria’s strange sound made Erin start.

“What the—”

“You heard it? Where are you? I’ve never heard anything like it. I thought it was a ghast or some kind of ancient enemy stalking me. But it’s beckoning me. I just can’t tell where. Somewhere in Riverfarm.”

Wiskeria had a knife out in a flash. She dashed out into the rain; it was closer! It was calling her. But Erin stood there for a second. Her eyes opened wide.

“Wiskeria. You’ve been hearing—that?

The [Witch of Law] turned at the recognition in Erin’s tone. The [Innkeeper] knew that sound very well. Erin Solstice saw Wiskeria look back, for never once had Belavierr’s daughter heard nor conceived of that shrill sound that sounded like a scream with no lips.

But Erin—it sounded to Erin like the piercing sound that was entirely automated. The digital, shrill sound of an alarm. But if a siren could have a voice—

It was calling Wiskeria. And this time, the [Witch] heard two voices. One was as shrill and faint as an alarm chiming—sporadic, seeking her.

The other ran through her bones, a deep howl that cut through the old man’s raging. It sounded like the collapse of cities, a thunderous, terrible voice with no words.

This time, every [Witch] in Riverfarm heard it calling Wiskeria.

 

——

 

Mrsha heard no sounds like that. Nor was she playing with Nanette. The [Witch] had shaken her off after Mrsha suggested playing tag.

“Leave me, please. I’m tired.”

Then she sat in a corner of the house she had been given and looked like a sad doll again. But there was a girl there! A girl who should run and tease people and play.

She was so sad. Mrsha had heard her story from Mister Prost, and she’d used three handkerchiefs crying and raging against Belavierr.

It was not right. Someone had to help. Erin was trying, and she was good—but she was also Erin. Mrsha the Super Compassionate had to do something for poor Nanette.

Something…but she didn’t know what. Not exactly. So Mrsha the Resourceful found something and scribbled in it.

When all else failed, she had people to ask. And her go-to, her most resourceful helper was always busy. He was mean and told her not to write ‘odiously’, and he’d said not to contact him since Khelt was a mess.

But Mrsha needed his help. Even though he called her rude things like a ‘pestering plague of insolence’, he was nicer when she told him she was helping someone else, not funding a Balerosian [Prince].

He had a novel idea. So Mrsha thanked Fetohep the Helper and slipped out of her home. She didn’t know if the idea was a good one, but Fetohep was a smart fellow. If he thought it was worth a try…she had to do it.

Even if it meant facing off against her new, mortal nemesis.

He was waiting for her. She had barely opened one of the windows when a [Knight] picked her up and tried to hand her back to Ser Dalimont, who was apologizing profusely.

“Your Majesty, I cannot apologize enough. Miss Mrsha, come here.”

She writhed desperately in Gamel’s grasp. Then she began slashing with paws laced with sharp thorns. He dropped her as a voice spoke up.

“Gamel, don’t hurt yourself. I see that Miss…Mrsha wishes to speak with me. Again. Let her approach.”

The [Emperor] sat in an armchair from which it seemed like Gamel had been reading the news to him from a newspaper. He was frowning at her as she approached. Mrsha checked that Gamel was alright; she hadn’t meant to hurt him.

“Mrsha du Marquin. It does not please me that one of my guests should offer harm to my bodyguard. Nor cause so much trouble. I have heard that it is mostly in aid of Nanette, for which you have my gratitude. But I hope this is an important errand indeed. Or I may have to speak to your mother and express my frank dismay. If that does not solve the issue, I will, perhaps, have to become unpleasant.

Mrsha gulped. For a blind man, she had the uncanny feeling he was still staring at her. But she stiffened her spine because Mrsha of Just Cause had a reason! She slowly padded over and then cursed because she and he could not communicate well. So she scribbled and handed Gamel a piece of paper.

“…It seems Mrsha wishes to speak to you, privately, Your Majesty. With a single translator. She does not wish anyone else to be present, even her bodyguards.”

“Well now. It seems this must be an important discussion. It surely must be, or else she would not be so insistent.”

Laken’s tone was sarcastic. Mrsha gulped as he stood up abruptly. He gave her an exaggerated bow.

“In that case, we should head to the throne room, which is, of course, warded against spells. Summon Lady Rie! Have the throne room guarded, Gamel, and the Thronebearers shall stand guard as well. I shall entertain Miss Mrsha’s request to the fullest extent of my capabilities. After all—it is important, isn’t it?”

Mrsha was sweating now. Wait…maybe don’t take me this seriously? But she nodded vigorously, and Ser Dalimont’s face as he escorted her to the throne room said this had gone far beyond no desserts ever.

Sure enough, even the mysterious [Lady] who smelled a bit like iron came hurrying over, and Mrsha found herself standing in the throne room as the [Emperor] took a seat, and the session was sealed to all eyes and ears but the three within.

The Thronebearers were waiting for the disastrous consequences to fall on Mrsha’s head. But Laken waited, feeling only a bit like he was bullying a child. But the most annoying child he’d ever met, so he waited.

The conversation between Laken and Mrsha was not smooth, as Lady Rie had to read from Mrsha’s writing, but it was still somewhat coherent. Excluding the pauses for the scritch scritch of the quill and Rie reading out Mrsha’s comments with the occasional aside—it went something like this.

“You’re a mean man.”

“Miss Mrsha, you are an annoying child.”

You’re not supposed to say things like that to me. I’m cute and young!

“I am an [Emperor]. I say what I wish. If you came to berate me or demand cookies or something trivial, I will do my utmost to have you punished. I do enjoy pranks and entertainment, but you are as arrogant as a [King].”

I’m a good person. I want to help Nanette. That’s why I’m here. Listen, you rapscallious pretender to a throne that doesn’t exist. I have, admittedly, been somewhat of a rogue upon these lands, and I will acknowledge a bit of childish glee, but Nanette is in full grief, and I will not waste your time or mine on frivolous issues. Will you hear me out, Your Majesty?

“…Rie, did she really write that? Really? Er—go on, then. What is so important? If it is cheering up Nanette, I am all for it, but I do not believe a hundred forts of pillows will make her smile.”

Do you think I am so unintelligent? I am Mrsha, and I know grief. I know every drop and dram of it, sire. Nor did I come here without a plan that involves you directly. You see, it behooves everyone to acknowledge when they do not know the answer to a dilemma. You have your court. I have the friendship of the Protector of Jecrass, the Eternal Ruler of Glorious Khelt, the…my paw hurts, so I shall not recite his list of titles overlong. I sought Fetohep of Khelt’s aid in this matter, and he had an idea that only you could act upon.

“Fetohep of Khelt…? Are you serious?”

At this point, Laken Godart felt like someone was pulling a prank on him, but the little Gnoll continued.

Do keep up with the times, Your Majesty. Hear me out and decide for yourself. I offer this, a gift, in the name of friendship and aid towards our mutual goal of helping Nanette. Not for love of you or your empire. Now, this is what Fetohep did spake thereof in most private advice to me…

The [Emperor] listened. Then his brows rose. Then—he halted the throne room’s private meeting.

The doors opened, and the Thronebearers waited for Mrsha to be thrown out and for Lyonette to be summoned. It might be an important lesson, even for the daughter of a [Princess].

But instead—Laken Godart sent Gamel to fetch some snacks, a drink, and two cookies. Then he went back to listening to Mrsha’s advice. It…might pay to be in her good graces after all.

 

——

 

Wiskeria was following a voice. Two voices, now. Like Erin finding her craft—the [Witch of Law] was finding something.

It called to her. Though she had first taken it as danger, now she realized the voice was calling to her.

Calling, in a language—if it could even be called a language—so foreign that even she, who could speak to riverbeds and shadows and read the moons, couldn’t understand it.

It made her skin crawl. It was more than the pricking of her thumbs or the twitching of her toes. It was the clenching of her gut and the feeling that she had a date with the outhouse.

She had never felt this before. By the rumble of my bowels, something strange this way howls.

And she knew where it was. But what—even Wiskeria was not prepared for it.

Every [Witch] had heard the second voice. Only Erin and Wiskeria had heard the first. But the second had been located, and no less than thirty [Witches] were heading towards Wiskeria as she met them in the wet. Nor had it been hard for them to find what was calling to Wiskeria. It was loud, terrible, a frightening sound.

Hedag led the group as Mavika, Eloise, Agratha, Oliyaya, and all the older [Witches] advanced. Their pointed hats matched Wiskeria’s blue one and Erin’s chess hat. The [Innkeeper]’s eyes went round as she saw what was shouting at Wiskeria.

It sounded like the rumble in your bones. The impact of something heavy—but sharp. It sounded like metal’s screech and terrible duty.

The voice, the object that spoke, was in Hedag’s hands as the [Witch] stared at it.

It was her axe.

Her axe was the voice. Wiskeria halted dead in her tracks.

“Hedag? Your axe is calling me?”

“Wiskeria. What craft is this? What voice runs in my bones? No Hedag has ever known this axe to speak. It is just an axe; I have replaced handle and metal again and again. Now, though—it disturbs me. Something is screaming through my axe. I fear to let it go.”

Hedag’s smile was gone. The vast smile of the terrible [Witch] who dispensed justice in places far from cities and Watches was wary. She showed the axe, brown with faded blood and sharp—a headwoman’s blade for one purpose—to Wiskeria.

It had taken more lives than many warriors’ swords. But it was not enchanted. Oh, it had sometimes born craft on its blade to deliver a final justice—but it was not a magical item.

Yet it shouted. Every instinct in Erin’s body said that if an axe started screaming at you, either pray it was a friendly, enchanted weapon or don’t pick it up.

[Witches] were sensible. Most of them had the same opinion, but Wiskeria shook her head.

“There are two voices, Hedag. One has been calling me for days, but I couldn’t tell where it was. This axe is saying the same thing—but louder. I think…my craft calls them.”

“Your craft? But your craft is useless—”

Agratha interjected before she fell silent. Wiskeria’s gaze flicked to her in annoyance.

“That was what I began to think. It seems like we were wrong. I will take the axe and see where it leads me, Hedag.”

“It is your choice, Witch Wiskeria. But I believe we must insist on watching to see what happens. Just in case.”

Eloise called out, and the other [Witches] nodded. They were worried, Erin realized. In fact, Agratha, despite her comments, had already drawn her cudgel. Mavika’s raven was on her shoulder, and Eloise’s eyes were glowing. She had actually brought a cup of tea out, but not to sip at.

They were preparing for a fight. Slowly, Hedag offered Wiskeria the handle of her axe. The [Witch of Law] wiped both hands on her dress, then pulled a dagger from her belt in her off-hand. She reached out to take the axe as Erin fished out Pelt’s knife.

“Wiskeria. Do you want to borrow this? I’ve got a jar of acid.”

She offered the blade, and Wiskeria eyed it.

“That’s sharp. I’ll take it.”

“We could gather charms for armor or a finer weapon in half an hour. I sense little hostility, but I do not like how loudly my bones rattle.”

Oliyaya glanced around, and the other [Witches] waited. Wiskeria hesitated, then shook her head as she took Erin’s knife.

“If something happens to me—leave the axe. You will need all your craft to quiet the river. Besides—if I die, my mother will be here to see why. I don’t think I will. This is my craft. For once, it calls me.”

So saying, she took hold of Hedag’s axe, and Erin waited. She saw Mavika tense and Alevica step behind Oliyaya, but with wand at the ready. She waited for Wiskeria to speak or do something, but as soon as the [Witch of Law] touched the axe handle, the voice ceased to howl.

“Wiskeria?”

Erin saw Wiskeria standing there, hand on the axe handle. She waited for another second, but Wiskeria didn’t move. Then…Erin saw Hedag clench one hand. She stepped back, and Wiskeria stood there, holding the axe handle in midair.

And she didn’t move. Erin saw the [Witches] spread out, step back in a circle, and as she walked forwards, she saw—

Wiskeria’s eyes were rolled up in her head. They showed only the whites, and she had gone as still as a statue. The axe was dead in the air, despite the weight. Wiskeria didn’t move as rain pelted her. Erin gulped.

That wasn’t good at all. She almost reached out to touch Wiskeria, but someone, Eloise, stopped her. Not that there was any point. Wiskeria’s body stood there, but…

No one was home.

 

——

 

The age of [Shamans] was over. [Oracle] was a rare class. Same for [Warlock], even [Witch] and all the other old classes of diverse magic. No one needed the title of ‘Waning World’ to know that ghosts were gone or that magic itself had diminished.

It had been a long, long time since even Belavierr had spirit walked. The closest Wiskeria had ever come was communing with Treants at sea by her mother’s side or going after Erin as she found the old man in the river.

This was similar, but different. Wiskeria found herself going to a place that had no corporeal reality. It was an idea, a representation of something. Her soul went; her body stayed behind.

This was a deeper version of what Erin had done and far more dangerous. If she died, her body would be left behind. And anything could come back.

Worse, Wiskeria had not prepared for this. When she found herself standing in the black world that she had come to, she had neither the axe nor Erin’s knife in hand.

“Wonderful.”

Wiskeria was not afraid. She was wary. If need be, she would fight with tooth and nail and carve chunks out of her essence to fight with. Ideas were as dangerous as material things, here. Her mother had taught her how to survive a journey into dreams.

But this was no dream. Wiskeria felt senses returning to her, but oddly. She smelled and felt—but distantly. She was, after all, within a different kind of world.

Even so, there was a kind of gravity, a kind of…place. Her boots were mired in something that ran around her. She heard little but her own breathing, but she had a sense of…something in the darkness.

There was so little light. It sparked, now and then in the distance, and Wiskeria saw the faint outlines of something. A lot of things.

She was surrounded. But nothing moved, so Wiskeria assumed that if this were a trap, she would have been slain. The question was—where was she and why?

“Hello? You’ve summoned me to your very being, whomever and whatever you are. Welcome me or attack me, but don’t leave me in silence. I am Wiskeria, daughter of Belavierr. Are you my mother’s enemy or friend?”

Wiskeria asked the most obvious question. Yet she received no answer. If this was some Daemon or spirit, she would assume it held a grudge against her mother.

Nothing. Now, Wiskeria heard sounds.

Drip, drip, drip. Something was running down, dripping into the watery floor upon which she walked. She heard a grinding, as of metal on metal, and she smelled iron in the air.

Blood? In the distance, that light sparked again. Again and again, a little flash in a void of nothingness. It was not one color she could see from so far; but it illuminated everything.

Something vast loomed around Wiskeria. She looked sideways and recoiled. Something was crouching over her. Wiskeria hesitated.

“[Light].”

She knew it wasn’t going to work. Magic didn’t fizzle out here; magic might not exist here. Sure enough, her hand produced nothing. At least she had her clothes, but they were only an idea. They were not the same clothes woven by her mother. If she imagined it…

Wiskeria walked through the darkness, and the swish of her robes vanished. For a second, she felt a chill and was naked. Then her clothes reappeared.

“Just an idea.”

The robes would not protect her, nor did she wish to be injured here. So where was this?

The light was the most obvious answer. Wiskeria did not want to touch…whatever was around her.

They were huge. Some of them loomed so tall she imagined they were as large as hills, and she had the uneasy feeling of things above even them. Yet nothing moved. She did not even know if they were alive.

Other things were broken as she walked, trying to time her movements to the erratic light, flashing, guiding her forwards. She kicked something heavy and nearly fell, then bent.

What am I walking through? Wiskeria felt something…wet as her fingers touched it. She brought it up, sniffed, and licked it. Then spat.

“Blood. Blood and rust and water and more.”

She could not name all of it. But it wasn’t a river of blood, which was promising. Not only blood.

To the light, then. Wiskeria ran smack bang into something as she walked into the water. It was heavy and hard, and when she recoiled, something fell to pieces, splashing into the water.

Did something die? She felt a sigh run through this place and backed away.

“If I am intruding—tell me. I have no eyes. I cannot see. If I cause offense, I apologize.”

Did anything hear her? She knew something was here, but she could not tell if it was one or myriad. Wiskeria could only continue onwards, to the light.

It was…far. Far enough that her legs burned by the time she reached it. It was a long journey, running into things that sometimes cut her slightly. Nothing moved until she drew closer to the light, whereupon she began to sense a kind of life, here.

If the darkness from where she had begun were filled with almost nothing, closer she began to pick out—presences.

Not life. There were no lungs, nor hearts to beat. If it were a life, it was a strange one, but it appraised her. Many, many lives, some faint and flickering, others cold, and most as old as time.

Her boots began to crunch on something, and she thought she walked over corpses. But what? What?

The light. It was her answer and guide. And now—Wiskeria realized it had the same voice that Erin had called something from her world. A thin, shrill scream, like a newborn babe in an inhuman, alien tongue.

It was the source of her light and, Wiskeria realized, her anchor and guide. The axe, or what had spoken through the axe, was here, too. They must be her contacts or representatives.

But what was the light?

It lay on a piece of fallen metal, so rusted it was all red and brown, not a trace of the original metal to be seen. The object there was small, hand-sized—tiny. Wiskeria didn’t know what it was, at first, but then, as she approached, she stopped.

“Impossible.”

She used that word so seldom, but she was proud of using it here. Incorrectly, obviously, but everyone used the word incorrectly. For what Wiskeria saw was impossible to some sensibilities.

She saw a tiny object, lying as if it had fallen on the piece of metal. It flashed lights at what she now realized were regular intervals. Not one color. There were three, and the little box with the slanted top and bottom was so small she could hold it up like a lantern.

Which is what it was. But there it shone.

Green, yellow, red.

Green, yellow, red.

The traffic light? It hung in her grip by a little loop, like a lantern, and brightened as she picked it up. Wiskeria felt a chill run down her arms. She began to sense a connection, but then she heard that voice like the falling of an axe blade.

Like a Hedag’s smile. She whirled, and the lantern shone with all three lights, no longer flashing the single pattern. It grew brighter, and at last she saw what this place was.

The first thing she saw was the axe. And it was the axe. Hedag’s axe was in this place. Or rather…

The idea of the axe. If you had no understanding in this place, it might be impossible to comprehend the connection. Wiskeria saw a long piece of rusted steel, tarnished and red in many places, rising from the ground. It had the shape of the axe—all in metal—but the single piece branched out.

As if a tree made of rusted metal were growing from the red water filled with rust and blood. The tree was made up of smaller axes, each blade similar in purpose, sometimes not in design. Hafts of wood transmuted to ancient metal. They dripped with blood.

Most of the axes were broken. In fact—all of them were. The tree had grown fairly tall, such that it was perhaps thirty feet tall in Wiskeria’s perception. Similar to a tree of her world—but dying.

Every single branch was broken. Red blood dripped from the broken branches, like blood. The entire thing was—perishing. Save for one thing.

A blade, an axe only slightly tarnished, shining bright among the foliage of this strange thing. This…idea, this sentience. One spark of ‘growth’ in biology so alien it could not really be called biology at all.

But Wiskeria understood it. She stepped back, for she knew what she saw. Then her lantern swung, and she saw them all.

Look and see. A throne sat among hundreds of its kind. A throne that sparkled with glass and the sun. It was adorned with familiar, golden colors that Wiskeria knew.

She had seen it on the Thronebearers’ arms. And indeed, the Eternal Throne of Calanfer looked like the seat that sat in reality. But—twisted. It was an amalgamation of more than the actual throne; it had corroded metal in places, and it sat in the bloody water. Smaller than many of the thrones.

Some were broken. Many were. One made of root and vine had calcified to dust, and the pieces lay in the water. Wiskeria had kicked some aside. The Eternal Throne was intact, but pieces of it were…

Corroded? Could Truegold corrupt? Only that would explain the pitted surface, the unnatural decay in the metal itself. Yet other parts glittered.

Beautiful, awful. Most of the thrones were like that. They grew, some so vast they overshadowed Wiskeria and the tree of Hedags’ axes by far. And still, they had fallen to ruin or decayed.

Almost no throne was without rot in one place. Only a few were truly beautiful, without flaw. And…they were one among countless thousands.

Most of them dead. Wiskeria saw the things she’d run into were made of metal, rusted, fallen to pieces in this place. Broken, no longer resembling what they had been.

Strange ‘trees’ who rusted. Pieces of metal, even what looked like gears of Pallass, forming…Wiskeria stared into the eye sockets of a dead creature that looked the most like a beast that she had seen. She turned, and the lantern winked its tri-color light.

“They’re dead. So many are dead.

Wiskeria’s arm shook. There was death in this place. This place was a morgue. There were so many dead…what? She looked at Hedag’s tree, then at the thrones, then towards one of the things towering so high she had thought they were walls to a pit. Up, Wiskeria looked. And up. And up—

And she saw a single thing towering above her. It was a single object, so vast she thought it eclipsed the High Passes. It was made of many, many tiny things.

Skulls. The head of a Drake encased in rusted steel or whatever it was. A Gnoll’s face. Humans and Dullahans—even Selphid bodies woven into the vast eye staring up at the sky and weeping the blood that formed this world.

The oldest of all. Still intact, but so broken that it informed the others. And what were these? Wiskeria looked around, and her heart beat wildly, for she recognized these things. They were like the old man, but different.

“Laws. Are you—laws?

They groaned, like metal and ancient gears, and now Wiskeria tasted oil on her tongue. Oil and rust and blood and—

She looked at Hedag’s tree and saw it differently. She saw the falling axe, that smile from generation upon generation of Hedag.

A tradition of Izril and Terandria. The law of villages and places where no [King] nor [Lord] nor Watch was present. A judge and arbiter and executioner in one.

HEDAG.

It was a terrible thing. A swinging blade that had no mercy, that cut deep where it went. Yet necessary. Some had been poor Hedags, and she saw black rot on their branches. Some had been great and built this thing larger, this idea, an amalgamation of time, law, and—belief.

But the tree withered. The Hedag’s axe only shone on one branch.

The law of the Hedag was passing away. If Hedag now died…this perished. Wiskeria could not have said if it were good or evil, for she thought that the axe buried in the bloody ground would cut her in twain if it found her unworthy. Without mercy or compromise.

Yet she found it beautiful, and then she turned and beheld the rest.

The Eternal Throne was an idea. The kingdom? A set of laws. The enforcement, the crown—the lives of mortals were one thing, but the idea of the Eternal Throne of Calanfer was something that had existed for six thousand years. It had a weight on the world, and that weight was reflected here.

Yet it was corrupt. She saw it in the beauteous throne. She saw where law had been subverted and the rot set in.

Some thrones were completely engulfed by it. She recognized some sigils embedded in fleshy growth eating at the metal. A few were so twisted that they barely resembled thrones, and some had been infected from the start.

She saw a bulbous plague in this place. A rotten nest of good intent. But it had long, long since been twisted. Now it was murdered.

Spikes of stone had hammered apart Tombhome’s old laws. The immortal flesh still smelled sweet, but—had the beings of this place destroyed it themselves? For it was corrupt. It had been from the start. It was made of A’ctelios Salash’s flesh.

But even that Carven City had nothing to eat here. Everything was stone and metal. Immutable things, in theory. Wiskeria looked up at that vast eye staring sightlessly at the sky and felt at her own left eye. Then she saw it.

“Death.”

One of the oldest laws in existence bled from the countless lives that had made it. The oldest idea of civilization; the oldest consequence.

Death. An eye for an eye. If you break the law—then you will die. The tallest laws in this place were that simple. A twisted hand curling around half of this reality, severed—grasping, protecting much of the laws from the void beyond.

Possession. What is mine is mine. Then Wiskeria looked down at the object she held and recognized it again.

The traffic light. It shrilled at her with that tongue from another world, a concept like the chirping of traffic lights that Laken Godart knew. Tiny. A babe as these things understood it.

Perhaps it would grow—or like the countless objects buried in the ground, it would die before it even grew. Attempts at civilization, ideas crunched under Wiskeria’s boots wherever she went.

This was the world of law and, perhaps—civilization. But it was a terrible, frightening place. There was no gentleness here, and rust overtook all but the most shining ideals.

Look there. A throne of Khelt stood almost untarnished, made of sand and the weight of bone, cast in brass. But it had cracked. Cracked almost in half, and it was held together only by will.

Wiskeria could have wept for Khelt, for all these failed dreams. Millions, billions of lives had made them unwillingly. She looked at the lantern and then, at last, heard the whispers.

She had missed them because she didn’t realize who spoke to her. She had missed them because they were so deep they sounded like the shift of the earth itself, like the voice of tectonic plates. She was too small to encompass them normally. Here?

They spoke, and her ears bled. They spoke, and Wiskeria saw.

They were the enemies of her mother. They were the enemies of monsters and chaos. They were not united. Some laws contradicted each other. They warred and grew and died here. Striving to create something beautiful out of this wasteland of ideas. And they grew amidst filth, amidst foul desire and ill deeds.

Even so, some were beautiful and simple. Some were unsullied, and they tried. An endless war against everything that had seen great victories and setbacks.

They knew her. She was her mother’s daughter, and the Witch had torn so many of them down over time. She had been the corruption in thrones. If they could have—they would have slain her, and nations had tried.

But these things had no power. No voice, only a wrath locked in this place. They sometimes, rarely, had outlets, but they had lain helpless. Helpless…until her craft was revealed and called to them.

After all—Wiskeria fell to her knees as the lantern shone and the laws called to her.

She was a [Witch]. And they wanted her to speak them to the world.

Then she saw it, and her eyes, green and yellow, like a plain field of daisies, turned red as she wept tears like the liquid in this place into the ground. Her nose and ears ran with blood, and Wiskeria felt a dozen hands grabbing at her, like shadows.

She was dying. Death spoke to her, and Wiskeria felt blood vessels rupture. Yet—

“I hear you.”

They wanted something from her. Wiskeria smiled through bloody teeth. Smiled and smiled as [Witches] hauled her back. She looked down at the bright lights.

I agree.

Then she felt a crow flapping its wings, a burning hand on her shoulder, and the Hedag’s law howled in triumph as a hand as dainty and firm as steel itself took her and—

 

——

 

Wiskeria opened her eyes. Then she began to cough, and she was deaf and blind. Blood ran from her ears, down her throat, and a dozen hands were on her.

We have her back! Hedag, the axe!”

Agratha shouted, and Hedag raised Master Helm’s hammer with eyes that sparked with cold intent. She lifted the hammer high and brought it down upon her very tool—

Stop!

Hedag’s arm jerked as Wiskeria screamed. The other [Witches] recoiled as Wiskeria threw out a hand. Wiskeria spat blood from her mouth and realized they had taken her inside the smithy.

“Stop. Stop—don’t break it. It’s yours. They didn’t harm me. It didn’t harm me. They were just too loud. As vast as an idea even beasts understand. Even when they whispered, it was enough to overwhelm me. Do insects have laws?

She was babbling. The [Witches] stared at her, and Erin knew the answer to the question.

“Wiskeria. What happened?”

The [Witch of Law] sat there. Then she wiped at the blood coming from her face. She felt at her ears and realized her eardrums were not burst; a relief. She stood shakily.

She felt alive. Alive and giddy—and terrified! How long had it been since…? She smiled with bloody teeth, and Agratha eyed her worriedly. But Erin saw the smile as Wiskeria laughed.

“I met Elementals. I need—I need—Master Helm!”

She looked around, and someone jumped in the crowd that had gathered to watch another mysterious event happen. Helm flinched as everyone turned to him.

“Witch Wiskeria? Can I help…?”

Strike a fire into your forge, Master Helm! Bring me steel. I need you to make something. Hurry!”

Helm froze up. One look at Wiskeria, running with blood from every orifice like some victim of a horrific attack, and he was sure he didn’t want part of that. She was smiling—which made it worse.

“Wiskeria, stop and explain what you intend. You nearly died. We pulled you back when you began to bleed.”

Even Eloise was concerned. Yet Erin saw Wiskeria’s urgency, and she felt a tingling in her bones. Excitement in the air. Her craft called to her. Not Wiskeria’s, but informed by the look on Wiskeria’s face. So Erin raised a hand, and a spark of pink and strange flame that shimmered and dazzled the eyes with a series of colors sparked across her fingers. She flicked it into Helm’s forge, and a mundane fire roared up. Then Erin spoke.

“She’s a [Witch] about her craft! Don’t get in her way!”

Every single other [Witch] turned to look at Erin—and then Hedag took her axe, regarded it, and touched the brim of her hat.

“A [Witch] speaks! You heard her! Flame and steel, Master Helm!”

She tipped her hat to Erin, and the [Innkeeper], laughing, tipped her hat right back.

 

——

 

By the time Laken Godart got there, the forge was in full operation. Helm and three other [Blacksmiths] were working on something, piecing red-hot metal together, casting the discarded slag aside as Wiskeria ranted and raved.

Mrsha was there too, and they stared as Wiskeria shouted.

“No, a smaller fit! Almost—we’re almost there! Bring it to me, Mister Prost! Cut it down if you must, but I need both body and vessel!”

“What’s going on? Wiskeria?”

Lady Rie went to find out what was going on, but Laken Godart could sense it. He found Witch Eloise, who gave him a summary of the events as she saw them.

“Wiskeria was approached by a…a power in Riverfarm not half an hour ago, Your Majesty. She made contact with it.”

“Power? What kind of power?”

Laken was instantaneously alarmed, but he relaxed—slightly—when Eloise told him about the axe.

“We believe she encountered Elementals.”

More Elementals? And she’s binding one? No more.”

Laken was adamant, but Eloise hesitated. She glanced at Wiskeria.

“You may have to physically subdue her to stop her, Your Majesty. Nor are these Elementals of the kind that are in the river. These are…perhaps worse. Perhaps better.”

“What are they, Eloise?”

For answer, the [Tea Witch] spoke as the glowing traffic light was ported to the blacksmiths working on a small creation in steel.

“Elementals of Law.”

She said it as if she couldn’t believe it herself. Mrsha’s eyes widened, and she thought about what that meant. So did Laken. That didn’t sound so bad?

Mrsha was running for the guest houses. Nope. No thank you. She had a better idea of what kind of Elemental that might mean. And even the [Druid] could sense something coming.

There was a lot of power in the air. Laken felt like he was staring at a sun. Or…the fingers of something pressing across reality. He felt like backing up.

“Just—just how easy would it be to stop her?”

“The real question is—do you want to make an enemy of that? You sense it too, Your Majesty?”

He did. And he did not want to make a foe out of—Laken bit his tongue as the traffic light appeared. Even the most innocent of ideas turned into this! He had no doubt it was part of it all—

All three lights were shining bright, like spotlights into the air. And he was sure Nesor hadn’t enchanted that.

“Evacuate everyone who isn’t needed from the smithy. A hundred feet. At least. Summon Beniar, and put a blade in everyone’s hands. Ask the Goblins to get ready for—something.”

Laken made his decision fast. The [Witch of Law] was reaching out, pulling something across the void like Erin had. But what?

 

——

 

A thousand forces reached out across a void even further than the one the Seamwalkers had climbed. And as thin as an idea.

They were old and young. Weak and strong enough to bend reality across a hundred civilizations, as immutable as time, as corrupt as mortal ambitions and sin.

They needed Wiskeria. And she…she longed for them. She was a [Witch], but one of law and justice and order. Only she could hear them, and they had screamed their will a hundred million times over the ages to any who might listen.

Even so. Their voices had grown louder only when the right conditions were met.

A vessel. An instrument emblematic of them that could anchor their spirit. Not a throne. Nor a book. Instead, the metal box, the streetlight of unchanging signals.

It had screamed to Wiskeria, but she could not see. Now—desperately—she tried to reach out, but she had to anchor them in both physical form and understanding.

How could a law be a thing? How could you believe in a law like you believed in the spirit of a river? They were nothing you could see. They were ideas.

And Wiskeria was weak because she believed in nothing true nor anything real but her mother’s magic. The connection wavered.

Then, the [Witch of Law], as she held the burning steel, as she reached into that graveyard of ideas and intent—saw the [Innkeeper] watching her.

The [Innkeeper], not the [Witch of Second Chances]. She looked back and remembered their conversation on the rainy night as Erin began to realize what it was to be a [Witch]. And she looked forwards and saw it.

Lost amidst the blood and decay. Like a growing plant, a strange tree as stubborn as the mountains. Small, so tiny it had barely taken root. It grew, green metal and wild, uncompromising fire. A law, lost amidst the multitudes that had never taken shape.

Yet still, it grew. And it was that certainty in her eyes. The will to impose a law upon the entire world. It rose like mercy, newly forged, and Wiskeria read it as she understood.

No Killing Goblins. Then a wild smile was on her lips. She reached out, understanding what it was to both desire something with all the helplessness in the world—and all the will. She pulled, and the lights shone uncompromisingly. A [Witch] who knew the oldest of ways. Touching the very soul of law itself.

Her craft. And the other [Witches] saw and bowed their heads as Wiskeria drew something out of thin air. An idea coming to rest in a body of steel.

 

——

 

The [Witch of Second Chances] watched, without running, as her friends skidded to a halt, as Gamel and the Thronebearers backed everyone off. They called out to her, but Erin just saw Wiskeria bending over a piece of metal still so hot it scorched her hands.

Metal, not gelatinous liquid. Metal, for something as immutable and as stubborn as…

Law.

Then Erin heard a scream. A shriek that made the Goblins and Humans clap a hand to their ears. They began screaming back, in fear, for they had never heard a sound like that, and it disturbed them.

Some of them—but Numbtongue raised his head. And Inkar? She and Tkrn looked at each other as they stared at Erin. Inkar saw the [Innkeeper], whom she had described as a friendly hill, standing with the strange [Witch of Law]. She saw another great, terrifying mystery descend on the world.

Like Khoteizetrough, but as small as something you could hold hands with. Unlike the old man, the river, this was newborn, days old. And it screamed and wailed like a newborn babe.

In tones that reminded her of electronic sounds. The chirping of traffic lights, the artificial tones of a computer. A synthetic voice crossed with the old bones of metal.

A new being in a new world. Its cry ran through Riverfarm, and the rain ceased as the old man heard the voice and stopped—out of disbelief, astonishment—

And fear.

Wiskeria lifted something up in her hands, and a bright blue light shone from a single eye. A rounded, perfectly geometrical opening in a tiny being of metal. Like the small version of the traffic light.

But this body had legs. Almost like a spider’s, and Helm had fashioned a dozen little limbs, but only the legs had fit. Slowly, it rotated, the sharp tips of its feet digging into Wiskeria’s hands. She was burnt, bloody, but she felt none of the pain as she beamed down at the little Elemental of Law.

Bound to the traffic light of all things. The lights on the traffic light flashed in synchronicity with the little Elemental—then it returned to blinking red, green, and yellow.

After all, the rules of the street had to be enforced. The first agent of these powers gazed out at Riverfarm’s people. It looked around, and the light flashed red as it focused on the fleeing little Mrsha. Then it swung around, and the hostile glare intensified.

But the [Innkeeper] just bent over it, cooing, as the Elemental of Law made furious chirping, quasi-electronic sounds.

Oh my gosh. It’s a robot!

It was sort of like one, or a magical robot. But the thing scuttled back and began flashing its angry red light at Erin.

“I think it recognizes you as a foe, Witch Erin. Us too.”

Oliyaya remarked, eying the little Elemental with distaste. It was inspecting everyone, and it already had opinions.

It did not like Alevica. But strangely—it seemed to beep at Mavika warily, and her raven cawed back. As if she were not completely bad. It scuttled over to Hedag, who backed away from it, but it was friendly to her. And Eloise. Agratha it positively liked as the [Witch] exclaimed over it.

And Laken—when the [Emperor] approached, flanked by his guards to demand what Wiskeria had done, the little lantern-being slowly sank onto the two foremost legs of its eight. It bowed to him.

“Well, I quite like that.”

The [Emperor] smiled as Erin put her hands on her hips in outrage. The Elemental of Law looked around, and Wiskeria turned to Laken.

“Here, Your Majesty, is my craft. I see it now. I cannot take justice from Riverfarm’s folk, nor is law that easy to tame. But so long as people obey the laws—I shall have my magic. I am a [Witch] of a new kind of pact. A pact of ideas set against my mother and many kinds of [Witch]. We shall both see what the future holds.”

“A fitting [Witch] for an empire.”

Eloise opined, and Laken nodded. He bent over the Elemental.

“Can this…being do anything? Does it have a name?”

Numbtongue was peering at the creature, who warily inspected the Goblins, with a good deal of distrust. It was a thing of law, after all, and it was no friend to Goblins. But they had laws, and Ulvama of all people got a little dip of the legs like a nod.

She regarded the Elemental of Law with pure horror and backed up behind the others. Erin was hurt by the little lantern-thing’s distrust of her. She bet it would just love Zevara. For answer, Wiskeria shrugged. She tipped her hat and nearly toppled over backwards until Hedag caught her.

“Steady, Wiskeria. You’ve done a [Witch]’s work, eh?”

Hedag smiled, and Wiskeria beamed herself. Such an odd expression on her face because she wasn’t good or used to smiling. But it was so genuine it put a smile on even the wary Riverfarm folk’s faces. They did like her, after all.

“Thank you, Hedag. I don’t know, Your Majesty. All I know is—this one is the first of many, perhaps. I’ve taught the Elementals how to reach out. More pacts will be made by [Warlocks] and those who can hear. Any Elemental has power; I don’t know what an Elemental of Law can do. A Water Elemental can purify water or fight. This one is small, but it will grow. A name…perhaps Riverfarm can come up with one?”

Erin snapped her fingers.

“I’ve got one! How about…Trafficlighti? No, Traffy!”

The others looked at Erin, and the [Witches] slowly shook their heads. The enraged little Elemental began to blind Erin with flashes, and she backed up.

“Okay! I’m sorry. I’m sorry!

 

——

 

What a strange day. There was no great flash of light or battle to herald Wiskeria’s work, but the Law Elemental was proof enough. The rain resumed, hesitantly, nearly an hour afterwards.

As if, perhaps, the Water Elemental in the river was reconsidering its wrath. It had sensed the Law Elemental, but it was old and the power of this interloper was weak. The rain was beginning to pick up, and the river remembered his anger. Now, he stoked it with the fury of another being opposed to him.

He would rise up and cover the land. He would erase this village and devour until he could create his own body. Now he knew how—he spat upon the banks where the [Witches] tried to stop him. He could grow faster than they could raise the land.

So he would kill them. Kill and…

The old man in the river hesitated. Hesitated, as he sensed the being of metal and oil coming his way. And the two [Witches].

There were more, but he recognized those two. Wiskeria and Erin walked to the river’s edge as it roared and pushed against the levees, so high it was in danger of flooding the fields.

“Old man. Old man, I’ve come to offer you a deal.

One sweetly bent over the river’s edge. She crooned to him, and the old man in the river hesitated. This was the one who had ignored him for so long. She held the glowing being with an eye that blinked at him. A pathetic thing.

The river swelled. He reached up for her—and Wiskeria drew a dagger. Just a dagger, but she let the Elemental of Law crawl onto one shoulder. Then she bent down, pulled part of the river up in an impossible surge of water as it roiled around her in shock.

Her craft glowed in her eyes as she stabbed the water. It rushed down around her hand as she let go.

The river felt that. Just a tiny prick, but it had never, ever been wounded. Now, the river suddenly fell silent, flat as glass, as Wiskeria bent over it. Smiling.

She had her mother’s smile. But what was reflected in those eyes weren’t immortal rings, but a calm, plain world. A world without great magic where his kind died. She looked the river in the eye and spoke.

“I offer you a deal, old man. Stop flooding. Stop raging, and lie quiet. Beg someone else, and never come to Riverfarm again.”

And why would he do that? He was a river! The old man’s fury was roused like the wrath of the forests—until he looked up and saw the oldest law behind Wiskeria.

Death.

The river quailed. Wiskeria bent low as the [Witches] and folk of Riverfarm watched, and her voice was only for him and the Elemental of Law and Erin.

“Lie silent and still and go elsewhere, old man. Beg a [Mage] for help or wait until this place is bone and dust. But trouble me and I will call you into a body and murder you here and now. Law rules, not your watery kind. Every being will have their chance, and law will change and learn and grow. But trifle with Riverfarm and I will cut your heart out and feed it to this one. Do not make Law your foe.

The river trembled. He was old, and he had seen and felt the Treants leave this land when he was young. He remembered the forests, and he had heard the last Dryad die.

He just wanted…he wept as he sank, fearing the bright stare of the new kind of being, cousins as strange and alien to him as the folk who walked above him and swam his body.

Then—someone else called his name.

An [Innkeeper]? No, a [Witch]. A young [Witch] with a hat above her head swinging with little chess pieces, awkward and hesitant. Guilty.

“I’m sorry!”

The river stopped. The second [Witch] bent over him and called down as the [Witch of Law] stepped back, her threat made. Erin Solstice looked down, then looked at Wiskeria and her Elemental of Law.

Erin’s craft hung in the air. Wiskeria had some of her craft. It was in Riverfarm’s folk, even the [Witches]. It was so familiar that Erin had known it—but she had not given it a name.

What was it? Kindness? No. Glory? Again, no, these were things Erin had learned, but they were not at the heart of her craft. That was the stuff of [Innkeepers], and Erin wielded them well.

Something else was in her soul. A burning flame, of course. Second chances? Obviously. But what was all this made of? It was the most obvious answer. Erin reached out and pulled it in. In delight; she had caused it a hundred times. It filled her up and burst from her hands. It burned, a strange flame.

Not one color, but like the color of the night sky. Like the stars raining down across her [Garden of Sanctuary]. A translucent, dark flame, like the night sky, shot with streaks of color, from pink glory to pale grey mercy and sadness and guilt and more. Her craft.

Wonder.

Erin pulled it into her, and then it was all around her. A burning flame, making Wiskeria back up and the Elemental of Law hiss at her. She heard a call as she apologized to the Elemental of the River for what she’d done.

“I’m sorry—”

“Erin? Erin!

Of all the times! Erin looked up, and Lyonette screamed at her.

Your hat’s on fire!

What?

Erin looked up and yelped. Her hat had caught fire! The cloth was blazing with magical fire. Erin grabbed it frantically, and her hand passed straight through the burning flames.

The poor cloth Agratha had gifted her was long since eaten up by the wondrous flame. Wiskeria looked at Erin’s hat. A flaming hat, pointed and made of fire, was burning across Erin’s hair. The [Witch of Second Chances] felt at it—and the wonder burned brighter. Then she began to giggle and laugh.

“Showy, but it suits her. Don’t you think?”

Agratha was nodding along as she watched with the other [Witches]. Hedag just threw her head back and laughed.

“Now there is a [Witch]’s hat!”

It burned as Erin turned back to the river. The old man stared longingly up at the [Witch] of flame and wonders, reflected on his face. She bent down and whispered to him.

“I’m sorry. I was cruel to you. I always am. You don’t understand good or evil. Drowning people is bad, to me. I can’t let you run wild. You’re dangerous.”

Behind her, the [Witch of Law] nodded. The river wilted and wept. But he understood. Erin wiped at her eyes.

He was so lonely. She understood that. Her voice wobbled.

“I can’t bring the forests and all your friends back. I’m sorry. But I do believe in second chances. Not third.”

“Erin?”

Wiskeria’s smile vanished. The Law Elemental beeped warningly, but Erin drew something out of her bag of holding.

“I know you just wanted to see us. So—I’m going to give you a little gift, okay?”

“Erin, don’t you dare give him a body—”

Wiskeria raised her knife as the Elemental of Law turned red. But Erin was too quick. She threw something into the river, and the greedy water grabbed it. Wiskeria lunged—and stared as a round ball of crystal sank into the water.

“What the—a scrying orb?”

The glowing ball was flashing with a laughing Drake’s face as Drassi sank into the depths of the river. The greedy river had no concept of a scrying orb.

No one had ever left a scrying orb inside it. Nor could it really understand a single orb in its water. But Erin’s craft filled it as she poured all the power she’d taken from her audience into it.

Wiskeria looked at Erin. The Elemental of Law was trying to project a beam of hostile light into her hair, but Wiskeria covered the eye with one hand. Then—the muddy river was receding. Lowering, as the old man’s wrath abated.

Riverfarm’s people watched, even Cade. The boy was afraid of the river now, but his eyes widened as he peered out of Briganda’s arms.

For—the entire river, that long stretch of water, as smooth as glass right now—suddenly lit up. And it began to glow like a mirror, and suddenly, Drassi’s face shone across it. As if the river were the scrying orb.

She was taking lessons from a [Chef] in Pallass in a cooking segment. The scrying spell lit up the entire river as Wiskeria looked at Erin.

“Did you know that would happen?”

Erin winked at her.

“Nope.”

The river fell. The promised wrath never came, nor did it turn into a roving Elemental. In the days to come, people would be wary of it and the levees would still rise, for it was a wild thing of ancient times. Children would be cautioned to be very careful of the river.

All this was fair, even if the old man did not strike at Riverfarm again. But the one thing that would define him and give him a new nickname in the days to come was a strange phenomenon.

They called him the Scrying River, because now and then, one of the television broadcasts would appear for as long as a mile on the water, and a passerby could watch the news on his surface.

All because of one [Witch]. But then—Erin was not the only one. She had given a river something to watch and learn from. In the days to follow, Wiskeria’s craft would be even more notable.

Visitors coming to Riverfarm and seeing the new traffic lights would be instructed as to their simple usage. It made traffic easier, and with the new road lines, traffic jams were less frequent.

But bad and hasty and careless drivers still existed. So someone running a red light or improperly turning would break that law of traffic—and hear an enraged shriek. Then they would look up and see a being of metal glaring and shining a light on them from on top of one of the hanging traffic lights.

The Elemental of Law’s power was mostly to shame someone. It would scuttle after a dog relieving itself on the sidewalk if its owner didn’t pick up the waste. It stared and shrilled at someone breaking traffic laws or tossing trash on the ground.

It was the most annoying thing in the world, but it was young. And growing. What it became…well, that was for Riverfarm to see.

 

——

 

Much love to them. Really. Erin found a lot to admire in Riverfarm. From the friendly people, the tolerance to Goblins, and, she had to admit, the [Witches] themselves.

But it definitely wasn’t her place. Nor did she think she and Laken were on the same page. They would best be described as how Erin liked Wiskeria.

Someone who was slightly opposed to her viewpoint, but who she could respect. That was a good way of seeing it. It was hard for Erin to be humble, sometimes; she liked doing things her way.

But she felt like she’d learned a lot from the [Witches]. As Agratha pointed out, Erin had a lot still to learn.

“Fundamentals, my dear. Fundamentals. Can’t you stay another week?”

“I, uh, have to get back. I heard something crazy is happening back home. There’s yodeling Drakes, and I’m missing it!”

Erin had spent three more days in Riverfarm, not blowing anything up or causing chaos. She actually felt bad about going, but she knew she had to. Agratha sighed.

“Well, we may have to send some teachers to help you out. As a [Witch] to another [Witch], of course. Liscor does seem like a fortuitous place to be, and as Wiskeria proves—[Witches] can be parts of cities.”

“Not I.”

Mavika croaked, but even she nodded to Agratha’s statement. Their class was changing. Oliyaya chuckled.

“Perhaps I shall send Alevica to visit and impart lessons and gifts.”

“Er, no, that’s fine.”

Master!

Alevica protested at the same time as Erin. She was going and saying her farewells to everyone. But what was notable was who was going with her group. And who was not.

Numbtongue was clasping arms with Leafarmor and Raidpear, and Gothica was jabbering to some of the Goblins who’d begun adopting her style. Ulvama stood, ignoring Pebblesnatch as the [Cook] waved and sniffed into her apron—until Pebblesnatch ran over and hugged her leg. Then Ulvama patted her head.

But Pebblesnatch was not coming with Erin. Nor were the other Goblins. She’d asked them, and they were staying. Even Laken was mildly surprised as he shook Erin’s hand.

“I thought one would go, at least.”

“They’re your people.”

Erin couldn’t meet Laken’s eyes, so she tightened her grip slightly.

“I guess they trust you enough to stay. Take good care of them.”

“I will.”

He returned the grip, and the two glanced at each other. They’d had a few words in private, and Laken sighed as his head turned to ‘survey’ Erin’s companions.

“You have been the more interesting and delightful of the two visits I’ve had from—friends from home, Erin. Less casualties than when Ryoka visited, but my invitation stands if she ever comes by.”

Erin snorted. They were loading up the carriages as Inkar shook Prost’s hand and he gave Garia a huge load of seeds and goods for Wailant. Lyonette was talking to Eloise, and Mrsha?

Mrsha was inspecting a little [Witch] standing alone, looking lost. Laken and Erin turned as Nanette waited by the carriages.

That was the last thing. Laken and Erin walked over, and the goodbyes halted as Erin bent over.

“Nanette? Are you sure you want to come with me? It’s your choice.”

“If Mother wanted me to, I’ll go.”

The little [Witch] whispered. She had sat with Nanette an entire day and tried to talk to her about Califor or ask her how she was feeling, but it was as if she weren’t reaching Nanette. The girl stood like she had sat, alone, even with Mrsha right next to her.

The little Gnoll girl was staring pointedly at Laken, and even if the [Emperor] couldn’t see it, he could sense the stare. So he knelt.

“Nanette.”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

Laken opened his eyes, a rarity, as if hoping to see her. His voice was kind as he spoke.

“The [Witches] tell me you bear a heavy, heavy burden. So heavy it’s crushing you, but they cannot take it away. Because you are a [Witch], you carry it like a real thing.”

He meant her hat. Now, Erin sensed it. She looked at Nanette’s cute, pointed hat, and it seemed like the heaviest thing in existence. The little [Witch] hung her head, and Erin didn’t know how she stood.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Do you have to carry it, Nanette? Can you let it go? It will be your end, Eloise tells me.”

The [Witches] nodded as one. They looked at Nanette along with Riverfarm’s folk. The girl’s blank look turned into something closer to a stare in this reality. She gazed at Laken—then slowly tipped her hat up.

The rains had long since gone from Riverfarm, and the autumn day was sunny enough. The mud had long since dried, and the overflooded areas were recovering slightly.

But as Nanette tipped her hat up, water fell. It rushed from her hat, as if the entire river were encapsulated there. It poured down around her hair as Laken jumped and stood. A rushing torrent spread across the ground, rushing past Mrsha, the surprised Goblins, and the [Witches]. They stood as it poured over Nanette’s head.

Water without end, for fifteen, sixteen seconds. Then she lowered the brim and stood, dripping. Erin was drenched, but not by rainwater nor river water.

Tears. And there were more under Nanette’s hat. So many it seemed like her neck would break. Her face was blank and empty.

“I cannot take off my hat, Your Majesty. Nor remove them. I’m sorry.”

“Your class came to you too soon.”

That was all Agratha said, and there were tears in her own eyes. Hedag lowered her head, and Nanette shook her head slightly.

All Laken did was exhale. He looked down at Nanette, and his own eyelashes fluttered, and he brushed at them. Then he glanced at the little girl watching him and nodded.

“You were right, Mrsha.”

Every head turned to Mrsha, with suspicion and wrath and sudden nervousness. But the girl sat there, waiting. Laken looked down at Nanette.

“Nanette Weishart. In deference to the will of Califor, whom I consider both savior and hero of Riverfarm, the great [Witch] of her era, I will let you go wherever you wish. Riverfarm will always welcome you, but it occurs to me that you may see no relief. No rest, so long as your hat hangs so heavy. Your very class weighs you down, and I fear you will drown. So—I have been told that there is something I can do for you. By a very wise…very connected young girl.”

His head turned sardonically, and Nanette looked confused. Laken slowly held his hand out.

“I am an [Emperor], Nanette. While you stand here, you are still a citizen of the Unseen Empire. That is the pact your coven has made with me. If you wish it—I will remove your class.”

Erin’s eyes widened. The [Witches] looked at each other, and a murmur rose from those listening.

An [Emperor] could do that? Only Ulvama didn’t seem surprised, and Eloise and Lyonette. But they all watched as Nanette stared up at Laken.

“My class? But…I’m a [Witch].”

“I know. You don’t have to be. It may be easier for you. It is your choice. No one will force you.”

Nanette raised a hand to her hat. Her hands, so still, suddenly trembled. A note of emotion entered her voice. Uncertainty. Fear.

“It’s…it’s heavy. But it’s my hat. My mother made it for me. It’s my class.

Laken waited. Nanette shook her head. She backed up.

“No. It’s my hat. It’s—all I have left.”

She would have turned and fled, Erin was sure, but someone else spoke. Erin was searching for the right words, and it turned out she didn’t need to. Not yet. She would, but Wiskeria stepped forwards.

“Nanette.”

The girl whirled to her as if afraid Wiskeria would snatch her hat away. She clung to the brim with her hands, but Wiskeria just looked down at her.

“It is killing you. You bore happiness well, but not sadness. Califor would—”

She wouldn’t take my hat! Not ever!

Nanette shouted back, a note of desperation in her tone. She stepped back, and Wiskeria shook her head.

“Of course not. She would never do that. But I think she’d be quite sensible. Do you know what I think she’d say?”

“What?”

The girl stared up at Wiskeria through wretchedly empty eyes. Brown and too old, now. Wiskeria looked down at her and hesitated. She turned, and an [Innkeeper] closed her eyes.

Erin Solstice whispered.

“I think…if Califor were here, Nanette, she would tell you this. ‘A hat is a hat. A girl is a girl. If it is too heavy for you to bear now—put it down. Put it down and rest awhile. Then come back when you’re ready for it.’”

The young [Witch]’s head turned, and her fingers trembled, as if holding back a dam.

“Pick it up later? Can I do that?”

“Of course you can. A [Witch] is always a [Witch]. Class or not.”

Agratha herself said that, and Oliyaya nodded along with Eloise and every [Witch] present. Nanette looked at Laken. Her fingers tightened—and then, with a sob in her voice, she spoke.

“It’s heavy. It’s so heavy I can’t feel a thing. I can’t let go. Can you hold it for me? Just for a bit?”

“…Of course.”

He whispered. Laken Godart reached out as Nanette slowly held up her hat. No water fell, but her arms trembled.

“How do I…?”

“Just accept it. You are no [Slave], nor is this a sin. Will you put it aside? Nanette Weishart—do you relinquish your class?

She looked at him. There was no ceremony, nor did Erin feel anything but a prickling, goosebumps on her skin. Like a trembling bubble about to burst? Like someone reaching out and lifting something impossibly light. With no substance. A hand, reaching out and touching the fabric of the world.

Nanette’s eyes opened wide, but there were no tears. Nothing—she looked at Erin.

“I can’t feel anything. Yes. Just for a bit. I want to cry.”

She let go of the hat, and it drifted down into Laken’s hands. The [Witches] sighed, and the [Emperor] caught the hat—then his hands trembled. He tried to hold it, but the weight of that piece of cloth bore him down to his knees until it pressed his hands to the ground. It weighed him down—until Nanette reached down.

She picked it up and stared at the blue hat, sewn for a girl. It was just a piece of cloth in her hands. She tried it on, and it slipped on her hair. Then she looked around.

“I don’t…I don’t feel a craft. I don’t know what you’re feeling, Your Majesty.”

She looked about and met Erin’s eyes. And saw Mrsha looking at her worriedly. Nanette stretched and looked around.

“I feel light. I don’t feel a thing.”

Tears were running from Agratha’s eyes, so she took her spectacles off. Eloise silently handed her a handkerchief, and Hedag’s smile was pained. Mavika bowed her head, but when Nanette looked at her anxiously, the [Crow Witch] spoke.

“If you were sure—you were a [Witch] then and now. What will you do, Nanette?”

“I guess…”

The girl gulped. Now she looked uncertain and terribly afraid. Laken turned his blind gaze to her, and Nanette’s voice wobbled.

“Does she—does my mother have a grave? I never even asked.”

 

——

 

Califor’s grave was one of many for the people who had perished in Riverfarm’s fires. Laken had asked if a more suitable tomb would fit, and the [Witches] had claimed it should not matter. Her legacy mattered more than her resting place, so he had commissioned statues and ensured her story would not be lost.

The tomb was square and simple, because it had to be, because there were so many. Flowers decorated many, wreaths and gifts.

Califor’s was empty, brushed clean, but empty, as if waiting for Nanette to visit. The girl still had her robes. Her mother had made them. But she took that blue hat and placed it on top of the tombstone, just so, as if it were wearing the hat.

The wind blew, and the hat fluttered in the wind, but it didn’t budge. It was far too heavy. Nanette bowed, spreading her robes out as if she were bowing to the [Witch] herself. Then she turned.

“I’ll come back for it. Alright?”

“It will be waiting for you.”

The [Emperor] promised. Nanette looked back at the stone. She felt at her head, and her tangled hair was messy. But she looked lighter. She blinked around in the sun, and her stomach rumbled. She stared at the little Gnoll and then at Erin.

Then—and only then—she seemed shy and afraid.

“M-Miss Erin? May I ask a question? Is it an inn my mother wanted me to stay at?”

“Yes, an inn. Do you want to come? We can always come back. I promise.”

Erin was suddenly terrified, anxious, and she wanted to reassure Nanette and say all the things the girl hadn’t heard. But Lyonette nudged Erin aside.

“Hello, Nanette. I’m Lyonette, and I’m very pleased to meet you. Your mother was a grand woman and a [Witch].”

“Oh. Thank you…are you royalty?”

Nanette shook her hand timidly, and Lyonette smiled.

“Whatever would give you that idea?”

Nanette peeked at the Thronebearers shyly, then Mrsha ran up. She held out a paw to shake, and the girl hesitated.

“I—I don’t mind going, Miss Erin. Your Highness. It feels like I’m waking up. May I ask a question?”

Her voice trembled as she looked around again. As if the last few months had been a bad dream. And she woke into…a cool autumn day and stared at the tombstone where her hat lay. Was it a better waking world or…?

“Go ahead. What is it?”

Erin held her breath as Nanette scuffed her foot on the ground, embarrassed.

“Where…where is Liscor?”

 

——

 

Halrac Everam watched as Nanette slowly packed her things into the carriage. She did not have much; she was used to travelling with her mother, so she had only a small bag of holding and a rucksack.

Briganda was crying again. The instant Nanette had asked Laken to take her class, she’d started and never stopped.

It was quite, quite annoying because the [Shieldmaiden] had a hiccuping sob that was very loud, and Cade kept telling her it was okay. Then he began crying.

It was not the moment that Halrac wanted to say goodbye to Erin in. He longed for a private place to say something.

And as if she knew it, the [Innkeeper] walked towards him, looking shy and concerned that Briganda was there. But the [Immortal Moment] that had begun, to let Nanette say all the things she wanted to the other [Witches]. To her mother…

It enveloped him. Erin came to a stop and shyly ducked her head to Briganda.

“Hi, guys. Sorry I caused such a mess. Are you okay, Cade? I can step over here, Briganda…”

She pointed to the side, but Briganda lifted a hand as she blew her nose—on a messy handkerchief.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, alright?”

She had forgiven Erin, and the [Innkeeper] looked relieved. She waved at Cade, looking so sad, but the boy just stared up at her, clinging to his mother’s leg. He had never understood why it was Erin’s fault, and now he spoke.

“You have a pretty hat, Miss.”

Halrac glanced up in surprise. Erin was wearing nothing on her head. Her brown hair was untidy from being blown about by the wind. The [Hunter] had eyes almost as good as any son of House Veltras who had inherited their Skills and abilities.

Yet he saw nothing on Erin’s head. Until he shifted and the wind blew—and he thought he saw it. Perhaps it was just a memory.

But that was her fire. The flaming hat still burned, flickering over the [Witch]’s head. Erin beamed at Cade.

“The trick is to never take it off. I’m gonna go now, but I’ll be back—and you can visit whenever you want, okay? Just not in the spring, maybe. I don’t want to get into more trouble.”

Briganda looked blank, and Typhenous chuckled. Cade solemnly shook Erin’s hand.

“I’ll be a [Witch] when I grow up.”

Now that made his mother nervous. But Erin just tipped her hat with a huge wink. Then she rose and turned to Halrac.

“We didn’t get to hang out as long as we wanted, did we?”

She looked sad about that, and the [Bowman] shrugged, face blank.

“These things happen. I’m glad you levelled up and found your…craft.”

I’m not!

Revi wailed, and to everyone’s astonishment, they saw she was sniffing. She stared at Gothica.

“I’ve met the only person with a sense of style here in this entire dratted continent and she’s going off! Stay another week!”

Erin laughed, but guiltily.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to visit us, guys. Or I’ll finally upgrade that door. But either way, I promise—it won’t be long. The inn is changing. So am I.”

She stood in front of them, and none of Griffon Hunt could deny that. And that hurt Halrac most of all, because the girl who had not changed for so long was different before their eyes. Not worse, no. Not with flaming hat and certainty in her eyes, but she was different, and he was old enough to mourn that. And wise enough not to fear it.

But Erin just turned to Halrac, then she threw her arms around him. Typhenous chuckled as he watched, but this time, Halrac squeezed back a bit. They stood there for a while, until he felt like he’d had a hug as long as you actually wanted to say goodbye.

It just took a bit of forever to do that. The [Witch] and [Innkeeper] stood back, sniffing, and Halrac looked at the girl walking towards the carriage uncertainly.

“Take care of Nanette. She needs help more than anyone else right now. I think you might be what she needs. Laken would not let her go if he didn’t think that.”

Erin nodded, eyes serious. Then she reached out.

“Halrac Everam—I’m going. Revi Cotton, Briganda and Cade Rishaw, Typhenous…um, Typhenous…?”

She turned to him, and the [Plague Mage]’s gaze twinkled with mirth.

“Typhenous the Plague will do, Miss Erin. Or Typhenous the Face.”

She gave him an exasperated look, then, solemnly, recomposed herself and nodded.

“Typhenous Face.”

He began laughing as Erin turned to them. Halrac rolled his eyes and found Revi was doing the same. But he listened as Erin took their hands, one by one, and spoke.

“If I can help Nanette—you’re what Riverfarm needs. You’re the reason Goblins are walking around here. It won’t be long before we meet. But you’ll come back. And when you do, I’ll finally be able to give you the welcome you deserve.”

The Gold-rank team looked at each other. Revi sniffed again. She took off her nose because it was runny.

“Only you could make guarding a village sound heroic. We’re not the Horns. Or the Halfseekers. You—you take care of yourself. Alright?”

Erin hugged them all one last time and turned to Halrac. He nodded to her, then paused. He felt embarrassed, but he needed a hint.

“What are we supposed to do to become that team you want to welcome, Erin? I don’t see many monsters or as many disasters cropping up here.”

She gave him a surprised look, then wagged a finger scoldingly. Erin stepped back and gestured around Riverfarm. Her arms took in the [Emperor] observing them with blind eyes, Master Helm and the folk of the Unseen Empire, the [Witches], and even the watching Sariant Lambs.

“Halrac! Everyone needs a home. I’m glad I saw yours.”

The [Bowman of Loss] opened his mouth to protest, and he looked around. This wasn’t Windrest—but he saw his folks gazing at him. He saw Pebblesnatch watching anxiously, as if afraid Erin would take her favorite adventurer away. Then he staggered as if she had knocked him over with a word. He really was slow on the draw today. He looked at Erin, and she pointed at him.

“If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. But it seems to me like you guys are putting down roots. Trees get up and walk and hit people, or so I’ve been told. But Griffon Hunt might be stronger for Riverfarm.”

Then she was waving and Mrsha was clinging to Halrac’s boots and asking if they could take just him. And he reached down and picked her up and hugged her and told her he’d be back. To visit.

It was a promise.

 

——

 

Everything was going to be different. Nanette sat in a carriage and knew that truth. But [Witches] knew these things, and a little girl, Mrsha, gripped her hand and kept glancing at her to make sure she was okay.

Lyonette was speaking about rooms and friends and the city, and Nanette saw the [Witches] standing there. They tipped their hats to her as the carriage began to move away.

She left her hat behind. It sat on the tombstone, and Nanette felt light. She felt alive, and she saw the anxious [Witch of Second Chances], the [Magical Innkeeper], watching her.

Suddenly, Nanette wanted to know how Erin had met Califor, properly this time. She was hungry, and her feet hurt, and she felt thin, and her robes were smelly from not being washed for a while.

“Miss Solstice?”

“You can call me Erin, Nanette. In fact, you’ve gotta if we’re living together. Miss Solstice is, like, my mom’s name.”

Erin smiled—then froze and looked guilty—and a Goblin wearing black kicked her so hard in the shins Erin swore. Nanette stared fearfully at Gothica, but then she felt the urge to laugh and had to hide it.

But she was no longer a [Witch]. So what came out of her mouth was hard to hide.

“You really did meet my mother?”

Erin looked up.

“I swear I did. Her ghost was so—so tough she kept me safe the entire time I was dead. And she kept talking about you. She made me promise to seek you out, even if you didn’t like me.”

Nanette nodded. Then she felt a prickling in her eyes. Not a twitching in her toes or a crawling of her skin. Tears, wet and mundane, began to spill from her eyes. She sniffed—and her nose ran—and the [Princess] gave her a handkerchief, and the girl, Mrsha, patted her hand anxiously. The [Innkeeper] looked at Nanette, a reflection of grief in her eyes. Nanette began to sob, but she asked.

“Was she—did she look happy? Did she put a smile on other people’s faces?”

She began to cry as they left Riverfarm. Cry and cry, but not without end. With all the grief she’d been holding in her hat. Then she listened as Erin told her stories, and sobbed and ate and breathed.

All the while, a little Gnoll girl was patting her hand and telling her not to cry because they had a chocolate tree. And—and she’d introduce Nanette to Visma and Ekirra, and they were going to be best friends.

The two were so upset that Ser Sest did the only thing he knew to do when a [Princess] was crying, and began to try and sing a lullaby, as if they were both six. Then Mrsha tried to attack him, and Nanette tried to pull the Gnoll off the [Knight].

Then she and Mrsha looked at each other, and both thought they saw a reflection, however strange. Nanette stopped crying and felt guilty. Until she realized she had years and decades and however long she lived and thereafter to cry.

She was so tired of it and so guilty at being tired—until Mrsha solemnly took her hand. Then she began trying to explain who she was, beginning with her names, and she had many. Nanette bent over the writing Gnoll.

“Who’s Relc? Who’s Gire-u-lashia? Are you sure they’ll like me?”

They had better. Or I’ll stab them with a toothpick.

Mrsha puffed out her cheeks and stomach fiercely; she hadn’t quite mastered posturing. But then she was asking what Nanette liked.

“I—I do like sweet things. And flowers and herbs.”

Then we’ll go to Wailant’s first! He’s a [Pirate].

“A [Pirate]? I’ve only met a few crews.”

Then Mrsha’s eyes went round, and she looked at Nanette. And she realized that she, Mrsha the Worldly, had a friend almost, possibly slightly more travelled than she.

As for Nanette? She looked at the kind, slightly presumptuous, certainly arrogant-as-an-[Emperor] girl sitting across from her. She realized something at the same time as Lyonette let out a breath she’d been holding since the carriage started rolling.

Erin did likewise. The two whispered in the way of meddlesome adults, as if believing a witch and a Gnoll couldn’t hear them.

“You know, Erin. Mrsha doesn’t have any friends who can always visit the inn. And I imagine it’s hard to be a young [Witch] roaming about as, uh, they do. This might have been a good idea after all. Did Califor think of this, do you think?”

Erin smiled.

“That was the first thing she asked me—if my inn had any children in it. We’re going to need a playground. Or, at least, explore some of the cool gardens.”

Nanette looked up sharply, and everyone realized she had no idea about Erin’s gardens. Mrsha clung to her delightedly, and then the young witch felt it.

Once a [Witch], always a witch. Even if the walls of the box weren’t there. For the first time in a long, long while—Nanette began to look forwards to something and stared out of the carriage.

It reminded her of walking with her mother and asking where they were going next. It might be scary or dangerous—but she had a vision of following Califor and humming a song. Nanette began to hum it now, and Mrsha listened, then joined in. A little nursery rhyme.

 

Onwards, onwards we go.

Over green pastures and field and snow

Where we’ll end up, nobody knows

So onwards, laughing together down the road.

 

That was how the [Innkeeper] left Riverfarm. With a promise to return, with wonders and knowledge and deeds done, but no death, for once. It was a poor vacation, perhaps, but it was a start.

The party headed back to Invrisil and to Liscor. Two new souls, two new guests and parts of the inn’s family in tow.

Nanette Weishart, a girl with no class, wondering what she would do and when she would come back to claim her hat. But not afraid of the journey. She looked around at a strange family welcoming her in, and remembered how her mother smiled.

Two souls. A witch, and in the hamper containing all the now-eaten lunches for the ride back, a Sariant Lamb. A quiet traveller on a great journey of her own, for death and glory and salvation and terrible, terrible indigestion. But they only found the lamb the next morning.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: With edits, 39,000 Words. It was about 35,000 after two days.

I think we have established something and it is this: I write better after my weekly break. Say what you will, but the power is there and I sprint without stopping. Hence me being weaker at the end.

But sometimes you get stuff like Valeterisa’s chapter at the end of a writing month. I think it’s about consistency, though. Sometimes I can write too much, so there’s a negative on this side.

Here we are. Back to Erin’s story.

Writing is exhausting and it’s fun. I regret…well, I once thought Terry Pratchett was that madman who claimed it was enjoyable as the end product himself. I regret to say he was right. As always. Sigh.

That’s all from me. I’ll try to tone it down next chapter, but who knows? Let’s see what happens and try to make it a good trip. Thanks for reading.

PS: Taking ideas for the law elemental’s name. Toren was a good one. Can you beat uh, Trafficlighti? Someone suggested ‘the Legis-light-or’. Please, save this poor Elemental.

 

The Ivory Five, Zimrah, Gershal, and more by Lanrae!

 

Valeterisa’s Buisness Face by LeChatDemon!

 

Crusader 57 by son.chapo, commissioned by dado!

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/son.chapo/

 


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Interlude – Relationships

As they drove away from Riverfarm, Erin was napping. A little witch curiously watched her face as Erin dropped off.

One moment, she was full of energy, talking about her [Garden of Sanctuary] and promising to show Nanette around—the next?

She quietly fell asleep. Or rather, began dozing. She began murmuring and nodding along to Ser Sest reading out Mrsha’s pithy comments. Then she was sleeping with one shoulder against the carriage door.

What surprised Nanette was that no one else was surprised. Lyonette whispered to her as Gothica fished around the carriage.

It was Mrsha, Ser Sest, Gothica, Lyonette, Erin, and Nanette. A good mix for a single carriage. The other carriage and riders rode ahead of them. It was a quiet ride, not that bumpy, back to Invrisil.

“She’s almost out of energy. I think she ran out of stamina potion again.”

“Stamina potion?”

Lyonette nodded. Then, and only then, did Nanette learn that Erin couldn’t walk. At least, not without magical help. She stood and did everything with potions.

“She uses it to keep up her energy if she’s been running about all day. It’s getting expensive. At least Octavia provides the potions, but she’ll run out of her healing…gel…at some point.”

Lyonette commentated as the Goblin and Gnoll put the blanket over Erin. Nanette was astonished.

“I didn’t know Miss Erin was still recovering. No one did. Well—”

Then she thought of the older [Witches]. Maybe they had, but they’d respected Erin’s privacy, at least there. And Laken? Had he known?

Erin slept as Lyonette smiled wanly at Nanette. She reached out and patted the girl’s knee.

“Erin’s recovery has been slow, but she’s back. I trust you know about that?”

“All of Riverfarm knew that His Majesty was trying to help someone. I…”

Nanette hesitated.

She had been lost in her own world as distant as Erin’s. She looked at Erin, and Lyonette’s smile looked old. She sat there as Mrsha glanced up, and then Nanette saw it.

They looked like people her mother had met who had survived natural disasters or monster attacks. Not [Soldiers], but veterans, survivors of something. And it did not make them wholly poorer. Sometimes, Califor said, an earthquake downed houses. It broke walls and burst dams and shifted mountains. Then it unearthed steel in some people’s souls.

The [Princess] looked at Nanette.

“We all went somewhere. I journeyed to Oteslia, and—I made quite a number of mistakes. But we did what we could. You’ll meet more people who went further and did far more than I to bring Erin back. Now, we’re seeing what the inn looks like. It hasn’t been that long since Erin woke back up, Nanette. I hope you’ll fit in. We are all finding our way, as you’ll see. Even if some pretend better than others.”

She had a strange way about her, Lyonette. Nanette knew she was a [Princess], but she was also a mother, despite being just eighteen. If anything, she reminded Nanette of someone twice her age at times. Shyly, the young witch nodded. She liked Lyonette already. She hoped she would like this inn.

Yet she was no silent Gnoll, and Lyonette seemed keenly aware that Nanette would not fit into the same spot that Mrsha had when she first came to the inn. Nanette proved this in the next moment. She nodded at Erin.

“I’m glad Miss Erin did leave Riverfarm as friends. I don’t think she and His Majesty—Emperor Godart—really liked each other that much.”

Lyonette blinked.

“No, they quite respected…”

Then she fell silent. The carriage rolled on, and Erin began to dream. She had been half-listening to all of this, but too exhausted to speak and too tired to really remember what she heard consciously.

But she dreamed of things they had said. True dreams.

 

——

 

“You’ve never asked me about my story yet. Legends have presented themselves to you; that even I must admit. But I? I inform your very world, and few can match me, I swear. Don’t you want my secrets? I think we would quite like each other.”

Erin Solstice looked up, and Nerrhavia bent over her. The young woman was making a burger in the lands of the dead, and memory was forming, piece by piece. She was remembering cooking one up the first time she’d made one. The hungry ghosts were eating the enjoyment, the feeling of triumph as much as the taste.

Nerrhavia smiled, and Erin scowled.

“I don’t want to hear from you any more than Roshal’s people. I know what you did. Califor’s right. Words can be like poison, and you have poisonous fingernails.”

The ghost of the Immortal Tyrant innocently hid her painted nails behind her back. Her face-paint was a work of art, her body a second vision of perfection, or what she thought perfection was. She wore, as so many times, the gown in which she had died, still marred by her own blood.

“But you and I are so similar. Our moralities differ, but I was no high-born woman. I was not even cloth when I was first born into my fading kingdom. I was a simple scribe, a Human woman good with numbers. I made everything they curse me for, and ‘Nerrhavia’s Fallen’ now wastes. All because I sought it. You understand that.”

Because Erin did—she turned away. She put her fingers in her ears.

“Lalalalala. I’m not listening. There’s no scenario where I become a tyrant and enslave people. Forgetaboutit.”

Nerrhavia drifted past Erin, amused. She spread her arms to an imaginary wind, and the dark fabric of her dress shifted, as if it were a pair of black wings, as it blew behind her.

“Why would I make you a [Ruler]? You would be so very poor at it. But you know that even if the [Witches] get their way—all they are giving you is a power that sticks. Ultimately, your struggle will be far greater than even mine. Even empowered by legends and myth—there’s something none of them bring up, don’t you notice? Goblins.

Erin glanced up. The Immortal Tyrant smiled in that superior way of hers.

“…There’s no Goblins here. There’s a lot of history. I get it. People died to the Goblin King.”

“And you protect them. You will be a [Goblinfriend] and set yourself against more enemies than I dreamed of. Do you not want to hear a piece of advice from someone who survived it all for a thousand years?”

Erin hunched her shoulders. Nerrhavia drifted until she was leaning over the [Innkeeper]. She whispered, so intimately that Erin tried to throw her off, but a sweet, calm voice spoke in her ears. Then it dropped away, turning more casual, not as eloquent or practiced, and Erin heard how the woman called Nerrhavia had crafted her image. And she wondered how much of Nerrhavia had ever been deliberate.

“…the secret for your great deed, Erin, is not to hesitate. You are a fine player of chess. You break your opponents who are lesser than you into pieces. A kind girl. A merciless player.”

She had watched Khelta lose to Erin along with a score of ghosts. Of all the talents that set the girl apart, and for all the awe around her, she was still one of the greatest in her talent. Such as it was, to Nerrhavia.

Erin scowled.

“I know to be ruthless. Is that all you’ve got?”

“No. Not all. Just don’t hesitate when you reach for a hand and find one covered in blood. Your ‘Goblins’ will let you down. I know people; how many will be murderers of innocents or harm people in self-defense? How many of your Redfangs are [Raiders]? Trust no one without loyalty. Don’t mistake me. But even if you want to be as pure as any [Knight]—you will always need someone like me.”

“To do the horrible things?”

Erin shivered. And Nerrhavia gave her a scornful look and tried to slap her across the cheek—lightly—and looked Erin straight in the eye.

“No, silly [Innkeeper]. No—because I think that if you had fallen into my kingdom when I first began to take it, or even later, when they screamed my name a thousand times, I would have made something of you. Something fierce and deadly, such that they would have called you the [General] who crushed any army. Or a [Queen] of your own, or perhaps just a [Witch] or the [Innkeeper] you are.”

She had said this time and time again, and Erin’s rebuttal was on her lips, her snide comment.

“Yeah, and if you met me, you’d be a great [Innkeeper]. Or a [Barmaid].”

Then, as they stood together, Nerrhavia threw her head back. She laughed, and the other ghosts looked at her askance; she bent over and kissed Erin on the lips. Or tried to. Erin felt the slightest touch of a ghost and recoiled and batted at Nerrhavia’s face. But the ghost whispered in her ear.

“Yes. Perhaps I would have been. You need souls like mine, Erin Solstice. And I think we will seek you out. For—what you do for Goblins—can you not do it for your guests? I would have needed you if you existed. Look at the Sage of a Hundred Thousand Secrets and his wretched tale. If he had known you, could you have filled that gap that drove him to death before greatness? Reach down and take my hand, poisoned or not, in my many forms, and I will reward you with loyalty.”

Then Erin knew she was dreaming and remembered all the things she wanted. She recalled this conversation exactly, even if so many things were hazy—

But she really hadn’t remembered the kiss. A dreaming Erin sat there, looking exasperated and worried.

—And the Erin of now stepped outside her body and regarded Nerrhavia in her dream. Poisonous and sinuous. Someone who had abandoned her very humanity in a literal sense. She had cut her flesh off and replaced it with cloth. Because she thought it suited her.

Every move she made was beautiful. Beautifully corrupt. Beautifully arrogant. But what made her alive even in Erin’s memory of the deadlands and the faded souls there was this:

She had never forgotten who she had been. A woman had become the Immortal Tyrant, but she had changed herself until she faced down Giants and other ghosts. That was the problem.

Erin looked at Nerrhavia and cursed her, because she always knew what to say to people. It was kind of good advice.

“…But how can I trust you, Nerrhavia? Even Roshal sounds like they make sense, if they speak to you long enough. I wish I didn’t sort of like you. I wish I had no enemies.”

She floated through her dream and that conversation between the [Innkeeper] and one of the ghosts who had shaped her upon waking. Erin almost woke there and then—until she saw that head turn.

Nerrhavia looked straight at Erin. Not the dream Erin, but the real one. Even dreaming, Erin felt her heart start in her chest, a rapid pulse. And the ghost of the Immortal Tyrant reached out. She caught Erin’s hand and lightly pinched with her nails. Erin flinched at the sudden flash of pain, but the tiny cut was all. Nerrhavia let go.

“Trust? You have been speaking to Drakes and Khelt’s folk too long, Erin. I trusted so few. Do you love something? Grasp it, even if it burns you alive. That is what the [Witches] taught you. But rather than hold fire like a pretty torchbearer—let it burn you and transform you. I leapt into seas made of venom and swam deep. Trust me? We are already embarking on our final adventure. And I have chosen you for my tale, [Innkeeper].”

She reached out, and Erin backed away, trying to wake up. Wake up—but the tyrant did not come for her with blades or poison, but gently caught Erin’s hand as if she were a suitor and bent to kiss it.

 

——

 

Then Erin woke. With such a start that Mrsha tossed up her hand of cards in surprise and the bad hand rained down around them.

“Huh?”

It took a moment for Erin to come back to herself. It was evening, and she looked down and saw Nanette and Mrsha had been playing cards. Erin realized she’d been asleep in the carriage all day! Shakily, she looked around.

“Lyonette?”

She gazed around and wondered if Nerrhavia had made it. She was still halfway in her strange dream. Then she woke up more, and relaxed.

Just a dream. Erin smiled until she noticed the tiny cut on her wrist. She stared at it for a long time, then brushed at her lips and shivered. She looked back at the cut, then decided to put it from her mind. Not to forget, but because she was sure—

This wasn’t over.

Lyonette wasn’t here; she’d traded coaches to hang out with the older passengers. Instead, Erin got Ser Dalimont, a snoring Ulvama lying on the other side of the carriage, Gothica, again, and the two children. Nanette was already learning Mrsha’s language.

Erin apologized for startling the others. She rubbed her eyes and wondered why she’d dreamed of Nerrhavia. Probably because of Laken. She had not liked him, for all he’d come across better than Magnolia’s Earthers had. If anything, that was why; he had his opinion, and hers differed.

But she quite respected him. Sort of. It was like the [Witches]. Erin realized that was his place, and she’d needed to bite her tongue at times. So why had she thought of Nerrhavia?

Perhaps she was sensing something. Or…Erin looked at Nanette and saw no guile, nor duplicity like Nerrhavia. But it was sometimes what you didn’t see that mattered. Erin closed her eyes, then spoke a name that almost no one had spoken—nor thought of—for most of the trip.

“Shriekblade? Tessa? Are you in here?”

Dalimont glanced up. Gothica jumped as a voice spoke.

“What do you want?”

Erin slowly looked up, and Mrsha and Nanette panicked as they realized the scarred Drake all in black was in the carriage—and she’d been clinging to the roof the entire time. Like some monstrous gecko, her tail curled around her waist—she stared down at Erin with two huge eyes.

“There you are. Do you get tired of hiding all the time, Tessa?”

“Nope. I feel great. Need me to hurt someone? Like a lamb?”

Erin wondered why she was bringing up the Sariants. Laken had hated them, but they’d barely done more than stare at her and Wiskeria. Of course, the [Witch of Law] had kicked at them every single time one got near, so they were right to be wary.

“No…I’m just wondering how long you want to keep doing this. I know Ilvriss has hired you—”

“What? Is something wrong? Do I smell? I can take a bath!”

Instantly, looking alarmed, Tessa swung herself down and landed in the center of the carriage. Dalimont was checking his side, but the Named-rank was fixed on Erin. The [Innkeeper] shook her head.

“No. But how long do you…want to keep guarding me and the inn? Do you want to do this until your contract runs out? How long is it?”

Tessa gave Erin a blank look.

“I have no idea. Someone manages my money at the Merchant’s Guild. Ilvriss didn’t say how long. I’ll do it forever. Or until I die.”

“Forever? Why?”

For answer, Tessa just produced a little, shining vial and smiled as she held it up.

“My cure. This is everything I want. Not even the Healer of Tenbault can do this. Just give me a few hours every week off. I don’t want gold, except for potions or whatever. I’m rich. I’ll pay you.”

She stared so longingly at the vial that Erin was worried she’d pop the lid and drink it now, but Tessa seemed to read Erin’s thoughts. She held up the sparkling vial. It kept changing colors; in the setting sun, it was gold, then orange, then a dark green against her black cloth armor.

“See? I don’t even need it. Breathing feels better. Someday, I might feel like having sex. Or…”

A blank look crossed her face, and Tessa looked around. Erin held her tongue, but she had to ask.

“Or what? Breathing feels better? Did it—not?”

Erin didn’t even think about breathing unless she was tired, in which case she felt a straining in her lungs, a sense as if she couldn’t inhale properly or ever fill her body with enough oxygen. But that was the failure of a body that had been frozen. Tessa just shrugged.

“I remembered a day when breathing didn’t feel like a chore. I don’t know why. The Healer of Tenbault made it so that I could lie in the sun and smile, but it always faded. The flowers make me…normal.”

Then a strange smile spread across scarred lips. Then Tessa blinked and felt at her expression. As if she didn’t know what it was on her face. She gazed at Erin.

“Don’t make me go. Eating is good. Watching plays—I laughed. Even bathing feels nice. What else? It doesn’t matter. I’ll serve you even if you need me to kill monsters every day. Alright?”

She looked at Erin pleadingly, and the [Innkeeper] half shook her head. But not in denial. After seeing that?

“I’ll never make you go. If that’s what you want—okay. But we’ll have to talk. And can you not disappear all the time if things are okay?”

Instantly, the Named Adventurer was relieved and burst into a real grin.

“You want me to appear? I can do that. Anything you want—even—well, anything.”

She was so eager to please Erin should have been relieved, but it was that first smile she was chasing, as frightened of itself as it was uncertain. She couldn’t bring it back now; she had no time. But she would find it again. For now, she let the Drake tuck that vial back in her clothing.

Tessa climbed back onto the ceiling of the coach as if her gloves were sticky and she were as light as a feather. Everyone stared up as Ulvama woke up to see a giant Drake hanging over her. Erin sighed as the [Shaman] screamed.

“Not like that. Just—normally.”

“Alright. I was sitting on the top of the carriage and looking for [Bandits], anyways. Be more visible. Anything else?”

“When we get to my inn—I want to talk with you. About you.”

“Sure. I guess that’s easy.”

Of all the things, that seemed to make Tessa more uncomfortable than the idea of killing monsters. She crawled out the window—or rather, rolled the glass down about four inches, then, disturbingly, squeezed out the crack as if her bones were liquid for a moment.

That was when Erin started hearing Nerrhavia’s voice in her ears. She wondered how badly—hurt—you had be to need Faerie Flowers. Halrac was one thing, but Tessa? She sat, troubled, as they headed back to Invrisil.

 

——

 

It was a two-day trip this time. The [Drivers] for this route back had a better set of Skills, so they claimed they could do a two-day haul and have them back in the morning.

It surprised Erin, because she’d assumed that the best [Drivers] were in Invrisil, and it had taken them three days. But the [Driver] up front assured Erin he was better.

“We might not be Named Drivers—”

His buddy chortled as they parked near the inn, and Erin raised her eyes, not knowing the secret system of [Drivers]. The man went on.

“—But we’re faster than most! [Rapid Driver] is Otto, here, and I’m a [Competitive Racer] in my spare time. I was a [Jockey].”

He was a shorter fellow, as many [Jockeys] were, and he had a very affable air compared to Otto. Well, Otto had a spike in his tongue. Ornamental, not a casualty of some injury.

“What’s with Otto’s tongue-spike?”

The other driver didn’t speak much, possibly due to it. The first [Driver] was named Cornerer, which Erin assumed was a nickname. Probably having to do with rounding corners? Or aggressively running his opponents off the road and into obstacles.

“It gets the ladies interested. We’re very respectable, Miss, but we do like the wild races you can find hereabouts. Driving is just a side-job.”

They came very highly recommended, which was why Lyonette had engaged their services. As for why two highly-qualified road-racers were part of the local scene? Cornerer looked astonished.

“Why, the local races are picking up strong around Riverfarm, Miss. No better place to be a [Driver] like us or race. I’m not surprised you got some slower fellows at Invrisil. We ran them out of business in the area.”

“One was a woman, but yeah. Why’s that?”

Otto winked at Erin as he chimed in.

“Riverfarm’sh shafe. Goblins?”

He spat in Numbtongue, Ulvama, and Gothica’s direction, but in a rather approving way, especially for Gothica’s bladed parasol. She gave his tongue spike an approving look and tugged Ulvama’s arm. The [Shaman] slapped the claw down in a way that said, in the Goblin’s parlance, ‘no, I am not piercing your tongue for you.’

Otto grinned.

“Goblinsh nothing. No [Bandits], no problem!”

It seemed as though Laken’s safe roads and empire were attracting interesting opportunities. At any rate, as everyone bedded down for the night, Erin was glad to spare a day of travel, and as always, she liked meeting people.

…She was less pleased to wake up in the middle of the night because she was so energized from her long nap. Erin would have probably still slept; she needed more rest, and this wasn’t her inn where she got twice as much sleep.

—But she happened to hear some loud, if distant voices and peeked out the window. There she saw a night-race involving Inkar, the two drivers, and among the competing racers—Numbtongue. He thundered down the town street on horseback past Erin’s window as she stared at him.

 

——

 

“Numbtongue. Are you being sliiiightly irresponsible? What if you got hurt? Why was Gothica up and betting, and what if you crashed?”

The Hobgoblin folded his arms and stared at the ceiling. He wore the expression of someone who was slightly irritated, mostly resigned, and sad about being caught.

…Because of Erin. She was trying not to lecture him. She’d just stood there in the common room of the foreign inn as he came in, and he acted like he was in trouble.

“It was safe. They had lanterns.”

“But you’re on horses, not cars or bikes.”

“Inkar said the horses could see. People don’t often die. I’m a big Goblin. Can I go to sleep now?”

The [Bard] stared past Erin’s head, annoyed. Then he glanced to the side.

“I’m not childish. Shut up.”

Then he turned the other way.

“You too.”

Erin opened her mouth. She assumed he was speaking to his ghosts. He wasn’t always that obvious about it, but she knew that at least two of them were Pyrite and Shorthilt. Numbtongue was recalcitrant on there being any more. She thought about it.

“I get it. You don’t want a lecture, huh? That’s way too bossy, and you’re an adult Goblin, like when you and Lyonette got into it about the computer. Don’t treat you like Mrsha. Am I right?”

He brightened up a bit.

“Yeah.”

Erin nodded amiably. Then she raised a palm and slapped his stomach as he stretched out. The [Bard] oofed reflexively and sat up hard. He glowered—and Erin poked him.

“Hmm?”

“Stop that.”

His eyes glowed with annoyance, but Erin poked harder, and he shifted to avoid the finger.

“Hm? Huh?”

“Stop that.”

He growled, but Erin kept grunting and poking him. Numbtongue went to shove her away, lightly, then grabbed one hand. Erin made a fist. He grinned—annoyed—and went to grab her.

“[Minotaur Punch]!”

Numbtongue ducked the punch and smacked his face into the table. Erin waved her fist warningly. Don’t try that on me!

He let go of her hands, and she kept poking at him. At last, the [Bard] snapped.

Stop that!

Erin stopped communicating in the eloquent way of Goblin poking and folded her arms.

“I’m not Lyonette. I’m sure she lectures, but I’m just asking you if that was dangerous. I know you’re an adult, Numbtongue. Gonna behave like one?”

He turned red, stared at her, and then swatted at something by his side.

Shut up!

An invisible Goblin ghost had apparently made a snide remark. Now embarrassed, Numbtongue folded his arms again and stared sideways, blushing. He glanced sideways at Erin.

“Fine. Maybe Gothica was bad. She tried to get on horses too, but she’s too small if they go wild. I was safe, though. They have Skills to protect horses and riders. [Race Organizers].”

“Ah. See, that makes sense. You could have led with that.”

The [Bard] grudgingly nodded. He seemed astonished at being called out and probably remembered the other times he had asserted his difference from Mrsha and Bird. Erin quite appreciated it, but she had been making a point too.

“Numbtongue…nothing’s the same, is it?”

She sat in the dark inn, where the [Innkeeper] who had given them rooms for the night was peeking at Erin, much like a housecat stared at a lion who had wandered into her abode. Erin waved at the woman, and the [Innkeeper] ran away.

Numbtongue sat up, looked at Erin, and stretched out.

“Yeah. But you’re breathing. It’s pretty good, eh?”

“Yep. Breathing is better than being an icecube. No one, uh…cooled their drinks on my body while I was out, did they?”

The Hobgoblin began snorting as Erin grinned. Then she grew serious again. She kicked at the table and looked at Numbtongue.

“So you and Garia are sorta close? And…you and Octavia?”

The Hobgoblin bit his lip, then exhaled. If he did not appreciate being lectured by Lyonette on being ‘responsible’—this was the one conversation he didn’t want to have with Erin. Especially because she was trying to be tactful about it. But this day had to come. In fact—he looked at her and wished they’d had this kind of chat before she was shot.

Way back when Earl Altestiel had first proposed to her.

 

——

 

That damn [Knight Marshal of the Rains] had ruined everything. It served him right, getting rejected and bawling his eyes out before running back home.

That was how Numbtongue chose to remember and recollect the events to everyone he met.

A [Bard] was allowed to have creative license, but as Pyrite would calmly point out in that way of his—while Shorthilt teased and Reiss offered advice—

That had been a personal moment for Numbtongue. A moment when he had looked at Erin and hinted, hinted very strongly, but still not managed to say the thing that had been on his mind for a long time.

Which was that he quite liked Erin. A lot, in fact, and if she had not been the [Innkeeper], the person who had helped change his life, and if he had had any kind of hints—he would have said something long ago.

If she were a Goblin, in the Redfang tribe or just in general, it would be so much easier. Goblins had their own methods of attracting each other, and they were sometimes direct, but other times extremely subtle.

Numbtongue had heard from Headscratcher that once a Redfang [Smith] had forged her name onto another warrior’s blade. He had used it and bragged about it for six battles without ever noticing the tiny inscription near the handle. Then his buddy jumped him, won the blade, and offered it back to the [Smith] along with some Pallassian steel ingots he’d seized from a raid.

That was the level of romantic drama you got in even the Redfangs, the least subtle of tribes. Now, Erin was sitting right next to him and asking him about Garia and Octavia.

Mostly in the sense of whether or not both women were aware of the relationship and okay with that. Numbtongue would have rather talked about love with Mrsha; she’d run away in disgust. Even Bird. Even Lyonette!

But not Erin. He was…passing fond of Erin. In fact, Numbtongue had quietly wanted to say something long before Altestiel came along.

That he did not was for two reasons: first, he did not quite want to lose what they had. Second, because they were best of friends and family, and he didn’t know if that would have made them good lovers.

Life was too short for a Goblin warrior to hesitate. If Headscratcher were alive—Numbtongue would have held his peace forever. Which was ironic because Goblins could have open relationships, the very idea that Erin was struggling with. Of course Garia and Octavia knew.

“And they’re okay with that? None of them want to be, um, girlfriends with you?”

He gave her a blank look.

“I don’t want babies. I said that, and both of them agreed.”

Very vehemently. With that out of the way, what was the problem? It was not ‘girlfriend’ or ‘boyfriend’. It was just fun.

Very fun. Erin grew uncomfortable, and Numbtongue stared at her. He put his head back, stared at the ceiling, and Shorthilt stood over him.

“Say it. Say it. Say it—”

His ghostly finger poked Numbtongue in the forehead.

“Go away. No.”

He spoke, and Reiss and Pyrite pulled Shorthilt back because—Numbtongue looked up at Erin as she wrestled with the idea of an open relationship.

“As long as they know. That’s good! Y’know? Everyone should be happy. Everyone should find…someone. I mean, Lyonette has, I guess. I haven’t seen her and Pawn together that much.”

Numbtongue’s carefully blank stare intensified. Erin went on, frowning.

“Not that I spy on them. But I don’t pry! And Ishkr? Okay, now I think about it—only Jelaqua’s in a long-term relationship. Typhenous is trying to court Eloise. And Mavika. He’s sort of like you.”

Numbtongue opened his mouth and then thought of Typhenous. He decided the comparison was a compliment and closed his mouth. Meanwhile, Erin was talking herself into or out of something. She kept raising and lowering her hands.

“If she’s, um, doing well, that’s fine. I’m not a prude! It’s her life, and that’s fine. Yup. Yup. So as long as it’s good—”

She turned to him, and he grunted. It felt like someone was squeezing his chest.

“It is. What about you?”

Erin paused, and for a second, she looked at him. Really looked at him—and instantly glanced away. She stared into the darkness of the inn and hesitated.

“I…want to fall in love, I guess. But I don’t quite know how it’s gonna happen. I have a lot to do, but when I was dead—it was on my list of regrets. I don’t want to die without trying, Numbtongue.”

“Right.”

He waited. He looked at her so long he knew she sensed it. And she glanced at him, and she was silent.

That was why he said nothing. Because if Numbtongue could read Erin’s face, her troubled, mixed expression, then he was sure she could read his. She had once read him like a book and seen a person in a Goblin covered in blood, lost and wandering.

Whether it was kindness or a reluctance to change things, she never said anything to push him. But she definitely didn’t so much as hint, either. Perhaps she didn’t know.

Perhaps there was a chance. Numbtongue had had conversations with his three ghosts, like they were wingmen, for hours, in his head, at night, until they all walked off because even the dead got tired of speculating with him. Yes, they agreed, there was a chance.

A great chance, perhaps. So he could have waited. But it was like someone who was dying of thirst staring at a stream covered by a piece of unbreakable glass. It was like starving for one hint and a chance.

And Numbtongue had starved before, well and truly nearly died of hunger, not merely gone a few days in a fast. He was tired of it. You could die of it.

He looked at Erin in the darkness, and the [Innkeeper] looked palpably unhappy. So unhappy, so wretchedly uncertain that the [Bard] saw it.

Here was not the smiling [Innkeeper] who only slipped when she was going to therapy with the [Healer], or kept everything hidden away in her gardens. This person was as unsure and nervous—guilty as he wanted her to be. When she looked up, she searched his face as if she had never seen it before.

“Are you happy, Numbtongue? After all’s said and done and everything that’s happened? Do you still want to stay in the inn?”

He jerked and looked at her, but the moment of pain faded as he saw her look. So guilty. She raised her eyes, and he nodded.

“Yes. It’s good.”

It was all good. So why was this almost as painful as waking up and knowing she was a block of ice? Far better than that—far worse than anything he would wish on his brothers.

The [Witch] looked straight at Numbtongue with eyes that saw everything, and the [Innkeeper] gazed at her friend, who she knew possibly better than she knew herself. He wrestled with only his tongue.

“Do you think you’ll find love, Erin? Or go searching for it?”

He caught himself and corrected his words, cursing. The [Innkeeper] closed her eyes. She spoke to the ceiling.

“I liked Earl Altestiel a lot, Numbtongue. Even if he was a weirdo who called down rain—and you know, Niers is a weird guy.”

“Dangerous.”

The Goblin’s heart sank. Erin nodded. She ran a hand through her hair.

“Yeah. I’ve heard things—and he’s really arrogant. Which I didn’t realize. But he’s also an amazing chess player. Brilliant, even though I’ve studied it forever. He could be an actual Grandmaster back home, you know. I wish I’d met him.”

And me?

The [Innkeeper] sat there. So breathless he thought she was thinking of something else. Until he realized—he’d spoken.

And she was looking straight at him. Then his heart stopped. Hazel eyes gazed down at him, guilty and shocked. They were silent for minutes, and the only sound was his heart, the creaking of the inn, and an answer he didn’t want to hear. Then—Erin whispered.

“If…”

He almost stood up. Almost, but caught himself as he swung his legs up. Then he forced himself to stand, sit back down, and listen. Numbtongue listened as Erin looked him in his eyes.

“If I could try, you would be too close. I—I would be too afraid because you’re living here and—and I might like you too much. I already do, but that’s not the same, Numbtongue. It changes too much, and I think we’d never go back again.”

“Yeah. I thought so too.”

For a second, they understood each other, and Erin ducked her head. Numbtongue kept speaking.

“But maybe it would work? What about that?”

He waited, heart pounding, and Erin’s head lowered again.

“If I tried, maybe it would work out. But I just don’t try. I’m sorry. I’m afraid. I’m afraid, but—even if I want to, I can’t. I would rather mess up anything else than this. I’ve already lost three of your brothers. I never met Bugear. I’m afraid, Numbtongue—that I could be so terrible that I’d lose you as well.”

Lose me? Each word hurt him so badly he felt like punching something to get it out, but he kept seeing how Erin was hunched over. Barely able to speak for guilt and uncertainty.

Here, in this moment, she was no hill of personality and will. Here—she was as afraid of a Hobgoblin waking up in a foreign inn and wondering if this were all a trap, a dream, or a delusion.

“You’d never lose me. No matter what happened.”

“You don’t know that. Nothing I’ve ever tried has ever worked out in a relationship. I’m sorry, Numbtongue. But I can’t bring myself to—try. I like you, but I don’t know if we could have a future together. And once we go. We can’t go back. Sorry.”

It was the most complete answer she’d ever given. The Goblin listened, and he saw how painfully honest that was—and the words still unspoken. If it were him saying those words, in her place…for her, he would have tried. But that was the difference between the two. Numbtongue turned his head away. He exhaled and felt tired suddenly. But he made his voice as gentle as possible.

“Why are you sorry? That’s why. See? Thanks for saying.”

He got up, hurrying, but Erin called out.

“Numbtongue. Can I ask you one question?”

His shoulders hunched. With every passing second, he longed to quit this battle that he knew was lost and go. And go and bleed out somewhere else. But he turned and nodded.

“What?”

Erin looked guiltiest of all now. But a desperate, painful light filled her eyes.

“When you—when you knew you liked Garia and Octavia—I know—when you knew, Numbtongue, what was it like? How were you sure you wanted to ask them?”

Ask them? It was the strangest question in Numbtongue’s life. Not the asking—the question behind it. He flashed back to propping up a sleepy [Alchemist] and making her eat breakfast. Or dinner or just food. Grumbling while braiding her hair or clumsily re-stitching a part of her thread.

Similarly, training with Garia. Burning with adrenaline, standing shoulder-to-shoulder to show her something or peer at her form. And that was before going south and risking their lives against armies.

How was he sure he liked them? Oh, every force in the world pushing him from behind. Wishing night were longer or that customers didn’t have to buy potions. Ask them?

Inviting Octavia on a ‘mining expedition’ or writing in a calendar when Garia was coming back from a run? Then—he sat down next to Octavia with a mushroom she wanted that he’d searched all over Celum’s wilds to find. When she kissed him on the cheek, he kissed her back.

“…I was sure.”

He ran out of words, thinking. When he looked at Erin, it was differently. He could and did like Garia and Octavia, and he had been relieved none of them wanted children, because then he would have had to think seriously. But Erin?

He wanted to see her smile at him in ways he could not imagine. The Hobgoblin turned away.

“What about you?”

Numbtongue was walking, head down, towards his rooms on the first floor. He just wanted to be dead now, thanks. Erin was far worse than the others, Garia, Octavia, or even Fierre or Salkis. He could quite like them in easy-to-explain ways or for many good reasons. But Erin?

She was right. He was afraid of how much he’d liked her. The [Innkeeper] called out after Numbtongue’s back, like a final parting shot or Bird’s damned ballista, straight through the back. The Goblin’s shoulders hunched.

“I don’t know. Either it’s something I missed a few times or it’s never happened. It doesn’t feel strong enough.”

He stopped and looked back at her. The Goblin saw a wretched face, an unhappy one. Searching, searching—and he realized—envious. Envious and lost and afraid, like he had once been, a Goblin of a group of five.

Then Numbtongue leaned against a wall. He closed his eyes, but actually smiled.

That felt better. And he felt a sympathy he hadn’t expected. He looked at Erin, smiling, and nodded.

“You’ll know it when you find it.”

Then, as gracefully as he could, the [Bard] walked away. He made it twenty steps, sat down in the surprisingly empty room, and wondered if Garia were pooing. Then he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling.

As for Erin, she kept sitting there. Hanging her head. Silently, she sat there for a long moment as Lyonette, wearing the Cloak of Balshadow, quietly fled. So did Garia, walking soundlessly down the hallway.

The last listener was Gothica. Unlike the invisible [Princess] on the staircase or the [Martial Artist] who’d held her breath, listening from a crack through a door, Gothica had been outside, petting horses and sulking about the race.

The [Goth] really…really wanted to go to bed, but she hadn’t been able to get inside and excuse herself. She ended up standing outside for forty more minutes before Erin went to sleep.

 

——

 

The next day, everyone was quite nice to Numbtongue in subtle ways. Lyonette barely batted an eyelash when Gothica recounted the horse races at night. Everyone—including Innkeeper Friendly—and yes, that was her name, Corse Friendly—was quite considerate of him.

They practically drowned his plate in toasted kipper, apparently a local breakfast specialty due to the fast-flowing river around here. Erin thought it was weird, but she didn’t miss how Garia kept trying to feed Numbtongue fish, and Miss Friendly got over her wariness of the Goblins enough to seat them in the center of the room, by the fire.

Numbtongue bore it well. If anything, Mrsha’s relentless attempts to steal his fish and badger him seemed to cheer him up. They engaged in a shoving match that he inevitably won.

Just you wait! I’ll get Gire!

Mrsha shook her fist at him. She was oblivious to the other adults’ introspection. It seemed like a wide net had been cast last night, fish notwithstanding, and someone had come around with a hammer and beaten all of the catches.

Hammer-girl Erin would have still tried to feel Numbtongue’s true emotions out—except for one hitch. She was in her wheelchair today, and her scowl was huge.

“I’m outta bisque? That’s impossible! I made enough for two weeks! I’ll puke it up, but I’ll eat it! Check the other bag!”

In response, Lyonette wordlessly pulled open a sealed glass container marked ‘bisque’. It looked like the stuff, but when she cracked the lid a hair, Mrsha nearly vaulted into the roaring fire.

Oh dead gods.

Garia covered her nose. It had gone bad. And the thing about magical cooking was—

It was really bad. Erin gagged as Lyonette hastily shoved the jar back in a bag of holding.

“I don’t even dare burn it. We’ll dispose of it later. Apologies, Innkeeper Friendly—Erin, you’ll have to put up with it. We only have half a day’s ride.”

“Noted. Bulkup Bisque has a shelf life of one week unrefrigerated! Even in bags of holding!”

It wasn’t so bad. She’d be riding in the carriages, so Erin only felt a bit useless as Numbtongue and Garia lifted her in. She scowled as he pointed to the other carriages and horses.

“I’m going to ride a horse. Inkar says it’s fine.”

“You sure? You…okay?”

The [Bard] shrugged expressively.

“Can’t get worse. You already gave me a good stomach-punch; good thing your legs don’t work.”

Erin’s face fell, but the [Bard] grinned at her expression, and Gothica cackled with delight. She hoped it helped. She had more things she wanted to say and ask—but it was clear right now a ride with Garia was better than a sit-down chat with Erin.

Especially because Mrsha was riding with them, and she was not the intended audience for a serious heart-to-heart. This time, Erin had no Gothica, who was so tired she was going to nap. Instead, she got Ulvama, Tkrn, Inkar, and Ser Lormel. No Tessa either.

It was a merry carriage ride at the start. Ulvama was the oddest Goblin—the one Erin didn’t really know, even less than Gothica.

However, Ulvama had cultivated a relationship with Mrsha, and even Lyonette seemed to grudgingly respect her. Erin had no notion of why until she saw Ulvama teaching Mrsha and Nanette a game.

“Here. You slap this hand. I slap this. One, two.”

She clapped her hands, then held a palm out to touch Mrsha’s paw. Erin’s mouth opened as she saw Ulvama teaching them…

“Patty cakes?”

“Where?”

Ulvama looked around as Nanette saw a variation on the game she knew by another name. As a Gnoll—Mrsha had no notion of the game since Gnoll paws and Drake claws weren’t ideal for this activity, but she liked it.

However, Ulvama proved that Goblin [Apprentices] who learned this game took it a step beyond the simple clap-touch routine. She would clap her hands, rotate them, slap the other paw or hand sideways, or twist her torso in an increasingly complex routine.

It looked quite fantastic when you did it right, and the game was so entertaining that Inkar and Tkrn tried it. Which left Erin to challenge Ser Lormel, much to what she thought would be the [Knight]’s chagrin.

…It turned out the Thronebearer was annoyingly good at the game. Erin scowled as she messed the routine up. She was as bad as Inkar, while Tkrn could keep up with Nanette and Mrsha and Ulvama.

“There. Now you ‘cool’. Show all friends.”

“Miss…Miss Ulvama?”

Erin was surprised by Nanette being able to address Ulvama and tolerate the Goblin’s company—glad of it, but surprised. Until she remembered that Ulvama had been in Riverfarm and that Nanette had actually befriended Pebblesnatch.

The Goblin, along with Riverfarm’s [Chefs], had packed a hamper full of food for the journey back for everyone. Ulvama cracked one eye open as she stretched out—across Ser Lormel’s lap. He looked very uncomfortable for half a second, but then kept his face straight as she smiled wide. It was a contest of classes.

Nanette reached up for a hat she didn’t have, then bobbed her head.

“Is this something Goblins [Shamans] learn for magic?”

Ulvama’s eyes brightened.

“Oh. Hm. Yes. Bits of magic. Good hand moves. Redfangs, stupid Redfangs and warriors, use it to learn punches. Smart girl.”

She reached out and patted Nanette on the head. Then she saw Erin watching and scowled.

“Heartbreaker innkeeper. Where food?”

Ulvama knew no chill. Erin turned beet red and folded her arms.

“Didn’t we just eat breakfast an hour ago, Ulvama?”

“Yep.”

“…And isn’t it too early for food?”

The [Shaman of the Old Ways] gave Erin a long look.

“For you, maybe. For me? No. Food?”

The hamper was right up on a rack, but now Erin was frowning mightily. She looked around.

“But what if we ate it together with everyone later?”

Ulvama hmmed. Then she grinned wickedly and proved how she had maintained her status in the Mountain City tribe.

“You sound like [Princess]. Everyone too fat. No one eats, eh? Even poor girl.”

She patted Mrsha on the head as the Gnoll lay on her back and pretended to die of starvation. Erin’s face fell, and grudgingly, she looked at Lormel.

“…Maybe we could have a snack. For anyone who wants it! I wasn’t big on fish for breakfast, anyways. Who does that? British people, I tell you who. And they’re weird.”

So said the young woman who had invented the ‘Archmage of Syrup’s breakfast’, which was a hollowed out mountain of pancakes, syrup, and butter. Lormel took down the hamper but paused with a frown as he sensed something. Slowly, he opened the lid—then recoiled.

Throne—!

Erin saw him shut the lid, peek at what was inside, then look around. Instantly, everyone sat up in alarm.

“What? Oh no. Did it spoil? I knew Pebblesnatch hadn’t improved that much! Is it alive?”

Erin groaned, but Inkar had a different fear.

“Is the food…infested?

Ulvama scooted away as Lormel searched for words. He stared into the hamper and then slowly raised the lid and showed everyone what was inside.

“Miss Solstice, I believe we may have…a stowaway.”

Then Erin saw a little, tiny head of a lamb poke up over the box, body covered by fluffy wool. The Sariant Lamb was as small as a cat, and its tiny round hooves and expressive face made it a member of the most lovable, adored species in the entire world. It was bleary from a food coma and probably a bit of asphyxiation in the enclosed hamper.

Erin stared at the lamb as Ulvama’s eyes widened then narrowed with instant hostility. She peeked into the hamper and pulled something out.

“But where food? What about…?”

She pulled out some food. A brown pellet. She sniffed it, and her face wrinkled up.

“Eugh!”

She threw out the inevitable conclusion of what happened if a creature ate too much. Everyone ducked as the pellet bounced around the carriage.

Erin just stared at the lamb. It looked sleepy, then alert, then—to her amazement—embarrassed? Its face was expressive, and Erin thought it looked like that! Or was it her imagination? For the next moment, the lamb made the cutest squeaking sound as it looked around and smiled at the coach.

Tkrn, Inkar, and Mrsha fell for it. Mrsha sat up, looking fascinated, and Tkrn and Inkar looked amazed. Nanette’s face froze up in horror, and Ulvama reached for the lamb and the hamper. She pulled the door open, revealing the carriage moving at amazing speed, and tried to chuck the lamb straight out.

Miss!

Lormel saved the lamb as the creature screamed in alarm. Ulvama was unmoved.

“Stupid thing ate my food. Anyone got knife and fire? Going to be hard to bleed it…”

She eyed the lamb with incredible hostility, but Ser Lormel jerked the hamper back. He was clearly alarmed, but he turned to Erin.

“It seems one of the Sariants of Riverfarm has…accompanied us unwittingly, Miss Solstice. I fear we must arrange transit back.”

Erin nodded, still eying the lamb. Lormel sat down and used his speaking stone to tell Lyonette of the incident. Meanwhile, the lamb hopped out of the hamper and trotted up to Erin.

“Mm?”

It smiled up at her, and the [Innkeeper]—edged away from it.

“Uh—these are the Sariants that Laken hated so much? Hi. Hi there…what were you doing eating all our food? You don’t look covered in poo. You smell sorta bad.”

The lamb nuzzled Erin’s leg, and the [Innkeeper] flapped her arms.

“Go on, why don’t you sit there? Shoo. Shoo…”

“Oh come on, Miss Erin.”

Tkrn lifted the lamb into his lap, and his eyes widened.

“So soft! Even your Shockwoolies aren’t this soft, Inkar! Isn’t it cute?”

He held up the lamb, and Inkar cooed at it. The lamb nuzzled a hand and licked Tkrn’s paw, and Mrsha peered at it. It looked frightened at first, then smiled at her.

“So cute! And not frightened of us at all. Don’t you like it, Erin?”

Inkar agreed. Erin Solstice hesitated. She saw the lamb smile up at her, and the [Innkeeper]…the lamb’s face fell as it realized a potential miscalculation here.

After all—

Erin was a [Witch]. And while Nanette could no longer sense what Erin could, she remembered.

 

——

 

Sariant Lambs. The cutest animal in the world, highly intelligent, virtually helpless, and expensive. So expensive, in fact, that Ser Lormel suggested the carriage drivers might take the lamb back to Riverfarm.

They were far, far. Too far away to turn around right now. By the time they stopped for lunch—that they had to buy, thanks to the lamb—the little creature had won over Mrsha, Inkar, and Tkrn. Even Lormel a bit; she—the lamb was a she—nuzzled hands and sat in laps, but she was so inquisitive and cute that even Mrsha ‘spoke’ to her, and to her delight, the lamb seemed only too happy to try and play ‘patty cakes’ with her hooves.

The other carriage disembarked in the town of Hoodlum, which suggested it might be seedy. However, it was only named after the founder’s class. A reformed [Hoodlum] had made this city, and the only thing that Erin could tell was off as the carriages parked on a dirt road was a bunch of men and women loitering and eying the visitors.

Hands in pockets, talking in groups, but they were fairly social. One raised a hand as Otto parked.

“Heading to Invrisil? Good spot to stay. You want to get some food? I know a great café or food to go from a [Grocer]. My pleasure.”

“Friendly people.”

Erin murmured; the man led Ser Sest down the road as he procured vittles. The people did a double-take at the Goblins, but then one muttered.

“Must be the [Mercenaries]. Hey! You! No trouble, you hear? No one causes trouble in Hoodlum.”

It was like having a group of the archetypal friendly thugs around—something Erin had assumed only existed in television shows. They even had a style that would have been called trendy back home at one point—ragged knees on their pants and torn shirt cuffs. Give them some more accessories like earrings and, uh, spiked collars and they’d be a sight.

Half the carriage was fascinated with them, but the rest were just crowded around the Sariant Lamb, who was still, somehow, as appealing as an entire town as colorful as this.

She was like Elirr’s cats, but a lamb. Erin saw why people loved them as pets—the lamb waited, peering up at Garia, who stopped to give it a pat. Even Numbtongue, who looked wary, was amazed as the lamb trotted up to his guitar.

“Don’t let her bite my strings—”

He was hurrying over when the lamb clumsily strummed some of his guitar strings. The [Bard] stopped, and the lamb baahed.

“Baah, bah baaaaah baah~”

Was she singing? Instantly, the [Bard] picked up his guitar and began to play along to the melody as the lamb sang. She had a good singing voice, could do a little backflip, and could even stand up on two hooves. She seemed so starved for affection, it was incredible anyone had left her alone.

Lyonette looked half sorry as she lowered the stone.

“What an amazing creature! The one Mother keeps around isn’t nearly so energetic, but he is nearly twenty years old.”

“They grow that old?”

Erin was startled, and Lyonette shrugged.

“The creatures want for nothing. This one would go for fifty gold pieces—not that many would sell a pet. Of course, they’re almost as expensive to keep—I just heard from Laken. He says that he will ‘reluctantly accept the lamb back’. Which means we can send this lamb back once we reach Invrisil.”

The news was taken by Erin, Ulvama, and Nanette with some relief, as well as Ser Sest. However, the lamb heard this and began to mewl in the most piteous cries.

“Oh—I think it wants to come with us!”

Garia covered her mouth. The lamb ran over and tried to cling to one leg. Then it tried to do the same to Erin, and she backed away. Lyonette frowned at Erin, but she was consulting with Ser Lormel.

“Keep it? I don’t imagine His Majesty wants for lambs. But we can’t have a pet.”

“Why not? You have Apista.”

Numbtongue said this mostly to be contrary. He was amused by the little lamb—right until she tried to tug a waterbottle out of a pack for the sweaty Goblin. He pointed at it.

“Ooh. Handy.”

He turned to Erin and was surprised by her wary expression. Once again, the lamb looked at her, and Erin forced a smile.

“…Like I said, everyone can get a pet. But you’re a cat person, right, Numbtongue?”

“I like cats.”

He agreed amiably. The discussion of pets had come up, and he wouldn’t mind a Carn Wolf or a cool animal. But a lamb? Lyonette exhaled and looked around the small town in which they’d stopped. Ser Sest was returning with a loaded bag of food as the man who’d set him up helped carry the food back.

“You lot from the City of Adventurers? Or Orefell?”

He stared at the Goblins as if not quite sure they were real. Indeed, a small crowd had gathered, and Lyonette hurried to assure him that Numbtongue, Gothica, and Ulvama were friendly. To her surprise—the [Hoodlum] or whoever he was nodded.

“Don’t worry, we’ve seen weirder. Plus, I’m sensing some good vibes off this lot. Lots of style. And, uh…”

He meant Numbtongue’s guitar, Gothica’s…gothness, and mostly Ulvama’s breasts, which he kept staring at. Someone elbowed him as Lyonette politely raised her brows.

“Hoodlum’s no stranger to strangers. We sort out even monsters ourselves. ‘Sides, we’re close to Onononno.”

“Close to what?

Erin swiveled her head around. She was eying a Runner’s Guild down the main street of Hoodlum’s town, parked next to the Mage and Adventurer’s Guilds, both modest but standard. The [Hoodlums] grumbled.

“The City of Slimes. Crazy. Dead gods, I’d take those singing Drakes over that lot.”

“We get visitors from there, now and then. Or people who think they want to stay there. Then they come here and ask for towels. Lots of them. Where you from again?”

“Liscor.”

Numbtongue’s grin was wide, as it always was when someone wanted to talk to him rather than point and run. Erin would have loved to ask about the City of Slimes or participate in the exclamations and questions from the people in the crowd, but she was dealing with the lamb. She eyed the little creature as Lyonette dithered over how to transport it back.

“We could ask a City Runner to take it back. It’s pricey, but no more than hiring the coach to go back. Emperor Laken has indicated he’s fine with either option, but I don’t know if a lamb should ride in a backpack—”

“I’m sure it’ll survive. Let’s do that. Heck, we’ll send the hamper.”

Erin shook her head. She kept trying to roll away and the lamb would follow her, much to her great annoyance. She turned to the Runner’s Guild, and again, the lamb set up a piteous wail.

“Erin! You’re heartless! What if I took in the lamb? Please? My father hates Sariants, but he’s never been around one—or we let it stay at the inn?”

Despite having been around the lamb for five minutes, Garia was instantly taken with the idea. Lyonette wavered.

“I’m sure His Majesty won’t object.”

Erin! Let it stay! Apista can have a friend!

Mrsha also liked the playful lamb. Erin, though, grew more and more hostile as everyone nodded. Ulvama was nudging her, and Erin glanced at her.

“Nope, sorry guys. [Innkeeper] rules. No lambs. Let’s just take it to the Runner’s Guild. Now.”

She picked up the lamb, and the female lamb began crying. It actually sounded like a cute wail not dissimilar to a baby’s, and every head in earshot turned to Erin. She saw the little lamb kick its short legs, squirm, and turn its head to stare up at her pleadingly. It tried to smile at her, and the [Innkeeper] bent her head down and whispered.

“I see you. You don’t fool me. What are you doing here?

Only Mrsha heard that, and the Gnoll’s face grew instantly confused. For—what did she see?

A cute lamb who was so irresistibly friendly and attentive and intelligent it was like having all the best qualities of a pet with no apparent downside? Oh, you could know they were parasites who’d want to be pampered and only realize how lazy and devious they were later. But even knowing that, you could still like their perfectly-adjusted cuteness, which was literally so perfect that Erin thought a cartoon animal couldn’t do it better, let alone anything of nature.

Even Inkar was fooled. Even Numbtongue! But the lambs had one weakness, and it was this:

A [Witch] saw emotion. She was a kind of competitor in the space, albeit usually on the opposite end. And what Erin saw was the lamb’s true emotions.

Which was a level of hostility, contempt, and downright hatred of everything in the carriage so strong that it made the lamb’s innocent smile that much more sinister. It was as if she could see a sneering face behind the smile and the tears.

The lamb did not fool her. Erin was carrying it across the street when the wriggling, mewling creature dropped the act. It looked up at her, snarled, and bit her.

Gaaaah!

The [Innkeeper]’s wheelchair ground to a halt as Erin yelped. The lamb was biting her! It leapt off her lap and raced towards the carriage.

“What the—”

Erin stared down at the bite. The lamb was closer to omnivorous, but it was so small it had barely broken the skin.

“Someone grab it. And put it in the hamper!”

They tried. At first, the Thronebearers went off to corner the lamb, and then the Goblins began to help. However—the lamb fought and snarled and even defecated and vomited when they tried to take it away from the carriages. It grew so desperate and wiggled so hard that even Dalimont couldn’t hold onto it for fear he’d crush its bones.

Erin blinked. The lamb was struggling. It was so desperate to stay that it turned into a cute whirlwind of milk teeth and hooves.

Of course, that just amused everyone. Numbtongue ignored the biting lamb until it kicked him like a horse, digging its front hooves into the ground to kick him with the back hooves.

“Ow. Sort of strong. Why does it want to come with?”

The lamb was indeed desperate. Erin frowned as Ulvama hissed.

“Kill it! Here! Take this rock! No, I’ll do it.”

She went to bash its brains out, and she was stopped, but Numbtongue was carrying the lamb to the hamper. Then Erin saw the lamb inhale—and freeze.

It held its breath as the amused [Bard] laughed at it. He poked the lamb—then frowned.

“Hm? What is it…?”

He began to poke it, urgently, but the lamb turned redder under its dark grey skin as its cheeks puffed out. Thirty seconds, forty…a minute and Garia was trying to get it to open its mouth.

It was trying to asphyxiate itself! It would only breathe when Numbtongue took it away from the hamper.

“We can’t send it back! It’ll try to stop breathing! What is with it?”

Lyonette was mystified. Ulvama just whispered.

“Let it die.”

It didn’t seem like a bluff, either. One of the lamb’s eyes actually burst a blood vessel after nearly three minutes of holding its breath the third time Numbtongue tried to bring it to the hamper, and everyone was so alarmed they turned to Erin.

“Maybe Elirr can take it in? Come on, Erin. Don’t let it die! It must really want to visit Liscor.”

“Yes…it does.”

Erin exchanged a glance with Nanette. The witch whispered to Erin, standing on her tip-toes.

“Mother hated them and all the [Witches] do too—but only because they play with people’s emotions. Witch Erin, what do you see?”

Erin looked at the female lamb as it gasped for air, then stared at her. Glaring now, defiant. She muttered.

“…Desperation. But it doesn’t like us. It’s just pretending. And—isn’t there a rumor they control people? There’s a conspiracy?”

“That is a joke, Miss Solstice. You may have heard it from Earl Altestiel, and the lambs are intelligent, but no ‘lamb cartel’ exists.”

Ser Sest murmured, but he looked slightly unconvinced. Erin hesitated. She looked at the lamb and then beckoned Numbtongue over.

“Put her in my lap, Numbtongue. I won’t try to put her in the hamper.”

The exhausted lamb sat there as Erin peered down at it. The longer Erin stared, the more sure she was.

“You are the most hostile thing I’ve ever met. I bet Crelers are nicer than you.”

The lamb glared up at her. It was true; Erin had sensed less hostility and venom in Alevica. Whatever the lamb was pretending, it was obvious it hadn’t expected Erin to see through it. Perhaps it had hoped she wasn’t that good a [Witch]. Perhaps…

Perhaps it had nefarious plans. That sounded so stupid even Erin nearly laughed at it. But then she reconsidered.

Few people thought she was dangerous. Or Mrsha. She peered down at the lamb, and then she heard Nerrhavia whispering in her ears.

“Oh no. Or…oh yes. I bet she’d be so offended if I compared her to you.”

The lamb narrowed its eyes and backed up warily as Erin reached down. But the [Innkeeper] just sighed and lifted the lamb up. She whispered to it, and the lamb stared her in the eyes.

“How have the other [Witches] never seen that? Or is it just me?”

For she knew the [Witches] hated the lambs, and Erin could see why. If you saw a bunch of scheming, malevolent sheep twisting people’s emotions, you wouldn’t fall for their act and would hate them.

—But even Mavika, in all her coldness, would surely not have missed the true fear and desperation that Erin felt. The lamb was willing to hurt itself to keep it in Erin’s company. That wasn’t the act of a manipulator—or rather, a cowardly one.

Willpower. Perhaps Nerrhavia wouldn’t have been so offended at the comparison after all. Mrsha looked anxious, but Erin twisted a ring on a finger, and then she was speaking behind a spell such that even Mrsha couldn’t hear Erin.

Why? Well, because Erin was looking at the lamb.

“You want something from me, don’t you?”

Mewl.

The lamb actually made that cute sound, but it sounded—very distinctly—as if it was saying the word, rather than making it. It glared nervously at Erin, all tense in her hands. Ready to keep objecting.

So Erin just sighed.

“I don’t help people I don’t like. And I don’t like you—or whatever group you represent. Are you with the lambs?”

No reply. The lamb just kicked her legs until Erin nodded.

“Right. Keep your secrets. But I can and will send you back to Riverfarm. You can hold your breath until you suffocate; I’ll just have Palt put you to sleep. Or give you to Elirr.”

The lamb began to furiously bite, and Erin lifted a finger.

“—But I’ll let you stay. If you make me a deal.”

The little Sariant hesitated, and now it was definitely listening. Erin glanced at her worried companions.

“You can stay if you explain and ask. And if I think it’s okay? I’ll consider whatever you want. Or whatever you’re really after. But if you put me and my family or my inn and its guests in danger, I will ask Laken to round all the lambs up—no, I’ll just tell the [Witches]. Cross me, and the Titan of Baleros and the Cyclops of Pallass and everyone else will hear about you. Got it?”

The Sariant Lamb eyed Erin with the first look of genuine unease thus far. It stared at Erin, and for a second, she felt ridiculous, as if she were playing a game against Apista. Then she remembered that Mrsha had once lost to the Ashfire Bee. She waited, and slowly, the Sariant Lamb nodded.

Yuh!

It made the sound so close to a yes that Erin dropped it. It landed in her lap and gave her a sinister stare, but it nodded. Erin dropped the silence spell.

“Well, that’s that. We’re all doomed. Guys? I’m keeping the lamb.”

The rest of her company looked at Erin in relief—or, for some, a creeping suspicion, like Dalimont and Lyonette. After all, cute as the lamb was, Erin was treating it like a bomb. But Mrsha just celebrated. Erin sighed as the Gnoll held it out to Nanette to cuddle and the girl backed away. She eyed the lamb again as she looked at Lyonette.

“Do you have a name? Lyonette, ask Laken for a name. It looks like we’ve got another guest, besides Nanette. So long as it doesn’t cause trouble.”

She gave the lamb a long stare. The beaming little lamb smiled at her. Ulvama shouted furiously.

“No! Not that thing!”

She pointed at the lamb, and Erin turned her head. [Witches] were one thing, and clearly, Ulvama recognized the lamb’s duplicity. But that seemed to be because game respected game. The [Shaman] pointed at the lamb in outrage.

“Stupid manipulative thing—I am the one who manipulates! Go away!”

She shook a fist at the lamb, and Erin rotated her wheelchair enough to face the Hobgoblin.

“Ulvama, in your long shaman-memory, have you heard of the lamb cartel? The lamb gang? The Sariant conspiracy? The cult of the lamb? No wait, that sounds stupid.”

Ulvama eyed Erin as the Sariant Lamb looked as innocent as possible. She snorted as she poked it in the belly.

“This thing? New creature species. Not that old. Thousands of years, maybe, not like, um…Stitch-people. Weak. Sometimes play pranks and smart and thinks, but not a threat. Just annoying. Tastes good too.”

She gave the lamb an arch grin and sharp-toothed smirk. The lamb stared at Ulvama, then slowly began to urinate onto her leg.

 

——

 

A pet and a witch. On the second day, Erin found they were nearly at Invrisil, and the City of Adventurers was getting closer and closer just past midday due to the delay the lamb had caused.

Her name was Baroness Ichinee vel Tiena…according to the horrified Riverfarm folk who had realized she was gone. All of the Sariants—over eighty—had names. This lamb was apparently one of the ones who went from home to home, and so no one had quite noticed she was missing. They apparently never missed the opportunity to tell someone if they were wet, hungry, or tired.

Erin hated the name. And so did the lamb, who studiously ignored Tkrn trying to use it.

“Well, she needs a name. What about—Twoface? Baal…a? Capricorna? Satanbaah?”

Erin once again proved why no one let her name things as Mrsha fed the lamb pieces of grass, and the creature spat them out into the Gnoll’s palm. She did eat some crackers and drink some milk, and apparently they were low-maintenance in theory; they could even eat meat. They just demanded all kinds of things Erin didn’t want to offer, but Lyonette seemed willing to host the creature until Elirr came by.

Erin was itching to have a word with the beast in private, if it could even communicate. However, the name was important, and the lamb looked up sharply as the others speculated.

Numbornecorteva, Ruler of Clouds!

Mrsha held up a vote that was instantly shot down. By the lamb as much as the carriage; it wrinkled up its face when no one but Erin was looking at it and gagged. Nanette bit her tongue.

“How about Sidney?”

She proposed a normal name, which got her a shake of the head and a private look of disgust.

“Koehne? It’s a good, Gnollish name.”

Tkrn offered it to the lamb, who smiled sweetly at him—and instantly shook its head. Inkar tried one from Kazakhstan, and the lamb seemed to consider that and one of Lormel’s Calanferian names.

The next half an hour saw the lamb pickily reject every single name, and Erin suspected her appellation in Riverfarm had either been given to her without her will or accepted on sufferance. Idly, the [Innkeeper] leaned on her hands and propped her chin up.

Now it was clear that Erin knew the lamb wasn’t that nice, the lamb seemed disinclined to keep up her act—at least when only Erin was gazing at her. She gave Erin a sinister smirk, and Erin muttered.

“I can always send you to Laken in a box.”

The lamb squealed and hid behind Mrsha, who punched Erin’s leg and then offered profuse written apologies when Erin glowered at her. The [Innkeeper] scowled, rubbing at her leg.

“Y’know what your name should be? Nerrhavia. You’re giving me serious her vibes.”

Only Lormel and Ulvama got the reference. Lormel choked in horror; Ulvama gave Erin a side-long look and hooted with laughter. And the lamb?

She blinked, then beamed. Erin threw up her hands.

“Oh wow. I’m not calling you that. What about…Nerry? For short?”

Nerry the Lamb considered the name and gave Erin a grudging nod. Mrsha scooped her up. She and Apista were going to be best friends! Like Nanette was with her!

Erin really doubted that, and she was so annoyed by this imposed Nerrhavia 2.0…or Nerrhavia 0.00000463 as the case might be, that she turned to Ser Lormel.

“Can we put on the news, Lormel? We’re still like forty minutes out.”

He obliged her, and one of the scrying orbs that Erin hadn’t really touched save to give one to the old man swam to life. Erin settled back in her seat as, suddenly, Mrsha looked up and around and realized no one had told Erin.

Oh, Lormel knew the injunction, but he probably thought it was over since they were headed back. But without Numbtongue, Lyonette—Mrsha waved her paws and then wrote furiously, but it was too late.

Erin saw an image swim into place and then heard Drassi’s voice. Good old Drassi. She was speaking.

“—News Network, and I’m your [Honest Reporter], Drassi. Moving on from our story about the Terandrian nations entering Izril. I’m joining you live in a few moments with our [Mage] on the ground, who is reporting the third day of Orefell’s heroic salvation by the ‘Antinium Crusade’ as people are now dubbing the forces present in the city.”

“…Hah?”

Erin blinked as the image changed to a distant city with a crane in the background. She sat up as Ulvama twisted her head slowly around and Inkar and Tkrn stopped petting the lamb’s back. Tkrn glanced at Erin’s face and realized she didn’t know. Slowly, he pulled his Eyeshield out and propped it between him and Inkar and Erin.

Drassi went on as Erin stared at Tkrn, then at Mrsha, who was suddenly fascinated by the window, and Lormel’s expression. The lamb smirked at Erin as the broadcast continued.

“—It seems the Crusade is preparing to head home to Liscor at last with a veritable mountain of goods from Orefell. The Dwarves have, of course, already returned to their new home of Dwarfhalls Rest, and—”

What? That’s my home! Get those bearded things out of there!

Ulvama yelped, but Erin was staring at the Antinium marching ahead of wagons. Antinium with very familiar flags. And the Humans, marching with them in what Drassi was calling the greatest monster incursion from the High Passes since…

Wistram News Network even had a segment that helpfully recapped the battle. In case you were just tuning in. Erin slowly looked up as Mrsha opened the carriage door and debated leaping out at the ground whizzing past her.

 

——

 

Two carriages halted on the road to Invrisil. A number of people were travelling, including a City Runner who slowed and, wincing, put a hand on their raw feet. They had a piece of rock embedded in their skin, which they pulled out.

“Crelers take this. I’m wearing shoes.”

The [Runner] decided that the Wind Runner of Reizmelt was just crazy. But he was just in time to see an interesting event take place.

Which was, namely, watching a little Gnoll leap out of the back carriage and go racing to the other one. And then a [Princess] hurried out of the second carriage.

He didn’t know she was a [Princess]—until he saw the [Knights] and the very obvious red hair. The City Runner was searching for a name, but then he saw the Goblins.

“G-goblins? Hobs? Someone get an…

An adventurer? The Goblins milled about as the two carriages emptied of everyone but one person in the back carriage. They all looked worried, and no one reacted to the Goblins. In fact, even a Sariant Lamb went scurrying for cover, looking uneasily back at the carriage.

That was when the City Runner and the people on the road felt an intense, nigh on visible hostility and anger coming from the carriage. Coincidentally—the roof caught fire.

“Water! Get water!”

Again, the City Runner was getting ahead of himself, because the fire was bright, but not red like a campfire. It was pitch-black and ominous.

Black, like the very depths of anger. Long past the first ignition—this was the kind of wrath that seeped into the bones like poison and burned deep there.

“Uh oh. This is your fault.”

By now, the passersby were watching, and they clearly heard the [Bard] turn to the [Princess]. The Hobgoblin poked her, and she slapped his wrist.

“My fault? You were the one having drinks with the [Emperor] and agreeing behind my back!

“I’m just a Goblin. She already beat me up yesterday. You get today.”

The red-haired [Princess] spluttered—then squared her shoulders. She looked around, counting.

“I suppose someone has to talk to her. Are the Antinium back at Liscor, yet?”

“Nope. Adventurers—maybe. The Horns are probably going ahead of them, and the Halfseekers.”

That caught everyone’s attention. The famous Horns? The Antinium Crusade? The City Runner looked up the road and felt at his pack of autograph cards he’d brought just in case he made it on time. But the [Princess] was simply nodding.

Quickly now, the two carriages divided. The Goblins, all three of them, a little witch with no hat, the Gnoll girl, and everyone else, including another Runner, piled into the second carriage. A Human woman in a colorful riding dress and a Gnoll took the horses, which left…

Four Thronebearers and the [Princess] slowly entered the carriage. The [Princess] hesitated at the door, and one of the [Knights] actually lifted his arm, as if pushing something back. She steeled her spine, and the watchers saw a bright aura, faint, but protecting her, push at the intense hostility coming from within.

She entered the carriage, and the door clicked shut. Rather, the Runner had to imagine, like someone entering a box with a Ghoul. No escape.

 

——

 

Forty minutes. They had forty minutes to Invrisil. The Thronebearers, including Dalimont, had gotten a crash course in humility from watching their Order fail on the field of battle—and seeing a [Paladin] run and carry them for an entire day before fighting an undead horde practically unarmed. Then run back.

They could perform any diplomatic feat, but this was going to be forty minutes of close-combat warfare. Worse—they were the support, and all four realized they might catch worse than a hand in the ensuing battle. Being burned alive was not a pleasant way to go.

Nor was being strangled by the aura in the carriage. A Level 40 aura from someone with training at the height of an emotion?

Breathing was tough. They had to remember their training and concentrate their own wills. Yet the [Princess] sat there, arms folded.

It might be less than forty minutes; the poor driver, Otto, was pushing the carriage as if trying to outrun the fury behind him.

The conversation, when it began after six minutes of Lyonette folding her hands and looking past Erin at the seat to her left, was far more pleasant than the air in the carriage.

“An army of them. An army of Antinium going to get hurt and die. And you thought I shouldn’t know?”

“I never said that, Erin. Ser Lormel did not realize we had not spoken to you; it slipped our minds after the Elemental incident. If anything, it proves we had every intent to tell you. It was an honest mistake.”

Lormel nodded as if he were a bobblehead toy; Erin stared at him, and Dalimont actually reached over and held a shield out, blocking the aura. She turned her gaze to him, but then snapped back to Lyonette.

Her normally kindly hazel eyes were blazing with fury. But unlike when Erin got mad—this was furious. It was, to Lyonette’s relief, not the cool that had come over Erin before she jumped Montressa and the other [Mages]. She had seen that, and if Erin had been that calm, Lyonette would have worn armor, because it meant Erin would be throwing a jar of acid soon.

“So you meant to tell me. Mrsha said, ‘I shouldn’t be worried’. Me, worried. While Antinium are dying.”

Lyonette closed her eyes for a moment.

“Mrsha was concerned. We all were. This is a vacation, Erin—”

So if Mrsha got hurt on vacation, I shouldn’t tell you?

Lyonette’s eyes opened wide. The mother glared at Erin.

“An entire Crusade appeared at Orefell, Erin. By the time we knew about it, they were locked in combat. They saved the day! You couldn’t stop them. I swear on the Eternal Throne I knew nothing about it until I learned the battle was taking place.”

The [Innkeeper] didn’t get calmer, knowing the facts, she just switched targets.

“You could have told me. But you kept it from me.”

She was trying to stare a hole in Lyonette’s head. Now, the [Princess] rallied with some anger of her own. Her foot began to tap, and she gritted her teeth.

“And what would you have done but cancel the trip, Erin? Or worry and panic? You would never have learned your craft. You even leveled up! Twice!”

The Level 14 [Witch of Second Chances] just stared at Lyonette. Her body was trembling, whether from exhaustion or anger or both, it was hard to say.

“You kept it from me, Lyonette. You could have told me. I thought we were a family. Yesterday, I talked with Numbtongue about not treating him like a child. Only to find out everyone’s treating me like I’m made of glass! This—this isn’t like you.”

Now her stare swiveled to the Thronebearers, and Dame Ushar began to sweat. It beaded on her forehead and ran down the small of her back as it felt like the temperature went up ten degrees.

Lyonette interposed her head between Ushar and Erin.

“If you think the Thronebearers influenced my decision, they are simply here to support me, Erin.”

“Fine.”

The gaze swiveled back. Erin stared at Lyonette.

“Then it’s the most [Princess]-like thing you’ve done since we met. It reminds me of Chaldion. It reminds me of how you talk about your family.”

Lyonette flinched a bit, and her face went white. Then snapped back.

“Well, perhaps it was for your own good! And whether or not you like it, there are times when keeping secrets is important! You needed to focus, and you could do no good.”

“I could have done something. I deserved to know! I need to trust you!”

Erin leaned forwards, and Lyonette refused to lean back.

And I need to make sure you don’t collapse. You can barely walk, Erin! You are made of glass—and we have all seen just how quickly you can die.

She recoiled from her own words as Erin turned paler. Then Lyonette clenched her hands.

“I—refuse—to let you endanger yourself like that again. If you had gone screaming off to Orefell trying to fight or save the Antinium, we would have had to tie you down. I was wrong not to tell you, later, about the Antinium. That was my mistake. I’m sorry. But I hid that from you because I feared you’d do exactly this!”

They were wrestling, invisibly, as Lyonette held her aura against Erin’s towering fury. The [Innkeeper] had to inhale, exhale or she’d grow dizzy.

“I—how am I supposed to trust you?”

“Trust us? We all agreed. From Mrsha to Numbtongue. We voted, and every single person knew that you would panic and cancel the vacation. If the Antinium were in trouble, we would have told you. But they won. They won without you, Erin. And that matters because your name isn’t tied to them. Erin—an army of the Antinium has now declared itself a seventh Hive. If you had been there, you would have never known peace. Nor the inn.”

Slowly, the [Innkeeper] digested this. Then dismissed it with a single blink of her eyes.

“You lied to me, Lyonette. We’re supposed to be a family.”

Well, this is how I treat my family in Calanfer.

Now, the [Princess]’ voice was rising. The Thronebearers all stared in different directions, somehow managing not to stare at any one person. As if the fraying seats were the Eternal Throne and had to be stared at or the universe would fall apart. Lyonette saw Erin scowl.

“I thought we were better than that.”

“You are. Mrsha certainly is. I trust Numbtongue more than all three of my brothers and most of my sisters combined! The same with Bird. But Erin—family keeps secrets from each other. Everyone does. If it meant you looked innocent of sending the Antinium out? I would keep the secret again. You know Chaldion, Erin. If he thought you were behind the Antinium marching? He might order some of his Eyes of Pallass to find six crossbows again!”

The [Innkeeper] was too mad to concede a point. She glared at Lyonette as she had to sit against the seat back to keep upright.

“Our ideas of trust and working together are different.”

“Ser Sest!”

Lyonette’s tone made the [Knight] jump, but neither young woman looked at him.

“Princess?”

“Are there things the Thronebearers keep from the throne? Or that my family keeps from each other, to keep them safe?”

He bowed.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Erin swiveled her head to him. Once again, she blasted Ser Sest with her aura made manifest—but to her surprise, he held her gaze. He blanched, but he held. Erin held the gaze back.

“I thought you were supposed to be there to help Lyonette. If I think you’ll pop her into a sack and run away with her, why would I let you stay with us?”

Ser Sest’s jaw tightened as he took a breath. But the four Thronebearers seemed to suddenly form a wall of gilded metal. Weak, ornamental—but somehow, firm. As if they would fall before maces, but not even a [King]’s aura could budge them. Dalimont answered for Sest.

“We are the Thronebearers of Calanfer, Erin Solstice. We do perform dark deeds and keep some secrets behind our armor. I will not pretend my Order is without copious faults or that we don’t answer to the crown. But we are still the [Knights] who rode to Rhir following the first queen of Calanfer. Please, Erin. Do you think after all that has been said and done we have not seen the change in Her Highness? Even a Thronebearer who had seen the Eternal Throne every day of his life—even he admires the rising sun.”

He sat back, and Ser Sest nodded wordlessly. Dame Ushar hesitated and cleared her throat wordlessly as Ser Lormel ducked his head in agreement. Erin looked at Lyonette, and the [Princess] had turned red.

That was the most startling thing Dalimont had said. It almost made Erin let go of her anger. Furious—she swung back to Lyonette, angrier because she was getting distracted from the point. She pointed at Dalimont without looking at him, lest she lose her feeling altogether.

“Your [Knights] keep secrets from you, Lyonette? Like what? Torturing people? Crimes? And you’re happy with that?”

“Nothing so direct. Sometimes it’s better not to know, for truth spells. Sometimes it’s better that you never knew anything. Let me give you an example, Erin. Do you remember the time Mrsha came back with a bloody nose from the playground?”

Erin narrowed her eyes, trying to figure this one out.

“Yeah. So what?”

“It turns out one of the other children, Unessi, bloodied her nose. She did not hit her face while playing with Ekirra’s soccer ball as we both thought.”

“She did?”

Erin was grappling with another kind of anger for a moment—and Lyonette’s voice grew heated.

“Yes! I was outraged to learn that a month later when I heard it from Unessi’s mother. But do you know why Selys lied to my face? Mrsha too?”

The [Innkeeper] was silent. The [Princess] spelled it out, tapping her palm.

“Because, I would have personally found Unessi and her wretched mother, and you would have too, and likely got us banned from the playground. Especially because Unessi called Mrsha a Doombringer.”

“She said that?”

“It is sorted and dealt with. By Selys. She did not tell me, and I was furious. But I believe Selys was right.”

Lyonette folded her arms, and Erin shook her head.

“I wanted to know about the Antinium. I wanted to know about Mrsha. Don’t keep any secrets from me.”

Now, the [Princess] was in full temper herself. She gave Erin the most scornful, indignant, angry look of her own, and her lips quivered. Then her arm shot out, and she pointed at Erin’s chest.

Then tell me what the ghosts told you! All of it! Tell me what has you so nervous, and tell me how many quests and secrets are locked inside your head. Otherwise, don’t you dare lecture me about keeping secrets.”

The [Innkeeper] froze a second, and Lyonette waited exactly one more before she snapped.

“There, you see? I know you have more secrets than I can count. Yet I do one thing—and it was a mistake—and you explode so badly no one will dare to sit in the same carriage with you. It was my mistake, Erin, but do not, please, try hypocrisy on me.”

The two of them simmered as Erin tried to think of how to respond. Lyonette brushed at her pants as if they were a skirt repeatedly.

“I won’t keep Antinium or world events from you. That was a mistake. But you must trust me more, Erin. Erin! Do you really think we would have kept something from you if it wasn’t alright?”

The [Innkeeper] didn’t respond. Lyonette’s eyes shimmered a bit, but she held back her frustrations.

“I cannot follow your lead and just—let you do your ‘thing’, Erin. You’re playing the most dangerous of games, with other nations. Chaldion sits in your inn. The Titan courts you! I know you’re aware of how much power you have—so let me decide things myself. I am a [Princess] of Calanfer. And I cannot run from that. In Oteslia, I realized that I wanted my class. Because a [Princess] can sometimes command an army. She has [Knights]. Lionette Solstice had neither.”

Now they were going back. Backwards, to a discussion they’d gone over in history, but never in how they’d felt. Erin sat there, and Lyonette looked from side to side. None of the Thronebearers met her gaze.

At the very beginning, only Dalimont would have understood and been ashamed. Now? They knew their orders. Lyonette had a delay due to complications. But someday, they would have their orders.

Erin’s head turned to Lyonette, and she felt a flash of fear. And it took away from the anger she was trying to keep bubbling.

“I know how much you did, Lyonette. I do trust you. Remember Christmas? I’ve been letting you take charge. Heck, you practically run a lot of the inn, and that’s fine because you’re better than me. You take care of Mrsha…but I can’t give you a throne or my job. What else is there?”

The red-haired girl was just shaking her head, and she looked nothing like the 6th Princess that Ser Sest had volunteered to find. He had expected a frightened girl, in over her head in her ridiculous escapade, or a spoiled [Princess] who needed help before something caught up with her.

He looked over and wondered when she’d grown up. And he wished that her minders and tutors and her sisters and parents could see her. Let alone her subjects.

That wish, whether he knew it or not, ran counter to the desires in the [Princess]’s and [Innkeeper]’s hearts. Lyonette exhaled.

“I felt helpless in Oteslia, Erin. Then my past caught up, and I was almost glad of it, because I was leaning on Ilvriss’ authority, the Gentlemen Callers—and if they hadn’t helped, I would have been fairly helpless.”

“I know how that feels. That’s what it’s like. You can’t be the adventurer.”

Lyonette smiled.

“…But I am a [Princess]. And Erin—it was fun being your [Barmaid]. You found a spoiled, freezing, disgraceful failure of a [Princess]. I was, to my entire class. If not to how my parents raised my sisters and brothers—to what I should have been. And I knew it. You helped teach me.”

“By leaving you behind. By letting Toren torment you.

“Yes. But you left me part of your inn, and you did the best you could. Well, now I am a [Princess] in truth, and everyone knows it. This was the first thing I did that you didn’t like since you woke up. I fear I’ll do more, and I need you to let me try. Because, either way—I won’t be able to be here forever.”

Now, she was speaking ahead of Erin’s wrath to something so distant and so close that Erin’s fury almost subsided completely. A pit writhed in Erin’s stomach, but she refused to turn away. She couldn’t as the carriage rumbled on.

Instead, Erin looked up, and the Thronebearers felt a crawl down their backs as Erin’s gaze turned cold one second.

“If…the Thronebearers found you, Lyonette, that’s one thing. But what if you actually dyed your hair? What if we used spells?”

“And Ser Dalimont and Ushar, Lormel, Sest?”

Erin shrugged slightly.

“…What if the carriage just stopped and they got out? Got out and went home? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Lyonette. I promise.”

She looked at the [Princess] as seriously as she had once faced down the Grand Strategist of Pallass and stared down Skinner. And Lyonette brushed at her eyes.

“You really would try. And you’d succeed, Erin. But my mother and father, my kingdom, will never stop. Even if we took all the precautions—and besides that? I don’t want to run from who I am. Erin, listen to me again. I want to be a [Princess]. A good one. The best of them. I could have chased away the Thronebearers. Pulled tricks like Mrsha. I haven’t. I am a [Princess] of Calanfer, and you have one in your inn. We have to reckon with that, because you’re a [Witch], and our classes have not gotten along. We have not always gotten along, but I want to, as long as I can.”

She looked at Erin, and now the flames were dying out and Erin looked troubled and tired. Lyonette reached out and gently took Erin’s hand. Erin squeezed Lyonette’s grip weakly, and the [Princess] sighed.

“…Because someday, I will go back to Calanfer. They will take or pull or force or cajole me back into returning. And I don’t know what will happen after that. Not what my parents expect, but Calanfer is so very far away, Erin. Even with magic doors. Nor is the Eternal Throne easy to leave. I did it once, but that was because I barely mattered to it.”

Her head looked out one of the glass windows, north. Erin took Lyonette’s hand urgently.

“They can’t keep you, Lyonette. Enough. I’ve seen the largest bullies in existence. You don’t have to ever go back.”

To that, the [Princess] just gazed back at Erin.

“But what if Calanfer needs me more than I need it, Erin? What if the cost of staying away gets too high? You taught me a hundred lessons, Erin. Yet you never taught me to run away.”

The [Innkeeper] blinked and then almost smiled. The [Princess] sat there, wistful, and Erin looked at her.

“So what are you going to do? Build a castle out of my inn? You be the [Princess] and I’ll keep doing my thing?”

Lyonette snorted.

“I don’t need a castle. Drevish’s plans are ostentatious enough for any number of royals. Erin. Can you forgive me about the Antinium?”

“No.”

The [Princess] and all the relaxing Thronebearers looked up. Erin held her scowl, then slumped in her seat.

“Alright. Fine. Don’t do it again.”

“And will you tell me your plans? Your big ones? Even if not here…”

Lyonette stressed the word with a pointed look at Ushar, who reported to Queen Ielane and King Reclis directly.

“…Then soon? Talk to me regularly?”

“I do.”

“About your plans, Erin?”

The [Innkeeper] was slumping over in her seat.

“Sure. And what do I get?”

The [Princess] smiled sadly. A bit exasperatedly, as if she was talking to a child. And a quirky boss, the worst kind, and her friend.

“You need to tell me that, Erin.”

The [Innkeeper] was staring at the ground. Her head rose—and she gave Lyonette a sad look of her own. There was no [Witch] anymore with a flaming hat.

Just her first class. So Erin sat up, exhausted, but then she nodded a few times. She looked Lyonette straight in the eye.

“Lyonette. I get why you wanted to hide the Antinium Crusade from me. Don’t do it again. Don’t ever do something like that again. You can be—careful, but tell me. Understand? Sometimes we keep secrets, but not that kind.”

“Yes. I understand.”

Lyonette ducked her head. Erin opened her mouth, lifted a finger, then shook it a few times while thinking.

“…And that’s all I’ve got. Bleh. I overreacted a tiny bit, didn’t I?”

The Thronebearers and Lyonette looked at each other, then, as one, chorused in the most perfect way their emphatic denials. Such that Erin saw their complete dishonesty and the bald-faced lies on their tongues.

“I hate all of you. I’m just tired of secrets. Tired of things I have to keep hidden or else it’ll hurt—everyone.”

She tried to pull an Ulvama and put her feet up on Ushar’s lap. The [Knight] looked so uneasy that Erin stopped. Lyonette gave Erin a sympathetic look.

“Welcome to responsibility, Erin.”

The [Innkeeper] almost threw something at Lyonette until she realized the [Princess] wasn’t mocking her. She thought of Fetohep, who had done much the same thing. And her—with the knowledge of the deadlands to pretty much the entire world.

The [Princess] ducked her head. Then she spoke hesitantly.

“If it helps, Erin, I didn’t mention the Goblins for much the same reason. I really did fear they might die, and I didn’t want you to get so badly hurt. Everything has changed. For myself…I’m also glad you spoke to Numbtongue.”

Erin didn’t quite flinch. She stared up, remembering Numbtongue’s expression.

“Goblins? Yeah. Riverfarm’s okay. I thought they’d want to come back. Pebblesnatch as well. As for Numbtongue—that’s my fault too. But I didn’t know. Wait, were you listening to us?”

She sat up, and Lyonette’s open mouth snapped shut.

“No.”

Erin’s eyes narrowed, and Lyonette stared out the window. Then she whispered.

“I, myself, believe I need to talk with someone too. Just to see where we are and what’s supposed to happen next.”

She gave Erin such an unhappy look that the [Innkeeper] sat there. Then Ser Dalimont coughed. Everyone looked at him, and the [Knight] cast himself into the blaze for the good of all.

“Apropos of what has been said—Princess Marquin, Miss Solstice, I believe, er, there is another element that Erin has not realized. From the, ah, coverage of the monster raid on the High Passes. In fact, I think the aforementioned Goblins might be closer to Liscor than we are.”

He was eying a [Message] scroll that had a few lines from Selys addressed to Lyonette. The [Princess]’ head swung to him, then to Erin with a dawning wide-eyed realization. Then Erin realized they were speaking about another group of Goblins than the one she thought, and her eyes widened.

“What? What? Whaaaaaaaaaaa—”

 

——

 

“—aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?”

The scream was coming from the back carriage. Both had stopped on the road, and Mrsha crawled out of her carriage and hid behind the largest object.

Which was the half-Giant who bent down to let her cling to his shoulder. Jelaqua’s beaming smile turned uncertain.

“Is—is that Erin? She’s actually that mad?”

Ceria Springwalker leaned over her wagon, cackling, as the two undead horses that had been carrying the Halfseekers and Horns of Hammerad to Invrisil came to a stop. They were within spitting range of Invrisil’s gates, but despite being tired from the road, fighting, and all the drama—she felt better already.

Pisces had been subdued and thinking all ride, but now his brows rose as he turned from reading his spellbook. Ksmvr stopped eating the cheese that Vaunt had given him, and Yvlon stopped holding her nose. Ulinde was gulping down way too much cheese too, and it had been a smelly ride back.

“So you did not tell Erin about an Antinium crusade and Rags’ forces showing up in battle? And you thought this would, ah, resolve itself amicably?”

Pisces waved a feather bookmark that Bird had given him at Numbtongue. The [Bard] was wincing as he eyed the shaking carriage and nervous horses.

“Shut up. She was doing [Witch] stuff.”

“…Learning how to explode?”

Seborn Sailwinds glanced over at Mrsha, then at Nanette. The girl was looking worried about her new caretaker’s wrath, but she tipped her imaginary hat very politely to Seborn.

“Hello, sir. Salt below.”

His brows rose.

“Wind above. Pleased to meet you, Miss…?”

“Nanette.”

She shyly shook his hand, and Mrsha peeked out from behind Fort Moore as he rumbled.

“I can see why Erin is so angry. Not that she should take it out on her friends and family. At least we’re nearly back to Liscor. She can greet the Antinium when they arrive. It will be a day or two yet, even if they march fast.”

“Are they headed south via however they got here or overland? Will they make it to Liscor without—incident? They might be safe when they reach Celum, but that’ll take some time.”

The question suddenly provoked some nerves in the others. Garia gulped, imagining how many cities lay between Orefell and Liscor. None of whom knew Antinium.

“Wales’ forces are escorting them, so they should be safe.”

Numbtongue exhaled, and the adventurers realized—that the inn’s guests didn’t understand how good the reputation of these Antinium were in Izril’s lower north right now. Or how scary Xrn was.

Ceria was still chuckling, and then the inn’s guests saw how the adventurers had fared on their ‘vacation’. Despite having Orefell’s resources after the battle, everything had been so chaotic that no one but Yvlon had managed to clean up. They were smelly—Ceria had sticks in her hair from sleeping outside, and despite everything having been healed by potions and Zimrah, Moore kept rubbing his back, which he’d thrown during the battle. Jelaqua and Ulinde’s Selphid bodies were full of bite marks, and Ksmvr was so sleepy he could barely nibble on his cheese.

They were the victors of a great battle, a heroic moment, even if they had not been the sole key players. Mrsha looked up at Moore, then down at Seborn.

“Hey, water rat. You got any food? We shared most of ours with Orefell.”

He poked her in the side, and she gave him an outraged look, which turned slightly respectful. Mrsha hesitated, then grimaced and pointed. Everyone looked over, and Jelaqua made a delighted sound. Yvlon groaned.

“You’ve got a Sariant Lamb?

Numbtongue grinned.

“It found us. And ate all our food. That’s Nerry. Don’t ask what it’s short for. And we met Griffon Hunt!”

“I forgot they were over there! How’s old Halrac doing? How’s older Typhenous?”

The [Bard] snorted.

“Flirting with [Witches].”

Everyone laughed, and for a moment, they relaxed, watching the carriage. And yet—Mrsha saw the same City Runner who they had passed catching up. The young man pointed at the Horns, Halfseekers, and fished for an autograph card in awe. In fact, the gates were opening and the Watch was waving. Then Mrsha wondered what Lyonette and the other adults had hid from her, while they checked to see if anyone they knew had been hurt in the battle. She looked at Moore and wondered if he had been a hero again.

But then, he always was, and the half-Giant patted Mrsha gently on the head.

“Your boon was very helpful, Mrsha. Or rather, should I thank Lyonette too?”

“Oh. Yes. Where is Erin? I have a piece of my mind to speak to her about her admittedly helpful boon myself.”

Pisces snapped his spellbook shut for good. He frowned around, but Ceria was still watching the carriage.

“I think someone’s told Erin that Rags is at Liscor. She should be; she claimed she was flying, and I bet a Wyvern can make it from Orefell in two days.”

Everyone turned to stare at Ceria, and the half-Elf winked at Nanette in a friendly way. And sure enough—the doors of the carriage flew open, and Erin Solstice flopped onto the ground.

Everyone stared at the [Innkeeper] as four Thronebearers and Lyonette hurried out to pick her up. The [Innkeeper] was trying to push herself up.

Rags is—the Goblins are—bisque! Where’s my stupid chair? I’m mad at all of you!

Mrsha ducked behind Moore again, but Erin was excited. So excited that Ser Dalimont was unloading her chair and she was pointing to the gates when she noticed the adventurers.

“Wait a second. I’d know those filthy robes anywhere. Pisces! Seborn! Moore!”

“Jelaqua? Hey, Erin!”

The Selphid saw Erin being pushed over and laughed as Erin stared at them.

“I thought you were at Orefell!”

“We got bored and headed back. Hey, Erin. Killed a few hundred goats. How was your vacation?”

Ceria lifted a hand, still chuckling. Erin hesitated, and Numbtongue answered.

“She called a Water Elemental out of a river.”

A spray of cheese struck half of the adventurers in the wagon as Ulinde expectorated. It wasn’t that the famous Winebreath Blaster or variants thereof were that common. It was just that you tended to have someone with their mouths full of liquid or solids at helpful times.

Ksmvr barely looked up at Erin; he had instantly fixed his attention on Nerry and was offering her cheese and patting her with his patented four-pat technique. But Erin was barely able to focus on that.

“Yeah, I did. And there’s an Elemental of Law now. Stupid beeping thing hates me. Ceria—Pisces—did you see Rags? Dalimont says she’s at Liscor! We have to get there!”

“An Elemental of What Now?

This time, even Ceria and Pisces felt that this was beyond the regular Solstice effect. They sat up, fascinated, but Erin pointed.

“Rags? Liscor?”

“If Selys says she is, Erin—Erin!”

The [Innkeeper] was trying to wheel herself past the wagon. She called to the Horns as she looked around.

“Sorry, guys. Hey, someone push me! I’ve got to get to the inn now!

She was so frantic she rolled past the battle-weary Horns. Of course, that was not her fault; Erin had not seen the desperate battle against the Eater Goats and Gargoyles. But Lyonette had, and she saw the brief look of disappointment over Jelaqua’s face and Yvlon’s discontented expression.

They had nearly died out there. The Silver Swords had escaped unscathed, but the other teams had lost teammates.

“Erin…”

Numbtongue was glancing at the adventurers, but to his surprise, Ceria lifted her skeletal hand, and he fell silent.

“Push me! Someone push me!

Then a Drake appeared, and Tessa leapt off the wagon, freaking out everyone she’d been sitting next to. She grabbed the handles of Erin’s wheelchair.

“I can push.”

“Good! Take me into the inn—I forget the name! Just push, and we’ll find it. Sorry, you guys catch up—”

Then Shriekblade, the Named-rank Adventurer, began to push. Erin’s last words disappeared into a breathless scream. A blurring [Innkeeper] shot across the ground, and the first [Guards] and people coming to congratulate the adventurers scattered.

The distant scream from Erin’s mouth trailed off as Ceria snorted. Lyonette was apologetic. She looked at the adventurers, and she knew what they’d done.

But Erin was…thinking only of the Goblins.

“I’m sorry, everyone. Erin’s just—”

Ceria lifted an amused hand, and her pale eyes were calm.

“Don’t worry, Lyonette. We’re used to it. No one told her how heroic we were, right? Besides—”

The half-Elf glanced off into the distance where people were already shouting and Erin’s distant screams of ‘left, left’ were coming from. She grinned.

“—She’s got to go. Her first guest is waiting for her, and it’s been so long since they met.”

That was true. Suddenly, everyone wanted to go and see what was happening. The carriages and the wagons began starting forwards as Garia just began jogging, dragging Numbtongue past the [Guards] and the people. Pisces, though, refused to walk when he could let the skeletal horses pull the wagon.

He spluttered as they entered Invrisil, and Lyonette eyed the crowds and then the Horns, who waved at the people demanding autographs. The Halfseekers seemed pleased with the attention, and no doubt the Silver Swords, catching up after Dawil had marched north with some of his people, wouldn’t mind the autograph demands and mild cheering.

But Lyonette did. The [Princess] thought of Eternal Calanfer, so flawed, but so good at one thing. She looked around, and Ser Sest and the other Thronebearers straightened to attention. She crooked a finger as she spotted a Player of Celum in the crowds.

As for Pisces? He was spluttering as a few hooded figures watched him from afar and wondered how they’d meet with him ‘in private’ later. The [Necromancer] was outraged.

“First guest? First guest, Springwalker? If it refreshes your ailing memory, I remind you that I was Erin’s first true guest.”

The half-Elf laughed in his face.

“No you weren’t. That’s Relc and Klbkch if you want to get technical.”

“I was her first…paying guest.”

“No you weren’t. Relc and Klbkch paid for their food. You didn’t. You were her first criminal. You tried to extort her. No, wait, you were her first charity case.”

Mrsha punched Pisces’ leg as he turned red and spluttered. Yes, Mr. Third Guest! Beat it, bub! And Nanette sat amongst the adventurers as Nerry let Ksmvr scratch her head and comb her fur, and she wondered what this fabled inn looked like.

 

——

 

Goblins. It almost felt old and nostalgic to hear the call from the walls and the word spread through the city. Oh, the newcomers panicked a bit, but the real Liscorian citizens just looked up.

“Goblins! Goblins are at the gates!”

A panicking young woman ran into a square as a Drake looked up from watering some bushes she’d planted. Raspberries, fruitful.

“Goblins? Not Crelers? How many Goblins?”

“A hundred, some on Wyverns?”

The Drake [Gardener] thought about this.

“Do you have any moths? Undead? Is the [Innkeeper] back?”

The young woman looked at her and hesitated.

“N-no. I don’t think so. Why?”

“I just don’t see the reason to make all that fuss. Now, if it were a thousand Goblins. Or Hectval. Or an Archmage, maybe it’s worth screaming my eardrums out. Or maybe you could hold this basket while I gather my raspberries.”

Then the unfortunate young woman was holding a basket while the Drake, fearless of the thorns with her scaled claws, plucked raspberries.

The crazy thing was that it was only slightly bravado. Most of the Liscorians were headed to the western gates because they loved a good gawk, but they were doing it in an unafraid way. After all, Celum, Invrisil, and those Pallassians had to see how a citizen of Liscor handled adversity. They had a reputation they now needed to maintain.

But—Goblins. The word swept through the city, because it was not that [Bard] who played a pretty good tune or the Cave Goblins.

It was the first tribe. Even if they had changed—these were the Goblins who had once been pressed against Liscor’s gate. The ones who had fought against the Goblin Lord. So many had died that day, and the Watch Captain herself stood on the walls, sword at her waist, wondering if the group that had flown down on Wyvernback had a grudge.

Of course they did. Of course they remembered.

Why else would a single warrior, who rode on a gigantic Carn Wolf’s back, be the lone Goblin riding through the gates?

He was short, for a Hobgoblin. Tall for any regular Goblin and growing still, wiry, and his very appearance provoked a memory. But he was shorter than his father, his Chieftain, and he carried two blades, not one.

But one of those blades was red, as red as the paint that criss-crossed his arms and body. The Carn Wolf sniffed the air as the [Guards] and citizens drew back. Some called at him to stop, but Redscar simply trotted through Liscor’s gates.

Fearlessly, he looked around, not even resting his hands on the hilts of his blades. He swung right and left, appraising the crowd for threats. But no one threw anything at him—they just stared up at him with hostility and fear. Memory and guilt.

Antinium, Drakes, Gnolls, Humans…Redscar glanced over his shoulder as the rest of the Goblins clustered outside the gates and around a hill where a single inn stood. Watching him.

The Goblin held himself like a blademaster, tensed and relaxed simultaneously. He had trotted through those gates with all the will in the world.

Even if a thousand spears and bows had been aimed at him, he would have gone through those gates with will alone and cut them to pieces if he had to. For that was how much it mattered.

Yet, being here? Suddenly, Redscar didn’t know what came next. He raised his head, and Thunderfur sniffed the air.

Then—the Goblin turned and beheld an unfamiliar place. A city with sprawling streets, people largely unarmed. Children and houses. He stared at the insides of the walls.

A vision. Hundreds of thousands of Goblins had never seen it.

If they had—walked these streets—stumbled in here?

What might have happened? He looked around, craning his neck, as his wolf slowly padded forwards and the murmurs spread. Gazing for the Goblins who could no longer see, whose bodies were long gone.

Like a dreamer, he slowly got off his wolf. And walked forwards, a few steps. The people who watched him moved back, and they had only seen that look of baffled curiosity once before.

On an Antinium’s face. And Redscar’s was much easier to read. He stared at fresh loaves on display in a [Baker]’s window. Made with…‘baking soda’. The Goblin turned, and it seemed then as if he were blind or having some terrible dream.

For when he looked at a group of children peering at him, he saw little Goblins. Running about the streets. He looked at an oblivious [Builder] hammering a nail into a house being redesigned and wondered if a Goblin could ever look so idly bored at having a job in a city, instead of afraid.

It hurt worse because the dream was just that. It had died at those gates. Not everyone could meet his eyes. Some did, with the kind of blank anger that said they saw just a monster. And some saw Redscar’s distant look and perhaps saw a city that a Goblin Lord had dreamed of.

The Goblin who had never fallen in battle, who had fought every foe to the death, found his legs were shaking. He leaned against the great wolf, who sniffed the air. Thunderfur made a soft, whining sound in the back of his throat. But neither one said anything else to the watching citizens.

They reminded Liscor’s people of no debts. Redscar spoke no history or bitter words. For him, what would have been the point? He simply stood awhile as the Goblins outside the gates watched.

As if he were a [Soothsayer], trying to see a future that might have been.

 

——

 

A Goblin in Liscor. But know that this was only the beginning.

For an [Innkeeper] was coming. Now, she was so close that her inn felt it.

Dismounting Goblins who were leaping off saddles and helping down other less-experienced riders looked up in alarm at a sound. They reached for blades as a small Goblin held up a claw. It was no attack. The Antinium in the tower was waving at them and envying their pet birds.

The inn. The front door had swung open. The clacking sound was of every shuttered window swinging open too and a door to a garden appearing against one wall. A Goblin with a [Chef]’s hat, nervously clutching a pack of tools, oohed. More hopefuls chattered, checked they had everything, and rushed forwards excitedly.

Inside the inn, a Gnoll glanced up as his sister ran to tell him there were Goblins.

Liska found Ishkr carefully preparing two chalkboards, the kind of which hung over the inn’s bar.

“Ishkr! I said there are a hundred Goblins and Wyverns outside!”

“Huh. The stables won’t fit the Wyverns. I’ll have food ready in a moment. Hold on. Take this sign and hang it up.”

Liska stared at him, nearly tearing her fur out.

“Did you hear me? What’s this?”

“Adjusted prices.”

Ishkr pointed at the menu overhead, and Liska saw he’d cut all the prices on the menu. Then he held out another board with identical items and began to write new numbers. He was marking everything up by 100%.

“What’s that board for?”

Ishkr sighed as his sister failed to even help him in one small way. As usual. He carefully wrote a price on the board.

“Goblin prices. Party prices. I’m getting ready. Can you at least hold the door to Invrisil open? Liska? Can you at least do that?”

 

——

 

Something was coming to Liscor. To the inn.

That something, well, one of the somethings, was a screaming [Innkeeper]. She was blurring across the city, the wheels of her chair spinning so fast they created a mirage where they looked like one solid object. She was leaning back—because Shriekblade was tilting the chair back and pushing.

It made Erin feel like at any second she would somersault backwards out of her chair and turn into paste. She was screaming as they zoomed past a City Runner sprinting towards the Runner’s Guild. The woman slowed and stared as she saw an [Innkeeper] moving at possibly fifty miles per hour, just missing pedestrians.

Left! No, right! That street! We’re gonna crash!

They were headed straight for a wall. And if Shriekblade stopped the wheelchair, Erin died because there was no seatbelt. Instead, she got a glimpse of how fast Shriekblade was. The Named-rank saw the brick wall, so she ran ahead of the wheelchair as she turned it left.

But sheer momentum kept the wheels—now in danger of being destroyed from friction—drifting towards the wall. So Shriekblade leapt up, braced herself against the wall, and pushed as the wheelchair came within mere feet of it.

All so fast that it looked to bystanders as if Erin suddenly did a 90-degree turn at the speed of—

“Aaaaaaaaaaaa—”

Then she was gone, terrorizing another street as she headed towards the inn. But what was really happening was that things were setting up.

An [Innkeeper] rolling through Invrisil on an adventurer-powered wheelchair? Goblins in Liscor?

Setup, setup. And at least one [Head Server] knew it full well. It took a while to eventuate a party. Even the [Innkeeper] at the peak of health couldn’t do it in less than, oh, an hour.

And it would take more than that to pull a party across at least three cities. Probably four. But Lyonette du Marquin was everywhere. The first person she found in the crowd was the [Mayor] of Invrisil, who had come for an autograph.

He didn’t have security along the streets. The crowd was begging for autographs like [Beggars] for coin. There were no flower petals, no music—no celebration for heroes in battle.

Let alone Liscor! At least Invrisil had the excuse that it was only three Gold-rank teams. But this wouldn’t do. The confused [Mayor] was being harangued by Lyonette as his [Bodyguards] tried to block her—and ran into the Thronebearers, considerably more impressive in situations like this. Dalimont checked a huge woman with an arm and a look.

“…And I would strongly recommend you ask for Manager Temile’s cooperation in this endeavor, Mayor.”

Temile? But the Players cost a fortune, and he’s booked for months! You can’t get the Players to do anything!”

Lyonette gave him a sweet smile, like a child pointing to a jar on the top shelf and claiming no one could reach it.

“Then I shall have a word for you and ask him to speak to you, Mayor. Now, I believe a budget is in order. How much is Invrisil willing to pay for adventurers? Or, to put it another way, how will the City of Adventurers treat adventurers who just answered the gravest of calls? Perhaps the Five Families would be willing to sponsor…? Oh, and I believe a call to Wistram News Network is in order. Or I can speak to Miss Drassi myself.”

He swallowed hard. He had heard rumors, but this was a woman in her element, young as she was, and it occurred to the [Mayor]…

“May I know your name, ah—ah—Miss?”

“Lyonette, Mayor Curle. Lyonette. Now, if you’ll excuse me. Liscor’s Council awaits.”

 

——

 

A storm. How did you create a storm? Lyonette had learned from the best, and she had to first seed the clouds in every city. With gold and words and intentions.

All the conditions were right; everyone had seen the news. She just had to push them. But she had to stoke the winds and throw flower petals or other suitably thematic elements into the air. Find the right [Actors], and she knew so many.

The Horns of Hammerad were halfway across Invrisil when a marching band of sorts began playing, and a [Crier] began shouting.

“The Mayor has declared a three-day holiday! To celebrate the victory at Orefell, the Gold-rank teams and the Antinium Crusade and soldiers of Wales, Remendia, Ocre, and…”

Then there was a flame in the air. A rumor running hot across Izril that if you wanted, you could, you must get to the City of Adventurers and perhaps go through the door to Liscor. Because there was going to be a celebration, obviously.

Only, it was going to be a multi-city event, and you could be in each one if you played your cards right. Nobles and [Merchants] scented the opportunity to rise in station or wealth.

All Lyonette had to do was start a fire, and she had learned from an expert who had thrown banquets with silver coins, not gold. Maviola El would have laughed.

But it was coming. Not here yet. For the first time, you could see it coming. A party. And who was invited?

Mrsha looked up as a boy strolled next to her wagon and inserted himself into it. She nearly kicked the street boy out in outrage.

Adventurers only, stupid! And their cool friends. Then her eyes widened as he gave her a gap-toothed grin, and Grev swung himself into the seat.

“Look who’s back! Hey, Miss Ceria!”

“Is that Grev? I thought you were with the Players in the north.”

He looked offended.

“Me? I’m a Face on the streets these days. I’m not going to First Landing. Too far. Heya, Numbtongue. ‘N who’s this? Hey, have we met before? You look familiar.”

He stared at Nanette, who blinked at the street lad. Then someone was jogging next to the cart as the impromptu band began to play. Mrsha saw a high-kicking group of sharply dressed women and a man with a trumpet.

They had chops. Even the adventurers and Lyonette noticed the band of eight. Seven women, all with trendy dresses that were—odd. They were uniforms, not just the latest fashions, in bright cloth as vivid as anything from Earth. Glossy, with an odd badge on the arm and chest, as if they were [Soldiers].

But they were no soldiers—or if they were, they were part of the most musical army in the world. One had a marching drum hung from her chest, and she was rattling off a song to the other instruments.

Horns, a brass trumpet in the familiar man’s hands. And the others were backing him up, with more horns—even a strange instrument that Mrsha had never seen before, with a long tube that kept moving as it changed pitches.

A trombone—and they played well. Dame Ushar’s eyebrows rose because the musicians were performing and dancing. [Bards]?

No, not quite. Nor was this a chance meeting. By themselves, the eight performers turned the street from a chaotic cavalcade into a parade. It wasn’t just how they moved, in unison, as if they knew how to celebrate, teaching the street by example how someone should move when the energy burned in their limbs—it was what they were. Professionals.

They had been here before. They had seen champions and legends and grand occasions, and they rekindled that feeling in a heartbeat.

Mrsha narrowed her eyes at the man in front. How did she know him? She had never seen his suit with the bright red cloth and shining lapels, like he was the owner of the menagerie or some high-level [Bard]. Yet he was looking at her, and one bright orange eye opened like a spotlight. Then he winked at her.

The little Gnoll stared at the performers sharply with a sudden suspicion, then she peered at the badges, but they were rolling past, and she only saw a sparkling inn on a tiny badge for a second. Then—

The [Vice Innkeeper] winked at her. Like pure mischief, an impish wink promising…Mrsha’s eyes widened.

Mrsha pointed two fingers at her eyes and pointed them at him. She would have done more, but they were moving on as Fierre shouted, trying to keep the umbrella over her head in the crowd.

“Ceria! Mrsha! It’s me! Fierre! Hey—what’s going on? Did anyone level up? Hey—

Only when Numbtongue noticed her did she manage to climb on. Lyonette was hmming as she pictured how an entire army would come through Liscor’s gates. They needed a route, and the wagon was crowded—but visible.

Something to see. Calanfer’s citizens often greeted [Princesses] riding horses, but [Princesses] and dignitaries hated sitting on the animals—and the horses hated it too. She had no desire to be beaten to death by a certain [Druid].

But a wagon? What if you had a bigger wagon and painted it, a moving stage? Yes! She wondered if someone had invented her idea. Probably. That was the problem with Earthers. Come up with anything interesting and they said it existed and gave it a stupid name, as if they had personally come up with it.

 

——

 

They were coming, and it was going to be big. Pisces looked at the cheering crowds and then at Lyonette. The [Princess]’ eyes shone as she promised him there would be a hundred times this many people.

“We shall have flags. Flags—and do the Horns have a symbol? Nevermind, we can certainly do House Byres, the, um—Free Antinium’s Hive. Oh dear. But how about you, Ceria? Does the Village of Springwalker have a flag?”

Ceria scratched at her head.

“…You could put a squirrel and an icecube together on a piece of cloth. That’s as good as anything I’ve got. As for a symbol, we used to have a token. It’s a cool hammer. Let me find it for you. Well, Calruz thought it looked good.”

Flags? Ooh, I’ve got one for my home!”

Jelaqua was agog at the idea. She looked delighted, and even Moore had one he wanted to display. Seborn had a [Pirate]’s flag, and Ulinde had Wistram’s banner.

“Come up with any you want by tomorrow at the earliest. Any of the Thronebearers will have it stitched up. Even a national flag will do, Ceria. Whatever kingdom your village is in.”

“Oh, that’s Erribathe, but we don’t mix with that lot. I’ll do the ice cube squirrel. That’ll be hilarious. Ksmvr, you draw your Hive.”

Ceria’s eyes danced with mirth, but Pisces was troubled. Lyonette turned to him.

“We could put up a flag of, er, the Kingdom of Glass and Glory, Pisces.”

He glanced up, and his eyes flashed.

My kingdom? Ailendamus? In what scenario would I like to advertise my roots in such a manner, Lyonette?”

He regretted snapping at her, but the instinctive flash of anger and hatred ran through him. Nor did she take offense. The [Princess] just gave him a smile every bit as arch as he could muster. But one of one confidant to another. One Terandrian to another.

“Well, Pisces. I imagine nothing would be more poetic than for the great [Necromancer] of the Horns to claim Ailendamus as his own.”

Or annoy them more. He blinked at her. Then he smirked at imagining their reactions to that. Lyonette was fussing about, and Numbtongue tapped her on the shoulder.

“Lyonette. This sounds like fun—but will Erin be mad?”

This sounded like exactly the same problem as last time. For answer, Lyonette blew out her cheeks.

“I am going to tell her the instant we get back to the inn. But she has her Goblins, and I?”

She looked at the adventurers, who deserved a moment worthy of them. Much less the Antinium. Lyonette straightened the collar of her travelling shirt.

“I believe we’ve settled our roles. Erin can be the frosting. I shall bake this cake myself, this time.”

And hers was going to be organized. Numbtongue licked his lips.

“Get a lot of cakes. With chocolate.”

 

——

 

The coming storm of confections, delights, and, yes, chaos would engulf the inn today and in the days to come. Already, change was coming.

And the name of the change?

Goblins. Little Goblins were wandering around with older ones. One limped around, one-legged, poking at things, and eying her new place of work. The Antinium Workers didn’t quite know what to do.

“Server Ishkr. Server Ishkr. There is a Goblin in the kitchen.”

“Let them look around.”

Ishkr was eying his new coworkers. They were going to be…interesting. But he was busy seating Goblins and pouring mugs of whatever they wanted out as some slapped coins down and watched, to their delight, as it turned into something actually useful like a drink. But the Antinium Worker was nervous.

“Yes, Server Ishkr. But this one is…cooking!

Then Ishkr poked his head into the kitchen and saw a grand [Chef] standing with a pinch of fiery dust, inspecting a pizza. He sprinkled it on delicately and blinked and waved at Ishkr.

He was still looking around, but Calescent had been promised a place, and this kitchen was very, very nice, if smaller than the ones in Goblinhome to feed everyone.

The [Spice Chef] was, in fact, very nervous. He wanted to make a good impression, so he nearly dropped the pizza as the Gnoll looked at him. But Ishkr didn’t bare his fangs or look alarmed. He just nodded.

“Have we met?”

“Once.”

The Hob hesitated. Rags had been here, the day Erin had woken up, and so had he. But that had been like a glorious flash of everyone speaking at once and a long-awaited reunion. They had not—spoken. So he glanced out the kitchen to where his Chieftain was waiting. Then, nervously at Ishkr. But the [Head Server] smiled so quick he beat Calescent’s nervous grin. As if the Hobgoblin were simply eager, not strange. Ishkr nodded to the buzzing inn.

“We’re a bit chaotic. Can you take that to whomever wants the pizza? Thank you. I’m Ishkr. You’ll meet Erin and Lyonette very shortly.”

There would be a lot of conversations. If nothing else—about proper spicing levels. But he had a Skill, so the [Chef] smiled and hoped.

Hoped, like the Goblins who had followed Rags on her long journey. The Goblins of Goblinhome, not Liscor.

The Flooded Waters tribe was still milling about, and Redscar and some of his people still staring around Liscor’s gates, when they felt it.

A door opened from Invrisil and Liscor. Someone came through.

Just that. But every Goblin’s head snapped up and turned to her. They felt it.

A friend. And the moment that she entered the inn, the air lit up. A drink burst into flames in a Goblin’s hand, and the Hob tossed it with a shout. The inn rumbled, and then a young woman shouted one word as a panting Drake wheeled her into the inn.

Rags?

Erin Solstice looked around, and Ishkr appeared as Zevara stormed into the inn.

“Erin, these Goblins—”

“Rags? Where’s Rags? Ishkr, bisque!”

Amazingly, he actually had some in a pot. Erin was afraid, because she was looking around. At any second, she thought she’d see…Rags.

The little Goblin, scowling and demanding Erin’s attention with a poke of a claw. Or was that—that the same Goblin who’d kidnapped the Healer of Tenbault? The same Goblin who’d come to her inn and missed her?

Erin didn’t know who she was looking for, and several Goblins straightened. But none were Rags; Poisonbite was closest in height, if a bit taller, and she eyed Erin as the [Innkeeper] grabbed a spoon.

“Erin Solstice. We have a situation, and I need you to focus.”

Zevara snapped her claws at her, and Erin looked up. She lifted a spoon, and Zevara recoiled before Erin shoved a spoonful of cold bisque into her mouth.

“Eat or get out of my way! Ask Lyonette about everything. Where’s Rags?”

She stood up. For answer, Ishkr pointed. A Hobgoblin with a poofy hat had come out of the kitchen, and Erin stared at Calescent as he gazed at her.

Now, all the Goblins were looking at her. Few knew her. Some had seen her, once, waving a white flag, but so few knew her.

Except…for a single Hob who vaulted a table as Snapjaw looked up. Badarrow charged towards Erin, and she gasped.

“Badarrow?”

He seized her up in a huge hug. Erin squeaked—she had seen him once, when she woke up, but then he had vanished. Now, it felt like a proper reunion.

Badarrow! Where’ve you been, you silly Goblin. Are you thin? Why didn’t you visit more?”

She hugged him back as Snapjaw halted, uncertain. But Badarrow just rubbed his eyes in her hair.

“…Hi, Erin.”

That was all he said, but Erin just squeezed fiercely back, and then she was looking around.

“Snapjaw? And—is that Redscar guy here? Do I know…? Numbtongue’s almost back, Badarrow! You’re here! Is—do you know where Rags is?”

She felt guilty asking when he was right in front of her, but the [Sniper] seemed to understand. He had seen her, but there was only one person that Erin hadn’t seen since the beginning. Two—technically, of the living.

Then again, Toren was dead. So Badarrow pointed, and Erin saw.

The door to the [Garden of Sanctuary] was open. Bright sunlight spilled from beyond and the scent of fresh grass and the strange spice of Faerie Flowers. She looked beyond and knew.

“I’ll just—I’m just gonna say hi. I’ll be back in a second. And say hi to you, Snapjaw. Eat anything you want. Even tables. It’s just…”

Erin was already walking towards the open door, but she halted guiltily. Yet Badarrow just motioned her as the Goblins stared at Erin. And Zevara, who was watching Erin and not stopping her. Bird came down the stairs as Badarrow grinned.

“Go on.”

The [Sniper] pointed, and Erin walked towards the garden. Bird threw up all four hands.

“Friend! I found you again!”

He hugged Badarrow as the [Sniper] laughed. But all of it, even her dear other guests, her inn, her family…

For a few minutes, Erin left it behind as she climbed into the garden. Her legs burned with effort, despite the magic keeping her moving, and she felt unbalanced, not ready for this.

Yet she had to go. So Erin climbed up the hill to the meadow and looked around. She opened her mouth.

“R—”

No. Erin caught the word and then gazed about. She looked towards the jungle, the pond with the beaver’s dam, now vacated, the rock garden, the snowy patch, the arid biome with the new grove of cacao, coffee, and other trees.

Then up.

There was surely only one place Rags would be. She always had a sense of the dramatic. So Erin began walking up the mist-covered hill. It was not far, and she walked into the damp mist and then saw statues.

Hundreds. Thousands. For her, there were many. But they all seemed to be organized on a hill larger than the entire garden itself. Erin walked past too many faces. Until at last, she found the Goblin.

Rags was sitting down. Erin looked up, panting slightly, and saw a stranger, sitting on a piece of…stone? She looked up and realized that her guest hadn’t known how long Erin might be. So she’d taken a seat.

Not upon the grass. Armored boots of decorated Wyvernhide dangled off the edge of a piece of flat stone. Not too high, but then, the Goblin was not that tall. Nor that old.

Her hair was long, spikey, even, and black. She wasn’t like Goblin children, who, like many species, were bald. She’d even grown; she was still shorter than the [Innkeeper], who halted, eyes wide, but she looked older by far.

She wore armor decorated with Carn Wolf fur, warm for mountain chill, and again, made of leather Wyvernhide. She carried a sword and buckler at her side, and if she had been fully armed, a familiar, worn crossbow on her back, made of Dwarfsteel painted black.

She did not have it on today, but she still seemed like a miniature warlord. Her crimson eyes focused on Erin at once, with such intelligence it seemed like she were sometimes reading a book, contemplating everything she heard.

Her pointed ears twitched as Erin drew in her breath. But what stood out to Erin was where Rags sat.

She sat upon a frozen bier. It was still cold, and frost still clung to the edges and turned the grass frozen. Mist drifted down around it, and a hundred gifts were strewn about the edges. A doll, flowers, a book…letters that Erin had only dared to look at, then put down because they were too raw.

That was where she had been for so long. That was where the Goblin had once found her. And now, it was where Rags sat.

She stood as Erin stopped there. For a while, neither one said anything. That was what the [Innkeeper] saw. A Goblin in armor, sure of herself, if not this moment.

So different from the small figure in rags who was both terrified and defiant. Who looked at chess and a plate of spaghetti as if they were the richest things in the world.

What did the Goblin see?

Rags saw a panting young woman, clutching at her side, face pale from her exertions. She wore plain clothing and, for some reason, even now, an apron. No longer stained with blood. An [Innkeeper].

She had matured from the young woman who had looked around a hostile world. But there was the same person there, who had slain a Hobgoblin, killed Skinner, and survived.

The girl who had hammered a sign in front of her inn and defied the world was still there. Just wearier. She looked smaller than Rags remembered. For a moment.

Then her lines of unhappiness, of stress and exhaustion, faded as she smiled. Those eyes lit up, and they were the same eyes that danced with something new. Something special.

An [Immortal Moment] was captured in that gaze. Teaching Antinium to play chess. The Goblin’s heart squeezed, and she looked up and saw flames.

Flames, burning over the [Witch]’s head in the shape of a hat. The same color and intensity as those in her eyes. The same determination. And when she opened her mouth, she laughed just like Rags remembered.

For a second, they were both here and in the past. A ragged Goblin and frightened [Innkeeper]—a [Great Chieftain] in armor and a [Witch] with a burning hat.

Then—Rags and Erin looked at each other as a great silence descended. And they had too many words and not enough time—even with immortality whispering around this hill. Rags stood there as Erin looked her up and down, lost for words.

But the Goblin had some. So she closed her eyes a second—and when she opened them, Erin was still there. Rags spoke in a clear voice.

“Hello, Erin. I’m back. I wanted to come, but I have been busy. I wanted to talk to you. Do you have time?”

Erin started. Her eyes went round, and Rags smiled at the look of pure disbelief, then delight and incredulity on the young woman’s face. Erin opened her mouth.

“You can—”

She’d said that before. She knew the truth, but it repeated itself. Their reunions, their past. Erin caught herself. She looked at Rags, and the Goblin gave her a familiar, slightly irked look, one eyebrow raised. Erin bit her tongue and thought for a long moment.

As the inn began to fill up. As the cities began to ring with cheers and these good days of chaos began and conversations and relationships rekindled, the [Innkeeper] searched and thought. Slowly, Erin nodded, her eyes shining with unshed tears and pride as she slowly bowed at the hips. Not out of fealty or service to any custom, but unconsciously, as she had never bowed to Dragons or [Kings].

“…Thanks for waiting.”

The Goblin grinned, and she reached out to steady the Human as she wobbled. She tried not to, but she gently leaned on the Goblin as they walked out of that hill of mists. The two of them slowly found a place to sit and talk, and tell each other how their lives had gone for a while.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: I cannot finish it. There is a huge amount of words and I realized that my plan to include the entire conversation with Rags and Erin would make this 30k. It deserves more rested-me to do it, anyways.

On the plus side, even if I can’t always do the Volume 1 chapter rewrites due to being tired, I am improving my editing skills. I just wish I had more energy, but you know me.

Lazy, at least when it comes to things I don’t find fun. Maybe if I do this for about 9.5 million words I’ll start to enjoy it like writing. I’m still evolving how I write most ideally. Like stream-writing; I’ve been far more consistent and productive than I used to be.

I used to stop and start and procrastinate by playing the video games for hours, and then I’d nap and wake up after a four-hour sleep to write in the middle of the night to try and get a chapter done because I didn’t know how to stay focused and motivated until I was done for the day.

So streaming helps–and I’ve moved off Twitch and onto Youtube because I think I can keep the videos of me writing instead of them being auto-deleted after a while. I don’t know if I’ll keep streaming on Youtube, but Twitch has been so good in all the areas that if you’ve been keeping up with the news, you can totally understand how I’m confident in the platform. So much so that I’m now on Youtube.

Anyways, I’m not delving into the rest of the world because I can barely keep up with this one. Maybe someday, but writing takes priority. Have a good night! Wish me energy.

 

Erin’s Hat and Rabbiteater by butts!

Twitter: https://twitter.com/buttscord

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/buttsarts

 

Lady Menrise, Costumes, ‘Traffy’ the Law Elemental and more by Brack!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

Witch Hat, Hugs, and Relc Puzzles by pkay!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.19

[Andrew Rowe has come out with Book 4 in his series, Arcane Ascension! Silence of the Unworthy Gods (great title, we’re on the same page), is out now! Check out the book and series here!]

 

In Baleros, there is a [Doctor].

Her name is Geneva Scala, and she needs to be found. She is waiting, waiting…a ‘guest’ of the Minds of Selphids. Few people know this, and even if they do, who can find her, much less bring her back?

The Minds have her. And whichever Minds they are—they are both secluded and guarded by an army.

The Titan of Baleros had lots of maps. And he had found at least one group of Minds before. As for an army? He had a few. Now, the trick was sneaking up on a telepathic group of super-brains, or at least, cornering them.

Find, locate, extract—and the prize would be meeting the Last Light of Baleros, a woman from another world. Earth.

The Titan mulled over his maps as he sipped a mug of coffee, which he was probably already addicted to. And he had one, crucial thought.

Damn the [Doctor].

The reason why he had a cup of coffee was not because Oteslia’s new product had spread to Baleros—ironically, the species of plant that made coffee was endemic to Baleros anyways.

The reason was because the Titan of Baleros kept tabs on things, so he had heard about the drink. But he was mainly drinking it because…

The Wandering Inn was selling coffee. At a huge markup. The Titan of Baleros happened—just happened to know this, because next to his maps and notes about the offensive against The Dyed Lands, finding Geneva Scala, and pushing back Jungle Tails was a scrying orb.

One of four. But this one just happened to be a feed of The Wandering Inn’s common room. And he was, right now, watching as a flood of Goblins, Antinium, adventurers, and interesting people poured into the inn in what would be a three-day mega party.

And he had just seen Erin Solstice return from her vacation with what he swore was a flaming hat. How Niers wished he could be there.

He had heard, down the grapevine, that The Wandering Inn had famous parties. And an Antinium army would be returning to the city as well as even more fun guests in the next few days.

The Titan was piqued. He hesitated, scribbled in a little Fraerling-sized scroll, then tried to stop. But he couldn’t. So he kept compounding his problem, but…the [Message] scroll read something like this.

 

Niers: Heard about the river incident. Anything interesting happen with your [Emperor]?

Niers: Peki’s at the battlefield. Not my fault.

Niers: Thoughts on the Crusade? Have you met Xrn?

Niers: Nice hat.

 

He told himself that four was too many. Which was why six messages since Erin’s last comment was, uh…he was fiddling with a quill when someone passed by his table littered with tools at breakfast.

Foliana was used to Niers in work-mode. But she definitely noticed the non-war-related paraphernalia at the table. Niers tried to hide the scroll behind his back, and the squirrel just shuffled around him.

She looked up at Niers as he opened and closed his mouth. Then Foliana killed him. She leaned forwards, and her huge squirrel-face contorted into a terrible glee and, worse, sympathy for him as the Fraerling looked at her in horror.

Lame.

She left Niers skewered on the table and hopped off. The Titan slowly rolled up the [Message] scroll and went back to plotting to kill people. Possibly with more vengeance than before. But he didn’t miss the inn’s commotion. He couldn’t see the ‘private’ elements, of course, but he was watching.

The [Princess] was standing in a flurry of people, organizing them pretty well, calling out names, meeting with a Watch Captain and a few Councilmembers of Liscor. A party. They were having a party, and multiple cities were invited.

But the little Goblin Chieftain and Erin Solstice were nowhere to be seen.

 

——

 

Lyonette du Marquin stood in The Wandering Inn, and Pawn was glad to see her. He had missed Lyonette terribly, and he walked forwards.

“Lyonette. You are back. I have missed you. How was—”

Then, like usual since she had returned, a figure in golden armor subtly interposed himself between Pawn and Lyonette. Ser Lormel coughed as the [Princess] hurried into the inn, escorting a young girl.

Who was this? Pawn tried to edge past Ser Lormel as the Thronebearer blocked him. The others were like that, too. Whenever he and Lyonette tried to be private, one of them was there.

He waited for Lyonette to turn to him and order her people out of the way, but she was busy talking to a young Human girl.

“I’m so sorry it’s chaotic, Nanette.”

“Not at all, Miss Lyonette. I should see how the inn is if I’m to live here.”

Yes, but I did hope it would be less chaotic. What am I saying? Here’s the inn’s common room, and as you can see—”

“Lyonette. Lyonette, what are these Goblins doing here? I need to talk to you or Erin about so many.”

Watch Captain Zevara ran into the same problem as Pawn was slowly trying to push Lormel into a wall. Ser Dalimont checked her with an arm, and she stared at him.

“Excuse me, Miss. Her Highness is busy.”

“I am Watch Captain Zevara on business of Liscor. And this inn is technically part of Liscor. One side.”

“I regret that no authority but the crown of Calanfer can supercede my orders, Watch Captain.”

Ser Dalimont and Zevara clashed in a rather impressive way. The Watch Captain was literally breathing fire, but Dalimont didn’t move. And Lyonette was showing Nanette around, still.

Was this a new guest of the inn? Another child?

In Pawn’s view of the world, children could be born naturally, a process which he was still fuzzy about since the Antinium had no place in other species’ biological reproduction. Or they appeared, like Mrsha. Thus, he was the only person to guess that Nanette was staying at the inn. In which case he should obviously introduce himself to her to make a good impression. He had failed with Mrsha, but she was a rapscallion.

“Excuse me, I need to speak to Lyonette. Please move.”

“I regret that Her Highness is busy, Mister Pawn.”

Lormel had the friendly look of someone who really wasn’t that friendly. Pawn frowned.

“I have not insisted because I am being polite to Lyonette’s guards. But I must. Please move.”

“Mister Pawn, I am well aware of your…acquaintanceship with Her Highness, but I regret to say that she is busy.

Lormel stressed the words with that same veneer. Pawn suspected that he wasn’t regretful at all. If he were, he would have let Lyonette know Pawn was standing there. What annoyed the Antinium more than the lies was something else, though.

“I am not ‘Mister Pawn’.”

“Oh? Pardon me, sir. I simply use it as a term to refer to people. As [Knights] of Calanfer do, sir.”

“I am not sir, either. I am a [Priest].”

Lormel hesitated for a second. He eyed Pawn with a look of slight unease, then smiled.

“Well, er, Priest Pawn, as Ser Dalimont said, no force besides the crown of Calanfer supercedes Her Highness’ own will. Please step back, and we will let Princess Lyonette know someone is petitioning her time at her convenience.”

Pawn stared at Lormel as a familiar feeling of frustration began to build in him.

“You know my relationship with Lyonette.”

Lormel’s lips compressed, and his eyes swiveled about, but the inn was flooding—literally flooding with people. Ceria escaped through the door as a flood of people asking for autographs charged in after her. Mrsha had met a wild Grev, and the two were high-fiving as Gireulashia gently picked up a startled Human and moved them out of the way so she could find her little friend.

No one had heard, so the Thronebearer leaned forwards.

“I know nothing of the kind, sir, and I would hope you will be silent about most untoward accusations against Her Highness’ integrity.”

Pawn looked at him. Then something clicked in his head, and he realized they knew. Which meant they were doing this on purpose. And disapproved. And—

Calmly, he patted Ser Lormel on the arm.

“My private life is my business. And Lyonette’s. Who I will now see at our convenience. Thank you for not getting in my way further, Ser Lormel. I would hate to disturb your work.”

“I regret—”

Ser Lormel reached for Pawn, and Gireulashia bodily checked him into a table.

“Mrsha, MrshaMrshaMrsha, let’s sit here with—oops! I’m so sorry!”

She hadn’t seen him, and the Thronebearer went stumbling into a table. Lormel turned to grab Pawn, who was marching towards Lyonette, and slipped. On his ankle.

[Bane of Luck].

Lormel was down, and Dalimont, Sest, and Ushar closed ranks. And all the while? This was the least important thing in the inn in some sense.

Because there were Goblins, and the [Princess] had promised a party. The only problem was—there was no Erin wandering about organizing everything in her odd way. There was a party, and this time, it was Lyonette who had to deliver.

 

——

 

The [Princess] was stressed out. But in that way where she invited the stress. Lyonette was deliberately buying time to think by showing Nanette around the rooms and organizing the little witch her spot.

But she was well aware that Zevara was breathing smoke, and that Lism, Krshia, Elirr, and the Councilmembers were waiting for her.

And the [Mayor] of Invrisil. Nanette seemed to sense it too.

“Miss Lyonette, you can let me look around. It’s safe in the inn, isn’t it?”

“Yes…”

Nanette gave her a brave smile. She looked around the common room and found Mrsha speaking excitedly with Gire. Her eyes went round at the sight of the huge Gnoll.

“She must be Ekhtouch! Mrsha’s here—she can help me if I’m lost, can’t she? I can look around myself.”

That instantly placed her as older than Mrsha. Lyonette hesitated.

“If you’re sure. Erin would be here, but we are in the middle of everything. Thank you, Nanette. I shall make it up to you.”

The girl went to tip her hat again, caught herself, and just smiled. Guiltily, Lyonette nodded to her, stepped back, then clapped her hands.

Every head in the inn turned as the [Princess] invoked her aura. And her voice.

Attention, everyone! The Wandering Inn is open for business.”

Those familiar words. Smiles appeared on toothy fangs and mandibles, and then Lyonette saw familiar faces in the guests.

Old friends. Repeat customers.

They were already here, because they had sensed the moment the instant it began building.

Senior Guardsman Relc, tugging his daughter over to the table that Klbkch had already secured. The changed Antinium had a bowl of acid flies in one hand, and they were seated right next to Menolit, wearing his Liscor Hunted apparel.

New visitors too, like Venaz, staring at the Goblins with undisguised wariness. He twisted in his seat, and Wil put a hand on his shoulder with Merrik as Redscar entered the inn.

With Thunderfur. The Carn Wolf scared every cat in existence into hiding behind Elirr as the [Beast Trainer] eyed the giant wolf with appreciation. Lyonette saw a Lamia poking his head out from behind Elirr’s back and smiled.

Nerry the Sariant Lamb scuttled into Garia’s arms as Numbtongue looked around. And he grinned as a sleepy [Alchemist] poked her head out of her shop and smiled and waved at him. But there was Badarrow and Snapjaw and—

Ishkr. The [Head Server] was everywhere, showing Antinium who to give food to and how to record receipts in the busy inn. Amazingly, he was keeping up with the chaos so far, but one look and Lyonette knew he needed backup.

So—with countless more faces she knew, like grumpy Tekshia banging a claw on the table and demanding cookies, Ceria slyly offering Bird a ‘stone bird wing’ she’d claimed from a Gargoyle’s corpse and getting a hug in return, Lyonette called out.

“We are slightly busy! So I hope you will bear in mind that these are going to be busy days. Please do not disturb any other guests, including the adventurers. The second floor is off-limits. Lastly, do not go into the kitchen for food, no matter how hungry you are. We store jars of acid in there.”

Some of the guests blanched, but the others just laughed. Mrsha was staring at Lyonette, and the [Princess] caught her daughter’s eye. She jerked her head and gave a meaningful nod to Nanette, who was watching Lyonette’s crowd management appreciatively.

Mrsha’s eyes went round, as if she’d forgotten Nanette. She had to be responsible now! She slid out of her seat and went to grab Nanette’s hand, much to Gire’s shock. Grev, the rascal, was just grinning, his feet up on a table as he leaned back in his chair.

The inn was warm with so many bodies and smelled like something wonderfully spicy coming from the kitchens. The Goblins smelled a bit travel-worn, a bit muddy, wet, like clothing got or leather, after being frozen and doused in water, and some were shivering from their long, high-altitude flight. So Lyonette gave orders fast.

“I could use a larger fire and a second fire, Liska. Ishkr, please call out if you’re in trouble, but focus on food for the tables.”

They had no bartender, unfortunately, which meant Ishkr would have to somehow fill mugs as well as deliver food.

…That was what Lyonette thought until a familiar figure paused and tried to duck behind the counter. She thought it was that other [Innkeeper]—until she saw the beetle shell. And the waving silver antennae.

The Antinium polishing the counter clean and filling mugs peeked up at her as he surreptitiously took money and filled a mug of ale. Lyonette glared at Silveran, but it was not Silveran.

Because of the huge, bushy mustache he wore, see? He stroked it as Silverstache, the temporary [Bartender], got to clean up all the horrible messes on the bartop. And yes, it was a silver mustache on his face.

Lyonette just sighed, but all hands were needed, and more were in fact wanted. So she clapped her hands.

“Right now, I would like to ask anyone with personal business to wait—I need to speak to Liscor’s Council, Watch Captain Zevara, and the [Mayors] of Invrisil, Celum, and anyone from Pallass regarding the parade. Next, I would appreciate it if Menolit, Temile, Kevin, Joseph—someone find them if they’re not here—Imani and Palt, uhm, Selys, and a few others would wait for me. I won’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

Now that was odd. It was like Erin telegraphing her seemingly-random moves ahead. But this was Lyonette style, and Menolit looked as curious as Kevin. Selys glanced at Lyonette sharply, but the [Princess] was already heading off to meet with Zevara. She passed by Pawn, smiled at him, took his hand for a second, and had to go.

For the news was this: the inn was throwing a party. But it required everyone’s help.

 

——

 

“A holiday? Really?”

The news in the rest of Liscor was simple. The Council, after a flash-meeting with the [Princess] at the inn, had come to an agreement.

In fact, the word was being cried across Liscor. A panting Ser Lormel, trying to escape his run of slips and bad luck, was standing at a bakery supplier.

“Yes, sir. And I shall need all the sugar you have. Flour, er—I have a list—”

Lyonette had called for supplies knowing that among the things you could sell in this three-day holiday would be cakes, cookies, and other confections. Ser Lormel wanted them run to The Wandering Inn, but the [Baker] wasn’t done. He eyed the radiant Thronebearer—who had fallen in the mud on the way here—and frowned.

“Well, I can do you a lot of these goods. All your meat stuff? Try the [Butcher]’s three doors down. Liscor Cuts—been open for decades, you know.”

“Thank you, sir. Now, if you could deliver within the hour, we can pay—”

Unfortunately, Ser Lormel had run into a Drake who would have his say. Not because he spoke fast, but because he would speak over you until you listened.

“—decades, a family run business. Not that we aren’t adapting. Those new [Farmers], the shady ones? In that they’re all wearing dark clothing? The Humans? Wonderful products. Lischelle Herders, even I’ve heard of ‘em. So you’ll get fine meat there. Not that we’ll be open since apparently it’s a holiday. Nevermind that we got no warning. I suppose I’ll keep the store open today and tomorrow and maybe close it. Them Antinium are coming back on the third day, right?”

Lormel realized there was nothing to do but rehash the entire plan Liscor had laid out.

“Yes, sir. We’ll have two days of celebration whereupon the Crusade should arrive by the third day. Or even tomorrow if they march fast enough. The Council and Celum and Invrisil have not shut down businesses; in fact, many are advised that this is a profitable moment, but they quite encourage it, and there will be activities, free, free goods which will be paid for by Liscor’s Council. Which you may want to get on, sir?”

The [Baker] hmmed; his shop was filled with busy [Apprentices] and the orders. Yet he had the time to look Ser Lormel up and down.

“And all this is by way of The Wandering Inn, eh? Going to be music?”

“Yes, sir, that is planned.”

“Dancing? Something crazy? No monsters this time.”

“If it can be helped, sir—we have Goblins, which is why I am slightly pressed for—”

“You’ve changed.”

The Thronebearer hesitated.

“Excuse me?”

The Drake shook his head slowly and sadly. He tapped a claw on the table.

“You’ve changed. Tell that [Innkeeper] that. I remember when she’d have her big parties out of nowhere. One second I’m dusting flour off my claws, the next? Moths. And then we’re eating snacks and clubbing the stragglers down. Or what about the party with music? Now you’re organizing it? You’ve changed.”

“I…will relay that to Miss Solstice at your convenience, sir.”

“You do that. Now, as I was saying, what kind of flour did you want? Because there’s acorn flour and wheat flour, and I assume your list just says ‘flour’, which is wheat flour, but sometimes you get things wrong. Why, once, I delivered six bags of wheat flour only to learn that I was supposed to have—”

Ser Lormel’s smile calcified in place. But while some [Bakers] could object, the rest of the city liked the actual time they had to prepare for this big celebratory bash.

The only question was…some people were making plans to close up the next day or already headed to the inn, which was a known quantity in celebrations.

But the question was—what was going to be on offer today, tomorrow, and so on? Drinks? Food? The moment? Yes, but if it were a holiday, there was a plan, right?

 

——

 

Lyonette du Marquin was a Calanferian [Princess]. She knew she had upped the stakes by calling for a parade and holiday.

If anything, she had had the easiest time talking the various leaders of cities into it. The potential for profits drove Liscor’s Council straight into a ‘yes’, as well the opportunity to garner attention and acclaim for their army.

Invrisil? The City of Adventurers’ [Mayor] had been bowled over by Lyonette in the first engagement, and they were no stranger to delights and parties. Same for Celum; the [Mayor], Cetris Duiland, had practically begged to be invited to the festivities.

Because there was a high, high profit incentive. Imagine, Lyonette had claimed, having a door open to all the cities? Obviously, Invrisil would be a long commute, but what if visitors trickled into Liscor for two days in preparation for the third one? Then, on the third day, they’d be able to transit to local cities like Esthelm, Celum, and a few would get to hop to Invrisil or Pallass.

During that time, all the cities would be putting on a joint holiday, and so you’d get your share of activities in each city, pay for food or lodging at inns, and fill the coffers of every city. This event had the potential to draw in people in the radii of every city, from noble guests to people who wanted to see the Antinium or be part of a news event.

Most of the leaders of their cities were canny enough to see how valuable this could be, and they agreed to spread the word. Visitors from Wales would head to Celum to see their army celebrated. Nobles in Invrisil could come to Liscor to safely see the Antinium and appear on the news.

All great. All wonderful. However—that left Lyonette with a problem she knew would come up, and it was this.

Activities. Festivities. You needed them. Now, Erin could throw a party in a second, but she mainly threw it around something new, like baseball being invented or a monster disaster being defeated. But for days of festivities?

Calanfer had [Troubadours] who sang in shifts. They had events for little children, late-night festivities; some funded taverns to hand out free drinks all day, and a parade was almost inevitable, with at least one [Princess].

And that was the baseline for Ielane to even consider something. She always kept Calanfer’s celebrations fresh and exciting. Lyonette had no smaller aspirations.

Fortunately, she had four Thronebearers who knew the score, and she had talked to Lism in a quick conference.

“You need to subsidize several taverns to give out free food.”

Subsidize?

He said the word like it was a filthy thing. Krshia was also huddled with him, and she gave Lyonette a puzzled look.

“Ah, like the Meeting of Tribes?”

“Exactly. Free food—but not so much. Don’t scowl at me, Lism. It just needs to be a mix of free and paid food. Find a hole in your budget.”

“Our budget is calculated, you—you—okay. I can see the point. Free samples. What else?”

“Parade routes. How is the army coming in? Where are you giving speeches, and how many times are you going to repeat them? Get me a map of Liscor, Dalimont? Thank you. I suggest doing a route. You need to avoid crowds so pedestrians can get around…talk to Hexel. Now, I will try to provide entertainments, but you’ll need to help me. Invrisil has a lot of performers, so I suggest dividing them up.”

“And we’re paying for them too?”

Lyonette gave the Drake a sweet smile.

“I suggest taking an estimate of how much coin you think will be paid and selling permits for [Shopkeepers]—like yourselves—to sell at the best points, Councilmember. Also, remember the door travel fee.”

That mollified him. Krshia gave Lyonette a respectful nod, but she glanced at the second group waiting in the wings.

“And what about the entertainments?”

Lyonette bit her lip. She smiled at Krshia anxiously.

“…I intend to have something grand. I will let you know on the hour, Krshia. Alright?”

The Gnoll gave Lyonette a look that said she knew Lyonette had no plan, but she nodded and then grabbed Lism and put him into an clothesline across the throat because he was trying to talk to Lyonette.

“So let’s talk about civic awards. How many medals does Invrisil give out? Do they even have a trad—Krshia, let go, you’re strangling me.”

“We can ask the [Mayor] ourselves, eh, Lism? Elirr, you stay here and monitor the inn.”

Elirr jumped. He was ‘monitoring’ a drink and a sidebar of tapas that Imani had delivered as he chatted with Redscar, who, amazingly, was prone to socialness. He gave Krshia a relieved nod, and she winked.

Lism was being strangled by Krshia. He hissed at her.

You’re choking me. I do the—save that for later, Silverfang. Fine, let’s convene the Council. Where’s Jeiss?”

Meanwhile, Zevara was storming out to convene the Watch. She was hopping mad about the impromptu parade—but she did have the time to prepare. And she was bribed; Lyonette had handed her a bag of coffee beans. Zevara had justified it by saying it would be shared through the Watch House. They’d probably need it.

As for the celebrations? Lyonette sat in one of the private dining rooms and thought. She turned to the dozen people who had filed in after her and smiled.

“Does anyone remember how Erin’s big parties went? She was always good at having one main event, but we need activities for this celebration. I need ideas. How did Erin do it?”

“Well…”

The answer came from a scarred Drake who wore a shirt that said, ‘I survived Liscor Hunted and they gave me this shirt’ on the back. He had gotten that idea from Kevin, but the originator of the now-profitable Liscor Hunted activities was none other than Menolit.

He had no tail, but the [Veteran] looked happy to be here and far more fulfilled than he used to be.

He was also an old customer of Erin’s, and he scratched at his chin.

“—If we’re talking about monster attacks, I recall there being a lot of gore. But you’d have drinks, food, and everyone just gobbled down everything in sight. Conversation? Mostly recounting nearly getting your face torn off by a moth. Then you’d be drunk and high on life and kiss the nearest pretty Drake and pass out. That’s how I remember it.”

He looked around for confirmation, and the rest of the guests chuckled or sighed. Selys scratched at her neck spines, looking slightly miffed.

“That’s mostly you, Menolit. Erin tended to have something else be the spotlight. Remember her plays? It was all about the Players, right, Temile?”

The Human man nodded, straightening his flamboyant dress as befit the [Producer].

“The light shines on the stage, and the food and drinks are background. I recall the ball game being much the same. Erin’s inn was always stocked up.”

“…But she has no secondary activities.”

“The people are the secondary activities. Always someone new to talk to.”

Menolit waved a claw, and Lyonette saw the subtle genius in it. Entertainment via excitement, her mother would have called it. You could get a ballroom of the nobility chattering for hours without needing more than a single string quartet in the background and enough to eat.

The problem was—the Antinium had already won their battle. The people might celebrate, but celebrate what?

“Are there any activities that Antinium do? Pawn?”

“Eat? Paint True Antinium? Play chess?”

He looked happy to be included in the group of successful business people that Lyonette had convened. Temile, Selys, even Palt and Imani, Kevin, Joseph for Earthers—

She needed ideas. Unfortunately, her guests were sympathetic—and not that helpful. Kevin waved a hand.

“What if Numbtongue got the old band back together? We could, like, play some songs.”

What band?”

“Mrsha, me, Numbtongue, Octavia, Saliss.”

“Saliss of Lights is in a band?”

Temile’s jaw worked as he tried to digest that. Lyonette had almost forgotten that moment! Which just showed how Erin did have secondary activities. She shook her head.

“Good idea, Kevin, but this needs to be systematic. A ‘band’ can only be in one place. Yes, we might well do that, but I need all-day activities that tens of thousands can participate in. Even if each city puts on their own performances, we need to give them ideas. Anyone?”

The group shifted. Menolit slowly raised a claw.

“Well, Liscor Hunted can help. What if we let several people go in our groups for free and took some hunting Corusdeer or fighting Shield Spiders? That’s why you asked us, right, Lyonette?”

She smiled at him.

“Yes, thank you, Menolit. And I know that the Players of Celum and Liscor have agreed to put on performances—but we need more. Kevin, Joseph, Imani. You three are…from Erin’s home. Is there another sport you could introduce?”

Kevin, Joseph, and Imani looked at each other. The [Chef] looked surprised.

“What, just introduce a sport? Lyonette…I mean, there are some we haven’t done. Kevin?”

He hesitated.

“What about…basketball?”

“Anyone got a basketball?”

Joseph was well aware of how you needed the right ball for the game. Kevin shook his head. He looked around, scratching his head.

“Don’t they have catgut in Liscor? Or something similar? What about tennis?”

“Do we have bouncy balls? Badminton?”

The Earthers broke off to make a separate group to figure out the problem. But they had only a day or two and none of them knew how Erin had managed to bully her way into creating sports practically overnight.

And Erin was not here! Good! Lyonette was going to do this on her own. Besides, Erin needed rest and to speak to her friend. So the [Princess] turned, desperately, back to the group.

“What if we also involved the Silverfang Gnolls? Krshia?”

Krshia had elected to stay to help this part of the festivities and to let Liscor’s Council to weigh in. But at the mention of the Silverfang contingent in Liscor, she frowned.

“How do you mean, involve the Silverfangs, Lyonette? We do not have a surplus of goods nor do we have the time to prepare as if this were the Meeting of Tribes.”

The [Princess] shook her head.

“I know that. But—Gnolls are one of the most famous species after the Meeting of Tribes. Could we—could we bring some of that here? Wait a second. What about Liscor Hunted?”

She turned to Menolit. He raised his brows.

“What about it?”

“What if—we asked Gnolls to take people out to build fires, set up tents, and live like Gnolls? Show them what the lifestyle is like?”

That could tie up thousands if they had enough [Hunters] and such. Lyonette thought the idea had merit—right until Krshia snorted.

“No.”

“No?”

Lyonette turned to her, and the [Shopkeeper] shook her head. She gave Lyonette a firm stare.

“My tribe is in mourning still. We may participate, but we are not going to ‘show’ visitors our lives. Not in the Floodplains. Not Drakes. Nor even Humans, not right now.”

The [Princess]’ face fell. She needed ideas! To her relief, Selys suggested one, glancing at Pawn.

“Well, if nothing else—what if we have a contest?”

“A contest?”

The [Heiress] nodded as everyone turned to her.

“Drakes love contests. Humans too. Dead gods, we have a lot of crafters and visitors to Liscor too. Remember the Yoldenites are here?”

“How can I not? They were singing all last night.”

Krshia grumbled; the Yoldenites were living it up in Liscor. Selys smiled playfully.

“Well—they make amazing helmets. Could we have a contest to make helmets?”

Like Riverfarm’s hat contest with the [Witches]. Lyonette had never seen who won, but the idea sparked more in her head, and she blurted out.

“Songs. Anthems. Helmets. Paint!

Everyone looked at her as if she had gone crazy, but Lyonette was already motioning to Sest to write up a plan.

“That’s brilliant, Selys. Calanfer often had contests where [Bards] would compose poems, and the winning one would win a prize. What about—a contest for Liscor’s anthem? Helmet-making lessons. I’m sure the Yoldenites would oblige. And we could paint, um, the Antinium’s colors. Hang them up on pretty pieces of paper or kites. Something like that.”

“What’s the prize?”

“Gold. Or—a Yoldenite-made helmet. A bit of gemstone for other contests? Numbtongue has a few rubies lying about. He might oblige!”

“He does? Who has rubies lying around?”

Menolit was struggling to grasp the idea, but he liked it. And yet—contests would not an entire event make. Lyonette knew it full well. She just had to hope the Earthers came through. The Wandering Inn was full of fantastic guests.

Surely one would get up to something amusing? She kept brainstorming as, outside, Kevin, Imani, and Joseph tromped out onto the grass, followed by a small crowd of interested people.

 

——

 

There were Goblins from Goblinhome among the guests. Including Poisonbite, and the Goblin immediately found Kevin and showed him a skateboard they’d made.

“Oh, cool. Hey, Poisonbite. How’s it going?”

Joseph eyed the Goblins as Kevin fist-bumped everyone he knew. Which was everyone. Meanwhile, Joseph was throwing his hands up.

How am I supposed to make a feathercock and badminton racket out of nothing? We’d have to put an order in, get a [Crafter]—how did Erin do it?”

“Well, she had a few leather balls, and she commissioned someone to carve a bat. Baseball’s not that hard. What if we went old-school? Imani, where’s your hoof-shod…boyfriend?”

Kevin grinned at Imani, trying to play on their affectionate titles for each other. Palt, passing by, buffeted Kevin gently with one hand.

“That’s how I flirt with Imani, thank you. Sorry, I had to tell Lyonette to bother Wistram. They might be installing one of their ‘Adventure Rooms’ in Invrisil. If they can put some energy into it—and I bet they can—that’ll be a huge draw.”

Already, some things were coming together, and Kevin grinned as he punched Palt’s flank. Joseph was frowning.

“Old school? Yeah. Ping pong requires a stupidly bouncy ball, but we could have a wooden paddle, right? And can you enchant a ball to bounce, Palt?”

“Of course I can. I’m a generalist. I passed Wistram with flying colors. Got a ball?”

Joseph shrugged.

“I bought the soccer balls from a shop that sold Ekirra’s balls. Hell—Ekirra? Do you have a ball we could use?”

He turned, and an excited little Gnoll wearing his jersey perked up in the crowd. People were following the Earthers outside on a hunch, and Joseph’s smallest fan was tagging along. He wagged his tail excitedly as Joseph singled him out.

“You want a ball, Coach? I can get one!”

“What about a piece of wood? Hey, can anyone carve? We just need a racket like this…”

Kevin could sketch decently well, and his tennis racket was a simple idea. Yes, you needed a strong mesh, but if you just needed something to whack around…Palt raised his brows.

“Doesn’t seem hard. Does anyone have carving Skills? You could turn that into a square with a handle.”

The crowd susurrated until someone spoke up.

“I’ve got a sword. Want me to give it a shot?”

It was, unsurprisingly, Venaz, who thought he had the answer to the world’s problems. He strode forwards with his greatsword, and Kevin eyed it. However, the inn had planks of wood for repairs, and with a few cuts and a bit of cloth to wrap the handle, they had the ugliest ‘racket’ in existence.

In that…it was a flat piece of wood attached to a handle. Joseph and Imani didn’t quite look at Kevin as he swung it around.

“Okay, it’s heavy.”

And Palt had to enchant it so it wouldn’t break. But Ekirra came racing back with a little leather ball he liked to throw and play catch with, and the Centaur gamely enchanted it to be light and bouncy. Kevin tapped it up as Venaz cut a second piece of wood into the shape of a paddle. He raised the mismatched rackets and asked Palt to cast a [Lightwall] spell.

“Right here. Yay high. Can you do that?”

“I’m enchanting your stupid pieces of wood. One second—oh, thank you, Ceria.”

A wall of ice rose as the [Cryomancer] came out to see what everyone was doing. She was watching Palt work, and she looked amused as she chomped on fries.

That worked. Kevin handed Joseph a paddle, and the two faced each other across a flat piece of ground down the hill and just outside Liscor’s gates. There were no lines marking the field, they held two pieces of unbalanced, rough wood as their paddles, and the enchanted ball bounced way too far when Kevin awkwardly served it over the ice wall. Joseph ran after it, cursing, and then lobbed it back. They managed to return it two times each before Kevin failed to return the ‘tennis ball’.

He turned to the watching crowd. Kevin waved the racket at the Drakes, Humans, Gnolls, Antinium, and Goblins. Even the Antinium looked unimpressed.

“Tada. Tennis. Alright, who’s up for a game?”

He waited for volunteers. The crowd looked at each other, and finally, a Drake raised a claw.

“Wait. Isn’t that just Toresball? Only, your paddles are too wide. I play it all the time in Pallass.”

Kevin’s face fell.

“What? You have that game?”

The Drake gave Kevin a long, long look.

“Yeah. It’s hitting a ball with a stick. Walled Cities play it indoors.”

The crowd muttered. Several Humans knew a similar game with horses and long poles where you played a kind of golf. Kevin’s heart sank.

“Well, what about…basketball? Joseph, basketball?”

“Ringshot? Lizardfolk play that with hoops in Baleros. Theirs are sideways, though. Got any other ones?”

Jelaqua leaned against Maughin, cuddling her beau who’d come out to meet her as Joseph slapped his forehead.

The Earthers conferred, talking about other games of varying levels of entertainment. What did they have? Board games? Um…hockey? Meanwhile, the crowd eyed their ‘tennis’ example. One called out.

“You’ve changed, man. The inn used to be fun.”

Shut up! We’re trying!

Joseph shouted back at a [Baker] in the crowd. Of course, that just provoked jeers, and the Earthers turned into the amusement. Imani shook her head as she climbed onto Palt’s back.

“I have to go. We need to cook up a storm. Tell Lyonette we tried.”

The Centaur galloped into Liscor as Kevin looked around for support. But to his chagrin, even Venaz looked disappointed and headed back to the inn in search of more entertainment. Ceria wandered off, munching on her food, and Kevin stood there—until someone poked him repeatedly in the side.

“Hey. Skateboard? Show me tricks. And give bike.”

Poisonbite grinned at him. Then Kevin realized the Goblins were cashing in on some promises he made. Slowly, he sidled off with the Goblins until Joseph realized he was alone.

 

——

 

Lyonette’s inspiration would come, just not from the sources that Erin had used. And she realized that—they did have baseball and soccer here.

So why not put on some games? Let people compete. Yes, compete.

She was coming up with a roster of ideas now, from finger-painting the Painted Antinium sigils and putting them on kites for children and adults to sports. And…

“A chess tournament.”

Every head in her group of brainstormers turned to her. Lyonette sat there and snapped her fingers.

“Erin always puts one on—but just between her guests. Why not a real tournament? With a hundred gold prize! The inn will sponsor that.”

“A hundred gold? You sure?”

Lyonette smiled sweetly.

“Well, we shall enter Erin herself into the competition, so I don’t consider it a cost. But why not? We can even have people play remotely, via scrying orb.”

She was so desperate for ideas, the significance of the first paid tournament of chess didn’t occur to her. Meanwhile, Lyonette was still keenly aware that no idea thus far was large enough to justify a huge crowd.

Yet the Meeting of Tribes had done it. Calanfer could do it—she just needed something. Frustrated, Lyonette looked at Krshia.

“How did the big tribes keep everyone entertained?”

“Aside from reunions and the deals each tribe made? They put on grand shows and activities, but Lyonette—the Meeting of Tribes in itself was the event.”

Krshia raised her brows, urbanely amused. She gestured to her silver earrings, which were in the shape of tiny, twisting Dragons today.

“Silverfang sold goods every day of the meeting for months. Each tribe had something. Ask Gireulashia.”

She nodded out a window where everyone could see the big [Paragon] following two children around. Mrsha was showing Nanette around the inn in Lyonette’s place.

For some reason, she had started with the outhouses. And then the stables, filled with snoozing Carn Wolves…Gire was following, glaring at Nanette. Krshia snorted fondly at Gire’s obvious jealousy.

“Ekhtouch, they had less goods and more services. One expert might teach you how to perfect your aim with a bow or another make you something only they could. Not just goods! There were great [Tailors] and artisans who took orders during the time they were there.”

Now, Lyonette saw it. She chewed at her lip, trying to think of what one city, Celum, Liscor, Esthelm, or Invrisil could do that another might want beyond belief.

The problem was…aside from Invrisil and Esthelm, Celum and Liscor were not hugely famous cities. Liscor’s army and the spring floods were their biggest draws, neither of which were here.

As for Invrisil, they had performers and adventurers and trade, but that didn’t entice their populace. Even the Players of Celum were merely ‘famous’, rather than the all-consuming fad they’d been months ago.

And Esthelm? Well, it had one of the best [Smiths] in the world, but Lyonette had a fairly good idea of how asking Pelt to create metal fast for an audience would go.

She valued her toes. And yet, surprisingly, at this point, someone spoke up with an idea that Lyonette hadn’t thought of.

“Well, if it’s a market or services you’re looking for—why not go to Pallass, Lyonette? I was just at their bazaar, and I saw a Djinni’s bottle on sale. An actual Djinni’s bottle.”

Lyonette looked up. Selys Shivertail sat there as every head turned to her. Menolit frowned at Selys.

“The what? Pallass has a bazaar?”

Selys gave him a long, strange look. Then she gazed around the entire room.

“…Yes. It’s famous. 1st Floor, remember? You’ve probably seen it when you walk Pallass.”

“Oh, sure, all the times I just visit Pallass. I’ve seen scrying orbs of it. It doesn’t look that great, and Erin said there wasn’t much aside from the 9th floor.”

Menolit snorted, waving his claw. Selys’ jaw opened and closed, and she hesitated.

“Menolit.”

“Yes?”

“You’ve never been to Pallass have you?”

“…No. So what?”

“So you’ve never been to Pallass, and your one piece of insight into the City of Inventions is Erin? Erin, who barely knows more than ten streets in Liscor? Erin, who had no idea we had a City Council until they held elections?”

Menolit hesitated. When she put it like that, it sounded bad. Selys shook her head.

“Erin has been on the 1st Floor of Pallass twice. They have one of the most famous trading hubs in all of Izril! They’re practically what Invrisil is to the north because they’re in the middle of so many trade roads. Lyonette, if you want to trade…”

That was when Lyonette saw it. She had a sudden vision and stood up slowly.

“Dame Ushar? I need to go to Pallass. I have to speak to their [Senators] and see how many [Merchants] can come here. They’ll need to bring goods. But what if—”

She spoke, running ahead of her ideas to everyone else. They listened, as Lyonette envisioned it.

“In our largest plaza in Liscor. A…Shivertail Plaza. Everyone brings something. Goods, heirlooms they don’t want, artifacts—and five cities and everyone who wants to come is allowed in. But here’s the catch—no one is allowed to sell with coin. Only goods for goods. Okay, maybe some coin, but the point is that you’re trading items for items. Things that Drakes have never seen in the south. Helmets, soccer balls—an emporium of goods!”

“Oh, bartering.”

Krshia looked amused, but Lyonette had the idea from the Meeting of Tribes. It didn’t solve all of her problems, but it was one of the larger things she could put on.

She quickly arranged the others to do their part; Selys was interested in bankrolling some of the activities, and the other business owners had events they were willing to put on. In fact, Lyonette asked Ser Sest to call up [Innkeepers] next. As soon as she got back to Liscor, she’d speak to them.

But for now, she rushed to Pallass. And when she looked down from the 8th Floor, she saw the largest floor, the bottom, sprawling with colorful tent canopies, people milling about, rolling wagons, the huge elevators—

Like Market Street in Liscor, but a thousand times larger. Lyonette’s eyes shone as she practically ran to an elevator. Yes, that would do. And in her great rush and hurry, she barely saw Pawn waving a hand and trying to speak to her.

 

——

 

While all of the exciting things were happening outside, a young woman was speaking with a Goblin inside a garden.

Time passed slowly. Not because it was immortal, but just because it was just the two of them.

No one entered through that door to the garden.

It didn’t exist. And while that might be selfish with such a busy and exciting time outside, the [Innkeeper] wanted nothing to disturb her conversation with the Goblin. So that was why time felt so slow. Perhaps time itself had been waiting for them to talk.

Properly.

The irony, then, was that their conversation was so slow to begin. Because it was slightly awkward.

There they were. Goblin and Human. Two of the first people in The Wandering Inn’s long tale, and they were—shy.

Shy, despite their long connection. As if they weren’t quite sure that the image they had of the other person was right. So they took their time.

“I’m glad to see you. Do you wanna see my garden? I mean, you’ve already seen a lot of it. But I’ve got more gardens these days. Lots.”

“I know.”

The first thing that came out of Erin’s mouth was silly. She was taking Rags on a walk around her garden. As if she were Mrsha, showing Nanette every crack and crevice of the inn.

Yet the Goblin seemed to enjoy it. Erin led Rags down that dreadful, beautiful hill, and the Goblin seemed to breathe easier. She looked back over her shoulder, but Erin was pointing out the Sage’s Grass and flowers.

“They’re both super important. One fuels the door with magic—and they’re totally safe. Isn’t that cool?”

“Very smart. Free magic. What about the yellow flowers?”

Erin twisted slightly and, once again, marveled that Rags spoke. She was even eloquent, not like how Ulvama pretended not to know syntax and diction. Yet she had something of the old Rags in her.

A recalcitrance to speech. Not as if she were shy like Numbtongue, but weighing her words, choosing them as if each one she spoke were important and reflected back on her.

If Mrsha could speak, she would be a silly babbler at times or as prone to pontificating as Pisces. That was not bad—but Rags’ way of speaking made Erin hang on the words. Because they were ones that the Goblin could never have said to Erin long ago.

And here they were, talking about flowers. Erin’s silly mouth spoke on.

“I got ‘em from faeries. Do you remember the faeries?”

“Winter Sprites? They don’t bother Goblins.”

“No, I guess not. Ryoka says something’s up with them. They’re actually faeries from another world.”

At this, Rags stopped and gave Erin the strangest look in the world.

“Really?”

“Yep. Faerie-people from another world. You’d have to ask Ryoka more, though. She had one as a friend. Ivolethe. She’s…well. Ryoka’s alive. And this is my garden. My [Garden of Sanctuary]. It’s my best Skill, that I got at Level 40. I mean, [Immortal Moment] is cool and I have a few other ones like my fire Skill, but this is really great. And I have more gardens, like I said!”

“Hmm. I know.”

“You do?”

Rags bared her teeth in a grin as she looked around and inhaled the faint smell of mushrooms and damp earth in the soil where that circle of mushrooms sprang up in a faerie ring. She bent down to pick one and stopped.

“I saw it on the scrying orb. The snowy garden. And I know about Ryoka. She’s not dead. I saw her fly.”

Erin realized Rags knew more of her than she did about Rags. She felt…Erin flapped her hands at Rags hurriedly.

“Go ahead and pick a mushroom if you want! I’ve never tried eating one. Anything you want! And look! My [Garden of Sanctuary] opens anywhere in my inn! It’s super convenient to get around and sneak up on people. See?”

She demonstrated, opening a door straight into the kitchen. A Goblin [Chef] was tasting a mana candy surreptitiously. He turned, spotted them, and screamed.

“Whaaah!

“Aaah! Who was that?”

Erin slammed the door shut, then turned to Rags. And the little [Chieftain] was grinning. She pointed back to the empty wall.

“Calescent. My best [Chef]. You wanted one, so he kept annoying me until I told him he could come. I sent more Goblins. As helpers.”

“You did? Oh—thank you!”

Erin put a hand over her chest and felt bad about scaring him. Then she frowned.

“Have you…didn’t I meet him before?”

“When you woke up. He’s a [Spice Chef]. A very good fighter. Very dangerous.”

“With a cleaver or something?”

The Goblin snorted.

“Nope. Throws spice in people’s faces and blinds them. Even Gold-rank adventurers fall for it.”

Erin put a hand over her mouth, then laughed.

“I did the same thing with a bowl of soup one time! No, wait, it was curry. I bet you he and I will get along great! Are you sure it’s okay? Thank you, I mean! I felt bad about making the request.”

Rags brushed at her shoulder as if dismissing Erin’s concern.

“It’s fine. Everyone likes your inn. Not everyone wanted to go. Calescent likes to cook. Just stay away from Redscar. And all the Goblins who fly.”

“Why? Are they…mad at me? For what I did?”

The first real question entered the conversation five minutes in. Rags glanced up, and Erin saw the little Goblin studying her face. But Rags just shook her head again.

“No. Silly. They want you to…post a <Quest>. I have questions about that, too. They want you to give them classes or secrets.”

“Oh—I can do that.”

Erin was so relieved she nodded, but Rags held up a claw. The [Chieftain] searched for words.

“They…would also like you to make one of my Goblins gain a class. Redscar said, ‘if she can make a [Knight], she should make a [Fighter Pilot].’ Kevin told him about it. Idiot.”

She gave Erin a helpless, slightly annoyed, amused look, as if she were—well, a Chieftain who had to hear that kind of request all the time. Erin’s jaw was dropped in a satisfying manner, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or…

The two stared at each other slightly too long. And then Erin realized she hadn’t laughed and tried to, but it sounded unnatural.

“Oh. Hahaha! That’s great!”

“Mm. You don’t have to.”

Rags grunted, and Erin fell silent. She tried to insert a word into that silence—and fumbled.

She fumbled. Where she had spoken to people she hated or, at least, talked to them and known how to persuade them to think or do something, she couldn’t quite do the same with Rags. That bothered her.

“…I’ll definitely post <Quests> that can help, Rags. Definitely. You just ask. You need food? Or, um—things? I can post a <Quest> if you want. Even a hidden, private one.”

“You can do that?”

Rags’ head raised. Her red eyes shone with interest, and she spoke quickly.

“I thought you did. I have questions. About how they work. About the rewards. Are they really random?”

“Yes! They’re totally new. Actually—I might have, uh, unlocked them.”

“You unlocked them?”

Rags just blinked at Erin and then snorted and rolled her eyes.

“Of course. Duh. Strangers from other worlds. You unlocking <Quests> and coming back from the dead. Very normal.”

Erin’s smile felt strained. She didn’t feel like Rags was insulting her. She was just—desperately—

What?

What? What was so wrong that made this feel more painful than it should be? It should be the best. But Rags?

Perhaps Rags felt the same, because she caught herself and shook her head. She kicked at a mushroom and sent it flying.

“I—no. I don’t want to ask you about that. Not yet. Later.”

She stopped, took a breath, and Erin thought she saw the uncertainty in Rags’ face for a second. The Goblin looked up and pointed to the hill.

“I saw the statues there. Is that…part of your garden?”

Erin’s heart squeezed. Then she looked at Rags, and the bit of cheery artifice she’d put into her voice faded. She looked around and realized that the only bench in the entire garden was up in the hill of mists.

“Let’s go walk up on the hill. I can sit in the grass. Sorry. I get tired.”

Rags nodded. They walked up the hill, and Erin, to her great embarrassment, had to lean on Rags’ shoulders. She was still tired from her excitement in Riverfarm. But the Goblin didn’t say a word.

“Sorry. I’m still…”

“It’s okay. You’re not heavy. Sometimes Thunderfur lies on me.”

She meant the huge wolf? Erin smiled and hid her head. Rags glanced at Erin—then she poked Erin in the side.

The [Innkeeper] nearly jumped off the hill, and Rags glanced at her. But the [Innkeeper] finally sat down, and when she spoke, it was facing the hill shrouded in mists.

“…Yeah. The hill was there when the garden was given to me. It’s everyone. Everyone…I’m sorry I didn’t warn you.”

“It’s fine. I saw it the first time I came here.”

Rags settled, cross-legged, as Erin stretched her own feet out. The [Innkeeper] gave Rags a puzzled glance, and the Goblin elaborated.

“When you were dead.”

“Oh. You visited my…my grave?”

Instantly, Erin realized she’d said the wrong word.

“My body, I mean? When it was frozen?”

Rags just nodded.

“Yes. I got here too late. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It was my fault. I was silly and careless and—”

The young woman swallowed a lump in the middle of her throat. She looked down at her weak legs and felt the same sensation that she remembered in her dreams.

A sudden push at her chest and a strange, alien feeling. Lying on the ground and wondering why she couldn’t breathe. A piece of wood and steel buried in her lungs.

Dying. The worst part of all was that in her memories, in that dream—Erin Solstice died smiling. She died too soon, unexpectedly, in the stupidest of ways.

—But no force in this world could stop her. No miracle came, and she knew it and left them her last words.

That last moment before the world ended sometimes called to her. And it pulled her down and down until she woke—and her lungs had stopped, and she rolled over and coughed and sobbed for air. But what frightened her was that calm certainty.

The fear that this was all a dream. The fear that she had died, and this was a true death, and the fantastical land of the dead and ever after was just—an illusion.

Erin had not often questioned if this world were a real one. It felt too real. So, then. Her death had been far, far too vivid, and it haunted her.

The Goblin noticed how Erin stopped. She looked down and regarded Erin, the [Innkeeper] who had begun this, who had come first of all to this world by chance.

Rags said this:

“You changed, Erin.”

The [Innkeeper] looked up at Rags guiltily. But the Goblin didn’t mean it like an accusation. She just sat up slightly, cross-legged, and looked at the [Innkeeper].

“I wanted to say, ‘thank you’. I said it. I came back to thank you for everything. I was too late. You died, and I looked down at you and knew you were dead. Now—I see you living again. Strange. I thought I saw so many strange things that I wouldn’t get tired. Now. I wonder if I’m dreaming.”

Erin jumped, and Rags seemed to be echoing her very thoughts, but the Goblin went on, engrossed, reading out her deepest emotions like a list.

“You died, Erin. I did my best to save you—but I didn’t know if it would really work. I did it because I hoped. But when you did wake, after everything? I realized that I was too late. You changed. When I said those words, that Erin wasn’t the one I wanted to thank.”

The [Innkeeper] was having trouble breathing. She looked at Rags, unable to respond. And she realized this wasn’t an accusation either.

“I—I changed a lot in the lands of the dead, Rags. They were all there. Ghosts. Everyone I had ever met—only I couldn’t meet them all. Everyone but Goblins.”

“No Goblins?”

Rags didn’t look surprised by the revelation. Erin shook her head, and the Goblin grinned. Sadly.

“Where do they go? Nowhere?”

“I don’t know. No one does. Except—no. I don’t know, Rags.”

“Maybe it is nowhere. Maybe Ants are right and somewhere should exist. Maybe it’s here.”

Rags tapped her head, and Erin didn’t reply. The Goblin looked at Erin.

“When you were dead…no, it’s not important. I was too late, Erin. You’re sorry? I’m sorry. The Erin I wanted to thank isn’t here. But. Neither is the Goblin who should have thanked her.”

She tapped her own chest, and she looked rueful. Erin gazed at her, and her eyes opened.

“Oh. Oh. You don’t mean I’m—all wrong.”

“Wrong? No. Why would I?”

Rags blinked and gave Erin an exasperated look. The [Innkeeper] ducked her head, and Rags gazed at her. That knowing gaze shifted.

She had pupils, in those crimson eyes. Just a slightly different shade of red. Now, Rags fixed on Erin.

“Who says you’re wrong?”

“No one. I just wonder. I woke up, and I can post <Quests>, and I’m a [Witch] now, Rags. I should have told you about that. There’s a world of things to tell you. I just don’t quite know if Erin woke back up. Or if she died in the grass outside her inn and someone else is here, now.”

The [Innkeeper] stared down at her chest. That scared her. Not just the paralysis or the dreams of dying, but when her family looked at her as if she were made of glass and she thought of who she had been and—wondered if she could ever be that person again. If she had lost a piece of herself, perhaps, as if the crossbow bolts had broken off a piece of who she was and she’d lost it even when they put her back together.

She said this to Rags and felt like she was unloading an ocean as heavy as the one that had poured out of Nanette’s hat. Too quick. This wasn’t how she wanted to do this.

“Rags. I’m sorry. You came back to see me, and I’m just blabbing on. Let’s try again. Let me get you a plate of spaghetti, and—”

Erin began to try to heave herself up, but her arms shook. To her surprise, Rags grabbed at her arm. The Goblin peered at Erin and then gently tugged her down.

That was all it took for Erin to collapse onto her back. Rags noticed Erin’s weakness and let go at once. She seemed ashamed, and Erin played it off.

“I’m as weak as a baby. You could kick my butt right now, if you wanted. I bet that’s what you wanted to do to the old Erin. Even if you thanked her—beat her up for being so weird, huh? So silly?”

“Nah.”

Rags uncrossed her legs and copied Erin. She stared at the hill, as if trying to remember, now, the lines of a script.

“Let me think. I was going to thank you. Then I would sit down, and you would give me a…a hug. Probably. Then a plate of spaghetti and blue juice. Then I would challenge you to chess. And win. Or surprise you.”

“Really? We can do that.”

Erin almost laughed at the idea, but Rags just shook her head.

“It’s only a thought. It would never happen like that. The Goblin—that Rags is long gone.”

The young woman pulled herself up urgently. She propped herself up on one arm and turned to Rags. She looked over the Goblin, and yes, she was taller, but not by much! She had not changed markedly in one year, and neither had Erin. Physically, at least?

“What happened to her? No she’s not. I’m looking at her.”

She was lying. Rags gazed at Erin, and the young woman tried to connect this to the Goblin with almost no hair, wearing practically nothing but filthy rags, scared of everyone, buoyed up only by courage and her wits.

Rags, now, was clothed. The starving ‘monster’ had been wearing clothes because she was cold. If Rags tossed all her clothes to the winds now, she’d be naked.

…That was a bad analogy, but it was the difference in how she held herself. The eyes. Erin had seen those eyes when Olesm came back. They were the same kind of eyes that Maviola El had, that she imagined Niers had. Someone who had commanded and failed and watched people die.

But crucially—the eyes of someone who would do it again. When Rags looked around, it was too knowingly.

A child salivated over a plate of spaghetti. This Rags would pick up a knife and fork and look for seasonings or check if anyone else was eating.

She had become an adult so fast that Erin understood, bitterly, how Goblins aged.

As for Rags?

She saw the same face, but more worn. Not by time, but by struggle. Erin’s cheeks flushed too quick, and she panted, weakly, if she exerted herself. It was all over her. Not that Rags had seen her collapse, but the knowledge that she might. The sudden, painful frailty of someone who had felt their body betray them completely.

And Erin was only one year older. She had seen so many friends die—the wonder that shone through and her determination, however clumsy, was changed to something else.

A great wariness. A terrible fear and knowledge buried deep down. The [Innkeeper] who had chased off Rock Crabs and fought monsters had been brave, generous, and good. She had nearly died, but she had the willpower to fight, the intelligence that Rags admired.

That young woman had no enemies. This woman did, and she knew them well and waited for the day they would return. She had seen every failure in her actions, and she no longer pushed ahead blindly.

The two people they had been were still there, in Erin, in Rags. But there was almost more of them in the memories the others had of them. They saw it reflected in each other’s gazes and looked away.

Silence fell once more. Erin didn’t know what to say. Secrets, perhaps. Even the great secrets of dead gods. Zineryr. She might have told Rags everything—

But that wasn’t what she wanted to say to Rags. It was all going wrong. Erin thought of Ryoka and how they had met after so long. It was like that, but even worse, because unlike Ryoka, she had never talked to Rags.

“What—what were you going to do after the chess game?”

Rags shrugged.

“I don’t know. That was all I dreamed about. Thanking you for helping me.”

“I didn’t, really.”

Rags just narrowed her eyes slightly, and Erin protested.

“I didn’t! I gave you a bit of food, but I never helped you build your tribe, Rags. I didn’t help you against the Goblin Lord. I didn’t do…much of anything, really.”

“More than any other person I’ve ever met. Even Goblins.”

“So? I could have done so much more.”

Rags fell silent. Again, it seemed like something was on the tip of her tongue, but she left it unsaid. Rather than argue against Erin, she just dropped the matter.

Erin wasn’t expecting that. And she realized, to her chagrin, that despite their mutual—respect—for one another, they had very poor chemistry in dialogue. She couldn’t figure Rags out, how to speak to her. Erin could with Grimalkin or Relc, but Rags didn’t respond in the same way. Perhaps because she wasn’t certain how to speak to Erin herself.

“Who…who did you bring to the inn? Helpers, you said?”

Rags sighed slightly, but she nodded. She gestured to the far wall.

“Goblins. Two Hobs. Mostly small ones.”

“Good workers? Um. Lyonette will want to know. Do they have classes like [Server]? [Cook]?”

“…Nope. They’re all different. One is missing a leg. Got eaten by an Eater Goat. Another? [Petty Thief]. One Goblin who wanted to come, he…picks up sticks.”

“Oh?”

“Just that. Picks up sticks. Very good at picking up sticks, but he keeps nearly getting eaten by Wyverns. Goblins like that.”

Erin was silent for a second, but a word was on her tongue too fast for her to stop it.

“…Are you giving me troublemakers?”

Rags grinned.

“Yep. Goblins who are hard to fit in Goblinhome. That’s the place where we are. Maybe you can help them. Like me.”

“I’ll try. They’ll be safer here, I think. There are jerks, but—the inn is safe.”

Erin hoped that was true. She turned to Rags.

“We’ve got some of the Goblins who went with Badarrow, too. I didn’t know if they wanted to stay, but—”

“If they want to come, we’ll take them. Not all survived. Most did. More than I thought. Badarrow and Snapjaw lived. It was good.”

“How many died when you kidnapped the Healer of Tenbault? I had no idea you did that. It was so dangerous—but you did it for me. Thanks. Again.”

Rags waved a claw.

“Less. It was my choice. My choice, Erin. The only Goblins who died for you went with Numbtongue. I chose to raid Tenbault.”

For me. Erin fidgeted, and Rags seemed to take something else from the subtle motion. She lifted a finger.

“If you don’t like them, I will take any back. If the [Thief] steals—it’s not hard. It’s an experiment. I can send good Goblins, but I need most.”

“No, I think it’ll be worth trying.”

Rags shrugged.

“Just send back the ones who don’t work. Silly Goblins are easy to deal with. All cause problems. Even my best ones.”

She heaved a huge sigh, and Erin tried to remember the Goblins she’d passed by.

“Badarrow wasn’t here long, but he told me there are a few who, um, work right under you. Calescent—wait, that’s the [Chef]? Poisonbite, Redscar, Taganchiel…is Ulvama part of your tribe?”

“Eh. Maybe. She would be useful, but I don’t like her.”

“Really? She’s not that bad…”

The Goblin [Great Chieftain] gave Erin another look that was a mix of annoyance and patience. Erin hesitated and amended her statement.

“Okay, she’s a bit of a lazy pest. But Mrsha says she’s actually nice, and she went to save Mrsha. That’s something.”

“More than I ever saw.”

Rags grudgingly admitted. She sighed and brushed at her tufts of hair with a claw.

“Maybe I’ll take her back. Badarrow is my lieutenant, too. Snapjaw as well. All of them have problems. That’s my concern. How about you? Does your inn need guards? Is Numbtongue doing well?”

“Numbtongue? Great. He’s, uh…”

Erin was going to say, ‘indiscriminately cuddling’, but it felt too childish. And after her conversation with him last night—she lowered her head. Rags noticed and changed the subject again.

“So. You were at Riverfarm. Are the Goblins well?”

Again, Erin started, but Rags seemed to have sources of intelligence that at least matched Selys. Erin nodded.

“Yeah, they were good. I met this [Emperor]…he says he has a history with your tribe, actually. But he seemed to be treating the Goblins under his rule well. They didn’t even want to come back with me.”

“Nor me. Good. If they were unhappy, they’d leave. So—a good vacation?”

Rags said the word as if she had no real idea what it meant, and Erin nodded.

“Oh, yeah. I met a friend, and I brought back this young witch—former witch—to stay at the inn. I’ll introduce you to her. Her name’s Nanette, and I met a bunch of [Witches] and refined my craft. Oh! We even summoned a River Elemental and nearly flooded everything, but then we found a Law Elemental, and that was wild.”

The [Chieftain] nodded along, listening. But she only broke in near the end.

“Mhm. What is a Law Elemental? River Elementals? Tell me about them.”

She was far more interested in the Elementals as a subject than Riverfarm. Erin gave Rags a brief recount of her time in Riverfarm and trip back. All the while, she was conscious of how painfully stilted their conversation was.

“How’s Goblinhome, Rags?”

“Oh. Well. We had a goat attack and Gargoyles. So we are building more defenses. Most went down the High Passes, but we are tunneling. Like Antinium, but slower. Sorry. Goblinhome looks like this. First, we inhabited a large cave at the end of a plateau in the mountains. Then we built it out with wood. We had a rampart, like a Terandrian castle, but we decided to make it almost completely indoors. No aerial defenses except in cover, because Wyverns would try to steal Goblins, and Eater Goats attack everything. So now it looks like this. If the original caves are here, we dug out here, here, and began adding wooden exteriors which we covered…”

The more Rags talked, the stranger it became. She was so…neat with how she laid out things. She gestured, tried to give Erin a complete picture of what she was talking about—and Erin had never known Rags thought like that.

The [Innkeeper] was beginning to despair about everything, and Rags was petering off her summary of the choke-points and kill-zones she’d set up to defend her colony. She muttered.

“It’s fine. Goblins are Goblins. Silly creatures. Even when they’re fed and no one is attacking, they get into trouble. Like Poisonbite. And her relationships.”

“Hm? What’s wrong with Poisonbite?”

Rags had to explain that Poisonbite, one of the leaders of the mostly-female Goblin forces, often had an off-and-on relationship with a Hobgoblin under her command. Which then led into all kinds of Mountain City Goblin interpersonal drama, grudges, affairs…

It sounded dreadfully Human to Erin. Rags was apparently called in when the issues got so bad they were on the verge of provoking mass brawls, and her growing scowl indicated how she felt about her time being used that way. And despite herself, Erin couldn’t help but venture a tiny, sarcastic comment.

“Oh man. If Goblins can’t escape relationship drama, who can? That was just like yesterday when I had to talk about—”

She hesitated, guiltily, because that was private.

“—stuff in relationships. I hate it. I would rather eat a handful of grass. Two handfuls! And dirt!”

Erin stopped herself because she was venting the guilt and unhappiness she’d felt about hurting Numbtongue like that. And she was sure Rags didn’t want to hear about it. But to her surprise, the shorter Goblin snorted in amusement.

“You have love troubles, too? I would have thought you had easier times. I thought you were dating the Titan of Baleros.”

Who said that? I’ll slap ‘em with a pan!

Erin sat up with a yelp. Rags just shrugged.

“Rumors. So. Do people come up to you and try to get you to have sex with them? Ask to hold hands? Be…girl-Human and boy-Human?”

She flapped her claws at Erin, urbanely amused. Erin flushed, but she was in it now.

“No, but not for want of trying. I have the Titan in one corner, and, um—someone just sorta confessed to me, but it didn’t work out. And it hadn’t worked out, so I—I don’t think I handled it well.”

“Ah, Numbtongue.”

Erin bit her lip. Rags just peered back at the inn. She nodded to herself.

“I’m right. I can sense sad Goblins. I am a [Chieftain].”

“Oh no. Is he broken up about it? This is like Altestiel all over again.”

Now, Rags was counting.

“Three…any more?”

“No! And it’s three too many! People were already making rumors that I was engaged to Ilvriss!”

“That’s four. Let’s see. [Earl], famous [Strategist], Wall Lord. Numbtongue is the worst one. Only a [Bard].”

Erin glared at Rags. The Goblin seemed to find this hilarious. Erin didn’t find it amusing. At all. The snap in her tone made Rags go quiet, as did the flash in Erin’s eyes.

“It’s not funny! I keep hurting them. It’s not right of me. It’s not fair—and I know that. I want to find love, but I’m—I’m not able to. Even though I died. I realized I didn’t want to die without trying, but I’m…such a failure.”

She was whispering by the end, and another piece of her heart felt like it was out of place. As if she was on the wrong track, going the wrong way, with no idea how to right things. Let alone between her and Numbtongue.

Then Erin felt bad for flaring up at Rags. She thought of Olesm and Niers and—and wondered why she was so terrible.

To her surprise, the Great Chieftain of the Flooded Waters tribe didn’t take offense. Her eyes widened, and she sat back as her armor crushed the soft grass and a Faerie Flower. Rags gazed at Erin and then spoke, sounding surprised and hesitant.

“I didn’t mean it was silly. I just laughed because…it sounds like my life. Too many Goblins, all of whom want to hop in my bed. Or throw other Goblins in.”

“…What now?”

Erin sat up as Rags heaved the largest sigh in creation. She gestured emphatically as she stared across the garden.

“Goblins want a Chieftain to have partners. It makes Chieftains more balanced. That’s what they say. Children are good. First it was Pyrite, then Redscar—but that was stupid. Now Taganchiel, but he doesn’t want to. Then—well, all this year, Poisonbite tries until I kick her out of Goblinhome and lock the doors. Now? Probably Ulvama. Or Badarrow or Snapjaw. Or both.”

She glared past Erin, clearly venting over a long-standing issue between her and her tribe. Erin was mildly appalled.

“What, they want you to get in a three-way relationship?”

“Eh. Anything.”

“What’s the basis in thinking that a partner makes a Chieftain stable?”

Rags counted on her claws.

“Garen? No partner. Very crazy. Tremborag? Only has sex. Very crazy. Reiss? Goblin Lord. Very crazy. No partner. Goblins get stupid ideas.”

Erin had to admit, when she put it like that, there might be causation or correlation. But Rags wasn’t done.

“Now? They just want me to have fun. So every fourth night, I find Goblin in bed. Naked. In my bed. Tall, short, big, small. Very muscly, very scarred. Very magic—all the attractive Goblins, even ones in relationships.”

Attractive meaning, of course, any quality a Goblin thought was attractive, including the more technical aspects of sex to being a very attentive companion. Rags had shot them all down faster than Fightipilota in her dreams of soaring through the air in a jet plane.

Her scowl was huge, and, when she realized she was confiding all this in Erin, hugely embarrassed. Rags turned away.

“Stupid problems to have.”

“You’re telling me. Do you—do you feel bad?”

“About what?”

Rags looked over, and Erin’s face was guilty. And wistful.

“Not giving any of them a shot? I mean, I don’t have people in my bed—and that sounds like a real problem. Especially if they don’t wash their feet first! But I…I almost wish I had given all of the relationships a try, y’know? Just so I could say I tried. It’s not like I didn’t like Altestiel, you know?”

“…No.”

The [Chieftain] gave Erin a strange look, but Erin was trying to explain. Her cheeks flushed.

“I liked Altestiel. A bit. Just not in the way I thought I should if I was gonna love him or anything. But isn’t that how it starts? You really like someone and that turns into love?”

Rags sneered.

“Looks more like needing to jump each other, first. Love? Different. Snapjaw and Badarrow are a couple. Not like Poisonbite and her problems.”

Erin hung her head.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought. But I do like Altestiel. I do like Numbtongue and even Niers.”

Rags cast a glance at Erin.

“So you don’t try. Hmm. I thought you would have an easy time. Be an easy person.”

“What? Me?”

Erin turned red and grew a bit outraged, but Rags just shrugged.

“Love. Not sex. Easy person to have loves with. Bah. What do I know?”

She stared moodily away, but Erin turned to her. Hungrily.

“No, wait. Why would I be good at it? I’m terrible. I’ve never held down a good relationship for more than, like, two weeks. Except one time, and that was long-distance. On a computer. What…what makes me good at it?”

The Goblin thought for a moment how to explain it. Then she jerked a thumb to the dome above them and the opening.

“Did you see the Carn Wolves in the stables?”

Erin gave her a strange look, and a door swung open.

A doorway appeared in the grass on the hill, a line that slowly opened, as if it were always there, but hidden by some geometry such that it swung open and revealed itself in one motion. Through the portal in space, a stable appeared, past the outhouses, where a bunch of rust-red shapes were piled up.

Rags nearly backflipped into the Sage’s Grass in surprise. The door’s appearance was uncanny. She was also unsure of what she was looking at—a wooden stables with wide berths, filled with red fur?

Then she saw a bunch of Carn Wolves snoozing from their ride from the High Passes. They were munching on some fat bones that Ishkr had found for them, and a few were forming the most natural fortress of fluff that Erin had ever seen.

“Whoa. Big doggies!”

One perked an ear up at her voice and saw the door open on one wall of the inn. The Carn Wolf blinked at Erin and Rags, and then its eyes opened wide. It howled and freaked out in surprise. Erin guiltily closed the door as the snooze-pile turned into a chaos of barks.

“Sorry. What about them?”

Rags picked herself up, grumbling.

“Carn Wolves. Even they have pairs. One wolf, male and female. For life. Some just have sex, like Poisonbite. But when they are a couple—even Carn Wolves love uniquely. That’s what it looks like. Like Badarrow finding weird things to feed Snapjaw. Not like any other relationship. Goblins in the Molten Stone Tribe trade masks or make each other a mask. Mountain City Goblins make rings. But each one is different.

She was making a point Erin understood, but she was still astonished when Rags pointed at her.

“You are those moments. Even if not love itself—unique. So. I thought it would be easy for someone to fall in love. Because it’s already…special.”

That was the most interesting way of thinking about a relationship that Erin had ever heard. She knew it had to come out of Rags observing these things and thinking hard. And yet—it also struck her as quintessentially wrong. She shook her head, smiling sadly.

“Yeah, but Rags…loving like that would mean I’m like—in a relationship with everyone. It should be even more special with that person you’re going to spend all your time with, right? And it’s not like that for me. Look at Jelaqua.”

“Who? Oh, the Selphid. What?”

Erin tried to explain.

“Jelaqua likes everyone. She’s great. She’s nice, doesn’t judge, and she’s friendly. But once she met Maughin, she really did change a bit. She sometimes gets nervous that things are gonna fall apart. She gets anxious, obsessed with being a good partner—she’s even a [Lover], you know?”

The Chieftain grunted as she scratched at her head.

“Seems like she got worse.”

“Maybe—but she does seem happy. I don’t see myself adding more than—well, being the best of friends. Even with Numbtongue.”

Erin swallowed a lump in her throat. She hesitated and then burst out a bit.

“Maybe I’m just cold. In a relationship. Romantically, I mean. Someone told me that once.”

The Goblin turned her head to Erin. She raised both of her brows, then saw how seriously Erin said it. Instead of laughing at the idea, Rags stared at the jungle of trees in part of the garden and shook her head.

“Cold people don’t have hats made of fire. Cold people don’t see Goblins instead of monsters. That was wrong.”

It made Erin feel better to hear Rags say that. Silly as it was—she ducked her head.

“Thanks. It’s just that I’ve messed up all the relationships and dates I had back—back home. On Earth. I did tell you about it, right?”

“Eh. I heard it from Kevin.”

Kevin!

Erin shook her fist randomly at the sky. Then she laughed.

“What are we doing talking about romance when we could talk about my world? Or anything else, Rags?”

The Goblin Chieftain sighed.

“We’re both bad at it. Besides. I can’t talk to my Goblins. I tell them I’m not interested, and they told Kevin to sleep in my room. Which he did. I had to find another bed. They want me to be happy. Maybe I’m young. But lots of Goblins my age are happy having sex, falling in love. Not me. I am cold. Or Chieftain. Probably both.”

She sighed and looked so tired that Erin’s heart went out to Rags. The Goblin gazed at Erin for a moment and hesitated.

“…Can I ask you a question, Erin?”

“Shoot. We’re being personal. Anything you want. Except the super embarrassing stuff.”

Rags rolled her eyes. Then she paused and seemed confused. Hesitantly, she looked at Erin.

“You said you were dead and knew you wanted to find love. Why did you—? No, why were you certain?”

The [Innkeeper] scrunched her legs up to her chin and curled into a sitting ball, but she relaxed after a moment. It wasn’t a hard answer. If anything, it was the easiest thing to say. She gazed at a sleepy little bee napping on a branch of the tree. And she thought of how she had wept in the lands of the dead and heard their sorrows until Gresaria Wellfar reminded her of what it was to be alive. How empty she’d begun to feel until Fetohep promised her to bring her back.

“…I was dead, Rags. Dead, and I thought—I’d never get back to my body. If that was it, if that was all I had—I thought I’d regret not trying to find someone forever. Even now? I’m afraid of dying without…without…”

Her voice trembled, and she couldn’t go on. That was the fear of the lands of the dead, as they had been. A void of forever with nothing but your regrets, if you let them haunt you.

Her words struck a chord with Rags, but not the one that Erin had expected. The Goblin sat up and exhaled.

“Regrets. I understand that. If you die tomorrow—if I die—there are so many things I want to do.”

“Yeah.”

Erin closed her eyes and imagined all the things she had left to do. The terror of the burden she might leave behind—opposing Kasigna—weighed her down. As well as the small desires to love and be loved. To find…even more happiness than she had right now. To stand and run, without feeling weak again. To put a smile on Nanette’s face.

To tell her parents where she had gone and tell them she was alright. Erin closed her eyes, and when she opened them, Rags was staring at her own vision of life. Life and the clear things left done and undone. If you looked at it with death at your side, it all became so easy to see.

And what Rags said was this:

“I don’t see it. Your need to have someone. My tribe is that someone.”

Erin knew what she meant, but she gave Rags an incredulous look.

“You don’t…want someone specific, Rags? Not one person? Someone to—to share things with, to reach out and touch?”

For answer, the Goblin reached out and poked Erin’s arm.

“Not privately. Not like that. No. I don’t get it. If I die tomorrow, I will leave too many things not done. Finding a lover isn’t one of them. I don’t have time. It’s not interesting.”

She turned back to Erin and gave her a rueful smile.

“Maybe I’m a child, still. Not a Hob.”

Erin sat up and looked at Rags in astonishment. Could that be true? No…the Goblin was as old as many she’d met. And yet, Rags shook her head.

“I don’t want these things. I never have. It’s just curious to me. Curious. Silly. If you want to find someone, Erin. Good for you. But I just want to be left alone. I wanted to come here and find you. I wanted to thank you, and I wanted to talk and sit here and not be a Chieftain for a while. But I will be a Chieftain. I like you, Erin. More than any person in this world, living or dead. But I want my bed to be empty.

Her teeth flashed, and the little Goblin stood there, arms folded, glaring into a world filled with disgusting beds and nosy people. Erin Solstice looked at her friend, Rags, and then she giggled. She laughed as Rags scowled harder.

“I mean it. They’re my sheets. They’re silk and furs. They’re my sheets, and they get dirty. It’s a Chieftain’s bed. Stop laughing.”

But Erin did. She giggled and threw back her head and laughed, and eventually, Rags chuckled herself. Then, when they looked again, Erin saw no more stranger in Rags.

She just saw an incredibly picky little Goblin getting hilariously mad at attractive Goblins flirting with her from between the sheets. And Rags? She saw a person, lonely and silly and grand—

But not the [Innkeeper] who towered over her, mysterious and kind—but just a memory. Slowly, Rags reached down, and Erin felt a claw ruffle her hair.

Blinking, wide-eyed, Erin saw and felt the Goblin rub at her hair, then pat Erin on the head. Rags stood, triumphantly, over the sitting [Innkeeper]. She turned and spoke out of the corner of her mouth.

“I wanted to be taller than you, too. This is fine. I hated it when you patted me on the head.”

Erin blinked. She eyed Rags’ styled hair and hesitated.

“Is that an invitation to do it again for old time’s sake?”

She reached a hand up, and Rags slapped it down.

“No.”

Then they were laughing, and Erin was getting a feel for the Goblin that she had known and not known for ages. They had already shared a secret that both were too nervous to talk about to anyone else. So—Erin eventually got up.

“Hey, Rags.”

“Hmm?”

“Wanna see my secret gardens?”

The Goblin glanced up, and she grinned in that familiar way. When she sprang to her feet, Erin thought that this felt right.

 

——

 

New friendships could be disastrous. Old friendships rekindled could burst into a flaming fireball if things didn’t work right.

They were unpredictable, and not always because there wasn’t willingness. Sometimes it was about the circumstances. The outsiders, the secrets, the pasts—

The jealousy.

The Wandering Inn was experiencing one of those booms in guests coming through. If it wasn’t actually partying, the sight of half of Pallass’ top [Merchants] and [Traders] coming through the doors was enough to grab anyone’s attention. In fact, Lyonette had gone back to an old habit—begging the [Mages] to charge the door. Then she had to shell out coins to pay [Mages] to charge the door up via the system Liscor had figured out.

Spend money to make money, one supposed. Not that Mrsha supposed a lot. She patted a wall, proudly, as Nanette and Gireulashia, behind her, stared at it.

“What’s behind this? What’s behind this innocent wall?”

The Gnoll girl held up a card. Nanette hmmed. It took her a few seconds to see the ventilation slits of the secret, inner rooms, and Gire interrupted Mrsha.

“They’re hidden rooms. You can see where someone blocked off the walls. There and there. And you can smell something from inside. Obviously. See the vents?”

Mrsha’s ears flattened a bit as Gire folded her arms and gave Nanette an arch look. For her part, the girl shyly ducked her head.

“Is that true, Mrsha?”

Yes! And I’ll show you, but Erin is busy. And we’ll go to the playground—and Ekirra and Visma are here! But let me show you Bird’s tower next!

Mrsha went scampering up the stairs. She had a less organized way of showing people around and often travelled across the inn to one spot before running back. But fair was fair—Nanette and Gire had energy to burn unlike the sluggish Lyonette and Erin, who got tired and had ‘jobs’ or had been ‘shot with crossbows’.

Nanette began to hurry after Mrsha until a huge Gnoll with reddish fur blocked her and ran after Mrsha, just slow enough to keep forcing Nanette to halt. She saw Gire give her a huge scowl as they went up to Bird’s tower.

“Mrsha. Shoo. I am eating a rock bird. Go away. Oh, hello, Gire.”

Bird was just as friendly as the rest of the inn. Nanette found herself greeting him, and the Antinium was instantly fascinated with her.

“Do [Witches] fly? What requirements does a [Witch] have for the class?”

“Only being female and having a hat, Mister Bird.”

“Tricky. Tricky. And how good at flying is this Alevica?”

“She can fly for…a few minutes. I think longer if she charges her craft, but it’s not forever.”

Bird wrote this down.

“I see. Miss Ryoka can fly longer, but she sometimes breaks every bone in her body. Also, she may attract bolts of lightning and ‘drama’. Whatever this means. On the other hand, a [Mage] can cast [Levitation]. Thank you for telling me about [Witches], but they seem suboptimal on my ranking list.”

Nanette covered her mouth as Mrsha pointed at Bird, who was indeed a character. The [Witch] saw Gire fidgeting. She spoke up loudly.

“Well—you could ride a Roc like Az’muzarre’s tribe, Bird. We saw one, right, Mrsha?”

“Really?”

The little Gnoll shook her head emphatically. No old tribe stuff, thanks! Gire’s face fell, and Nanette smiled. She couldn’t help it.

“You could turn into a bird if you were Witch Mavika, Bird. And she has thousands of birds.”

Wh—really? Tell me more! Your class has now reached the top of Bird’s flying class ranking. You are Nanette? Can you turn me into a bird? Not yet? Then I will be nicer to you than Mrsha in case you ever develop this power. That is called foresight.”

Giggling, Nanette shook all four hands. Mrsha was beaming—and Gire was not. Her scowl had manifested itself the moment Mrsha had told her about her new ‘best friend’.

Which wasn’t a misnomer. Children could have multiple best friends, and Mrsha meant it in the sense of wanting to be one.

But Gire was behaving…well, in a way as unfamiliar to her as Mrsha, really. She had never been jealous, and Mrsha was the one who was mostly jealous, vengeful, and petty.

So Mrsha didn’t notice Gire slowly ramping up her campaign of sabotage and harassment. First, she got in Nanette’s way. Then—she got really petty.

“Hello? Hello?

Nanette was in the outhouse when she realized the door was blocked. She tried pushing, then using both her legs, but something—namely a nine-foot tall Gnoll—kept her blocked in for four minutes until Mrsha came to see if Nanette needed more toilet paper.

Whereupon Gire was innocent and helpful. Nanette adjusted her robes as she stared at Gire, and the [Paragon] gave her a challenging look behind Mrsha. Again, the Doombearer was more focused on swinging the door open and shut to make sure no one else was stuck in a dark purgatory.

But—well, the three were running around a busy inn. In fact, multiple [Innkeepers] were now coming to the inn itself.

So they came. Walking up to the inn by themselves in small groups, coming from Celum, Esthelm, Invrisil—and even Pallass.

Timbor Parithad, Peslas Folktale, Ulia Ovena. Drakes and Gnolls and Humans.

Some paused before The Wandering Inn and gulped. Others walked in as if they were Silver-rank adventurers entering a Gold-rank’s domain. Or defiantly, as if denying something right before their eyes.

One or two walked in like challengers or peers. Such as a Drake who Peslas practically fawned over.

Adalton Serristail of The Noble’s Fancy in Pallass. But most, like Timbor, came somewhat humbly. They were seeking an audience with The Wandering Inn regarding the coming celebrations.

After all—the inn would be the focal point for all the visitors and traffic flowing through the door. And while they did not have control over the people—they could recommend any inn they pleased. So if you were hoping to have your inn packed and full of paying guests…

Lyonette was holding court like the [Princess] she was. Mrsha rolled her eyes as she, Nanette, and Gire slowed to let the procession of [Innkeepers] past as they came down the trapped hallway. It was always funny to Mrsha to see the reactions of guests who looked up and saw a murder hole. Then she pointed.

Look! That scoundrel! That wastrel of no good purpose!

Miss Agnes was trying to hide behind Ulia, ducking, as she came into the inn. A coughing man was being helped by her. Miss Agnes and her husband! What was his name?

Mrsha’s glower softened a tiny bit, because she remembered Agnes’ husband was sick. Nanette, obviously, had no context for the grudge Mrsha held against The Frenzied Hare. Mrsha turned to tell Nanette all of this in writing and found the [Witch] had disappeared.

…Mostly because Gire had picked Nanette up, opened the hidden side passage in the main hallway, tossed her into it, and shut it in her face. She looked innocent as could be as Mrsha saw Nanette breathlessly open the hallway door, scaring the daylights out of Ulia.

At this point, Mrsha got the first sense that Gire might not like Nanette. The little [Druid]’s flaw was that she didn’t quite believe Gire would be so mean. In that sense, Mrsha made a mistake, because Gire had no idea who Nanette was. Mrsha, in her way, thought everyone knew why Nanette should be loved and made to feel happy and warm.

So she was uncertain and wavered before calling Gireulashia out on anything. Which could have led to a very unpleasant day for Nanette indeed—except for one thing. Something Gire had failed to consider or didn’t know and Mrsha and Erin and Lyonette and everyone worrying over her had forgotten.

She was Califor’s daughter. She was a witch, even if she had no hat or class. Kind as Nanette was—Alevica and Mavika had been [Witches] she regularly met, and she had roamed for twelve years with Califor in places hostile to [Witches].

So when she came back, she marched over to Gireulashia and looked up. The [Paragon] gave her a sinister smirk, as if daring Nanette to call her out on it. That smirk turned to chagrin as Nanette did just that. She stuck a tiny finger up at Gire.

“Miss Gireulashia, I must tell you I don’t appreciate you pulling tricks on me. I don’t believe I’ve done anything wrong to you. I’m sorry if you feel upset that I’m taking Mrsha’s time away from you, but I just want to be Mrsha’s friend, not your enemy.”

Gire’s eyes went round and innocent as Mrsha stared up at Gire with a sudden suspicion.

Me? What are you talking about? She’s lying, Mrsha. What did I do?”

Nanette refused to play into the [Paragon]’s games. She just reached for her hat and then folded her arms.

“Miss Gire, I have done nothing wrong to you, and you have been a bit unkind. If you cannot tolerate me, that is how it must be. But I want you to know that I would like to be your friend. I do not wish to make Mrsha unhappy by fighting for her affection, but I will not be bullied.”

“I didn’t—I’m not—”

Gire was turning red under her fur. Nanette held her ground, her round cheeks slightly flushed. She looked around, and even Ulia, the [Innkeeper] who ran Blazehound in Celum, was taken by the girl’s composure.

Gire! What did you do? Apologize! I’m sorry, Nanette!

Mrsha was writing furiously. Gire was mumbling an apology as if she were a third her actual age, but again, Nanette just pulled her robes straight.

“Thank you, Mrsha. I think I’ll explore the inn by myself for a bit.”

“No, wait, I’m sorry!”

Gire looked hunted as Nanette began to march off. The little witch turned back to her and, to Gire’s surprise, smiled.

A kind smile, if not a happy one. Nanette dipped her head and looked at Mrsha.

“Then you can prove it in a bit. Let’s try again in half an hour, Miss Gire. Mrsha, don’t be mean to her. Everyone makes mistakes.”

And with that, Nanette walked off, leaving the [Paragon] speechless. She also put the fears of Lyonette and Erin to rest—if only the two could have seen her.

The sight of a twelve year-old girl lecturing someone twice her height and fifteen years old while they fought for a seven year-old’s affection was so mundane as to pass everyone by in the inn.

Getting Normen the [Knight]’s autograph was far more entertaining. Or looking at the Goblins, who were largely left alone by all the new guests. Liscorians were friendly; other cities were not. As Nanette wandered through the inn, she saw people investigating the weights room, the rec room with the billiards table and cards, and all the while, people were buying food and drinks.

Ishkr was everywhere. He raced down one hallway with a platter of drinks, showing a pair of Antinium how to take the food in and collect coins, then Nanette saw him behind the bar, serving more guests. She turned her head back, walked into the hallway, and stared as the two Antinium trundled back with empty serving trays.

…She definitely didn’t imagine that. Nanette’s brows rose. But then she was stepping aside to let the Workers pass, and someone was speaking loudly.

“Ants. Ants and Goblins. Who’s in charge here? They’re monsters! Monsters. Are you all blind?”

The angry voice was coming from someone in armor. An adventurer from Invrisil who was calling out. Some people turned, but the Human from the Waterborn Raiders, a team of Gold-ranks, was actually lost in the general hubbub.

He was staring at the Goblins with such hostility that some of the warriors were eying him back. However, what made the Gold-ranker so nervous was how the Redfang veterans who’d come with Rags were sizing him up.

As if he would be the one who regretted drawing a blade.

The rest of the Waterborn Raiders were not here, so the man was making a broad appeal to what he saw as common sense. Relc, leaning against a wall and trying to convince Embria that this would be a great opportunity for them to check out Pallass’ puzzle market together, glanced over.

“What’s that?”

Goblins! You’re a fighter, right? Who’s in charge?”

Relc cupped a claw to one earhole.

“Goblins? Right! Yeah, are they getting served first? Damn Goblins!

He shook a fist at them, and this might have been true; they were all accounted for. The man stared at Relc and decided he’d get better backup if he just forced the issue. He headed for the Goblins, a hand on his sword.

“Excuse me, sir. No attacking Goblins. No killing Goblins in this inn. There’s a sign.”

Ishkr intercepted the man as Nanette looked around for Lyonette—but the [Princess] and her Thronebearers were meeting with the [Innkeepers] in another room. She was worried for Ishkr and, broadly, for the man if he drew blades.

After all, Shriekblade was about. But even so—it just took one stab for Ishkr to be in trouble. Or dead.

Yet the Gnoll was fearlessly blocking the Gold-rank, who was shouting now, and people were turning.

Those damn Goblins are murdering monsters! There’s letting [Bandits] at your inn and there’s this!”

“Sir—I will have to ask you to leave if you don’t lower your voice. No one is harming Goblins.”

The man finally focused on Ishkr. He turned his uncertainty over whether or not he’d be able to beat the Goblins in a fight into a certainty about the Gnoll [Server].

“If you’re with them, you flea-ridden bastard, you’ll have every Gold-rank in Invrisil coming down on your head! Get your hands off me.

There was a flurry as Ishkr tried to gently move him back. At this point, Nanette was reaching for a wand and looking for help.

—And help was there. Todi had heard the argument, and Selys’ bodyguard and enforcer of all things Selys was pushing through the crowd with three of his team.

He was too late. A scrum formed and broke up fast as people crowded in as the Waterborn Raider exploded into physical fury. Todi drew a club, cursing—and saw Ishkr, panting, next to the bar.

“Where is he? Ishkr, you alright?”

“Captain Todi? Everything’s fine.”

Ishkr looked up, and Todi whirled, looking for a ducking figure.

“Where’d the bastard go?”

Ishkr got up. He was breathing only a bit hard. He nodded to the closest window.

“Outside.”

Todi stared at the window, a good eight feet away. He strode over to it, cracked the glass open, and stared down straight at a man’s crotch. Never a good place to stare, but that was because he was staring at the Waterborn Raider—upside-down and struggling to get up. Todi glanced back at Ishkr and then shrugged.

He cracked open the window and happily leapt on his opponent as he called for his three teammates to back him up. The Todi school of fighting had all kinds of ways to kick someone when they were down. Very few moves in an honest fight.

 

——

 

The entire scene was just one of many in the inn. Nanette saw it because she kept her eyes open. She walked around the inn, sizing it up.

So that was how she met the new [Chef].

He was in the kitchen, warming up food and serving it out, but Calescent was cursing and sweating.

Not because he didn’t get how Erin’s inn worked. He had been here before, and her system of serving preserved food was perfect for rushes like this.

No, he was upset because he was trying to cook and he had no idea where anything was. You see, the Goblin was trying to make a good impression. And the problem was—he wanted to prove to Erin he could cook something for the guests.

Like some hot-hot fries, which he made with some sliced, roasted bell peppers, a unique spread of his own you lathered over cut french fries that made it delicious with his Skills.

He felt like this would be a good showcase of his talents. But Calescent was heating up lasagna and other stuff like pizza in the ovens while trying to find everything.

“Pepper. Where is peppers?”

The [Chef] was, in short, having the crisis of anyone thrust into someone else’s kitchen. All the organization and where you put certain tools and foods was unknown to him, and Erin had not, as of yet, labeled everything.

“Can we get pizza sliced for nine? Nine?

Liska appeared at the kitchen door as Calescent banged around. The Goblin yanked a pizza out, drew a knife, and had to calculate the geometry of a pizza. Then he was hunting for a peeler for potatoes before he realized—he’d burned his bell peppers!

The chef had to toss them out. This was not a good look! And then he had to begin heating up a tureen of soup—

If Erin or Lyonette could have seen him, they would have probably advised the [Chef] that he didn’t need to try so hard and been very sympathetic to his plight, but Calescent wanted to make this work. So he was suffering. Not in any grand way like being stabbed through the stomach and bleeding out on the ground, but in a mental way that was new to him, even with a horde of hungry Goblins banging on the table and demanding less spice.

After all, these were paying customers. Ishkr had also left Calescent with the least help because he understood that the Goblin at least knew his trade.

Well, Calescent was going to make at least some fries!

“Bell peppers. Potatoes! Where is the peeler thing—waaah!

He had a knife out to peel the potatoes without a specific tool when he screamed. In a very embarrassing way. Mostly because a little Human girl had suddenly appeared at one of the counters.

Nanette jumped, but she kept her hands steady. Calescent peered at her. He recognized her from the inn’s staff—Lyonette had done that much—but he was afraid she was going to grab a bunch of food like Mrsha and uncertain if he should stop her.

That was, until he saw what Nanette was doing. Namely—slicing up bell peppers for him. She did it in very neat rows, copying him as she pulled the seeds out of a pepper. Then she took a smaller knife and began to peel a potato in one continuous strip.

Someone had taught her how to cook. The girl looked up innocently and slightly warily at Calescent. Yet she had met Goblins. Even a Goblin [Witch].

“Hello, sir. Do you need any help?”

The Goblin blinked at her. Then a huge smile came over his face. He looked around and saw a secondary poofy chef hat on the wall. He took it off the peg and handed it to Nanette. She tried it on and smiled shyly at him.

In that moment, Calescent began to pick up on how Nanette might be better for the inn than most of the others. The same girl who had survived wherever she went with Califor could at least handle the chaos of the inn. He began asking her to dice up the potatoes for him as two people took on the hungry customers of the inn.

 

——

 

Mrsha du Marquin was mad at Gire. She peeked inside the kitchen and saw Nanette was helping the Goblin [Chef] and chatting up a storm. So she went outside and sulked.

“Mrsha? Mrsha, I’m sorry. I was just jealous. Don’t hate me!”

A big Gnoll snuffled and tried to pick her up, but Mrsha just bit at Gire’s arms until she let go. Mrsha sat on the ground, arms and legs crossed, refusing to look at the [Paragon] as she apologized.

When Nanette came back, she had better be super nice! Or Mrsha was gonna go back to her savage days of poisoning sandwiches!

The girl was justifiably upset over Nanette, and even the sight of Todi, three Gold-ranks, and Alcaz kicking a man on the ground didn’t cheer her up. They hauled the fellow off with admonitions as Mrsha eyed the crowd outside the inn.

Kevin and Joseph were still doing their best to provide a floor show. Kevin had brought a few bikes from his shop and was letting people take them on rides—but not joyrides. In fact, Poisonbite and her gang helped here; whenever someone looked like they might be trying to make a break for it with a new bike, the Goblins would chase after them.

Mrsha was writing a dissertation on why Nanette was a treasure and that anyone who bullied her was compounding multiple instances of horribleness, and Gire was learning the error of her ways as Joseph organized a soccer game.

But—it wasn’t the Erin moment that Lyonette wanted. Maybe this bazaar would be fun, but there wasn’t a high enough zany quotient in the air for Mrsha’s tastes. Still, people were getting into the mood, and there were celebrities.

Not just the Players, but the adventurers. Jelaqua was autographing people’s cards, blushing orange as she stood next to Maughin. In fact, she was making him sign the cards too.

“It’s Maughin and Jelaqua. A couple! He’s the best [Armorer] in Pallass. In fact—he’s been teaching me to smith too.”

“You’re very good at it, Jelaqua.”

“Well, I did need to learn to repair gear—Seborn! Seborn, stop acting aloof!”

The Drowned Man was refusing to autograph cards. He was giving Wailant a play-by-play of the battle as the two old seadogs talked, and there was a smaller crowd around him. Even the Drowned Man looked pleased by the attention.

As for Moore? He was talking with none other than…Mrsha sniffed the air. Yes, that was definitely Himilt. Fierre’s dad? Moore was leaning on a staff and asking about plants or farming, and Mrsha was thinking of going over there and giving him more hugs.

However, there were also the Horns of Hammerad. And the Silver Swords should be coming soon! Mrsha had a few pranks to pull on Ylawes, and she wanted to say hi to Dawil.

Even if it wasn’t entertainment, it was pretty darn good in the friends department for Mrsha, and if Gire straightened up, they might have a fun few days! She saw Ksmvr signing autographs with all four hands; he was so popular as Ksmvr of Chandrar.

But where was Pisces? Mrsha’s ears perked up as the [Necromancer] himself came out, talking quietly with Yvlon.

“…Ceria go? If she’s eating those spicy fries—”

“Just find the nearest plate of food. I swear, she’s going to gain weight all over again. So are you sure that woman’s from your home, Pisces? That’s an incredible coincidence.”

They were speaking so quietly only Mrsha and Gire, with their excellent hearing, could pick their voices out in the crowd. The irony was that Gnolls had great ears, but even adults had to struggle to differentiate individual conversations when it was so noisy. Pisces muttered.

“I think so. There were things only Ama could know. She likely fled Terandria.”

“So…are you going to catch up with her? If she was robbing battlefields, that’s not an upstanding person to associate with, Pisces.”

“It’s…a [Necromancer] thing to do. I shall wait at her meeting point and see what she has to say.”

“Take me with you. Or Ceria. Or Ksmvr. What do you hope will come of it?”

Pisces looked troubled as he scanned the crowds.

“Knowing if anyone else made it. I…there you are. Ceria! Here!

He waved, and Mrsha’s head turned as a half-Elf walked out of the inn, behind Pisces and Yvlon. It seemed like they’d missed her, but Ceria wasn’t holding a plate of food. If anything, she’d changed clothes and swapped robes for some light travel gear.

“Hey, you two. What’s going on?”

“We’re talking about Ama. What are you doing?”

Yvlon eyed Ceria’s dress. The thing about [Mages] was that they were sort of pigeonholed into the same attire; if you had magical robes, you tended to wear them at all times. Right now, Ceria was wearing a kind of pale blue Liscorian jeans, a light red jacket over a knitted maroon sweater, and even a belt.

It looked modern, and Kevin pointed Ceria out to Joseph, as if Ceria could walk into their world and almost fit in.

But for the pointed ears. And the skeletal hand. But she even had a variant of sneakers on, and the half-Elf [Cryomancer] grinned.

“Just doing some training. I told you; we looked bad out there, against the monsters.”

Pisces and Yvlon exchanged a look. The [Armsmistress] inserted a metal finger in her ear and winced because it was cold.

“You. Training. Of your own free will?”

Ceria gave Yvlon a look as she put her hands on her hips. She noticed Mrsha watching and winked at the Gnoll girl and waved.

“I deserve that. Hey, Mrsha. Hello, Gireulashia. Anything fun happening?”

Not as of yet. Our festivities, while potentially entertaining in the future, have been thus far as dull as to leave me recumbent.

Gire read for Mrsha, and Ceria laughed. Pisces was working on the last word as Yvlon shook her head over the flowery prose.

“Well—I had the same thought. And since Erin’s busy and we’re out of shape, I’m going to work on my flaws. I noticed a lot in our battle. We weren’t mobile; we lost the Behemoth fast, and Yvlon and Ksmvr were just fighting.”

“As opposed to staring?”

Pisces was sardonic, but Yvlon nodded slowly. Ceria rolled her eyes.

“Pisces, we’re Gold-ranks. Yvlon once killed an Adult Creler with a broken sword. Everyone’s changed classes; we should either be able to lock down half the battlefield or take out the huge threats. You’ve always been the best in your role. You can [Flash Step] for mobility, turn invisible, and now you can animate dead while firing [Deathbolts]. You’re the least flawed. The rest of us need work, and we need team tactics. The chariot’s no longer good enough.”

“Oh, well…I’m pleased someone recognizes my talents.”

Pisces was great because if you complimented him genuinely, he turned red and got embarrassed. Mrsha smirked at him as he glared at her. But Ceria seemed—well, confident.

“I have ideas on how to fix my problems. I’ve been fighting like an [Ice Mage]—or how people see my class. Stationary, walls—but there’s a better way. I found it on Chandrar, but I’ve been so lazy I didn’t keep at it. Vacation’s over. I’ll just find some space over there. It’s not like I’ll be throwing too many spells around. Say…Mrsha, are you bored?”

Mrsha nodded eagerly, and Ceria flashed her a smile.

“Well then, maybe you can join me. It’ll be fun.”

So saying, she pointed, and Mrsha raced over as Ceria led Pisces, Yvlon, Gire, and a small group of people listening in down the hill. A Thronebearer was following them, Mrsha realized.

Ser Dalimont was still doing his job. She gave him a grudging nod as Ceria stopped halfway down the hill.

So what is it? Are we shooting at things? Raising mighty blockades?

Mrsha had her own wand out, ready to cast her single [Stone Dart] spell. She looked at Ceria, and the [Cryomancer] laughed. She raised a wand and glanced at Mrsha.

“No. Just try to keep your balance.”

The little Gnoll’s face went slack. What? What was that supposed to m—

Then Mrsha realized she was sliding. Sliding, and her arms flailed as she tried to keep her balance. She sat down on her butt, and it was cold. Cold, slick—and she saw Ceria brace, lowering her stance.

The two began sliding down the [Icy Floor] spell that Ceria had cast. Mrsha’s eyes went round. She tried to stow her wand, fell flat on her back, and then she was going faster, faster—

“Miss Mrsha!”

Ser Dalimont ran down the hill as the Gnoll went careening down the first hill, over the slick ramp of ice. Heads turned as Ceria, laughing, went skating down the ice.

“Whoa! Mrsha! Are you okay?”

The smaller Gnoll went streaking down the hill, and the momentum carried her up a smaller hill. And the slippery ice launched a flailing little Gnoll up into the air.

Mrsha landed on her back on the grass with a whumph that forced all the air out of her lungs. She stared at the sky, wide-eyed, as Ser Dalimont nearly slipped and went crashing down himself. Then she got up and, laughing, leapt down the ice.

“Icy floor? Ceria, what are you doing?”

Yvlon tested the ice with one foot. It was far, far slicker than she thought. Not like Ceria’s regular ice, but slick, that stage between solid ice and meltwater. In fact, it refused to give even a bit of traction, and Yvlon slipped, cursing.

Pisces had begun laughing when he saw Mrsha’s expression, but he doubled over as Yvlon went down on her back. The [Armsmistress] skidded down the hill as Ceria, windmilling her arms, came to a halt.

“It’s all hills and valleys! Well, I suppose this is training. Pisces! Do you get it?”

He did. The [Necromancer] felt a pang in his heart, but he was smiling. He shouted one word down to Ceria.

Illphres!

The [Cryomancer]’s smile was his reward. Yes, just like she’d tried against the Bloodtear Pirates in Savere—she tried to do a run-up on the ice and nearly slipped. Windmilling her arms, the half-Elf cursed, grabbed at her head, and righted herself.

“If I can skate—I can move as fast as Ksmvr. If I can skate! I don’t know how Illphres did it!”

“Ceria! Warn me next time! Mrsha, are you okay?”

Yvlon had hurt herself more than Mrsha. She got up just as the Gnoll did a cannonball onto the icy ramp. Ceria was casting her spell wider, and Mrsha slid past Yvlon.

Now this was what she’d been waiting for! Mrsha got up on all fours, instead of her two legs like normal. She scampered forwards and began sliding. Then she tried to run on the ice and barely got anywhere.

It was so silly that Pisces kept snorting as he tested the ice himself. But it reminded Mrsha of the Horn’s finest hour.

Not killing Crelers—but sliding on waxed floors at night. Yvlon herself got up, tested the ground, and eyed Ceria’s sneakers.

“So that’s why you took off your boots. Do you even know how to skate, Ceria?”

The half-Elf made a face at Yvlon.

“My village didn’t do it during the winter. ‘Too dangerous’, they said. My grandmother told me she used to skate now and then, but no. Illphres made me do it a bit, but I never picked up her style.”

“Ah. Well—you could wear ice skates.”

“What?”

Ceria had never actually heard of the metal blades you could put on your feet. But Yvlon had.

“House Byres looks wonderful in the winter. The lake near our keep freezes over. Although…I don’t think you can walk around with skates on.”

Another thing this world already has. Cross it off the list, Joseph!”

Someone called out. Kevin was standing on the edge of Ceria’s skating rink, delighted. He tried a few steps and slid on his shoes. Then he wiped out.

My hip! Whoa, this is slippery!”

Ceria came to a stop again and nearly face-planted as she realized halting was just as hard. She grinned at Kevin.

“Like it? I’ve been experimenting with my ice. See, Pisces, Yvlon? I can create barriers and ramps. So if I can manage my balance—what’s wrong, Pisces? Afraid?”

He was still testing his balance on the edge of the ice. At her words, the [Necromancer] glanced up. Then he did a little hop and went shooting down the side of the hill. He passed by Ceria and Yvlon, arms spread wide, and even did a little twirl on one foot as his teammates stared at him.

Mrsha stuck out a foot, and Pisces tripped and went flying. She laughed until he came up with a bloody nose. But the [Necromancer] just grabbed her and tossed. Mrsha went skidding past Ceria like a giant, white puck.

“Okay, slightly dangerous.”

Pisces dabbed at his nose with some potion. But he gave Ceria an arch look as he cleaned the blood away.

“As Lyonette saw fit to remind me—I do come from Ailendamus. They had frozen winters, and I learned to keep my balance on ice. As part of my father’s wonderful training.”

Indeed, Ceria saw Yvlon was gingerly trying to skate on her own boots. The half-Elf tried to copy her two teammates and nearly wiped out.

“Wait. I’m the [Cryomancer]. You two—off the ice! I’m the one who’s supposed to be better than you two.”

“Oh, indeed? Dear me, then I’m sure you’re holding back.”

Pisces, smirking, skated in circles around Ceria as Yvlon managed to do a straight line and break. Ceria wobbled, tried to take a step, and fell forwards. Mrsha skated past her, this time giggling as Gire hopped onto the ice and did a perfect slide.

This is wonderful! I’ve only done this once before. Mrsha! Let’s skate!”

There was nothing like a [Paragon] for making you feel like an idiot. Gire skated with one leg raised behind her, wobbling, and looked delighted when she nearly fell over. And by now, Kevin was asking if anyone did have skates. When it turned out no one did, he did a running start, leapt onto his knees, and did a slide, arms raised.

Ceria’s ice was indeed like a maintained ice rink from Earth. Wet, fresh, and slippery. Possibly too slippery. The half-Elf got up ruefully and pointed at the ice.

“Maybe I need more grip. Or those skates. Let me try drying it out a bit. I—oh, there you are, Ksmvr!”

The Antinium had spotted his team doing something without him and came running.

“Captain Ceria, are we training on icy terrain? Novel idea! Let me try to whoa—whoa!

To Ceria’s great satisfaction, their [Skirmisher] slipped a bit as he ran forwards. Despite his [Sure Footing] Skill, ice was ice. He slipped onto his back—

—And flashed past his teammates. Ksmvr’s four limbs flailed as he shot past Mrsha on his back shell.

His back shell—which was perfectly smooth. Like an Antinium cannonball, he ramped up over a hill and landed on the other side—and kept going on the ice.

I believe I have discovered a faster method of travel—”

Pisces and Yvlon were laughing. But then Ksmvr got up and, to Ceria’s great pique, began to hop across the ice, running about with his Skill with only a minor amount of slippage.

“Ceria, this is great. Can you make your spell go further? Pisces, how good at ice skating are you?”

“Only as talented as the most capable amateur.”

Pisces polished his nails on his robes. Yvlon bared her teeth at him.

“Race you all the way over to the edge, there? Ceria, make the ice three hundred feet long. First one wins, but if you slip, you lose.”

“Hey! I’m the [Cryomancer].

But it was too late. Pisces and Yvlon were off, and Pisces did a running start, then just stopped, sliding and maintaining his balance. Yvlon went running, then drew her sheathed sword and used it as a guide to push herself onwards. Pisces shouted as Ksmvr ran past him, ignoring the slippery ice.

No fair!

They were…better than she was! Ceria’s outrage knew no end. She tried to speed up, raised a ramp of ice to leap off of, as if she were jumping over a Gargoyle—

Kevin watched and then winced as a sprawling half-Elf went flying over a ramp, six feet into the air and—

Oooh! Oh god!

Joseph covered his eyes. It was one thing to see someone bellyflop like that. Another to see someone hit solid ice that hard.

All the Horns skated over as Ceria slowly picked herself up.

“If anyone laughs, you freeze. My master could do it. Dead gods, she could skate over waves. She once sawed a ship in half.”

“She what? What’s all this ice? Are you talking about that story about a crazy [Cryomancer] skating on the ocean? That’s a myth I heard eight years back!”

Wailant had discovered the icy skating area. More people were testing the edges of the ice, but only a few were willing to risk their safety. He laughed—until Pisces and Ceria gave him a strange look.

“Icy floor? Interesting idea. I wonder how many monsters can skate.”

Seborn was just as nimble as Ksmvr and Pisces. He stepped onto the ice and began to slide.

“Oh, look at that! Remember when I told you about the waxed floors, Maughin? Let’s try it!”

Jelaqua was eager, but the huge, armored Dullahan had a healthy respect for how hard you could fall. He demurred as some Goblins came marching over.

“Kevin! More bikes! What this?”

Poisonbite tugged him over as she scuffed at the frozen ice covering the grass. Kevin got up reluctantly.

“It’s skating. It’s fun! Damn, if Pelt wouldn’t kill me, I could ask him to make some skates. I bet he could in minutes.”

Poisonbite just gave Kevin a look.

“Good way to break head open. Only crazy people run on ice.”

She stared deliberately at Ceria. Mrsha didn’t care. Ekirra had found the ice rink and had run onto it with his soccer ball. She watched him try to scamper after it and go sliding the wrong way and begin running on all fours to get back to it.

Ice physics were hilarious. Mrsha was having so much fun, and she noticed more and more people taking interest in Ceria’s winter wonderland.

However, that wasn’t when it got interesting. Not yet. The interesting part came with the most uninteresting, boring man in Mrsha’s personal fun-rankings. She was surprised to even see him, but the annoyed [Enchanter] came marching down from the inn, and Kevin groaned.

“Oh no. Hedault, I’m sorry—”

“You missed our meeting, Kevin. I have been waiting for twenty minutes. I should have known the inn was to blame. Again. I have the latest ‘ball bearings’ enchanted and—why is half the area covered in ice? Ah, the Horns of Hammerad. I will be leaving now. Will you be attending the meeting or not?”

Hedault took one look at Ceria and the Horns, and his expression of distaste for everything here ramped up. Kevin got up, apologizing profusely, and Ceria blew Hedault a kiss.

“Hey, Hedault! Nice to see you too! Don’t you want to join the party?”

Hedault’s look of antagonism only grew when he saw Mrsha, begging to be turned into a shot-put by Gireulashia. He only stopped when he saw something strange.

Poisonbite. Not that the Goblin was, to the [Enchanter], novel. See one Goblin in a non-antagonistic setting and you’d seen them all.

No, what Hedault focused on was something the Goblin had in her hands as she tried to drag Kevin back to the Goblins in her posse. It was hardly similar to the ones he had been making for fun with Kevin. A modest side-business that was plaguing Pallass.

No…it wasn’t steel, enchanted, or finely machined.

But it was a skateboard. The Goblin had made it out of wood and pieces of scrap she’d salvaged from around Goblinhome. It ran downhill fairly well, but not much on straights. Then again—the High Passes were all downhill. And cliffs. To be a Goblin skateboarder, even for fun, was to risk your life.

The one thing that Poisonbite had that Hedault hadn’t seen before was style. In that she’d decorated her skateboard with paint to resemble a snarling Carn Wolf on the board. His head turned, and he pointed.

“Why does she have that?”

“A skateboard? Oh—the Goblins like to skateboard. Some of them. Yeah, you can have a bike. But not the enchanted ones!”

Kevin was distracted. He was admiring Ceria’s ice ramp. He looked frankly envious as he turned to Ceria.

“I’ve gotta go, Ceria. But that ramp of yours is…gnarly. Is it easy to, y’know, just make them?”

“Sure, why?”

The Californian surfer, biker, and general enthusiast gave Ceria a wistful look.

“You would have been so popular back home, you have no idea. Being able to make—well, it reminds me of a skateboarding park.”

“A what park?”

And there it was. Hedault’s head turned, and the slightly balding [Enchanter] with orange hair’s almost perpetually annoyed expression of impatience turned to fascination as Kevin described what a half pipe was. Ceria was so taken that she tried to replicate it, raising ice to form walls.

“I thought about that. But unless I can keep my balance, there is no way I’ll be able to risk it in a fight. You’re telling me people do tricks? With skateboards?”

“Sure. Let me get your board, Poisonbite. Not on ice, usually, but—”

Kevin was no huge expert in the field of skateboarding. He was, like many people, an amateur with enthusiasm who’d done it more in his youth. He could ollie, and he’d shown Hedault and Poisonbite how to do that. Now he wanted to show a kickflip. To his extreme mortification, he couldn’t do it instantly.

“Well—you’d do that on the top of a ramp, during a jump. Then you land on your skateboard and keep going. You can grind down railings—oh man. I suck. Dude. I can’t do it. I’ve gotten old. Joseph, we’re old!

The [Football Coach] flipped him off. Kevin was just eying the ramp and wondering if he dared try skateboarding on ice to show them how it looked when he saw Hedault move.

The [Enchanter] was fishing around in his bag of holding. Kevin was afraid he was going to storm off—until he saw the familiar, steel skateboard that he had worked on as a prototype.

The same, insanely dangerous, enchanted piece of metal was in Hedault’s possession? Kevin had always thought that one of the Pallassians had stolen the first copy.

Then he remembered how Hedault had gone down Pallass’ ramps. Kevin had—thought—that Hedault had just done it for fun once. After all, the [Enchanter] had never done it again.

Because he didn’t visit Pallass. And there were rules about it, and Hedault probably read the rules. Now, though? The [Enchanter] eyed the ramp as every head turned. Mrsha’s jaw dropped as Hedault put one foot on the back of the skateboard, kicking it up. Then he put his other foot down, and the tip of the board touched the ice.

“Hedault—dude—”

And down the [Enchanter] came. Poisonbite had been sneering at the Human until she saw the skateboard. She monopolized Kevin’s time! Then her eyes went round as the bearded man, balanced low, came shooting down The Wandering Inn’s hill. The over-tuned magical skateboard was already ridiculously fast.

On Ceria’s ice? He blasted past the Horns of Hammerad as Kevin shouted.

Hedault, watch—

Up the ramp. Ceria had made one six feet high, the one she’d fallen off of. Hedault shot down the hill, along a valley, and summited the ramp in seconds. He went flying into the air. That would have been enough to make even Calescent, the guests staring out the windows, stare.

But Hedault, that precise genius who could memorize any enchantment—had watched Kevin demonstrating the kick flip. He tried it, his foot sliding across the board as he went off the ramp.

And the skateboard spun. A Human torpedo flew through the air, over the Goblins’ heads and their open mouths. Mrsha the Extremely Lame stared up at the coolest sight she had ever conceived of, mouth agape.

And Hedault’s feet came down and found the skateboard’s top. He looked down—and there was only grass. He’d cleared Ceria’s ice, and he landed on a hill covered with grass.

He should have wiped out and possibly fractured a foot, but a ring flashed, and he slowed a millisecond before impact. The metal skateboard hit the earth and buried itself a third into the dirt like a deadly missile. The [Enchanter] turned, glanced at his stunned audience—

And smiled.

 

——

 

The ice spread. By the time Lyonette poked her head out of the inn, she saw a foreign landscape, filled with ramps, half-pipes—and even an insane loop-de-loop that Ceria made just to see if anyone would try to do a complete rotation.

“…What?”

That was when Lyonette saw her first big attraction spontaneously generating itself. She saw skateboards, Goblins doing tricks, and an [Enchanter] flying through the sky with a screaming white Gnoll clinging to his back.

Lyonette shrieked—until she saw Hedault’s magic saving Mrsha and him from the crash. In fact—Kevin was as horrified as Lyonette, because the people of this world had a different attitude towards the threat to life and limb skateboarders faced.

They just ignored it. Hedault could ramp off a jump twelve feet high after shooting down a hill and land head-first, and his ring would just flip him right-side up and land him like a feather. And if you thought there wasn’t much of a market for his featherfall rings before?

Here was the thing about ice. It was cheap, easy to make if you had a Level 35 [Cryomancer] around, and it was cold. A few minutes running about on the ice and you were in the mood for something hot.

Skateboards? Skateboards had been around for a while, but as the Pallassians had noted—while it was hugely appealing, it was dangerous as all hell and a hazard to pedestrians in the City of Inventions. The ramps on the great walkways were, ironically, too steep for anyone to actually do more than risk breaking every bone in their bodies if they wiped out.

It was almost like you needed a separate…contained…moderately challenging…space for people who wanted to pursue something like this. Like a skatepark or ice rink.

Or both. Hedault had completely forgotten about his meeting with Kevin. So had Kevin—he was wheeling one of the new bikes over to the tallest hill and eying a ramp.

“He’s not going to—”

Kevin went down the ice, tried to do a bike jump, and wiped out. He was followed by fifteen of Poisonbite’s Goblins and Poisonbite herself, who tried to do a series of tricks on the boards. Half made it and then raced back to do it again.

“I think we’ve got some entertainment.”

Lyonette spoke, amused, and the [Innkeepers] peered outside. Some of them looked horrified by the dangerous sport. Others, like Ulia, were quite interested.

“Should we let it continue, Miss Lyonette?”

Ushar was glaring at Dalimont, who was allowing the Mrsha-endangerment, even if she had a ring. Lyonette tapped her finger on her lips.

Erin would. Erin would embrace this whole-heartedly. But Lyonette? She closed her eyes.

“…No. No, Ushar. Approach Ceria—no, she’ll agree. Find me [Woodworkers], [Carpenters], and ask Kevin how the skateboards are made. If they can be made easily, then requisition their services. Then we will organize a proper park…potentially not with such dangerous ice. Is there anywhere in Celum, Invrisil? Would wood work? Then we will have Kevin do tutorials and let people make these boards. And he can advertise Solar Cycles.”

Dame Ushar gave Lyonette a respectful nod as the [Princess] smiled.

“We also might need to make sure no one gets hurt, Your H—”

She glanced at the [Innkeepers].

“Miss Lyonette.”

The mother gave Ushar a happy smile.

“Of course! Which is why we’ll sell those helmets and pads Kevin wants to make with the bicycles. To parents. [Tailors] and [Armorers]. Oh, and find Drassi and tell her we have a story.”

“Are you sure she’ll find it newsworthy?”

Lyonette eyed Hedault, the famed [Enchanter] of Invrisil, doing a 360-degree spin through the air before landing and continuing his mad tricks.

“I’m sure she will. Now, back to business. [Innkeepers], please tell me how many guests your inns can handle and what kind of guests you can host. Please, don’t exaggerate. We will have lists and track how many guests we send where. And you, in turn, will kindly direct them to the following attractions…”

She turned to the [Innkeepers] briskly, and they were listening, and Lyonette was being fair. Even to Agnes. She had a grand celebration to run, and it had skateboarding, a bazaar—and it was starting to feel like an actual party.

 

——

 

The [Princess] had such grand dreams. And she might well do it all by herself. Wistram was setting up its Adventure Rooms for a huge opening, and she had so many people speaking to her, learning her name as someone who did these things.

All the while, the actual [Innkeeper] was almost forgotten. She was in a world of her own with Rags. She put one guest above thousands.

That was just her way. Erin Solstice and Rags stood in the [Garden of Sanctuary], brushing snow off their clothes. Erin was shivering despite having gone into her room for a coat. Rags was warm enough; they had just come back from the icy Dullahan’s fortress.

The Snow Golems had not troubled them. The survivors watched Erin, but the owner of the Key of Reprieve was not troubled. Nor was Rags, so long as she stayed close enough to Erin.

“So that’s what it looked like. How many are there?”

“Dozens. Um. Two dozen? I forget. Not as many as a hundred by far. Do you want to explore the others? I haven’t really, so far.”

Erin turned to Rags, and the shorter Goblin nodded, smiling with interest. The smile was mirrored on Erin’s expression. This felt like the old days.

Strangeness, something new and wondrous. And…talking. But talking while doing something else. So Erin took Rags by the hand, and the Goblin frowned at her.

“I’m not a child. Do you need to hold my hand?”

Erin went to ruffle her hair, and Rags poked her in the side. The [Innkeeper] protested, teasing the Goblin.

“Aw, come on. Your tribe isn’t watching. You can do mine too.”

The Goblin glanced up at Erin and finger-combed her spiky mane.

“Your hair isn’t that nice.”

“Wh—how dare you?”

Erin’s hands flew up to her own brown hair.

“I comb my hair every day!”

“Yeah. So do Carn Wolves. No style.”

“Are—are you and Gothica sharing notes? Stop bullying me about my fashion. Just because you wear color-coded armor and fur and—do you do anything with your hair?”

Rags snorted.

“Duh. Redfangs have great style. We have a [Stylish Cutmaster].”

A what? You’re making all this up. I won’t be bullied about my hair.”

“You don’t need to. Your hair bullies itself.”

Erin opened and closed her mouth. Of all the fights she didn’t want to pick, her style was not one she was comfortable with. Stupid [Goths] and [Chieftains] and people with their ‘aesthetics’. She didn’t let go of Rags’ hand, but pulled her on.

Rags huffed and rolled her eyes, but she let Erin drag her to another waiting door. They were, after all, alone. Completely alone.

A huge bee crawled over the front of the door, and Erin screamed.

Aah! Apista! I forgot you were here!”

The bee gave Erin a hurt look as she fanned her good wing.

You and everyone else! Who’s this? She eyed the Goblin, who’d put a hand on her sword. Erin guiltily reached out, and Apista crawled onto her hand.

“This is Apista, Rags. Oh my gosh, I forgot she was sleeping here! We left her when we went to Riverfarm. She doesn’t look hungry—”

“I’ve seen the bee. Want to take her with?”

The bee certainly seemed to be trying to cling to Erin’s hair. Like a second, insectile hat. Erin grimaced, but she didn’t have the heart to chase Apista away.

“Oh—fine. But it might be, uh, dangerous. Sanctuary only extends to this place. So—stay close to me, you two. It’s just what’s in the garden that might be dangerous, but there were huge Frost Golems.”

Rags checked her sword and shield and nodded. Apista jabbed her stinger into Erin’s hair.

I got you, kid. I’ve stabbed a legendary [Witch]’s eye out and a [Shaman]’s eyes. I’m the eye-stabber.

The door to the other gardens changed depending on what the garden had been. The camouflage stone door to the [General]’s frozen garden was a contrast to the rosewood door that led to the Drathian flower garden with the lacquered bridged and beautiful pond.

It took but moments for Erin and Rags to hurry out of the frozen, snowy keep, kicking snow off their boots, into the far warmer, pleasant red bridge over the water. Rags felt the air change in a moment and inhaled faint pollen and floral scents. She felt wood, not freezing stone underfoot, and turned as the other door swung shut.

From one garden to another. Door by door. Erin could walk through completely different worlds at will, and this one was the quiet, natural garden surrounded by the flowing stream that encircled a meditative garden filled with splashing, the gentle thock of a bamboo pole filling with water and striking a rock every few seconds, and the splash of fish.

A place to rest and be happy. Erin smiled as she stopped shivering and spread her arms wide to the Goblin, and even Rags laughed for a second in delight at the new garden.

Apista hated it. The koi fish were everywhere, splashing under the bridge, and she climbed all over Erin’s face, breaking the moment up.

They were certainly a bit too numerous to fit the garden; a thousand greedy mouths gaped up at Erin as the fish begged for food or just wondered what had disturbed their peaceful utopia again. Rags eyed them.

“Nice. Free food.”

“You think that, but they don’t taste that good. Plus, I feel bad about harvesting them. They are everywhere, though. I think they eat each other. Not everything here is…perfect. Especially after the owners die.”

“Sounds fitting. If the owners die, this is no longer a sanctuary. Anything special in here?”

“No…just some poetry in another language. Kevin thinks it might be Japanese, but what does he know? He was in here with his computer, trying to translate it before we left. Oh—that reminds me, you should see our computer and stuff!”

“Mm. He promised to show it to me too.”

Erin chuckled as Rags stopped to admire some of the trees, including the one shedding pale green petals.

“That Kevin. He gets around everywhere. He’s pretty good at that.”

“Not as good as you. But close.”

Erin didn’t know what to say to that. She let go of Rags’ hand so the Goblin could get on her hands and knees and peer at the flowers growing around here. Apista crawled down, and Erin held her out so she could suck up nectar.

“Sorry, Apista. We really haven’t been nice to you. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. And we’ll get you flying around, somehow. I swear.”

Erin had asked if the Antinium’s restorative gel would work on Apista, and Pawn had told her flat out that Apista was an insect. Antinium had developed their biology to the point where they could teach it to regenerate—the gel would be useless for Apista as well as anyone else.

Erin could have sworn the tiny bee gave her a salute with her antennae. Erin cuddled the bee gently. And to think she’d once been weirded out by Lyonette’s pet.

The restful garden was the favorite of the two doors that Erin had explored remotely thoroughly. Which wasn’t saying much. Rags glanced at Erin.

“This place is nice. Where next?”

“Oh—well, I haven’t checked out the other ones. Shall we try one more?”

Apista tensed a bit, but Rags just nodded.

“How? Do you know a good one?”

“Nah, nah. Watch this. There’s a trick to it. When I first discovered the garden—I asked this place for something exciting. Well…I can ask for a door.”

Erin closed her eyes and thought for a second. Then she cracked an eye open.

“…What should I ask for?”

Rags slapped her face. She thought and narrowed her eyes.

“How about—the most dangerous garden? So you can see which is bad.”

“Oh! Good idea! Er—can you hold Apista? Just in case. Give me the most dangerous garden! Stand back—I’m safe, you’re not.”

“As far as she knows.”

Rags warily put Apista on her shoulder as the bee nodded. She drew a sword and waited as Erin closed her eyes.

A door appeared in front of her, and Erin recognized it. She hesitated—but then she inspected the door. It was shaped oddly oval-like, a different style of architecture. The ‘knob’ was completely changed; it looked like a handle in the center that you pulled the door open with.

Strange. What species would use that? Erin had seen this door before, and she knew what lay inside. Warily, she eyed the writing on top of the door, which had a very jagged look.

“What species writes like this, Rags?”

The Goblin peered at the words and shrugged.

“Not Drake, Gnoll, or Human. Another species?”

“Hmm. Could be anyone. Okay—stand back. And, uh, maybe put that sword down.”

The Goblin frowned at Erin.

“Why?”

For answer—Erin swung the most ‘dangerous’ garden open. She wondered what the criteria was, but she had a feeling she knew at least one reason why this one might be, uh—deadly.

The first thing Rags saw, or rather, didn’t see, was the flash. Then a howl of rain that made Apista flinch. A bolt of lightning touched down mere feet from where Erin and Rags stood, and the garden with the hill covered in strange pieces of metal and lightning crashing down was in front of them. A vast tree was the only thing in the distance, aside from blowing rain, mud and water and the flashing lightning.

That was all Erin saw. Water spilled into the koi garden, a deluge. There must have been drainage because not everything was flooded—but even so, the storm was in full tempest.

Bolts of lightning kept falling. Not with the full force of a true storm in the skies, but still alarmingly loud and deadly. Apista took one look at the thunder and tried to crawl into Rags’ armor.

No thank you!

“Hold on! I’m going to try and turn the storm off!”

What?

Rags shouted back, but Erin was calling to the garden. To her amazement—the rain lessened. The skies stopped flashing, and soon it was barely dripping. Erin stared into the drenched garden, as amazed as Rags.

“Wow. I guess I do have authority over this place. Well—give me a second. I’m going to look around.”

“I’m coming.”

“But what if you get hurt? The key’s mine.”

“And I can’t follow you if the door closes. Come on.”

Rags stepped forwards boldly, and Erin hurried through ahead of the Goblin. They found themselves in the wettest, muddiest bog that Erin could have imagined.

But that was because of the endless rainstorm. Even with it gone, Erin smelled…the most muddy, destroyed ground ever.

She wondered how long it had rained. That the garden had kept any shape at all was probably because there was nowhere else for the rain to deposit the silt and dirt.

…But this was certainly not how the garden had looked. Erin stood on a relatively flat plain, mud sloshing around her shoes, with a single hill. Now she could see more than a foot in front of her, she realized the tree had more of those odd spikes of metal sticking out of the ground.

Lightning rods for the lightning—but the tree that should have been even more of a magnet, tall as it was, was no tree that Erin had ever seen before.

It was crystalline. In the shape of a tree, glowing with inner light. In fact—Erin realized that it was the catalyst for the storm. She grabbed Rags’ arm and pointed to the translucent interior.

“Look! It’s lightning inside the tree! It’s electric!”

“Magicore, maybe. That’s dangerous.”

Rags had stowed her sword, and she and Erin both felt the charge in the air. Erin’s own [Dangersense] tingled as she looked at the tree.

“Best guess is that the tree’s charged like a power outlet. One touch and you could go boom. Uh—I can see why this is the most dangerous garden.”

Rags nodded. But she almost looked disappointed as she stared around the rest of the garden. They were all huge, but this one was just a flat plain. Mud had indeed destroyed all gradients aside from the hill, and Erin realized that the hill had only survived because the ‘tree’ had crystal roots that held up the hill. Some were exposed by the deluge.

“Darn. I guess some gardens really get ruined if you leave the weather on. Which I did not know I could do, by the by. I’ve got this really cool light trick I can do in my garden. Um…ew. It’s so muddy.”

Erin sloshed a few steps around as Rags peered forwards.

It seemed like there was a path of those rusted pieces of metal leading up to the hill. They weren’t everywhere, and if you marked the pieces of metal, only a few feet high in places, others taller than she was—

They would have formed a semi-circular base around the tree and the hill. Rags could imagine, perhaps, a kind of ramp. Which meant this room was one where you approached through this door.

Erin was walking left, around another edge of the domed room. There were no vines here; the endless water had drowned all but a layer of moss and slime on the wooden walls. She was peering at the flat mud as her [Dangersense] twinged. Rags called out.

“Erin, wait.”

“Huh? Why?”

“The mud is everywhere. It might not be ground everywhere.”

Rags had begun to wonder what the garden was supposed to look like. She turned to ask if Erin could tell—and saw Erin take a step and plunge into the mud.

She sank so fast that she was up to her neck before Rags charged into the mud. The Goblin had to try and haul Erin out, and a frantic Apista was buzzing on Erin’s face as the [Innkeeper] shouted.

Pull me up! Pull me up! It’s deep!

Her feet weren’t even touching the bottom. Rags heaved, and Erin pulled frantically at the muddy embankment. She hauled herself up. Then she crawled onto the ground, up to her wrists in mud, and panted.

Rags stared at the hidden drop next to Erin, and the [Innkeeper] felt Apista fanning her wing desperately on her hair.

“Oh man. Oh man—that was scary. Idiot!”

She meant herself. No wonder this was dangerous! Rags nodded. She pulled Erin up, and they staggered back to the door leading out of here.

“Let’s go, Rags. I’m not coming back, and this is off-limits for Mrsha and anyone else until I find a snorkel. No—a breathing tank. How will I even find what’s here?”

“Turning off the water helps. Maybe you have to dredge it? Put all the stuff inside somewhere else?”

That would be a terrible task. Erin was almost out when Rags stopped her.

“Wait. I think…I want to check something else.”

“What? The tree’s made of electricity, and there’s sinkholes everywhere! What else do you want to see? Whether or not there are evil mud-fish-monsters in the deep?”

Rags’ head rose warily.

Are there?”

Erin had to think. She concentrated. She could sense what was in the gardens, vaguely. She closed her eyes and felt out.

“…No. But there’s a huge underground space. We’re on a kind of—raised area, around the hill with the tree. Don’t go left or right. The bridge is narrow, and you can fall!”

“I know. I can see.”

The Goblin was wading through the mud to the nearest bit of metal. Erin raised a hand.

“Rags! I don’t know what that is!”

“I think I do. What was this place supposed to be? A [Garden of Sanctuary]. So maybe this was all grass. Or dirt.”

Rags was bending down, scraping at a visible piece of thin metal sticking out of the mud four feet high. Erin slowly walked over, cautiously making sure she had footholds. But Rags seemed to have a better idea of this place than even Erin.

Apista, for her part, was freaking out. She hated water, she hated mud, and she hated snow. Erin was 1 for 3 on her gardens that Apista had seen. No, 0 for 3—the koi fish in the ‘relaxing’ garden were monsters.

Yet—this was like playing detective. Or trying to see the intentions of each owner of the [Garden of Sanctuary]. In this case, all the clues were mostly obfuscated by time and the unfortunate rainstorm.

But think of what this might have been. Rags imagined a walkway leading up to that hill. And planted in the walkway, with rain falling and lightning—were these thin pieces of metal.

Very thin, and mostly, very rusted. This piece flaked apart at a touch from her gloved hands. Rags eyed the metal and had no doubt the rain had done this. Yet…she gazed around, eyes narrowing.

“What do you think these are? I think I know.”

Erin peered at the upright pieces of metal. Now the rain was gone, she saw not all were completely corroded. She saw a flash of bright steel as Rags waded over to another. Then Erin’s eyes widened. She remembered seeing a bolt of yellow lightning striking the object that she’d seen before. It would have electrocuted both Human and Goblin in the water, another reason why this was the most dangerous garden.

…Because all of the objects planted here were metal. And Erin realized they weren’t just metal. Rags reached down and slowly pulled out something that neither rain nor time had broken. Nor even the falling lightning.

She lifted a sword out of the muck. It was old, so old that Erin recognized the mithril blade in an instant. But the handle was strange—it had a long guard across the handle, but the handle was curved and contoured in a way Erin had never seen.

It had not been meant for Human hands, but some other grip. Erin’s eyes went wide. She looked around, and then she saw it.

Swords?

Then she made sense of the huge, thin pillar of metal in the distance. The way they all stood mostly upright. Swords! Rags looked around, and Erin caught a flash of what this garden must have been.

A grave of swords. Monuments to warriors, perhaps, or had the owner been a [Smith]? They had been planted in the rain as lightning struck down. Like some kind of terrible art piece.

Rags felt at the blade and jumped. Erin actually felt a tingle in the water as the Goblin cursed and yanked her armored hand away from the blade.

“Rags?”

“Shocking. It’s still charged.”

Or rather—it was charged by the falling lightning. Erin didn’t see any visible crackle running down the blade, but then Rags slashed the water.

Yeowch!

The electricity electrocuted Rags, Erin, and Apista, and all three practically leapt out of the water as Rags held the sword upright. The bee angrily jabbed her stinger in Rags’ direction as the Goblin apologized.

“Sorry. It must be active when I hold it.”

She eyed the blade, and Erin, wincing, gazed into the garden. Now she knew what they were, she saw most of the enchanted blades had probably succumbed to the battering long ago. Only the most powerful or durable ones were still untouched.

“Electric swords. Who made electric swords? Are they all powered by lightning? And it’s expensive, too! Look at that handle, Rags. Whomever had it had…claws.”

That was the only thing she could think of. The sword had deeper divots in the grip than any Human would want, but it fit a Drake or other clawed grip better. Rags nodded; her hands fit a bit better than Erin’s did.

“Insignia’s worn off. Nice sword, though. Balanced.”

It was a shortsword, and it had a curiously slanted diagonal edge along a flat, wide blade. Rags could actually balance it, and she seemed so engrossed Erin pointed at it.

“Why don’t you take it with you?”

Rags blinked.

“Me? Doesn’t it belong there?”

Erin gazed into the muddy pit and shook her head.

“Whatever this garden was—I’d rather take the swords out than risk electrocuting myself. And frankly, whoever owned the garden doesn’t deserve how it looks. Do you need a sword?”

Rags eyed her plain sword enchanted with a bit of sharpness and durability. Then at the mithril blade from a bygone era. She raised her brows.

“I will take it. If you want?”

The [Innkeeper] smiled down at Rags.

“I don’t wanna give anything in the gardens to just anyone. Like that Dullahan [General]’s stuff. So keep this private. But if it’s you, Rags—yeah.”

“Thank you.”

The [Chieftain] looked up, and Erin waved a hand awkwardly. She reached down and grabbed Rags’ muddy glove. This time, the Chieftain let her do it.

“Come on, we’ve got baths—but I wonder. Hey, is there a garden where we can clean up? And don’t do the snowy one. I’m already cold.”

She trudged over to another door as it appeared and then reached out. Erin eyed the strangest door yet that looked like a square…hatch? She reached out, nudged the handle—and the door fell over.

Whumph. Erin jumped, and she and Rags stared as her door fell flat. Erin’s mouth worked.

“What the—”

“Are they supposed to do that?”

“No! Did I break it?

Anxiously, Erin bent over the door and pulled. Her face turned red, and she tried to use both hands. Rags bent down and heaved—and the heavy hatch came up. Erin and Rags looked down, and Apista began lightly smacking Erin with her good legs.

You. Have. Terrible. Gardens.

She backed up and began crawling for safety. After all—Erin and Rags were staring down, down through the wood of an ancient ship’s hold—

Straight into a garden flooded by water. Erin gazed down at the surprisingly bright depths and saw a sandbar just below her and, further down, illuminated by bright coral and even lights, a home untouched by more than the fish swimming around—

“Oh wow. A Drowned Folk garden!”

Rags whistled. Now she understood why the hatch looked like that. What if this had been in a ship? You’d open it and leap into the depths. The water was so close to the hatch that Erin could actually reach down and splash some on her muddy clothing. She splashed some in her mouth as she washed her head and instantly spat it out.

“Peh! Peh! Aw man. It’s saltwater.

“Mhm. Plus lots of fish. Probably been pooing and dying in there for hundreds of years.”

Erin gagged. She ran back to her first garden and splashed around in the pond as Rags backed away.

Yet another garden that was, for now, unexplorable. Rags took off her armor so she could let it dry, and Erin saw she was dressed in a casual set of clothing underneath. She splashed at Rags.

“Hey! Look who’s lightening up! After this, let me give you some cake and ice cream, huh? And that spaghetti and blue fruit juice!”

Rags thought about it and shrugged. She frowned at Erin, then scowled. Something was again off about the way Erin was talking now.

“Cake and ice cream? I’m not a child. Or Ulvama.”

She had seen how Mrsha was treated, and she had a feeling Erin’s hand-holding was more than trying to keep her safe. Erin ducked her head.

“No, I know that. But you’re young!”

Rags folded her arms. She eyed Erin—then kicked a huge splash of water all over the [Innkeeper].

Rags! How dare you! I’ll—”

“Do what? I’m a child. Right? Don’t treat me like one. Garen did. So did Tremborag. I’m tired of it. I am a [Great Chieftain], Erin. Even if we’re friends, I don’t like it.”

She looked Erin in the eyes, and the [Innkeeper]’s face fell.

“Oh. Okay. I got it. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Rags sighed. There was something strange about Erin. She treated Antinium like people. She had treated her skeleton like a lamp. And Rags?

Erin glanced sideways at the Goblin, and Rags saw her bite her lip. The Goblin pretended not to notice. She let Apista crawl over onto her shoulder and stood.

“Do you want to keep exploring or not?”

She thought she had ruined the mood, but Erin shook her head after glancing at the far wall.

“No. No—I want to keep doing this together. So long as you do.”

She looked so earnest that Rags said nothing more, and slowly, the two formed up. Erin was wet and shivering a bit, so Rags suggested she get more clothes.

“Don’t look, okay? I’m just gonna change—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Rags waited as Erin shuffled into new clothes. Apista was buzzing on Rags’ shoulder as the Goblin patted her head.

One more garden, one more bad one and I swear, I’m stinging both of yous.

When Erin came back into the garden, Rags glanced at her black pants and mismatched, yellow shirt. Apista gave Erin an approving look, but the [Innkeeper] defended herself.

“I was in a rush! Selys bought me all kinds of weird stuff. What’s our garden? Let’s do one more, at least.”

“Your bee is going to sting us if we take her anywhere wet.”

Rags pointed to the fuming Apista, and the bee nodded. Even Erin and Rags could tell how ticked off she was, so Erin clapped her hands.

“What about this, then? Garden! Take us to the place Apista will like most!

The final door was made of glass and as clear as the blue skies. Erin peered at it as Rags felt at the nigh-invisible handle. Apista fanned her wings longingly, and Erin stared into the last garden.

“Oh. Wow. This one was a Garuda’s, right?”

She opened the door, and the wind blew, and Erin inhaled a smell like spring and sky. She knew she had to show this to Ryoka, because this garden?

This one had belonged to someone who could fly.

 

——

 

The ground was not, actually, flowers and grass like Erin would have pictured. Some of it was hard-packed earth, dry because the sun had shone down on this place for such a long time. There were tough plants growing around, including what Erin thought was a bush—until she realized that all the leaves were, in fact, hiding little cotton balls!

The instant the wind blew, a dozen scattered into the air, and Erin looked up and saw the largest garden yet.

It was so tall, vertically, that Erin and Rags stared up and up and finally saw the dome concealed amongst a backdrop that seemed like a world of clouds and blue sky. Until you realized that was an illusion projected across the backdrop of the dome.

Apista was fanning her good wing as the wind blew, almost picking her up, and Erin spread her arms and ran, laughing, across the ground.

Wow! This is a great garden! Look, Rags! Are those floating structures?”

She pointed up, and Rags shielded her gaze against the sunlight.

“Nope. Just wood.”

But they were concealed along the edges of the dome such that it did look like rooms and places were hiding high up there. Erin stomped a foot.

“Yet another secret area out of reach! Just you wait until my friend gets here! She can fly!”

Then she looked down at Apista guiltily, because the bee was staring up longingly into this place where she could fly free. Erin hugged the bee until Apista crawled out and began to hobble across the ground.

Then Erin looked so despondent that Rags had to say something.

“Maybe you can heal her?”

“If we had a drop of Potion of Regeneration—we could. But we don’t have any right now. Ilvriss took his bottle back.”

Erin bent down as Apista crawled along. She looked up at Rags, and her glee was gone.

“I’m sorry, Rags.”

“What about?”

Erin shook her head.

“Remember when Relc hated you? I kicked you out of the inn right after the Goblin attacks or…or something, remember? You had that big Goblin with you, Garen? And I asked you to go? That was the last time I saw you until the siege at Liscor.”

“I remember. It’s fine. You did what you thought you needed to. Goblins did attack and kill people. Garen killed his team. Even Goblins didn’t forgive him. Even his tribe.”

Rags squatted there, and she saw Erin shake her head guiltily.

“Thanks for saying that. It’s just—I haven’t done enough for Goblins. I even got a Skill. [Natural Allies]. But—I don’t feel like a friend to Goblins. Not all the time.”

Rags gave Erin the blankest look in creation. If she didn’t feel like a Goblinfriend, who did?

She spoke after a second.

“Do you know Gna?”

“Who? Oh—the [Sergeant] who came with Numbtongue and the others, right? She’s with the army now. She helped. What about her?”

“Hmm. Badarrow told me about her. Do you know her class?”

Erin hadn’t met Gna personally, but her class was unforgettable. She grinned.

“[Bug Captain Goblinfriend] or something like that?”

Rags grinned.

“Yep. She got that class, and I think it’s funny. But she got that class, and Badarrow told me she didn’t like Goblins that much. Even at the end, she was wary. But she got that class because even marching with Goblins was enough to be a friend. You? You’re the only ally Goblins have.”

The praise might have fallen upon deaf ears. Erin just shook her head.

“But here I am, treating you like a kid. Sorry.”

“It’s not a problem.”

Now Rags felt annoyed that Erin was taking it so personally, and she glanced at Erin.

“I know I’m small. I know I’m young. I shouldn’t snap at you. You have kids like Mrsha. Who is a child. A spoiled one.”

Erin snorted and hoped Rags wouldn’t say that to Mrsha or Lyonette’s faces. She was sort of…a savage, verbally! Not in any other way. But she shook her head.

“No, I know you’re not a child like that, Rags. I know you’re a [Great Chieftain]—Badarrow told me of everything you’ve done and what you mean to the tribe. It’s just…”

She looked wistfully upwards as Apista began to smoke. Rags and Erin glanced at her in alarm, but the bee just ignited and then turned off the flames. She must have been pleased—she was staring around the windy garden, and Erin’s heart went out to her.

Like Rags, actually. The Goblin glanced at Erin.

“Say it.”

“You’re gonna be mad.”

“I’m not. Say it.”

“Promise you won’t get mad? It’s just—I had a dream, too, about you. But it’s sillier than you wanting to thank me. Promise?”

Rags just raised her brows, turning to face Erin. The [Innkeeper] ducked her head. She eyed Rags and then confessed.

“I…I had this idea, Rags. Whenever you came back. Whenever I got my inn in order. You’d be grumpy, and I’d cheer you up. And then I’d feed you, and, um…giveyouapiggybackride.

“What was that last part?”

“Give you a ride. On my back.”

Rags gave Erin a blank look. It grew blanker as Erin explained. Rags had seen little Goblins riding on older Goblins’ backs, but seldom for fun.

“You wanted to give me a ride?”

“Horseback ride. That’s where you’re super high up. Legs around my shoulders. I thought you’d laugh and—and you can stop looking at me like that!”

Erin defended herself, blushing. It didn’t work anymore, not with the Goblin giving her the long look.

Rags could have snapped at Erin, but she knew the [Innkeeper] felt guilty. If anything? She was curious.

“Why? In what scenario of knowing me did you think I’d enjoy that? Pebblesnatch would have enjoyed that.”

Not her. But Erin looked so wistful that any wrath that Rags might have felt was already gone.

“I know. I know, Rags. But in my head…you were the same Goblin I first met. Terrible things happened to you. I just—I wish I could have gone back and my inn of now, this garden, could be back then. Because then I would have been able to properly protect you, give you a room, not just food whenever you came in. I should have.”

“We were dangerous back then. Some of the Goblins would have slit your throat.”

“I know. But I wish…I wish you weren’t so old, Rags.”

The [Innkeeper] cried out. She looked at Rags sadly.

“You’re young! You are small, and I wanted you to be a kid. Properly. I know you’re a [Great Chieftain] and you’ve done so much, but you shouldn’t have been. You should have been like Mrsha, even she’s gone through too much.”

Ah. Now Rags saw why Erin was so upset. The Goblin leaned back and stared at the sky as Apista ignited again, this time testing something out. She stared up.

“To live, I had to be a [Chieftain]. I could have been young. I could have refused to become a [Great Chieftain]. I am no Goblin Lord, Erin. I fear being one. But I want to know why Goblin Kings kill. I want to stop it.”

Erin looked at Rags. Her hands clenched in the dirt, and she exhaled. Then it seemed like she let go of something. She brushed at her face.

“Ow. Dirt in my eyes. I know that’s what you want to do, Rags. I think it’s so brave. And I promise—whatever you need, if you’re ever in trouble, my inn will always be open. I’ve said that to so many people. No Gnoll will ever leave hungry. Well—no Goblin will die within my walls. Not if I can help it. Whatever happens, no matter what trouble your tribe runs into—you can come here.”

She meant it. Every word. Yet Erin’s smile wasn’t reflected in Rags’ troubled expression.

“Don’t say that. Don’t promise that.”

“Why not?”

Rags had not told Erin about how she had burned across Riverfarm’s lands. She wondered if Erin knew. Now, she told Erin.

“I am not a good…person. Don’t promise to always protect me without knowing what will happen. I kidnapped the Healer of Tenbault. To do that, I killed people. And I would do it again. If they came after my tribe—and they will—I will kill Humans, Drakes, and Gnolls. I am afraid of becoming Reiss.”

She looked up. Or Tremborag. She didn’t know how, but this long road was one they had all walked before. The [Innkeeper] was silent for a long while. Then she exhaled.

“…I’m not a good person either, Rags. No one is.”

“You’re better than most.”

Erin turned her head, and she gave Rags much the same look that Rags had given Erin when she realized she was being treated like a child.

“No, Rags. There’s a part of me that knows exactly what you’re talking about. It’s like fire. Maviola El taught me to see part of myself, and I’ve felt it more than once. You’re not good? I killed the Raskghar when they kidnapped Mrsha. I would have wiped them out if I had to. If she was dead…there are things I’ve thought about doing. Some things I might do, against my enemies. No matter what, I will kill them, and if it is as painfully as I can imagine—I won’t hesitate.”

The Goblin looked at the [Innkeeper]’s serious face. Then she stood up lightly. The wind ran through her hair and blew at her clothing, and she felt unguarded without her armor. She had been speaking to the one person she wanted to talk to for a long time. And it had not been what she expected, but it had not been horrible. So—Rags hesitated and looked around this wide plain stretching upwards.

“Alright. Just one time.”

“One what?”

The Goblin glanced at Erin, and she looked completely amused. She gave Erin a real grin.

“You can carry me on your shoulders. I sort of want to see what happens. Unless you’re too tired.”

The [Innkeeper] gave Rags a wide-eyed stare, and then she scrambled to her feet.

“I can do it! Hop on! It’ll be the ride of your life!”

Rags climbed onto Erin’s shoulders and felt the most childish she had felt all year. Erin hoisted her up with a grunt, and Rags was displeased that even the weakened young woman could do it. Then Erin began jogging across the ground.

“Alright. Let me just build up some speed—how am I doing, Rags? How does it feel? Do you feel like a child?”

“It’s bumpy. Go faster.”

Erin laughed and panted, and she actually sped up. Rags was tense, expecting Erin to wipe out at any second, but she realized that she was fairly stable. And if she fell? The Goblin leaned back and saw the sky moving slowly overhead.

The warm air whipped around them as Erin ran, and Rags realized she was laughing with the sheer stupidity of the moment. The innocent laughter filled the air. Rags looked up, and then she wondered if this were how it might have been.

Like Mrsha and Lyonette, a little Goblin riding on an [Innkeeper]’s shoulders. Rags’ eyes stung. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. Then she opened them and smiled.

Just smiled as she rode on Erin’s shoulders like the child she’d never been and never known she wanted to be until this moment. An adult capturing something she’d missed.

“Wheeeeeee.”

 

——

 

Erin ran until she wiped out. She stumbled, Rags leapt off her shoulders, and Erin flopped on her back, wheezing for air. Yet they were smiling.

The little bee, flapping her one wing in the quiet garden, watched as Erin and Rags sat up. Then Erin hugged Rags tightly, and the [Chieftain] hugged her back.

Apista thought they might be friends after all. What did the bee see? She was the only observer, besides the empty garden itself, besides the will of classes and levels.

She saw something different, in her bee-like way, as the two spoke. Erin was ablaze with joy. It radiated out from her as she looked at Rags.

A hat full of flame. Yet she was that fire to Apista. A burning hill of fire, like Inkar saw. She was the inn and garden, inheritor of this sanctuary and the will of flames. She was glorious and grand when she was filled with life.

And Rags? Apista saw a little Goblin standing there. As she had stood before Tremborag and the last Dragonlord of Flame. The [Innkeeper], all her foes—Rags’ image of herself was different.

For there stood just a Goblin. But even shorter than Rags was in reality, in Apista’s insight into the two. Just a tiny Goblin, barefoot, wearing nothing but tattered clothing, staring at flame and fire and giants.

Facing them all down. Then the flaming giant wavered, and she took Rags’ hands.

“I wanted you to be young, Rags! I wanted you to be young and grow up slowly. I’m sorry. I didn’t do enough. Anyone else can say I did, even you. But I never did enough for the friends I met. And no one is a Goblin’s friend, so I should have been a better one.”

She was suddenly uncertain. A wavering spark of light buffeted by her own fears and trials and weaknesses, and they loomed large. She kept reaching out, for people. For love. And she was unable to grasp it. She chased a spark she herself couldn’t feel. Not yet.

The Goblin, though, just took Erin’s hands, and she was proud. She stood, leader of a tribe, buoyed up and sheltering, responsible for tens of thousands of lives. They were all close to her, all connected.

—Yet she was proudly alone. She neither wanted nor needed what part of Erin would cry out for. And gently, she squeezed Erin’s hands.

“I was old before I met you, Erin. Goblins. Humans. I will pull us forwards one step, our species, if I can manage it. Half a step, if that is all. Until we can be children together. But I can’t do it alone. You gave a hungry Goblin food. If I’m ever hungry and lost later—can I come here?”

“Always.”

The [Magical Innkeeper]’s eyes shone, and she grabbed Rags’ hands with all the strength in her body. The [Great Chieftain] bared her teeth in a true smile, and Erin’s aura grew larger.

Fire. Those flames that Apista saw around her sometimes—and the Ashfire Bee knew fire—so wondrous and powerful.

It filled the inn and grew from the garden. Such that even the [Princess], the other [Innkeepers], and the guests felt it. They looked up and smiled and suddenly laughed.

From the witch who raised her head and beamed at the ceiling to the nervous Goblins who slowly relaxed and knew their Chieftain would be back shortly. To the giggling, snorting Gnoll girl and the adventurers who nudged each other.

A warm feeling, as if it was inviting them in. The [Princess] threw up her hands, mildly exasperated—

Because she couldn’t top that.

 

——

 

Slowly, a [Baker] glanced up from the table where he had been complaining about everyone and everything and this faulty party. He glanced up and looked around.

Ah. Now this feels more like it.”

 

——

 

Flame. Rags’ own aura flickered around her, that lonely [Aura of Command]. But—she looked in Erin’s eyes and felt like she was lacking.

She was more than the Goblin who wanted to be a leader. A leader? She gazed around, and it was this inn, if not this exact garden and place, she had always been coming back to.

She took in Erin, and the Goblin reached out, across species and time, and took the [Innkeeper]’s hand.

Goblin and Human, not shaking hands, but holding each other’s hand as if supporting one another. Smiling as flames flickered around them.

—The inn was shaking. Apista felt the tremor under her feelers and wondered just how it felt in the actual inn. But she waited as some of that glorious flame licked off Erin, pure aura and will. Almost, almost…

Then the little bee fanned her wings and ignited her own flames. Like one of Octavia’s pieces of fire flaring off a match head, she caught fire. The flames jetted from little vents in her carapace—but Apista was focusing. Some winked off on one side as her good wing beat frantically.

Focus. Focus. Can we do it? Here we go. Herewego.

The bee had little to do while she was resting and while Lyonette was gone. All she could do was watch the scrying orb. For instance—the Archmage of Izril’s famous lifting of Fissival.

To the little bee, she’d seen something really interesting when Valeterisa did that. And if it worked for a city—

A jet of green-red flame shot out, startling Erin and Rags. They looked over, and Erin’s jaw dropped. Rags took one look over and closed her eyes.

“No. Fightipilota was right?

A flame was burning upwards, and a tiny little thing, a bee, was corkscrewing madly through the air. She was flying! Apista was internally screaming for joy and sheer panic because she was not in control.

But the first jet-powered bee was using her wing and the flames burning out of her body to propel herself through the air. She buzzed past Erin as the [Innkeeper] gaped up at her.

“Hey. That’s my fire. That’s my fire!

Apista saluted them with one antennae. Then Erin was laughing and running after her, and Rags’ aura was changing. The Goblin looked up and sighed.

Later, she would hear the voice telling her what she already knew. But that new aura flickered around her. Changed by her meeting with the [Innkeeper].

Erin Solstice.

 

——

 

One last thing happened to the inn as a tremor ran through it, disturbing dishes, startling guests, and heralding the beginning of strange, fantastic days.

The Goblins, Humans, Drakes, and Gnolls all didn’t see it at first. But then Numbtongue nearly ran smack-bang into it when he and Octavia were running out to see what Erin had made explode. He stopped, and his eyes went round.

“Is that—from the garden? It has to be. Numbtongue!”

Other guests hadn’t even realized what had happened. They turned—and exclaimed. Some leapt out of their seats in shock. Relc? His eyes bugged out.

“That’s not supposed to happen. You—that’s from the garden. Erin! Is she alright? Is she—”

He leapt to his feet in a panic, but Numbtongue didn’t think Erin was hurt. Or perhaps…he stared at what was standing in the common room of The Wandering Inn.

It had appeared in the center of the room on a little pedestal. Just grey stone. A function—one of the oldest functions of the [Garden of Sanctuary].

Yet the two statues who stood there shouldn’t have been present. Not…not yet. Erin and Rags stood there. Clasping hands and smiling at one another.

How? Numbtongue didn’t think they were dead. Yet—he looked at the door to the garden, where a laughing [Innkeeper] and the [Chieftain] were coming from, following an out-of-control bee.

She had died. That was her garden, and so Erin’s statue belonged there. As for Rags? It might not be time for her. But the garden surely knew who would one day stand on that hill.

Perhaps that was why. Numbtongue’s claws trembled as he looked at the first statue to fill The Wandering Inn for all to see. It was a [Message] louder than even the Goblins’ presence as helpers.

For you could call them [Mercenaries] or servants or even justify their existence as some did without calling them people.

But if you did, then that statue made no sense. For they were not shaking hands to seal any deal. There was no partnership nor give or take on the gently smiling Goblin’s face or the [Innkeeper]’s beaming smile.

Just friends. They clasped hands as, once again, The Wandering Inn saw its [Innkeeper] walk out of the garden’s doors to cheers. Erin looked around and blinked out a window.

“Is that a skating rink? What have you guys been up to? Let’s do this party!”

She laughed, and Rags smiled. Then the two of them walked out, properly. Not to thank each other anymore, but as friends.

 

[Great Chieftain Level 35!]

[Skill Change – Aura of Command → Aura of the Emissary obtained!]

[Spell: Apista’s Jetflame created.]

[Skill – The Innkeeper’s Daily Bounty (The Wandering Inn) obtained!]

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: I edited 1.02 R along with doing this 30k chapter. In three days. And it was good, substantive edits.

I uh…I’m working hard. I may need to take a day off just to do edits or screw around with fun side-writings. If so, I will let you know, but I think that my rewrite speed on Volume 1 is too slow. Taking an entire update off would be a lot, but I am pushing harder than usual, I think.

Mind you, editing on the third day does sometimes really increase quality so I may change my writing schedule in general, but I am burning hot. And the candle. From both ends. Not with a flamethrower yet; that was the end of Volume 8. But I’m just trying to manage projects and I have more than I thought.

Well, the story does come out fast, and I try to keep quality as high as you can ask for. But wow, having a year to write a book would be so nice. Imagine months of not having to do much…this is more efficient. Just letting you know I might need to borrow some time, but I hope you enjoy and that the waits are worth it.

Also, I would love a garden of my own. Mine would probably be different from the ones I write, though. But we’ll see more. Thanks for reading!

 

Knight Norman by decarbry, commissioned by True Godking Roguish! (Wait, we have another one to kill…?)

 

Fire Hat by Brack!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

[Like Fire, Memory] by u/BeforeDreams, commissioned by dado! (They’ve commissioned a lot!)

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.20

There was something bittersweet about seeing them coming out the garden to cheers. Together, the [Innkeeper] and the Goblin.

And the bee, but she didn’t count. Niers noticed, of course, but only because Apista was flying. He stared blankly at her.

“Is that…fire? And here I was going to send her a leg. And a wing.”

Back to Niers. It was—it should have really been him there. Waving his hat at the audience, being part of the changing continent of Izril.

But for Belavierr, he might still be there. So Chaldion had removed him from the board on more battlefields than just the one he’d left.

It made the Titan fuming mad to lose a battle like that. The Grand Strategist had been playing, but on a different board. But mostly, Niers just looked at the image of the young woman and the Goblin as the crowd circulated around them.

“…and it looks like the [Innkeeper] has come out herself for these festivities for the new ‘Hive’ of the Antinium. Sir Relz, we know Miss Solstice, don’t we? Have we ever done a piece on her?

The Drake in the studio appeared as the image cut back to him with a smaller image of the inn in the background. Niers scowled at Sir Relz as the Drake shuffled his papers.

“No, Noass, we have not. But perhaps now’s not the time? The Wandering Inn has Goblins, Antinium, and chaos as usual. However, now, I think the news should be on the disrupted trade cycle. I have a segment coming up where I interview a [Merchant Captain] on the supply lines across the world. Don’t miss it!”

Noass nodded rapidly, but he hesitated as he smiled into the camera. Niers gave Noass a sinister smirk, because he knew what the Drake was realizing.

“This is Noass, Channel 1 of Wistram News Network. Our favorite [Reporter], Drassi, may cover any entertainment-related incidents on Channel 2. You can switch channels with our Wistram News Network patented scrying orbs or by consulting any local Mage’s Guild affiliated with Wistram. However, I encourage you to—

Niers changed to the channel instantly, and he assumed that went for a large amount of viewers. Oh yes, television was moving in leaps and bounds. Drassi was smirking slightly as she waved at Noass; they were in the same inn.

“Thank you, Noass. I’ll be covering this party and anything else ‘fun’ and ‘inconsequential’. Like the Antinium Crusade marching back into Liscor, whenever it happens. Light stuff. Now, let’s see what’s going on around here. Can I get an interview with Erin? Personal friend, by the way.”

He should be there. Just saying. But Niers still smiled at the sight of the familiar inn. Right until someone screamed at him.

Titan, are you out of your mind? Head up!

“Yes, yes. I was watching. [Covering Fire].”

He pointed, and the screaming Fraerling turned as a volley of arrows and spells loosed over the battlefield. Niers glanced up, saw the exploding green monsters bearing down on his front lines, and went back to watching.

“We have it under control.”

“Unbelievable. Is he always like this?”

The Fraerling was one of the forces assigned to the Forgotten Wing Company. She was not happy about fighting monsters a hundred times her size, but Niers was calm.

“It’s a mopup, Tallguard. Save the Skills and energy; they’ll barely reach our front.”

He was right. The green-type monsters could explode and spread a nasty ichor around, but there was something about a thousand Lizardfolk with crossbows that deterred even a few hundred of them.

The real fighting would be when they pushed into the area around the Dyed Lands, not mopped up the rampaging monsters. This was almost…forensic. Kill monsters, see how they fought and which ones had tricks, adjust strategy, and move up slowly. Dissect, analyze.

The Fraerlings who were watching Niers peer at the scrying orb mounted on his wristwatch were a mix of awe and chagrin. The Titan’s company was like his arms and legs, and he didn’t look up as he swatted a hundred and twenty monsters.

Wistfully, Niers watched as Erin raised a hand and Drassi pushed forwards. Now…

“What are you going to do, Erin? All eyes are on you.”

It was possibly the first time The Wandering Inn had been a direct broadcast of Wistram News Network. Incredible, yes, but the inn had almost always been part of something, like a monster attack. This was the inn on its own. And the [Innkeeper]…she was known enough that people might recognize her face.

Erin looked up and around the party with a look of surprise, as if she hadn’t quite known how large it was. And there was the [Princess]. What kind of party, indeed? Niers saw Erin give Drassi a pair of finger-guns, smile—and hurry off. He laughed as she went to high-five Goblins.

“Good luck trying that forever.”

 

——

 

The party at The Wandering Inn was a three-day affair. The initial event had occurred as adventurers and Goblins arrived, just past midday.

In four hours, the skating rink that Ceria had made had become the main attraction, as well as the inn’s reopening. Mostly?

It was visitors coming through the doors. Liska was opening and shutting them nonstop, only pausing to let [Mages] recharge the door.

“Pallass? Step through. Inn is on your right. Liscor on your left. We don’t have time to open a door to Liscor. Thank you, goodbye.”

She shut the door, adjusted the dial, opened it.

“Celum? Step through. Inn on your right. Liscor on your left. No door to Liscor today. Anyone going for Celum?”

She looked around, and some people waiting in the exit queue raised their hands. Liska glowered.

“Why aren’t you in a group? Stand there for Celum. I need a sign. Who else is going to Invrisil? Got your money?”

People fussed about with money and asked the worst questions. Like a Human who tapped her on the shoulder.

“I’d like to go to Pallass. Can you open the door?”

Liska stared at him.

“No one’s going to Pallass. You have to apply for the waiting list.”

“You just opened the door.”

“That’s from Pallass.”

“Just open the door. I have the fee right here.”

Liska was almost tempted to as the man puffed up with indignation. She spoke slowly, as if trying to hammer the words into his head.

“The checkpoint will stop you. No one’s going to Pallass. Invrisil, Celum, and Esthelm are open. Who’s going to Celum? You need to pay me.”

“I just did!”

“That was from Invrisil to Liscor.”

“I have to pay per city? What a ripoff!”

Liska groaned. She needed signs, lines, and helpers. And indeed, the prices per door usage were at least keeping a horde of people from going through. But the visitors were of all kinds. She turned and closed the door to Celum and opened it to Pallass as a [Mage] tapped her on the shoulder.

“[Merchant].”

“I got it, I got it. Hello, sir or ma’am!”

A Gnoll gave Liska a long look. The helper tried to smile, but then she almost went blind.

“I’m heading for Liscor for this bazaar. I’ve got goods—mostly in bags of holding—and a staff of seventeen. Where am I staying? And whom do I pay?”

“Me, Miss…”

Liska was trying to shade her eyes. Even in the checkpoint, with the guards, the Gnoll was…sparkling? She was reflecting light like a radiant beacon.

Qwera, the Golden Gnoll of Izril, sniffed as she eyed the inn’s portal operation.

“Some place. Hey, Ysara, get in here! Do I step through?”

She gingerly stepped through the door as the crowd oohed. One of the [Merchants] had come to make a profit in the coming days.

The Golden Gnoll dropped a shower of gold and silver into a bucket that Liska had put out, and the other Gnoll quickly stowed it in a bag of holding before anyone got any ideas. Qwera sniffed the air.

“The bazaar hasn’t started yet, has it?”

“I—I don’t know, Miss. Um—you’re a [Merchant], right?”

Qwera gave Liska a long look as a Human woman wearing a sword and silver-style clothing strolled through the door with a bunch of helpers. Then the door portal flickered out. Liska groaned along with the crowd as Qwera spun.

“Door’s out. Mages?”

“I’m tapped.”

A sweaty young Drake was drinking a mana potion. He looked around.

“We’ll need to wait for more. Let me tell the Mage’s Guild.”

“Is my crew safe? How long till the door’s back up?”

Qwera demanded, and Liska nearly screamed—until a Gnoll poked his head out.

“I sensed a disturbance. Liska?”

Ishkr gave her an accusing look, then spotted Qwera. His eyes widened. He instantly stepped forwards.

“Door’s out? You, please send a [Message] spell telling the Mage’s Guild we need someone in five minutes or less. Everyone, we will have a ten minute wait! Hello, Miss Merchant. Are you waiting for the bazaar? It’s open tomorrow—accommodations are listed here.”

He had a piece of parchment which had begun to circulate. Liska had had one, but someone had walked off with it.

It listed every inn and place to stay in the cities as well as upcoming events. Qwera snatched it as she sniffed.

“That’s more like it.”

Ishkr. I’m dying here! I need help! I need organization!”

For once, her older brother didn’t snap at her. He just looked at the door and sighed.

“I agree. I can’t fix it.”

Don’t leave me!

She almost clung to his shoulder, but he just waved her back.

“I’ll ask Lyonette to talk to Liscor. We’ll ask them to send whomever managed the door last time. Hang on for twenty minutes. Then you’ll show them the job for forty. Break for the day in an hour, okay?”

“Okay.”

He vanished out the door as Qwera raised her brows. Ysara Byres had been eying the ramshackle operation of the door, but she whispered to Qwera.

“That’s one calm worker. Mrsha must not have been lying about how chaotic the inn is. Or Krshia. Do you smell them?”

“Do I look like a [Tracker]? Mrsha’s about, but there’s a sea of people around. Do you think your sister and brother are here?”

“Yvlon? Yes. Ylawes…well, that’ll be fun.”

Ysara did not smile. Qwera bared her teeth.

“At least we’ll get to see the [Innkeeper] of renown. Alright, let’s wait for my team. Are we staying here or…?”

“Depends on if the inn has rooms. What are the odds it’s not full to bursting?”

 

——

 

Good, actually. The Wandering Inn was doing mad traffic in people, but few thought to ask for rooms. Mostly because—who would stay in an inn filled with Goblins?

A lot of visitors who had come to see the Antinium took one look at the Goblins in the common room and decided to find another inn on the list. But some stayed. It was a kind of deterministic selection: if you weren’t cool with the Goblins, you really wouldn’t like the rest of what the inn had to offer.

Ishkr had just gone out to check on Liska when he tapped Lyonette on the shoulder. She jumped.

“Ishkr? What’s up?”

“The door’s out of power again. I sent for more [Mages], and we will need to contact the Council for their staff. Liska cannot handle this alone. Nor are the Goblins and Antinium ready for that job.”

Lyonette bit her tongue.

“Damn. That’s the one job they cannot do. Alright, I will task Ser Sest with that. Thank you, Ishkr.”

He nodded, and she wondered how he was managing to do this. She had never seen someone move so fast!

They needed to give him a raise. And hold onto him! Some of the [Innkeepers] still loitering about looked just as impressed with Ishkr. But then—if The Wandering Inn was still weak organizationally, it did have capable talent.

Like Ser Sest, who was already halfway towards the door. He didn’t even have to be asked; he’d just heard Lyonette speak.

“On my way, Miss Lyonette.”

He passed by Miss Agnes, whose eyes bugged out at his golden armor. Her husband, Mister Jerom, murmured.

“Now there’s a serving staff that’d attract the eye, eh, Agnes?”

He laughed, then coughed. She patted his hand and smiled nervously. She didn’t quite look at Lyonette.

“Yes, dear. We should be getting back to the inn. Or I should. We’ll have business—but you just sit here for a moment. Can…can someone help him back? I should, but I must get to The Frenzied Hare now—”

She had a staff, but she was dithering, and someone spoke up.

Ulia, owner of another inn in Celum, Blazehound, turned to Agnes.

“You go ahead, Agnes. Jerom and I will head back.”

“Oh, thank you. Goodbye—Lyonette—”

Agnes glanced at Lyonette, and the [Princess] managed a smile.

“Best of luck, Miss Agnes. Sir, are you alright?”

“Quite alright. I just have a cough. It doesn’t go away, but I’m not abed. I was last fall—I was too cold, and it took me out for months. But for Miss Solstice…what a wonderful inn. And it is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lyonette. I have to apologize, again, for any unpleasantness and thank you for—”

He shook her hand earnestly as she called for a cup of something. Ishkr appeared with a mug of goat’s milk and vanished. Jerom sipped from it.

He was so—nice—that Lyonette was slightly aghast. And embarrassed. She assured him there was no ill will. He was reasonable, calm, if sickly, and she remembered meeting him once before, but even when Erin had been in the inn, she had barely seen Agnes’ husband.

“It’s Jerom, isn’t it? Or Ronald? Cecil? I, ah, didn’t quite know if you existed. Not that Miss Agnes didn’t bring you up quite often to Erin!”

He laughed at that.

“Oh, that. I’m afraid that’s my fault. When Agnes and I first met, I was called Cecil. Then, we went out, and I had to find work further north. When I came back, I was using Ronald as my name. I headed south—actually past Liscor. I worked around there and came back as Jerom. All three times, Agnes didn’t quite remember me until I reintroduced myself.”

“You had three names, Jerom? Why in the world? I used to joke with Timbor that you didn’t exist and Agnes was just pretending she had a husband. Pardon me, but it was funny.”

Ulia looked fascinated, and Jerom coughed into a hand.

“Past jobs, Ulia. It’s a long story.”

No it wasn’t. Lyonette’s eyes sharpened, and she saw Ser Lormel glance up. He took one look at Jerom, and he clearly realized the same thing Lyonette did.

Jerom was a former [Spy]. That or he had some kind of job that required you to change names. And there were precious few like that.

Now Lyonette thought of it—she only knew one person who had poor lungs and an endemic weakness that couldn’t be solved by healing potions. And that was Mihaela Godfrey, who had been…poisoned…

Jerom saw Lyonette’s glance and smiled.

“It’s a long story. We all have stories like that, I’m sure, Miss Lyonette.”

“Of course, Mister Jerom. I am delighted to meet you.”

He was a thin man, probably due to being confined in bed all day, but Lyonette could see how Agnes had fallen for him three times. He looked, well, like someone who could fit in Calanfer’s top staff.

Handsome, with a strong chin and a twinkle in those pale sapphire eyes. He even seemed graceful—if that were marred by moments of weakness. His hair was swept back in a greying curl.

Whomever he had been, Lyonette was sure he’d been good at his job of being likable. But all that was marred by his weakened state.

For all that—Jerom clearly was talented. He had been a good enough cook to keep Agnes’ inn running despite—Agnes. And even here, he took a drink from the cup and grimaced.

“I should head back whenever you’re ready, Ulia. Agnes will need help. But this inn is fascinating. The rec rooms, that weights room?”

He sighed about, and Ulia smiled.

“What if I sent some helpers to Agnes’ inn? Just one or two. You can take your leisure.”

“That’s extremely kind of you. Are you sure?”

He looked reluctant, and Ulia smiled and winked at Lyonette.

“If you help me win a few coins at the card table, perhaps. You haven’t had time to meet him, Miss Lyonette, but Jerom is a fantastic cards player. Very good with his hands cooking and in other ways. Don’t you carve as well?”

I just bet he is. Lyonette smiled, but she blinked as Jerom produced something with an embarrassed smile.

“Hardly good. I’m confined to bed, so it’s reading or something else. I picked up the class and—well, I was going to present Miss Solstice with this.”

Lyonette gasped. She stared down at a tiny, hand-cut figurine. Of Mrsha! The little Gnoll even had spiked fur, notched delicately with a tiny blade, and she was prowling around on all fours, sniffing at the air.

Jerom had even added mini indentations like whiskers. Lyonette exclaimed.

“Mister Jerom, this is the most beautiful—this is fantastic!”

“As I understand it, you’re the one who takes care of Miss Mrsha. Please, if you don’t think it’s a burden—”

He offered her the figurine, and Lyonette accepted it. She smiled at him.

“Thank you, sir! This is a delight.”

He nodded, and Lyonette thought that if the inn in Celum never worked out, she could send him to Riverfarm. Laken Godart had a [Carver] of his own, but the man, while good, was, uh…

Spitty.

Maybe not. Jelov the [Carver] and Jerom the mysterious [Innkeeper]? Too close. He’d have to change his name a third time.

But that was the kind of thing happening in the inn right now. While it was true that the grand party was more of a ramp-up, there was already a kind of meeting of peoples that would otherwise never go together that was generating excitement enough.

Not for Drassi, perhaps. The [Reporter] actually didn’t linger long in the inn once it became clear Erin wasn’t going to be interviewed. She found Rags for a short moment, but she’d had her interview with Rags. So—Drassi was off to her new studio to give a talk with the Singer of Terandria.

She’d be back tomorrow. Meanwhile? Lyonette was almost glad that Erin hadn’t taken over when she came back from the garden.

This was Lyonette’s big event, and she wanted to prove she could do it alone. She felt nervous, but she squared her shoulders and got back to work. Erin?

For the first day, Erin sat with the Goblins. She hugged Badarrow and stayed with them. Goblins before all. But the meetings between people were not isolated just to Goblins.

 

——

 

By evening in Liscor, a Gnoll returned from checking out the bazaar and put her hands on her hips.

“The Tailless Thief is out.”

Ysara Byres looked up from the stand she and Qwera were going to operate. Hers was right next to Qwera’s, and she had a huge supply of goods to offload, many from the tribes. She had a feeling there would be a huge market to match.

They had hurried down to inspect the plaza, and [Traders] and [Merchants] they knew from Pallass as well as Invrisil were all present. Lots of excited rookies too, who kept coming up to Qwera to ask for tips.

Don’t get fleeced was Qwera’s big tip. This was the opportunity for everyone to make a profit. Just sell at a good markup and watch out for fellow [Merchants]; they’d run you down with flash-deals. Unless you had gold in hand or paw…

Well, this was their battleground, so the [Merchants] were excited. So was Ysara, because she’d headed down here before having a chance to explore the ice skating rink that hundreds of people were skating across. An annoyed half-Elf had to keep recasting the spell, but she considered it training—as well as her own slip and sliding across the ice.

However—the person Ysara really wanted to see was Yvlon. And Ylawes. But before that…

“Not the Tailless Thief? We need somewhere secure.”

They had lockboxes of gold, and their best items and stock would need security. That meant The Tailless Thief; neither Ysara nor Qwera were stupid enough to chance being stuck in Invrisil when they should be at the bazaar.

“No. And it’s not the name. The [Innkeeper] is simply a Drake. A beautiful idiot of a Drake who I wouldn’t trust.”

“Ah. Speciesist?”

“His guests are all Drakes from Pallass. We can out pay them, but…let’s try The Wandering Inn. If only for storage. Besides, I haven’t seen Mrsha.”

They could have rushed into the common room and reunited with Mrsha the instant they got there…but neither Ysara nor Qwera had. A few hours would not kill them, and they had their priorities straight.

Now, though, it occurred to Ysara that if they wanted a room…she sighed and checked her bag of holding.

“Let’s go now, then. And keep checking your bag of holding, Qwera. I know Liscor’s a good city—or so Yvlon claims—but the [Thieves] have to be out in force knowing how much gold and visitors are here.”

That was true. Qwera and Ysara were not easy targets; they had Skills and the wherewithal to defeat most [Flash Thieves], who could snatch a bag with sheer speed, or covert ones, who would steal a bag of holding unnoticed in a crowd.

Even so—a certain young woman with a gemstone hand saw several [Thieves] loitering about the square. She herself had a lot of interest in Qwera and Ysara’s bags of holding as well as the top [Merchants]’.

They were rich. One of Pallass’ best [Traders of Curios] had already lost his chest of holding. His actual chest of holding. He thought it was right there, locked and waiting for tomorrow, and his [Guards] did too, but the crystal-handed [Thief] had seen someone walk off with the entire chest and cast an illusion spell in the same place.

One of the Faces of Invrisil. They’d probably sell the entire chest back to the merchant, and that would be the last theft today.

The [Thieves] of big cities often had deals with the Merchant’s Guild to only be a pest up to a point—otherwise, the [Merchants] would hire a Named-rank Adventurer to kill you. A merchant-rogue war was a bad, bad incident.

She had no such compunctions, but she was wary of making an enemy of the wrong group, so Ysara and Qwera were a good target as independent [Merchants]. Obviously, she was waiting for her chance with Klbkch the Slayer, but profits were profits. Besides.

The contest had begun. The young woman strolled into range. Qwera wasn’t stupid; the Golden Gnoll would notice someone dogging her. But the crystal hand [Thief]’s range was wide. She flexed her hand, and the pale quartz hidden under the glove shone.

[I Stole Lightning].

Her hand blurred across the ground between her and Qwera, forty paces. If you could have seen it—and it moved at the speed of lightning—it would have been a disembodied hand of crystal, reaching out. A man’s hand, not the young woman’s. It reached out for both bags of holding—

And someone caught it. Or rather, blocked it. The hand slammed into a body, and the [Thief] recoiled. She saw a Gnoll hurtle out of nowhere into the hand, and Qwera and Ysara whirled. The [Thief] looked up, saw a Gnoll staring at her—

Vetn!

Ysara exclaimed as one of her ‘helpers’ broke cover and blocked the Skill. The Thief of Clouds rubbed at his ribs as a young woman began to hurry in the other direction.

“That’s one.”

“What? A [Thief]? Point her out.”

Ysara was ready to draw her sword or call for the Watch, but Vetn just growled.

“Don’t bother. She’ll be gone before the Watch even reaches us if you shout. That’s the second high-level [Thief]. Ow. My ribs hurt.”

He whined to Qwera, and she was unimpressed.

“Blow on it. This is why I hired you, Vetn. Keep it up.”

Sulkily, he nodded. Some of the other [Merchants] were eying Vetn nervously; a few could spot a [Thief]. But Qwera had hired him to run interference against other competitors or thieves.

She wasn’t an idiot. She patted Vetn on the shoulder, and the three of them headed off to the inn. They met the girl they were looking for ahead of that.

 

——

 

Mrsha was sniffling a bit, as if she had a cold again, and Ser Dalimont was worried he’d get in more trouble, letting her skate so long.

But as it turned out, she just had a runny nose from the chill. She was beaming, her white fur all puffed up along with two sweaty, beaming children. And one big one.

Gire, Ekirra, and Visma had been skating for hours. The novelty of being able to skate before the winter was only compounded by the food flowing from the inn. Right now, they were all having some hot-hot fries, which were spicy—but didn’t kill you! Calescent’s fries were hitting tables, and a certain witch had helped him get used to his new job.

Well, Erin was inside sampling his cooking with the laughing Goblins, and Mrsha was just about to suggest they all have a big bowl of ice cream to go with the fries when she smelled something odd on the air. She turned, sniffed, and her brows crossed.

“What is it, Mrsha?”

The Gnoll smelled a familiar acrylic scent that came from a lot of paint. A familiar smell—but that couldn’t be right. She looked at Gire, and the [Paragon] stopped wolfing down fries.

“Hm?”

She sniffed the air as Ekirra copied her. So did Visma, snorting and giggling as the Gnolls glowered at her mockery of them. But then Mrsha saw Gire’s eyes widen, and their heads turned. Mrsha watched as the skaters, couples and families running and slipping on the ice, looked up.

The fading fall sky was turning into an ember glow across the High Passes. Even green, instead of blue, and the two colors ran together like some crazy artist’s palette.

But then the Antinium marching to the inn for their food, the people of Liscor, and the inn itself experienced a revelation.

For there was a shining figure upon a hill. She stood like a golden messiah, light glancing off her painted fur. The Golden Gnoll shone, and Mrsha dropped her fries. Ekirra bent down to eat them off the grass, but looked up as Mrsha began racing over. Her snuffly nose began to run again, and she was a blubbery mess before she was halfway there.

It’s you! It’s you! She raced at Qwera, leapt up, and the Gnoll blocked Mrsha’s head with her paw.

“Gross. Someone get me a handkerchief.”

She fished one out of her belt pouch as Mrsha landed, and then the Gnoll found one paw picking her up. A piece of cloth wiped at Mrsha’s face, and then she glanced up, and Qwera grinned.

“Look at you, you silly girl. Did you miss me that much?”

For answer, Mrsha hugged her. Then looked at Ysara and Vetn in astonishment. The [Armored Merchant] patted Mrsha on the head, and the Gnoll beamed at Vetn, who shyly waved at her.

“I told you she’d remember us, Qwera!”

“I wouldn’t bother. There, there. Stop crying. It’s not like we were even gone more than a month.”

But I love you guys! Mrsha reached out as Gire raced over and beamed at the others.

“Vetn, Qwera, Ysara, hello! I had no idea you had arrived! Where’s Tesy?”

She noticed the absence of the [Magical Painter], and Qwera rolled her eyes.

“Off causing mischief in another city. Vetn would be too, but I needed a [Thief] to stop a [Thief]. When we heard about the bazaar, I picked up the pace. I would have gone on foot rather than via Pallass, but gold doesn’t wait. Hello. And who is this?

She eyed the Thronebearer, who glowed almost as much as she did with his armor. Ser Dalimont bowed.

“Merchant Qwera, Merchant Ysara, I am Ser Dalimont of the Thronebearers of Calanfer, and my ward is in your debt, as I understand it. May I escort you to the inn? Miss Lyonette will be delighted to meet you, as will Erin Solstice herself.”

“Oho. Aren’t you competent?”

Qwera raised her brows, but she seemed curious, not hostile. She tried to put Mrsha down, but the Gnoll clung to her neck.

“You little blubbering rat. Where did all that bravery go?”

Qwera gently teased Mrsha, and Ysara’s smile was genuine as she walked towards the inn.

“She’s at home, Qwera. She’s allowed to cry.”

Mrsha had actually stopped crying at this point, and she was waving for Ekirra and Visma to come over. The two friends looked up at Qwera in awe.

“You’re shiny!”

Ekirra gaped at Qwera. Visma, on the other hand, actually knew of Qwera’s reputation. She squeaked.

“My mother loves you! And my older sister! Can—can I touch your fur? You’re beautiful!

Even the grumpy Golden Gnoll of Pallass had to smile at that, and Mrsha saw Qwera’s face turn softer. As she put on her stage show.

“Well, I can do more than that! Here! Hold out your hands, both of you…”

She drew out something and then pressed it on Ekirra’s and Visma’s hands. They looked down in delight, and Mrsha saw a golden stamp of a pawprint embossed on their scales and fur. Qwera winked as she raised her paws to call out to the crowd.

The Golden Gnoll will be holding a seminar after the bazaar, tomorrow. Tell your friends! Free coins!

So saying, she drew a pawful of coins out of her bag of holding and tossed them across the ice. Gold coins went scattering and people shouted and scrambled after them.

“You’re such a…performer, Qwera.”

Ysara looked mildly disapproving, but Qwera had done this before when Mrsha was on tour with her, however briefly.

“It works. I thought this was supposed to be exciting. Aha. And I think here’s our famous mother of the world’s most endangered child.”

She looked up, and Lyonette du Marquin was coming out the doors of the inn, flanked by all but one of her remaining Thronebearers. Mrsha waved her over, and the [Princess] caught Mrsha as she leapt into her arms.

“Mrsha—oof! Do I have the honor of meeting the people who helped you? Merchant Qwera, Merchant Ysara, Mister Vetn? Welcome to the Wandering Inn. And thank you—I have wanted to say that ever since the Meeting of Tribes.”

She took Qwera’s hand as she held Mrsha and Ysara’s. Lyonette’s genuine look of gratitude seemed to disarm Qwera, and the Gnoll murmured.

“Well—it’s not like there was anything else to do. Hello, hello. I’m delighted to meet you, Pr…Miss Lyonette.”

“And I am honored to meet you. Silver and steel guide you, Princess Marquin. You’ve been a friend to my sister and brother, and I am grateful for everything you’ve done.”

Ysara didn’t even try to hide what she knew. Lyonette’s eyes focused on Ysara and widened a bit.

“Yes! And you’re Yvlon’s older…she’ll be delighted to meet you! I am so grateful to meet you—but Yvlon’s just inside! And you won’t believe it, but the Silver Swords just came in via Invrisil.”

“Ah. Wonderful.”

The older Byres’ smile slipped slightly, but Mrsha was sniffing the air. Then her eyes went round, and she leapt out of Lyonette’s arms.

“What’s gotten into her?”

Qwera eyed Mrsha as Lyonette scolded her daughter, but Gire was sniffing the air too. And then she bounded past startled guests. For Mrsha had smelled someone else who’d just arrived.

 

——

 

The little Gnoll burst into the common room just in time to see the most high-powered meeting yet. The Golden Gnoll had come to Liscor.

But so had Gold-rank teams. The Silver Swords, teams like Todi’s Elites from Invrisil, the Horns, the Halfseekers—

And one more. In fact, they had just arrived, and they were so famous that they had even put the Silver Swords’ return to shame.

Goblins! Pizza! Ice cream! This is what I’ve been waiting for! I made it! Oh, hey Mrsha.”

The Stargnoll, Lehra Ruinstrider, was running around as excitedly as Mrsha. Her team, Stargazer’s Promise, were greeting the surprised Horns and the wary teams, who eyed one of Izril’s top adventurers with a kind of awe.

And wariness, because they remembered how ‘Regrika Blackpaw’ had gone. The [Innkeeper] was standing warily in front of her Goblin friends, but when the little Gnoll leapt forwards and tried to give Lehra a flying headbutt, the Stargnoll whirled her around in the air and put Mrsha on a table, laughing.

Then she turned as Qwera walked in.

Hey, the Golden Gnoll! Everyone’s back from the Meeting of Tribes! Is Honored Krshia here?”

She waved, but a pair of Humans froze at the table where they were awkwardly greeting each other. Yvlon Byres half rose, and Ylawes looked up, stunned.

“Ysara…?”

She halted when she saw her two younger siblings. Ysara smiled awkwardly, but Yvlon shot to her feet. She came over, smiling genuinely as Ysara stared at Yvlon’s arms. She had seen, during the Meeting of Tribes, and she had no doubt seen images of Yvlon, but it was one thing to see and another to get a look up close.

“Yvlon. Ylawes. It’s been a long time. You two look—great. Especially you, Yvlon.”

She reached out and embraced her sister gingerly. Yvlon returned the gesture, almost as timidly, and Ylawes got up. He reached out, went to embrace his two sisters—and both let go. Ysara hugged Ylawes briefly, patting him on the back.

“Ysara, this is an amazing coincidence. I am delighted to see you! What brought you to Liscor? The bazaar? Father and Mother will be delighted to hear from you.”

“Of course. And yes. Here I am, back in the north, or close enough. Look at you two heroes of the day.”

Ysara’s smile was about as genuine as Qwera’s fur. Which was to say, it wasn’t completely fake, but it had layers and hidden meaning. Yvlon glanced at her sister, but she reached out.

“You’re still wearing your sword.”

She pointed, and Ysara’s look of reserve turned to amusement.

“I still have to defend myself. But I’d say you two have long since passed me.”

“Not in talent. Not in talent. How are you? Is that—is that Gnoll made of gold? We just got in. This is incredible. Sit, please. Are you staying?”

Ylawes regained his composure faster—right until he noticed Ysara’s tattoos. One ran up her neck, and she had some on her arms and other places, more hidden by her clothing. He stared at the colorful tattoos with his mouth open, and Ysara sighed.

“Those are new.”

Yvlon managed. Ylawes was silently gobbling air, and Ysara was endlessly grateful for Qwera. She must have sensed the awkwardness, and she came over in full merchant-mode.

“Well, here are your younger siblings! I’m Qwera, the Golden Gnoll. Just an alias. It is a delight to meet Ysara’s family—she is endlessly proud.”

“Oh, hello, hello.”

Both Yvlon and Ylawes instantly turned to greet her, and the moment warmed back up again, especially when Ceria came tromping into the inn.

“Is that your older sister and a golden—tree sap, it’s Lehra Ruinstrider!”

She pointed at Lehra, and the Gnoll pointed back.

“It’s Ceria! I saw you on the scrying orb! Autographs! Where’s the Silver Killer? Ohmygosh, there she is!

She swerved as she saw Yvlon, and the [Armsmistress]’ face said it all. Ylawes tried to bow to Lehra.

“I am such a fan, Yvlon! You are the most hardcore adventurer ever! And—hi, are you a warrior too?”

Ylawes Byres, Captain of the Silver Swords. A famous Gold-rank team.”

Someone hissed in Lehra’s ear. Elgrinna, the Dwarf [Warrior], actually yanked on Lehra’s tail. The Gnoll started, slapped Elgrinna’s hand, then turned beet red.

“Oh no! I mean—hello!”

“Adventurer Ruinstrider, it’s an honor.”

That was all Ylawes managed. He couldn’t help but glance at Yvlon, then looked up—and saw his older sister’s knowing smile.

It was rare for Ylawes to look that uncomfortable. But Dawil was all there for it. In fact, he was right there, and he and Elgrinna were slapping each other on the back.

“A Dwarf from home! What’s with your adventurer? Don’t recognize some veterans, Miss Elgrinna?”

“Aw, here comes Axemaster Dawil, here to lecture me. Hero of Dwarfhome! If I could have teleported, I’d have been right with you. You damn credit to your people, you.”

Falene Skystrall was nodding to the Gazer [Wizard], Suxhel, and Emper, the Stitch-man [Monk]. They were certainly a sight for sore eyes!

In fact, Lyonette could barely keep up with the introductions! Mrsha was in the mix as Lehra tossed her up and down, and Moore gently caught her; Lehra gaped up at him in delight. But no one could get in a word edgewise for a second.

That was, until someone waved.

“Hey. Who’re all these people? I’m Erin. Are these your friends, Mrsha?”

Then they turned, and Qwera, Ysara, Vetn, Stargazer’s Promise—all looked at Erin Solstice. Ylawes himself hadn’t seen her, and he rose to his feet in awe. Dawil turned and smiled. He exhaled as if he’d been holding a breath, and Lehra pointed at Erin.

“You’re the one who posted the <Quest> for Mershi. You’re Mrsha’s friend. Aren’t you…?”

“Erin Solstice. Hi.”

She said it so casually, but her mere presence somehow halted the chaos for a second. Erin stood with the Goblins peering at the adventurers and newcomers in the background. She might have been unhappy in large events where everyone stared and fawned over her—

But in this moment, the [Innkeeper] knew just what to do and say. She spread her arms wide and beamed.

“Welcome to my inn! If you’re friends of Mrsha’s, you’re friends of mine. Do you want food? Somewhere to put your things? The Wandering Inn will never turn new friends away! Just remember to read the sign.”

“What sign?”

Lehra looked nervous, but Qwera brightened up. She reached out, and Erin’s eyes fixed on her golden fur.

“Whoa! You’re amazing!

“It takes one to know one. Did I hear rooms, Miss Solstice? I’m afraid we couldn’t find suitable accommodations. Safe ones. [Thieves] and the like.”

“Oh—of course! We’ve got rooms on the second and third floors! Actually—we haven’t taken in any new guests, so we’ve got tons of room! Even group rooms. And my inn is super safe. Well, my garden is. No one gets in who isn’t allowed. Got valuables?”

“That would be excellent, Miss Solstice.”

Qwera smiled with great satisfaction. Lehra was still gobbling.

“You—you’re the one who knows about Mershi! Please, tell me everything!

She tried to get to Erin, but Lehra had made a mistake—she assumed being a Named-rank Adventurer meant anything here.

She tried to reach out to Erin, and the [Innkeeper] rose two feet in the air. Mostly because Dawil was hugging her.

“Hey! Put me down! I—oh, Dawil!”

The Dwarf had tears in his eyes. But he let Erin down and gently patted her on the arm.

“You did it. Grandfathers awake, I can’t believe it.”

“Oh, Dawil. And Ylawes, Falene? I’m gonna cry! Don’t make me cry again! C’mere!”

Erin looked up, and the [Knight] and [Battlemage] were drawn into a hug far more genuine than the one Ylawes had given Ysara. Lehra practically danced around the edge of the hug, but even she couldn’t interrupt it. Then Erin was exclaiming.

“Yvlon’s sister is here? Whoa. Whoa! You have tattoos! Hi, I’m Erin.”

She shook hands with the smiling [Merchant], and then Mrsha was tugging over Vetn, who looked incredibly nervous for some reason. He stared at a point over Erin’s shoulder as he shook the [Innkeeper]’s hand.

Lehra, by contrast, had suddenly begun to explode. The genial Stargnoll was often so laissez-faire it exasperated her teammates. But when she had seen Erin—

The armband of metal on her arm had begun to glow. The Stargnoll interrupted the greetings with Vetn, or tried to.

“Excuse me, Erin. I’m Named-rank Adventurer Lehra Ruinstrider. And you know about the City of Stars. I own the Blade of Mershi.”

Erin glanced up. She focused on Lehra and frowned as the Gnoll tried to push past Falene. Obviously, the half-Elf stepped back, but Erin’s brows instantly knitted.

“Yeah. I posted the <Mythical Quest>. I’m happy to talk about it—but hold on, Falene! You have a Blade of Mershi? You’re almost there! Better work on finding the Crossroads first, though. Word to the wise.”

She gave Lehra a polite smile, and the Stargnoll gaped at Erin.

“What? Why do I need to find that? Tell me what you know! I’m—the blade has a—”

“I’ll meet with you later. Later.”

Erin was smiling, but Lehra was so excited that not even Emper and Elgrinna could stop her. She reached out to grab Erin as the young woman turned.

“Wait! Hey! I’m a Named-rank Adventurer!

She pulled rank, a rarity, and a clawed hand caught her arm. Another caught her shoulder. Lehra blinked as a pair of strong grips halted her dead in place. She tensed—because she felt a sudden prickle down her spine, but then she looked around.

“Oh yeah? Join the club, kid.”

An orange-scaled Drake was leaning on Dawil’s head as he held Lehra’s shoulder. Saliss of Lights nodded at Shriekblade as Suxhel screamed, jumped, and Emper had to stop her from wiping out.

Even she hadn’t seen Shriekblade. Lehra stared at her senior adventurers and gulped.

“But I—”

“Hey, kid. Kid. Kid. We’ve met, right?”

Saliss poked her on the shoulder repeatedly. He nodded at Stargazer’s Promise as they stared at the two Named-ranks in awe. Lehra thought they had, but only briefly at an Adventurer’s Guild or fancy event. Saliss gave her a friendly smile.

“Here’s some free advice: act like a Bronze-rank in this inn. Or the [Innkeeper] will serve you her specialty. Humble pie. Wait, why did I tell you that? Go ahead and bother her.”

He shooed Lehra with his claws. Shriekblade hadn’t let go, but Saliss winked at Lehra.

“I could use a good laugh. Hello, who are these delightful [Merchants]?”

“Saliss of Lights, you rogue.”

Qwera shook his hand with a sigh, but she actually smiled. As for Ysara, she nodded at the Drake, and he looked her up and down as Ylawes stared in horror at the naked Drake. The Goblins were just laughing—those that weren’t eying Saliss and Shriekblade with alarm.

Hey, Saliss is here! Get the nuts-box!

Erin shouted. The inn exploded into laughter, and Mrsha beamed. She ran forwards and tried to pose in front of these famous people as Drassi practically dashed back into the common room. The scrying orb illuminated these people—and Saliss, who had just dumped a potion of [Invisibility] over Mrsha’s head.

But that was alright. The [Alchemist] was laughing as the world’s first censor bar appeared. And Mrsha the Invisible embarked on her greatest reign of terror yet. Especially because Saliss handed her the half-empty vial.

 

——

 

“What an inn.

This night, the attraction was the guests. Lehra sat, slightly more humble, but still as loud as could be, scarfing down food. The Golden Gnoll was eating with three top [Merchants], while the Players of Celum performed on the inn’s stage.

Just like the old times. However, the new times included more good things, at least, to the inn’s family.

Like Rags, sitting with Erin and looking urbanely amused as she dined with the funniest group in the world.

Namely, a stiff, nay, wooden Ylawes, Erin, Dawil, Numbtongue, Ysara, Yvlon, and Pelt. The Dwarf [Smith] had come out of his forge to see why Hedault was missing meetings, and nary a stranger group existed.

Especially because Dawil and Pelt had a weird relationship, and the three Y-named Byres siblings were a mix of uncomfortable with each other—and very familiar with their own friends.

Plus Goblins. Pelt glared at Rags suspiciously as she ate spaghetti off a fork.

“How’s it, Rags? Just like you remember?”

“Eh. I’ve had better cooking since then. I’m not the Goblin I used to be. Sad.”

Numbtongue looked horrified and outraged. Erin’s mouth fell open. Pelt? He roared with laughter, and a little Goblin compounded Erin’s pain.

“Yeah. Bad food. Stick it to the man! Woman.”

“Gothica! Shoo! Shoo! Wait a sec—Kevin! Are you teaching Gothica?

“…No.”

Kevin ducked at another table, hunching his shoulders as Poisonbite and a bunch of Goblins fed a little bee preening and fanning her wing with awe. The herald of a new age buzzed happily.

“So, um, Ysara. I see you’ve kept up with your sword training. Perhaps we should spar later.”

Ylawes poked at his plate as if trying to poke a hole through the awkwardness. Ysara tried to wave it off.

“These days, you and Yvlon are the real adventurers. Let’s talk about that, not the old days. I heard you were at Wistram. How was that, Ylawes?”

The [Knight] froze, and his eyes slid sideways to Falene, who was eating with Suxhel, but Dawil bailed him out.

“Wistram? We met with Eldavin, and the first thing he did was chuck Ylawes out a window. We were trying to make a deal to help out Erin, but the Silver Swords aren’t worth much in the heart of magic.”

“He what?

Yvlon looked astonished, and Pelt snorted.

“Sounds like every [Archmage] I’ve met. He didn’t turn the idiot into a frog…and you broke the axe. I’ll kill you!

He half-overturned the table, and everyone had to pull him back. Dawil fended off Pelt—every few minutes, the [Smith] would turn homicidal. But food and drink calmed him down. Yvlon had to wrestle Pelt back down, and Ylawes tried again.

“I only regret we didn’t enchant our blades or gain something other than a few levels from the journey. Which is, in itself, good, but I felt rather foolish at the expedition. Yvlon has leveled up. Ysara, did anything interesting happen at the Meeting of Tribes?”

“Oh, only a war.”

Ysara coughed into one hand. Her younger brother wavered.

“Ah, yes.”

She took pity on Ylawes.

“I could have used your sword there. I never felt as useless as I did with a single blade in front of an army of Drakes.”

She tapped the sword at her side, and Pelt snorted as he gulped down a huge mug of dark ale from Noelictus. The good stuff.

“Well, fancy skill at arms won’t do you much good with a piece of pig iron like that. Even if you are a [Merchant], you should be ashamed of yourself. The only person sitting here with good metal is Dawil, and he snapped his—and Yvlon’s arms.”

He pointed accusingly at the two. Ylawes and Ysara looked outraged. The [Knight] bared part of his silver-metal blade.

“Master Pelt! My sword was made by a Level 30 [Blacksmith]!”

“And mine’s an heirloom from House Byres’ armory!”

Ysara added. Pelt looked at both their swords.

“Amazing. And here I couldn’t tell. Heirlooms? A Level 30 [Smith]? You could throw them in a bucket of inferior swords in Deríthal-Vel and I’d never notice.”

Both Humans bristled, and Rags began cackling. Gothica poked her head up and took a huge bite out of some macaroni and cheese for the table.

“Your blades are so dull I wipe my butt with them.”

Hah! I like this Goblin. Pull up a seat.”

“Master Pelt!

Erin looked amused and horrified—and that was before Rags joined in.

“Be nice to the Humans, Smith Pelt. It’s not their fault they think anything shiny is sharp.”

The relentless savagery of the two Goblins and Pelt was making up for the Byres’ awkwardness. Dawil was pounding the table and laughing until Pelt glanced at Rags. He clearly knew her from Orefell; even he paid attention.

Hedault, who was sitting at the table where he was suffering the presence of Suxhel and Falene’s most elevated company, glanced up sharply as Pelt suddenly stood.

“Wait a second. I never noticed—show me what’s at your side. Who made that sword?”

“What sword? I dunno what you’re talking about, Pelt. Hey, Ylawes, what about them goats, huh?”

Erin began sweating as Rags put a hand on her new sword hilt. Hedault got up, and everyone was staring at Rags—right until they turned to Erin and gave her a look.

However, that just prompted another Goblin to hurry over. Redscar had three swords—although he wasn’t about to put the third in his mouth. Even his teeth weren’t that strong.

Pelt recoiled as the Goblin dumped three swords on the table.

“What’s this?”

“My swords. These two.”

The Hob pointed at Garen Redfang’s famous blade and the frost one that he used in his off-hand. Then he pointed at the third sword for some reason. Hedault had gotten up, and Pelt snorted.

“You want me to do what, Goblin? Reforge…well, this one has a nice enchantment. This one is nice trash.”

He dismissed Redscar’s two personal blades, and the Goblin didn’t seem that hurt. He nodded and pointed to the third blade.

“What about this?”

The [Smith] frowned. He pulled the blade out of the sheath, then eyed the sharp blade with the faintly maroon tinge of magic that glowed if he held it up to the light.

“Eh…steel’s not that pure. Enchantment, Hedault? Looks average. Hm.”

He broke off for a second and gave the sword a longer look. Pelt, who could stare at a blade mostly in the sheath and tell you how worthless it was, frowned. Hedault was on his feet too and frowning.

“The enchantment is [Bloodletter] and [Sharpness]. Competently enough done. I would call it a Level 25 [Enchanter]’s work. Average to a Silver-rank adventurer or a low Gold-rank one.”

“Right. Right. Anything…good about it?”

Redscar’s eyes gleamed. Pelt glanced up suspiciously, and suddenly, Rags looked fascinated. Ylawes sat up despite himself, and Ysara’s ears perked up. Everyone turned to Pelt, and Numbtongue thought he realized why that third blade was special.

“It’s odd as shit.”

Pelt held up the blade, grumbling. He swung it, and half the table leaned back, then frowned.

“Not perfectly balanced, but good enough. Steel’s not perfect. But it’s—”

He suddenly dropped it and wiped a hand on his shirt. Hedault was nodding. The two artisans looked at each other and then turned to Redscar.

“…Who made that blade?”

Pelt eyed it, and Redscar smiled.

“Was wondering. Why? Anything special?”

Rags glanced at Erin, and the [Innkeeper]’s own eyes widened. Did that mean…? Pelt slowly took a huge bite of breaded mac and cheese. He chomped down a rash of bacon, reached for a handful of buttered greens, and Ysara handed him a fork. He gave her a long look, but snatched it.

“…No one forged that sword with a hammer. I can’t sense any metalwork on the blade. It’s uncanny. It’s as if something just—produced the steel, ready-made, with flaws in it. Hedault?”

“I sensed no magical…identity behind the magic either. Every [Mage] has a signature to their mana. This one has none. It is not perfect. But it is just magic, spun, without a hand to guide it.”

Both looked at Redscar, and the Goblin exhaled.

“Yeah. Guess where I got it?”

“Where?”

Redscar pointed up.

“Out of the sky. Reward from a <Quest>.”

Every head turned to Erin. Pelt slowly muttered an oath under his breath, and Hedault’s brows shot up. Ysara stared at the free magic sword in sudden fascination. Erin raised her hands. She looked from face to face and smiled nervously.

“S-so, how about Rags’ sword, huh? Fascinating.

 

——

 

“What an inn.”

The same person repeated himself as the table broke into further arguments. That person wore dark clothing, but not midnight black. More the worn, thick, casual clothing of a man who was used to being outdoors all day at work.

That man was old Bamer, who had ears good enough to pick up on fascinating conversations around the inn. Some were cloaked, but he was…

Well. He was like a hungry man at a feast. And despite the bloody steak he was eating, his hunger was something different entirely.

After all, he could smell so many things. Mind you, he was keeping as far away from House Byres as possible, damn them.

But even he and his companions hadn’t resisted the allure of the inn. They were actually sitting in the ‘quiet’ part of the inn, where a [Silence] spell kept table-conversations only audible to each other.

That was to let the Players of Celum perform on stage. A curtain kept the light of the eating and dining portion from reaching the people who sat in darkness.

On stage, Juliet and Romeo enacted the timeless tragedy. The crowd was fairly enraptured; the [Actors] had Skills and levels such that you felt like you could feel the longing for each other, and when they fought in duels, it looked real and bloody.

Of course, that only made the Vampires hungrier. Himilt, for his part, did not listen. He was watching the play with one eye. Colfa? She was rapt, fascinated with the play itself. Why Colfa val Lischelle-Drakle, who dressed in high red velvet and black and white like some ancient queen of Terandria or Calanfer’s knights, liked the stage with all its light and glamor—one couldn’t possibly guess.

Himilt’s clothing was as subdued as Bamer’s, but he was watching the busy inn with different eyes. He was counting.

Lehra Ruinstrider was subdued at her table, longingly glancing at Erin, but she was speaking politely to Jelaqua and the Horns. She was one—and the Vampires kept shivering whenever the Named-rank Adventurer crawled overhead on patrol.

That made two. Two, to make Himilt’s own cold blood run. But the third, Saliss of Lights, had left after a while.

A female Drake with rose and cobalt scales had replaced him shortly thereafter. She was sitting with Qwera, a male Drake, Councilmember Elirr, and the Lamia, Hexel. In fact, Ysara excused herself from her table to join them presently.

Who or what she was, Himilt didn’t know. Nor did he know why she was special, only that he knew.

The blood called. Yet he was a master of himself. Not all of his family were.

Fierre was not here. She had promised to join in and visit, but she had work. Himilt was sympathetic to it; Colfa was more concerned about her daughter’s wellbeing, especially after her changes.

He had his own worries. Keeping an eye on the Byres family was one of them.

“We cannot escape them. If they perform their trick in Liscor…”

“The Watch Captain stopped them. There is a river and groundwater aplenty. Hold your peace, Bamer.”

The older Vampire was fidgety. But the most restless person was…Rivel.

Fierre’s older brother and the youngest member of the family who still worked the new farm they were setting up. Ever since he had learned the truth of their treachery, he had been unhappy. Unhappy—and he had spoken like many Vampires who’d learned what Ryoka had uncovered.

Silver in the water. Himilt had done what he could, but he could not rule his kin. He worried—but here, at least, Rivel seemed more pleased.

“I think I’ll join the others. They have a dice room. Cards. Even the Goblins are playing. And weights.”

“Don’t show off.”

Himilt cautioned him, and Rivel scowled. But he sometimes did when wrestling with the Humans in Reizmelt. Everyone made mistakes. He was just about to head off when the group of four froze at their table again.

They were not the only vampires who’d come to set up the new farm in Liscor. But they were a family, so they were dining together. Now, they froze—and even Colfa looked away from the stage.

Himilt saw Rivel tense, but he glanced at his son, and Rivel put his hands in his pockets. Bamer studiously stared at his plate, and all four heard…

Giggling. Even a normal person could have heard that. Himilt reached for a piece of melted brie that he’d actually sold to the markets and that had landed up in this inn. Perhaps I could sell it to this place directly?

But he hadn’t introduced himself to Erin Solstice. He was wary of her. Her blood whispered to him.

No…he watched as a mysterious ‘something’ lifted the piece of cheese up. Then someone else snatched a bit of herring off Colfa’s plate.

“My word, what is this?”

Colfa sounded fairly astonished, although she might have hammed it up. The giggling grew louder before a shh made the voices grow silent. Himilt made a show of half-rising, looking concerned.

“Is someone there?”

He tried not to stare at the outlines of the three giggling children, Mrsha, Ekirra, and Visma, as they stole bits of food off the tables. The other Vampires looked everywhere but Visma, who was waving the cheese around in what she thought was a spooky manner.

“Ooh. Ooooooh.

Himilt was hoping they’d leave so he could stop pretending when a voice shouted.

Got you, you little rats!

Everyone in the actor’s section of the inn’s [Grand Theatre] jumped as a loud voice cut through the [Silence] spell.

Wailant Strongheart was a loud man, and he snatched Ekirra up by the scruff of the neck. Visma squeaked and turned to run, but he had her up under one arm. Mrsha bolted for it.

Come back, you salt-[Thief]! I’ll teach you to nab my damn omelet!

“Sir! Sir, there’s a play going on!”

Temile practically sprinted towards them. Wailant glanced up at the stage. Juliet, the Gnoll playing her, raised a paw as she looked around the balcony.

“Hush, Romeo! Do you hear that? Lower your voice, lest we be overheard!”

Wonderful improvisation. The Vampires nearly applauded that themselves as Wailant drew behind the curtain, embarrassed. Himilt rose and nodded to the others as he followed.

He was worried the unfamiliar man would take out his embarrassment and apparent wrath on the children. If he did, Himilt was sure that Erin Solstice wouldn’t stand for it.

But just in case. He saw the [Pirate] scolding the two as Viceria waved a wand, and they reappeared.

“It’s one thing to play pranks—another to ruin someone’s meal! Let alone run your grubby paws over everything! Where’s that Mrsha gone? Show yourself or it’ll be worse for you when it’s time to settle debts.”

He threatened the air as Visma gulped and stared up at the angry [Pirate]. Himilt watched, ready to grab Wailant’s raising fist, and Visma burst into tears. Himilt stepped forwards—and Wailant lowered his fist.

“Ah—I didn’t mean to shout. Don’t cry, little girl. There you go, there you go. I just meant it’s not something to be done. Especially around people with bad tempers!”

“Like you, Wailant? You’ve terrified the children! Come here, little one. Where’s your family?”

Viceria reassured Visma. Himilt exhaled as Visma clung to her, and Wailant looked embarrassed again. He snatched at the air, and a wiggling Mrsha appeared. Dame Ushar came over, and Mrsha glared defiantly at her.

Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do, huh? Go get Erin or Lyonette!

The Thronebearers had never actually done any disciplining of Mrsha, and so Mrsha the Radically Defiant had little fear of Dame Ushar.

…That was, until the Thronebearer took hold of her.

“I deeply apologize, Farmer Wailant. I will make amends with the staff. Excuse me one moment, though?”

She pulled at Mrsha, and the Gnoll’s ears flattened. Uh oh. Which would be worse? Erin or Lyonette?

She was wondering which one Dame Ushar was taking her to—until she realized Ushar was taking her into the kitchen. There, the Thronebearer calmly presented Mrsha to the person whose meals she was ruining.

Imani and Calescent. Mrsha gulped as Dame Ushar calmly announced that a number of guests’ meals had been ruined.

Nanette poked her head out from behind Calescent as Mrsha the Suddenly Accountable looked at Dame Ushar as the Thronebearer bowed to her. And the rest of her night?

Dishes. And cutting onions.

 

——

 

Ekirra and Visma got off easier, and their parents and siblings recovered them. Himilt was satisfied with that and sneaking away when the [Pirate]-[Farmer] caught him.

“Hold on. I saw you giving me the evil eye, fellow. Thought I’d be lashing those children?”

“…I was mistaken, sir. I hope you won’t take my actions amiss.”

“Not at all. Not at all. If I was in your shoes, I’d be ready to jump a man who did that, sea or land. I like you. And I’ve actually been wanting to talk to you, so this is a happy coincidence. Wailant Strongheart. Strongheart Farms—in Celum. You’re the Lischelle-Drakles. Practically royalty.”

The [Pirate] stuck out a hand challengingly, and now Himilt remembered the rumors of one of the most insane [Farmers] in the region who produced Sage’s Grass. He shook the hand.

“Himilt Drakle. A pleasure.”

“It is! Although all the competition’s starting to make me nervous. Like a man pissing next to a half-Giant. Have you heard about Riverfarm? My own daughter just brought me back a sample of their produce as a ‘gift’. D’you have a moment? Viceria, Viceria—here’s the Drakle family!”

“And you’ve made the worst impression so far, Wailant. Hello, sir. At least invite the family over!”

To Himilt’s surprise, the two [Farmers] were exceptionally cordial, if unique. In short order, he found himself discussing his new venture with Wailant.

“Seems like a huge risk, moving from Reizmelt all the way here. Don’t tell me the Drakes offering you a pittance to do it was why.”

“Not at all. Actually, our old farmlands were dead. Not even Skills could help—if we had them.”

“Damn, really? But you’re herders, right?”

“That is our speciality, but Liscor is so fertile, we’re hoping to expand the farms.”

Wailant poured Himilt a glass of wine.

“With what, magical crops or mundane? I can’t imagine you want to try mass-farming on the lumpy hills.”

Himilt smiled.

“We will have to shift a lot of soil, but we are willing to put in the work. Even if we need to hire earth mages or the…Antinium. As for crops, we would, of course, try magical. Ashwheat. Something rare and profitable. We do feed our animals on such crops. But we’ve sold much of our herds and will acquire local stock.”

Wailant’s brows rose.

“Well. And I thought the only brave men were at sea. You’re starting completely over, aren’t you?”

The Vampire ducked his head.

“We must. So far, it has been a promising start.”

Promising, but lonely, despite them being closer to a city. And Himilt had realized that was because his family had to be, by their nature and necessity, private. Yet Wailant just indicated the door that led out the inn.

“Well, it wouldn’t be right for me not to offer a Lischelle-Drakle the hospitality of my house. Would you care for a luncheon or dinner sometime this week? You could take a look around, and if you need to know the best vendors, I can set you up. Although frankly, this inn is lucrative in itself.”

“Thank you.”

Himilt felt oddly touched by the gesture, and he ended up taking off his gloves to shake Wailant’s hand. The [Farmers] smiled, and Wailant winked.

“Just so you know—I’m hoping this might be a profitable relationship. The best kind. I might be ‘retired’, but it seems to me there is a world of possibility in Liscor, and I’m glad I’m not the only one who saw it.”

Himilt hadn’t actually considered that, only a place to be free. But as he shook Wailant’s hands and looked around for Colfa, he realized—

This might be a new chance in more ways than one. The Lischelle-Drakle family had always been careful not to be outstandingly rich or successful because that was dangerous. But Liscor?

New ventures could be a wild success. If you were willing to put in the work and you actually found success, of course. But a Vampire?

Himilt feared no work any more than he feared monsters. What he feared…he glanced at Ylawes.

What he feared was silver. And the people who carried it.

 

——

 

Serafierre val Lischelle-Drakle knew that this was the hour she had been waiting for. A party. Entertainment. Already, huge names were coming into The Wandering Inn.

And here she was, stuck, while the inn was probably winding down for the day. She checked the clock gloomily.

Half past ten. Wonderful. And she was here.

Working.

It was inevitable. She was a secret broker. The inn was having a moment. This was the prime time to move information and secrets about Erin, the adventurers, and so on.

Very profitable, of course. Why, she’d just sold a weird [Thief] with a crystal hand all the information she had on the Thief of Clouds. And that [Thief] was a goldmine of information in and of themself.

Fierre suspected she was part of something bigger, like the thefts in Calanfer. But there were ranks to any group, and if the brokers who could tell you what was up were Named-rank, Fierre was, um…

Silver-rank. High-Silver or low Gold-rank, maybe, maybe, with all the gold she’d gotten from Ryoka, but Fierre felt like she was just Silver where she’d been Bronze in Reizmelt. She needed power, more contacts, more secrets.

So she had to sit here, put in the work, and be sad that she wasn’t getting to be in on the action. Fierre assured herself that there was a line, even at this late hour. How many brokers could boast of that?

How many brokers had more agents and didn’t have to have a line? She forced that idea out of her head as the Steel Golem, standing motionless on one side of the room, slowly scanned its head left and right, as if searching for threats. It did this every ten minutes, but it hadn’t moved from when Fierre had last told it to stand there.

A thin layer of dust already coated the reflective metal, but it just meant Fierre’s tiny office, hidden by the enchanted steel door, worked. Her single desk filled with notes and the cabinets behind her faced a wooden chair she’d upgraded to have a padded seat.

Quiet, professional—Fierre heard someone knocking and sighed.

No one even knows the knock anymore. That was fine. She’d paid off the Watch already.

“Enter.”

The door opened—and Fierre tried her best mysterious smile with just a hint of fangs as she sat up behind her desk. She’d bought some more form-fitting clothing, in a quasi-[Assassin] look.

She still had yet to really unveil her full potential, but she was now familiar enough in her new body to understand how dangerous an opponent was. Seeing a war had told her that high levels could still threaten her—and that she was a threat.

So it was with confidence, mystique, and perhaps veiled sexual innuendo that she gave her new visitor a sly look. Then a look of horror.

Mother!

Colfa Lischelle-Drakle looked around Fierre’s room.

“So this is where you work. It’s so…pedestrian, Fierre. Is that a Golem?

She did a double-take as Fierre saw Colfa hadn’t even closed the door! A polite [Rogue] pulled it shut, and Colfa waved.

“I won’t be long! Just visiting my daughter.”

Fierre stared in growing horror as a group of…highly awkward robed or hooded figures stood in line. Like someone having a bad dream, thoughts swam into her panicking mind.

Why is my mother here? How did she find me? How long has she been waiting in line, and crucially—what did she say to them?

These were dire questions, and Fierre feared the worst. But Colfa was peering around the room.

“Fierre! I know you took on the Opener job because you wanted to be your own woman, but have we taught you nothing? Your desk is so plain. You have no decorations aside from this Golem—how much did it cost? Is that why you sent back so much gold? Your father was beside himself, and we did expect your presence anon at dinner.”

She was a bit casual since they weren’t being proper Vampires, but it still worked itself in. Colfa could direct [Shepherds] and talk shop with a [Butcher], after all. Fierre spluttered.

“Mother! My work is secret—how did you even find me?”

“Oh, Garia Strongheart told me when I asked. A very proper young woman who pays respect from blood to blood. Her father is a [Farmer]. A quite fascinating one.”

Garia. Fierre hissed, but Colfa wasn’t done.

“And your clothes!”

Fierre tried to cover her clothes, which were like [Assassin]’s garb…yes…

Cosplay assassins. Colfa pointed at it.

“Completely unacceptable. No daughter of mine will look like some nightwalker. Night stalker, Fierre. Less bodice and webbing, more cloak.”

Mother!

Colfa wasn’t done. She pointed at the far wall.

“And your wall? It’s pale beige. Beige, Fierre? Are you some kind of [Scribe]? You could do black or red or even texture it like brickwork. No drapes? No…ambiance?

“Mother, it’s my office. I can decorate it how I want!”

Fierre’s aggrieved tone seemed to hurt her mother, and Colfa sighed.

“I’m sure you do very well. You had a lot of very keen customers. I shan’t take up your time! But at least let me…”

She found a handkerchief and began dusting the Golem. Fierre protested, but that was the thing about mothers. Fierre was going to dust the Golem! Just—at some point. Then her mother placed something on the table.

“Although we drink the ichor of others, I thought you might be hungry. Here.”

Fierre stared down at her favorite bloody shepherd’s pie as Colfa looked around. She smiled, and Fierre muttered.

“Thanks, Mother.”

“Make sure to visit tomorrow or we shall worry.”

She pinched Fierre’s cheek affectionately, then swept out of the office. And it was a real sweep. Fierre wished she could pretend to that level of casual arrogance that made one of the people in line step out of the way deferentially and another tip his hat to her.

Then again, that might come from being royalty among [Herders]. Fierre did tuck into her food because her mother was gone, and she resented that Colfa had somehow known Fierre hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

She had the terrible feeling that the next guests had received something like a baked snack from Colfa, because one of them was crunching on something, and another hid what looked suspiciously like a meat strudel behind their back when she walked in.

Fierre glumly provided intelligence to someone else who wanted intelligence on a ‘Jerom’—he looked familiar, or rather, his blood felt familiar, but she didn’t ask questions of Lyonette’s people. She took a report on a theft from a [Merchant] and sent a notification to the Merchant’s Guild—as if they didn’t know who had it already and weren’t negotiating.

And then the most interesting visitor of the day walked in, eyed the Golem, and took a seat. Fierre stopped and stared, a fork raised. Indeed, even the people waiting outside had gone quiet. They backed up because even if they were ‘permitted’, the sight of a dozen Goblins, most Hobs, appearing on the quiet street alarmed even Invrisil’s rogues.

Redscar, Badarrow, and Snapjaw had joined Poisonbite’s team to escort a single person into Fierre’s office. Rags nodded to Fierre.

“Evening.”

Technically, it was night, but the greeting completely caught the Vampire off-guard. She gulped.

“You’re Chieftain Rags, aren’t you?”

In her office? Of course, she’d intended to meet Rags, and she knew she was a friend of The Wandering Inn and Erin, but—the Goblin was eying Fierre’s cabinets with great interest. She sniffed at the remains of the pie, then spoke.

“I am. Do you know me?”

Fierre blinked and hesitated. The Goblin had to know who she was, so despite her panic, she found a piece of paper and read from it.

“Flooded Waters Tribe? High Passes, estimated at least six thousand Goblins, high-level Hobs, some possibly over Level 30. Ogres and Carn Wolf auxiliaries, and it’s estimated at a Level 40+ infiltration job? No huge…worthwhile goods aside from monster parts.”

Rags raised her brows. She looked impressed.

“40+ to steal from us?”

“No, 40+ for infiltration means to get in and out without someone getting killed. You can force it below the issue, but it’s our benchmark.”

“Ah. Hm. Not bad.”

Rags looked vaguely pleased at the appraisal. Fierre fumbled with the paper. This was incredible. A Goblin in Invrisil?

Wasn’t that insane? But no—she knew there were Goblins in the underworld, and let’s assume you were the Watch. If you saw some people with hoods on down the street, you might be curious, but you wouldn’t assume they were Goblins.

Yet only this Goblin would be so bold! Fierre flashed back to the Kraken Eater Goblins who’d gotten loose, and she wondered if she were in danger.

Heh. I’m not the one in danger, she is! Fierre was confident—right until she looked up and saw Rags watching her. The Goblin made her nervous, despite being short and Fierre having a Golem nearby.

“You’re Fierre. Erin told me about you.”

“She did? Oh, so that’s how you found me?”

Rags shook her head.

“No. I knew about you. [Rogues] know you as one of Invrisil’s Openers. When I asked, Normen told me you were good. Reliable.”

Now that made Fierre blush slightly. If a Brother said it, that was a recommendation worth a lot! She wondered if he’d let her quote him.

“Well—I do my best. And I am an Opener. Ahem. Excuse me, I’ve never had a Goblin as a client. Can I…help you?”

Rags narrowed her eyes slightly.

“I think so. So I know—I pay you for whatever information I need.”

“Information, connections, secrets, weak spots—even blueprints, plans. I can get you anything, but remember—you never saw me. That’s the rules around here. Not that anyone writes them down, but it’s about trust. Gold up front—and if I cross you, my reputation and life is on the line.”

It felt weird saying all that out loud, but Fierre felt like it was necessary. Rags thought about this.

“Hm. Anyone ever try to kill you?”

“Mostly only idiots who make mistakes and want to blame me for it. I’ve handled a few—but one time I sold information that got me hexed.”

Fierre still sometimes felt a prick and wondered if she had a needle still buried in her body. She shuddered, and Rags nodded.

“So you choose your danger. I understand. Well. I am Rags. You know me. Will you take me as a client?”

The question surprised the Vampire girl, but she nodded slowly.

“Can you pay? I could accept more than gold.”

“I have gold. I have a lot I want to know, but how did you know that about Goblinhome? The [Rogues], I assume?”

Fierre waved that off.

“Don’t take it personally. Information is gold, so if a dealer came to you to make contact, they’d sell it. Not to adventurers—not unless they really thought there was nothing to gain. Er…”

Then she realized she’d just given away valuable intelligence. Rags didn’t smile, but Fierre caught herself. Clever Goblin.

She sat up a bit and stabbed her leg with a toe to wake up. Rags nodded, glancing at the Golem.

“Good. Then you know quite a lot.”

Fierre had bought a bunch of connections with gold, which was an expensive way to put yourself ahead. She nodded.

“I’m well connected. How can I help you? Consider everything I’ve said a free sample of my intelligence networks. Mind you, I won’t help if you try and attack Tenbault. That’d land me in hot water; even Faces—high-level criminals—need the Healer. Some don’t like you on the basis of that alone; some think your tribe is very valuable. Have you gotten any offers for employment as [Mercenaries]? Oh, and what did you get from the Healer? Any…spells?”

She was itching to know any of this, but Rags just studied her fingernails. To Fierre’s mortification, the Goblins were calmer than she was! Maybe her mother had a point about the atmosphere.

“I can tell you—if you help me first. If you know [Rogues] are visiting Goblinhome—we’ve been trading for their artifacts. I know their names. But they’re probably fake. Do you know a Whet? [Rogue], five feet ten inches tall, black hair, has a slightly limp back foot. Two curved blades on his hips, a stiletto on wrist? Carries a spell to make him jump in a scroll on his belt.”

Fierre’s fingers twitched. Her mind lit up as she sorted through identities.

“…I can do a lookup. Sounds familiar, but that’s not actually distinguishing for a [Rogue]. Still, there are only a few who’d make contact with your tribe.”

Rags thought.

“…The catalog on offer had a ‘scrying spell deflection’ spell by Mage Aumeth for sale. They also offered strange blades. Shurikens. Very…twisty blades with multiple edges.”

“Aha. Aha. That sounds like you made contact with the Wharf group.”

Fierre knew who sold Drathian-related items. Only a few had harbor access, and she named the likeliest mob who dealt in goods, not services like the Brothers. Rags smiled.

“That’s what they called themselves.”

Fierre and Rags sat back for a moment in mutual appreciation. So, that had been a test. Fierre was glad she had said it.

“So, are you not happy with their goods?”

“Mm. No. They’re decent. They work. But only the [Rogue] came to deliver goods, and he asked for Wyvern hides and other parts in payment. Gold, gemstones…his prices seemed high. Even for me.”

Now, Fierre understood. She smiled tightly. Oldest con in the books was selling to someone who had no other options.

“Oh, I see. So you’d like me to take a catalog or look into whether they’re ripping you off? Cheating you? Do you have a catalog?”

For answer, Rags slid a pamphlet of paper over the table, and Fierre chuckled. But Rags just smiled blandly.

“No. I want to know by how much they’re cheating me. This is useful, right?”

“Oh, very. My goodness, is this their complete catalog of saleable items? And they just let you have it?”

Rags shrugged. She probably understood what she’d just given Fierre, but the Vampire had to explain.

“This…this is all their latest prices on all the goods they sell. They must have thought you could afford a lot, but their representatives don’t leave this lying around. Tell you what. Can I make a copy of this? I will give you a lot of credit. It’s worth money to all their competitors and enemies.”

“Sure. I like credit. It’s worthless unless we work together. But I think we can work together.”

Rags folded her hands over her stomach as Fierre quickly produced a magnifying glass. She ran it over the catalog, page by page, then ran it over a blank piece of paper. The ‘copied’ text was often blurred and badly transferred, so Fierre had to jot down quick notes and prices, but it even captured the layout.

As she worked, she looked at Rags.

“I can have a list of market prices and competitors you could find in a day’s time. I’ll even help you make contact if you can get word to me. There are speaking stones and [Message] spells that can’t be easily tracked.”

“I know. But I don’t want other competitors. It’s too much work. If they cheat us, we’re Goblins. We go into a city? We die. Better to deal with this Wharf if they’re reliable.”

That was true. Fierre shrugged; she had never considered how ‘monsters’ would have to deal with even the underworld on unfavorable terms.

“So, what? Information?”

“Mm. Information. But…I heard that Openers could open letters too. Get you things. Get rid of things.”

The Vampire glanced up, and her hand paused with the magnifying glass in hand.

“Normally I approach a fence, but I have moved items that come in Runner’s letters now and then. Why?”

Rags scratched at her chin.

“Well. I don’t need many criminal artifacts. Some—but my smiths don’t have lots of iron in the mountains. We have to dig for veins. Wood is expensive. Everything is hard to transfer. But the inn has a door, and Palt the Centaur is a…shady [Illusionist].”

“Ullsinoi. He’s a contact for spells and recreational drugs. Nothing dangerous. Yeah, why?”

An idea was percolating in Fierre’s mind, and it was the same one that Rags was surely here about. The Vampire slowly closed the catalog and slid it back over the table. Rags fixed Fierre with a smile.

“How hard is it for an Opener who knows everything to get me…two thousand steel nails? Fifteen pounds of butter? Books? Chickens? We have to find a way to take it home, but if you get me what I want, I will pay you to get it.”

Fierre blinked. She had expected it, but when Rags said it, Fierre realized—she wanted a broker. Someone to carry out her goals in Invrisil. Instantly, Fierre went to danger and benefits.

The danger was…being associated with Rags. Perhaps it’d be suspicious if she bought all that, but it wasn’t hard to hire someone to buy nails. And Rags was hardly a wanted monster like the Goblin Lord. The Wharf might be unhappy, but business was business.

And the plus side really outweighed that. Rags might be a Goblin in a tribe, and maybe she was ‘poor’, but if the Wharf wanted her business—

Imagine a town’s worth of goods. Even a fairly self-sufficient one imported sugar and goods and whatnot. Six thousand of them? Even if it were only six thousand…

Imagine the tariffs on all the goods they bought. And Goblins paid no tariffs, and neither did the underworld. So imagine you, Fierre, were pulling all the coin off a margin on whatever you bought.

The Vampire almost drooled at the thought. Rags gave Fierre a smile, and the Opener pulled herself together. Focus.

“Why me? Because I’m a friend of the inn?”

“Yep. You’re probably trustworthy. More than a random [Rogue]. So, how about it? I give you coin, you give me things I need. Say—the nails, tomorrow? Small list?”

“Let me—let me just call a few people. By all means, did you say two thousand steel nails? Any size? Fifteen pounds of butter—why chickens?”

Rags scowled as she sighed.

“My cooks want it. Chickens? My Goblins want feather pillows, and they want to raise chickens for food.”

“I could get you pre-made pillows. Soft ones. Silk or filled with Sariant wool, even. Pricey, but there’s very reasonable goose feather ones.”

Rags perked up as Fierre slyly began to scribble numbers down. She smiled and reached across the table. Fierre eyed the claw, then took it. Both gave each other a toothy grin.

“I think we could do business.”

The Goblin smirked, and the Vampire’s eyes twinkled with avarice.

“I quite agree. Speaking of—is there anything else I should know about coming up tomorrow? Anything with your tribe or the inn, or are you really just here to visit?”

Rags gave Fierre a polite smile.

“I had my talk. Now? I get to watch the fun.

 

——

 

The inn was the place to be for meetings. For opportunity. If Rags were one example, well, seeing the meetings of adventurers, knowing this was the place of <Quests>, it all but confirmed it for others.

Like the new lamb named Nerry. She had been very sedate as she trotted from table to table, charming guests. A Sariant Lamb, like a housecat, was an actual draw for an establishment. Nerry curled up next to a snoozing Ksmvr, who had won the right to host her in the now-full guest rooms.

Adventurers and Qwera filled the other rooms, and the inn was quite spacious and nice, even for a Sariant Lamb. Why, you could even hear some of the occupants up late at night. Having intimate encounters.

Or, like Ysara and Ylawes, having the world’s quietest screaming match. The little lamb might not have been able to open doors, but she could hop up and down stairs quietly and listen under doorways.

However—she hadn’t found a way into the secret rooms in the inn or the garden. She’d tried, and a force had held her back from the entrance. Later. She slept, knowing her time would come.

Like that, the first night of The Wandering Inn ended. A night of reunions, of laughter, of bittersweet talk and meetings. When people woke, it was time for actual activities, festivities, the bazaar—and for the real celebrations to begin amping up.

However, even the best couldn’t predict what would come the next day.

 

——

 

The day started for Rags with waking up in an unfamiliar bed. She got up, grumbled, and felt at her sheets. She was serious when she told Erin that she valued sheets more than people in her bed. She liked a good damn bed, alright? The inn had quite lovely beds, but she’d already put in an order for some more good silk sheets and pillows for herself. Even magical sheets. Imagine how much you could get.

Fierre had told her you could buy an actual waterbed where you pulled a sheet of water over yourself as you slept. It didn’t sound the most comfortable, but it did sound fun.

…Unfortunately, Rags’ bed was occupied, a phenomenon she had grown used to. She kicked one body who grunted and another who kicked back.

Poisonbite, Redscar, and Taganchiel glared at Rags, but she mercilessly jabbed them awake. They had not been having fun. In fact, Rags’ rule was that if you found someone nice, you would not sully her room with it.

The reason they were sleeping four to a bed was that even with renovations, Erin’s inn could not physically house all the Goblins, adventurers, regular guests, and new staff. Even some of the guests like Qwera’s staff had to find other places or sleep multiple per bed.

Badarrow and Snapjaw got a smaller single room to themselves, but this room had two big beds—and the other one had six more Goblins sprawled out in various poses. All things considered, the Goblins had really enjoyed the accommodations.

Redscar stared out a glass window as the sun rose over the High Passes. He hmmed as Poisonbite fought over her clothes with one of her warriors.

What a strange way to live. He missed not waking up with Thunderfur, but he supposed it had some appeal. Numbtongue certainly lived like this, but as the Redfangs knew, he was a nerd.

As for Rags, she was poking everyone out of bed with a simple promise.

“Breakfast. Breakfast. Up.”

The idea of breakfast stirred her lazy Goblins, and soon they were dressing, buckling on belts, and arguing over whether they should explore the old Flooded Waters tribe cave or stay around the inn all day.

It certainly seemed like a fun vacation. However, before they filed out, Rags had an idea. She raised a claw, and Poisonbite stopped teasing Badarrow and Snapjaw, who’d come in from their private rooms.

“Hold on. I got a new Skill yesterday. I’m going to try it out. Poisonbite—stand there.”

The Goblin instantly hid behind Badarrow. No one liked being the test subject of a new Skill, and every Goblin threw themselves out of the way of the finger.

“What’s the new Skill, Chieftain?”

Redscar didn’t move as Rags grinned. The Goblin pointed at him—then nodded at Poisonbite as she aimed her second finger at the cursing Goblin.

“[The Innkeeper’s Daily Bounty].”

Poisonbite shrieked, covered her head, and ducked as she tensed—and here Rags had to admit, in hindsight, that for all her study of the common language, she still had something to learn.

Because she had assumed, quite reasonably, that there was only one word for bounty. She, personally, had only ever heard it employed one way, but that was the thing about language. Poisonbite shrieked as something struck her. She looked up—and the first egg bounced off her head with a thunk and landed on the floor.

Thunk. Thunk. Crack.

Four eggs hit Poisonbite in the head as she looked up.

“What the—”

Redscar caught one of the eggs as it bounced off Poisonbite’s forehead and she swore. They hurt! That was because, to her great surprise, as Redscar checked the cracks, he saw no oozing yolk. They were, in fact, boiled eggs.

“Eggs? Chieftain, what’s your Skill?”

“I don’t know! It said bounty, bounty!

Eggs were raining down on poor Poisonbite, and the goblin shrieked back.

“What bounty? Egg bounty? What are you, an [Egg Bounty Hunter]?”

Someone coughed in the doorway, and all the Goblins turned. The surreptitious nerd himself, Numbtongue, was laughing at Poisonbite.

“Bounty. Bounty as in, generous. A bounty of food.”

The [Bard] grinned. Poisonbite raised an egg to throw at him, then glanced up. She swore.

“Chieft—argh.

A ham hit her in the face, and she went down. Rags stared. It was a lot of food pouring out of the air! Was…was that ham green?

It was. And then she saw why it was Erin’s bounty: because only she would make a loaf as black as night to join the eggs and ham. Poisonbite looked up and rolled out of the way as a spoon nearly took out an eye.

[The Innkeeper’s Bounty] turned out to be, well…breakfast. Or, Rags realized with the new definition in mind, whatever an [Innkeeper] might serve.

But, crucially here, an Erin-style breakfast or supplies. Which meant it was stupid.

Stupidly delicious. The Goblins were already stuffing themselves as they came downstairs, much to an [Innkeeper]’s indignation. She put her hands on her hips as her special continental breakfast lost some of its charm.

“Hey! Who gave you all that food?”

“…You did.”

Erin’s jaw fell open, but that was nothing to Palt. The Centaur was coming down the stairs as Rags explained the free food, and he slipped. The crash and scream of a Centaur falling down the stairs?

Indescribable. Imani raced out of the guest rooms she and Palt still used despite their new lodgings in Liscor, and found Erin pouring a bit of potion over Palt. Everyone else came down, but the Centaur barely felt the pain. He was pointing at Rags.

“I didn’t break my leg, did I? I didn’t—good. She’s got a cornucopia Skill! How does she have—that’s one of the rarest Skills along with healing!”

The Goblin stopped. Another word she didn’t know. She munched on a slice of the deliciously fresh ham as several of Erin’s guests made suitably awed noises. Mostly Ceria, Ksmvr, and Mrsha, who imagined what they’d do with all that free food.

Eat it. They’d eat it.

Rags, for her part, was quite pleased by another supplement to the food issue that often plagued Goblins. But she just had one question.

“…Why is the ham green?”

“Eggs is green too. Chieftain.”

Redscar spoke between a mouthful of egg as Numbtongue tried not to correct him and say, ‘eggs are’. Because he was a word-nerd.

It was funny, to Erin, to see a relationship that she hadn’t known existed of the Redfangs punching each other and teasing Numbtongue. But she was also perplexed by the eggs.

“They look…different. Is something in ‘em?”

She was worried, but Poisonbite chewed happily.

“Melty cheese. Hot eggs. Nice eggs. This one has bits of bacon inside.”

Bird gasped.

“Green eggs? Are they from…green birds?

Everyone looked at him. Bird waved his arms frantically.

“Super green birds! Even the whites of the eggs are greens! I must know which bird they came from!”

Rags pointed at the ham—it didn’t taste bad. Erin heard a snort. She turned, and Kevin had come up.

“I bet I know. It’s green eggs and ham, Erin. That is so like you.”

“Wh—no it’s not! Wait, that’s hilarious. I’d totally do that. But I haven’t!”

“Then maybe it’s something you would do? Or have you never made green ham before?”

Erin hesitated. Everyone stared at her, and she scuffed a toe on the floor.

“Maaaaaybe for Christmas. Y’know, Dr. Seuss? But I’m amazed the Skill grabbed that!”

“This. This is why you have a [Chef], Erin. Imani, my dear, do I look like I’ve recovered my dignity?”

“Recovered, yes. Dignity? You had little to begin with, my bygone stallion.”

Imani teased him, and Palt looked hurt.

“I give the flirtatious appellations, thank you. As for food—someone pass me the ham. Or anything to eat. It’s going to be a busy day.”

 

——

 

When you started with green eggs and ham, you couldn’t start any better. That was how Erin saw things, but what a morning.

The inn was opening to regular customers for breakfast, so Erin glumly munched on bisque as her friends ate, then she switched over to real food. But the chaos of yesterday was turning into real energy today.

“Free green eggs! Just peel ‘em and eat! Genius. They have food inside them! Why don’t we carry these, Suxhel?”

Lehra waved around the eggs, which were filled with treats, like a devilled egg yolk or cheese or bits of bacon. Suxhel answered out of the corner of her mouth.

“Because they’ve already been cooked. Take them with you on a trip and they’ll rot.”

“Oh. Well—hiyah!”

The Gnoll karate-chopped the egg in half, and Emper blocked a fragment of eggshell as it spun towards his face. Lehra’s team gave her such glowers that she hunched over and began to eat like an adult.

However, Erin grinned and forgave Lehra for yesterday. She was such a funny Named-rank adventurer! Unfortunately, Lehra was enough for everyone by herself—but this was The Wandering Inn.

The guests got stupid. Garia Strongheart was staying here, having never left the group, and when she tried to copy the chop, she struck her plate so hard she split it in half, flipped half her table up, and took Numbtongue out as the edge of his table rocketed up and slapped him on the chin. Mrsha stared as Garia bent over him, apologizing. Then she got up in her chair and performed a headbutt straight into her plate.

“Mrsha!”

Qwera looked amused, Lyonette horrified. Ylawes, who was silent this morning, stared at the worst manners he had ever seen—straight until Dawil joined the scolding.

“That’s not what you do at a table, Miss Mrsha. Watch.”

He took a boiled egg and cracked it over his forehead. Like a gentleman. Rags’ Skill was clearly meant for a tribe, so there was food to spare.

In fact, there was so much that Moore was eating his fill for once, but Seborn was adamant about not even touching the green stuff.

“I grew up on a ship. Sometimes, provisions rotted, and that was all we had. I’ve eaten actual green ham. No. And no.”

Nanette peeked at Seborn as she nibbled at a magical croissant roll. She was timid, but even Nerry the lamb seemed to like the day’s food. However—to Inkar’s mild chagrin, she was eating an entire rash of bacon.

“Don’t worry, Sariant Lambs eat anything people do.”

Tkrn assured her, and Inkar nodded uneasily.

“I know—deer eat baby birds. But she looks happy.

She was beginning to pick up on Nerry’s advanced intelligence, and that, more than anything, made the girl used to animals uneasy. However, her comment provoked a coughing fit at another table.

“Deer don’t eat birds. What are you talking about?”

Joseph grinned as Inkar gave him a strange look.

“Yes they do. Cows too. And horses.”

“Nah, that’s when they’re sick. They’re herbivores.”

“Who eat meat. When they need the nutrients.”

“…They don’t eat meat. Kevin, back me up.”

“Dude. I’m not an animal expert. Inkar is. Deer eat birds? That’s gross, man. Too bad you didn’t download Wikipedia onto your stuff. Inkar—how was the trip? I’ve got a bike for you if you want to try it.”

Inkar smiled at Kevin shyly; the Earthers had a camaraderie, even if they didn’t know each other.

“Thank you. Can Tkrn ride with me?”

“Hey, you got it. Anything for you two.”

Kevin nodded at Inkar and turned back to his tablemates, Joseph and Bird—the Antinium’s mouth was open.

“Bird? Hey buddy, what’s up?”

“I have competition? More competition? I thought horses were an ally!”

Bird began slapping the table as everyone laughed at him. But Inkar eyed Kevin and leaned over to whisper in his ear. Tkrn tried not to listen in or look jealous.

“Kevin. Kevin, that reminds me. You have a laptop and phones, right? And your bicycles—you should give them all to Krshia for a week.”

“Why?”

Inkar showed him her phone covertly as Rags, Pisces, and half a dozen people either looked up sharply and curiously or pretended like they had no idea what was going on.

“She can upgrade it.”

Kevin’s eyes bugged out as he saw her phone. He grabbed Joseph, and Joseph grabbed him back.

Kevin! Dude!

“Dude!”

Poisonbite mocked them from the table, and it had already been ironic.

“Dude.”

She sniggered, but Numbtongue was gazing up sharply with the scent of someone hearing that his favorite object besides his guitar could get…better. Rags glanced at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] smiled.

“That’s something I think we should show you, Rags. And I don’t even have to be there. I hear Lyonette’s got a chess tournament going on, and there’s the bazaar, Lyonette’s activities—but there’s always time for a phone, right?”

 

——

 

Phones. Phones were something, you had to admit. Even if you came from a world where you were used to them, the modern phone even of Erin’s 2016 was so advanced it could do things that would astound any Human who had come in centuries before.

And that was back then. Inkar’s upgraded phone was so powerful that, if it had internet, it would have been able to perform an endless number of functions with ease. Without?

It was…less useful. However, consider the uses.

It could perform any number of advanced mathematical calculations in the blink of an eye, take perfect recordings of sound and image, play music and even entertainment. Depending on the apps, it could translate words, play games, and all it took was a [Repair] spell to keep it going forever.

For someone who didn’t know what a phone was—it was addictive. So real that when the first enemy came screaming at Redscar, he nearly broke Kevin’s laptop with a punch.

So—imagine how addictive this technology was if you had context, even if you were an Earther. Now, imagine if you were a Goblin who got to play with one.

Then, imagine if you were a Drake with onyx black scales, who had found a phone, managed to unlock it, and had the most wondrous, mysterious device, all available at the tap of a claw.

Lady Salkis Blackwing was from one of Pallass’ largest noble families. The Wall Lord and Lady tradition was weak in the Walled City of Inventions, but she was still related to the late Thrissiam Blackwing and General Edellein.

Her own father, Lord Werdin, and her stepmother, the Garuda, Melika, were high nobility in Pallass. For context, Sir Relz, the monocled Drake now the beloved star of Pallass, had been a brownnoser compared to the cream of society that Salkis was in.

—It didn’t stop her from being practically confined to the Blackwing family estate, though. Salkis was in huge trouble. She had been ever since she had returned from the Meeting of Tribes.

Not that her father had seen her fighting, thankfully. Salkis had actually found herself in the mass battles, but there was so much confusion that unless you knew she was there, she could claim she had been on an adventure with the Titan of Baleros. She’d run away like the innocent Drake she was and fallen in with terrible adventurers!

She thought at least her father had bought it. He really couldn’t believe she had gone off to fight deliberately, and his wrath had abated over this month mostly because Salkis hadn’t gone out and caused trouble.

And that was because…

Salkis rolled over in her bed, clutching at the phone. If anyone knocked, she’d hide it under her covers, but right now, she was listening to a very, very quiet song.

Music! While she tapped happily and a fat bird ruined a few structures with its face. Salkis hadn’t even listened to every song—there were hundreds! But ever since the helpful [Lockpicker] had opened it—

Oh, she was so glad Ryoka Griffin hadn’t died. Because this phone was amazing. Salkis opened up the photos and stared at images of Ryoka’s most personal lifestyle. She paged through street graffiti that Ryoka had found interesting, an attempted selfie, her posing under a streetlamp—

The amount of blackmail she had was amazing. Not least the fact that this was an old phone that Ryoka had had for years. It had…personal voice recordings. Videos. And a lot of songs and music that Ryoka liked.

But the main thing in Salkis’ heart right now was a burning curiosity to know what the hell this was. She knew it was an iPhone, and she had deciphered some information from the product details, but none of it made sense.

Even if this were top-secret, Salkis heard Edellein talking with her father. She would have known if an artifact this powerful were in the possession of a Walled City or in the world. Since they hadn’t discussed it, she had to assume it was even more top-secret still, and why would Ryoka have it then?

Or…Salkis was wrestling with another idea. She was coming to the same conclusion as a certain Sinew Magus, but unlike Grimalkin, Salkis could well believe that there was some secret she didn’t know about.

After all. She was a Bloodfeast Raider.

Mind you, Salkis hadn’t done any raiding since she’d left with the Fellowship of the Inn. It had been a whim, the hunch that the Goblin, Numbtongue, could lead her to a great and bloody adventure.

Well, she’d gotten that, but not in the way she expected. Now she was in trouble, but Salkis didn’t care.

She was famous. Her father still let her go out once a week, and he was easing up; the moment Salkis had found some of her real friends, they had been all over her. They knew that she’d been in the Meeting of Tribes, and they told her that the others were furious.

The Raiders had a hierarchy, and Salkis wouldn’t have denied that made her nervous, but even the others in the city who shared her tastes looked at her like someone who’d gotten to rub shoulders with legends. The Titan? Fighting in a war?

She basked in their approbations. For a few hours. Then she went back, played on her phone, and claimed, accurately, that her father had kept her from going out.

But she was sure that she could have begged Werdin to let her visit her friends’ estates. He thought they painted each other’s nails or gossiped.

In reality, the truth was more complex. Salkis didn’t go out on the town or visit the raiders, and not just because the phone fascinated her. That was one thing. The other was…

Ancestors, my friends are so boring.

The Drake did not say that out loud. She just thought it and wondered why she suddenly found them boring. They were dangerous, able to kill, wild and crazy—

And she just thought it sounded weird. They had asked if she wanted to join another raid soon, and she had gone…eh, inside. Because what was the point?

Fighting, killing. That wasn’t a war. That wasn’t marching across half a continent with Goblins and Antinium, sneaking past armies, literally running with them! Salkis feared the Titan had given her too much of an adrenaline rush.

Or…the Drake tapped disconsolately at the iPhone, and Ryoka’s voice echoed out.

Diary, um, number fourteen. Fuck, I forget. I don’t know. I’m just—am I really going to go to college? Or am I—

There was something Salkis was missing, much like Ryoka’s chronicling of her own personal torment. And that something was…

Oh, maybe marching through the tall grass, picking ticks off your scales and pointing them out and watching the Antinium eat them. Or sitting around as the Fellowship talked with a Goblin playing guitar and teasing Gna.

For some reason, Salkis missed that. She missed that, and it irked her. Much like Ryoka’s recordings.

—it’s what my dad wants. Which makes me tempted to burn down the college. Just burn down his company—and wouldn’t that be a great change for the world if I got him and all his friends in the same building? They’re not all evil, but they’re all rich millionaires or, hell, billionaires. Anyone in political office is. Can you burn down all of Wall Street? I’m probably on a watch list already, but I just want to take it all out rather than waste my life.

“You and me both, Ryoka. You and me both.”

Salkis rolled over a third time and fell out of bed. Instantly, she rolled upright.

She was bored. She wanted out, but not…not the raiders. If she missed one group, one person, it was…

Well, probably Numbtongue. The Drake thought about the [Bard] and smiled as she checked the news. If there was anything my father would forbid me from doing, it’s going right back there again.

Which made her really want to do it. So she thought about what excuse would get her out of the house that morning as she tucked the iPhone away. And if she found an answer to the phone while she was at it? Numbtongue did know Ryoka Griffin.

Plus, when you got down to it, the Goblin was hot.

 

——

 

He couldn’t keep getting away with it. That [Bard].

How dare he? Troy watched with dark scowls for the Goblin. How dare he charm and philander his way with so many? Nevermind that he was open about it. First Octavia, then Garia? Then…did he have no shame?

Troy scowled along with Menolit, Relc, Ksmvr—who had no idea why everyone was glaring but wanted to be part of things—Ylawes for the impropriety—and Mrsha as Lyonette demoed her new activities for the day in the inn.

Garia, Octavia—how did he do it? Then he got Visma, and Mrsha’s scowl became a glare of rage. Just because he was probably good looking, played a guitar, was good in a fight, generally nice, and he gave gemstones to people? Was that the basis for liking someone?

Visma gasped as he gave her a bit of emerald glued to a stone. The Hobgoblin grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. Then he went over to watch the group activity as a bunch of children sat at one of the tables.

Only Mrsha glared at him, and Octavia leaned over to whisper.

“What’s with Mrsha?”

“Dunno. Maybe I erased her save data?”

“Weird. Thanks for bringing me breakfast. I got you this.”

Octavia shyly handed him something, and Numbtongue peered at the vial marked ‘bubble bath’. He grinned and put it in a pocket.

Soft.

Redscar whispered, and Numbtongue whirled to punch him, but the other Goblin blocked the fist. They all watched as Lyonette’s plan for the day took shape.

Design your own Antinium?

Erin hadn’t heard of yesterday’s exhaustive planning until today, and she looked slightly askance as the children drew on a front and back image of an Antinium Worker or Soldier. More guests had come with the children, and Jerom was sitting against the bar as Fierre yawned and scribbled on a piece of parchment in one part of the inn. Himilt had come to admire Erin’s [Garden of Sanctuary], and Lyonette was distractedly talking.

“Yes, a chess game. Can you attend? The prize is modest—eighty gold pieces, but we will have excellent players from around the world! It will be broadcast via Wistram News Network if there is time…”

She was having trouble. But she hadn’t asked for help—yet. Erin watched Visma dab glittery paint all over her Antinium.

“Is this in bad taste?”

She whispered to Bird and Ksmvr, and both Antinium looked at her.

“I do not know. I am Bird.”

“I am not part of the Free Hive either.”

Erin turned to Klbkch, but the Prognugator just shrugged when she sidled over.

“Children are performing an activity with Antinium. This is a positive for the Antinium as I see it.”

“Yeah, but it’s painting. That’s sort of a personal thing for the Painted Antinium, you know?”

Klbkch stared blankly at Erin and sighed audibly.

“Is this another emotional element for them? I would not know, Erin. I do not paint my shell.”

Erin gave up. Clearly a representative for the Painted Antinium was not here, and the children seemed to be having…mild fun.

“Miss Lyonette, Miss Lyonette, I’m done! Can I fly it now?”

The first child to be done was Ekirra, who ran over so Ushar could help him attach it to a bit of string. Then the paper could soar in a brisk breeze.

“Anyone gone to the bazaar yet? I’m going to.”

“It’s pretty exciting, Erin. There’s a lot on sale.”

Selys smiled as Erin casually opened a roll of parchment and winced at what she saw. The [Innkeeper] looked up with a laugh.

“Then I’ll definitely go! I want to see what Ysara and Qwera sell.”

“Oh—can you wait, Erin? I’m trying to find a bunch of activities, but I still don’t have quite enough to fill all of today!”

Lyonette was fretting, and Erin sighed, but agreed to hold on. She sat there as Mrsha industriously slapped her Antinium sketch with black pawprints…then stared at the Antinium and drooped as she remembered.

Today, the only big thing Erin knew she was part of was the chess tournament, and she actually thought her day might be restful. However, Rags had reminded her that it was one thing to talk or be ‘friends’ and another to know someone.

So, thoughtfully, she gazed down at the [Message] scroll as she idled at the bar and began to write. Once more, The Wandering Inn began to fill with guests. Lyonette was hopefully organizing the chess tournament. She had a bracket system and everything for people to win upwards and challenge Erin.

International guests would start ‘higher’ than a general tourney locally, which would produce around sixty of the top players. Then they would repeatedly clash on their way up.

She’d promised Erin that the [Innkeeper] wouldn’t be ‘forced’ to play more players as she would be seeded very high. Which just went to show that she really didn’t understand Erin’s passions at all.

Naturally, Drassi was there, because the tournament with a cash prize was news. However…one look at the inn setting up board games on a lot of the tables and Drassi saw a problem.

“…like heck this is going to be fun to watch…”

Erin glanced up as the Drake edged past her to have a conference with Lyonette. The [Innkeeper] smiled. She glanced down, and a line of text appeared.

“Is he checking this every five minutes? That wasn’t even twenty seconds!”

Grumbling, she went back to writing, but…she got it. Multiple things. For instance, she really got the fact that watching chess nonstop on Wistram News Network Channel 2 would probably crash Drassi’s viewership rating.

That was probably why the Drake kept glancing at her. After all, Drassi had to be thinking the same thing Erin was fearing.

It might be time for an interview.

Erin Solstice had been interviewed before, but as ‘[Innkeeper] of that inn that just suffered a monster attack’. Never before as Erin Solstice.

Today, though? Erin saw Drassi arguing with a nervous Lyonette, and Erin felt like the [Princess] should have asked for more help. If not from Erin alone, perhaps from others? After all, Erin never did anything by herself. Lyonette had the basis. But problems were encroaching from multiple angles.

Pawn was marching through the door with Yellow Splatters, Purple Smile, and some of the Painted Antinium with a look that said he wanted to talk to the [Princess], and this time, no Thronebearers were going to get in his way. Also, Liscor’s entertainment director, poor Teliv, the [Negotiator], was fretting about more activities. One could not hand-paint their way out of all the children and guests here.

Well, Erin would handle some of that burden. Juuuust as soon as she finished here.

For she was writing, and the conversation, if you were a certain little lamb innocently reading upside-down while an [Innkeeper] gave you the stink-eye, looked something like this.

 

Niers: Nice hat.

Erin: Yo, yo. What’s up? How’s it going?

Niers: Yo indeed?

Niers: I apologize, I forgot you were entirely on a vacation.

Erin: It’s cool. :)

Niers: Aha. Anazu-speak.

Erin: ?

Niers: That’s what some [Mages] call the little symbols.

Erin: Emotes. Emojis. Um…smiley faces. You’re going to be seeing a lot of ‘em, I bet.

Niers: Wonderful.

Erin: u mad? ヽ(ಠ_ಠ)ノ?

Niers: No, I just hate having to learn new languages. Better to be fluent now. ◔_◔

Erin: …You’re no fun.

Niers: I’m studious. Do you want to talk over a game of chess? I can squeeze one in for the morning if we make it fast. 10 seconds per move?

Erin: Eh. I’m sort of busy.

Niers: Ah, understood. It’s been difficult for us to play.

Erin: Since I was dead. We played a game or two when you sent me that chessboard.

Niers: No need to thank me. It’s a collectible.

Erin: Got it.

 

Silence for a second. Nerry the Lamb gave Erin a long look, and the [Innkeeper] actually stopped trying to poke her with the quill enough to sigh.

“What, you too?”

The lamb made a gagging sound as the conversation continued. She trotted off, and Erin rolled her eyes.

 

Niers: I’m not hurt, just disappointed we’ve been chatting less and less. I hope Bird hasn’t been spreading lies about me.

Erin: Bird lies about everything, including birds. It’s just sorta odd, y’know? Like chatting up Altestiel. We played then too.

Niers: True. I’m just kicking myself for not being there. Listen, if I’m bothering you, do tell me. I know you’re in a busy situation right now, and I’m always checking my artifacts. It comes from having a spy network and a company to run.

Erin: See, you’re doing it again. This. This.

Niers: What?

Foliana: He’s doing it again.

Erin: Hey, Foliana! Are you feeling better?

Foliana: Is thumbs up.

Erin: That’s not quite how emojis work, but that’s great! Hey, how are you on this? Is Niers sharing the chat…scroll or something?

Foliana: I stole it from him.

Erin: You’re cool. Can I speak to Niers?

Foliana: Mm. Be nice.

Niers: Foliana is a pest with no uses aside from eating moldy cupcakes off the ground. I apologize for that.

Erin: She’s sort of fun. But I was going to say that I’m pretty sure she’s not watching me via scrying spell right now.

 

The [Innkeeper] stopped and looked around meaningfully. An undead rat ducked behind a windowsill, and the Titan of Baleros winced from across the world.

 

Niers: I’m sorry about that. It’s a force of habit. My students are there, and I realize that might also look bad.

Niers: I’ve had enough of being blindsided, and getting ambushed just outside the inn counts. It’s not intrusive beyond what someone would reasonably see in the inn. The [Spies], which I’m sure you know you have, would be doing the same thing.

Erin: Yeah, but this is the thing. You’re someone who needs spies and runs the 4th Greatest Company of Baleros.

Niers: One of the Four Great Companies. I wouldn’t call us 4th, even with setbacks.

Niers: …That was meant to test my ego, wasn’t it?

Erin: Nah, I’m just being mean there.

Erin: Niers, I don’t even know you. You’re a continent away. I like playing chess, but it’s difficult to share a lotta stuff.

Niers: I understand that, and I do enjoy the chess games. :)

Erin: Well, if I’m not playing, it’s because there’s more to life than chess. I know, shocking.

Niers: Unbelievable. Well, I take your point and apologize.

Erin: Accepted. So, how’s fighting the green going? Are you making sure that icky stuff doesn’t get on your soldiers when it splashes?

 

And then the silence between the replies grew longer.

 

Erin: How fast did The Dyed Lands expand, anyways? Pisces told me you’re nearly a hundred miles out and still fighting them in some places.

Erin: Niers? You there?

Niers: Are you watching my campaign?

Erin: Don’t you get mad. It’s on the scrying orbs if you go to the Baleros networks. I thought you were watching my inn.

 

And then, if you turned to one of the scrying orbs that showed the television for The Wandering Inn, you would see that instead of an image of, well, themselves, the breakfasters were watching a quiet broadcast of the fighting in Baleros.

 

Erin: That’s the thing. Are you fighting a war and chatting?

Niers: It’s not an active battlefield, just skirmishes. Put your troops in the right spot and sometimes the enemy doesn’t even reach the front.

Erin: Yeah. But that’s not me.

Niers: So you claim.

Erin: I’m just saying, where you are, your kind of thing is different than mine, Niers. It’s not that I dislike you or think you’re a bad guy necessarily. It’s just that you’re the Titan of Baleros.

Niers: I understand. And I do have to go. Battle.

Erin: Luck.

 

She rolled up the scroll and exhaled. Erin only jumped when Ulvama tapped her on the shoulder.

“You going for a record for killing people this week?”

Erin gave her an unhappy look, and the [Shaman] bared her teeth. Erin shook her head.

“No. I’m just being honest. Sometimes you gotta.”

She turned and watched as Lyonette left the main common room with Pawn. Her Thronebearers protested and were told to stand there and help the painting. Visma beamed as she ran over to Ser Dalimont to make her kite.

She tripped, and Erin sighed as Visma’s colorful paper fluttered up and flew, flew…straight into the fireplace. Visma stared in horror as her piece of paper lit up.

Sometimes, things just sucked.

 

——

 

When they finally had a moment to talk together, Pawn was happy.

Happy in the oddest of ways. Because he had marched right up to Lyonette and told her he wanted to speak, and she had looked at him and hesitated until she agreed.

Those Thronebearers. They had truly ruined what should have been a happy reunion. Because of them, Pawn and Lyonette couldn’t do what they had done in secret and private.

Sit and read stories together, talk, cuddle, other stuff, and Pawn missed that. He had missed Lyonette greatly.

He just felt like she had been avoiding him because this was one of their first long talks together. So he was happy.

Happy—in the way he imagined an Eater Goat might be, skipping along under a boulder teetering over a cliff high, high above.

Now, why did he think that? Lyonette flashed him a smile.

“We’ll have to make this quick, Pawn. The children are doing their Antinium painting, and it’s going well—I think we’ll set up a booth after all today and tomorrow.”

She hesitated as Visma’s wail came from below.

“Oh dear. That was Visma. Maybe there are complications.”

“We have not had much time, Lyonette. I know you are very busy putting on this party—but I have missed you.”

He took her hands, or tried to. Lyonette was busying herself at the mirror, walking around her room, checking her hair.

“I have too, Pawn. I’m very sorry Lormel and the others are getting in the way. You didn’t have to curse him, you know.”

“I wanted to talk to you. I was angry. I lost my temper.”

Pawn felt vaguely bad about it, but that sense in the air was growing worse. He smiled, or tried to—then felt something else tug at his mind.

“I wish I could have helped with your party planning. I think your painting of the Antinium shells is a good idea. On paper, with children and adults.”

“Thank you, Pawn! Yes, I wish you could have been there too.”

She flashed him a distracted smile, and Pawn went on carefully as Lyonette fiddled with some earrings.

“I think it is good because people will see how the Antinium are unique and how being Painted Antinium matters.”

“Exactly!”

“And I believe the Free Antinium support this idea as did I.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Which is why I know you would have asked a Painted Antinium or me for our feedback, but you were so busy you were unable to.”

This time, the [Princess] stopped with a tiny opal earring in one hand and turned. Pawn stared at her and then looked out the window, following her gaze. He looked back at her and saw how her gaze slid past him. It lingered for a moment on his face, and then she was staring at an autograph of all the Players of Celum on her wall. As if she couldn’t quite look at him.

That—hurt, and he didn’t know what was wrong with her eyes. Or him? Was something on him?

“I—I just wanted to put on something entertaining, Pawn.”

“I know. That is why I was not angry. But Krshia Silverfang did not want her Gnolls to be a game. I am more fine than she was.”

“I’m not trying to take anything from anyone! It can be positive for everyone!”

“Yes. That is my point. Do not be defensive, Lyonette. I am agreeing.”

The [Princess] hesitated and reddened. She tossed her head and then spoke more quietly.

“And how are the Antinium doing, Pawn? Now that the Crusade is—a separate Hive? Has it changed things?”

Pawn nodded. He opened his hands, clenched them, and rubbed at his eyes gently, folding two arms and sighing. As he did so often these days.

“So many. Now it seems like there are Free Antinium, Painted Antinium, and [Crusaders]. That is better than it was before, but more…complex. Does that make sense? We are all Antinium, but they are so different from even me. Zimrah…I do not know her. I grieve for her, but she wants to be what she is.”

Lyonette came over and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, Pawn. Responsibility is painful like that. Do you—are you trying to take command of the [Crusaders]? Shape their opinions? Yellow Splatters is a [Sergeant]—no, a [Captain] now, isn’t he? Perhaps he could be a liaison?”

The [Priest] looked at the [Princess], confused.

“Why would I want to tell them what to do? They are their own people.”

Lyonette turned to face him, bit her lip, and modulated what she was about to say. She stepped left, trying to guide him into a seat, but he refused. So she faced him, her face tightening with a hint of exasperation.

“They might need help. And…be nudged to make the right moves now and then. Pawn, you are possibly the most influential Antinium in the Hive’s leadership behind the Free Queen and Klbkch himself. You shouldn’t let it go to waste.”

He stood there, not knowing what to say, and Lyonette walked over to her dresser again, restless. She was pinning up her hair in a complex bun, and Pawn helped her. He knew how to place the hairpins, but he hesitated as he replied. She seemed so impatient, and he felt awkward and kept missing the spots until she took the pins and did it herself.

“I do not wish to do that, Lyonette. That is like when I was ordered to fight with Belgrade and Anand. I am not that kind of leader.”

She turned to face him. And he saw a look that showed him she didn’t understand. But that was fine. He didn’t understand all of what she was. It was supposed to be fine.

So why did it feel like there was a wall like his [Holy Barrier] between them? He reached out to take her hands, and then his lowered. Lyonette took a deep breath, then set her face. She straightened her back like he knew she did when she was about to do something unpleasant.

“Pawn. I have to ask you something serious. Have you—do you feel like something has gone off between us? Like there’s some separation? I fear that’s my fault, in part. Quite a lot, actually.”

Pawn nodded slowly. He looked at Lyonette.

“I do. What happened, Lyonette? You were gone for only a few months—”

She laughed. Bitterly, almost hysterically—and covered her face with her hands. She pulled her eyelids down a second, staring up at the ceiling in a kind of horror.

“A few months! Pawn, it felt like years. Didn’t it? I was at Oteslia, and Erin was dead, and we…Pawn, I have a confession to make.”

Uh oh. The [Priest] wanted to run, and he refused to. But he slowly sat on the bed as Lyonette spoke to him.

“In Oteslia, I was desperate to find a way to help Erin and save Mrsha. Remember, I only knew she was kidnapped and I had no idea where she was? There was this young…Drake named Cirediel. And I was trying to do everything in my power to help. So—I was considering entering an affair with Cire to manipulate him. Or whomever else.”

She waited for Pawn to react. He did not, so she went on.

“A sexual affair, Pawn.”

“I understood that. Alright. That is fine. I forgive you if you needed forgiveness.”

Lyonette blinked. She looked at his face, looked down, and he didn’t know why she gnawed on her lip like that. Where was his smile?

“Just like that?”

Pawn got up. He stretched, not because he was stiff, but because he felt awkward in his very shell. He turned back to Lyonette.

“Mrsha is your daughter. You would do anything for her, and I understand that. I fought Belavierr for her. It is fine, Lyonette. You did not, after all.”

She looked wretched and upset, perhaps that he wasn’t angrier.

“No, but I thought about it, Pawn. Pawn. You can be angry. I was thinking of being unfaithful. Intimately. That means—”

“I know what it means.”

The [Priest] felt his first flicker of actual anger so far. Lyonette bit her lip, and he wanted to pat her on the head. He sat down and stared at her.

She hadn’t grown that much older. But somehow, she looked different.

“What happened, Lyonette? There has to have been something more. Why does this feel odd?”

Lyonette laughed sadly.

“Oh, Pawn. I think we changed. It’s happened to me before. I was a young girl who liked to run around Calanfer. I had crushes—then I became a teenager. My sisters. You know them.”

“By name and personality. Unpleasant, mostly.”

The 6th [Princess] of Calanfer stared at a vision of something else.

“They weren’t always. I remember, vaguely, Seraphel being so nice before she got married. Aielef used to be this wild painter who drew on the walls of Calanfer, and I loved it even though she got in trouble. Vernoue was as shy as a mouse—now she’s just a ‘mage’. I think, sometimes, it’s not always bad. Dalimont told me about Seraphel, and it sounded like she changed again. Into something far better. No—I saw it. People change. I’m just afraid we did.”

“Then we should find out how the other has changed. Not hide from each other, Lyonette.”

He reached out to take her hands. The [Princess] looked at him unhappily.

“I think that’s true, Pawn. But maybe we should start all the way from the beginning.”

Ah. It was so quiet, he didn’t realize the boulder had hit him. The Eater Goat Antinium in his metaphor stared at half his spine before he realized that he was crushed. Pawn held so very still—his antennae twitched and moved faintly, as if in a breeze. Lyonette was squeezing her hands together until her fingers were white. Pawn looked at them.

“Why? Why do that, Lyonette?”

He took her hands with two of his own to make her stop, and the [Princess] avoided his gaze. She gently freed her hands, put them beside her. Then she came out with it at last.

“Your [Crusaders] scare me, Pawn. While I was gone, you took on the Stitch Witch of legends. The Spider of Terandria, who has led the Hundred Families of Terandria on a wild chase and dance ever since they were founded. You hurt her, Pawn. With a club, Mrsha said. And you formed the Crusade against Hectval.”

“I did not march with them. We were too weak, Lyonette.”

She nodded. And met his eyes with her earnest blue ones.

“But Pawn. You and I have different visions. When I was in Oteslia—”

“I’ve already said I understand.”

“Well, not about this!”

She whirled, and her red hair flashed along with her eyes. She splayed a hand across her chest, as if suddenly impassioned. Not the nervous girl he had once met. Or maybe the same? Prideful. But this Lyonette was also simply confident as well. And terribly sad.

“I was happy, Pawn! Happy, when I danced with Ilvriss! When I was struggling—but finding ways to move the City of Growth. When I had two of the Gentlemen Callers, Ratici and Wilovan, under my command? That’s why I didn’t push away the Thronebearers when it was all over. Because I wanted them. I wanted to explore, to push at my parents. And you…”

She looked at him, and he stared at her. She was the first person he’d been in a relationship with. Not the first person he’d loved. But the sky was just the sky, after all.

“Are you ending our relationship? Just like that? Do I get no say?”

“Pawn—I have to go downstairs. Can we talk about this later?”

He stood up from the bed. Then he lay down on his back shell.

“No. This is unfair. I am going to cry. Waah. Waaah.

He tried to do a Bird and flailed his arms like he’d seen Mrsha do when she was throwing a tantrum. Lyonette stared down at him in horror and backed away. Pawn began to raise his voice…then he stopped.

Because he felt like an idiot. Slowly, he got up and felt at himself.

What was wrong with him? He recalled, very vividly, hiding in the Free Antinium’s Hive and refusing to eat or move because he was so sad that Lyonette didn’t like him.

Reach for that, you fool! Where was the Antinium who would have probably leapt out the window in despair? He didn’t feel it. He was upset, angry, and sad—

But something was missing. He looked at Lyonette, and he was angry at her. Angry because she wasn’t the person he remembered.

Then he realized Lyonette was right. And that hurt worst of all. Lyonette’s eyes began misting up as Pawn sat there.

“Lyonette. You have the power to do what you wish. You may be right. But can I ask you for one last thing?”

“What is it, Pawn?”

“Can I hug you like this?”

He spread his arms, and she stepped forwards. She didn’t hesitate, but walked forwards gently and raised her hands as if to cup his head. Then she lowered them and reached out as if they were dancing, but her grip tightened and she gazed up wordlessly. Elegant and wretched.

The [Priest] had so little of that in him. So with all four arms, he gently hugged her, as if he were embracing Heaven. But he could touch her. But he felt no certainty or faith, just a painful, comforting warmth. No ray of light from the sky. Even so, for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed until he let go. And he tried not to. Another Worker would never have, but Pawn?

He had his people to go to.

 

——

 

She wept. She wept, as if spilling all the tears out for all the broken hearts and changing of ways. Visma howled and sobbed in front of the fireplace as Pawn and Lyonette came back.

Unconsolable. She didn’t want another piece of paper.

My p—p—my! It’s burned up! It’s gone!

She was wailing as Ekirra ran back in. The panting Gnoll stopped as Visma cried, and Mrsha tried to give her her drawing.

“Now, now, Visma. We can do another! Oh dear, maybe you’ve had enough. At least the others can have fun?”

The children looked at the screaming Visma, and their enthusiasm waned. Ekirra himself looked at Lyonette as she fixed her eyes on him.

“Ekirra, where’s your kite?”

He should be flying the piece of paper on a string. The Gnoll scratched at his head.

“It ripped up, Miss Lyonette.”

The [Princess]’ face fell. She hurried outside and saw a piece of paper—cheap paper—was torn in half by the brisk wind. Ekirra went to pat Visma on the head.

“Can we go eat now?”

The activity was in jeopardy. Lyonette looked around as Pawn stared at the ground. At least some people knew what had happened, and Numbtongue went to solemnly pat him on the shoulder.

“I—I—I think we need to reconsider. Um. Does anyone have…?”

Lyonette looked around, an expression of concealed panic on her face. And then, she spoke.

“Does anyone have a way to rectify this situation? Please?”

She gazed around, and Pawn looked up. He met her gaze as the inn’s guests turned, and Erin smiled. The [Innkeeper] put down her quill and stretched.

Pawn? He shook Numbtongue’s hand and walked out of the inn. Lyonette turned her head to follow him, but her feet stayed where they were. And then—

Jerom spoke up.

“Here now, little Miss Drake. Don’t cry. What a terrible thing happened to you, didn’t it?”

He stifled a cough as he came over and crouched. Visma was holding the bit of emerald that Numbtongue had given to her.

“My Antinium’s gone! He was going to be named Super Star! I liked him!”

She wept, and the Antinium staff in the inn glanced at Visma once, then at the fireplace. Jerom bent down as he fumbled with something he’d been working on at the bar.

“That’s terrible. Super Star deserved better than that. I’ll tell you what—why don’t you take this and…bring him back? It’s not a piece of paper, but maybe it’ll last longer.”

He put something in Visma’s claw, and she looked down and gasped. Lyonette blinked—and covered her mouth in surprise, for there was a tiny little Worker.

“Whoa! That’s amazing!

Troydel blinked at the piece of wood. It was a faster piece than Mrsha’s, but Jerom had carved it into a Worker so well that he had even done tiny antennae.

Naturally, the piece of wood was just plain wood with a few whorls of the tree giving it a slightly uneven texture. But Visma understood what Jerom meant.

“You mean paint this?”

“You could place it on your dresser.”

Or make it one of your dolls, Visma! It’s so good! I want one for White Paw!

Mrsha held up a notecard. She looked enviously at Visma as the other children crowded around.

“That’s so much better than stupid paper. Let me have it, Visma. I’m gonna make Soccer Man again!”

Ekirra reached for it, and Visma punched his arm.

“No! Super Star! Mrsha, come help me! I’m going to paint him all over!”

“Be careful not to mix the paints up. You have to do it very carefully.”

Someone interrupted Visma before she could dunk the piece of wood in a pot of black paint. And that was someone who knew that painting wood or metal was a delicate process that required drying, special brushes…

Troydel eyed Jerom as the innkeeper glanced up. He advised Visma to paint on her design then carefully fill in the other parts with the dark paint—so if she messed the design up, she could cover it with the shell.

“Jerom, that’s so thoughtful of you! Although, now all the other children want a permanent figurine.”

Lyonette exhaled, and Jerom looked at the children. His eyes twinkled.

“I don’t think I can work that fast, Lyonette, but it might be something, to have little figures rather than a piece of paper, wouldn’t it? I could do six more for a few of the children.”

Unfortunately, they all wanted one. Lyonette didn’t think overworking Jerom was a workable idea, but Troydel was all for it.

“You should look into that, Lyonette. Figurines are huge money.”

That caught her ear. Lyonette turned.

“You think so, Troy?”

“Everyone loves them. Can’t you hire a bunch of [Carvers]? Or if you had resin, metal, or even clay, I guess, you could cast a lot of them. Like Pallass’ forges. I’ve seen the smiths do lots of parts all at once. Although Pelt spits on them for not doing it by hand.”

Troydel was a bit of an expert. He had a collection of one of the world’s most famous…ly expensive tabletop games. He glanced up, and Lyonette felt a familiar prickle on the skin. Jerom’s own ears perked up, and Lyonette began to make rapid calculations.

“We’d need a mold…”

“There’s Skills for that. But what if you had a hundred of these figurines yay tall, and you let people paint them—and buy them for a small profit? I could try to arrange that. I know some good people with metalwork, and Pallass is a second away, isn’t it?”

“It’s definitely profitable. Hey, can I get in on this? Copyright? Trademark?”

Troy got up excitedly, but the [Princess] and [Innkeeper] ignored him. They were getting excited, and someone whispered across the inn.

“Nerd. Neeeeerd.

Joseph called to Troy. Redscar high-fived him as Troy glared back. Lyonette was all set when she realized Pawn was gone. And…she hesitated, looking at the little figure of the Workers.

But it was already being fought over by the children begging for one of their own or trying to carve a table leg into one. So she nodded to Jerom.

“We still need more activities. Anyone—I am so sorry, but if you have any activities that match the Antinium—Silveran? Or—or Chieftain Rags! Are there things we could do that celebrate Goblins?”

She looked around, and the two representatives of each species looked at her. Silveran adjusted his mustache from behind the bar uncertainly, and Rags stirred.

They looked at each other and then realized something odd.

The Antinium and Goblins didn’t…have many activities. Rags looked at Redscar, and he mimed combing Carn Wolves or punching each other for morning training. The Mountain City Goblins under Poisonbite knew feasting and their own contests, like throwing knives, but these were things modeled after Human cities, which they had stolen everything from.

Even culture. For some reason—the lack of something to define them hurt the Antinium and Goblins present more than most. Every species had something unique about them that made them good.

Even Drakes. Lyonette spared them the embarrassment as she turned.

“Well, let’s keep brainstorming. Drassi! Drassi—where are you going?”

“Sorry, Lyonette, but this is, um—not entertaining. When the Crusade rolls in or something happens—you know how to contact me.”

The Drake was making a beeline back to her studio in Pallass. Rags was signaling one of her Goblins to find a member of her posse still asleep, and Silveran was wondering if a seminar on cleaning counted.

Something was coming. But Drassi knew that she could come back and find it, and her audience was getting bored; she had a staff member, a Gnoll, covering a story while she got back.

She was halfway towards the door as Lyonette sighed when someone blocked her way. Erin Solstice was scribbling on a piece of paper, but she held a hand out as Drassi slowed. The [Reporter]’s eyes widened—and Erin Solstice looked up.

“What about my interview, Drassi? Let’s do a quick one—and you’ll have your story.”

She winked at Lyonette, and Drassi inhaled sharply. The [Reporter] looked around for a place to sit with Erin, and the [Innkeeper]’s heart began to pound. But this time she was ready.

And the [Witch], the [Innkeeper], nodded at Lyonette. This was the [Princess]’ party. But sometimes, you needed a hand. As for Erin…her eyes twinkled.

“Are you sure, Erin? And do you think it’ll be entertaining? Because some of the [Messages] people get when they look back on the scrying orbs are ruthless.

Erin shrugged.

“Let them come. As for entertaining—”

She showed Drassi the first line of the piece of paper she was writing, and the Drake sat down. She turned on her camera, handed it to the Drake [Cameraman], and they began.

 

——

 

Niers Astoragon glumly watched as Drassi interviewed Erin. It looked like a fluff piece—the Drake was introducing The Wandering Inn and giving the interesting notes—monster attacks, a Human outside of Liscor, Antinium and Goblins welcome.

It was already, of course, fascinating enough to attract most of her regular viewers’ attention, but Niers was, uh…not invested.

Somewhere, Altestiel was probably laughing at him. Niers wondered how much you had to pay an [Assassin] to poison an [Earl]’s lunch. He thought he’d suffered once? Niers would procure laxatives made by Foliana herself!

War’s not over. Rally, regroup, and get back in it.

He worried for Erin, because as she had just said—this was not her forte, and if she thought Drassi was going to play nice the entire time—she hadn’t seen Drassi’s interviews.

The [Honest Reporter] had kept up her habit of pressing her interviewees, and the Queen of Nerrhavia’s Fallen had been only the first victim. So Drassi leaned over the table as the camera caught both of them—Mrsha was trying to pose in the background until the other children shoved into the camera, and they were all herded off by a member of Drassi’s crew.

“So, Erin. We’ve been friends and for our viewers, I have to tell you I was a [Barmaid] and then a [Bartender] at The Wandering Inn before I found my current job. There’s a bit of bias here, but I want to be impartial. You’re an [Innkeeper]. Dare I say the best in Liscor?”

“Hm…I dunno about that, Drassi. How do you rank best inns and stuff? People complain about mine all the time.”

“Level? What level are you, Erin? Over Level 40? Over Level 30, definitely.”

Erin hesitated.

“That’s private. Sorry.”

“No problem. But your inn is rather fantastic, don’t you agree? I’ve been to Liscor’s top inn within the city, The Tailless Thief, and while it’s ahead on staff, service, consistency—your inn has been at the center of any number of huge events. You’ve survived Creler attacks, the inn’s been destroyed how many times?”

“Tw—three? I’ve lost count.”

It was definitely a funny interview. The [Innkeeper] was nervous, but she had a bit of composure a lot of guests lacked. As if she knew how to do this. Drassi laughed.

“And you make magical food! Can we get an example, maybe of your ‘mana candies’? So you have magical food, Antinium on staff, and your inn has a sign that says ‘No Killing Goblins’. Can you tell us why?”

“Um…because I don’t want people to kill Goblins? They saved my life once.”

Drassi nodded reasonably.

“But Goblins are monsters to the rest of the world. Now, one group did just bail out a bunch of Humans and the Antinium Crusade in the north, and we have a precedent with Velan the Kind—but that cuts both ways. How would you discuss the issue of the Goblin King with Izrilians or other people who remember him within this generation?”

Erin hesitated.

“…There are dangerous Goblins, just like there are criminals and [Warlords] in every species. I’m just saying—not every Goblin is trying to kill you. Like…like her. See? There’s a Goblin. Hi, Gothica.”

She smiled as a Goblin wearing all black, including lipstick and makeup, passed by. Niers winced because he knew this was not the example Erin needed.

 

——

 

Somewhere across the world, on Rhir, a passing Earther grabbed a scrying orb.

“No fucking way. Hey! Tell Béclaire I found her other [Goth]! She’s not going to believe this!

The orb caught Gothica as she froze, then deliberately turned to Erin and flipped her off. And in doing so, she flipped off the entire world.

She leveled.

 

——

 

Drassi covered a smile as Erin waved a fist at Gothica. She went on with a chuckle in her voice.

“Alright, we can dig into the Goblins angle later, but let’s just settle one thing so our viewers understand—you’re hosting this celebration for the victory at Orefell. Including a chess tournament with a modest cash prize, which I believe we might cover highlights of. You’re a [Magical Innkeeper], and you can produce amazing food—but can you tell the audience something that makes you special? Like how you posted the first <Quests>? Who is Erin Solstice in her own words?”

And here it came. Niers bit his tongue because he knew how he’d talk about himself, or Erin—but she was so classically humble and awkward—he squeezed his eyes shut as Erin froze for a second. Then she replied.

“Me? I’m…um. Well. This is embarrassing, but…”

She fiddled with her fingers, then looked up. And Niers missed the spark of mischief in her eyes. The twinkle that made her friends sit up in the bar and disarmed Drassi. Erin Solstice smiled and leaned back in her chair. If she had a baseball cap, she would have twisted it around. If she had a pair of sunglasses, she would have slowly lowered them onto her eyes.

“I’m the best chess player in the entire world. So yeah, I’m backing the chess tournament today. If you think you’re hot stuff, sign up. You can even play remotely.”

Niers Astoragon’s eyes opened wide. Half the Fraerlings who were trying to ignore his small scrying orb turned. Drassi sat up and blinked.

“Did I just hear you right, Erin? That is a bold claim.”

The [Innkeeper] was shaking with nerves, but she made a peace sign. Then she began to play it up.

“That’s right. I’m the best. Don’t believe me?”

“That’s, uh—a hard thing to quantify.”

Someone was choking in the background. It turned out to be Pisces, who was dying on a piece of late egg for breakfast. Erin and Drassi watched as Yvlon raced over and slapped him on the back. Erin turned back to the camera.

“Well, it’s true. Put me on a truth spell.”

“Delusion can pass a truth spell, Erin.”

Drassi was trying to be tough, despite the smile edging its way across her face. Erin raised her brows.

“Oh yeah?”

“That’s just a fact.”

Oh yeah?

Erin leaned forwards, and Drassi leaned back a bit to avoid being headbutted.

“Erin, I’m going to need proof you’re the ‘best’ chess player. I imagine our viewers are already getting upset and calling in.”

The [Innkeeper] turned to the camera and smiled.

“You can prove it at the chess tournament. But if I need to prove anything—do you know Chaldion of Pallass, Drassi? Have you seen me playing him regularly in this inn?”

The [Honest Reporter] swallowed.

“I have…seen that.”

“And you’re so honest everyone knows you tell the truth—haven’t you seen Earl Altestiel playing me? I’ve beaten Venaz—hey, Venaz.”

She waved at a Minotaur, who jumped as he, Wil, and Merrik stood there. Merrik waved back. Niers watched, heart pounding with disbelief, as Erin turned.

“I’ve played more chess games than anyone else. It’s not a brag. It’s just how it is. I’ve beaten Grand Magus Eldavin when he was at my inn. I’ve defeated the Lord of the Dance remotely.”

“I think other players could say the same. The game isn’t that old, Erin. In fact, what about the Titan of Baleros? The inventor and world’s best player if I had to guess?”

Drassi was on the edge of her seat. Because she knew, before Erin turned, what the [Innkeeper] would say, and the [Reporter] just set her up for it. Erin Solstice looked right into the camera.

“Niers? He’s my chess partner. I play him every week. I am the [Innkeeper] of Chess. Don’t believe me? Get a chessboard and I’ll play a game right now. Ask Niers if you don’t believe me. Hey, Niers.”

She waved. And the Fraerling saw the young woman wink at him.

“…Fancy a game?”

 

——

 

The Titan’s mysterious chess partner had once been the talk of the world’s gossip—at least in chess circles. In the way of all the new developments, it had become old news.

Right until the [Innkeeper], Erin Solstice, revealed the truth for the world to hear and reignited that old flame.

You might not believe it. You might scoff, and many would certainly take umbrage at her claims to be the world’s best.

But…that claim bore more weight when you saw the splitscreen image of Niers Astoragon sitting with his legs crossed in front of a miniature chess board and Erin in her inn. Both were staring at a scrying orb and arranging the chess board.

Live. This was how the tourney would go, and the two competitors could even speak to each other. And when they did…

It was the first time the two had really talked. It wasn’t Niers giving Erin a speaking stone or a gift. It was him and her and an audience of the entire world.

“You have me astounded, Erin. And here I thought you were too busy to play a game.”

Erin glanced up from setting up her pieces. She met his gaze, and his eyes were shining with wild excitement. He was so…tiny! A mug was providing her with a frame of reference, and it was as tall as he was.

Yet he was also the Titan of Baleros. Some Fraerlings were jockeying to be seen, much like Mrsha and Gothica and people on Erin’s side. She locked eyes with Niers.

“I never said that. I just felt like you were fighting a war against Jungle Tails, the monsters from the Dyed Lands. You’re so famous—this is where you live. Isn’t this where you’re happiest?”

To that, he had nothing to say. Because she was right. When he went to her inn, it was like a Fraerling in the night.

But she had come up onto his world stage and brought a chessboard. She took the black pieces, he took white, and they began to play.

That was enough. That was enough for him to call this a really wonderful day, but Erin Solstice wasn’t done.

“I’m going to beat you, Niers. Sorry, but I have to use my full power.”

She posed, two peace signs across her chest in what she might have thought was a cool pose. Niers just snorted despite himself.

“Erin. I will back you being a statistically better player than I am, but you can’t guarantee a victory.”

“Oh, that was true before I got shot with crossbows. But I’ve been practicing. I know we played a game together, but right now?”

Erin stretched.

“…I’ve got a tournament to help run and participate in. So I am going to squish you. Wait, is that rude to say to a Fraerling?”

Absolutely! I am such a fan, Miss. Take him out!”

A Fraerling behind Niers shouted. It was safe to say almost every Fraerling settlement with access to scrying orbs was watching. And at least one city, Paeth on the Coast, was staring at…

Erin Solstice. The Titan looked annoyed at Erin’s bravado. He moved a pawn forwards.

“Pawn to E4—oh, you can see it. Well, back up your words, Erin. No Skills, but I will be making you eat those words.”

“Just one second.”

Erin was scribbling on something. She raised her head, and Niers felt a chill. As if he’d walked into a trap. He’d thought the trap was invoking her true potential to the world. Or facing him across the chessboard and lending his name to this day.

But what if…? His eyes slowly fixed on the piece of paper. Erin finished writing, then lifted it. She brought it down and slapped it on the table.

“You might want to check the Adventurer’s Guild, guys. I just posted a <Quest>. Now—”

She cracked her neck, winced, and her eyes lit up.

Let’s begin the demo match.

Then the news broadcast, already gaining momentum, truly began to pick up speed. The incredulous and outraged people went silent. Did you feel it now? Niers looked up, and the chessboard kept shaking. His eyes flickered uncertainly—then widened. Because even he found his heart beating painfully hard.

 

<Yearly Heroic Quest – Face the World’s Greatest Chess Player>

 

Limits: No cheating, no magical interference. No Skills to change the board. Everything else, including predictive Skills, is allowed.

 

I am the world’s greatest chess player. I have played the best in the world, and I would have been in the top ten thousand, at least, a few months ago.

None now remain. I am the Grandmaster of Scales, by virtue of victory. 

Challenge me at the chess tournament taking place in Liscor today. The first person to defeat me will win. The right to challenge me, formally, will be won by working their way up the tournament. I will play you at my utmost best and keep playing until I lose.

I’ll come at you with my best.

 

Posted Reward: Eighty gold coins to tournament winner, lesser rewards for finalists.

Quest Reward: One level in any <Intelligence> class.

 

——

 

Az’kerash dropped the plate of magical delicacies he was handing to Nerrhavia. The ghost dropped a fork.

 

——

 

Archmage Eldavin stopped drinking his cup of morning tea, and Telim ducked.

 

——

 

The Blighted King sat up upon his throne as his trusted advisor, Nereshal, practically sprinted into the room.

 

——

 

Silvenia, the Death of Magic, the greatest [Mage] in the world—

 

——

 

Well, you got the picture. Was that real? No, it was. And if it were real—no matter what level you held? <Intelligence> classes?

That wasn’t all. The quest itself. As far as anyone knew—you couldn’t lie on a <Quest>, right?

The world’s greatest chess player sat in The Wandering Inn and looked up. She smiled into the camera.

“We’ll do a quick demo match. Niers, you’d better bring your best because you have to work your way up in the tourney like everyone else.”

The Titan stared at Erin—and his dangersense began going off. Not the Skill, but something more instinctual. Slowly, he re-read the quest and realized that Erin hadn’t banned…

He glanced up. Then, to the audience’s amazement—the Titan tipped over his king. He stood up.

“In that case—I’ll see you later, Erin. But I don’t intend on wasting a chance. Especially if I need to surprise you.”

The [Innkeeper] grinned. The Titan stepped back and glanced at Lyonette. The [Princess] looked excited, pale with nerves—and she jumped as he bowed to her.

“Miss? Please put me down for the tournament. I will be ready.”

He stepped back, and then half the Fraerlings were shouting, demanding to be put on. Lyonette gulped as her Thronebearers whirled.

This party was heating up fast.

But that wasn’t fun, to hear the quest. To see the Titan tip over a piece and not see a chess game. Now, everyone wanted to see Erin do a demo match, even if it was just chess.

“Someone take his place! Just for a demo match. Erin, is that alright?”

Drassi practically screamed. Erin smiled.

“I’ll let someone take a shot at the reward right now.

The Titan whirled back, and she gave him a wink.

“That’s called courage. Anyone but the Titan—who wants to get a free level?”

The inn suddenly fell silent. Who would take Erin on? Gireulashia almost stepped forwards, but she hesitated. Wil, Venaz, Merrik—they were taking cues from their Professor.

They might need to save their plays. After all, if Erin thought she would be taking on challenger after challenger…

On the other hand—this was the chance to win a level. You could, in theory, take a game off Erin!

And the clever people had realized something.

She hadn’t banned all Skills. Just Skills that actually altered the game itself. So someone stepped forwards with all the arrogance in his sniffing nose.

Pisces Jealnet turned to face Erin and smiled.

“I believe that I might be a suitable opponent. For a demonstration match. Pray, don’t feel too upset if I take the quest right now.”

He looked around as the inn’s crowd susurrated. Niers eyed Pisces as he sat down. The [Mage] had no Skills to help him out, but Niers vaguely remembered him being a sharp player, and he had trained against Erin Solstice.

Perhaps the [Necromancer] just wanted to be part of the moment. However—he’d made a critical mistake. In fact, Erin had, in a sense.

Because she had posted a <Quest>. Because she knew she could. A <Heroic Quest>. And as Pisces sat down, Erin’s smile to him changed. Her hazel eyes suddenly began burning, the brown-green-gold shimmering and dancing as if her very irises had caught on fire.

The [Necromancer] blinked. That wasn’t a trick of the light. Then—as if he had forgotten, as if he had taken the words for granted, he saw a line on the <Quest> paper light up.

 

I’ll come at you with my best.

 

Then—the table began shaking. Pisces was thrown about in his chair, and the [Necromancer] shouted.

“What—what’s happen—”

The table dropped, and suddenly, he was free-falling through space. The flailing young man fell—and the inn and the guests vanished. He landed without pain on the ground, crouching, reaching for his rapier instinctively. Then he looked up.

A lunar landscape of blasted pale, sooty ground and glowing lines drawn into perfect squares stretched out ahead of him. Pisces saw graven towers rising out of the dirt—and he was simultaneously staring up at an equine [Knight] rearing above him, snarling as the hooves pawed at the air.

A Golem? The tower was sixteen feet tall. And at the same time—it was a knight piece, small enough to pick up. He was in the void of blackness. Then—he saw something rising in the distance.

Her head appeared over the horizon like a Giant of old. Her eyes were on fire, and she had a hat burning on her head. The [Necromancer] looked around and tried to pinch himself out of the illusion. But Erin Solstice stared down at him as the entire world began to shake. He saw light writing itself over her head.

Then—the [Necromancer] felt a pit drop out of his stomach. Because he was reading something. Her very best? He looked up and saw a class.

 

[Temporary Class Assigned: Grandmaster of Death, Advent of Living Chess]

[Temporary Skill Assigned: Visions of Defeat (Legendary)]

[Temporary Aura Assigned: Aura of Giants (Chess)]

[Temporary Skill Assigned: Chessboard: Subsumed Reality, Our Board is the World]

[Temporary Skill Assigned: Clash of Wills]

 

An [Innkeeper]—no—the [Grandmaster of Chess] stared down at Pisces as he felt an aura pushing at him. He looked up—and a hand the size of Liscor reached down and picked up a chess piece. Erin placed a pawn down, and her pieces were white like ivory.

The ground quaked. Pisces felt it vibrate like an [Earthquake] spell. And he—he had to play that? He tried to pick up a pawn piece, and he could. He looked up—and that was his last mistake.

A pair of black wings sprouted from Erin’s back. Her eyes were slitted pupils now, and he felt like they were a pair of [Disintegration] spells boring holes in him. Then he blinked—

And a roaring Dragon, the last Void Dragonlord, was staring down at him. Xarkouth roared as Pisces’ hand shook wildly. He tried to look away, and the deathly pale face of Khelta was looking right at him.

The great [Necromancer] and first ruler of Khelt stared Pisces down as he turned white. He tried to play a chess piece.

The [Innkeeper] was smiling. She began to play, and the entire lunar world quaked as she put down her pieces. The guests of her inn only saw part of what Pisces saw—

Like they were staring at a distant dreamy battle occurring on the horizon. It reflected itself over Pisces and Erin’s heads. Just for a second. But that was enough for them to realize what made the [Necromancer] flinch.

Pisces was almost—almost able to think of a move when a wailing sound filled the air. He jumped and heard a screaming wail of electric strings. A bass howling like the storm he felt whipping around the world he was trapped in.

The [Necromancer] and the guests turned and saw a Hobgoblin [Bard] playing on a guitar. Like his other theme songs—he was playing one for Erin. But not Erin the [Innkeeper] of so many emotions, wondrous and gentle.

He was playing a rock song for the chess monster sitting across from Pisces. Erin’s eyes flashed with amusement, and a ray of solar fire baked Pisces. She pointed at him, and his mind went blank as he saw what Inkar feared.

A hill—a mountain with burning eyes, as tall as the horizon, flanked by the legends of death, waiting for him. She spoke, and his bones quaked.

Your move.

 

——

 

The [Necromancer] died so fast that only his slow play drew out the match to five minutes. But that was okay—no one said anything as he tipped over his king piece, then shot out of his chair.

Mrsha was hiding behind Moore. They could only see—flickers of what Pisces was seeing. But they felt the inn trembling. Numbtongue liked it, and so did his band.

Kevin was slamming on a drum as Saliss took a backup guitar and Bird just—screamed into a microphone. The band was revolutionizing a sci-fi rock song genre, and the music was like a challenge. It slowed a bit as the [Necromancer] backed away and Erin stopped glowing.

What was—what was—

Pisces pointed at Erin, and the burning gaze faded. Erin blinked—and the glowing class and Skills faded. She poked at herself and then seemed to come out of a trance.

“Whoa. What was that?

That was what the chess players had to face. Gire, Niers’ students, the Titan himself—

Niers was grinning. He felt sweat rolling down his back, but he couldn’t stop the smile. What a monster.

If only she’d taken levels in her real class. But for a second, you could sit down and face—

Erin Solstice. 

Chaldion, the greatest chess player in Pallass, was sweating himself as he tried to figure out another move. His [Path to Victory]…

No longer seemed like the trump card it had been. Erin Solstice stood up. She spread her arms as she faced the scrying orb.

“I’ll be waiting. If nothing else, I’ll probably get tired. Now. Who’s coming at me? Sign up now. The first person to work up the rankings gets a chess match with me. And we continue until I lose.”

So who was going to play? The answer was…

Everyone.

 

——

 

Earl Altestiel was on his way back to Desonis from Calanfer. But he was screaming at Kiish to go faster, and his carriage was swerving left down a road. He’d begun picking up speed ever since this morning, but the first games in Liscor’s tournament had begun!

There was a two-silver entry fee, which Lyonette had imposed just to pay for all the [Mages] and stop the number of entrants from climbing past the thousands. In fact, she’d begged the Mage’s Guilds to send her the regional champions.

And even then—Altestiel was speaking into a stone.

“Your Majesty, every single [Strategist] and [Tactician] over Level 20 in Desonis. No, most won’t make it to the finals, but we need to flood the competition because there will be too many to play past otherwise. And they might level from the contest alone! Play yourself! Kiish and I will be entering the bracket in a half-an-hour, but I need to—”

He was headed to a neighboring kingdom that he’d been passing through. Location! Altestiel cursed not riding or finding an inn. But if he was going up against…

Erin? No, the Grandmaster of Scales, he needed more than to just be rested. He needed someone to bounce ideas off of.

And it was clear his only ally in the area had thought the same thing.

Lord Belchaus, the Lord of the Dance, came storming up the road towards Altestiel and whirled his horse around in a quick u-turn.

Altestiel! Get to my manor! We need to compare notes! I have stamina potions, boards set up—are we allowed to practice or get help while playing her?

“There’s no rule against it! Do you have any intellect potions?”

“No, but I’m sending for a [Tutor]!”

Brilliant! When’s your game?”

In an hour! Are we competing with each other?”

Altestiel didn’t know. He bared his teeth.

“I think—we had better plan on working together! If we’re going to take her down, it might have to be through exhaustion!”

They were speaking like she was some great monster to be slain. Like a Dragon! But if what he’d seen was true—she’d beaten Dragons. Erin Solstice was playing chess as he watched, and he would have felt a twisting in his stomach that she’d lose before he even got a chance.

But as he watched, she was taking on the first local champion of Liscor and any thoughts about the unfair system of the tournament was lost. Because if anything, the people playing her first games were the unlucky ones.

 

——

 

Thousands of people in Liscor had picked up a chess board after hearing about the quest. And the eighty gold pieces. Even if they had only played once or watched the game—why not give it a shot?

They organized in vast queues, playing each other, trying to psyche the others out, and using Skills liberally. The only cheating was asking another player to literally play for them.

But Skills? Skills were free-game, and the winners of each bracket would clash with each other as they rose in the rankings. International players who’d won their regional brackets squared off, but Liscor’s local tourney concluded fastest.

Who won the first tournament? Olesm was signed up for a scrying orb game, so he wasn’t participating.

But Wil, Venaz, and Merrik had signed up for the first tourney. If they lost, they could enter a later bracket and work their way up to Erin. They had reasoned that the only good players were Gireulashia, Bird, and possibly Klbkch the Slayer or a local [Strategist]. Pallass had its own game, so there was no one else, right?

In came Belgrade. Straight through the door that led to Liscor’s army. The chess games were so intense it was like watching him come in, pick up a chair from the inn, and beat Wil to death with it. Then he ran over Merrik.

Venaz was struggling. Gireulashia had gotten lucky with the Silverfang Gnolls who’d all queued up with her, but he had run into a bunch of Antinium.

Even if not all of them were as good as he was—they played far too well for amateurs. He was sweating as one took him down to trading his queen for a sacrificial play that netted him the closing checkmate. He got a bit of breathing room the next game.

“How did you get this far?”

Mrsha the Squire of Chess had beaten Relc, Menolit, and Visma to get to her spot. She cracked her knuckles as Venaz set up the board.

…Punting the Gnoll into the far wall in a metaphorical sense gave Venaz the chance to relax. Mrsha flipped the board in rage as she sulked off. He turned—and saw Belgrade dueling Rags.

The two were going at it like lightning, and the Goblin and the Antinium were good. Venaz eyed them, then frowned as he heard a howl.

No! I lost! Mrshaaaaaa!

Gire went crying to Mrsha, and the two hugged each other. They were joined by a sobbing Bird. Venaz twisted in his seat.

Gireulashia and Bird were both taken out of their bracket? He had assumed one would knock the other out after a tough game. But then Venaz found it was going to be him or his opponent versus what looked like Belgrade for a shot against Erin.

Rags was growling, but Belgrade was using his Skills, and Rags’ weren’t strategy oriented. Poisonbite kept trying to massage her Chieftain’s shoulders and distracting Rags.

So who had knocked Gire and Bird out? The opponent went to sit down, and Venaz eyed an unknown Antinium.

“Greetings. I am Venaz of Minos. Who are you?”

The Worker stared at him. He was no Painted Antinium, and Venaz’s first thought was that he was up against a [Crusader]. Or Garry?

No. The Worker had taken out Garry and everyone else. When the mandibles opened, Venaz’s blood ran cold. For it sounded like six voices were speaking through the Worker.

We are the Queens of the Antinium.

He looked up—and the Unitasis Network was flickering through the Worker. Six Queens were combining their intelligence. Then Venaz felt his skin crawl as an aura began pressing down at him.

“[Predictive Analysis].”

The Worker whispered. Venaz employed his own Skills.

[Unpredictable Insight]. He thought he saw a flaw in their thinking. What if he opened up with a side-charge from one of the knights? Then—the opening vanished.

Six minds were working in unison. The Minotaur slowly looked up as the Worker smiled. After all—even if they were divided, what if you could get six levels for the price of one?

F-foul! I’m facing more than one opponent.”

“It’s not against the rules. I’ve played the Antinium before. Do your best, Venaz.”

Belgrade was staring at the Queens as Erin Solstice waited. She was eying the Queens. And she knew they would be her final opponent, Belgrade or not.

It wasn’t just that they were six working as one—it was the intimidation factor. The Queens had a presence, a combined weight through their vessel. It pushed at Venaz. He was good enough to deal with it, but he was an inferior player who tried to go for speed to unsettle his opponents’ decisive moves.

They were six minds linked. Queens who could command a battlefield. In a sense, it was like watching them give Venaz a spanking. However—Belgrade was very good.

He fell to the intimidation aspect. The Queens pushed at him mentally, and he shook with nerves. His game began with a strike across the center of the board but lost momentum and fell apart. The Queens had an iron defense and fell for no tricks or casual mistakes—it was like they were checking each other’s moves, and so they never missed a weak point in their game.

Erin wondered if they were better than early computers. She sat across the Queens in a televised game.

 

——

 

Antinium versus a Human. Queens—Silvenia watched.

“Well. That’s certainly not fascinating.”

Yet she watched as she cast every predictive spell against her opponents. She had to camouflage who she was playing as, and she was actively trying to crash every connection she came across to give herself less opponents.

She hated chess. But hey…she smiled as several sacrificial Demons lined up. They looked reluctant as Silvenia pointed at them.

“[Siphon Luck]. Your sacrifice is appreciated.”

There were ways to play, and the Queens were using their best tactic. They came in hot, and Silvenia knew the pressure that True Antinium could exert.

…The first champion to face Erin was reflected in Altestiel and Lord Bel’s scrying orbs. The Titan, the Death of Magic, and the other opponents watched the Queens squaring off against Erin.

 

——

 

This time, the Queens found themselves in their real bodies. Staring up. They were all vast beings who towered over other Antinium. The Silent Queen gazed around the alternate chess-dimension, and the Armored Queen raised a rook like a shield.

“This is not a battle. Focus.”

The Twisted Queen snapped at the others. She was the best player, and she would have added Wrymvr to the connection—but he was terrible at chess. And Anand wanted to take Erin on personally.

“Our Skills must be employed. Intimidate her.”

The Grand Queen was leading the charge, and the Worker sitting across Erin in the physical world opened its mandibles and screeched.

[Intimidating Shout]!

The Free Queen was having fun, despite their sense of contest. But…she had a bad feeling that her fellow Queens were underestimating Erin. The class was writing itself in the air again.

 

[Temporary Class Assigned: Grandmaster of Death, Advent of Living Chess]

 

…But something was different about the Skills. Erin’s eyes flashed as the screaming Worker slowly stopped. She looked in pity at the Worker bound to the Queens.

“Play me yourself, you six.”

The Worker jerked and then recoiled from the board. Shaking, it looked at Erin as she winked at it. Then she turned, and the six Queens looking up at her saw a Skill writing itself in the sky.

“…That is not good. That is green. Is anyone else seeing that? I am. It’s a fetching color, but I’m getting uneasy.”

The Flying Queen’s mandibles clicked. In silence, the six Queens saw a Skill appear.

 

[Temporary Skill Assigned: The Laughing Folk Bowed to None; Neither Shall I]

 

Their auras winked out. The Queens looked up, and they thought they heard voices. Laughing at them. Chuckling, practically wheezing with mirth. The [Innkeeper] smiled.

“Challenger one. Let’s begin.”

 

——

 

The game between the Queens and Erin Solstice was causing ripples in the chess community.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Who is she? I think I know her. She’s…wasn’t she a chess prodigy?”

“Wait. You know her?”

The Earthers of Rhir were going crazy. Most of them were queueing up for local games, but one group of them was huddled around a laptop and coming up with a plan to win. However—there was one member of the thousand that had come to Rhir who stood head and shoulders above the rest.

That was International Master Antal Fekete of Hungary. An actual chess expert. For those who didn’t know—which were a lot of his peers—he was one rank below a Grandmaster of Earth, the highest chess level someone could obtain.

And he was watching Erin Solstice play one of the best games he’d seen against a bug-person. They were both playing at such a high level he no longer doubted her claims to being a Grandmaster of Scales.

…He was queued up against an ‘Earl’ of Desonis. Antal glanced over with a frown.

“I could use my laptop. I want to log this game—what are you doing?”

“Nothing! Just win this one, Antal. And if you don’t…”

“What are you doing with my chess program? If you’re going to cheat—”

Run for it!

A group of laughing young men and women ran, and Antal, cursing, got up. But then his chess game began, and he sat, biting his tongue. He began playing, but much to his dismay, whomever he was playing was close to his level or…

They had Skills he didn’t. It was like they had a predictive software of their own. Antal had to forfeit, and he sat back.

Chess—wasn’t like how a lot of newcomers thought it was. Erin’s claim of winning every match was incredible. True, if she was really the world’s best, then it was likely you’d draw a lot of games. But she was just aiming to win.

Now he saw that she had the benefit of Skills, it made sense. She was affecting her opponents on a psychological level. If they were relying on their own Skills—and she took them away—she was effectively someone with a much higher chess level crushing people who were using crutches.

It was like everyone had a chess bot they could sometimes use for pivotal moves. Which was cheating, and he quite understood why some would call this entire tournament rigged. Different rules for a different world.

Cheating in the world of chess…well, if Antal had the inclination to cheat, and he did not, he knew that all you needed at the highest level was a move or two. Not to cheat the entire game, but to have a perfect move at a decisive point in the match?

He supposed that could lead him to beat Grandmasters consistently if he had that. Which was why Skills were so upsetting to the fair game. However, that was also contingent on them being the best moves.

Chess was a game that favored AI. In that a computer could always, always win over a regular person because it could calculate optimal moves where they could not. Some Grandmasters could and did make machine-perfect moves, but not for an entire game.

A computer could. Most chess programs weren’t that powerful, especially ones built into a computer. But an artificial intelligence could beat even the ‘best’ mind.

He wondered what would happen if Erin ran into his laptop. Or…someone else.

 

——

 

Challengers #22 and #23 were odd. Erin’s games with each challenger were quick. Even if they took a long time, she was playing them in rapid lightning matches.

[Immortal Moments].

…But she was growing tired. She had run straight into Niers in her 4th match. The Titan of Baleros had pulled out every single Skill he thought he could use.

She had activated [Path to Victory]. Against him! He’d been forced to change his strategy in some way or lose—and Chaldion had been opponent #8.

The Cyclops of Pallass’ own Skill led him straight into a trap. His [Path to Victory] turned into an illusion.

 

[Temporary Skill Assigned: All Plans Fall to Dust And Ruin (Chess)]

 

That had been when her opponents realized she could appear with a Skill that not only trumped theirs, but deceived their actual Skills.

If they had one consolation, it was this: Erin Solstice would lose.

She might have been boosted every time she sat down in a challenge match, but the mortal body was weaker. Erin Solstice was visibly tired after the 20th game against the Blighted King, but her game was still as sharp as a blade.

Earl Altestiel, Eldavin, Viscount Visophecin—they were just among the twenty-one players she’d brought low. Soon, though…she might begin slipping up. How many games until she fell over? Of course, all she had to do was lose once.

…So while it felt like her opponents were literally getting punched by boulders when she took a piece across the chess board or staring at an undead [Queen] pointing a legion of chess pieces at them—that was only what they saw.

If anything, the most interesting parts for the audience watching was seeing Erin Solstice talk to her opponents and acting away from the chess board. She would speak to them a minute or two before she sat down and played, mostly in silence.

That was the fascinating part for people not interested in chess.

“Well, hey there! Magus-Crafter Femithain? Wait a second, don’t I know that name? Saaaay—did you attack my friend?”

The leader of Illivere blinked at Erin as she waved someone over. He bowed slightly.

“Adventurer Ksmvr. I regret to say that I was an impolite host.”

“Oh, hello Magus-Crafter Femithain. You were a very wonderful host. I regret that someone accidentally freed Nsiia. Yes. Have you seen Yinah or Spitty? Or Nsiia? She stole my sword.”

Ksmvr bowed to Femithain, and the Magus-Crafter hesitated.

“I regret that I have not exchanged words with any of them, Ksmvr.”

“Wonderful. I mean, that you know each other.”

Erin smiled wanly and yawned. The sun was still high in the sky, but it was on its way down. She looked at Challenger #21, and Femithain blinked as Erin motioned someone into frame.

It was a tossup who Erin met, and it was mostly just good chess players. Some people could fake their way to the top via magic, but to Silvenia’s complete and utter fury, she’d lost to Feshi. Luck, magic, Skills to intimidate or read an opponent—

The game was better than that. Nevertheless, there was a correlation most times between the players and their station. If only because a [King] could politely suggest to his vassals that they let him win.

Like Flos, who took Orthenon and Gazi’s spots to get a shot at Erin. Raelt himself kicked the King of Destruction off that region of Chandrar’s championship. Then Fetohep beat him.

However, if you made it to Erin…she motioned someone into frame, and Femithain hesitated.

“This is Rags. Hey, Rags, it’s the guy who makes Golems.”

“He rules an entire nation. Hello.”

Rags gave Erin a brief look, and the [Innkeeper] looked embarrassed. But Femithain bowed very politely.

“Good evening, Chieftain.”

“Greetings to you.”

That was all. And Femithain was probably being polite, but the Magus-Crafter didn’t miss how Erin had laughed with Altestiel before making Belgrade come over to say hi. She wasn’t bad at statecraft at all.

He bowed, sat, and Erin Solstice played like thunder for eighteen minutes. Then she got up and stretched.

“Who’s Challenger #22?”

The fascinating thing about her games of chess was not the incomprehensible and difficult notation of the chess games—but who was trying to get a chance to play her.

And who was not able to do so.

 

——

 

A cursing Drake was edging into line in the huge queue going to Liscor from Pallass. She was checking her dark red dress when someone tapped her shoulder.

“‘Scuse me. ‘Scuse me. I’m headed to the inn, and no, I was not waiting in line. Who do you think I am? I just came back to grab some stuff—out of the way, I’m important.”

Saliss of Lights was strolling through the crowd, after his band performance. He had come back here, apparently just to annoy the crowds by deliberately stepping in front of people waiting for the inn. He shoved Lady Salkis out of the way and stopped as he saw the top chess championship of Pallass ending.

“Victory!”

A laughing Human woman fanned herself, a [Merchant] by the looks of it, as one of the [Strategists] under Chaldion slumped. She stood up, and a [Guardsman] hurried over.

“Adventurer Saliss, please stop getting in the way of the queue. The door is cycling. You can enter in ten minutes.”

“Ah, damn. Is this the winner? Hello, Miss!”

“Oh my. A naked Drake. You must be Saliss of Lights.”

The woman gave Saliss an amused glance. She had black lipstick and winked at him. He threw an arm around her shoulders, and she glowered as he grinned at her.

“Are you heading to play Erin? Fancy that, so am I! Ten minutes? Say, do you need to buy any magical makeup? A potion, perhaps?”

“I, ah—”

The woman gave the [Guards] a desperate glance, and they tried to peel Saliss off her, but he practically dragged her back.

“Come on, let’s go for a walk! I have a bunch of potions to foist—I mean, sell to top people!”

The woman smiled desperately, but there was no help for it. The Drake was strong. She followed him down the 8th Floor, and somehow, the pedestrians waiting for the door practically vanished only two corners from the door.

“Mister Saliss, please. You’re hurting me.”

They turned down a quiet street as the last Drake woman hurrying the other way vanished. Saliss looked concerned.

“I am? I didn’t ruin your makeup, did I? How do you do it? Wonderful powder. It even conceals dead skin.”

The Human woman looked perplexed, and she snapped open her fan. Then she slashed it across Saliss’ neck—or where he had been.

He ducked. And the undead woman lurched back and stared at the acid eating one foot. She swiveled.

Wretch.

Nerrhavia’s ghost struggled to control Az’kerash’s minion as she raised the fan. She had no Skills, so the corpse began firing [Deathbolts]. She turned, and Saliss slapped a glowing ember into the corpse’s mouth. Nerrhavia’s ghost recoiled as, remotely, the puppet burst into flames.

“Now who are you?

Saliss kicked the puppet aside and bent, warily, to tear open the chest with a knife as several Eyes of Pallass appeared, but the corpse began to disintegrate, and he stepped back with a sigh.

 

——

 

Az’kerash cursed as his third puppet failed to get to Erin.

He had none in Liscor, which he hadn’t thought was a problem—but two had been taken out, one by the [Guards], another by Saliss just now. The third had just lost a contest in Invrisil. Fuming, the Archmage of Death debated how risky it would be to play Erin remotely via scrying orb.

“I can invoke one of my puppets to play the [Innkeeper]. Why do you, Nerrhavia, require a game up close? You claim to be one of the finest players!”

Nerrhavia scowled at him.

“Do not be uppity with me, [Necromancer]. Do you think Erin Solstice won’t squash you like an insect across the board? She calls herself the Grandmaster of Scales. She beat Dragons and Giants in the lands of the dead. I have one chance, and that is to be up close with a vessel. To distract her.”

The Necromancer folded his arms.

“Well, I fear that is unlikely. Two agents are now defunct, and I have no more I care to lose with Named-rank adventurers on patrol. The risk is beyond me.”

“Oh, then go and play your little game, Necromancer. I shall enjoy watching you lose.”

Nerrhavia turned and ignored him completely. Az’kerash ground his teeth—but he had seen Tulm lose the fifth game against Erin Solstice. Now—he turned, and Challenger #22 appeared. He halted, and Nerrhavia’s head turned back.

“Hello. Who is this girl?”

 

——

 

The scrying orb showing Erin’s next challenger made even the [Innkeeper] stop.

“Hi? Um…are you, uh, uh, I know your name. You’re…”

Cognita Truestone.

Every head in the inn turned, and Ceria began to choke on her popcorn. She hadn’t even bothered to try taking Erin on, circlet or not. But Cognita?

The Truestone Golem had beaten the Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen and everyone else in Nerrhavia. Now—she sat down.

“Am I not allowed to play, Erin Solstice?”

“No…but I don’t know if the <Quest> will work on you. W-wow.”

The Golem was made of marble and perfectly composed. She raised one brow.

“I merely desire to challenge you. I am Zelkyr’s creation, and I have picked up chess like every other game. Will you oblige me?”

Erin Solstice exhaled.

“…Yeah. Just out of curiosity. How good are you?”

Cognita’s smile was her only reply. Erin Solstice sat down—and no Skills activated. Her eyes didn’t blaze. The <Quest> didn’t acknowledge her opponent. But Erin did.

Thus began the longest game of chess yet. It was just Erin—versus a Truestone Golem. The first thing that Erin and some of the people who knew chess realized was this:

Cognita was no computer.

Or rather, she wasn’t as adept as a computer program. But she was the closest thing to it. Erin did not place pieces down with certainty. She sat and played.

The game took two hours and five minutes. When it was done, Erin looked toasted. She had a handful of pawns and a knight against several of Cognita’s and the audience was dead silent.

However, before the Golem could try to corner Erin, the [Innkeeper] forced a threefold repetition—something that most novice chess players had no idea was even a rule. That technically made the game a draw.

“Draw. Another game?”

Erin croaked. But Cognita just stood up.

“I believe I am satisfied. Fare well on your next game, Erin.”

The [Innkeeper] nodded. Then she groaned as another player appeared in the scrying orb. Due to the delay, all the other champions had lined up and beaten each other senseless.

“Who’s next?”

“Correy, from Rhir! Hey, Erin! I’m totally a fan!”

A young man sat confidently behind a chess board. Erin frowned at him and sat up…and nothing happened. He began playing, and Erin began playing too.

Chess Challenger #23 was as strange as #22. None of Erin’s Skills activated—and yet, this young man had beaten even Chaldion in a chess game against the other people waiting for a turn.

Whether it was Erin’s exhaustion or his abilities—he had Erin from the moment they began. The [Innkeeper] started losing pieces. Lyonette ran over with a refreshing drink and food, but Erin merely lifted a hand after forty-six moves.

“Wait.”

“What’s wrong? No takebacks. I’m a [Fire Mage], and I want to level.”

Correy was smiling, but he had been staring at something just past Erin every few seconds. He had frizzy red hair that made him look his class—and his smile was too relaxed.

The other chess players, from Chaldion to Niers, were waiting as Erin Solstice glanced at him. Their suspicions were confirmed when Erin pushed the board back.

“I’m afraid, Correy—that the game’s off. You’re cheating.”

“What? No I’m not! Prove it.”

Erin just stared down at the chessboard, and Antal nodded. If he’d been able to use his own computer, he suspected he’d be able to perfectly match Correy to an algorithm’s perfect moves. But then again—he didn’t have to guess.

Correy was staring at his damn laptop. Erin Solstice might not have had proof, but she just folded her arms. And her eyes flashed.

“The <Quest> and I know you’re cheating. What’s up, Correy?”

“Hey, I’m a huge fan, Erin. We should talk.”

“Maybe, but not here. You don’t belong in that seat. Next?”

It was the same thing that Niers and the other opponents that Correy had ‘beaten’ had sensed. It was one thing to ask for advice. When Altestiel met Erin on the board, the Lord of the Dance was talking to him on one side, Kiish reading out fellow [Strategists]’ input in the other ear.

But it was still a joint effort, a communal victory or one person taking help. There was a difference between even that and letting someone else do all the work. Letting a computer play for you. Erin turned her head away, and Correy got mad. He leaned over the board.

“Hey! I’m w—”

The [Innkeeper]’s eyes flashed. Then Correy shouted, and his scrying orb went dark. A flash of light bloomed—and the laptop exploded. She blinked, but Challenger #23 vanished. The only sound she heard before the feed cut was someone else—a young man?

He was laughing in a high-pitched cackle. The [Clown] howled with laughter amid the screams and Correy’s shouts of pain.

“Did…did I do that?”

Erin gulped. She didn’t think so. And if she didn’t do that—she saw Nerry staring up at her, as wide-eyed as Ulvama.

A bunch of potential cheaters eyed her face…and slowly put away their various cheating implements.

 

——

 

She was insane. Drassi’s Channel 2 news was breaking records—again. Even the famous summit with the Arbiter Queen hadn’t done this well—because the news was becoming something people tuned into.

However—what was significant about this wasn’t just the games themselves, but how people were interacting. It was almost as fun to watch people getting mad about Erin or hearing alternate takes.

“She has to be cheating herself. There is no way a Human can beat every person who’s gone up against her. She’s not even old! Her brain isn’t half as big as—as a Gorgon’s!”

A Lizardfolk woman was ranting after being kicked out of the second-rung of her tournament. Some people were also pointing to Erin’s use of Skills as clear proof that this was all rigged.

Others were just mad because most of the opponents making it to Erin were Humans or humanoid. Another Lizardfolk grabbed the magical microphone.

“This is a conspiracy! I’ve been counting, and do you know how many Lizardfolk got to play that Human? Two! Umina and one of our Lamias! Two out of twenty! Everyone else is a Human!”

“What about Tulm the Mithril?”

The [Mage] doing the interviews had to ask. The Lizardman scowled.

“Practically Human!”

“Fetohep of Khelt? He’s undead!”

“Still a Human!”

“The Quarass?”

At this point, the Lizardman hesitated.

“Uh—well, she’s Human right now!”

“What about the Antinium who faced Erin first?”

Stop saying things that refute my point.

Not everyone was a fan of Erin Solstice when all was said and done, for reasons that were better or worse depending on the logic involved. However, for every person complaining?

 

——

 

“Well, well, well. So my opponent is none other than the famous Feshi of the Gnoll Tribes?”

If Erin Solstice were flashy enough in her games with her opponents, her aura was still mostly confined to people who sat down against her. Drassi had tried to show the audience what it looked like to play against Erin. But the scrying orb only caught…flashes.

Like a flash of a distant lunar battleground—a vision—flickering across the air. Or those black wings, Void Dragonfire, or the hints of laughter running around her.

Which was making some people think she was a Dragon. No, no, think about it. Who knew how to play chess that well? She had magical fire, right? And she just happened to start an inn outside Liscor? Who survives crossbow bolts? Dragons.

Cirediel thought the theory was sort of stupid because he noticed, but he also saw the appeal. The wings looked hot.

But he was cramming popcorn into his mouth with his friends in a bar as he saw one of the challengers sit down to vie to be one of Erin’s opponents. He had the scrying orb’s control, but every time a game began, Cire kept switching channels.

Because he hated chess. But watching the people talk? That was something.

The Earth Dragon felt it. In that way, he saw something people were missing.

The opponents from around the world were talking to each other. Feshi Weatherfur looked up as someone entered the scrying orb’s frame opposite her. He came in like a wrestler entering a titleship match.

Fifteen servants set up a raucous serenade of trumpets as a man in armor ran forwards to cheers from his audience. His enchanted armor flashed as he threw back a cloak off his shoulders and pointed a finger at her.

General Thelican of Nerrhavia’s Fallen was all show, despite having lost three bids for a championship position. And while Feshi herself was perplexed by his entry—he was beaming.

“I am delighted to meet you, Feshi Weatherfur!”

“Thank you, General Thelican. How is Nerrhavia’s Fallen?”

His face fell slightly.

“Oh, we’re at war with the King of Destruction, but you know how it is. Unlike some nations, we’re used to facing legends on the field, eh? You’ve clashed with the Walled Cities—how are the tribes, if you don’t mind me asking?”

It was a rather insensitive question, but Thelican followed it up with some actual insight.

“As I understand it, the lack of Chieftains means your Tribes will be partnering and safeguarding the younger ones until Chieftains emerge. No direct appointing to the role and risking a poor candidate. I think that’s a fascinating way to run leadership classes.”

Feshi blinked and ducked her head.

“That is…the way the tribes organize. I am impressed you know this, if you do not mind me saying so.”

“Everyone has been fascinated with Gnoll culture. I was dining on silkap just the other night. Delightful dish.”

What, the snack for dinner? There were obviously some disconnects, but Thelican could do worse. And in fact, he insisted on talking for nearly twenty minutes before the game even began and while it played. That was partly why he’d won some games; not all of his opponents could talk and play.

“I shall send you a suit of Nerrhavia’s [Sandstorm Dervish] armor—the kind we arm our best warriors with. Obviously, we are used to fighting in different terrain, but I think you might take something from it. And some fine items from home. A rug, perhaps. A flying rug—send her some good vintages.”

He clicked his fingers grandly to his servants, and Feshi looked surprised, but Thelican had been doing this all day. She hesitated and ducked her head.

“Then I shall send you some of Weatherfur’s finest paints and dyes. I am told even Nerrhavia lacks for the pigments we have.”

“Truly?”

Thelican raised a cup, and half of Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s [Painters] began to lambast Feshi and mock the tribal Gnoll…until she smiled.

“You do not have access to them, General Thelican. We do not sell such dyes save at the Meeting of Tribes due to how rare they are. I will send you some for cloth.”

That made him smile.

 

——

 

[Strategists] from across the world were introducing themselves. In fact, the Blighted King, whenever he appeared in a scrying orb against his opponents, often took the time to briefly speak to them.

He was one of the world’s top players. Which astonished anyone outside of Rhir. The Lizardman’s complaint wasn’t entirely unjustified.

Of the best players—the Blighted King, Eldavin, and the Titan of Baleros were among the finest. Added to that, the Lord of the Dance and one more.

Archmage Feor was the last of the five best players that Magnolia Reinhart had once vouchsafed to Erin Solstice. All five men had lost.

Even the Blighted King’s Skills lost against Erin. Eldavin? She had beaten him once before. Their games were among the best, but Erin Solstice was not losing.

—In fact, when the Archmage of Elves waited for his turn, heart pounding, ready to greet her, he saw the oddest sight.

Challenger #46 saw Erin Solstice blearily walking around the inn, gulping down coffee, as she yawned. But then a cheering group of people had her on the floor.

Doing pushups. Feor watched as a group of Redfangs shouted, trying to give what they thought was a boost to Erin’s energy.

Five! Six! Faster! Harder! Stronger!”

Redscar was screaming at Erin. The [Innkeeper] was screaming back.

“Stop making me do pushups! I hate exercise!”

It was the silliest thing in the world, and when she saw Feor staring at her, she turned beet red. But there she was.

Like Niers, no—like no one before, Erin Solstice was dead center in the news, doing what she did best. Which was, when you got down to it, chess. She wiped sweat from her brow, sat down, and smiled.

“Hey, is it Archmage Feor! Wow! This is amazing! Ceria—hey Ceria, Falene, look!”

She turned to Ceria and Falene, and both half-Elves pretended they didn’t know her. Erin was meeting people that she had heard of only as famous names. Eldavin, Tulm, the Blighted King…

But not Magnolia Reinhart. The reason was simple. Magnolia was watching the chess games, but she had declined to participate. Mostly because she had a fairly good idea how well she would do without obvious Skills that would lean on the competition and make her look unfortunate.

However—she was smiling. In that exasperated way she had when she watched Erin do anything, but with some genuine admiration.

Now, that was not to say that Magnolia was not part of this entire affair. Heavens, no. Lord Tyrion Veltras and the other Five Families might have lacked the, ah, chess acumen to make it to face Erin Solstice.

With the exception of Lord Deilan El. But Magnolia Reinhart was a [Lady]. She knew how to invite herself into the right situations even lacking the pure chess ability of some, and she could manufacture that moment herself.

“…It seems as though Archmage Feor is quite taken with Miss Solstice. Did she ask if he ‘got her letter’? My word, she is speaking to everyone.”

She lightly fanned herself as she turned to address the rest of her panel. Which was Queen Jecaina, a terrified Yerranola, Drassi herself, a very pleased King Reclis of Calanfer, and yes, in deference to Lizardfolk fury, Lamia Tusxe, a mercenary commander on Rhir.

They were providing commentary, and unlike Jecaina’s more clinical trial, this wasn’t about law. In fact, instantly, King Reclis leaned forwards.

He was just as good as Magnolia.

“Please, Lady Reinhart. Are you insinuating that Miss Solstice is in a…clandestine literary affair with more than just the Titan of Baleros?”

“Your Majesty of Calanfer, what are you suggesting? There’s nothing untoward about letters. If there were, Erin would be in bed with half a dozen [Kings] and some [Queens].”

“Really?”

Lamia Tusxe nearly spat out her drink as Magnolia chuckled. She gave Reclis a smile which he returned. It was like they were playing a game of chess themselves, only they were learning the rules.

Oh, so this was how you did it? Drassi broke in with a laugh.

“Lady Reinhart, King Reclis, you two are crazy. But is Erin actually sending letters to…Archmage Feor? Oh my, she’s destroying him on the board. I think we’ll let our analysts tell us how the game went.”

Magnolia pursed her lips as Jecaina squinted at the board.

“It looks like Archmage Feor in the first part of the game actually opened up his left rook by moving his pawn forwards. Can we replay that, Drassi? My, my. I didn’t know he was this amusing.”

“My understanding is that Archmage Feor is considered a top-level player across the world, in the [Mage] community and elsewhere, Lady Reinhart. I, myself, have played him, and I was considered one of the foremost players in Calanfer. What is so amusing?”

Reclis teased her as Yerranola fumbled with her notes. Magnolia just sighed.

“I happen to know that is called the, ah…what was it? The Kadas Opening? A very bad opening for a very fine player, indeed. Archmage Feor might well be a skilled player, but I have been assured that is a terrible way to start a game. From playing myself, you understand. Perhaps it works on other players, but not Miss Solstice.”

“I believe she’s seen it before, uh, uh, Lady Reinhart. Y-your Majesty. She took it apart very fast.”

Yerranola stuttered in, and Magnolia turned.

“Miss Yerranola, please. Magnolia will do. Or even Mags. You must come by Oteslia, and I will host you. What I am pleased about, though, is that Erin is keeping herself fed.”

The rest of her commentary group looked askance as Magnolia smiled at Erin. Queen Jecaina murmured.

“You must be joking, Lady Reinhart.”

“Humans. She’s going to die. Wait, I heard you had sugar for blood. Do you eat like that?”

Tusxe pointed in horror as Erin, desperate to replenish her energy levels, snatched a bowl of ice cream from Lyonette’s hands, then dumped it in a cup of milk. She proceeded to pour in her cup of coffee and add in a nali-stick. Magnolia smiled.

“Not in that way, but I have a tiny sweet tooth.”

“Someone—someone stop Mrsha. Hey, Drassi—stop Mrsha!”

The Gnoll was trying to copy Erin’s example and make her own coffee latte ice cream shake with extra nali. Drassi ran off-screen and intercepted Mrsha. Magnolia defended herself as Reclis, Jecaina, and Tusxe took her to task about her eating habits.

Nothing would do then for them all to make the shake and publicly shudder—except for Tusxe, who finished hers. Meanwhile, Reclis eyed a certain red-haired young woman. Well, formerly red-haired.

She was wearing a bad wig. Magnolia rolled her eyes, but she kept going. This was quite amusing.

 

——

 

“Erin.”

Ryoka Griffin was watching her friend. So were the other Humans. They had to be. From a certain [Driver] heading north with an excited Antinium, to the Earthers of Rhir, the Singer of Terandria…

They saw her and saw Erin doing what she did best. Something wild and crazy. Her friend, the Wind Runner, wanted to be in Liscor. She was so antsy she almost went over to where Lord Pellmia, Tyrion, and a bunch of [Lords] and [Ladies] were scheming.

“What is the easiest tournament? No, no, I don’t want a local one—this is First Landing. Enter us in the Yoldenite tournament. Lord Pellmia, Lord Tyrion…fine, make them Drake names. Lord Pellsia, Tyllion—”

They were, uh, not doing well. Ryoka hadn’t bothered trying to get in the tournament. She had played Erin when the [Innkeeper] was being nice.

Right now, it looked like Erin Solstice could breathe fire and spit lightning. In a literal sense. Some of her Skills seemed to actually sap her opponents’ strength. Every time she took a piece off the board when she played a Centaur [Tactician], he grew paler and paler.

Mind you, he had already begun hyperventilating, but Ryoka actually saw a phantom bolt of lightning, like a flickering apparition, go through him when she knocked out his queen. He trotted around in a circle in his scrying orb—then passed out.

“Whoa! She’s killing them if she wins! It’s a chess game to the death! That’s awesome. Ryoka, Ryoka, it’s your move.

Sammial thought it was neat. He slapped his board impatiently, and Ryoka glanced down. She was playing him and Hethon, and she frowned.

“You moved your pieces.”

“I get my pawn back.”

“…Why?”

“Because you have too many of my pieces! I get my pawn back!”

Sammial insisted. He folded his arms, and Ryoka rolled her eyes.

“Sure, take your pawn back. Check.”

“Argh!”

As the young [Lord] tried to scheme his way back to a victory, Ryoka turned to the scrying orb once more. What impressed her about Erin was not the Skills or the <Quest>. Well, those were amazing, as was her wiping out foe after foe. But it wasn’t even her meeting the rich and powerful. To Ryoka, that was dangerous. It wasn’t the community, the excitement…

It was Ryoka Griffin’s eternal envy for anyone who saw her opponents in that half-seen world. What she and her chess opponents saw was mostly lost to Ryoka. But the Wind Runner knew—perspective. She watched Viscount Visophecin appear in the scrying orb and his careful look at Erin Solstice.

She suspected that Erin saw something completely unique. She hoped that Erin was smart about it. This was the second game, and if the first had been any indication—

Erin had seen him.

 

——

 

It was just supposed to be a game. Once more, he sat down and sank into another dimension. Unlike the other players, he knew other dimensions.

This was a power like his own. Given to an [Innkeeper] for this quest? Incredible. Unbelievable.

But what made the Lucifen’s skin crawl even as he kept his face smiling for the cameras was this.

The illusion of a man faded, and a Devil spread his wings. He stood in a world of blackness as a roaring river the size of an ocean ran under the chess board hovering in the air.

Another area this time? The Lucifen looked up, and there was no giant this time. Erin Solstice was sitting across from him, tired. Mortal. Frail. Sweaty.

So—why was his hand shaking? He looked at it idly and then at her. His true form was revealed. The first time, he had been so disconcerted he’d thrown the match.

This time…he watched her face and wondered if he would have to kill her. For she was seeing something she should not be able to. Yet she was Ryoka’s friend. And what made the Lucifen’s heart beat fast was…

The [Witch of Second Chances] sat there. Empowered by the glowing Skills and class hovering over her head. But that was not what made Visophecin freeze.

There were a pair of horns growing out of her head. Her skin was grey, like his, and when she smiled, her pointed teeth were a copy of his own. He looked at her—and she nodded to him.

“Viscount Visophecin, isn’t it? Ailendamus?”

“Yes.”

He knew their voices were being picked up by the scrying orbs, even if this wasn’t. The Viscount had heard her greeting some of the Humans with familiarity, but no one could say what was truly secret. Yet—Erin just nodded.

“Ailendamus must be a fun place. Although I don’t support the war. I have friends that Ailendamus attacked. You look familiar, though.”

“I don’t believe we have met. Although we did play earlier today.”

The Lucifen carefully scrutinized her face. The [Innkeeper] leaned back and laughed. Her eyes glittered red, and she smiled.

 

[Temporary Skill Assigned: Visions of Defeat (Legendary)]

 

Slowly, the Devil gazed past Erin as a figure walked out of the shadows. He said nothing at all as a Lucifen wearing Chandrarian clothing in the style of old Khelt plucked an obsidian rose and placed it behind Erin’s ear, like a memento. The [Innkeeper] didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ve met a lot of interesting people today. It’s familiar. Now—shall we begin? How far away is Ailendamus, anyways?”

A [Princess] walked into the void and whispered urgently in her ear. Visophecin had seen the [Princess] and the Thronebearers cueing Erin into her guests. She blinked and laughed as Lyonette hurried away with a look at Visophecin. He nodded to her.

“Far from Liscor, I am afraid.”

Erin sighed.

“Everything cool is. But tell you what. If you ever travel to Izril—consider visiting my inn?”

The Lucifen saw her lift a chess piece, and he managed a reply as the first piece came thundering down and the river below him began to twist and roar.

“I believe I shall if ever the opportunity arises.”

 

——

 

Visophecin went down in flames, but he didn’t just go back to preparing for another game. Instead—he pulled out a [Message] spell as the Lucifen and Agelum demanded to know if everything was still safe.

He assured them it was and logged onto the world’s largest [Message] thread group.

 

Viscount V: Attacking her control by focusing on her knights did nothing. She is endlessly adaptive.

Rainy Boy: She still prefers to take the center. I suggest that anyone going at her force her into more unique patterns.

E: I will not waste my chance on possibilities, Earl. It seems to me that trying to be ‘unique’ is a surefire way to lose; better to play an opening you know well.

Rainy Boy: You say that—but I have seen her lose.

Viscount V: To whom?

Fetohep: Your diction is excellent. I believe that would be Bird, who plays in unique styles, is it not?

Strategist Coleom of Chandrar, Nerrhavia’s Fallen: Archmage Eldavin, I am such a huge fan of yours. Could I ask you if you’d be willing to entertain a visit to—

E: Deleted. Apologies. Didn’t someone press her quite hard? Who played her in that game with diagonal approaches?

Scout Leader Illn: Me?

Rainy Boy: Wonderful game. She might be adaptive, but she has a weakness. Does anyone want to volunteer to try that on her?

Fetohep: Assuming the chance occurs, I shall.

Quarass: And I. Excuse me, I was away.

Mri: AND MY AXE! Forsooth! I have defeated Erin Solstice before and have come to impart my wisdom!

E: Get out of here. And stop coming back.

 

——

 

The second day of the party was all about chess. Chess and meetings. Lyonette thought she was mostly ready for the big party on the final day. Even if Pawn and she…

She was staying up, lighting lanterns, and there was still a huge crowd, even if the children had long since passed out. Because there was Erin Solstice.

Challenger #87. Fetohep, again. His golden eyes burned in the darkness as he tipped over a king piece.

They were…cycling. Eighty-seven challengers, and most had gone through [Immortal Moments]. Otherwise—it might have been days.

Erin looked like she was spent. She just nodded to Fetohep, but she waited. Niers, Chaldion—all of the players that were the best kept reappearing to take their shot at her.

And each time, they got closer. However, they were feeling the effects of exhaustion, and, too late, Niers realized he should have gone to sleep and started fresh.

That was hindsight for you. The world’s audience and Drassi were just waiting to see who finally took Erin Solstice down.

It was like watching a pack of Carn Wolves taking down a Mossbear. They were circling—and then one would come in, and there would be a flash of fangs and a bitter, bloody battle. The [Innkeeper] was no longer smiling.

She was concentrating, and she was visibly reacting to the quality of her opponents. She actually groaned when the scrying orb flickered.

“You again.”

A lot of weaker challengers were appearing, local regional masters. However, while some were surprising, Erin could knock a Naga flat, or Beatrice, or even Valeterisa.

…But the Quarass of Germina was a top-tier opponent. She twirled a pawn on one finger, then put it down. Erin inhaled—

And the Quarass stood by the thousands. Lifetimes of mastery facing down a world of ghosts. Erin Solstice looked in her eyes, and the Quarass nodded.

We have more to talk about than mere games.

The [Innkeeper] was blazing out, but she was going down swinging. She put down a piece, and the Quarass felt it like a quake.

Take me out and we’ll talk. The [Innkeeper]’s mouth was a line of concentration as she bit her lip to keep herself focused. You cannot best me that easily.

“Dead gods, they’re going at it.”

A yawning Qwera watched as pieces flew off the board and the Quarass and Erin’s hands blurred under the effects of their [Immortal Moment]. To outsiders, it looked like they were sped up, locked at the horns.

Speaking of horns…Olesm pushed himself back from the table and went back for his second rematch as Venaz smashed a fist on his board. Erin Solstice took down the Quarass and wobbled. She looked up.

“Niers? Don’t you have any sympathy for little old me?”

The Titan appeared, grinning.

“This is your hour, Erin. Show us how the ‘World’s Greatest Player’ goes down. Five seconds per move? Flash game?”

He taunted her, and Erin’s lips moved.

 

[Temporary Skill Assigned: My Thoughts Run Like Lightning]

 

A crackling storm swept over the void between them, and the Titan sighed as he saw her straighten her back.

Bring it on.

The Skills were still adapting to every opponent. Niers lost, swearing vividly, as Erin drew him into a rapid defeat. He couldn’t keep up with her!

…However, that had drained her even more. But now the audience was riveted. Again, not by the game.

By the atmosphere. The fourth challenger in a row appeared.

Fetohep, the Quarass, the Titan. And then…

International Master Antal Fekete appeared to cheers. Like the [Hero] facing the final boss—they were beginning to cheer on each player.

“You again. I’m sorry I can’t play without Skills…”

At this point, Erin was recognizing her opponents’ levels, and she gave him a guilty smile. Antal replied.

“No need. You’re insane.”

It was not the first time they had played together. But it might be the last. There was no roar of black wings beating, no moon this time.

Antal sat in an [Immortal Moment], with words only for the two of them. In a [Garden of Sanctuary], feeling a spring breeze blowing across his face. He looked up as they played under a vast sakura tree with light green petals blowing in the wind.

Erin Solstice sat in the dress the owner of this garden had once worn. A silk kimono perhaps, but so long it spilled around her resting on a blanket over soft grass as she studied the chess board in front of them. Her hair was pinned by a single jade-green hairpin. She looked serene. Exhausted—and he thought she looked like a reigning champion waiting for him as she sat there.

“There’s so much I want to talk to you about.”

That was all Antal said. He looked at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] looked up. She smiled briefly.

“I know. I’m sorry, though. I’m tired. And—I’m playing you at my best.

Her eyes flickered, and the wind picked up. Antal’s heart was already racing. They could only speak like this briefly—but he spoke, desperate.

“I know, but you’re my senior in chess and—here. Do you know anything?”

He was a hero of Rhir. Erin Solstice looked up slowly, and her eyes were sympathetic.

“I don’t know everything, Antal. But I can tell you this: it will not be easy. It’s all real, and—I cannot go across the world. Not yet. If you come to me, if you need help, I will try to give it. But you’re going to need to find your way.”

“…I just play chess.”

The [Chess Player] closed his eyes. When he opened them, the [Innkeeper] was smiling gently.

“So do I. It won’t solve everything. But take this moment and use it. You’re not alone. You have to do your best. More than you ever thought you could. This? This is your first step. Show me what you have.”

Then the breeze in the garden became a gale. Antal thought he saw a flaming bee flying past them as a hurricane blew around them, and he should have been so disconcerted that he didn’t play well. Instead—his mind was on fire, and he was pushing himself and hoping he remembered every move of this game.

He felt alive, like the truest moments of genius he had ever captured, like he was reading a hundred moves ahead. And his opponent was living in this world? Antal looked up at her as she came at him, and he wondered what opponents she’d met to make her smile like that.

He dreamed, in that moment—of playing chess with species he had never met. With Djinni and [Queens] and immortal beings and Golems. And he was not so afraid of the future.

 

——

 

The game took an hour and thirty-one minutes. To the audience? A minute, thirty-one seconds. Erin took a desperate gulp of a stamina potion, but she was swaying when she sat down.

“Come on, easy opponent. Easy opponent. Oh—uh, I didn’t mean to be mean.”

A Drowned Woman grinned as she saluted Erin in a swaying cabin. She whispered.

“Shh, if you please. We’re in the deeps. But it’s an honor to play.”

In silence, they dueled, and the Drowned Woman bowed out as fast as she’d entered, looking pleased to have challenged Erin. But—it wasn’t clear that even these ‘breaks’ were helping Erin. She raised bloodshot eyes and smiled mirthlessly.

“Et tu, Anand?”

The [Strategist] raised his arms as the Antinium began clicking and applauding wildly. So did the Goblins, cheering him.

“Erin. I’m sorry, but I wish to win.”

So do I.

Even now—Anand’s raised mandibles trembled. The [Innkeeper] took a breath—and her eyes began glowing again.

“Oh dead gods, it’s like that’s her special form or something. It’s like she’s a boss about to do a special attack. Joseph. Hey, Joseph. Do you think you’ll be able to do that in soccer?

Kevin whispered to Joseph as Erin faced Anand down. The [Football Coach] hesitated. He imagined someone activating a Skill for a kick.

“We’re already in a videogame, Kevin. She’s just the final boss of chess.”

“Dude, I make bikes. What kind of videogame is that?”

How little he knew. Erin staggered off to the bathroom, but she came back in three minutes. She sat down and actually fell asleep. Her head dipped—she jerked upright—

And her opponents knew it was time.

Who was next who could take her out? Who was going to get that level?

Az’kerash, wearing a puppet-Naga, was trying to bludgeon the Lord of the Dance out of the way, and he’d had a winning position, but the nimble [Lord] was hanging on for dear life. Tulm the Mithril was determined to crush Feshi, but the Gnoll was hanging on. Umina and Olesm were vying for next place.

Erin waited, sipping a glass of water as another local master appeared. Tulm lost to Feshi. Az’kerash cemented his victory, and Olesm sighed in relief.

One of them would be next. Who? And would it be the first person or the third? Or in ten challengers?

Erin Solstice sat in her chair, and her hat was full to bursting. She was alive. She was dying. She was crying for the ghosts. She was triumphant, standing upon the metaphorical bodies of her enemies.

She was probably hallucinating at this point, but the [Innkeeper]’s eyes were glowing, even against her weakest opponents. Sometimes she manifested other powers, even seemed to slightly change shape depending on the Skills she got.

Now—a burning hat made of flames as pink as Magnolia’s carriage flashed above her head. It burned, and the [Witch] began laughing.

She threw her head back and cackled as the tired audience saw her stop playing chess. Then—as Az’kerash, Olesm, and Feshi waited—she pushed herself back from the table. They stared in disbelief as her unknown opponent, who had challenged her for the first time, froze.

Erin Solstice lifted a hand up and swept the burning hat from her head. She bowed—and looked her opponent in the eye.

You’ve done it. Who are you? I didn’t even ask your name.”

She looked her opponent in the eye, and they seemed as stunned as Erin. Drassi looked up and lurched to her feet—she’d missed it? She swung the camera over, and slowly, a pudgy Human man raised his arms.

Calidus sat in his mansion as the scrying orb reflected his disbelieving face turning to rapid exultation and altogether too much pride.

“I won? I woooooon! I am the greatest [Lord] in the world! Do you hear that?

He began posing and running about. In dead silence, the world’s best chess players looked up as Calidus Reinhart began whooping with glee.

“Erin—”

“He beat me. He’s…good.

Erin Solstice turned. The great expectations that had been placed on the other players…the shocked audience looked at Erin Solstice, and she pointed. The image on the scrying orb became a split-screen of her best opponents.

Fetohep, a scowling Eldavin, the Quarass, Niers, Altestiel—Erin saluted them.

“The world’s best chess players took me on. I am the Grandmaster of Scales until someone replaces me—in a formal tournament, not a silly <Quest>. More will appear. Chess has a future longer than what we’ve seen. The game is deeper than I know. But you? You are all amazing players. And I hope you level.”

She beamed at them, and most smiled back, ruefully. Calidus was showering champagne all over the air and himself as he celebrated unabashedly—but it was true.

He was not the only one levelling tonight. But the [Innkeeper], of all of them, just stretched. She turned to Drassi.

“That’s who I am. It’s a shame I don’t level up from chess. But that would be…too easy. Anyways, that’s my inn. Look forwards to more tomorrow. Thanks. Night.”

She smiled—then her eyes rolled up in her head. She passed out on her feet and fell straight backwards until Mrsha, Normen, and Pisces all dove to cushion her.

The legend of chess slept.

 

——

 

[Conditions Met: Hedonistic Wastrel → Genius of Sloth Class!]

[Genius of Sloth Level 23!]

[Class – Hedonist Removed!]

[Condition – Drunken Oblivion Removed!]

 

[Skill – Brilliant Insight (Weekly) obtained!]

[Skill – Store Intellect obtained!]

[Rewarded Skill – Move Reality Like Chess obtained!]

 

In the night, as a voice spoke across the world to many, a [Lord] opened his eyes in sudden, mortal terror.

“Wait. Wait. No.”

 

——

 

[Knight Marshal of the Rains Level 45!]

[Ritual – The Fourth Tide Pours In Blood and Storm obtained!]

 

Yes! Kiish! Kiish—Bel, get the wine out!

 

——

 

[Quarass Level 18!]

[Skill – Remembered Skill obtained!]

 

She woke from her doze, and one eye cracked open.

“Good, at last.”

 

——

 

[King of Intrigue Level 37!]

[Skill – Agreement of Stories obtained!]

 

The [King] said nothing at all, but hummed merrily as he thought about his daughter.

 

——

 

[King of Blight, King of Centuries Level 55!]

 

“…”

It was to be expected after last time, but he scowled.

 

——

 

[Midnight Goth Level 22!]

[Skill – Morticious Insult obtained!]

[Skill – Shadowcloak Stealth obtained!]

 

“Heh. Heheheheh.”

A [Head Server] working late into the night felt a chill on his fur as a Goblin started giggling.

 

——

 

They were coming out across the world, and if the Titan was left empty-handed—progress was made. Even if there was no Skill gained, next time, surely…

The quest rewarded one man overwell and the rest of the world in spades.

 

[Eleleu Strategos Level 36!]

[Yodelling Lieutenant Level 25!]

[Dragonslayer Strategist Level 41!]

[Magus Level 15!]

[Strategist Chieftain Level 32!]

[Stoneshorn War Leader Level 29!]

[War Strategist Level 34!]

 

On and on. The voice did not discriminate—even if it changed and decided and assigned due to a logic only it knew. Even if things were different and someone was pushing the very rules themselves. But even they had no authority over everything.

So it spoke and spoke, until it came to one person to whom it delivered the announcement without waiting for sleep.

For, there would never be sleep again. It whispered after so long in his ears.

 

[Undying Lich, Myth of Death and Vengeance Level 78!]

[Skill – Create Spectral Undead obtained!]

[Skill – Sanctum: Death Magic Leyline obtained!]

[Skill – Teacher of Magic (Universal) obtained!]

[Spell – Death King’s Mirage of the Living obtained!]

[Spell – Might of the Glomroath Beast obtained!]

 

He stopped at his work. Az’kerash tapped his lips—and laughed despite himself. A fairly normal level up at this stage—but quite delightful, even so. And like so many, he decided he owed Erin Solstice a great favor indeed.

The Necromancer smiled.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: So. Funny story here.

I didn’t edit any Volume 1 chapters. Mostly because I had a feeling this could be a good chapter so I worked my butt off. Got 33,000 words done.

Edited.

Now it’s LONGER. And looking at the edited chapter, it’s better, probably, but I have no energy for rewrites.

So I may take off that day in the month for editing because I’m just getting better at editing the new chapters. However, as someone pointed out—

I need to learn the part of editing where you cut things down. I have gotten better at adding and redefining scenes to be stronger with descriptions. The part where you cut anything?

Weak. However, one step at a time! I think we can agree that editing with the editors, way back with Rebecca at the start, has improved my writing. It’s like it plateaued for a bit, but when I began studying something new, I slowly began incorporating it into my methods until we’re really seeing it bear fruit.

It takes a while, but I’ll try to do more for brevity. Frankly, maybe I should do more edited chapters or find something else to improve on? For now, I am resting, but you can ‘level up’ even on Earth. I just wish I got Skills like [Free Chapter] or [My Hands, They Were Unbreakable].

Instead, I’ll just sleep on it. Thanks for reading!

 

Silverstache by Brack! (Yes, he did the art while the chapter was coming out. Amazing.)

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

Void Goat and Garuda vs Harpy by Anito!

 

Paeth on the Coast by Enuryn!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Interlude – Death and Stitches

[The Merch Store has Halloween-themed merchandise! Like this mug! Check out the store here!]

[Book 8, Blood of Liscor, is coming out on Audible and as an e-book soon! Here’s the pre-order page!]

 

(The author is on break until October 25! Are you getting tired of announcements? Are you clicking on the links?)

 

The [Innkeeper] was sleeping. Throughout the end of the second day of the party and into the third, she would rest. Level-less, for all that she had sent across the world.

A deep slumber, deserved for someone who had taken the world by the throat and squeezed until only her mortal body betrayed her. A worthy entry for her, one that even her teachers among the dead would have approved.

But oh, if you admired her like the Titan, men and women who doubtless fell in love with aspects of her, talent or bravery or just power, surely you could criticize? For Erin could have done that all better.

It was truly, ah, ahaha—to be funny about it?

6/10.

Six out of ten, ranked against what was truly real and powerful. Six out of ten, for what Dragons and immortals and rulers could do.

But if she had planned it, think of what she might have done. Sleep, instead of play until she failed. Potions of stamina, higher stakes.

Then—let Erin Solstice sit there for days, into weeks, into, perhaps, months! There would come a point of defeat, but let her stand there and slowly choke the best players of the world into submission. Prove her superiority beyond the denial of even the meanest fool.

A tyrant of her game, so monstrously beautiful that she came to define it. One supposed that Erin was too kind. She saw herself as simply someone helping pull her beloved sport forwards a step. For what she’d done?

Nerrhavia still admired her. She stood, as she had for a month, in a tiny barrier encircled by magic, keeping her ghostly form anchored in this world. Imprisoned, but hardly helpless. She had her tongue, a powerful ally, her knowledge—and most crucially?

She had a ghost’s power. So, as Erin Solstice completed her grand chess tournament, Nerrhavia turned her attention away from the sweaty Necromancer, Az’kerash, and all the others throwing themselves at Erin like dogs in heat.

She could see Erin failing. Chess didn’t interest her. The idea of winning a level as a ghost tickled her fancy, but she had no chance if she played Erin Solstice remotely. Her opinion of Erin Solstice was high beyond belief, but she and the [Innkeeper] were different.

If it were true to say that she had not been one of Erin’s ‘friends’ in the lands of the dead, she had still left an impact. She did not want Erin dead, even if the wretched girl had placed herself in Nerrhavia’s way by revealing her hidden fortress to her enemies.

If she wanted Erin dead—well, Nerrhavia didn’t waste potential allies like that. It was all about talent. It was, when you got down to it—

All about delightful possibility. So, as the Necromancer began to cry out in outrage, then fall silent and the [Innkeeper] passed out, Nerrhavia glanced only once at the celebrating [Lord] in the scrying orb.

“Calidus Reinhart. Hm. A name to remember. Great deeds inevitably reward themselves. Doubtless he gained more than a single level.”

The Necromancer didn’t hear her. He was staring at something and smiling. Levelling up himself?

Now that was interesting. Nerrhavia tapped a finger against her lips. She didn’t say this out loud, obviously, but [Strategists] did level from games of intelligence and cunning, yet only at low-levels. Chess was a notable outlier. Yet even a hundred games of chess against Grandmasters should not level a [Necromancer].

It suggested, to her, that anyone within the so-called <Intelligence> category had been eligible for levels during this event. And that—that was more astounding than Erin’s gameplay.

At any rate, she went back to work, and here the ghost did need to concentrate. In Az’kerash’s personal study, he had his most prized books—few spellbooks, but mementos such as he kept. An ancient emblem of a dead nation, portraits and sketches saved from wrathful fires. Even a rapier and a golden bell.

It painted a delightful picture of the man he had been for Nerrhavia to use. And she had been doing just that, to the point where he delivered meals at regular intervals and had given his servants orders to gainsay her almost nothing.

Of course, an actual undead lich might have been stripped of emotion, so she was pleased to have someone with an ego to work with. It was far easier than a being of pure logic, although there were levers there. The world was levers to her.

The Immortal Tyrant’s brows knotted as she manipulated another one now. She reached out, to the very edge of her binding circle, and plucked at something. She had to work hard. Willpower was an essential quality for a spirit.

A ghost, you see, was still a manifestation of power in the world. Unlike a spirit of the now-defunct deadlands—a ghost was a type of undead. In theory, Nerrhavia could have floated around and possibly been safe.

In practice, she hadn’t been bound to any type of spectral undead body, mostly because Az’kerash had no idea how to make them. Spirits, wraiths, specters, ghosts—all were rare undead in the modern age, and he was actually a somewhat boring [Necromancer] in that regard.

—However, Nerrhavia could still chill the air, and even in the binding circle, if she really concentrated, she could actually manipulate objects. Lift a small cube of wood off the floor, poke an annoying skeleton in the head—

Or pluck a string. That was the object within her hands. A complex piece of string almost resembling a cat’s cradle, strung about her fingers, and gently vibrating as she pulled at one end or another.

This complex piece of string was semi-translucent; it was actually made of ethereal thread a certain Stitch Witch had sold Az’kerash. He hadn’t had much use for it aside from his undead until Nerrhavia demanded he make this.

Now, the string let the ghost manipulate it—and it was bound to a tiny little doll, hand-carved out of wax and given the likeness of a Drake with rose-red scales crossed with violet. Az’kerash had needed to carve the doll to exacting likeness and even hand-paint it himself.

However, when Nerrhavia moved the string connecting the doll to her hand, another being moved. It was the third puppet she had controlled today, and this one moved slowly, rotating its head and moving with an astounding grace given her controls.

But then—she was the Immortal Tyrant of the greatest Stitch-folk Empire. Nerrhavia took care with her puppet. Unlike the two that Az’kerash had sacrificed in Pallass, this one would take a week of labor to replace.

Contrary to what the Necromancer might believe, she didn’t wish to waste his time to no use. So the puppet moved. It stretched, and through the strings, Nerrhavia even saw-felt-tasted the world, albeit dimly.

As if touch could become a second sight merely through the subtle vibrations of the strings. It was a curious feeling that even she had scarcely experienced save for with delightful drugs, so this puppeteering was enjoyable enough.

It was hardly ideal, though. Az’kerash had added spells to his undead, and he could enchant most vessels for Nerrhavia to have a modicum of physical or magical power like bound [Deathbolts]—but she hadn’t asked for him to do that to this body.

“Why would I need your pitiful drabs of magic, [Necromancer]? Restore unto me my levels and Skills and I will happily take you by the hand and walk over the corpses of the enemies that have hounded you so.”

It was not an idle boast either. Nerrhavia’s Skills and levels had made her one of the greatest beings to ever walk this world. The Necromancer might remind her she was a powerless spirit in his captivity and subject to his whims, but that was just what he thought. She had all the secrets and knowledge, and her cooperation was totally dependent on her mood.

The Necromancer was entirely pitiful to Nerrhavia. He didn’t even try torturing her. It wouldn’t have worked, but he was that sort of ‘evil Necromancer’.

Amusing. Anyways, as he laughed and celebrated his new level, Nerrhavia’s doll slowly moved about his small laboratory. She picked something up, inspected it, and, sighing, drew out a line of shimmering thread and carefully tied it to the object and a bit of hair.

Just one strand—and there were precious few. The puppet slowly found a candle, lit it, and burned the bit of hair. It burnt into a wisp of smoke that seemed to linger as the candle—white as could be, with an equally pale flame—left a residue in the air.

Swiftly and carefully, the Immortal Tyrant had her puppet draw a symbol with the drifting smoke in the air. Then she held up the object she had picked up, and the smoke gathered around it.

At this point, even the Necromancer noticed her actions, and he turned from his jubilations.

“Nerrhavia. What are you doing now?”

She studiously ignored him. Nerrhavia was whispering, and the puppet copied her voice. Az’kerash frowned; it was no language he knew. It sounded sibilant, and there was magic in the very words.

“Master?”

A timid undead poked its head through the doorway. When it saw Nerrhavia, it almost fled. But Az’kerash turned to Bea.

“What is it, Bea?”

The Plague Zombie’s appearance surprised Az’kerash. Her twisted features, beauty marred by rot, was replaced by a dusky flesh tone. She looked at him with a delicately sculpted nose and lips that moved in sync with her voice—

And he nearly destroyed her. The Necromancer’s finger was aiming a spell at Bea—when he caught himself.

“Bea—Bea. What…have you done with your face?”

He knew before the zombie replied, cheerfully and innocently.

“Makeup, Master. Her Majesty, Nerrhavia, taught me to put it on. She said you would like it.”

She looked like a spitting image of—the woman she had been. Az’kerash found himself breathing hard, and he turned and saw a slight smile on Nerrhavia’s face as she kept chanting.

Everything she did was like that. Az’kerash tried not to look, but he did. Oh, the Immortal Tyrant was an expert. Somehow, she had used clay and makeup to replicate a face with a simple picture as a guide. On Bea’s face.

He took the zombie’s hand and stared until his remembered heart hurt too much.

“It is beautiful, Bea. Please, never wear such makeup again. Take it off after you ask your question.”

“Yes, Master. But I thought I was going into the city?”

“What city?”

Again, Bea peeked at Nerrhavia, and Az’kerash felt his elation over his new level draining rapidly. But it came back as Bea ducked her head.

“Master. Did you level up?

“Yes, Bea. I now have a power over undeath—the power to create spectral undead. Tell your brothers and sisters.”

The beaming plague zombie practically ran to do so. Doubtless the other minions of the Necromancer had felt the slight change in his power. And the castle itself! It was actually already generating more death magic than before. Very helpful, as he had been casting magic repeatedly.

But for Nerrhavia, Az’kerash would have personally celebrated the moment, analyzed every Skill, and congratulated himself on his newfound power.

…With her here, it somehow diminished his moment. Az’kerash eyed Nerrhavia balefully and then kept watching what she was doing.

There were a few reasons why he didn’t consign her to the soul prison where the other ghosts bickered and waited for him to speak to them. Firstly, because Nerrhavia was an ally against foes so great that the Necromancer had to believe they were above him in power.

Secondly? She had too many secrets he needed. So he watched and listened, because if he wasn’t mistaken—she was casting a spell.

A ghost was casting a spell. But it wasn’t magic he knew. Or rather, he only vaguely recognized the symbolic burning of the hair and smoke-rune as a type of curse magic.

Perhaps not a curse-curse, but something similar. A sending. The words of magic? Strange. Only when he was sure Nerrhavia was done and checking over the object that she held did Az’kerash speak.

“That was no spell like [Curse of the Frozen Flesh].”

She glanced up, raising her brows.

“Of course not. I cannot cast magic like that, trapped as I am. Did you level after all? Congratulations. I would be bragging and turning cartwheels if I had your body. You are restrained.”

He suppressed a sigh. She sounded genuine, which was the worst part of it. Nerrhavia idly lifted the piece of wax—again, something he’d had to carve for her. He had no idea why, and she did not deign to tell him, but he was learning.

For instance, that entire chant of hers? He had already memorized and was analyzing it, trying to pick it apart for…

Oh, now Az’kerash understood why this was called the Waning World. For he realized, belatedly, that he had no idea how to even begin learning this…language. He knew Drathian, bits of it, and he had studied the dead language of magic that Earthers called Latin. But like most, he had never considered other languages aside from variations in the written one used universally across the world.

He didn’t even know how to begin breaking down a new language by syntax or conjugation. It was a distressing gap in the Necromancer’s knowledge. Obviously, for the former Archmage of Death, it was a fascinating academic endeavor, but he had not realized something Nerrhavia knew:

Everything was valuable. A [Linguist], if such a class existed, had power that was buried deep within their class.

Like, say—learning a magical language. Az’kerash was no undead like Toren—he was distinctly a person, not born of death. And even Toren could merely understand what was said, not speak every tongue conceived. This was a mastery won of practice—and of secret texts. Possibly sacred texts.

Nerrhavia glanced up at Az’kerash as she industriously caressed the object she was holding. She seemed to be speaking—or talking with someone unseen. Even smiling.

“I thought that one day I might die, Necromancer. Upon my own terms, of course. But I considered what might happen if my [Mages] left my employ and I was forced to rebuild anew. I am no spellcaster, but a ruler. Yet even I can learn, so I sought out the greatest teachers in the world. Belavierr was but one of them. So. I taught myself a magic that required no Skills nor levels.”

Az’kerash thought of Pisces’ spellbook, and he felt green with envy. Ancient magic? The kind Dragons and Djinni and Unicorns made use of?

“Is the language you spoke magical by its nature?”

“It is—but I would not risk experimentation with the words. I have only ambient magic to draw on. You might well hurt yourself with the magic you possess. Far better to have a teacher.”

Like her. And there was another brick between him and throwing her out of his castle. Well, it seemed like Nerrhavia was capable of what might have been a Tier 4 or even Tier 5 spell without a body. Then again, she had just burnt a thread made of mithril in a Dream Candle, and she needed a piece of Living Wax developed from studies in A’ctelios Salash.

Add in a six-minute incantation. All that to do…what? Az’kerash eyed the object that Nerrhavia was holding. He knew whose hair that was the Immortal Tyrant had burned. And what image the…finger she was holding was made in the likeness of.

Erin Solstice. It had made Az’kerash feel like he was committing some kind of crime when he procured the finger mold for Nerrhavia, but she had thrown an incredible fit until she had it.

As for the hair—he’d had some already to make his failed zombie-Erin. But she had a completely different use for it.

Was she…talking to Erin? Az’kerash turned to the scrying orb—a team was carrying the sleeping [Innkeeper] upstairs.

In that case, Nerrhavia was speaking to Erin Solstice in her dreams. Fascinating. Disturbing. Possibly dangerous. He looked at Nerrhavia and guessed that she was using the artificial body part as a kind of proxy. He saw her take the finger as if in a handshake.

Then she raised it to her lips and kissed it. A skeleton sweeping past Az’kerash’s study and the Necromancer gave Nerrhavia odd looks. The skeleton produced a rolling slime from within his ribcage and motioned a few undead forward.

Bea, still wearing makeup, Toren, Maviola, Ijvani, and Wesixa all presented themselves for their trip as the Necromancer stared at them blankly. He didn’t know why all of them were wearing clothes—Toren had a very fetching outfit on, and but for the grinning skull head, he had a scarf, full bodice, and long pants of a female adventurer.

The Healing Slime was in the bodice. Wesixa and Ijvani were not so good with clothing and were enchanted to look like a Human and a Gnoll, respectively. They all wore clothing, and they were waiting for Nerrhavia’s puppet.

Maviola stared as Nerrhavia licked the finger. Then put it in her mouth. Toren put his hands over her eyes.

Nerrhavia. What are you doing?”

Az’kerash hissed at her. She broke off from whatever she was doing in Erin’s dreams to glare at him.

“Need you be a constant voyeur, Perril Chandler? I am used to such things, but some would find it quite intrusive. Then again, Wistram was always full of…desperate men and women. Very commendably celibate. One assumed it was a choice, but perhaps it isn’t?”

He stared at her. There was no winning here, so Az’kerash turned to his Chosen.

“What are you doing here?”

“Going for our visit to the city? Nerrhavia told us to come now, Master.”

“Your visit. To the city.”

The Necromancer repeated the words as he looked at them up and down. Maviola beamed.

“Yes, thank you for giving us permission, Archmage Chandler! I am going to see people! And Nerrhavia is taking us.”

Az’kerash stared back at Nerrhavia, and she broke off from ducking what might have been slaps or punches.

“I believe a carriage is needed. I will be there shortly. You may come too, if you wish.”

“I think not.”

She shrugged, and Az’kerash watched as her puppet walked out, leading a trail of his Chosen, his children, out. He stepped back and remembered he’d levelled up.

Spectral undead. That meant actual ethereal undead, not just ones imbued with those qualities. He had to look them up, experiment—and maybe he could raise a ghost and just pop Nerrhavia into it. Then he could be rid of her…or she’d be free to hound him around the castle.

Az’kerash slowly walked off to sit down and read a book and think how he’d lost control of his castle. Then he thought about his new [Teacher of Magic] Skill. He wondered if Pisces were awake.

 

——

 

The other Chosen were waiting when Nerrhavia finished her sending spell and had her puppet meet them in the courtyard. Two carriages were prepared, with illusory horses masking the skeletal ones.

It was a slight risk, even with the copious illusion spells, to have undead wandering about. Pallass proved that, but a lesser city wouldn’t have the power to detect anything amiss unless someone truly high-level were there.

So Az’kerash probably didn’t fear that. His Chosen running amok and slaughtering people? Definitely.

However, there was a reason why he suffered Nerrhavia guiding his Chosen, and it was this:

He was a fairly poor parent in many ways. He had no experience. In fairness, neither did Nerrhavia, but she had been an aunt long, long ago. And she was what he was not.

A ruler.

The undead came into the courtyard flanked by lesser undead like a band of unruly children spawned by some horrific monster. A skeleton with black bones infused with metal, wearing a staff and robes.

A bone-white woman armored like a knight, stomping next to a figure in a trench coat, with a face made of green acid. A trembling being of string and pieces, even more like a marionette than Nerrhavia’s own corpse. A thin being of sinew with only a rapier and a silver bell that seldom chimed.

More Chosen still came flocking out, some half-made, others experimental. Most were intelligent and had voices; Az’kerash had been hard at work. In fact, he had even recreated the figure in the trenchcoat, which a woman who looked so out of place among the horrors, Bea, wearing makeup, practically clung to.

It was that duo that Nerrhavia glanced at, and the figure that Toren fixed on. Even Healing Slime poked its ‘head’ out of his body to stare. For that figure was old and new.

Oom lived once more.

A slime, foul green like some mildew at the bottom of a marsh. Putrid acid so corrosive even Acid Flies would melt in his body. A compact, intelligent slime, capable of holding a humanoid shape, intelligent enough to wear clothing and even pretend to some humanity.

Oom. Bea was smiling hugely, nevermind that it was not the same Oom. He had been made in the same way, but it was a new slime, a new character to fit the old one’s role.

Upgraded, in fact. Toren thought it was silly for the Plague Zombie to like him so, but she was always in his presence. It seemed as though Venitra and Ijvani had not disagreed, either.

The oldest Chosen had welcomed their own back. They stood apart from the new ones and the two outsiders. The new Chosen regarded Oom with a mixture of wariness and competition—and pity.

After all—of all of them, there was some irony in Oom’s recreation despite Bea’s joy.

He could not level. Az’kerash had tried, but Oom was neither a Golem nor an undead creation, and the Necromancer had tried the levelling formula on him to no avail. He had been relegated to something of a bodyguard role for Bea in that sense. But there were other beings who could level who were not Az’kerash’s children.

Namely, a pale [Lady] with braided red hair and who burned with pale fire. And among them all, Toren, the Skeleton, with Healing Slime. The [Relic Guardian] was warily ignored by most of the Chosen or looked up to by the new ones. After all, he taught them how to fight properly.

The rowdy Chosen who often competed with each other stood silent, at attention in her presence. They were all physically more powerful than her, even Toren, but Venitra, Ijvani, Oom—were all on their best behavior. Or else Nerrhavia might say something.

She was a kind of scary that none of the Chosen had ever met before. They did not like how she spoke to their master. She was a living being who was a ghost, so a bit better than an actual mortal fleshbag, but they had thought she was just a simple spirit.

Well, right now, Nerrhavia spoke brisky.

“I am going to visit a local city this evening. It will be a half-hour ride.”

With an enchanted carriage, they could speed up when out of sight of a main road. The Chosen looked at each other as Nerrhavia went on.

“If you would like to train, do so. Otherwise, you may join Maviola, Toren, and I. Or wander the city. You will keep yourselves behaved, as I have taught you. If someone tries to accost you or insult you—defend yourselves. But you will not kill anyone.”

At this, Venitra shifted and Oom blurbled quietly. They didn’t know if they wanted to follow Nerrhavia to a city, but this was just silly.

“What if we are justifiably attacked, Majesty Nerrhavia? Master has always given permission for us to defend ourselves.”

Bea raised a hand. She liked Nerrhavia, the traitor. The Immortal Tyrant smiled icily at Bea, and the Plague Zombie’s own smile faltered.

“I imagine he has. And I imagine you would all quite like to defend yourselves. This is a Drake city we are headed to. Why should I indulge your passions, you Chosen?”

She looked at Venitra, and the bone woman burst out.

“They’re just living things! They don’t matter! Who cares if one dies in secret?”

Nerrhavia’s Drake puppet just studied Venitra. Neither one needed to blink, but somehow, Venitra ended up staring past Nerrhavia’s head. When the Immortal Tyrant replied, it was icily.

“They do not matter? Let us assume, Venitra, that you are correct. Let us assume there is no one of any value in the city. Even so, why should your master or I indulge your fits of fancy? What purpose does their death serve other than to amuse you?”

Venitra opened her mouth uncertainly, and Nerrhavia reached out and poked her in the cheek. Hard. Her voice was icily annoyed.

“Furthermore, do you think a disappearing person is simply gone? Drakes, Gnolls, Humans, have families. Even the most unloved person has an enemy or acquaintance who will take notice of their absence. Even a [Beggar] suddenly gone might be observed. Az’kerash wishes to keep hidden. Why would endangering him by killing a citizen of that city be wise?”

“I just—”

Finally, Venitra, what purpose does a death serve? Why should a living being die? Your amusement? Worthless. What higher calling does any being’s death add to or change in the world? Does it save another’s life, change fate? You have no idea. You do not even know the name of the city we are visiting. You do not know who you wish to kill or with what purpose. In that way you are a mindless brute. Look down, and do not gaze upon me. You have not the wit nor intelligence to deserve it if that is how you think.”

The other Chosen sat in a kind of awed silence. Venitra tried to glare at Nerrhavia, but her eyes slunk down to her feet. Toren was impressed. It wasn’t a Skill, it was just a level of bossing higher than Erin could dream of.

“Ridiculous that your master ever put up with this.”

Nerrhavia had a fan that the Drake slowly drew and unfurled with a snap of the wrist. Half the Chosen jumped, but Venitra was stubborn. Also, possibly stupid.

“They’re beneath us.”

She muttered sulkily at the ground. Nerrhavia laughed mockingly.

“So that gives you the right to murder them? You silly little girl. Do you think you are above all others? You are not above me or your master. We do not give you permission to slaughter, so you shall not. That is law. That is order.”

“I understand. We understand, Great Nerrhavia.”

Ijvani broke in, trying to take the pressure off of Venitra. The Immortal Tyrant turned to the skeletal [Mage].

“Do you? Good, then I shall not accompany you if you head into the city. I have my own business to attend to.”

Oom, Ijvani, and Venitra brightened up so suddenly and so obviously that Toren slapped a hand to his skeletal forehead. Even Maviola and Healing Slime could tell they were suspiciously happy about that.

“We will. Be. On our. Best behavior.”

Oom spoke! The Acidic Slime burbled, for Az’kerash had given him a voice. He was still working on Toren’s. Nerrhavia eyed him with amusement as Ijvani and Venitra nodded.

“I am sure you will be. And because I am not such an idiot as to believe your words, let me say this. Upon leaving the city, I will inquire as to any missing persons or deaths with the Watch. I will check, and if any are reported and I find you are the ones responsible, there will be punishment.”

Punishment? The three Chosen’s smiles slipped. Slowly, Nerrhavia raised one of her puppet’s hands.

“I will cut off the hand of any Chosen who kills. You, Oom, will lose a proportional part of your body. Then I will burn that part beyond salvation.”

All the Chosen stared at Nerrhavia as she gently chopped the air with a hand. Cut off their hand? Or similar appendage?

“You—you can’t do that. Master made us. No one can take our hand. Forever?”

Venitra’s voice trembled. Nerrhavia laughed at her scornfully.

“Can I not? I have declared my law and the punishment. You are unruly brats, suckling at the Necromancer’s teats without consequence or responsibility. By my throne and my empire, I swear I will cut off your hand if it is the last thing I do. You are free to break my law if you think it is worth the price. If I see a reason to revoke it, I will. For no other reason. When you murder someone, it surely must have a point. Or else you are a rabid beast to be put down without mercy or thought.”

She looked around, and the Chosen listened. In silence, listening to the Immortal Tyrant teach them such lessons as Az’kerash and Belavierr had never thought to impart. They filed into the carriages like schoolchildren following the guidance of the world’s evilest schoolteacher. They were almost moving—when Nerrhavia snapped at the Chosen.

Seatbelts, everyone!

 

——

 

“Miss Nerrhavia? I have a question.”

“Yes, Ijvani?”

The world’s most dangerous field trip was underway. The Chosen sat mostly in silence, but now and then, one asked the Immortal Tyrant a question. Mostly because, unlike Az’kerash, she had time, she wasn’t busy, and she knew things.

“Why are we wearing a seatbelt? We are in a carriage enchanted by Master himself. And we are the greatest of the undead. None of us will be hurt even without one, except the slime.”

The skeleton tugged at the strap of cloth and metal that Nerrhavia had insisted they wear. Some carriages had them, and Nerrhavia sighed. Ijvani glared at Toren as he raised two fingers defensively.

“Because, silly child, you are copying people. And if you think there is no crash you can run into that will not harm your bones—you have never seen a magical carriage crash before. I have studied this world. Lady Reinhart is the one with a powered carriage, correct? She doubtless wears a seatbelt. At the speeds one can crash, if the enchantment fails? The impact will grind your bones into powder.

All the Chosen checked their seatbelts. Nerrhavia went on, staring at a distant sight.

“Seatbelts were something I implemented in my rule. They had fallen out of favor, not that vehicles were often used. I put them on flying carpets for all but [Trick Fliers]. Deaths declined by 35% in the first year alone.”

Flying carpets with seatbelts? The Chosen looked at each other. And thus, they learned an important lesson about personal safety. The carriage was silent—until Venitra raised a sulky hand.

“I have a question. I wish to level up. Ijvani is a Level 12 [Mage]. Kerash is a Level 16 [Tribal Warrior]. I am a Level 7 [Warrior]. Why are they higher-level than I am? Master will be disappointed in me.”

Nerrhavia sighed.

“Rest assured, you are all pathetic equally in my eyes.”

Venitra squirmed lower in her seat until Nerrhavia glared at her. The Immortal Tyrant spoke, and the giggling Maviola listened attentively.

“Listen to me, child. Ijvani learns from the Necromancer himself and studies magic; it would be impossible for her not to level. Kerash is a warrior in the world, fighting as a Gnoll. These two pursue a kind of passion and level from it—however slowly. Embarrassingly slowly, in fact. For the magic that Ijvani is learning and Kerash fighting in a war, they should both be above Level 20! But—you are Revenants. Difficult to challenge. Do you wish to level up quickly?”

Venitra nodded eagerly. Nerrhavia’s Drake puppet slowly rolled up the blinds of a window. They were passing down a trade road to a local city. She had demanded they go to this one, despite it not being the closest, for reasons only she knew. Toren was just happy enough to have Healing Slime and Maviola outside.

Wow, he missed being outside. He stared out the window at passing Drakes on horseback. Good times. He missed the inn.

Where had his life gone wrong? Chaperoning someone else’s kids? But he saw Nerrhavia extend a clawed finger and point.

“I have a surefire way for you to level faster than your kind, Venitra. Climb that mountain there. With your bare hands and no weapons. On your front. Do not stand, do not use your legs. For a Revenant, it should be a suitable challenge.”

All the Chosen stared out the window. Venitra looked up—and had to poke her disguised head out the window and crane it up.

One of the High Passes rose in the distance like a monolith extending into the clouds. She stared at Nerrhavia accusingly, and the Immortal Tyrant flicked her hands.

“Go on. I will stop the carriage to let you get out.”

“But that’s so high. How long would it take? Master said there are dangers for even me up there. There’s a Dragon in the High Passes.”

Venitra looked nervous, and Nerrhavia sat back.

“Ah, him. An interesting puzzle, that one. A shame your master made him an enemy, but it’s almost better that it’s him, not some newcomer. I know his story, and he will be a fine player in any game. One worthy of me.”

Nerrhavia’s smile was knowing. Venitra would have been pale if her bones could change color. She feared the Dragon. Nerrhavia? Nerrhavia knew him. She went on calmly.

“Of course there are things that could kill you. It might take months. A Goblin King barely made that journey, according to modern history. Even in the height of my power, I did not seek to conquer the High Passes. But climb. And if you return, you will be someone your master acknowledges as worthy.”

Venitra’s head rose, and Nerrhavia went on, looking around. She met everyone’s gaze, and all the undead couldn’t hold it—except for Toren. And her eyes glittered the tiniest bit of approval at him.

“You are all young. So you do not understand how this world works. I? I can cast magic, even as a ghost. I have secrets and stolen power that followed me into death. For most of the world is a trick. A law can be broken, a kingdom thwarted. Most power is bought or stolen or what the world is—a great trick. True authority, true power, is fleeting, rare. Only a few people have it. That [Innkeeper] is one such. You all? Your strength comes from your master. If you wish to become your parents, Belavierr, Az’kerash, you must struggle and earn it.”

“How?”

Maviola was eager as Nerrhavia explained in brief how she viewed the world. The Immortal Tyrant actually smiled at the young girl as she fanned herself.

“Why, my dear, climb your own mountains. But you are young, and your mother would be…displeased with me if I did not take care of you. We are friends, or were. Now, show me how you pour tea again and sit straighter. You were made with taste buds, were you not?”

Maviola did just that, and Toren clattered his jaw in a sigh. Right up until Nerrhavia stared at him.

“Skeleton. Did I tell you to stop working?”

Gloomily, he went back to work. Not all the Chosen were bustling with impatience. As the only competent undead, Nerrhavia had him working.

Namely, inscribing a tiny piece of bone with a needle tipped with Truestone and gemstone ink. It was one of over a thousand that Toren had to fit into place in a sculpture. Nerrhavia had drawn a larger version of the sigil, but he had to do a tiny copy.

Magic sucked. Ijvani was doing the exact same thing, but no one else but Maviola had the dexterity. Well, maybe Devail, but he was an idiot.

Nerrhavia hummed a long-dead song as Maviola poured her some tea, and she eyed the little bird they were making out of tiny pieces of bone. Each incantation writ on thousands of pieces of bone. It flexed its wings and raised a little beak as she whispered to it.

“We have so little time. So little time to raise unruly children and cause enough mayhem and restore me my throne and body. Hurry up, little skeleton. Two more pieces.”

Toren slowly scribbled on the bone and placed it in a socket in the body. Ijvani did likewise, and the bird opened its wings—and Nerrhavia laughed as it perched on a claw. She gave it instructions and tossed it out the window. Toren saw the undead bird spread its wings—then pop out of existence.

Huh. Teleporting birds? He wondered if that crazy Antinium squatting in his inn would notice it. And even if he did, who would believe Bird?

 

——

 

Even if a bird could, in theory, teleport, cast [Haste] on itself, and change dimensions akin to how [Greater Teleport] worked, it took a while to get anywhere in this vast world.

But the evening was turning to night, and Nerrhavia’s little field trip had all night—the place they were visiting never quite closed, or so she had been assured. Besides, in other places of the world, it wasn’t dark.

Daylight tended to be consistent across the world despite certain geographic features. But Gnomes hadn’t made the sun. So it was still night elsewhere.

—Even so, the Blighted Kingdom banished darkness in its capital of Paranfer. At night, magical streetlamps and the very streets emitted a glow that, while it didn’t make up for the sun, made skulking in corners impossible.

There was still crime in the Blighted Kingdom—but like everything here, it had adapted to the rules of the struggle against Demons. You could cheat and buy illicit goods, and there were certainly enough people and ships who came in and out to have a black market.

…But that black market paid dues to the Blighted Throne like everyone else. And if you took what should have been used by the Blighted Kingdom, soldiers would find you and kill you. Of course, that was the threat of any nation—it was just that here, even a Face could find themselves hanging from a rope by the harbor very, very quickly.

The point was that Paranfer was very safe, except for the times when Demons attacked, and then it was very unsafe. Yet it was so safe that all the shipments bound for the war effort came through this main harbor, behind the legendary 1st Wall.

And it was here that the Heroes of Rhir were also quartered, by and large. One of them was now known to the world as Antal the [Chess Player].

But there were nine hundred and ninety-seven more who had just come via the great summoning ritual. All of them Human.

Almost all of them still [Heroes].

Including Antal, that was nine hundred and ninety-eight Earthers. Not the round thousand it had been.

Two were already dead.

For one, it was an accident. An [Alchemist] on demonstration hadn’t noticed one of the Earthers inspecting vials in the lab. Normally, one did not uncork a vial and sniff something in an [Alchemist]’s workshop.

—But some of the thousand still didn’t quite believe this was reality. The poison had been fast, at least. His death had helped solidify the reality for the others, as well as the [Clown]’s ‘lessons’.

If you asked him to prove this world was real and they weren’t in a virtual reality, dreaming, or that this weren’t some hoax, he would oblige.

By stabbing you.

Repeatedly.

Nonlethally.

But very painfully. And then, a healing potion would undo most of the damage and you would be convinced this was reality or a simulation so advanced that it was worth not risking your life.

However, it was safe to say that aside from grounding the new [Heroes] in reality, the Blighted Kingdom’s approach to this thousand was far, far more nuanced than last time.

Last time, the Blighted King had sent a paltry handful of Humans too afraid to behead a chained Goblin to the front lines. He had been surprised by their rapid levelling and the talents some of them had shown.

This time, understanding his mistake, he had summoned as many as possible to Rhir. And he was giving them training, conditioning, and all the facilities Paranfer had at its disposal.

And it was the Blighted Kingdom.

The diplomatic arm was so good that their ‘locked in a room’ experiment with the officers could make a Drake [General] and a Lizardfolk [Mercenary] come out as friends within hours fairly reliably. They had classes that most kingdoms aside from Calanfer and a few others lacked.

For instance—[Thought Healers]. [Counselors]. [Analysts]. Mind you, they were employing their talents less in counseling survivors of Demon clashes and more in different ways now.

“Earther Antal has little desire to fight, even in the ‘Adventure Room’ simulations. He enjoys the fake adventure; not the gladiatorial displays or fighting Slimes. My appraisal is that he may be a competent [Strategist] if his [Chess Player] class can transition to that. Otherwise, he will be a support role at best.”

“Take him off rotation in physical training unless he wishes to stay, then. The Adventure Rooms that Wistram has pioneered are an excellent way to gauge the personality of the Earthers. I recommend, Lord Hayvon, that we use them as a test of character for foreign officers, especially if we can manipulate the simulation into more stressful and possibly realistic environments.”

“Do that. Assemble a team of [Enchanters] and [Illusionists] and submit a budget. Communicate with the…Ullsinoi Faction and Archmages Feor, Eldavin, and Viltach regarding blueprints for the Adventure Room’s function.”

One way the Earthers were being divided was how well they stood up to mild stress, like fighting mostly harmless slimes, or faced down danger. That way, less shell-shocked Earthers would emerge from a fight.

By the time this lot clashed with Demons, they would be ready. [Weapon Masters] and experts in every fighting style known to the Blighted Kingdom were teaching Earthers, as well as [Mages] for other disciplines.

But the Blighted King was also making a record of every outstanding talent the Earthers had, and most, like Antal, had at least one specialty. Chess might not kill Demons, but a great [Strategist] might. At the very least—it was a notable talent.

So the Blighted Kingdom had a huge base of powerful children who could level so quickly that even in training, some had already passed Level 10. They had knowledge from Earth that the Blighted Kingdom was trying to replicate, and in time, they would be a force ready to take down the Demons—

Assuming the Demons just waited for them to arrive, that was.

The problem was what everyone knew and why the Blighted Kingdom was receiving more support than it had in a century.

The Deathless were back. Silvenia, the Death of Magic, did not sit idle, nor did the Death of Chains, Czautha. The Death of Wings, the only other Death known to have survived the last great assault on the Demon King, had not shown herself.

—But Silvenia was bad enough. Her magic was second to none, and the Blighted King’s analysts suspected that she was healing the other Deathless and herself now she was no longer struggling for survival.

Worse still, she was capable of conducting a war on her own, and she was why the second Earther, Nerrain, had died. No one could prove how a nest of Crelers had spontaneously appeared in the heart of the capital. The sewers, streets, food—it was all rigorously tested, and [Detect Life] should have weeded the monsters out.

Yet a dozen Crelers had come pouring out of a cupboard one day, and only one Earther had died thanks to Richard being there. If anything, the amazing part was that more Earthers weren’t dead.

 

——

 

She could see them. Not with scrying spells; all of Rhir behind the 5th Wall was a blockade of magic. But it was one thing to block [Scrying] and another to block her.

Her vision was magnified so great that if she even inhaled, it would have both blinded her and completely lost what she was looking at. The trick was not to enchant your eyes, then, but a patch of air and fix it with spells so precise even a Fraerling would have been impressed.

A telescope, in short. The Death of Magic then needed the right altitude and position to spy on the Earthers.

“Training.

She saw a line of young men and some women practicing with swords. Some were joking around, but many were diligently working. Silvenia grimaced and slowly manipulated her controls, looking around.

The Blighted Kingdom couldn’t keep their Earthers indoors forever. They knew she was about, but Silvenia’s magical acumen was so high that they couldn’t stop everything. So she hovered higher, practically below the clouds hundreds of miles from 5th Wall, and began casting.

“[Create: Pebble]. [Enchantment: Void Resistance]. [Enchantment: Adamantium’s Strength]. [Bind Spell: Geyser of the Water Serpent]. [Alter Spell: Acidic Blightwater]. [Greater Lightning Bolt]—[Drain Momentum]. [Greater Lightning Bolt]—[Drain Momentum]. [Coordinate Lock]. [Spell Skill: Unerring Aim]…”

She was chanting, because even she had to concentrate on this. The idea was simple and actually based on some of the things Flora the Earther had told her. Well, the silly girl thought it was new to Silvenia. Guns?

She laughed at the revolver. A small pebble appeared in the half-Elf’s hand. Her wounded magical flesh curled around it as she enchanted it to move through the air without taking drag. To be hard as Adamantium and unleash a geyser of acid wherever it landed. Then?

She just drained all the kinetic force out of two real lightning bolts and anchored it in the vibrating stone. She followed the spell she’d set up and went back to the Earthers practicing swordplay.

Unleash.

A pebble large enough to just hold in your hand shot out of the skies so fast it should have caused a sonic boom—except that it had no air resistance. It barely slowed as it flashed past 5th Wall, ready to detonate and wipe out everything in five hundred feet. From impact—then the water would begin raining down, poisoning and melting everything in its radius.

That was what was supposed to happen. Instead, Silvenia saw the stone flash through the air as she cast [True Slow Time] to watch. It shot down from the heavens—then the thin film of the void began to fade, and she saw the spells she’d cast on it dissipating. It crossed, oh, another hundred miles before the spells just wore out. Then it was just a piece of magical stone, fading out—

Then the sheer kinetic energy of the spell turned into a shockwave, a sonic boom that shattered the air before 4th Wall, and Silvenia heard alarm spells going off across 5th Wall and 4th Wall.

She hovered in the air and cursed.

“You damn cowards. Everywhere?

She raised her hands and began throwing [Lightning Bolts], a storm of them criss-crossing the air. But her suspicions were right. All around 5th Wall, being reconstructed and rebuilt higher—the bolts of magic began to fizzle out.

Two hundred feet in front, and it looked like they’d even saturated the coastline! Madness!

The folly of Drakes killing an entire species of magical talent was one thing. This? This would inhibit the magical growth of every [Mage], every child and person living here. It would poison the earth, but they’d done it once, and they knew how to fight her.

Anti-magic, dug into the ground for hundreds of miles. It was a very simple trick that only required, oh, the annual income of eight nations to pull off and the hoarded resources of Khelt. The Blighted Kingdom had killed magic everywhere all along 5th Wall and behind it, all the way up to 4th Wall.

It meant that their [Mages] would fight as if every Tier 4 spell were a Tier 1 spell. They’d be barely useful, and magic would be so dead they’d only have their Skills to recharge their mana supplies. Artifacts not well-enchanted would go dead, and even magical potions might lose efficacy fast.

In exchange? None of Silvenia’s summoned Demon armies could attack the 5th Wall. Her long-range spells just fizzled out—even a Tier 7 spell would begin losing power so fast that it had no chance of even passing 3rd Wall if she cast it from afar.

The Death of Magic sat cross-legged in the air as she considered her moves. She could fly out to sea and attack Paranfer from an angle that they couldn’t cover with anti-magic. However…they wanted her to try that. One detection and she’d be facing that damn Lord Hayvon and every force they could throw at her. She’d risk being boxed in and killed.

She could remove the anti-magic stones. Silvenia pointed down and crooked a finger.

“[Hellfire Pillar]. Hello! And goodbye.”

The Tier 7 spell shot down and began to burn, black-red fire eating the ground in front of 5th Wall as defenders ran screaming. It died fast as anti-magic and water spells hit it—mostly from the anti-magic.

But it burnt up the protection in that area. If Silvenia kept casting that spell, she’d make a gap or deplete their resources. Eventually.

…Unfortunately, time was all the Blighted Kingdom wanted. They had their Earthers. Far more than any nation, as far as Silvenia knew. She had better uses for her mana, so she just sighed.

“You win this time. Mm. Mmm…[Activate Greater Teleportation Rune].”

Below her, the ground flashed. Silvenia flew off as a scream filled the air, and the defenders of 5th Wall looked up. Three Adult Crelers fled Silvenia as they disgorged hundreds of Crelers. It had been hard to find three of them—but she’d done it just as a present. They fell towards 5th Wall from above as she flew off, cackling.

The Crelers would survive the fall. But the defenders got to look up and see them coming down. Silvenia poured herself a cup of coffee as she watched.

“We like to have fun here. [Activate Greater Teleportation Rune].”

Even without being able to use her full magic, she could still bind a teleportation rune high up and drop, oh, a thousand pounds of stones. She’d calculated where the defenders would rush to fight the Crelers and watched as they ran.

This was not an effective use of her mana, but it cheered her up. 5th Wall would not fall if she did this every day for a year. She hated stalemates.

Stalemate meant both sides were trying to tip the scales. It meant that she, the Death of Magic, was being thwarted.

And now, high-level foes are coming out of the ground like the damn monsters from the Gates. By which she meant the area the Demons knew as the Gates of Hell, a term born of Rhir’s reputation. It was there that all the horrors came from, including the Crelers. Only the Antinium knew what lay below. Silvenia had gone down once and decided she wanted to kill the Blighted Kingdom before she died.

…It was looking harder by the month. First, this ‘Archmage Eldavin’ appeared with actual old magic, next? Khelt started banging a drum, you had children from another world, and Ailendamus showed it had some powerful figures hidden there.

Silvenia liked a challenge, but she couldn’t help but feel like her opponents hadn’t earned their strength. She was old. She was a half-Elf so old Feor looked like a newborn babe; she had once been an [Archmage] of Wistram until she had learned the Demons’ truth and become the feared Death of Magic.

Now you had—children—like Amerys and Valeterisa, floating about and calling themselves Archmages. Silvenia would have loved to fly over to Chandrar or Wistram and remind them how an [Archmage] disputed things. But she couldn’t.

The Demons needed her, and irresponsible she might be, but she had seen how bad things could get. Czautha was no magical genius. Silvenia was capable of filling almost every role with pure magic.

She just—highly resented being the only magical figure in this world. She was Silvenia of Ages, the Archmage of Terandria, the Archmage of the Forgotten Era—master of ancient magics and old techniques!

She was not the world’s greatest [Enchanter]. She could do maybe 60%, possibly 70% of what someone of her level could, and that last 30% was huge. She was no [Smith] or [Baker] or [Candlestick Maker].

“A Level 60 [Chandler]! A Level 60 [Chandler] for all the gold in Rhir!

Imagine what she could do with that! Give her one Level 60 [Chandler] and she’d be lighting a candle under the Blighted Kingdom’s ass that would burn Othius off his throne. Silvenia salivated at the idea of actual magical candles that she could empower her magic with.

That was her problem. She was a dynamo, a force beyond all others—but she knew she could be even stronger with proper support. The Deathless of Rhir had good synergy in battle. Little in magic.

Anyways, the fuming Death of Magic was thinking of how to use her power today—probably in service to the Demons by creating Purewater Stones that just produced purified water out of moisture in the air.

She had better things to do than solve hydration for the world. 

Silvenia was just about to fly back when the funniest thing happened. She sensed she was being pinged.

Magically, of course. The sensation wasn’t mental so much as her own wards alerting her that someone was trying to locate her by some means.

Which was, of course, objectively hilarious. Were the Blighted Kingdom’s [Mages] that overconfident?

Silvenia was almost about to toss a spell back down the connection when she realized something interesting. Whoever this was was smarter than the average Archmage of the era.

…In that they knew there was more than one way to locate someone. A [Scrying] spell would have meant a fairly direct link, and you could punish that, as when Rhisveri and Eldavin had dueled.

This, though, wouldn’t be easily traceable back to the sender. Something was coming, sending the locator spell so Silvenia would just destroy that.

She was so fascinated that despite being far, far away, the Death of Magic began shooting out to sea to find what was headed towards her.

Silvenia, where are you going?

The Death of Chains, Czautha, queried her the moment she sensed Silvenia leaving the shores. She might be thinking Silvenia was doing something stupid, so the Death of Magic replied impatiently.

“Someone’s sent me mail.”

“Ah. Roshal?”

“If they are, I’ll send it back. It looks like…a bird? Interesting. Death magic. I’ll let you know.”

Neither she nor Czautha were nervous about a single spell coming Silvenia’s way. If one could kill the Death of Magic and if she couldn’t detect a trap—she was an idiot.

But she had to own, the strange bird made of ivory sections all patched together still made Silvenia blink. Not because it was indecipherable—she could clock the spellcaster as being well below her level.

No, because it was old and…odd. This kind of patchwork magic where you carved a bunch of tiny, intricate pieces to make a greater whole was efficient if you feared your creation might get damaged, but time-consuming. It spoke to her of old empires where you had a thousand apprentices doing Golem-work for a [Mage].

Or undead. And this thing was certainly undead-based…but again, it was sort of laughably wasteful. The ivory that made this bird had been taken from a high-level undead. Thousands of pieces.

So imagine destroying a Skeleton Lord and getting, oh, a hundred pieces per skull or maybe ten or less from a Skeleton Knight. That was how expensive this thousand-some piece jigsaw was. Someone had cannibalized a lot of undead. Silvenia thought it was an idiotic move for a [Necromancer]—but she had no insight into how a certain Necromancer didn’t really authorize someone smashing up his favorite undead for spell catalysts.

Anyways, Silvenia read a few more things. The bird had a lot of powerful spells that someone else had enchanted it with, but the basis of it was to seek and find and deliver a few bound vocalized words. It also had something odd in its mouth she wasn’t quite sure about, but if it were dangerous, it was in a weak vessel.

“Silvenia. Silvenia Ettertree.”

The bird was croaking. Silvenia crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. Someone at least knew her old name.

“Who sent you, little bird?”

“Message for Silvenia Ettertree.”

The bird’s rough caw and its flapping of wings as it sped towards her halted once the former [Archmage] came within range. Then it hovered, and another voice came out of its mouth.

“Hello, child. You are astonishing, a glimmering tear of wrath in this world of dust. You would have fit in my era and empire quite well.”

A woman’s voice, silky and smooth, came out of the beak. Silvenia’s smile grew wider with amusement—then it suddenly turned into a glare.

Child? The voice was complimentary—and condescending. The Death of Magic debated taking the bird apart to see who had made it and throwing a spell back, but she had to own, intrigue warred with irritation.

The Nerrhavia special. The bird went on, staring at her with two gemstone eyes.

“I am an ally. Or at least, more than most in this world. I have studied your Demons and you. You were not here when I was alive. So, I shall keep an open mind.”

“Oh, a ghost.”

The Death of Magic snapped her fingers. Now things were making sense. Either the speaker was a fool or she was dropping the right clues. She was disappointed—the little bird didn’t seem to have a two-way spell, which would have been a risk. It was just a recording.

Will you do me a favor, Silvenia the Deathless? I shall, of course, repay it. My means are limited for now, but I have such things as even a ‘Deathless’ would want.

That teasing voice went on, and Silvenia began getting annoyed again. She had to own, it was very funny to get essentially the immortal monster’s equivalent of an Archmage going door to door asking for a cup of magicore.

Still, the gall. Silvenia began silent-casting a spell as she sweetly replied.

“Oh, little bird, tell me your mistress’ wish. Then I shall carefully shove this [Pillar of Flame] down her throat.”

There was no way that the sender could keep her true location hidden from Silvenia. But the bird simply tilted its head, and then a sharp voice came out of its beak.

Ah, little half-Elf. I’ve humbled [Archmages] like you and made them a footrest before my throne. Watch your threats.

Silvenia blinked and realized that the voice had been speaking all along. She grinned. Silvenia floated sideways, regarding the bird.

“And just what do you want, mysterious sender? Or should I prize that out from your beak?”

The voice replied with a hint of archness.

“A spell for a favor, Death of Magic. Simply cast the spell into this little one’s beak, and I shall oblige you with a taste of my favor.”

Silvenia thought about it. It sounded amusing, so she withheld blasting the bird.

“Very well, I’ll bite. And if I don’t like what comes next, I will personally place you at the top of my long list of crossed out names.”

The sultry voice chuckled.

Then, Archmage, show me your wrath. Pour it in here.

The bird opened its beak, and Silvenia blinked. For a few seconds, she hung in the air, wondering if the innuendo had gone too far. Then she laughed. She threw her ruined head back, and her tortured flesh, replaced magical organs, exposed her teeth and damaged body.

Then she pointed at the bird.

“[Hurricane of Flames]. [Disintegration Orb, Beam Dispersal]. [A Hundred Thousand Seeking Arrows of Deathlight]!”

She fired three spells straight into the bird and thought it would vaporize whatever cheap containment spell the bird had. Three, instead of one, and all three designed to be wide-dispersal, difficult-to-contain spells, not like [Disintegration Ray].

Instead of shredding the bird, Silvenia saw the most unsettling thing. Which was all three spells…vanishing into a vortex in the bird’s mouth. Completely, mid-activation.

“Ah. That’s not good.”

Silvenia reinforced her shields, but the bird made no move to attack back. Instead, it closed its beak, seemed to swallow, and then spoke once more.

“Much obliged, Silvenia. Your clue is this: the Crossroads of Izril do lie on Izril’s lands. I am sure you have already put feelers down. I knew them well when I lived, and my true home is based on the same power as the Crossroads. The reason the [Innkeeper] posted the quest is that the bounty of the Crossroads will pull this world back into older ages. All your little spells may come from great mages, but the material of your robes and wands are crude glass. The finest sand in this analogy is found in the new lands and the Crossroads.”

The Death of Magic’s brows rose. She floated closer, eying the bird with rapt interest. Did that mean what she thought it did…?

“Who are you? Let’s say I believe you, and that would be a nice clue. What kind of ally do you wish to be?”

For answer, the bird belched a bit of smoke and the magic began to die. Silvenia grabbed it as the voice murmured, and she began tracing the link back. Back to…

Wait a second. It was just a recording. Silvenia stared as Nerrhavia’s voice chuckled.

“If this is just a recording you hear later and you struck my little creation before it even reached you, I will still consider the debt owed, Death of Magic. Thank you for your spells. I’ll be in touch.”

The recording ended, and the bird began to fall to pieces. Silvenia automatically caught them with a spell for decryption and analysis later. Then she hung in the air for a long, long time before Czautha asked what had happened.

Silvenia, like Az’kerash, wore the most befuddled expression of anger, pain, and embarrassment as she realized she’d just been bamboozled, played, tricked, and possibly even confounded.

She began firing Tier 7 spells at 5th Wall, and the Blighted Kingdom wondered why she was so damn mad today.

 

——

 

This was the story of an imposter. In the cavalcade of great and terrible undead, of ancient myths and rulers preparing to change the world—

This was the story of a silly fool.

A slime that people called Oom.

He knew he wasn’t really the real Oom. That was just what they called him.

The real Oom was dead. He’d gone down in battle against Zel Shivertail, the Tidebreaker. Who that was—this slime didn’t know. He had been created—or rather, altered by the Necromancer. The Necromancer had gone out, found a suitable Slime wandering around Izril, a former Mud Slime, and subjected it to a barrage of upgrades that changed his very nature and intelligence.

Then he’d gotten a kind of…download of what Oom had been, how to use his new body, and been introduced to a bunch of Chosen, who thought he was like the old one. This slime knew Oom. He had some of the old one’s memories, and he was upgraded to be even more dangerous.

…But he was no Oom. The old one’s memories had been vividly fierce, proud to be the Chosen, and until his demise, confident that he would succeed in his purpose: killing the Tidebreaker.

He had arguably done that. But that old slime was dead, and the new one—oh, the new one was a silly little slime. So was the old Oom, because while he had been affectionate and proud of his Chosen, he hadn’t seen the undead resting her head on his shoulder now.

Oom turned his ‘head’ and saw Bea snuggling up next to him. She looked like a person, with all the makeup and clothing, but that didn’t matter. When he had awoken, she had been there. Weeping and calling him Oom.

The slime was not Oom, but he also was. He was younger, in a sense, than Healing Slime, who had been made of rarer and more fantastic things than he. A Potion Slime should have been royalty compared to a little Mud Slime. But here he was.

Bea. She fed him all his old treats and never let him go, in case he died again. Yet she had levels and he did not. Venitra had personally told him that one day, their Master would surely give him levels and for now, he was sadly weaker.

As if levels mattered. The slime had never dreamed of being powerful, only surviving clashes with damn Fortress Beavers and other predators in its home. Now—he was supposed to be part of an undead army.

He didn’t care. He was afraid that the other Chosen would find out he didn’t really love Az’kerash. Or that the Necromancer would dispose of him for being useless. He had debated running away—

Yet here he was. Nerrhavia was gazing at him as the carriage rolled on, and the slime was afraid she saw right through him. But he didn’t run.

He was just a small, stupid slime. Maybe it was part of Oom, or maybe it was him.

Just a slime, trying to be a man. He couldn’t cast magic, and he couldn’t level up. But he wanted to protect Bea. A slime in a silly trenchcoat. When trouble came, he’d do his best for the weepy zombie. That was all he could do. And the Immortal Tyrant looked at Oom and saw the foundation that she’d once made [Heroes] out of.

 

——

 

Nerrhavia was in the city, browsing through a shop when she got the notification her bird had done its job. Maviola was hiking up her skirts delicately, and Toren was learning how to walk.

“No, not like that. That is simply walking, like a brick. Walk like the [Sword Dancer] you met. Not suggestively with a sway to your hips. Too obvious. Subtly. Like—yes. Very good.”

Nerrhavia’s school lessons extended to a lot of things. The skeleton dressed as a Human woman with a mask on was attracting looks. As was Nerrhavia’s false Drake body.

But the other Chosen were out exploring the city, and Nerrhavia herself was in the oddest of shops. Toren didn’t get why she had been so excited, but Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop was apparently enough to get the Immortal Tyrant outside and shopping.

Not that she’d bought anything. The owner had given her, Toren, and Maviola a long look, but when Nerrhavia assured him they were merely browsing, he’d let her in.

It was a really, really big store for a hole-in-the-wall set in the side alley. Toren had been walking in a straight line past rows of antiques for ten minutes, and he felt like that was bigger than a corner shop should be.

Well, Maviola was eying a sign next to the counter. It puzzled her, because it said, ‘proudly served over 120 cities!’. She took that to mean it was a chain store?

Nerrhavia knew the truth. In between teaching the two undead, she was inspecting items on display. She seemed to be looking for things, and now and then, she would murmur appreciatively.

“Oh, beautiful! Look, it’s all glass.”

She eyed a cabinet full of ‘jewels’, and Toren could tell the jewels were about as magical as a rock. No, wait. An actual rock, not a…nevermind. Nerrhavia passed by entire sections of abandoned junk that a few Drakes were browsing through.

It was a Drake city, but Maviola and the man at the counter were both Human, which was apparently a rarity in the south. Neither one was getting a friendly look, and neither had Bea or Venitra in her Gnoll disguise.

Classic Lism Drakes everywhere. Toren at least got the benefit of looking like an adventurer, so he got a pass. Nerrhavia stopped as she found an aisle she wanted. She pulled out old dresses of ancient fabric, and Toren put one against his body.

Nerrhavia gave him a single glance.

“In no age of fashion between my era or yours.”

He put the dress back silently. She could have been nicer about it. Nerrhavia seemed quite pleased by this, so she walked over and put something down, wedging it behind the dresses.

“The shopkeeper cannot see me, can he, children? He is a sharp one—but he won’t notice if I leave this here. Let’s see. I know there’s something else here. It should be if this era really has lost the magic of my time. You, skeleton. Find me vases.”

Toren wondered if this was better than being stuck in the castle or attached to a sleigh with ringing bells. A Drake glowering at Maviola stared as Toren’s ample bosom jiggled at him. He backed away as Toren waved—then patted Healing Slime and fed it some food.

Nerrhavia laughed. She seemed content to walk about and explore, as if relaxed suddenly. For all she talked about hurrying…she was a dead woman.

She knew they had time, so she went hunting with Toren until she found what she wanted.

“Ah, this is it. This vase. Perfect!

It looked like crap to Toren. Half the design that was painted on the clay was peeling, and it looked old, but he did have to admit that the bits of glass baked into the clay were nice. Still—even for the many vases, this place was terrible. But Nerrhavia sighed and then placed the second object in the pot.

“And that is that. Your master, Az’kerash, will throw another tantrum. But—what did he want? Seithbone? He will have to wait less time than he thinks, though explaining my methods is far too tiresome.”

She turned to Maviola and Toren, and the two undead exchanged glances. What did that mean? But then Toren saw what Nerrhavia had placed inside the vase, and something clicked in his head.

Wait a second. Wait a second—Nerrhavia had just placed a wax finger in the jar. The same one she’d just been using an hour ago. And she’d hidden another one in the dress pockets. Toren stared sharply at Nerrhavia, and she held her own finger to her lips.

They ended up buying a bunch of fake jewelry for Toren and Maviola, and he tried on eight rings on his fingers and wished they were magic. Or that he had earlobes for earrings. Nerrhavia paid the man at the counter, and they left as he quickly changed the sign and shouted at the other people that they had fifteen minutes before the shop was closing—for good!

It was one of those things that Toren decided he would never know the truth about. He was happy enough to stroll along after Nerrhavia as she announced they were done with…something…and that it had been a very productive day and they would all go back to the castle and everyone would get a treat.

She was in such a good mood that they went to find the other Chosen themselves—and thereby ran into Venitra in the middle of a fight.

Nerrhavia stopped as Toren saw a group of Drakes cheering on one of their own, who was punching, cursing, and attacking a Gnoll with her guard up.

“Venitra! You’re in trouble, stop!”

Ijvani was on the sidelines, being blocked by a bunch of the locals. When they saw Nerrhavia, all the Chosen, stopped, and the Drake lunged. He clocked Venitra in the jaw and probably broke his fist.

The Chosen didn’t fight back, but retreated, pretending to be hurt, as the Drake massaged his fist. Nerrhavia’s eyes swung to the Drakes and took in the moment.

It was a fight in the streets, although only Venitra was moving. Devail and Wesixa stood back, just watching with Ijvani, who was telling Venitra not to fight. The [Mage], wearing a Drake disguise, had a staff raised that was keeping the other side back.

Drakes. It looked like the Chosen hadn’t fought back. If they had—the angry dozen young Drake men would be dead. Venitra was dodging punches—well, except for that last one.

But there were two Chosen on the ground. Nerrhavia looked up, and Toren saw Oom. And Bea.

The zombie was on the ground, and the Human woman she appeared to be looked distressed—because Oom was lying on top of her. Covering her, as a pair of Drakes kicked him, cursing. They backed up and stopped when they saw Nerrhavia, Toren, and Maviola, but Oom kept covering Bea. And the Drake attacking Venitra hissed.

That’s for the Meeting of Tribes! You traitorous murderers!”

Some of the Drakes were cheering. It seemed like this was a city that had strong beliefs of how the Meeting of Tribes should have gone down.

Toren shifted uncomfortably. He tried to separate the Drake trying to punch Venitra out, and a bunch of Drakes blocked him. Some were ready for a fight, and Toren didn’t draw his sword. He held his arms up, wishing he had a voice.

You idiots, I’m trying to save you from…

Nerrhavia’s smile was calm as the Drake fanned herself. Some of the people on the street were looking nervous—she looked like a rich foreigner, and she was watching the fight. Oom slowly rose, unharmed, as Bea patted him anxiously.

“Oom, are you alright?”

Toren wished he had eyes to roll. Oom was a slime. But he seemed more concerned about her, and Healing Slime vibrated angrily in Toren’s bosom. The two Chosen retreated behind Nerrhavia as new voices emerged from the crowd.

“Hey, break it up! Break it up—

A group of Drakes came pushing forwards, and one yanked the young man who was staring at his swollen knuckles back. They had clearly seen the fighting, but whether or not they’d stopped it because they’d just seen it or because Nerrhavia was here—it was hard to say.

“You idiot. What are you doing? What are you—”

Someone was arguing with the younger Drake with the bruised fists, and it seemed like he was in danger of being punched himself. Nerrhavia strode forward.

“Are you this young man’s father? He has attacked and injured my ward, who, I am assured, did nothing to provoke the attack. Perhaps she did not move out of the way for him, but that was all.”

The Drake turned, and Toren saw him put up his claws. He wore a leatherworker’s vest, and he spoke quickly.

“Miss, the Watch is coming, and they will sort this out. My son is a fool, but please don’t tell your guards to do anything. We don’t want trouble in our city. Nothing like Cellidel.”

He clearly meant Toren, and the other Drakes seemed to think Toren was some adventurer or higher-level bodyguard. They were watching him as if ready to take him out if there were a fight. Nerrhavia rolled her eyes.

“Trouble? Your son provoked a fight with my follower.”

“She’s barely injured. I can’t even see a mark.”

The Drake tried to point to Venitra, who was in fact glaring so hard that the Gnoll—and Chosen—seemed ready to kill the Drake. Nerrhavia’s tone was icy. She stared at the man in the eye.

“I suppose that makes it better, then. So long as we beat every child or victim without a mark, there would never be a need for the Watch. What is your name?”

“Listen, Miss, the Watch is—”

What is your name?

“—Leatherworker Joerss.”

Nerrhavia was speaking over the other Drakes trying to justify or talk, and somehow, her voice was louder. She was staring the older Drake in the eyes, and she shifted to the younger one as he looked ready to speak. His open mouth shut.

“Are you going to take responsibility for this, Mister Joerss?”

“My son starting a fight? We’ll go to the Watch, and if they find nothing caused the fight—”

Are you going to take responsibility, Mister Joerss?

Now, the Drakes, at least near Nerrhavia, seemed to sense that something was wrong. They fell silent and began looking at Nerrhavia. Joerss hesitated, and he looked at his son, then Nerrhavia. He ducked his head slowly.

“…Yes, Miss, if there’s some fine, I will pay it. Rest assured.”

“No. No. No.”

She folded her fan and poked him in the chest with it. Now, Nerrhavia was so close that her puppet was eye-to-eye with the Drake. She peered at him.

“I am not talking about coins. Damn the coins. I am asking whether you are going to take responsibility for what that Drake did. Completely. Without reservation or regret. Answer me.”

“Miss, the Watch—”

“Answer me. Your son has caused an offense, and he is your son. The act was not yours, but this is your moment to take responsibility or not. Tell me.

The Drake swallowed slowly. He looked at Nerrhavia and then Toren, then answered, his hands on his belt.

“…Of course I’ll take responsibility for my son’s actions.”

He met Nerrhavia’s gaze, and the Drake’s eyes wavered—but then Nerrhavia stepped back. Lightly, as if suddenly happy. She smiled and nodded.

“I see.”

The Drakes gazed at her in confusion. Nerrhavia turned and bent to whisper to Bea, who perked up, then motioned to Toren.

“Get the carriages. We’re leaving.”

The street was silent as some of the Watch finally came over on horseback. A few Drakes looking annoyed by the confrontation with a picky foreigner. Nerrhavia walked back to the two Drakes, father and son, as Toren brought the carriages out. She passed by a mounted Watch officer who went to stop her, and she went by his outstretched claw as if it didn’t exist.

“I can see that you take some responsibility in your life, sir. Which means as a father, you likely taught your son something of that character. Then he has made his choice which has led him here, and you have taken all the responsibility for it.”

“Miss, the Watch will investigate, but it was just a scuffle between two folks. Move al—”

The Watch officer trying to move Nerrhavia aside caught a slap so fast that he folded up and went down despite his helmet. Toren, opening the door to let Venitra in, winced. Nerrhavia was using an undead puppet—even if it weren’t as strong as a Draugr, he bet that hurt.

The Watch reached for their blades, but the crowd just stared as Nerrhavia produced a bit of rope. She twined a loop together and handed that end to Bea. Then Nerrhavia took the other end and again, she made a simple loop, with a cunning knot that could be adjusted, and nodded at the leatherworker and the panting young man.

“You have taken responsibility.”

“Yes, Miss?”

He looked quietly at her, and the Immortal Tyrant, who had ruled her kingdom a thousand years, beamed at him.

“I absolve you of that. Your son made his choice, and we shall call it quits afterwards. Regardless. Goodbye.”

She reached out, and the two Drakes recoiled, but Nerrhavia looped the bit of rope around the Drake’s wrist. The one who had been fighting Venitra. His father looked at the rope as it tightened and reached out with a cry, but it was too late.

The other piece of the rope that Nerrhavia had produced tightened as well, and a horse reared and tried to look back as it stared at its hindleg. The two were connected, but the horse was still—until Bea scratched it and whispered.

“Scarlet Frenzy Fever.”

The Watch’s horse reared with the sharp pain—then it began to pant. Then—scream. The Drakes fumbling with the bit of rope saw the animal scream, toss its head—then it began racing forwards. With the length of rope attached to the wrist.

Nerrhavia walked to the carriage, shut the door, and the vehicle began moving as Toren heard a scream from behind him. Screams, cries of panic—and the sound of a scream cut off and a body dragging across the street as a horse raced forwards.

Venitra, Ijvani, Oom, and the others stared at Nerrhavia as the coach left the city. The Immortal Tyrant smiled and sat there.

“That was an example of law and punishment, children. Now. Seatbelts. Today has been a fine day.”

The two carriages rolled out of the Drake city bordering the forest near the High Passes, never to return. Nerrhavia was done, and Toren looked at her and wondered—why she thought Erin would ever like her.

But perhaps Nerrhavia didn’t care about that. Only something else. Vengeance and enemies. Ambition?

She met his eyes, and as if she could read the thoughts bouncing around in his skull, Nerrhavia spoke.

“When I was alive, I tried to stay that way. I ruled for thousands of years, and my confidants and friends were the Witch of Webs and death, who I feared and made preparations against. But when I died, I found that unlike the other ghosts, I was satisfied. I had done it all, and my discontent was only that death itself was so petty and dull. Of course I wanted to live if the opportunity arose, but I have died. A ghost should come back differently. Or how little we learn.”

The skeleton thought about that. Then he slowly nodded and sat back in his carriage.

He had to get out of here. And take Maviola too. First the [Witch], now the ghost of the Immortal Tyrant. Who was going to be Az’kerash’s next guest? A Creler?

Toren hadn’t read a history book, but he had a feeling Nerrhavia had been sort of a jerk in life.

 

——

 

One last thing. In between the second day and the third day, the world’s greatest [Necromancer] and [Archmage] sat and thought about how stupid soft power was. A skeleton learned how to take tea with an undead [Lady], and the Immortal Tyrant made such plans as she thought would benefit…someone.

However, as the world slept and rested, one person—one group of people got little rest.

A single pair of pale wings rose, and a tiny roach fanned them on the faded, mildewed face of a screaming man carved upon the wall. He screamed forever, eyes wide and hollow. Nevertheless, they stared at everything as a bright beetle made of metal that was like silver or mithril, but more mundane, crawled over the ancient stonework.

A relief carved into the walls, so long and complex that it stretched a hundred feet down the staircase of equally ancient stone, still tarnished by the blood that had run down here, long ago. The relief had been original, commissioned by the original owner of this place.

It was of a nation she had destroyed, piece by piece, and of the people, whose fates had been so horribly depicted here. The screaming man was the best person to look at if you had to stare—he simply screamed, a witness to it all. His eyes gazed sightlessly out from worse depictions of what had been done.

Those who had come later had left this decoration in place to remind them of what this place meant. Even if it was now abandoned, the old pillars and tributary vessels were like altars to some great ruler—and once, it was said, this place had been a gleaming shrine to one woman’s ego.

No longer. Now, the rot that had always been there had crept in and tarnished metal into rust, turned bright stone into haunted, filthy reliefs of twisted stone. It looked like it should be—a deep, dark memory of great evil.

A tomb. Almost always left alone, save for the guards. One aimed a spear and tried to kill the roach, for not even insects were allowed down here. A steel speartip gouged the screaming face out of the old stone—and put him to rest forever. But it missed the roach, which skittered past grim-faced Stitch-folk who stomped or cursed.

Many drew back, and their clothes were fine and they carried no weapons. One of them shielded her face with a fan as if protecting it from the roach, which fled across the ground. A [Mage] raised a hand to blast it, but was forestalled.

“No magic. Not here.”

So the group halted, and the torches swung crazily, for not even magical light was brought down into this dark place. Ranks of warriors armed in bright metal held their ground, and it seemed like even their enchanted gear was dimmer here. Or perhaps it was just the shadows. The leader, who lived down here, just shook his head.

“A roach. Move on.”

How he kept his sanity, few knew. But he, at least, knew the way, and he carried them down another flight of stairs, past armed guards who stood silent, their own gear unpolished and fading with the stonework.

Hidden protectors who would murder anyone trying to enter this place without authorization. They watched even the woman with the fan, for here were their nation’s treasures. And their greatest foe, both. Yet even they did not follow, and their eyes swiveled in their sockets uneasily.

For what this group sought lay further below. They were a hundred feet underground and heading deeper still, until the blackness seemed to squeeze the throat of the woman holding the fan. And today had been such a good day. She had been about to sleep.

Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen had been ready to get some fine rest. She’d played some chess, and while she hadn’t gotten to face the [Innkeeper], she’d been part of the moment. She’d been so excited when her [Great Sage], Etrikah, had made a championship game that she’d thrown a party.

She was all ready to write Yvlon a note and wake up tomorrow to see what had happened—but not all was well. Those damn bugs…

Well, the skittering tin roach made one of the group freeze a moment, but that was only because—tensions were high.

It was the most private, elite group of the Council of Steel. Thelican, the Ministers of Defense—but they included Etrikah, one of the top [Mages] in the Academy of a Hundred Thousand Tomes.

The Captain of the Royal Guard and a hundred of the finest guards. Also, two Named-rank adventurers.

They were normally enemies, or at least, different factions, but in silence they descended, following the person who had come charging into court and put their arguments about Pomle, the King of Destruction, and everything else to rest.

It was a rarely-seen Stitch-folk person, Hemp, of all things. Normally none of the Silk Stitch-folk would associate with one of them except in a [Guard] capacity, but this was…a special case.

This was a hereditary post, and the [Crypt Guardian] was leading them down, down through the palace. Not out in the streets where such a congregation would be the talk of Tyrant’s Rest, the capital city, even at this late hour.

Down, down, into the foundation of where Nerrhavia’s Fallen had been built. A kingdom named after the greatest villain to ever walk this continent. Stitch-folk did not believe in hiding her name. No one should forget.

Even so—Yisame’s skin was already crawling before she saw the insect, and she drew a shawl around herself. She did not like being reminded of this place. This…this was the heart of the palace.

A guarded layer of vaults, the armory, treasury, and most valuable items were stored this far down, secure from even the best [Thieves]. But something lay deeper. A resting place for less than ash. The remains had been burnt, destroyed—and the tomb erected as a kind of memorial for the pieces of her which even enchanted weapons couldn’t fully eradicate.

Nerrhavia’s grave.

The actual room was quite small, given how far down they were. Just a sealed layer of spells upon spells and countless traps—many of them aimed inwards as well as outwards. They had to wait as the [Crypt Guardian] disabled them.

Yisame’s eyes locked on the grave as the rest of the Council of Steel froze. A carved grave, in the shape of a sarcophagus, lay closed. For a moment, Yisame feared the stone prison had shifted. That—something—someone had moved it.

But no. A [Minister] let out a shaky breath, and everyone laughed. Yisame saw them turn to the [Crypt Guardian], ready to blast the poor Stitch-man for wasting their time.

…Then Yisame saw something. Nerrhavia’s final resting place was both a prison and a tomb for her remains and the artifacts of her rule that no one had destroyed—or dare destroy. There were things down here that were still extant, still powerful ages after her death.

Like the tapestries hanging from the walls. They were old, faded, some deep indigo, writ with gold. Others were white silk, written with actual blood. A few were…even more gruesome than that.

Like the screaming man of the carvings above, a face looked down at Yisame, and few dared even gaze into the hollowed sockets. A tongue hung from a mouth upon which words had been written on flesh. Carved there.

A pact with Roshal upon a half-Giant’s face and tongue. Yisame looked up—and bile rose, and someone turned away and retched. Yet they were all the same.

They were contracts. In fact, Yisame even recognized one between the Immortal Tyrant and Zeres that the City of Waves had complained about recently. Mutual defense pacts, enforcement clauses—all defunct with Nerrhavia’s death.

In theory. The [Queen]’s eyes locked on something she had not seen last time she was here. And yes, it had been twelve years. But…

What new thing? I see nothing new! If this is some prank—I have had a long day of playing the world’s greatest chess players, and Her Majesty—”

General Thelican was blustering when his eyes found what Yisame had seen. He looked up, and his cloth tongue stilled in his mouth. Slowly, the Council of Steel gazed upwards.

Then—Yisame knew that the [Innkeeper]’s warnings were right. She felt Etrikah squeezing her arm so hard her claws dug into Yisame’s clothflesh. No one spoke for a long, long time.

For, hanging among the many old contracts and ancient treaties whose magic had survived the Immortal Tyrant—a new banner hung.

It was as yet blank. Mostly blank, but the glittering contract stood ready. Yisame’s lips moved as she read the words:

 

Contract Armed.

Stored Spells: [Hurricane of Flames], [Disintegration Orb, Beam Dispersal], [A Hundred Thousand Seeking Arrows of Deathlight].

 

“A…a contract? What will it do? Why are we here if that’s stored in—

One of the Council of Steel was shaking with fear, but Etrikah spoke.

“It will do nothing. If the records are true—the contracts do not activate unless their clauses are met. This one is waiting for a—a pact.”

“How is it active?”

No one wanted to answer that. They knew. So the contract waited, and Yisame saw the most curious thing as the rest of the Council of Steel turned to leave and either make plans or drink themselves into forgetting this had ever happened.

She whirled around, and the [Crypt Guardian]’s head rose. The contract glowed, and words began to write themselves in the air. Yisame’s heart stopped in her chest.

A contract for the Immortal Tyrant in whatever shape she was in. With powerful spells enforcing its compliance.

What—

What…contract would she offer? What terms? Yisame looked up, and her eyes shifted in confusion as she read a name in the air.

 

<Contract of Munificent Terms to the Unworthy>

 

What? It looked like…a quest! But the similarities didn’t end there. Yisame picked out a long list of details, far, far more elaborate than the simple way a <Quest> worked. Among them, she noticed a few things.

Enforcement spells—that was the list of magical power stored in the contract. Legal language not binding Nerrhavia in very obscure terms.

‘The parties within shall not seek via magical, mundane, or other means the identity or intentions of the Holder, but merely accept or refute said contract on behalf of involved within listed as ‘worthless trash’, ‘unscrupulous filth not fit to lick Khelta’s toes’, and ‘cowardly pukes hiding within a shell of an unworthy land of death’ and so forth…’

“What the…?”

Then Yisame got to the important part. She read a name, and it seemed to ring in her ears.

 

Signatory: Kasigna, identities unknown, unwanted.

Offer: Kill yourself so thoroughly there is no possibility of return.

Conditions: Refusal; scroll activates.

Addendum: Death or removal of underlined parties known as ‘Cauwine’, ‘Norechl’, ‘Tamaroth’, suitable abasement before demise and—

 

Nerrhavia’s contract kept writing itself until, suddenly, the brilliant lines of gold on indigo faded away. As if suddenly it had been canceled.

Yisame saw the scroll flicker quickly—then return to its first message. By the time Etrikah turned back to see what Yisame had seen, all she saw were the original words.

 

Contract Armed.

Stored Spells: [Hurricane of Flames], [Disintegration Orb, Beam Dispersal], [A Hundred Thousand Seeking Arrows of Deathlight].

 

It was just a little joke. A [Message] much like how Toren the skeleton could raise two middle fingers and say a lot. Besides, Nerrhavia had better things to do with a contract. So the Immortal Tyrant returned to making plans and waited.

Waited, patiently, as Rhir and the Demons squabbled and their time fell like grains of sand from an hourglass of unknown origin. Waited, as so many had done.

For the [Innkeeper] to wake up.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: So, I woke the day after writing a short chapter and I was so exhausted I couldn’t get up for a while.

This is backlash, and it gets stronger when I’m tired from writing, but especially after writing nearly 40,000 words. I regret that this short chapter to work on editing V1 turned into just…a short chapter because I was so tired.

Thus, I’m taking my monthly week off. I need it, especially to write good quality. Again, I’m once again putting Volume 1 rewrites behind regular chapters. We’ll try to fix it, but at least I’m writing some decent chapters.

It’s the marathon, not the sprint. I’ll keep playing with how I write. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad now and then, a ‘short’ chapter? Hm.

If only I could go back in time and start from the beginning. Imagine it. Me with all my writing knowledge rewriting Volume 1? If someone offered me that right now, I’d probably stab them because I’m not writing 10 million words again.

Anyways, thank you for your patience and I hope you get some rest! I will. pirateaba away.

 

PS: I may post the edited V1 chapters I’ve done during my break at some point. There are entirely new chapters and some of the rewrites are good. Some are eh.

PPS: Book 8 is coming out on Audible! And the Merch Store is doing a Halloween lineup!

 

Blood of Liscor, Book 8 of The Wandering Inn by JAD Illustrated and STK Kreations!

JAD Illustrated: https://www.jadillustrated.com/

STK Kreations: http://www.stkkreations.com/

 

 


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9.21

(The Wandering Inn survey has a statistics page! Check it out here!)

 

When she woke up in the inn, Mihaela Godfrey felt like a young woman for the first second of every morning. In that brief moment—it felt like the inn hadn’t changed from when it first opened.

Which was silly because it did change. She had silk sheets instead of cotton covered by thick wool. These days, she had a suite instead of a cramped room with a crooked picture nailed to the wall.

But it felt like the same inn. And she felt like a young woman, a City Runner ready to run a hundred miles again.

Then she inhaled and coughed. She felt tired and parts of her broken.

Then she realized she was stuck in a body that seemed older than her soul. And she remembered her son was dead and that decades had passed.

That was why she avoided the inn, sometimes. It had all the memories. Good and bad. Yet Mihaela still clung to that illusion. If she sat there for a second, mastering her breath, she could pretend she was young again. Young, and as old as she was, as if everything that had gone on in her life had taken a single year.

Memory wasn’t that kind. It always caught up with her, along with her body. Mihaela coughed again and wiped her mouth on the clean sheets. She stared at the drops of blood and then swung herself out of bed. She dressed herself with one of the neatly-folded sets of clothing on the dresser; she never bothered to put them away.

Then she strode over to the door. It took her about three minutes, and that was slow, but a Courier was a Courier. And she was the Guildmistress of First Landing. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to get dressed in seconds while an [Assassin] was creeping up the stairs and then jump out the window.

Instead, she kicked the door open, and it hit Viecel in the face. The Selphid had the misfortune of walking past her door for the morning. In a sense, it was good it was just him. She stared down at the prone adventurer.

“Hey, Viecel.”

“Mihaela. I think you broke my nose. Let me fix it.”

The groaning Selphid got up. He rubbed at his crooked nose, and Mihaela shrugged.

“You know how I open doors.”

“Does it have to be a trap?”

Eld picked up his friend and gave her a look like she was a girl again, and she avoided his gaze. The responsible friend loved to lecture everyone.

“It keeps the [Assassins] guessing.”

“What about your guild? I’ve heard you’ve broken more toes than any other Guildmistress in the history of First Landing?”

He folded his arms, and Mihaela lifted a finger.

“Reflex training? Besides, Viecel shouldn’t complain. He’s an adventurer. Are you a he, today?”

The Selphid grumpily finished repairing his nose and indicated his Human body.

“As long as my nose holds up. This was a good body too. Barely rotten.”

“How many fingers have you got left?”

Mihaela looked down, and the Selphid waggled his fingers at her.

“Seven. I’ve been getting lucky recently.”

Eld sighed, and the three talked in the corridor of the private guest suite of the inn. The same rooms they had always had, even though it was different in almost every way. If you looked down, what did you see? Beyond the rich floorboards, the rooms—those changed. These days, the walls weren’t cheap, plaster over cabin wood, but old heartwood, the stuff Treants and the oldest trees were made of.

Not cut from the Treants themselves, no. That was how you got [Druids] after you. This was salvaged from an old ship, and it still was better than anything fresh-cut. Nor were there the embarrassing paintings and such of the guests themselves—Mihaela saw a flattering wood-cut of her face, and she resolved to bury it before she left.

“Nice bust of you.”

Viecel admired the latest addition to the inn. Mihaela changed her mind. She was picking it up off the podium it was resting on as a door opened and another old friend came bounding out with way too much energy.

But then, Colth was just a kid. He had always been the kid, and he wasn’t as old as the rest. He did a cartwheel, spun into a bow, and cried out.

Today’s the day! Hello, Mihaela! Eld, Viecel, what’s wrong with you? Aren’t you excited?”

“You have too much energy, Colth.”

His friends looked resigned as the other adventurer beamed at them. Colth, the embodiment of energy, and Mihaela sometimes tried to kick him, her default solution to problems she didn’t like. But she had to admit, she did like Colth.

She liked all of them. Four of the gang were here. So she nodded to Colth as more doors opened and people she vaguely recognized—favorites of the inn, Larra’s special guests—came out to see what the noise was all about.

This wasn’t the quietest or even most luxurious part of the inn. Oh, no. This was for the real friends. You didn’t pay regularly. If you needed a space, you knew it was always here. And no one, not [Assassins] nor nobility could touch you here.

After all, this was The Adventurer’s Haven. And Colth, like Viecel, was important enough that the bright-eyed member of staff was peeking at them as she brought a load of fresh linens down the hall and began cleaning Eld, Viecel, Colth, and Mihaela’s rooms.

The staff sometimes made Mihaela feel old, but she didn’t recognize a lot of them. Barnethei had stayed around for a long time, and there were a few constant faces, but Larra was the inn. Anyways—Mihaela was used to looks.

“Colth, open that window, would you?”

“Sure, boss.”

He instantly moved to oblige her. Eld cleared his throat as he saw Mihaela picking up the bust of herself.

“Colth, don’t. Larra will kill you and Mihaela.”

The man hesitated and looked from Eld to Mihaela.

“Open the window, Colth.”

“You got it, boss.”

The older adventurer rubbed at his face as Colth obliged Mihaela. The member of staff and several of the other people in the inn watched as Mihaela Godfrey tossed the carving of her out the window.

She smiled—for about a second. Then she heard a scream and a crash of too many dishes. She winced, and Colth gave her a thumbs-up and a grin.

“Nearly hit the entire trolley of breakfast dishes. Good shot, boss?”

Colth, you idiot. Tell me if there’s someone outside!”

“Oh.”

It must have been a delivery to one of the other buildings. Their rooms didn’t pass over a busy part of the inn—Mihaela slapped a hand over her head. Eld and Viecel slowly backed away from her because all of them knew what was happening next. There was a pause as someone called out—then a familiar voice rang through the inn.

Mihaela.

Larra was pissed. Mihaela looked down the corridor, and Colth ducked as five flying imps, spectral and made of magic, came charging at her with dusting cloths and a pitcher filled with ice water.

Arcane familiars. Mihaela bailed out the window. She did it like a professional. No judging what was below her, no hesitation. She grabbed the top of the window and swung herself out legs first.

The world was bright and spun below her as the Guildmistress of First Landing flew for a second. Early morning diners looked up, and Mihaela saw a panicking younger member of staff gaping up at her. A certain [Vice Innkeeper], Barnethei, saw Mihaela about to land on him as he bent over with a broom and pan.

He twisted, and the shattered glass and food below Mihaela disappeared in a flick of the wrist. Then he was stepping back, pulling the new member of staff to safety.

All of that took a moment. Mihaela landed and nodded at him.

“Thanks, Barnethei.”

Mihaela!

The Guildmistress ran, and the familiars chased after her. As did a thin bolt of lightning. But the woman just ran, laughing, and leapt for safety behind the nearest guest. Then she coughed—and cursed.

But the bolts of lightning and attacking familiars, the other half of the staff, never struck her. They vanished because Larra didn’t attack her guests.

And this guest in particular would have gotten herself fried or walked straight over the glass. Valley looked up from the book she was reading as a little girl squeaked.

Well, she was older than a girl, but she looked so terrified of Mihaela that the Guildmistress knew she hadn’t been to the inn before.

“Valley! Is that you?”

Flight forgotten, Mihaela stopped. Colth leapt out the window, mimicking her move to the awe of the people outside. Eld and Viecel came down more sedately, but they looked just as astonished to see Valley.

“Valley, when did you get in? It’s like a complete reunion, now. How in the name of anything did Larra get you?”

Colth came over, and Valley looked entirely surprised as he hugged her. The shy reclusive girl looked around—no, wait. She was a woman now, too.

“Yesterday. Oh, hello, Colth. Are you being bullied by Mihaela into pranks again? Should I find Larra?”

“No, it wasn’t a prank—”

Colth laughed, and Mihaela remembered too late why she should be dodging.

Thock. That was the sound of a familiar bouncing a mug off her head. Mihaela turned and made a fist at the imp—a miniature gargoyle with horns and wings. Lots of people compared them to Demons, but these ones were harmless unless Larra was mad at you or they were doing something stupid.

“Destroy my familiar and I’ll cast [Slippery Footing] on you.”

Larra warned Mihaela, and the Courier hesitated. She lowered her fist.

“Morning, Larra.”

“That was a bust I hired a [Carver] to make. If you didn’t like it—Barnethei, put it somewhere else.”

“At once, Larra.”

He bustled over to the bust, which was still objectionably intact. Mihaela rubbed her head as Valley looked around.

“Oh, hello, Larra. Where’s my breakfast?”

“Mihaela threw a bust at it.”

“Is she bullying me?

Valley looked slightly worried, and Mihaela pointed at Colth.

“No, I was just getting rid of it. Colth was the idiot who didn’t tell me to stop.”

Me? Mihaela was giving me orders—”

Larra slapped Colth on the arm, hard.

“You’re a grown man. Eld, didn’t you stop this?”

“I warned them both. They’re both grown adults.”

“No one’s an adult. Not even you, Eld.”

That was how they started their day. And today seemed like an auspicious day; four friends were already here, and with Valley and Larra, it made six of the old lot. It was rare for so many to be in one place.

In fact, the diners of the inn, the ‘normal’ guests, were giving them wide-eyed looks, and all of them were probably listening to the banter. No one paid attention. Not even Colth. They had done this from the start, before they had hangers-on and admirers. This was their inn.

Larra’s inn, and she left most of the day-to-day to Barnethei. So not even the haughty [Lady] eying Mihaela like a challenger dared intrude into this conversation. Although—Mihaela glanced around.

“Is that Lady Pryde Ulta staring me down?”

“Nevermind her. She wants to arm-wrestle you. Or have a weight-lifting competition.”

“Pass. You beat her, Eld.”

The strongest member of their group by far pretended not to see the woman mad-dogging them.

“No. Are you installing a weights-room in your inn, Larra?”

“I’ve been asked, and the answer is no. Maybe a separate building if it’s that popular, but it seems entirely unnecessary. The farm’s already hard enough to lift—”

Expanding The Adventurer’s Haven was no easy task. Larra shook her head, then gazed southwards. The sun was dappling the open road, and as always, Mihaela heard exclamations in the distance, cries of astonishment. After all—this inn was on the move.

And it was famous. Mihaela stared at distant faces below, travellers pointing up at her and at Larra’s inn. The [Innkeeper], though, was staring at something further south. A shape in the distance.

“It’ll be today, then. Took long enough. I could have gotten out and pushed and gotten us here faster.”

Mihaela groused. But she ducked behind Colth as Larra clicked her tongue at her.

“You had half a month to do it. Besides, not everyone’s here yet.”

That made all of them stop.

“Is someone else coming?”

“Deni and his team. They should be riding in any second now, actually.”

“No. I thought he was still injured.”

Even Colth, who knew where almost everyone in the adventuring world was, was astonished.

“He’s mobile.”

Mihaela’s heartbeat picked up. She turned too-casually to Larra, and the [Innkeeper]’s scowl vanished.

“So he’s not—crippled?”

Gently, the other woman pointed north.

“You’ll see him shortly. Every word is he may make a full recovery. Just with a scar. Most of Orchestra made it out of fighting the Goblins.”

“A Goblin tribe took him down. What was that one called?”

“Kraken Eaters.”

Eld and Viecel muttered. Colth nodded guardedly, and Mihaela let out a breath. She pretended not to be rattled. But they all looked at her, and she saw a name unspoken on their lips. They pretended to hide it, but she heard it.

Valceif.

Her son. Colth was the worst. He looked over and coughed.

“How’s Resber doing? I mean, are you keeping in touch with—”

Eld put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, but it was too late. Mihaela blinked, and even Valley glanced up and decided to kick Colth. But—

She still felt like it had just been a day ago when a little boy had been running around this inn. Getting familiars to fly him around, pestering Valley with questions until she complained to Larra, and Mihaela was introducing him and her husband to her friends.

Then he was a young man, complaining about being mothered to Colth. Then—he was heading south to Liscor on a routine delivery.

And he never came back. Mihaela realized she’d been smiling this morning. Now, she remembered why she shouldn’t be.

The Guildmistress stood there for a second as Larra pointed and Colth shuffled back. But Mihaela just turned her head, and her eyes focused on someone she knew.

“Salamani. What are you doing?”

A man jumped at a table. Another Courier glanced up with his slitted, reptilian eyes, and the other person at the table sat up nervously too. The moonlight mare herself, Ci, part of a duo that would never ride again, looked almost as wary of Mihaela’s attention as Salamani.

Of course both knew her. Of course both were here—even if they weren’t part of Mihaela’s group.

“Guildmistress. Just having breakfast.”

“I see that. Why are you feeding Ci eggs? Horses don’t eat eggs.”

Salamani hesitated. He’d been offering the horse a boiled egg—shell and all. She opened her mouth and slowly crunched it off his hand as the others watched.

“…Apparently she does, Guildmistress. She even has chicken sometimes.”

“Horses eat chicken?

Everyone but Eld and Colth looked surprised. Eld sighed.

“You can’t raise horses with chickens free-roam. Any [Farmer] knows that.”

“Right. I’ve done a lot of work with horse-handlers. Even horses like a bite of meat now and then. Sheep do it too.”

Colth said it like it was obvious, but he was probably the most worldly of them all by far. Instantly, his friends turned on him.

“Don’t say it like we’re idiots, you know-it-all. Even Valley didn’t know that!”

The bookworm nodded, and they picked on him like they always did. Colth grinned, and then—Salamani rose. He pointed.

“I think your guests have arrived, Innkeeper Larra, Guildmistress. Not to be a bother—but look. Listen.”

His eyes lit up with a kind of wonder, and Mihaela turned as she heard a familiar sound in the air. Then she did smile. Despite herself, because another friend was coming their way.

“That pretentious mule. He’s putting on a show.”

“It’s Deni. What did you think?”

Her friends looked amused, but even Lady Pryde was getting up to see. The guests hurried to one side of the inn. Mihaela didn’t shove—people made a path for her and her group.

But even if she hadn’t, she would have known Deni and his team were coming. After all—they were playing.

Wagons were riding across the ground. To be precise, it was three wagons, all being driven hell-for-leather by someone intent on catching up to The Adventurer’s Haven.

“Whoa. Fast transit. I’ve seen slower carriages. Who’s delivering them?”

A group of people were sitting in the wagons, along with a good amount of luggage. Deni never went without a lot of stuff, and sometimes, admirers of his famous team. Colth just took one look at the wagons and Mihaela answered Viecel at the same time he did.

“Must be Chaoisa. A famous [Wagon Driver].”

“There are famous wagon drivers?”

The Selphid was a career adventurer of decades—but then he did work on Baleros as much as on Izril. Mihaela snorted.

“Of course there are. Chaoisa, the Contempt of Man. Wagon drivers have the stupidest nicknames. No wonder she’s sped up. She must hate Deni’s guts.”

“That’s hilarious.”

Colth grinned, but even at their speed, everyone had time to admire and listen to Deni’s team coming. After all—

They were playing music. All ten of them, and it looked like they’d pulled in six more new recruits to the regulars. Mihaela knew most of the ten, but Deni and a few others were the real old ones.

“There he is, the showoff.”

She pointed, as if everyone couldn’t see him. His bright blonde hair was blowing in the wind, as if everyone didn’t know he dyed it, and he wore a suit as if he were at a performance in First Landing. Ruffles of white blew at his sleeves—but his violin still sang. Another adventurer holding another violin was playing with him, and the music sang through the air.

A sight few would forget. Here came an adventurer of adventurers. He was beaming as he played—but his friends just laughed at him.

“Showoff.”

They were applauding as he slowed, the regular guests. Deni disembarked from his wagon and took a bow as Larra’s inn lowered and slowed so he could stride up the ramp. A red scarf blew around his neck, and all his friends looked at that for one moment, but he was actually moving. He was alive and he was here; that was all that mattered.

…And that was when they remembered how Deni was. He had a flourish to every step and a twinkle in his eyes for all the lovely young ladies—

So Mihaela put him in a headlock. She strode towards him as if she were about to give him a great big hug, and he really should have remembered that Mihaela hugged no one.

Mihaela!

She had him in a flash, and she began to rub his hair with a fist. The guests’ admiration turned to slack-jawed disbelief as Deni spluttered. He tried to break her grip, but he wasn’t that strong.

Mihaela, let go of—

He couldn’t make her. And he was an adventurer! The adventurer. His team looked up, but no one stopped Mihaela. Then Colth was there.

“I’ve got this.”

“Thank you Colt—Colth!

The other man picked up Deni’s legs. He had nearly gotten free of Mihaela, but now he was prone in the air, and the two laughing friends swung the red-faced violinist around like a silkworm.

I’ll kill you! Let me go! Let me—

“Rub his dye out of his hair, Mihaela!”

Viecel egged them on, but Mihaela dropped Deni after only another moment. The other guests stared as Deni scrambled for what was left of his dignity. He kicked at Colth. Then he turned.

“You—you—”

Mihaela grabbed him in a one-armed hug and let go as Eld and the others came over. Deni’s combed hair was tousled, but he calmed down as he gave her a look of pure exasperation.

“I should have known. I dragged myself all the way here and even put on a show, and I get no respect. Mihaela, you’re looking well.”

“And so are you for a dead man.”

Mihaela had stopped teasing him when she saw the wound on his neck. It was a gash that was nearly half a foot deep, running where his neck and shoulder met at a diagonal, down into his chest.

It should have killed him. It would have—but the red scarf was covering the wound. An enchanted blade had done that, or else he would have healed it with a potion. Deni covered it with the scarf as he saw her look.

“As you can see, we had a bad scrape. I’ll tell you about it later. I could have used Colth or—is that Valley?

He did a double-take as the woman drifted over. She had actually closed her book, and Deni was so astonished he didn’t realize she was more interested in his apparel.

“Hello, Deni. Good to see you. Wonderful music. I think. What kind of enchantment is this?”

He batted her hands away urgently.

“That scarf saved my life—and I won’t have you touching it! Back, back, you insane brat! Knowing you, you’ll rip it off, and I’ll be dead of your curiosity.”

Deni actually drew a blade, the bow of his violin, to ward Valley off and retreated down the hallway. Colth was still trying to rub his hair for ‘good luck’, but he dodged a slash.

“All of you, hands off! Larra, we’re famished. We rode in before eating. Breakfast! And I swear, if any of you poke more fun at me, especially you, Mihaela, I’ll stab you. I’m not in the mood.”

He brushed his hair back, then noticed Colth copying him motion for motion. The other man swept his hair back ostentatiously, and several of the friends nearly died laughing. Then they were all looking around as a familiar voice called out.

“I hear you. Stop bullying Deni. Come over here and eat.”

Larra stood in front of a table ready for them all, with their favorites, and then—a group of laughing young men and women were dragging Deni over, teasing him, telling Colth to bring Valley over because she was drifting off, and asking who else would come.

Young and old. Larra went around slapping hands before they could eat. She got their attention, and they looked at her obediently.

“Alright. Here’s a light breakfast—I said light, Eld. There’ll be more food later. Now, listen up. We’re almost at the City of Adventurers. Deni was the last person to make it. When we get there, there’ll be a little event. I need you to all listen to me.”

“Do we have to act? I need to rehearse. I’m terrible at acting.”

Viecel looked nervous as he sat next to Eld. He was partners with Eld, and their team was hovering at another table—this one was just for the old friends and Larra’s guests. The [Innkeeper] hurried to reassure Viecel as Deni beckoned his team over.

“No acting. It’s simple. You’ll barely do more than sit. Now, here’s how it’s going to go, and if you mess it up, Colth, I will ban you from the inn for three months.”

Chastened, he nodded, and everyone leaned forwards to listen. Mihaela listened and half-smiled. She looked out the window, though they had a bit of time yet.

After all, this inn was famous and old, almost as old as she was. But she had to own, she was excited to see this new place she’d heard about. She’d been meaning to visit, but it seemed like she’d forgotten until now. Their destination, at least, today. And, it seemed, a place with a lot of strange happenings of its own if yesterday’s broadcast were anything to go by.

The Wandering Inn. 

What a strange name.

 

——

 

On the third day of the celebrations in Liscor, Erin Solstice slept in.

Almost no one else did. But by the same token, no one woke Erin up. Not that they could avoid making noise, so Pisces just cast [Silence] on Erin’s room. The [Innkeeper] deserved it. Just yesterday, she had earned her title as the greatest chess player in the world. She had, by herself, taken on the world’s best players.

In and of itself, that was a moment. But consider the context. That had been Day 2 of the promised three-day celebrations, and the third one was when the Antinium Crusade was slated to return to Liscor and the Humans of Wales and the combined cities would be celebrated in Celum.

So Erin’s chess tournament had been the leadup to today. Naturally—today had better be good.

Now, was everything ready? Well—visitors had been pouring into Celum, Liscor, and Invrisil, where the celebrations would be held for two days straight. The door had been recharged countless times, and there were [Merchants] ready to hawk goods, festivities planned, and more organization by the various cities than there ever had been before for this inn’s parties.

In fact, there had even been a budget, and Invrisil at least knew how to throw a celebration. The Players of Celum were participating, along with the Silverfangs and a bunch of other performers who normally catered to the nobility and adventurers.

Nevertheless, when she woke up in her bed, Mrsha du Marquin had severe doubts. She woke up just past dawn, despite staying up all night watching Erin play. That was the benefit of [Twofold Rest], and the girl realized she’d still missed Lyonette and Apista rising.

She sat up and glumly saw a kilt waiting for her and a shirt. Grumbling, Mrsha put them on. She walked around on two feet, but she threw her shoes out the window like usual.

This was normal to Mrsha by now. And it slightly surprised her that it was. Why, Ekirra was always in his jersey and shorts, and he had shoes for soccer. When had he stopped running around butt-naked in his fur on all fours?

Thus attired, Mrsha sniffed the air. It was barely past dawn, and she wondered if breakfast would be extra-special today.

Due to her history with the law—Lyonette and the Thronebearers—Mrsha the Outlaw had gotten less dessert than most good children like her. So special days like this where the cake was part of the meal were to be desired. Mrsha expected good food, but she still had doubts about the, uh…how fun this day was really going to be.

Oh, she’d seen Lyonette working hard. She’d had a few lucky windfalls, like the idea to have an Antinium doll you painted. Visma had already added Starry Skies to her collection, and she was planning on how his or her life would invariably weave its way into the sordid and often violent lives of her dolls.

However, a few good ideas did not fun make. To Mrsha, Lyonette had a more fundamental problem than just her planning. It was about her character versus Erin’s.

Namely, Lyonette was boring. Mrsha had seen how her mother had ‘fun’ in Riverfarm and elsewhere.

Tea. Conversations about politics. ‘Responsibility’ and why ‘playing pranks wasn’t a good idea’.

Erin had the kind of spontaneous craziness that meant fun was something she practically generated. Even when she was calm, she was cool. Lyonette? Uncool.

Mrsha feared this party would be a dud. She was staring out the window, paws clasped behind her back, dourly envisioning a world of hemming and hawing adults standing around chattering while children died of boredom along with the Antinium.

Liscor’s bleak, grey walls rose over the colorful Floodplains changing color as orange grass ran up to the dirt roads leading to the eastern gate. Mrsha saw a few [Builders] already at work paving the roads; Hexel had planned on constructing roads heading north instead of relying on the dirt paths that flooded every spring. Floodproofing the roads so they wouldn’t completely disappear every spring would be a challenge, but a fun one, according to the Lamia.

Mrsha could even see a few [Guards] on the walls, including an Antinium, and the High Passes were still dark as they hid most of the sun. It was the calm, pre-dawn shade, rather than night that made it feel like Liscor was under a giant shadow.

Then the air exploded. Mrsha saw something flash, and the air lit up as a flickering, grey-purple bolt of light rose above the walls—then bloomed into a flash of sparkling, twisting trails of amethyst light crossed with viridian spirals that shot out into the air.

Mrsha’s jaw dropped. She saw the magical explosion pew across the air, the magical debris unfurling then vanishing as it glanced off roofs and the walls. The Watch turned—but no one shouted the alarm. Then Mrsha realized it wasn’t an attack.

She saw another bolt of magic rise—and this time, it exploded into a fiery tempest. A [Fireball]? No—Mrsha saw a grinning Drake’s head flare into life, fifty feet wide, wink at her, and rise upwards before the flames vanished.

Then the rest of the magical fireworks began shooting up, and Mrsha’s mouth opened so wide that Apista could have crawled inside and made a nest. She saw flares of magic light up the dawn as the day of celebrations began and realized her mistake.

Lyonette might be a fuddly mother—but she was a Calanferian fuddler. And they knew how to throw a party.

 

——

 

Not everyone appreciated being woken up by fireworks, but it did set the mood. By the time a little white Gnoll raced downstairs, half the guests of the inn were out of bed and blinking.

“Whuzzat. Whuzzat. I nearly shot an [Ice Spike] through my window!”

Ceria was looking slightly murderous as she blinked around the inn, but the rest of her team, especially Ksmvr, looked delighted.

“Skylights. Now this is rather fancy, isn’t it? I’d expect that of Invrisil, not here. Miss Lyonette, did you organize this?”

Pisces looked around, and a [Princess] stood, beaming, with her four [Knights] standing to attention. Ishkr was slowly lighting candles, and Mrsha stopped as she saw three rectangular tables had been pushed together to contain the breakfast buffet.

A buffet. Along with the adventurers, several Goblins had not appreciated the boom waking them up. But they too grew gentle and accepting, nay, forgiving like Ceria in the face of a bounty of food.

There were pies and cakes, charcuterie platters and hamburgers. Eight different kinds of pasta, delicate pudding, salads and fruits from every continent but Rhir, and, yes, even pizza. The Wandering Inn had pulled out a huge variety of dishes it had stockpiled over this month, and it had added Imani and Calescent’s food.

In fact, the [Chef] was beaming nervously as he stood behind the bar. Mrsha, Ceria, and Snapjaw, all big eaters, stared at a sign next to the Goblin.

 

Omelets upon request. Please select spice level and toppings*.

*The Wandering Inn and staff are not accountable for any injuries arising due to excessive spice levels which invalidate the [Chef]’s [Hot Enough For You] Skill.

 

Omelets? Kevin smacked his lips as he eyed a mound of toppings ready to go into an equally obscene number of eggs, some already beaten and waiting to go into a pan.

“Ladies and gentlemen—please help yourselves. Today, we will be opening the inn for a small fee to anyone who wants to come in. No menus, no ordering; eat your fill.”

Lyonette’s eyes glittered with the avarice of someone who had discovered the secrets of buffet income. She gestured to the food.

“This is the, ah, breakfast buffet. We will have more formal meals later. For now, if you wish to look for activities, we have a list of every activity by time of day. Now, we cannot tell when the Antinium army and Brigadier Forount will enter their cities, but they have given us estimates. And we do have a parade for our adventurers as well! If you would like to go anywhere, be aware that the door will be in use all day. So Miss Liska will not be able to accommodate personal requests. Aside from that? I hope you enjoy! We have begun with magical illusions courtesy of Illusionist Palt and several [Mages] of Invrisil.”

It was then that Mrsha began to get a good feeling about today. And not just because she was eying the cakes.

She only noticed that Drassi was there with a small camera crew when she looked around. The Drake was broadcasting the moment! And…Mrsha realized something else.

Everyone was here. In fact, there were people staring in through the windows! And a line outdoors! Liska was, in fact, already letting people in, but they had to get through Alcaz first.

Ten silver coins? That’s a ripoff!

Relc stared in horror at the man as he tried to get into the inn’s common room. The rest of the inn, such as it was, the long hallway and portal room, were open to the general public. But to get in for breakfast?

“It may be, sir, but you’re getting the friend-of-the-inn discount. 50% off.”

“I am? Well, uh—here’s ten silver, then.”

Relc heard groans from behind him as he fumbled for coins. A lot of prospective guests peeled off instantly, and that was how Imani realized how Lyonette intended to make a profit on the sumptuous buffet.

She walked right past Alcaz without paying; she’d made a number of dishes! The Brother assured the other disappointed guests they’d be able to come back later.

“If you can’t make the breakfast buffet, we’ll have menus and even some free food later on today, sirs and madams. If you need a place to go—there’s a list of open establishments right here. And maps. Don’t take the map, please, sir.”

The inn was hopping, and everyone was there. In fact, a bleary witch, Nanette, was staring around at all the faces filing in.

A blue-scaled Drake was about to pay for an Antinium with a poofy hat when Garry was admitted, free-of-charge. After all, he had baked all three cakes.

Erin Solstice and even Imani had no time to bake a three-layer cake frosted with strawberry, vanilla, and lemon, a shortcake infused with acid flies—and clearly marked as such—and an experimental cheesecake with actual…cheese…

The point was that Garry was there. So was Olesm and more people that Mrsha knew were coming in. Venaz, Merrik, Wil, and even people from Invrisil! Like the Halfseekers, including Maughin!

Pelt, the Silver Swords—who were guests who’d been sleeping above—and a drooling Lehra. A few people were absent, like Qwera and Ysara, who were getting ready for a full day of sales and had no time for leisurely breakfasts, and Palt, who was coordinating the illusions.

In fact, Mrsha was so engrossed in watching the illusion spells that she didn’t even eat breakfast until someone handed her a breakfast burrito.

“Psst. Mrsha. You want me to put in an omelet order? You’d better hurry—my man Calescent’s on six pans, but he’s getting orders from everyone.”

Mrsha glanced over as a screaming Wyvern conjured by a spell ran into a hail of fireworks. Kevin stared out the window and whistled.

“Dude. Fireworks are a bit more impressive in the bang and explosions, but they can’t touch great illusion spells. Joseph, Imani, look at this!”

Mrsha took the piping hot burrito and found it was filled with, among other things, bacon and saffron rice. She began gobbling, then reconsidered and took slow bites.

One must savor this food.

Kevin was impressed by Mrsha’s slow pace. He was eating cake already, but he nearly spat out the cheesecake.

“Whoa. Does this have actual cheese in it? I don’t mean cottage cheese or ricotta—there’s brie in here. That’s…a taste. So what do you want?”

Mrsha scribbled down her order, and Kevin ran it off to Calescent. And this was how the day was starting?

Promising, promising. The people peering through the windows clearly thought so too, but a gold coin?

Lyonette had calculated the fiscal economics of the food she had put out. She had reasoned that even if you got the rare Relc, who could take down expensive food nonstop, or Moore, the other guests would overpay by a generous margin for breakfast. There was a limit to how much they could eat. Eggs were copper coins; if you filled up on Calescent’s ‘fancy’ omelets, chomped down two burgers, and had a slice of cake, you might pay, oh, eight silver, and that was a twelve silver win.

What made Lyonette sweat was Snapjaw, Moore, and, again, Relc. So even friends of the inn had to pay to get at the buffet. Most didn’t care, like Ceria, who practically tossed a handful of gold coins at Ishkr to elbow Kevin out of the way for her omelet order.

“Are those shrimp? From a port-city?”

Calescent hesitated. Ceria was pointing to some artfully arranged on a separate platter. Mrsha was sniffing them suspiciously.

“Yah.”

“Put them in. Alright, I’m going to want double whatever you thought you had for cheese, pieces of salami, uh—uh—slice up some green onions and peppers, and then you can put in some steak or other pieces of meat. Give me your ‘almost painfully spicy’ option, and can you put some ketchup and mayo on the side?”

Calescent stared at the half-Elf. She stared back, deadpan, and Lyonette looked over in concern. Would this new member of the staff rise to the occasion…?

Calescent eyed the pans he’d set up on the portable stove. He walked away from Ceria, into the kitchen, and came back with a wok. Then he poured in eight eggs without breaking eye-contact.

The [Cryomancer] smiled.

 

——

 

Among the people not smiling was the sniffing Gnoll who was almost in tears. Mrsha heard him outside and saw no less than Ekirra.

“T-ten silver coins? I don’t have enough!”

He looked heartbroken, and a concerned Alcaz was looking around for Lyonette. Mrsha reached for her bag of holding and realized it was upstairs. She was just about to tell Alcaz to let her friend in on credit when someone slapped two gold coins into the man’s hand.

“Let the kid in. Hey, and that’s for me’n Temile! And Miss Drake here.”

Grev, bold as could be, strode past Alcaz as Temile walked in along with Visma and Ekirra. He nodded to Mrsha and fixed his eyes on the food. Visma ran over as Ekirra brightened up.

“Grev! You needn’t do that—how many gold coins do you have?”

Temile was slightly scandalized, but Grev just rolled another coin over his fingers. The former street urchin winked at Temile and the people behind him.

“I’m a Player of Celum; Jasi sends me back lots of the profits. It pays to be a generous person on the streets. I’m a Face, aren’t I?”

“Oh, you’re the face of something. Hello, Mrsha—what a feast! Is that cake, uh…I may just take a slice or two back to the others. They’re all setting up.”

Temile headed for the cake, and Mrsha turned to Grev. She remembered him vaguely from Celum, but she hadn’t known him as long as Erin had. While Lyonette had taken care of her, Grev had been Erin’s ‘friend’ in Celum who had turned into an actual one after he’d stopped trying to mug her.

“Hey, it’s Nanette, right? The [Witch]? Whatcha doing today, Mrsha?”

The girl shrugged. She grabbed Nanette’s hand as the witch tipped her chef’s hat and greeted Grev.

“I’m not a [Witch] anymore. Just…a witch without a class.”

Grev grinned.

“That’s weird, but okay. Hey, maybe you can star in Macbeth if one of the [Actors] gets sick.”

Nanette had no context for that, and Grev was wandering off anyways. She looked around as Mrsha tugged Ekirra and Visma over to a table.

“That’s a lot of strange food, Mrsha. Can you recommend me something?”

Of course, of course. Ekirra, the omelets! Visma, get some of the mana candies! In that bowl! Nanette, you should try…a pizza!

Mrsha was showing the witch all the various foods, mainly by telling her what they were made of. When they were sitting down at a table, they all had full plates of food. But the four children would not be out of company for long.

“Mrsha? Do you want to sit together? Oh, hello there.”

Visma looked up as a shadow loomed over her and squeaked. Even though she knew Moore, he had that effect on people. The half-Giant instantly retreated, but Mrsha practically ran to bring his custom chair over, and he sat with more food than all the children combined. Ekirra’s mouth dropped as the half-Giant showed Mrsha his food.

“Miss Lyonette was very kind. She prepared an entire roasted chicken and food enough to fill me all day!”

The cynical Mrsha eyed the huge mound of pancakes, the roast chicken, the vast quantity of goat’s milk, and other slightly cheaper options for the half-Giant. But Moore seemed delighted, and so he sat with the children. Visma looked very nervous, as if Moore might fall on her, and Mrsha realized she hadn’t even eaten with the half-Giant much. Moore looked nervous of scaring her and tried not to open his mouth much as he introduced himself to Nanette.

Ekirra didn’t care. He was already face-deep in his own omelet—no spice, he had trauma—but Moore was saved from awkwardness by the arrival of more breakfast partners.

“Oh, Moore! Wailant, you sit with Mister Himilt and don’t talk his ear off about business. Today is a day of celebration.”

Viceria Strongheart came over as her husband and Himilt walked in. Then, almost as fast, Gire appeared with what Mrsha realized was an entire pizza—stacked onto her plate.

Different slices, to be fair, but you could organize them into an entire pizza. Between her and Moore, the table was groaning with food, and Ekirra almost choked trying to compete with the two giants.

“Are you Mrsha’s friend too? I’m Gireulashia. Ah—your road is long, half-Giant friend.”

Gire bowed very respectfully, and Moore smiled.

“Our stride is ever longer. You know half-Giant greetings?”

“I studied them. We met a few half-Giants. Are you…with any of the last clans?”

Moore shook his head, but he was so pleased that he and Gire shook hands, and Mrsha sighed in relief. Gire wasn’t nearly as jealous as she had been of Nanette.

Meanwhile, the witch was quite taken with Apista, who was nibbling at some syrup. She had not, in fact, met the bee, and Mrsha was glad she hadn’t freaked out.

“She’s so cute, Mrsha! For a bug.”

“You’re not afraid of her?”

Ekirra looked impressed. Nanette shrugged.

“A pet is a pet, and I’ve met Sephraic. He eats eyes—dead animals’ eyes, mainly. He’s a giant raven. All of Witch Mavika’s familiars are scarier.”

Apista fanned her wings approvingly as Nanette gently stroked her body. Why, another connoisseur of removing eyes from people? This raven sounded like an ally!

Mrsha’s own omelet appeared, courtesy of Ishkr, and she beamed at the stuffed omelet.

“What’s inside, Mrsha?”

The Gnoll investigated and found exactly what she’d ordered. Bacon and fish sauce! And cheese, of course. Ekirra sniffed at the omelet and wrinkled his nose.

“Ew. Gross. You put fish sauce in your food?”

Mrsha jabbed him with a fork. She didn’t want to hear that from someone who had put ketchup on his omelet!

 

——

 

As the children squabbled in the background, Drassi committed her first sin as a reporter. Which was unwitting; she was showing the merry inn and commentating at the same time.

“Now, folks, you can see that all the drama of yesterday is mostly gone, and it seems like a really fantastic start to a day of celebration! I’ll be taking you on tour of Liscor most of the day, but I will, sadly, be going back to the studio to cover other segments. However, please send a [Message] into the show and let us know how you rate this celebration or what you’d eat! Now, I’m going to try this…drink. Coffee, from Oteslia, drunk a certain way on advice of Coach Joseph himself!”

She nodded at Joseph, who was sitting with Imani and the others.

“If it tastes horrible I dump it on his head. Okay! You take a big mug of coffee—I love this stuff, by the way. You think tea wakes you up? This is like a stamina potion but without the taste! Then, according to Joseph, and I think this is almost criminal, instead of milk or sugar, you take a scoop of ice cream or gelato…”

She took an entire scoop of ice cream and put it into the mug. It began melting at once, and Drassi sniffed.

“Oh, that does look good. Now, what can we get to eat? I see a Goblin making omelets, and yes—that’s weird, even around here. Can a Goblin make a good omelet? Your [Reporter] is going to find out.”

 

——

 

Among the many complaints written into the show about featuring a Goblin, which put a lot of watchers off their breakfast, even more were about Drassi’s attitude itself.

Which was, namely, how dare you make me hungry? Especially if other people had to eat anything less fun than the spread she was showing off.

In fact, no less than Earl Altestiel was penning a missive on behalf of the Lord of the Dance and himself. They had been having a quite civilized meal of toasted bread and jam, whereupon they had planned on recreating some of Erin’s games and perhaps sparring in the dueling courts.

“‘…find your display of food quite upsetting to my stomach, and I am now forced to make my own omelet. Sincerely, A Hungry Earl.’ How does that sound, Lord Bel?”

The Lord of the Dance stared pensively at the ceiling as Kiish and a [Chef] hovered in the background. He nodded to himself thoughtfully as he stared at the scrying orb.

“…Sautéed oyster mushrooms, some common pork sausage, and an avocado on the side. Write that in.”

The [Chef] hurried off as Earl Altestiel gave Lord Belchaus a long look. He scribbled an addendum to the [Message].

“I have noted your preference, you monster. I shall have a far more civilized breakfast. A Desonian classic! Trout and green onion for my stuffing!”

The Lord of the Dance gagged behind a hand as Earl Altestiel folded his arms proudly. Both men turned to the scrying orb to see if Altestiel’s missive made it into the commentary.

It did. Drassi was happily eating her omelet as one of her staff read comments out loud.

“Um—someone’s claiming that all you need in an omelet is Yellats. And someone else has written that an omelet should have sautéed mushrooms and sausage with avocado on the side—or trout and green onion?”

Drassi stopped eating for a second and lowered her fork.

“All Yellat? Mushroom and sausage is…okay…what’s an avocado? But trout? Viewers, audience—please tell me this isn’t normal? S-should I try a trout omelet? It sounds disgusting. Well, let’s see. Hey, any takers to help me try three omelets?”

“I will!”

Drassi looked up and heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“Oh, good. I won’t have to suffer alone. Here’s Gold-rank adventurer Seborn, and it looks like we have Gold-rank adventurer Dawil here too. Hello!”

The Dwarf smoothed his beard importantly as Seborn appeared. He had beaten Ceria to the punch by tripping her, and Dawil had been heading over before anyone else.

“I believe we can add the Terandrian and sea palettes to what, a taste test, Miss Drassi? Plus, I want to be on the news.”

“I’ve eaten Chandrarian food and Balerosian. And a trout omelet sounds disgusting, but I’ll try one bite.”

Like Dawil, Seborn scented fame, and the two adventurers smirked at their teammates and other guests as they sat down. Drassi’s lips moved in silence as she sat there.

“…I think I foresee what Channel 3 of Wistram News Network is going to be. We’re going to need a sports channel, a food channel…alright, let’s start with the Yellat omelet. Who sent that one in?”

The Gnoll reading the notes out had a bevy of more suggestions as people tuned into the most successful channel yet again. He nearly dropped it as he stared at the note.

“The, um…um…King of Destruction.”

Drassi stared at the Gnoll for a second, then swallowed hard. She looked straight into the camera, hesitated, and then smiled.

“Well then. He has terrible taste.”

 

——

 

Wistram News Network was, among other things, passing out surveys about what you could add to its new television service in local Mage’s Guilds.

Popular features or news anchors could also be tabulated, and Drassi’s enduring popularity would be most notable in nations like Jecrass, Hellios, and any harboring an anti-Flos sentiment.

Rémi Canada, in his own Chandrarian newspaper, would later pay for the first political cartoon in this world’s history, which was a caption with one of those humorous, not-humorous images featuring an upset Flos Reimarch and his objectionable Yellat-omelet with Drassi laughing at him. The tagline would read:

‘The King of Destruction was burnt to a crisp by a Djinni, but Drassi really roasted him.’

After staring at the completed product in silence, Rémi would then try to remove the cartoon. However, his editors would sneak it back in, and the newspaper would end up breaking ten thousand daily sales, a barrier the fledgling paper had thus far failed to hit.

Rémi’s newspaper would later be banned in Reim for a week. But that was another story.

 

——

 

Alright, breakfast was a big thing. The inn was packed, despite the [Grand Theater] giving enough room—everyone was crowded around the buffet, so one side of the room was full, the other empty.

Still, it was delicious, fun, and almost everyone was there. Yes, and yes. However, there was an entire day of fun to be had, and if you spent all the time describing the conversations at breakfast, you’d get nowhere.

So Selys Shivertail, Olesm, Belgrade, and Pisces all piled their plates together and finished eating in the far, far quieter [Garden of Sanctuary].

Koi garden edition. Even the water-phobic Belgrade lingered a few minutes to keep tossing pizza crusts into the pond. A hundred koi fish fought over every scrap, and that had entertained the quartet for quite some time.

“I must admit, Lyonette can serve a most replete breakfast experience. But what, I wonder, will be her pursuant activity to begin the festivities?”

Pisces sniffed as Selys gave him an exasperated look. Olesm just grinned. They headed out to the inn and found their answer.

The city of Liscor had opened with the bazaar, hand-carved Antinium figurines (sold at a very minor price) which you could paint free of charge, and the ice-skating rink.

Brigadier Forount is due to arrive in Celum in two hours! There will be an announcement—and a celebration over there! Celum is holding a horse-race, and they’ve hired [Bards]!”

There were [Criers] shouting the news over the largest bazaar that Pisces could remember seeing. It was like Market Street in principle, but it filled Shivertail Plaza, and there were [Merchants] from all over hawking wares while watchful [Guards] dueled with [Thieves] in quiet.

The Golden Gnoll herself was selling goods from the Meeting of Tribes, including the rarest of dyes, cloth bolts made by Longstalker’s Fang, and yes, even herbs and ingredients from Gaarh Marsh.

She had generously bought the tribes’ inventories, even from Plain’s Eye’s stocks, and she was looking to make a killing in Liscor. The dyes were in great demand for new clothing and for their quality, but as anyone knew, the rarer the good, the more expensively it could be sold even further north or abroad.

Thus, a lot of [Traders] were buying carefully or impulsively from Qwera, betting on making profits later.

“It’s going well! Lyonette did all this?”

Selys herself was surprised by the sheer scale on display—until someone laughed in her earhole.

“Lyonette? You’re giving her too much credit. [Princesses] love stealing praise for things they don’t really have much part in. This is Pallass’ bazaar, just adopted for here. She didn’t have to work hard at all.”

Saliss of Lights stood behind Selys, and the Drake put her claws on her hips. Belgrade put two hands over his eyes, but peeked.

“Adventurer Saliss! Will you ever put on clothes?”

For answer, Saliss spread his arms wide, and the horrified visitors from Invrisil met a Named-rank adventurer in the flesh. Scales, rather. All the scales.

However, Liscor was changing. Watch Captain Zevara came storming through the crowd.

Adventurer Saliss! You are under arrest for public indecency! [Freeze, Criminal]!

She pointed at him, and Saliss threw up his claws and pressed the back of one hand against his forehead dramatically.

“Oh no! Woe is me! Liscor’s Watch has me!”

He put out his claws as the Skill locked him down. Pisces and Olesm, on a hunch, pulled Selys back as Zevara strode over. Saliss didn’t move as he froze up for another second—then, as two magical handcuffs tried to encircle his wrists, he winked.

“Neat Skill, Watch Captain. Has Pallass tried to headhunt you yet?”

Zevara clicked the handcuffs around Saliss’ wrists and stepped back. Then she stared at the grinning Saliss…right up until he melted. His face turned from amusement to horror.

“Wait, are these handcuffs laced with copper? I’m allergic to copper! I’m melting! I’m meeeeeeeelting!

The screaming Drake turned into a bubbling pile of fizz as horrified bystanders turned to stare at Zevara. Her face turned waxy—until someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“Fake Drake. He’s already run off. Probably invisible. Good luck.”

Zevara started breathing again. She looked around, and a Drake holding his daughter’s claw nodded to her. Watch Captain Venim and his daughter, on break, looked practically inured to Saliss of Lights.

Zevara looked around, and the Watch Captain of Pallass saluted her with a look of deepest sympathy.

 

——

 

A wise Watch Captain cut her losses. There was a lot to patrol, from petty theft to simple crowd work, and Liscor’s Watch did not have the time to chase around a top-level [Alchemist].

In fact, part of the issue was that there were so many festivities, people were getting run-into trying to hop from experience to experience.

Liscor Hunted was having a group hunt of Rock Crabs. The Antinium figurines were selling like cookies—and the street vendors were making a killing. There were even opportunists touring brave visitors around Liscor’s Crypt.

Not the dungeon; that had been sealed off, and good thing too. People fancying that numbers = power had tried to peek inside without realizing that more people just meant more food to some monsters inside the dungeon. Or a trap.

Anyways, there were a good number of festivities on offer. But you know who didn’t have any activities?

Goblins. And Antinium. The two races who, in theory, were partly being celebrated by today had no culture.

It was a deeper cut than Lyonette had realized when she had asked them yesterday for some activity. Drakes, Humans, Gnolls, every species had lots. Even if something wasn’t unique to them, they had their own take on it.

For instance, Humans played horseback polo. A Terandrian game where you rode on horses and swung mallets at little balls to knock them through hoops.

Riveting as that was, Drakes had a kind of bowling—albeit with different pins and no lanes. Gnolls had a game you could play on grass with no pins and just the balls.

Goblins and Antinium, though—had no variations or games. And that hurt Rags’ pride.

She sat in one of the guest rooms her tribe had been allotted, moodily chewing on some corn on the cob sprinkled with mayonnaise and cheese for some reason. It tasted like food, and that was all she had to say about it.

Well, part of her bad mood was that even if Goblins weren’t killed on sight, she would have to deploy illusion spells to shop in Liscor. Which she was going to do, but she was sitting in her room with some of her head Goblins.

Poisonbite, Snapjaw, Badarrow, Redscar, and Taganchiel. All her lieutenants, who were practically Chieftain-rank on their own. And judging from their faces, just loving being here.

“Chieftain. Can we go?”

“Where?”

Rags grumbled at Badarrow as he raised a claw. Snapjaw answered for him.

“Anywhere but here, Chieftain. Numbtongue?”

“What’s he doing? Going in the city?”

“Nope. Going to play in a band. With Kevin. Can we go? Or play on the com-pu-ter.”

Snapjaw savored the words as she gobbled down another cone of ice cream. Poisonbite nodded.

“Or skating.”

“Or buying swords. Pelt has swords for sale.”

Redscar was antsy too. None of the Goblins wanted to be here, but Rags slapped one knee.

Culture! Anyone got ideas?”

They’d been side-tracked by Erin’s games, but Rags was determined not to leave without something to show for it. Or—at least—stealing a game or two.

“Maybe chess? Bring back some boards, Chieftain. Goblins play. Culture. Tada.”

Redscar tried valiantly as all of Rags’ officers smiled and nodded. Rags scowled at him.

“Something unique to Goblins, stupid.”

“Hurtful, Chieftain.”

The others groaned and looked at Taganchiel, their [Shaman], hopefully. Rags was in a mood, and it meant she probably needed something she considered useful before she’d relent. Unfortunately, the problem was that Rags, a thief of so many things, was having trouble.

Because ‘culture’ was not a trebuchet. It was not something one person could steal. The poor Goblins might have wasted more time they could have spent like Hedault. He hadn’t shown up for breakfast, but he was working on a 360 off a ramp as Poisonbite stared out the window.

That was culture. And Poisonbite, if she’d been lucid, might have made the case that of all the species to adopt Kevin’s unique imprint on this world, the Goblins of Goblinhome were certainly skateboarding enthusiasts.

…However, she did not think to say that. So, the Goblins hemmed and hawed. Redscar suggested that some of his Goblins offer to duel anyone. Badarrow offered a shooting contest. Snapjaw offered an eating contest, and Rags threw her finished cob at her, whereupon Snapjaw ate it.

The moment was ripe for someone to speak. Someone to prove that Goblins did have culture, but only a true [Shaman], not pathetic Taganchiel, would remember it.

Someone like…a [Shaman of the Old Ways], for instance. Someone super-valuable and definitely so important that Rags would have to respect and honor her.

Ulvama was crouching outside one of the windows that led out onto the inn’s roof. Bird had been staring at her for the last eight minutes straight, but she knew the value of a good entrance. She was just crawling back to her window to knock on Rags’ door when something unexpected happened.

The door opened, and another Goblin walked inside. Ulvama froze and stared as an unfamiliar Goblin entered.

“Chieftain Rags, you wanted to speak to me? Taganchiel sent for me via Wyvern, but I have only arrived just now. We had to ride here via Carn Wolf to hide the Wyvern’s flight path.”

This Goblin was notable in a few ways. Firstly, she was a she. Secondly, she was a spellcaster. Thirdly?

She had a mask.

A blonde Goblin with a tangle of hair like a spider’s nest adjusted a mask that appeared to be a cross between a snarling bear and a warthog over her mouth and nose. She also had a pointy hat.

The Goblin [Witch] tipped her hat to a wide-eyed Nanette passing by their rooms, and Prixall bowed to Rags. Anazurhe’s daughter, a Goblin of the Molten Stone Tribe, looked at Rags, and the Chieftain sat up.

“Taganchiel sent for you?”

The other [Shaman] smiled in relief. He pointed at Prixall and nodded.

“Culture, Chieftain.”

Prixall blinked, then smiled as he explained what Rags wanted. Her eyes lit up, and she nodded. The Goblin who had come from one of the world’s safest tribes after seeing Rabbiteater and Rags’ own tribe bowed.

“Of course I can show them a Goblin game, Chieftain. I know just the magic.”

“What!?”

Ulvama kicked the door open, and all the Goblins jumped. She pointed at Prixall, and the [Witch] turned and blinked at her.

“Ulvama.”

You? Molten Stone? What about me? I have all the culture! I have more culture in half my butt than she does!

Prixall bristled as Rags looked between Ulvama and her newest leader in magic—nay, witchcraft. She turned—and found Snapjaw climbing out the window. All her officers fled as Rags pinched the bridge of her nose. But then she brightened up a bit. Rags turned to the celebration outside and wondered why an Antinium on a wagon was rolling towards Liscor. Lots of Gnolls, too. She shrugged, then nodded at Ulvama and Prixall.

“Alright. Show me. No—show them what our culture is.”

Hungrily, she waited as the two Hobgoblins glanced at each other and smiled.

 

——

 

Now, they were here at last.

It had been the opposite of a boring ride north. It never was boring with Termin.

Rhaldon, the trainee [Wagon Driver], was so new to this world that he enjoyed just seeing different cities and the changing landscapes.

However, their trip north had been fairly uneventful in terms of violence or chaos. They camped rather than stayed in cities due to their Antinium passenger, and the Gnolls did not like Drakes—but they stayed out of the way.

Aside from a few furious arguments where some Drakes shouted insults at the warriors sent to guard Antherr—nothing had come close to a fight. The Antinium, ironically, had been one of the least contentious parts of the journey due to Termin’s genius strategy to keep him hidden:

He gave Antherr a cloak and a hat. Now, masterminds like Niers had camouflaged Antinium and Goblins before by making use of perception—if one did not expect an Antinium on the road, they were less likely to look closely.

Termin took it a step further. Who could imagine an Antinium wearing a hat? So a bulky figure in a cloak had sat with Rhaldon, staring out with the young man from Earth.

In that way, they were similar. Rhaldon had gotten to talk a lot with the Gnolls as well. They were fairly friendly, if clearly still haunted by the trauma of the Meeting of Tribes. But Rhaldon had gotten to talking with one of the Gnolls he actually had a kind of friendship with.

That Gnoll was a fellow who had a bunch of feathers tied to one armband like a decoration, always carried a recurve bow, and whose name was Nailren.

He was the Captain of the Pride of Kelia, and he apparently came from the tribes, but he had travelled further than most as a Silver-rank adventurer. So far, in fact, that this was not a voyage out, but a kind of return for him.

He knew Liscor, and he was only too happy to brag about knowing Erin Solstice. Now that Rhaldon and Termin were coming up to the city—no, now that he had seen the chess games that took the world by storm, Rhaldon was nervous.

Was she from home? She had to be. Could he talk to her?

If there was any feeling in his bones, it was a great apprehension. Not just that he might find someone else—Rhaldon felt at his aching shoulder. It still ached, even after being healed.

Antherr didn’t notice; their wagons were rolling across the neat road that had led them past the Bloodfields. Fox and Erma were trotting ahead of Termin’s wagon, and the old [Wagon Driver] was chatting with the Gnolls sniffing the air and twitching their ears.

They were all excited to get to Liscor for the big celebration. Termin especially. He had grumbled about his age because he had to camp out rather than sleep in a proper bed. For all that, his Skills had kept them out of danger quite easily.

Rhaldon, though…he watched Antherr bouncing excitedly in his seat. The big Soldier, like a child, stared at the square fort—a massive one to Rhaldon.

Perfectly solid walls. A square—not including the new area under construction. It amused Rhaldon because…he wasn’t sure that was a natural architectural feature. He’d heard Liscor flooded every year, and so the walls were waterproof?

Even Venice wasn’t that strange, and that was his only comparison. He wondered about the architecture that Earth would need to employ to build a city like Liscor. Could the modern era do something like this? Skyscrapers had that kind of impressive verticality due to steel and current construction techniques, but how nervous would even an engineer from Earth be about making a waterproof city that had to avoid springing a leak? If the walls gave in, a hundred thousand plus people drowned.

Well, Rhaldon was no expert in architecture. He was just a…chemist. Although he had no class, and alchemy was this world’s only equivalent.

Right now, Liscor was more than a square box. It was lit up with distant music, wagons rolling in and out and headed north, and that inn on a hill came into view slowly.

“There it is! Faster, Erma, Fox! We’re eating well tonight!”

Termin cackled with delight. The two ponies actually slowed down until he bribed them.

“Oh, come on—I’ll find you sweetgrass hay! There’s a door to the Strongheart Farms. Sweetgrass hay, an apple, carrots—I’ll make a damn salad!”

That put some pep in their step, and Rhaldon laughed. His ponies were hardly as intelligent as Termin’s. They were friendly, but Erma and Fox were people.

“Liscor. It’s changed, yeah?”

Nailren lifted his head, and his team stirred. They looked up as some of the Weatherfur and other Gnolls sniffed the air.

“Is that a team of Gnolls hunting I see? Silverfang should be here. Chief Warrior, what should we expect?”

“A friendly welcome. Find Krshia Silverfang; don’t ask me. Be on your best behavior. This city…is full of Antinium. And more Humans and less typical Drakes. I heard it was a literal backwater city before now. So it’s better than most Drake cities, eh?”

Chief Warrior Toresh Weatherfur looked warily ahead. He had rings of white on his fur and a splash of color across his chest. Torishi Weatherfur’s colors. He was related to her, and all the Gnolls of her tribe wore her markings, yellow and purple and blue like a slash across their chest.

Yet even he looked slightly excited, despite the mourning, to see the inn. Rhaldon craned his neck and frowned.

“…Is that a skating rink? Termin, do you see that?”

“It may be, it may be, Rhaldon, my boy. You expect to see that kind of thing around the inn.”

“Will we be able to get in? It looks crowded.”

Termin hesitated, then smiled affably.

“I hope Miss Erin will remember me. I did take her back from Celum. If we can’t get a place, we’ll see about the city. But we are dropping off Mister Antherr. Do you want to meet the legendary [Innkeeper], Rhaldon? She’s a character, and I’ve met almost every [Innkeeper] in Izril!”

Rhaldon smiled.

“I’d be delighted to. And Joseph. He plays football, right?”

“Right, right. I have no idea who that is. Captain Nailren, do you remember him?”

The Gnoll scratched his head and turned to his team. He kicked a snoozing Gnoll gently, and she sat up.

“Oi. Cuska, Bekr. Anyone remember Joseph?”

They all stirred from where they were napping along the wagon. The Pride of Kelia knew The Wandering Inn. However, they were not the most regular visitors.

“Joseph? Was he the one who kept drinking himself sick? And those annoying kids the Wind Runner brought in? Remember the one who kept comparing little Mrsha to a dog?”

“Oh, right. Hate them. Sounds like they’ve changed.”

Rhaldon listened with both ears to the casual banter. And the pit in his stomach grew wider. Nailren actually noticed Rhaldon’s apprehension.

“You nervous, Rhaldon? Don’t be. She’s friendly. Just don’t do anything like try to stab a Goblin. All the rumors about her are exaggerated.”

“Rumors? Like what?”

Rhaldon, of course, knew she was the Innkeeper Who Lived, who had come back from the dead, the great chess player, and had possibly been Sserys reincarnated. He wondered what rumors could add to that.

“Oh, people say she’s able to spit blood like an Oldblood Drake. She’s a Wall Lord’s secret mistress, uh…what else? She’s crazy, obviously, she has acid instead of blood—”

“No, she just throws jars of acid. That’s not a rumor, it’s true.”

Nailren jabbed his teammates.

“You’re messing up the rumors! Rhaldon doesn’t know—”

The Earther gulped. None of this helped, but she seemed like a good person. Antherr clearly appreciated the rumors, and Erin Solstice was a friend to Goblins and Antinium. From what Rhaldon saw—that was a breath of fresh air in a bog of general species bigotry, if Gnolls and Drakes were anything to go by, and that made Erin all right by him.

No, what made him so nervous was—he wondered if he could ask her for help. Just—help. Someone to explain what was going on. He liked to think he’d managed to find a way to survive after literally bleeding out on the side of a road. He’d gotten lucky, and Termin was incredibly generous and powerful in his own way.

From one person from home to another, though? Rhaldon looked at the inn, three stories tall, and the crowds surrounding it. He thought of the world’s best chess player, and he felt like he didn’t quite have the authority to approach her.

The Wandering Inn was so crowded, in fact, that Termin, Rhaldon, and the others never even got to head up the hill to it. They tried to find a path up the huge hill, but someone stopped them.

“Hey, you two wagons! No going towards the inn.”

“What? We’re on a special delivery, sir—”

A tired [Guardsman] waved them off. A Drake pointed to the city gates, and there was a line even on the south side.

“You and everyone else. If you want to get to the inn—foot traffic only.”

“But we have an Antinium—the Antinium—”

Termin seemed quite upset not to be able to roll straight up to the inn, but he hesitated as he looked up at the inn.

The crowds surrounding the inn would have made Erma and Fox’s transit up the hill impossible on their own. People were clustered around the ice-skating rink on one side, lined up for the inn on another, and the stables and one area of the inn looked clear—until a Carn Wolf trotted out of the stables and yawned hugely as a Goblin fed it a huge piece of meat.

“Ah. That’s probably not a good place for Erma and Fox to bed down.”

Rhaldon couldn’t take his eyes off the gigantic wolf with red-rust fur. It had to be three times the size of a regular wolf! How much did a creature like that eat? And if it were in the stables—Erma and Fox had instantly lined up for the gates.

“We’ll get you to the inn on foot, Mister Antherr. It’ll just be one tic.”

Termin reassured the Antinium, and the Soldier nodded happily. Antherr Twotwentyonethree Herodotus, his full name, was an odd Soldier. He could not speak, but he seemed quite genial, which was at odds with the giant greatsword he carried. He seemed friendly, gently inquisitive—and the Gnolls and Drakes talked about him like he was a soldier from one of the most terrifying armies to ever invade Izril.

The wagons rolled through the gates after a cursory inspection. The [Guards] frowned at all the armed Gnolls, but when they saw Antherr, everything clicked.

“Is that one of the Soldiers from the army? From the <Quest>? Well, well! Today’s a big day! Go on through and take him to the inn. Hey, Sergeant, I’m off-duty in five minutes. I want to watch. Need a stable? There should be an opening if you go left and then right on the second street.”

Termin smiled, but Rhaldon cast a glance at Antherr. The Soldier’s mandibles were raised and wide, which Rhaldon knew was a smile, but aside from the [Guards], people barely noticed the Antinium. In fact—for a city ‘filled’ with Antinium, Rhaldon saw very few among the visitors. Humans, Gnolls, Drakes, even Garuda and Dullahans.

Few Antinium. Yet here was a Soldier who’d survived a deadly war, and the celebration barely focused on him. It seemed unfair to Rhaldon, but Antherr seemed so happy he kept fidgeting as Termin rolled into a Driver’s Guild headquarters and asked for a place for the wagons.

“We’d better head to the inn straightaway. Especially if rooms are as expensive as they sound. Rhaldon, help me square the ponies. Mister Toresh, are you staying with us? Captain Nailren?”

Both Gnolls nodded.

“Until the Soldier—Antherr—is delivered, we will, Driver Termin. You two, help with the wagons.”

Then the two Human men, Antherr, and a group of Gnolls were walking through the streets, headed towards the eastern gate and the inn on a hill. They attracted some stares then, because Antherr had taken off his hat and cloak. Now, the [Immortal] walked with his wounds—a missing arm, scars on his chitin—visible to all.

And his greatsword strapped to his back. People did notice him then. And they seemed to realize—

“Hey, is that the Soldier that was part of that <Quest>? Is he going to the inn? He is—let’s go! Forget the jugglers. They’re just juggling knives.

A glaring duo of performers watched the Antinium draw a crowd away from the street shows. It seemed like there were a number of local events going on, but the bazaar and the promise of the parade was the biggest allure. Rhaldon’s eyes hurt from trying to take in foreign architecture, read signs in Drake script—and hear the babble of voices.

He couldn’t know it, but the massive influx of visitors was overwhelming Lyonette’s entertainments. Lines for Antinium figurines were so long that the [Carvers] were working overtime trying to produce enough pieces. And the larger events like the skating rink still had a capacity limit. Liscor’s unique food was the biggest draw, but since it required money—the parade couldn’t come fast enough.

 

——

 

Even the display of Master Pelt smithing was so crowded it was easier to watch it on scrying orb than try to get a view. So there was boredom in the streets as well as a sense of excitement.

“Dad. I’m bored. Dad. Daaaaad.

A Drake girl was tugging on her father’s claw. She normally would have gone to her aunt, who looked after her a lot more than her busy father, but her aunt was engrossed in viewing some Gnollish earrings in the open market, and she was lost to time. So she went to her father.

“Dad. Dad? You said there would be things to do, but the skating rink is closed. What are we doing?”

Venim’s daughter looked up at him, and the Watch Captain started and guiltily turned away from talking with Watch Captain Zevara. He had his work face on.

“I’m sorry, Kenva. Let’s—”

He looked around with the desperation of a father trying to impress his daughter on his rare days off. He needed more Father Points, and his gift of cookies that one time had long since expired.

Kenva, for her part, was already staring at a shift in the crowds. An Antinium was walking with two Humans and a bunch of Plains Gnolls! She drifted after him, but Venim grabbed her hand.

“Careful of the Antinium.”

“But Dad, you said it was safe!”

“Don’t let her near the Antinium, Venim.”

Torkessa hissed at her brother, and Venim nodded. Kenva tried, by sheer force of muscle, to pull him over, but he insisted they stay back. The Antinium walking through the streets was the coolest thing Kenva had seen aside from the market—and that wasn’t as good as Pallass’! She wanted to skateboard in the ice rink, but it was crowded. She wanted an Antinium doll, but it was ‘bad taste’ according to her Pallassian father.

This was the worst vacation ever. The Drake girl bit back tears as her tail curled up. She watched the Antinium walk past and do nothing interesting—and then the Goblin appeared.

“What the—is that a Goblin?

Venim came to a halt as the parade neared the gates. The crowd stopped too and drew back. For just outside the gates was a Goblin. To be more precise, a group of Goblins.

The small Chieftain, Rags, stood with a pair of female Hobs and a few other Goblins who looked…big. Kenva hid behind her father as he put a claw on his sword.

Keep calm. The Goblins are not entering the city.”

A [Guardswoman] was calling for quiet, and she seemed to be warning the Goblins as well. Senior Guardswoman Beilmark eyed Rags, Ulvama, and Prixall warily. Especially because she recognized spellcasters when she saw them.

Ulvama had her staff, and her magical paint was glowing. Prixall, wearing her terrifying…ly cool mask was adjusting her hat. She took it off and peered inside as if checking for something. Kenva stared behind her father.

These were Goblins? They didn’t look like monsters at all!

“I think we should go back and see about those dolls, Kenva. Come on.”

Venim didn’t like them. He was trying to lead his daughter away when Rags gave an order. The Humans, Gnolls, and Drakes stepped back as the two Hobs, Ulvama and Prixall, argued a moment.

It seemed like they were in competition—but then Prixall made a universal ‘give me’ gesture with her palm. Ulvama folded her arms and sneered until Rags glared at her. Then she grudgingly slapped something into Prixall’s palm and sulked.

What she had given Prixall was magic. Kenva was taking magic lessons since she had the aptitude, and she thought she saw a current of power. And she had never seen that before. She pointed it out, and Venim decided this was dangerous.

“Who knows what they’re doing? I need to find Watch Captain Zevara. She can’t be alright with this. Kenva, we’re going. How much magic did you say that was?”

Now, he and his daughter were engaged in a tug-of-war. And Kenva was only holding her own because she was going to start crying if she didn’t get to see what was going on. However, Venim almost had her hurrying away when someone interrupted with a deep growl.

“A tribe’s worth. Quite a lot, Watch Captain Venim. Don’t worry. Logic dictates that the Goblins won’t do something hostile. If they do, I will address it immediately.”

Kenva looked up—and realized why people were staring their way. Even in this moment, the sight of the most muscular Drake the world had ever seen deserved a second glance.

“Sinew Magus!”

Grimalkin of Pallass stood with his arms folded. Kenva stared up, awestruck, at him. The hero of Pallass’ Wyvern attack!

“Are you sure, Magus Grimalkin?”

Her father talked to him! The imposing [Mage] nodded. He wasn’t taking his eyes off Prixall as she put her hat on her head, and her red eyes flashed yellow a moment. She raised her claws and cupped them. Then blew into the cupped hands.

“She’s working something…large. Shamanic—no, [Witch] magic. I can’t quite tell what she’s doing. It’s probably not hostile. But it’s big. How does a Goblin know magic that complex? That mask. Where are my notes on Goblin tribes?”

He began fumbling for a journal as Venim and his daughter watched along with the crowd. Even the Antinium had slowed, and Kenva saw a sign of real magic appear.

Real magic, as her teacher had explained to the young Drakes, was magic manifesting itself. To make it simple, the bigger the magic, the more it affected the real world. Low-tier magic was temporary and vanished.

Big magical spells changed the air itself. Like how the sun seemed, suddenly, less bright. As if a shadow had fallen over the world, despite the relatively clear skies. A shade in the air, a humming in your teeth and bones.

“What is she…?”

Senior Guardswoman Beilmark was about to tell the Goblins to stop, and Sinew Magus Grimalkin was carefully preparing a dispel magic effect. But it was too late. Indeed, a group of children came tumbling out of the inn as they noticed the magic too.

“Whoa! What’re those Goblins doing?

Grev, Mrsha, Ekirra, and Visma all stared down at Ulvama, and Kenva pointed excitedly at the famous Gnoll girl. Mrsha, with the white fur! And there was Drassi!

“Dad, Dad, there’s Miss Drassi! I need an autograph or I’ll die!”

Her father was busy watching Prixall. The Goblin [Witch] lifted her cupped hands—and something was glowing inside them. She smiled—and then tossed something up into the magically darkened air.

Then, Kenva saw something float out of the Goblin’s grasp. Rags, Mrsha, Antherr, Rhaldon, everyone stared at the Goblin as the Molten Stone Tribe’s daughter answered Rags’ request.

Culture. More culture—a visible kind of culture that Rags wanted. Nevermind that the Mountain City Tribe had their own culture, like Ulvama’s painted skin. Or the Redfang’s own decorations and lifestyle. What Rags meant was—something like chess. Something like skating.

Tell me we at least have games? Something more than war and death?

The tribes of Izril had almost forgotten it. But [Shamans] remembered. And the Molten Stone Tribe’s Chieftain hailed from a place that had never been conquered. The Isle of Goblins.

From there to Anazurhe’s tribe to here. Prixall cast a magic spell. And a little, glowing fish made of bright orange light swam out of her cupped hands.

It had a trailing fin and a pair of catfish-like whiskers on each side of its face. Its eyes were bright green jewels, and the fish was like a beautiful decoration, like you might see in Drath—or the actual fish it was based on, swimming in deep waters, that Goblins admired and caught in their nets.

Yet this one was made of magic. The crowd stopped recoiling and stared as it swam through the air. A dancing fish, darting about, circling slowly, and then jerking away as Ulvama swatted at it and put her hands in her pockets grumpily. She had stolen a pair of pants.

“What is…that?”

Venim halted, worried, perhaps, that the fish was a harbinger of some Tier 5 [Fish Swarm] spell. But Grimalkin just blinked.

“That’s…a Tier 3 [Light] spell. Or something close. I could make that. But the aesthetics are beyond what half of Fissival’s graduates can do.”

By that, he meant it was a beautiful fish. It dazzled Kenva’s eyes, and in the darkened air, it shone even brighter. Rags was pointing at it and clearly asking—what the heck is this?

She reached out for the fish as it nosed around her, and the fish darted away. Prixall smiled. Then she made a grasping gesture as she spoke out of earshot.

Grab the fish? No, catch it! She looked around and then made a swishing gesture. With a net. Yes, grab it with a net!

The adults didn’t get it. But the children watching, all of them, instantly understood. They eyed the darting fish and saw how clever it was. Where Grimalkin saw an adept piece of magic—the children saw a fish you caught.

And what happened after that? Prixall demonstrated, and the fish came over as obediently as could be. She grabbed it—and it dissolved into a shower of sparkles.

“No, she killed it!”

Kenva was horrified—until she saw the shower of magical dust that coated the laughing [Witch]’s hands and arms. It clung to Prixall, a glowing, shining sparkle on her skin.

“Aha. Residual magic…must be a Tier 2 enchantment. You can definitely do this with an equivalent, nevermind the shamanic magic.”

Grimalkin was still muttering his notes. Kenva was still upset the fish was gone, but Prixall had demonstrated the rewards of the game, how it went—and then she clapped her hands.

Another fish swam out of the air. This one was long and sinuous—it was a silver eel! Then something flew out of the sky, and everyone gasped.

A regal bird, a Soerluing, the self-styled ‘king of birds’ due to the crest it had on its head, fluttered down, and the magical illusion fanned its wings. Prixall let it land on her arm with a laugh—

…Right before its head exploded. All the Goblins jerked as an arrow passed through the magical Soerluing, and Rags turned. She shook a fist up at the inn’s tower, and an Antinium with a bow lowered it. Then Bird tried to hide behind the lip of his tower.

That aside, more creatures were swimming out of the air. Fish were emerging, darting across the air, past the dazzled crowd and children rummaging around for something—sticks, cloth, netting—and there were birds!

Even squirrels! They began to scatter, and Venim looked around.

“Magus Grimalkin, what is this?”

“I believe…it’s a Goblin game.”

A game? Everyone looked at him, but then Kenva let go of her father’s hand and jumped.

“I’ve got it! I’ve got—”

A yellow squirrel leapt and spread its wings as the tree-squirrel flew. Kenva ran after it as Venim turned.

“Don’t! It could be danger—”

Too late. Kenva was chasing the squirrel. Another child, a Gnoll, had already caught a butterfly, and he was giggling as his worried mother peered at his face. But all he had was a shower of blue dust that made his fur light up like it was glowing.

“Catch the fish! I need a net!”

“Someone sell me a fishing net! I’ll make little nets, one silver each!”

“Nine copper per catching net!”

“Wood for a fishing net, two copper per rod!”

The adults and children began shouting, and suddenly, the little creatures were everywhere. They mostly flew around outside of the walls, but Prixall was casting a big spell. With all of the magic of a tribe behind her.

The adults were wary, but the children were delighted. They began running—and before Venim could halt his daughter, a flying Gnoll cannonballed into the back of his legs.

Ekirra stopped to apologize to the man—then he was running after Mrsha, Visma, and the others. The magical creatures were quick! Some were slow enough that even a baby could catch them, but some behaved like, well, the genuine article.

Have you ever tried to catch a squirrel? Kenva realized why the animals were mostly outside Liscor’s walls—with the windows, stalls, and whatnot in Liscor, the little creatures were impossible to catch. She leapt, and the eel-fish darted past her—

Right into the jabbing tip of a spear. It burst, and Hickery shielded her eyes. Then someone shouted.

“No fair! No spears!”

The Gnoll looked in delight at her ‘enchanted’ spear as more Gnolls ran out. The [Guards] were calling.

“Not in the city! Out in the grass—no spears!

Children and a few adults began pursuing the magical creatures running about. Then—Kenva was laughing as a little Gnoll girl spotted some nets being made by someone with [Advanced Crafting]. She raced over, and Mrsha handed Kenva, Ekirra, and Visma each one. They began racing around, trying to find the most alluring creatures.

“Get the pink jellyfish! I want my scales to sparkle!”

Visma screeched, but Ekirra was racing.

“No, the white rabbit! Put it on my soccer ball! Ekirra kiiiick!

He kicked the soccer ball, and it missed the rabbit and bounced off Palt’s chest as the Centaur trotted out to admire the illusion spells.

From the walls, Beilmark blew a whistle.

“No soccer balls, no spears!”

Ekirra’s ears flattened, and he went to put his ball away. But then Mrsha saw the Antinium standing still and staring at the beautiful creatures.

A Goblin’s game for children. The crowd had almost forgotten, but they turned back to Rags and the Hobs. Then—Mrsha went racing over the ground.

Antherr! It’s him! Antherr!

Grev, who was too cool to play catch, uncrossed his arms, and Nanette released a magical dove she’d caught. Everyone turned as the white Gnoll silently shouted and raced around the Soldier.

It’s Antherr! And Termin! And Nailren!

She recognized the Weatherfur Gnolls too, and they nodded to her. Mrsha fumbled for her notepad, realized she’d left it behind—then pointed at the inn. She mimed—wait, wait—and began racing up to the inn.

She realized what Antherr being here meant. Then Drassi, who had captured the entire Goblin game, focused on Antherr.

“Oh my. I believe we’re about to capture another quest being fulfilled live, folks. If I don’t miss my guess, that might be Antherr, a soldier of Liscor’s army who fought in the Meeting of Tribes, returning to the inn. We—is there time for a celebration?”

The Drake looked around, but Lyonette was already hurrying out the door to greet Antherr with the Thronebearers. And Erin was still asleep!

Pisces gently picked Mrsha up before the Gnoll could open Erin’s door and wake her up. Instead, the guests filed outside. It was not the full celebration he deserved, but it was on the scrying orb.

 

——

 

…He deserved more. Not that Antherr seemed to care. In the scrying orb, the Antinium silently looked up, mandibles parted, as he stared at glowing creatures flying around him. The magic-laden air was shaded, but not dark, and it seemed as beautiful as the morning had been.

But he deserved everything, and they were missing it. So a group of people watching the scrying orb furiously sped up.

“We’re going to miss the party! That’s Antherr! I knew that bastard was alive. He owes me money. Move faster you slow pieces of spidercrap!

Thousands of Antinium were marching past Esthelm as the cheering Humans waved at them and the Antinium waved back. Crusader 57 was screaming at the Antinium as wagons rumbled behind them, laden with pieces of jade and other triumphs of the war. Crusader 53 nudged Crusader 57—but they all did increase their pace.

They wouldn’t make it. Even at full-tilt, they’d need another hour or two to get there. So every Antinium was watching the orb anxiously.

They felt that Antherr deserved more. Every promised fanfare, every moment the Crusade had earned—give it to him?

Perhaps that was enough. He was walking through a dark sea filled with vibrant creatures, shining, as children ran and laughed around him. Antherr shaded his eyes and stared up at the inn, newly-built walls gleaming, as an Antinium waved at him from the tower.

One of Antherr’s hands waved back, and a beaming Gnoll girl with white fur was leading Lyonette and four shining [Knights] in golden armor out. Adventurers stood, some waving at Antherr, others nodding to Nailren.

Wasn’t that enough? It should have been. Would have been for Antinium in any time but now. The Crusaders were learning greed. They wanted more. More, to fill empty hearts and heads which had never encompassed anything so glorious.

Into that desire, someone answered their request. The Antinium, staring at the scrying orb that Artur had mounted on top of his banner so everyone could see it, heard a strange sound coming from the orb.

It sounded like…music. To be more precise, it sounded like a cello. A deep strain, running across the ground and grass. The children stopped a second, and heads turned. Even the Goblins’, because this was not their doing.

“Wait. Is that…”

Crusader 57 recognized the sound before anyone else. He looked up as a second group emerged, and the crowd drew back once more. Then he covered his eyes.

“No. No! It’s so embarrassing. It’s so st—

All of Squad 5 began slapping him on the shoulders to get him to shut up. For the sound coming out of the scrying orb was not the cello alone. It was quickly joined by a flute and other soft instruments. In fact, the orchestra was so astounding to many because—

It sounded Terandrian. In fact, it sounded exactly like Terandrian music, so much so that the Thronebearers and Lyonette started and looked around.

Then the [Princess]’ head rose, and she recognized that familiar music. As if she were in a ballroom listening to one of the famous songs that was played when…

When you danced. Antherr, striding up the hill, slowed, and his head turned. His antennae, waving, stopped, and then he stared as the second group that this day was all about finally emerged.

Pawn, the [Priest] of the Free Antinium, had returned. His mysterious absence the day before and the lack of Antinium was not accidental. Like Rags, they had been faced with a lack of…anything that defined them.

Unlike Rags, Pawn knew one thing that defined them. And for the Painted Antinium, it only took a bit of preparation to show everyone what they had learned.

The hardest part was finding musicians willing to play for them, but gold talked, and Pawn had gone to Invrisil to find the best. So a group of nervous Humans and some Drakes and Gnolls were performing a…Terandrian orchestra piece.

That was not what made the crowd stare. It was the Antinium coming across the grass. But not in a horde. Not marching, like the Crusade.

They were dancing. No, they were waltzing. Crusader 57 was muttering about how embarrassing it looked—but even the [Crusaders] were watching in awe.

Even they had not known that Antinium could dance. Much less in the way that a [Princess] had once taught a [Priest]. The artful steps, the carefully clasped hands and rotating bodies. An Antinium spun out from a hand, and another couple glided across the ground as if it were a palace ballroom.

They danced, coming across the grass as if flanking Antherr as he walked up to the hill. Painted Antinium, their carapaces decorated with their identities. Yellow Splatters and Purple Smile waltzed past Antherr as Pawn took his place at the top of the hill.

 

——

 

And it was all being broadcast.

Some people could not bear to see it. Goblins, suffered to live. Antinium, dancing. They turned away in disgust and horror at the folly of Drakes and everyone else who pretended the unnatural was natural.

Any number of nations had blacklisted the broadcast. However, some had not, and fascinated nobility and influential figures ignored the politics anyways.

Lord Belchaus, the Lord of the Dance, just watched. In silence.

“Any comments, Bel?”

Altestiel looked at the astounding sight, and the Lord of the Dance spoke softly.

“They do not all have the greatest of gifts. But some do. And most dance better than a nobleman’s son. I had no idea they could dance. And some…”

He raised his head, and his eyes shone with tears. He pointed at one Antinium, who twirled softly. Decorated, from their upper elbows on all four hands and along the lower parts of their legs, as if wearing gloves and leggings made of colorful flowers.

Some dance.

 

——

 

Silveran’s Cleaners had danced one kind of performance in the inn for Lord Bel to see. This? This was something else.

Antinium dancing and Goblin games. Antherr marched up to the inn slowly as the doors hung open and a hundred delicious, foreign smells invited him in. But he stopped as a [Driver] took off his cap and bowed.

“Miss Solstice ain’t here, is she?”

“She’s asleep. But she will be down as soon as she wakes. Hello, Mister Termin. Hello—Antherr, isn’t it? I’m sorry; I didn’t know you were coming. But I hope you will forgive me. This day will surely celebrate you.”

A [Princess] bowed slightly to Antherr, and he raised all three hands. As if to protest. But then Mrsha was waving at him, and Pawn stepped forwards.

“Welcome back, Antherr.”

He took Antherr’s hand in two of his, and the Soldier looked around. His antennae trembled, and Termin smiled as a young man hung back.

“Is that Nailren? What are you doing? Get in here and fill your plates! Where have you been?”

Ceria called out, and a group of Gnolls looked up. Weatherfur’s guards nodded as their Chief Warrior approached.

“On behalf of Chieftain Feshi, we have escorted the Antinium, Antherr, here. Is Honored Krshia present?”

“Here. You have done well, Chief Warrior Toresh. Come in.”

Krshia Silverfang appeared—behind the group of Gnolls—along with Lism and the Council. She smiled and grasped Toresh’s shoulders as he did the same.

Drassi let out a sigh as Termin turned to Antherr. The [Driver] stuck out a gloved hand and hesitantly shook Antherr’s. Then—he blinked and cursed.

“Ow. What was—”

A gold coin bounced off his brow. Then money began raining down. The [Driver] ran out of the hail of coins, which landed in a neat pile. He blinked, eyed the coins, and laughed—right until the saddle landed on his foot.

Quest fulfilled.

Antherr looked around as Mrsha reached out to shake one of his hands solemnly, and Numbtongue grinned and offered him a thumbs-up. He looked at the inn, and at that moment—the other Antinium realized this was the first time he had ever entered. He was no Painted Antinium, no lucky Soldier who had gone on patrol.

So it was a special moment. The Antinium hesitated in the doorway of the inn as a Gnoll, Ishkr, poked his head out and got a bowl of acid flies ready.

There was only one thing that could make it better. And that was—as the Antinium stepped through the doorway, a slumbering young woman who had occasionally punched at the air in her sleep stirred.

Above, in her room, Erin Solstice opened her eyes. She sat up—and laughed. By the time he reached the common room, she was waiting for him with open arms.

Then, the celebration really began.

 

——

 

He expected nothing. He was, after all, just a soldier. A member of the Beriad. He was no Painted Antinium, and an entire crusade was coming. They deserved more attention than he—they had fought two battles.

In that way, the Antinium really were silly, kind little children. Just like every member of the 7th Hive of the Antinium would have given all their accolades up for one of their own, with the exception of maybe Crusader 57, he would have done the same for them.

What Antherr didn’t realize was that the [Innkeeper] had something for every one of them. The first thing she did was ask his name.

“Is it…Antherr? Hello, I’m Erin Solstice. It’s so good to meet you.”

It’s good to meet you.

Words that had never been said to a Soldier. He smiled as he gently took her hand. But he clicked his mandibles helplessly, and Antherr had no lips. No voice to scream or speak with.

He wanted to be a Human again, if only so he could shout and weep. Laugh and be that person who could talk.

But this was good enough, and Antherr realized he was lying to himself. Nothing would ever be enough. What a greedy ant he was. Yet the [Innkeeper] looked him in the eyes.

“Can you tell me your full name? Or…Termin, is that you? What are you doing out there? Come in, come in! And who is this?”

She beckoned, and Termin walked in, beaming. A young man with black skin hung back. Timidly. This wasn’t his moment, and Erin didn’t quite notice him.

“Antherr Twotwentyonethree Herodotus? You have a middle name? That’s so cool. Mine sucks.”

She winked at him, and the Soldier felt a strange tingle in his carapace. Because the [Innkeeper] was looking at his injuries, and she seemed sad—right before she looked at a little Gnoll girl trying to carry a bowl of acid flies to him.

“Mrsha, give me a hand. This is Mrsha—and you need to sit here and have some food. I wish I could—can you write?”

He couldn’t write, or read. It embarrassed Antherr, and he felt a helplessness that made him understand why some [Templars] had longed for a voice. He hung his head, and Erin rested a hand on his arm.

“At the very least, you should be able to tell everyone your great name. Mine’s lame, so I don’t use my middle name. Actually—my parents thought they were being so smart. Guess what it is?”

She leaned over as Mrsha’s ears perked up, and she brought out a notecard and began to write. Pisces, the guests, all looked over as Erin whispered something for only Antherr to hear. And Mrsha.

It’s ‘Summer’. Erin Summer Solstice. Can you believe it?”

She rolled her eyes and snorted, and he longed to tell her what a great middle name that was. As if she could tell how frustrated that made him, she smiled—and then showed him something the little Gnoll was working on.

“This might be a temporary measure—but Mrsha’s going to help you out. She has her Mrsha signs, but people are stupid. So—you can do your own, but take a look at this. Good handwriting, Mrsha!”

She showed him a card with a scribble on it. Antherr recognized the writing, and he stared at it. Then he fixated on the words when Erin told him what it was.

“It’s your name. See? At least you can show people that. It says—‘Hello. My Name is Antherr Twotwentyonethree Herodotus.’”

Mrsha handed the Antinium the notecard, and he took it like a priceless treasure. He—he needed to pin it to his chest. He’d put a little nail in his carapace. But Erin wasn’t done.

“Psst, Mrsha. Give him copies of your best cards. But without the sass.”

The little Gnoll nodded vigorously, and Erin turned to Antherr.

“I bet you could make your own, but—what if we gave you cards for ‘yes’, ‘no’, and ‘I’m hungry’? Then you can tell me to shut up, huh?”

He’d never need a card like that. The Soldier looked at Erin Solstice as he entered her inn, and he was swept away at once. He wished he’d met her a long time ago.

Termin the Omnipresent was there too, and new guests, and Erin Solstice saw them—but she kept returning to his table, even as she gave Termin a huge hug.

“I’m gonna make you stay, Termin. Okay? There are a lot of guests, but the quest worked, right? Hey, anything Termin wants, Ishkr? He gets! Him and anyone with him!”

“That will suit me just fine, Miss Solstice. Never you fear. And if you had a room or two…I have a helper somewhere around here.”

Termin looked for Rhaldon, but Erin was nodding. Drassi was trying to interview her again, but Erin headed straight back to Antherr. She only paused once.

“Lehra, is that you? Hi.”

“Uh—hi! I‘m making a good impression!”

The Gnoll jumped guiltily as she tried to hide half a pizza behind her back. However, Erin just laughed.

“Help yourself to the pizza. That’s what it’s there for. You should try a stuffed crust one Imani made—but she hates it. Oh, and have you met all the adventurers?”

“A lot of them. Nailren I knew—”

Lehra pointed vaguely at him, and Erin brightened up.

Nailren? Get over here! He’s great. Oh, and this is Jewel. You should meet her, too. Jewel—wait, what are you doing?”

She pointed to someone, and the Gold-rank adventurer jumped. She and her team looked petrified, but Erin saw to her amusement that they were helping Alcaz stop the crowds from bursting through the inn. She nodded to Lehra.

“Jewel’s cool.”

She was? Jewel looked amazed, relieved, and gratified as Lehra instantly headed over with interest. Captain Todi, who was accompanying Selys, strolled over.

“And I’m Captain Todi—”

“Who? ‘Scuse me. Hey, aren’t you from the quest?

The Gnoll shook Jewel’s hand as Erin sat back down. She winked at Antherr, and he smiled. Then Erin Solstice leaned on her hands.

“Now, what can I get you?”

Slowly, the Soldier picked up a notecard. He inspected it, and Erin told him what it said. And his smile grew wider.

 

——

 

When Brigadier Forount rode through the gates of Celum, she passed by the [Guards] and into the city so fast that Mayor Cetris was still hurrying over to the gates by the time she had reached one of the main plazas.

Never let it be said that the Brigadier of Wales was late for anything, let alone her own celebration. She had to actually ride back to the gates in order to begin the parade properly.

It began with marching drums, horns, and it had the elements of a military parade—so Wales obliged. The combined riders formed up and marched, horses stepping ahead of proudly marching [Soldiers].

Gershal of Vaunt was almost deafened by the cheers as Celum’s populace and visitors from the local region and beyond flocked to the streets. They were waving local flags. That was what made the local soldiers smile.

Ocre, Celum, Remendia—local heroes. But even Vaunt’s own flags were hanging over the city of Celum. The parade began before the Antinium reached Liscor, and Gershal found it was not tedious at all.

Imagine how an adventurer felt after, say, emerging from the Ruins of Albez to cheers and a celebration. That was spontaneous and deserved.

But a [Soldier] who’d just marched for days after fighting a grueling battle might get a bit tetchy if they had to stand and march around a city in an interminable parade. There was nothing like a grousing group of people being celebrated to bring the mood down.

That was why Lyonette had borrowed a tactic from home, and the [Soldiers] didn’t even have time to contemplate the parade’s length before they were accosted—by people passing out mugs and free food. Hamburgers, street-vendor food, which the [Soldiers] snatched at. Mostly non-alcoholic drinks because you could end up with a bunch of rowdy drunks.

Forount herself was caught snacking on a slice of pizza as Drassi hurried to showcase the parade. She preened, brushed at her mustache, and then gave the camera a salute with her sword. The cheering grew louder as a marching band accompanied people tossing flower petals like there was no tomorrow. Especially for the flowers.

It was…entirely military. Which struck a contrast with how Liscor was preparing. Liscor, Celum, Invrisil. Three cities were the center of the celebrations, and each one had styled themselves differently.

For Celum, wholesale destruction of flowers, cheap, filling food, and a military parade celebrating the local pride in what they’d done. It reminded some people from Drake cities of, well, military parades similar to the ones Pallass, Oteslia, and all Drake cities held.

So in that sense it was well done. And they had none other than Brigadier Forount, who, while twirling a mustache and beaming into the camera, was a character who could hold up the entire parade by sheer personality alone.

Those poor flowers, though. A Drake sighed and stared at a basket of petals. But the Antinium had been sighted on the edge of the Floodplains, and so the visitors here had about thirty minutes to an hour to party. Then it was back to Liscor, because the Drake city had a different idea of how to party.

Aside from the magical animals, the waltzing Antinium—Liscor had paid for a far more relaxed atmosphere. They had a bazaar, streets filled with people, and a lot of private businesses were making a killing. For the Antinium especially, Lyonette had contrived a festival to welcome them in. Naturally, there would be cheering and a few speeches, but their parade would be less drawn-out.

Especially because the Antinium were a more contentious force to celebrate. However, people were unabashedly celebrating the Humans, even Drakes in the crowd. And Erin Solstice was awake.

The saddest person in all of Liscor, Celum, and Invrisil combined was Liska. Every time she opened a door to Celum, she heard cheering, and all the fun things outside the inn were being gossiped about by people in line or queuing up to various attractions.

Gloomily, she stared into Invrisil as a cartwheeling [Actor] passed by to cheers.

The Players of Celum are putting on a public performance in Celum and Invrisil! The Players of Liscor for their city! Come attend the shows at half-past six and then every two hours afterwards until midnight!

She got off work at eight. Liska perked up. Then she grumbled about having to work until eight!

Her bad mood was only slightly alleviated by all the food she was being supplied. A very useful Antinium Worker called Dots—because of all the dots of paint on their armor—kept bringing her everything she wanted. Ishkr did know how to placate his sister.

Anyways, she was just letting through the same Drake she’d sent to Celum. The Drake was holding two free tankards of beer, and she had an armful of breadsticks. She deposited the lot in front of a grumpy man who smelled like a bog and a Gnoll. All three wore very…natural clothing.

They were either vagrants or [Druids]. Given the nest of spiders in the Drake’s staff and Nalthaliarstrelous’ familiar look, Liska bet they were from Oteslia. They walked into the inn, now serving customers for money, and sat down. Not that this lot intended to pay.

They sat with the free food. For only the cost of travelling two ways—admittedly close to a gold coin—Shassa had contrived to have herself a good time, and she’d brought back as much of Celum’s free food as she could carry. She was telling the others about it, but she cautioned the Human man.

“Don’t go into Celum, Nalthaliarstrelous.”

“Why not? Don’t go into the garden, Shassa. See how you like being told what to do?”

The Drake heaved a huge sigh.

“That was an accident. Eforte, don’t go into the garden. Just…don’t go into Celum, Nalthaliarstrelous. We don’t need to cause more trouble.”

“How many people are mistreating animals?”

The [Druid] began to get up with a dark look, and Shassa tried to stop him.

“No one! They just—they’re tossing flower petals. The poor things!”

She sighed, and the Gnoll shook his head. Nalthal gave Shassa a blank look, then sat back down.

“Flowers? Who cares? I thought you meant people. What’s this, free? Give me that.”

He began to gnaw on the free breadsticks, and a squirrel poked its head out of the neck of his robes, and he fed it a huge chunk of bread. Shassa opened her mouth indignantly—then turned her head.

A little Gnoll girl scampered by without noticing her fellow [Druids]. Mrsha the Partier was racing around from place to place. A puffing Thronebearer, Ser Lormel, jogged after her.

“There’s our little Landfriend. Should we introduce…?”

“Do you want the [Princess] to break your legs? What’s the menu say? Everything’s expensive. How much gold do we have?”

The [Druids] gloomily checked their pockets. Shassa and Eforte, both [Druids] of Oteslia’s circle, received a modest stipend from the City of Growth, but their benefits were mainly in the city.

Free housing and food was cheap. Gold was not, if that made sense. Eforte turned to Nalthaliarstrelous.

“Don’t you get paid by Magnolia Reinhart?”

“Yes. And?”

“Where’s your gold?”

The [Druid] scratched at his beard.

“…I don’t know. I probably buried it in the maze or gave it to the circle in the Vale Forest. It’s just coins.”

Shassa gloomily stared at a pile of silver coins. Nalthal saw her expression and grunted. He reached in his bag of holding.

“Let me see. No…no…that’s mold. That’s dead worms. Aha!”

He pulled out several calcified worms, which he offered to some of the spiders in Shassa’s staff. Then he plonked a handful of dirt onto the clean tables, much to the vague horror of everyone around him. Nalthal blew half of it onto the floor, and gold glinted between the dirt.

“Dug up a bunch myself just the other day so I could travel to Oteslia. There. What are we buying?”

At this point, he was so noticeable that the [Druid] became part of the inn. Erin Solstice stopped patting Antherr on the hands long enough to turn.

“Hey! Who’s throwing dirt on the ground—is that Nalthaliarstrelous! The ultra-violent [Druid]!”

She bounced over in delight. And she was almost as happy as Silverstache, who bustled over with a dustpan and broom. All this dirt coming in! Tsk, tsk, they’d have to brush it up, then mop, then do some minute floorboard cleaning and then wax—

The adventurers looked amused as the nervous Shassa stood up. But Moore bowed to Nalthal, and he even grudgingly nodded back. Erin motioned him over to the tables where Nailren was looking slightly overwhelmed by all the Gold and the two Named-rank adventurers.

“Aha. [Druids]. Sell me reagents!”

Saliss rubbed his claws together, and Xif poked his head out from shaking paws with the Gnolls from the tribes. Nalthal put up with it grudgingly as Erin introduced him.

“Everyone, this is Nalthaliarstrelous. Don’t kick a dog or do anything to animals around him or he’ll kill you. He’s a nice g…he’s a [Druid]. But I like him. Oh, and he’s apparently someone who actually carries around pocket-dirt. And he’s the reason why people find buried treasure in the ground. Wild, huh?”

In any other time, he would be fascinating and Mrsha the Treasure Seeker would need a word with him. But she was already racing down the hill because—

The Antinium were coming.

Liscor had huge drums that were booming, and the Goblins started because it reminded them of far less welcome memories. But when they looked out, even Redscar smiled.

The Antinium were marching on Liscor, and for once, their arrival was not greeted with a rain of arrows, but magic instead. Magical fireworks began shooting up, and people began cheering.

Even Liscorians! Mrsha came to a stop, panting, as Visma’s family and Ekirra’s joined the people spilling out of the city and waving flags and cheering the Antinium.

Whoa! They’re so happy!

Gire and Moore had to be adults and shake hands, but Nanette could catch up with Mrsha, and so could Ekirra and Visma. The four kids stared at the merry adults as Ser Lormel clutched at his side.

“They’re happy?”

Visma stared blankly up at her parents. Her mother was a [Painter], and her father made drinks as far as Mrsha understood it. She only knew Visma’s parents as adults, and they smiled at her. Visma had a big brother who had a crush on Erin and…that was about it.

Ekirra had a larger extended family, and they were fighting to see—and pestering Ekirra to give them a bite of the ice cream he’d been given at the inn. He whined as his cone disappeared, and Mrsha promised she’d get him another.

“Mom is happy. I wonder why.”

Visma conferred with Ekirra, vaguely puzzled. Ekirra prodded his bigger sister—he was the youngest of his family.

“Hey. Why are you cheering? You don’t like Ants.”

He conferred briefly with his family, which resulted in ear-pullings, and he had to bribe one of his cousins with a pizza slice so Mrsha, Visma, and Nanette could join him in the front. But then they saw the first Crusaders marching into Liscor and waving. Mrsha beamed and waved at the Antinium, genuinely, but the cheering was coming from countless citizens.

Again—why? Well, her two local friends translated the answer to Mrsha.

“It’s because they’re gonna get free stuff! Mom says we could get jade! It’s like when the army comes back. They make trouble, but we get loot!”

Ah. It all made sense. Nanette looked amused, and Mrsha rolled her eyes. Then she saw the wagons rolling in, and the cheers grew louder. Nothing like the promise of free jade to add to the Antinium sentiments.

Well, the [Crusaders] looked pleased enough to be cheered at all. And Commander Olesm himself was poised to greet them with Liscor’s Council, who had medals and a speech.

It was great. Mrsha beamed as the entire army marched through the gates—then she decided she was done. When they came to the inn, she’d be back, but she had about as much desire to hear Lism give a speech as she did to hit herself on the head with a baseball bat. Repeatedly.

Besides—the two armies coming into both cities had really kicked off all the events! Mrsha had chased the magical creatures still floating about nonstop, and her fur was decorated with a bit of green and red, proof of her victories.

However, she wanted to see more!

“Mrsha, while everyone’s cheering—let’s get some Antinium dolls! Someone’s selling ones made out of black wood—they look perfect!”

“Aw. I don’t want to. Dolls are stupid.”

Ekirra grumbled, and Visma rounded on him.

“These ones have moving arms! Mister Jerome made them!”

“He did? Can I give mine a sword?”

“You won’t get any if you don’t come, stupid! Are you coming, Miss Nanette?”

“I’m coming.”

The witch seemed pleased to join Mrsha as she dashed off. Ser Lormel ran after them, and by the time they stopped in the line for the best dolls yet—he was making painful wheezing sounds.

Those turned into gasps as Mrsha and the rest dashed over to something Nanette wanted to see—Imani’s restaurant. They lined up as she offered food to people, and Mrsha importantly slapped some coins down, and they all received a skewer with eight different kinds of meat all stuffed together. Each child got a piece, and Mrsha’s first bite was trout!

Imagine! It was good stuff too, and she was licking her paw as Palt came out with a stamina potion to rescue Lormel. Then she noticed a girl staring at her. From the magical creature catching!

Kenva pointed at Mrsha as her father queued up for food for the family.

“You’re that Gnoll from the television! You’re Mrsha. You’re famous! Can I have your autograph? What are you eating? Is it good?”

And to Mrsha’s astonishment, she saw heads turn, and a few people stepped out of line.

“Wait, it is that Gnoll! Wasn’t she kidnapped? Is the bounty still on?”

“Don’t be stupid. Hey, little, um…Mrsha! Doom-girl! Can I get an autograph?”

A Drake hurried over and tried to get Mrsha to press her paw in some ink and put it on an autograph card. She gave him a long look, and disappointed, he tried to get back in line and found he’d lost his place.

However, Mrsha realized she was slightly famous. She had been on television more than most people could boast of, and her white fur was a reminder of recent events.

Mrsha the Celebrity preened as she offered Kenva some of the skewer and won instant friendship with the Drake girl. She was admiring Visma’s new doll when Mrsha pointed. She held up a card, and Kenva squinted.

“What’s that? You write? ‘Let’s go to Celum and see Forount and the cheese-people?’ Free food? Let’s go, let’s go! Can I go with them, Dad? Dad? Daaaaaad—”

That of course bought Lormel a few moments where he assured Venim his daughter was in good hands. Then he was running, running as the children raced off to the next encounter. And the [Knight], who was supposed to be trained for combat, reflected that he really should work harder on his running.

He took some solace in the fact that Watch Captain Venim was already swearing under his breath as he accompanied them. Children…children just ran until they stopped, and they had too much energy. They sprinted from spot to spot with sugar for blood.

 

——

 

The parade of the Antinium into the city was grand and celebratory.

Erin Solstice saw almost none of it. Not Peki, flying triumphantly above the Antinium marching with the wagons of jade or the crowds pointing at the monster parts or cheering them or Liscor’s army welcoming their soldiers back from the battlefield.

She stood with Antherr as the door to her inn opened and Antinium walked in. Pawn was patting Zimrah’s shoulder as Squad 5 poured into the inn after the Beriad.

They charged at Antherr and covered him in pats and hugs. The [Innkeeper] laughed. Then she had a bowl of something hot for the grumpy Worker with the huge sword.

“Hello, Crusader 57. Want to try some mana candies and some egg drop soup?”

“You…remember me?”

The Worker looked at Erin, uncrossing two arms, and she winked.

“How could I forget the grumpiest Worker in the entire Hive?”

“Grumpy? Me? I’m not grumpy.”

All of Squad 5 looked at him, and Crusader 57 snatched the bowl of soup so fast it almost spilled.

“Give me that. At least this inn is good for something.”

Crusader 53 raised a hand to chop 57 on the head, but then Erin Solstice was giving Crusader 57 a hug.

“Meh. Get off me.

Nothing would do but for Squad 5 to all receive a hug, and then Erin was greeting the Beriad. She had only two arms, so it took a long time. But she had all day. Antinium poured into her inn, but not all stayed.

“Wait, where are you going? You can’t leave!”

No sooner had the Beriad, Battalion 5, come into the inn than they were all trying to leave. With Antherr! Erin was dismayed, until she realized—

“We are reporting to Captain Calruz. He cannot enter the city. We may return, Innkeeper Solstice.”

A Worker with a greathammer saluted her. The Horns stirred at their table, and Erin’s eyes flickered.

“If you’ve gotta go—you need to promise me you’ll be back. And before you go—”

She looked around, grabbed a bunch of pizza boxes, and demanded they take as much food as they could carry. For the Minotaur and his company.

Then Erin stood there as a thousand Antinium slowly circulated through her inn. Many left, to go to the army and tell them it was alright or report to their friends. But before they went, they came to the inn.

They’d heard she was giving out free hugs.

 

——

 

Watching Mrsha run from city to city, often with splurges of coin and her friends bouncing from attraction to attraction, was mildly horrifying to anyone who might have observed how much gold she had to spend. Or her celebrity status—or the poor bodyguards.

Actually, it was more than just a temporary issue. Just like Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings made for poor bodyguards, the [Knights] were not all-encompassing child experts. They could provide for a lot of needs, but they were still there to keep someone safe, rather than raise them completely.

“Do they…do they not have teachers in Liscor? I mean, [Teachers]? Is this still all apprenticeships? Surely they have some for children too small to work, right? Right?”

It seemed incredible, but Celum had none, and neither did Liscor, not that Shassa could see. As for Invrisil?

Since Nalthaliarstrelous had so much gold, she decided to poke her head into the City of Adventurers too. The [Druid] had to admit, it was shocking to see Mrsha and the children running around. Oteslia had [Teachers] and [Minders] who led groups of young Drakes and Gnolls around the city and filled their days. Why, even she’d done that, teaching them how to garden.

What a strange city, but then, not everywhere was Oteslia. Shassa was poking around Invrisil and saw nothing like a teacher in the brief time she was about. And interestingly…less celebrations here.

Oh, there was definitely a feeling of celebration in the air, but Invrisil was less active than both Celum and Liscor, having sent some of their best performers over. Shassa noticed it, and Mrsha definitely noticed it as she galloped into the back of the Drake.

“Ow! Excuse me, Miss!”

Mrsha backed up and hastily flashed a ‘Sorry’ card at Shassa, but the Drake stopped her.

“Running around without looking where you’re going is very inconsiderate. And a quick sorry is not enough. May I receive a formal apology? You needn’t run everywhere in crowds—you may dodge around people, but you’re making them jump.”

Chastened, Mrsha wrote a formal apology, and the little children promised not to run so fast. Shassa nodded and then saw them looking around in dismay.

 

——

 

Hey, there aren’t any cool things over here! What gives?

Mrsha was put out by the lack of full fanfare and wonderful chaos. Oh, there were some performers like a [Bard] putting out a song commemorating the victory at Orefell, and people were certainly having fun.

“Adventure Room! Enter the Adventure Room and fight monsters and seek great mysteries! Become the [Adventurer] you always wanted to be! No danger, all thrills! Free trial!”

Mrsha’s ears perked up as she saw a young [Mage] calling out an advertisement—but the line was long, and as she looked about, she saw more signs that Invrisil was sort of festive, but not enough.

“We’ve got Liscor themed treats here! Spider Succulents, Rock Crab muffins, and all kinds of goods! Even cookies!”

Ekirra tugged Mrsha over to a likely bakery, but it was all paid goods and expensive. Mrsha put her hands on her hips.

Where was the free food? Where were the parties? She had been here to celebrate with the Players of Celum, and she knew they could throw wild stuff.

It seemed, though, that the Mayor of Invrisil was a bit more cautious, or perhaps the local vendors were. Spending a bunch of money to hopefully attract even more business made sense—if you weren’t competing with two other cities, though. Especially with a finite door’s worth of mana for teleportation.

However, Mrsha didn’t care about that. She just wanted a party for the Antinium and Humans and adventurers. She knew for a fact that the Horns and the other teams would do a small parade through here later today, and if this was what they got, they needn’t bother!

Heck, even Numbtongue was preparing for a few songs with the band—Kevin and Octavia, and he’d enlisted a few other people to play other instruments. Even Bird was going to sing!

Mrsha just knew that Lyonette had probably decided to focus on Liscor and probably didn’t know Invrisil wasn’t living up to snuff. It occurred to Mrsha that…she could do something.

Why not? Again, Shassa’s fears bore fruit as Mrsha du Marquin thought about how she, the [Emperor]-hobnobbing, important Mrsha Doomgirl, who was famous, could just nip into the Mayor’s office and make some deals.

Why not walk into the Adventurer’s Guild backrooms and assert some Ksmvr-style dominance? She was rubbing her paws together and formulating a plan when she had a thought.

An odd thought in the back of her head, as new to her as clothing, but annoyingly pervasive.

Wait a moment. Wait a moment. Is there the slightest, most inconceivable-yet-possible chance that this could end up in a lot of trouble?

No. No, surely not. Yet it occurred to Mrsha that maybe, just maybe, walking into a room full of Gold-ranks or haranguing a [Mayor] wasn’t a responsible move.

Where was this coming from? The voice sounded a bit like Lyonette. Mrsha prodded her head, scowling. Perhaps it was the kind of instinct that came from being kidnapped across Izril and seeing a war fought out.

Well, poo. She folded her arms as Ekirra bickered over which city was better right now, Liscor or Celum. Was this what being an adult felt like? Seeing the consequences of your actions? How horrible.

“Mrsha? What are you thinking about?”

Nanette was watching her—carefully—and Mrsha sighed. She was just about to suggest they go back to Liscor and just tell Lyonette and have her deal with it—when someone interrupted them.

“Hoi there! Is that you again, kid? This place is boring as feck, ain’t it? Invrisil really is letting us all down. ‘Specially Celum.”

Kid? Mrsha turned with the wrath of punching someone—and noticed Grev. He was hanging out with a gang of kids, who eyed the Drakes and Gnolls with wary interest.

Grev! Aren’t you going to have fun in Liscor and Celum? Want to come and play with us?

“Play?”

He spat, looking amused. Grev jerked a thumb at the gang of kids who definitely had no [Teacher] behind them.

“I’m no kid, Miss Mrsha. I’m a Face of Invrisil. I’ve been hanging out here hoping something fun was up—rumor is there’ll be some interesting guests soon. But this city’s dull as dishwater.”

No kidding. Your city sucks.

Grev grinned as some of his buddies who could read glowered. He glanced around casually.

“Well, Invrisil’s the kind of place where money and favors go hand in hand. I bet you that since the Players are performing in Celum, most’ve the big shoppies and merchies don’t want to put on a big show. See that rich baker? He could put out a buncha snacks for everyone, but he won’t because he’s being cheap.”

Grev had an interesting way of talking. He was right, however, and Mrsha nodded along with his understanding of the problem.

Lyonette’s busy. I was going to do something, but can you think of anything to make this place more hip-hoppity?

She tried to use slang that she’d heard from Erin. Grev’s lips moved as he read that last word, but he shrugged and grinned, puffing his chest out.

“I could. You don’t need Lyonette or Erin. If I got a few of the big shoppies to spread the word, we could throw in a party like when Elia Arcsinger came in. All flash and glamor.”

Mrsha laughed silently. Grev bristled. He pointed at the gang, mildly outraged. They were eying Ser Lormel’s armor and teasing the man; he was dying of exhaustion.

“Hey, like I said, I was a small fish in Celum, but I’m famous now. A Face, a Face, Mrsha. Don’t you know what that means? It means I’m so famous everyone in Invrisil knows me, or ought to.”

Oh yeah?

“Yeah. You aren’t cool when you have to hold up a notecard.”

Mrsha scribbled, ignoring the taunt.

Then prove it! Light this place up like Liscor. For Erin! For the Antinium! 

Grev hesitated, because he realized, too late, he’d made a mistake. The rest of his followers looked at him, and the boy glanced around Invrisil. The City of Adventurers. Which, true, knew the Players of Celum as one of the biggest groups ever.

But Grev? Was he actually a Face or…? The former [Street Urchin] squared his shoulders and exhaled—then he shot Mrsha a cocky grin.

“I can do it. Give me an hour, no, thirty minutes! But you need to have at least something interesting too! Everyone’s seen adventurers before. You have anything cool?”

Mrsha hmmed and put her chin in one paw. She thought of her friends, and then she brightened up.

Well—she had one interesting thing that might work. She scribbled on a notepad.

You do your thing, and I’ll do mine, deal? Coolest person is a Face.

“That’s not how it works, but deal. Come on, lads and lasses. Time for old Grev to pay Erin back.”

Grev adjusted his clothes, looking slightly nervous as Mrsha tugged on Nanette’s hand. The witch looked slightly concerned, but Mrsha wasn’t trying to bully a [Mayor], so was this progress? Grev glanced at Mrsha and then tilted his head to the skies.

“Say. If you’re gonna have a parade in Invrisil—maybe tell Lyonette you should bring all the cool people over. Antinium, adventurers, Forount—and Erin Solstice herself.”

Mrsha blinked at him, and then she grinned.

 

——

 

One hour later, Erin Solstice blinked as she found herself in a new lineup.

“Me? Go to Invrisil as part of the parade? Aw, I dunno, Lyonette.”

“Erin—you have to. Mrsha is right.”

The little Gnoll was dancing around Erin with an excited group of children. Erin didn’t know what had gotten into them, but they’d run back into the inn and began pestering some of the people in here for help for a ‘big thing’.

Which was naturally concerning, but Erin had been so busy greeting the [Crusaders] she hadn’t been able to deal with them.

Anyways, Ser Lormel had assured Lyonette it was ‘mostly harmless’. Which sounded better than most Mrsha escapades. Right now, the Horns, Halfseekers, and Silver Swords were preparing for their parade in Invrisil.

They appeared pleased by the honor, but as Dawil kept joking—

“We’re one team in a thousand that Invrisil’s honored. Don’t be upset if you get less applause than Liscor, Pisces. We’re not giving away free jade.”

“Perish the thought. When I am paraded through Invrisil, I expect it to be purely for my team’s accomplishments. This was a joint effort.”

The [Necromancer] sniffed, but he was adjusting his robes, and he’d even buckled his rapier to his side.

What was new was Erin being added to the group, and she was understandably reluctant.

“This is about adventurers, Mrsha. Not me.”

“But you played the chess game, Erin. And posted the quest. And frankly, we will have some of the [Crusaders] as well as Brigadier Forount, Lieutenant Gershal—I think they’re arriving now. Just go with them? For the occasion? Don’t think of it as you taking credit. You’re adding to the moment.”

“Eh…I don’t wanna walk that far. And I’m not getting in my wheelchair.”

Erin tried one last time, but Lyonette was ready.

“You won’t have to. Ser Dalimont suggested we decorate a wagon—so only a few people will be riding. The rest will be able to sit or stand. It will be a short tour and a small speech. Invrisil is, regrettably, smaller-scale. Please?”

“Is Drassi going to broadcast it?”

Lyonette waved this off, much to the adventurers’ disappointment.

“Unless she can find something more impressive than the other parades, I doubt it. How about it, Erin? Then we can come back to the inn and finish celebrating.”

“Oh, fine.”

Exasperated, Erin puffed out her cheeks and gave up. She looked over, and Numbtongue grinned as he stepped out after Mrsha, who was practically pushing him and Moore and…Saliss…

Hm.

Well, that wasn’t an odd mix of concerning people to be going to Invrisil. Erin shook her head as Lyonette dithered.

“No scrying orb? Come on, we’re heroes! Drassi, Drassi, can I twist your arm and show us off?”

Jelaqua was complaining lightly and mostly joking as she spotted Drassi and a full camera crew heading through the inn. Much to her surprise, Drassi stopped.

“Broadcast you? Of course! If the inn’s going to be there—come on, people, we need to be live in ten! Find a spot and get me multiple angles!”

They streamed down the hallway, and Erin groaned. Then she felt an odd tingling on the back of her neck. Jelaqua and the adventurers brightened up, though.

“We’re on the orb? Hear that, Erin? Come on, we’ll all have a grand time! Please?”

She had already just been on the orb, so Erin supposed she could have fun talking with the adventurers in the wagon. She stood up, stretched, and people began filing through the door.

Erin was last in line, and the door ran out of mana halfway through sending people through. There were a lot of complaints behind Erin too—they were cutting a line for people heading to Invrisil, so the shouting was incredibly noisy every time Liska opened the door.

“Sorry, sorry! Oh, damn. The door’s out.”

Lyonette cursed and looked for Mrsha. A [Mage] hurried over to recharge it, but to Erin’s surprise, someone put a claw against the door.

“Allow me. If you’ll let me join you? Miss Solstice.”

“Grimalkin!”

She beamed at him, and he gave her a slow nod. Erin laughed, and the Sinew Magus charged up the door in a heartbeat. She was chatting to him as Lyonette, the Thronebearers, and the Horns waited to go through.

“How are you doing, Grimalkin? It’s so great to see you. We should talk more! Where have you been, stranger? Did you like the p—”

Then the door opened, Erin walked through and went deaf. The noise and light swept over her—and then it looked like they had entered a warzone.

Grimalkin threw up his claws, but it was just the fireworks. Magical lights were blooming in the air so fast that it cast the people jumping up and down—jumping up and down like a mosh pit—into shadows.

Erin Solstice felt her jaw drop, and she nearly ran into the Halfseekers. They were frozen in place—because the quiet City of Adventurers had transformed in an hour. Antinium were clustered together as Brigadier Forount’s horse reared.

The cheering didn’t stop, but Erin just felt it become a background roar. Then she looked out and saw a celebration.

Mrsha herself had frozen when she saw the chaos. But when she saw Grev, waving at her from the back of one of the parade floats, she understood.

A Face of Invrisil had called in favors. How many favors? Well—Mrsha thought she saw no less than three different performing groups playing across the streets so far, and a [Tumbler] was doing backflips across a wire strung the length of the street.

The City of Adventurers had high-level [Performers]. It had been home to a Level 40+ [Tumbler], and even Barelle the Bard. They had watched Liscor and Celum celebrating with urbane amusement, and when they’d gotten the prompt, they’d decided it was time to show off.

However, that was possibly also because Liscor, Celum, and yes, even Pallass had decided to add to the event. Grev had decided that if the three Gold-rank teams weren’t enough to warrant a celebration, why not add the Antinium and Forount’s group? And if you had them—you might as well celebrate everyone you could.

The Players of Liscor and the Players of Celum were striding across the street, handing out the coveted autographs to anyone whose card they managed to grab in the sea of waving hands. One of their number actually copied the [Tumbler] and managed three flips—she kept on going, did a flip and twist in the air, and blew a kiss at him.

Following them came a strange sight that provoked screams and cheers on its own. Saliss of Lights threw up his claws as Erin closed her eyes. He tossed vials into the air, and the sky, already filled with sparkling lights, turned into a full conflagration of explosions. The Drake posed as the Horns looked around.

Is this all for us? I thought it was supposed to be quiet!

Yvlon grabbed Lyonette—but then all of them saw someone beckoning frantically to them.

“Into the parade wagon! Come on! You and you—and you!”

Me?

Lyonette was astonished, but before she knew it, the Horns and Erin were piling into a wagon. And the [Princess] was going up with her Thronebearers.

They certainly fit the scene. Erin was screaming something at Lyonette about lies, but they were already rolling down the street.

And the sight of the [Innkeeper] made the screaming grow louder somehow. Erin looked around and saw more people in the line of celebrities.

That was what Invrisil respected, she realized. Saliss from the Meeting of Tribes, Lehra Ruinstrider in a float ahead of them—even Wil, Venaz, Merrik, and Peki. The Garuda was showing off kicks and punches as she perched on top of one of the wagons.

And at the head of the group? There were the two troublemakers who definitely needed some adult supervision! Mrsha and Grev were waving at the crowd, and they were getting a non-inconsequential number of cheers.

Actually, there were a lot of cheers, even for this being orchestrated by Grev. Something was growing in the distance, and Erin’s head turned to the northern edge of the city. The parade was headed that way, and her eyes narrowed.

Lyonette’s own head snapped up, and she looked confused, but she was watching the Antinium, and she was, well, smiling and waving at the crowd. Her instincts had kicked in, and she fit into the celebration better than some of the awestruck adventurers.

In fact, Dame Ushar had paused in the middle of joining the Thronebearers standing around Lyonette to write a brief missive. She sent a [Message] spell off, and it raced around the world.

It said this:

 

To Their Exalted Majesties:

Budget — 5000 Gold Pieces, breakdown 1000 Liscor, 3400 Invrisil, 600 Celum.

Organization time, ~half a day.

 

——

 

The note was hastily scribbled, and it appeared on Queen Ielane’s [Message] scroll before they saw their daughter, due to the time delay on Wistram’s broadcasts.

King Reclis peered over the [Message] scroll and read what it said. Her Majesty of Calanfer calmly eyed the celebration.

Reclis was tapping his foot and nodding to the beat of the music. But then—he was in a good mood after levelling up.

“She did quite well for her first celebration. Very positive sentiment about the Antinium, don’t you think, my dear?”

Ielane’s face was cold as she eyed the [Princess] waving and laughing and the adventurers on show.

“It’s hardly unique. She’s simply tapped into sentiment, not changed a narrative. Enabling an event is basic. If an [Innkeeper] can do it, any royal of Calanfer should be able to do likewise.”

Reclis didn’t pursue the argument. They just watched as Lyonette blew a kiss, looking mischievous. Ielane’s scowl grew larger. But then she blinked.

“Ah. The inn has arrived. That explains it.”

The scrying orb was moving—and the confused but gratified people on parade realized what was going on after the crowds. The cheering grew louder—and in the distance, Drassi pointed and shouted uselessly into the camera. The music was too loud. But it didn’t matter because everyone saw it.

An inn slowly came into sight. The inn. The Adventurer’s Haven had arrived in Invrisil, and it came in like a storm.

 

——

 

“The Adventurer’s Haven is coming! That’s why everyone’s cheering!”

“What? The inn is coming—so that’s why Mrsha saw that other [Innkeeper]!

Lyonette broke off from enjoying the parade and looked aghast. She realized that this wasn’t all Grev and Mrsha’s doing! But now—her eyes darted up, and she gasped.

“They’re stealing our moment! Those clever little—how dare they!”

“You mean the Antinium’s moment!”

Erin hollered back. But it was too late. The parade was heading north, towards where the inn was arriving, and the cheering seemed to be taking on a different tone.

Almost like this was a competition. Which it wasn’t. Erin looked up, and Ceria shaded her brows.

“Is that an aura I feel? Or just magic? Did they just say The Adventurer’s Haven is coming? Pisces, Yvlon, have you ever been there?”

“What?”

Yvlon screamed back. She had two fingers in her ears. She shook her head.

I’ve never been! But it’s famous! I wanted to be a Gold-rank and visit—it’s the best inn in Izril!

The adventurers knew that name. Yvlon guiltily looked at Erin, but the [Innkeeper] was just frowning. Yet that was the comparison being made.

The Adventurer’s Haven, which was close to First Landing, was home to the best [Innkeeper]. Or had been the best inn?

Lism was riding a parade wagon he’d managed to smuggle the Council aboard, and he was pointing and shouting invectives.

Liscorians, show them that we have the best inn! Let’s show them a real parade!

His voice was magnified by a speaking stone. Erin nearly spat out her tongue hearing that, but Liscorian citizens and natives of Invrisil took up the cause.

Palt was firing illusion spells into the air along with Bezale and several [Mages]. Now, they conjured the opposite of the fireworks—a rain of magic spells began raining down. The first elements of the parade began riding through falling streaks of green light and glowing rays that looked like fire.

And that inn kept coming. Erin was standing on her tip-toes, but she was shorter than most of the people in the parade wagon, and she couldn’t see.

“What’s it look like? Pisces, Pisces—”

She turned to the tall [Necromancer] and flinched as the cheers grew wild. Mostly because Ksmvr had just leapt from the wagon. He landed on a four-story building and began hopping across buildings as people pointed at him.

Ksmvr of Chandrar! Ksmvr of—

Now, the adventurers were showing off. Saliss threw another potion into the crowd and turned everyone’s hair bright red. Then he threw a bottle down, and the explosion tossed him up past Ksmvr. He flew, spinning, through the air and landed on the ground before rolling to his feet.

“Guys, guys, it’s not a compet—”

Too late. Ceria leapt off the wagon and began sliding across the parade with Pisces on an [Icy Floor] spell. Dawil joined her—or tried to. He couldn’t balance, so he ran and leapt. Then he began skidding on his front, arms raised, to wild cheering.

Ylawes was more restrained, but Falene shot a jagged bolt of lightning into the air. To Erin’s bemusement, her friends seemed keen on proving a point. As if they were defending her honor.

It didn’t make her smile or flush with embarrassed pride at all. Absolutely not.

Players of Celum, let’s hear it for our [Innkeeper]!

Temile howled into Drassi’s microphone, and the crowd went wild as the [Actors] began activating Skills. From people in civilian’s clothes, a Drake spun—and emerged in full Juliet costume.

[Instant Clothing Change]. Another did a flip—and snapped his leg. The crowd screamed as he stared at the broken bone and his twisted skin—then he got up, and the broken leg vanished.

[Break a (Fake) Leg].

Jelaqua was trying to whirl her flail around to show off, but everyone was trying to stop her from killing everyone if she let go. Ulinde stood on the wagon, firing spells upwards—

And then they rounded a bend, and Erin saw the inn coming their way.

At first, she didn’t know what she was seeing. It was far enough in the distance for the people to be too small to make anything out—but the inn itself? Erin could see why it was a famous inn. She could see how it had gotten here in about a month’s time, even from First Landing.

Mainly because it was—floating. But it wasn’t an inn. Not exactly.

Erin’s first thought was that part of the landscape itself was moving. She saw a cluster of buildings slowly drifting over the ground. Then she realized—the largest building was the inn. And the entire cluster of buildings?

They were on wooden daises. And they were floating. There was a central building, and each smaller one was on a rounded dais that hovered around The Adventurer’s Haven. Not just buildings; there were even what looked like pens for animals, and Erin swore she saw an actual field of crops.

Floating! Or was it more complex than that? Because what Erin also saw, as the cheering died down for a moment, was that each dais was still being pulled.

They floated, yes, but they seemed anchored to huge pedestals being pulled by oxen, not horses. The animals were pulling the pedestals along, each one directly underneath the floating daises.

Like they were being held up by the magnetic repulsion—or magic itself. It was, Erin realized, like Fissival in miniature. She looked at the central building and saw, to her great surprise, that it was no building like her inn, which resembled a house adapted for the purposes of an inn.

This was multi-sided, because it might face in any direction. It had at least four floors, open balconies—but Erin didn’t miss what looked like turrets or towers. In fact, she recognized that design too.

It looked like a crown or the city of Reim in miniature. Wood and stone, painted a light, bright green visible for miles and highlighted by silver and viridian. The final thing she saw, even from afar, was the symbol, hanging prominently.

A wand in front of a mug and a bag of gold to the side. The crest of that famous inn.

The Adventurer’s Haven. And Erin just knew that the [Innkeeper] was coming her way. She felt it. But their aura was only half of what made the crowds gasp. Ceria slowed down, and Pisces nearly knocked her flat. Both [Mages] stared at the inn.

“The magic! Pisces, is she lifting the entire damn inn?

“She’s supposed to be a former Named-rank adventurer, right? The [Mage]? Larracel the Haven?”

Her mana signature was so heavy that Pisces could see it from afar. And still, the Adventurer’s Haven drifted slowly to Invrisil. In dead silence, everyone stared at it for a moment. Then Mrsha slapped Grev on the shoulder.

Alright, let’s show them what we’ve got!

He started, glanced at her, and then nodded. Time to unveil their trump card.

Music and the sounds of another celebration were coming from the floating inn. It was hard to tell how many people could fit in the central inn—but with the other buildings combined? It had to have an occupancy in the thousands, not hundreds! If that were really a floating farmstead, the staff alone constituted a village.

Mrsha couldn’t tell who was making all that noise, but she could see a lot of people around the inn—even outdoor tables. Well—well—The Wandering Inn didn’t have outdoor tables because you got eaten by spiders if you sat outside!

And her inn had something cool too. So Grev stood up, and the cheering resumed as he encouraged the crowd to shout.

And if their voices were too weak—there was also music. However, the individual bands were fading out. A trumpeter was nervously adjusting his instrument and mouthing at his friends. Meanwhile, a grinning Kevin was adjusting the volume on his laptop while Palt cast a spell.

When the music began to play, it sounded like the Singer of Terandria’s music. It was an explosion, a shout—and Kevin began to strike the drums on a wagon as Octavia played along as best she could on a guitar. However, they were just the background.

The crowd’s heads turned. They expected to hear Cara’s voice because that was what they associated with that kind of music. They were not ready for what came next.

Introducing our special musician from The Wandering Inn! Let them hear it, Numbtongue!

Grev shouted and pointed. Then Mrsha heard screams and shouts and ducked because she had a feeling her mom and Erin were looking at her. But she kept staring up, up—at the Hobgoblin [Bard].

Numbtongue was playing on his guitar. And—Mrsha distinctly heard a nervous tone in his voice as he began singing one of Cara’s songs. Half the crowd ready to panic at the sight of a Goblin stopped. They looked over, and Erin’s jaw dropped.

“He’s singing?

She could see Numbtongue clearly, along with everyone else. In fact, beyond clearly because Numbtongue wasn’t standing on one of the wagons. It was hard to hide a Goblin that long, even with a cloak and hood. So Mrsha and Grev had put him somewhere else along the parade route, and on signal—

His platform had begun rising. To be more precise, a pillar of earth, brown stone, was lifting him higher into the air as Moore cast his newest Tier 4 spell.

A singing Hobgoblin with a guitar was playing one of the Singer of Terandria’s pop songs, and it seemed like even The Adventurer’s Haven slowed down to check their eyes.

The crowd looked uncertain for a second, and Erin feared they’d either riot or panic. But her friends had pulled an Erin classic. While the crowd was busy processing the fact that a Goblin could sing, they’d forgotten to scream.

And she’d also forgotten something that Numbtongue himself occasionally forgot:

He was a [Bard].

He was using his Skills, and Erin felt the nervousness of the crowd drain away like water through a sieve.

[Peaceful Melody]. And maybe—[Ballad of Bravery]. He grinned and winked at Erin and everyone else in her direction, and then someone began cheering him.

Go Numbtongue! Look at that!

Drassi shouted, and the voices swelled again as the music played louder. Then you had a Goblin playing music in one of Izril’s largest cities.

 

——

 

Disastrous. Horrendous! It made Goblins look like people, and it fit his class. If this were his kingdom, it would have been a terrible incident politically and socially.

Since it wasn’t, King Reclis laughed his ass off. He wondered how Invrisil would deal with this in the months to come. Especially if a Goblin Lord came of all this.

Queen Ielane hadn’t laughed. Nor had she done more than blink at the sight of Numbtongue playing on his guitar. She was just writing notes back to Dame Ushar.

“Fortunately, it appears our daughter hasn’t taken leave of her senses. She did not put the Goblin there.”

“What? Good, good.”

Reclis collected himself, chortling. He thought it was still a daring move, and Ielane, amazingly, seemed to agree. She eyed the Goblin.

“A [Bard]. It’s that child that Lyonette appears to have taken an affection for. Mrsha.”

“Oh?”

Reclis had a lot of thoughts about the Gnoll girl, and a lot of them were troublesome. Some, in light of the Meeting of Tribes, were interesting. Ielane had even more direct feelings—but for once, she was tapping a finger against her lips.

“The Titan of Baleros also visited that inn, and it seems he stayed in the company of that Goblin, among others, if the mess at the Meeting of Tribes was anything to go by. Apropos of nothing—that little girl has made better use of that Goblin’s class than our daughter and the Titan.”

The King of Calanfer’s brows rose as he turned his head back to Numbtongue. Never let it be said that Ielane didn’t recognize a good move when she saw it.

 

——

 

The cheering was still going on as Numbtongue played his finest. Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings were staring up at him, hats raised as they craned their heads back to see. He was so afraid he was going to fall or pee, but he was also engrossed in the song. And he had a feeling—

He was going to level up.

He might get addicted to this. Kevin was swinging so hard on the drums that Numbtongue feared he’d hurt himself, but this was their moment in the sun. He finished the last verse in the song and wondered if he’d get an encore. The cheering slowed—and the Hobgoblin, so high he was at rooftop level, was the first to see something weird coming their way.

“Oh? What’s this?”

His voice was still magnified, and the Humans turned. The Hobgoblin stared at a curious sight streaking ahead of the floating inn. By now, it was closing on the city—but the oxen were slow.

Yet the dozens, dozens of rich carriages weren’t. Numbtongue saw a higher class of personal transport than he’d recently ridden in. Gold trim, painted wheels—and crests.

Dozens of crests. Some he recognized as members of the Five Families. Others?

They came sliding to a stop as the horses turned, and some were even magical. Numbtongue saw the astonished crowd turn—and one of the carriages painted almost unbelievably yellow and black, like an angry bee—rocked.

Then the carriage door blew open, and a red carpet began to unfurl. Numbtongue saw it roll out—and out as the red cloth rolled forward with the help of a nervous manservant, who was pushing it to make sure it didn’t tangle.

It was an impressive sight—but he had to imagine that all that cloth had filled up almost all of the carriage. Nevertheless, the other person sitting there must have been content to sit next to a bale of cloth just to make her entrance.

And that person was, of course—

Lady Pryde Ulta. She emerged with that very same tracksuit-style dress that she’d worn in Pallass, one arm raised, like the conquering [Warlady] onto a battlefield.

She got no applause. The crowd just stared at her, completely perplexed. Lady Pryde didn’t seem to care. She threw back her shoulders, spread her arms, and then flexed.

Numbtongue didn’t remember her that well, but he thought he saw a bit more muscle than he’d seen last time. And a group of extraordinarily muscled armsmen and women came flooding out of the huge carriage to surround her like a posse.

That was the first carriage. While Numbtongue was looking around for Grimalkin—he saw another carriage with chalk white, leaf-green, and rose-red trim open.

A [Lady] and a [Lord] he had never seen before emerged as a bowing servant opened the door. They stepped down onto no carpet of their own, but then the [Lord] snapped his fingers.

The mundane, dirt road in front of the [Lady] with a dress that matched her carriage turned from dirt to a polished, marble floor around her. She stopped lifting her dress up and opened a fan with a smile. Then she turned and nodded to another carriage door opening.

More people were emerging—and Numbtongue thought he recognized one of the [Lords] who came out next. Wait—was that one of the ones that Erin had saved? Not Lord Toldos, who’d passed away, but Lord Alman Sanito, complete with wife and even children.

They came out waving, and then Numbtongue did hear cheering. From the inn, from their own servants and staff, who were applauding and raising their voices—

And Invrisil. They certainly knew Lady Pryde, and even if all the others weren’t friends to the City of Adventurers, they could see not one, but dozens of noble families emerging.

The Adventurer’s Haven had brought a storm of the northern nobility south! Its month-long trip to Invrisil had not only pulled its regular clientele after it—it had brought a crowd of supporters.

The sudden carriage attack had completely thrown the parade. Numbtongue stared down at his guitar and wondered if he should play a song, but there was no need. Because his head snapped up as he saw the inn coming within a thousand paces of Invrisil’s walls. And now—someone else began to play music.

Them. Mrsha looked up, and her mouth fell open in outrage. She pointed and shook her fist, but she had known this was coming.

It was him! That man who’d come in, the spy! He wore a kind of suit with a bowtie at the neck, as if he were a bartender. But he was no Rufelt, and the colors of his vest over a white shirt were divided down the golden buttons running down the front. Red and black, emblazoned with the inn’s logo in the opposite color on each side.

She thought he actually looked at her, and his sparkling violet eyes and brown hair were the only things she could see. The rest of his face was blocked by the brass trumpet he was holding.

Barnethei, the [Vice Innkeeper] of The Adventurer’s Haven, was playing music. And that inn had a band. Or rather, its staff were the band.

The same group of women and men that Mrsha had seen during the first day of the parties were playing along with the [Innkeeper]. And they were performers. Unlike Kevin, who was playing on stationary drums he’d tried to make into a crude drumset, Mrsha saw the marching drums and even cymbals and other portable instruments.

Also—the staff of the inn had matching uniforms. They were bright blue, sharp cloth, and made them look completely different from a [Maid] or [Butlers]—or even regular [Waitresses] and [Servers].

The last thing that Mrsha saw as the band performed, walking ahead of the floating inn, was that the Humans looked far different from most of the nobility. A good number had darker skin, which normally meant they were Chandrarian or Balerosian.

Barnethei stood out, but he was a minority among the staff. The guests, on the other hand—the noble ones were trying to get into view of the camera, but all eyes were focused on the inn, now.

It had opened its doors, and the staff and even a lot of cheering guests, from [Merchants] to regular patrons, had come with the inn. It was indeed at least a thousand, and Mrsha saw waving people in farm clothes next to the floating dais occupied by the crops and animals. Amazingly, the cows weren’t panicking, perhaps because they were used to all this.

The marching band came towards Invrisil’s open gates as The Adventurer’s Haven floated forwards. Then the last interesting thing happened.

The floating inn slowly, slowly began to rotate. And the daises slowly began to spin around the central inn.

Like some kind of carousel ride or a child’s toy. The central inn simply rotated from left to right, counterclockwise, but the other daises were spinning around it, slowly, and rotating as they came.

The inn moved! It spun, and Invrisil’s own populace that hadn’t even seen or heard that The Adventurer’s Haven could do that were screaming louder. The Wandering Inn’s parade had come to a halt, and half of them were looking to Erin.

But Erin was just waiting. She’d stood up on the wagon to get a better look. Lyonette was almost audibly grinding her teeth over the crowd’s excitement, but Erin was just waiting.

She could feel the other [Innkeeper] in the air. It felt like magic. It felt…huge, like someone was waiting for her. But it was one strong feeling among many.

The Adventurer’s Haven wasn’t playing a pop-rock song in the same vein as Numbtongue had been. Theirs was a kind of subdued beat, almost eerie, and it took down the excitement in the air into a kind of excited suspense.

Like a racing heartbeat played out by a bass and drums and the instruments. They shrilled in the background as Erin looked at the central inn. It had outdoor tables, as Mrsha had seen, but it was also circular, designed to be entered and seen at every angle. Designed for this very feature, to rotate and float.

Now, she realized that the inn had been deliberately still all this time. It only rotated when it was in sight of the city—because it had been facing ‘backwards’. The people who were sitting at the outdoor tables slowly came into view.

There were barely two dozen of them. Everyone else was on foot, from staff to other guests. So it was as if the entire inn was reserved for them, and every eye fell on the people sitting there. Ser Sest inhaled sharply next to Erin, and Yvlon made a choking sound.

They were nodding along to the beat. Heads bobbing, staring at The Wandering Inn’s procession. Almost in perfect sync, sitting back in their chairs and snacking on food set out for them.

A huge man in armor sprawled out next to a pale Selphid wearing a Human man’s body. Ceria recognized his face—and then Jelaqua nearly swooned into Maughin’s arms. Erin’s face grew blanker, but that was because she had never gone north.

And she had been dead. Ksmvr knew one of the figures by name. He pointed—and then the crowd realized who they were.

 

——

 

Who did they see? Older men and women, probably. But the gang felt young. Young and old, as Larra’s inn reached the City of Adventurers all of them had once lived in at one point in their lives.

Of course, the inn didn’t use to float. So they were old. But young as well, like the kids they’d always been. Every time they came back, or one would go off and stories would be told—this was where they returned to. Even if they found a home, this was their first one.

This circle of friends. When—when was the first time that one had brought a little child into this inn, a baby, and everything had changed? Changed and not changed?

Then a little boy had run around, and Eld had made them all put away their blades out of concern, and the boyfriends and girlfriends and flings became serious, for some. They talked about marriage, wrinkles, and some of them began dying their hair.

Some of them died. The group became smaller. They fought, reconciled, and came back less often. They met new faces, like Colth, and he slowly became part of them, accepted.

Of course, they were slightly nervous. For Larra. This was the first time in decades her inn had come to Invrisil. So they put on a show.

Deni was sitting with both arms spread, elbows resting on two tables he was sitting behind. His own violin was resting against his leg, and he idly surveyed the adventurers.

“Those are the promising newcomers. Horns of Hammerad. Eld. You joined their raid, right?”

The huge man was wearing his armor, not the suit and formalwear he always put on when he wasn’t adventuring. Ever since marrying into the Terlands—Eldertuin lifted a cup as a plate of the colorful corn he’d brought to the inn sat in front of him. He focused on Ceria, Pisces, Yvlon, and Ksmvr and nodded.

“Brave kids. I heard about them through the runner.”

“Don’t talk about her now.”

Colth anxiously cautioned Eld. He glanced sideways, but the figure sitting just off-center, legs crossed, staring into the parade, searching for the other [Innkeeper], didn’t dignify his comment with a reaction.

There they were. People were pointing.

 

——

 

“Who are they? I feel like I know…”

Drassi was staring uncertainly at the crowd, and some of the Humans looked outraged and offended. But even the Drake recognized some of them, if not by face, then by what they carried. She stared at the man with bright blonde hair and the violin resting by his chair. It had a sharp, sharp bow, and the strings on the violin and the bow weren’t regular. They were metal—and he had a huge wound on his shoulder and neck.

A blow from an axe, maybe. Which fit—he was an adventurer. What kind of adventurer? Well—the other thing notable about his violin, besides the strangely dark wood that came from Noelictus, was a tiny object that Pisces saw because he knew it was there.

A golden bell. It was hanging off the bow of the violin. The mark of a master of duels.

“That’s Deniusth, the Duelist of Strings. A Named-rank adventurer.

Selys hissed in Drassi’s earhole. The Drake looked at her friend—and then at Selys’ expression. Slowly, the camera panned across the group, and then Drassi realized.

“Wait a second. Are they all…?”

Selys slowly nodded. She pointed, and Eldertuin the Fortress was nodding to the music along with his partner. His team, Gold-ranks, sat in the background, respectfully away from this central table. The only other person sitting with him was Viecel. A Selphid.

Viecel, a Named-rank who often teamed up with Eldertuin and other adventurers. He was tapping his fingers to the beat—well, one finger. He had three fingers on his right hand. The other two were stumps. The Selphid was smiling at Jelaqua and Ulinde.

Viecel the Mad Better. With Eldertuin, they were known as Variable Fortress, a famous duo in the north, who’d conquered dungeons before.

How many Named-rank adventurers were there? Deniusth had his own team, and only one member sat at the principal table. Like the [Vice Innkeeper], he had a trumpet.

“Their team is—The Orchestra of the North. Musician adventurers. A Named-rank team! I thought they were fighting a Goblin tribe.”

Captain Todi was still running bodyguard duty. He looked intimidated, and it was so rare for Todi to look anything but superior that both Drakes turned to him. Selys swallowed.

“I only see one more Named-rank. That’s—four.”

“Oh, only four. Who’s the last one?”

Selys pointed a finger at the youngest person there. They were all middle-aged or older, and the youngest Named-rank was still mid-thirties.

“That’s Colthei, the world’s greatest [Supporter].”

“A [Supporter]? What kind of class is that?”

He was waving at the other adventurers and staring at the Goblin on the tower. But all of the people sitting there, adventurers and other classes, were eying the Antinium. In fact—the [Crusaders] were shuddering yet standing tall as if they were about to go into battle.

Because some of the people sitting there were giving them true stares of banked hostility. And if they weren’t all adventurers…

Garia Strongheart choked. She grabbed Fierre’s arm as the two of them stood in the crowd, and the Vampire gulped.

Fierre! Fierre! It’s her! It’s her! I thought she never left First Landing except to murder Ryoka!

“I see her. I see her—and look! Salamani!”

A Courier was sitting at a table near the central one. A white-maned horse was chewing on a salad placed for her. Couriers—Salamani and Ci.

They were guests at this inn. What kind of Courier didn’t know The Adventurer’s Haven and sit there? But it was her, the woman sitting with her friends, who was staring death at the Antinium. She coughed—but among her friends, she looked younger.

Mihaela Godfrey tapped one foot to the beat. She searched the crowds for Ryoka Griffin, but she didn’t see her. And her eyes focused once again, looking for that other one. Erin Solstice.

Or Klbkch the Slayer. Izril’s Courier narrowed her eyes. She lifted a cup to her mouth, but didn’t drink.

“Cheer up, Mihaela. We can put Deni in a headlock again later. It’ll entertain the crowds.”

Colth tried to cheer her up. Mihaela just grunted as the Named-rank glared at her.

“We have a reputation to maintain in public.”

You have a reputation. And your dyed hair, you insecure poser. Do you dye your nethers as well or is that the surprise for all those adoring fans of yours?”

Mihaela didn’t even turn her head, but her shot hit Deni and turned him red and speechless. Colth started laughing as Eld tried not to snort.

Mihaela, now?

“Come on, Deni. Spill the beans. Dyed or not? Take off your pants and show the world. Ten thousand gold says you won’t.”

Colth was egging him on. The outraged [Violinist] turned his head and narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t want to hear that from a thirty-year old virgin.

The [Supporter] lost his smile and frowned. Instantly, Mihaela turned and kicked him. Eldertuin smacked Deni’s other shoulder.

“Low blow.”

My dyed hair isn’t?

“You’re older. Show some decency.”

“I’ll rent out every brothel in Invrisil. Colth has chosen his—state of affairs.”

Salamani was trying not to laugh. Mihaela shot him a glare, and he adopted a smooth face—but Ci was rolling her eyes. The people in the center table being exclaimed over? They were just stupid kids.

“I’ve never met anyone I liked.”

You were engaged to one of Izril’s most eligible bachelorettes.

Deni hissed at Colth, and the [Supporter] turned his head.

“It didn’t work out. She’s happily married with a child on the way.”

“And how did you not once—

“A gentleman doesn’t say. Act your age, Deni.”

The crowd was cheering them. Mihaela threw elbows, and both Colth and Deni winced.

“Sit up. Larra’s going to kill us.

They all did, and Viecel muttered sidelong to the others.

“Those Antinium are giving me the creeps. I haven’t seen them since the last Antinium War. And that inn serves them?”

“Play. Nice.”

Since it was Mihaela who said it through gritted teeth, the others fell silent. Some of the other adventurers sitting at the tables were eying the Horns. One muttered.

“Halfseekers. I know them. Viecel, you know their leader?”

“Jelaqua Ivirith? Good Selphid from home. That’s speciesist, asking me if I know her.”

Viecel was flipping a coin up and down compulsively. He grimaced as he checked the face. The other Gold-rank lifted his hands defensively.

“I’m just asking.

The [Gambler] flipped the coin again as he tossed a gold coin into the tips jar sitting on the table next to him with a sigh.

“She’s upstanding. Be nice to her or I’ll kick you harder than Mihaela does when she’s drunk.”

“Damn, fine. Do I have to be nice to the [Necromancer] too? Which one is he?”

“White robes. Some people say he’s a Silver-bell. We’ll see.”

Deni looked up. Mihaela turned to him, and she saw him feel at his neck. The bandage that was the only thing saving him from losing too much blood—an enchanted axe had struck him.

Kraken Eater’s tribe. She remembered getting the news and wondering if she’d have to attend another funeral. They had so few bodies. Too many paintings in Larra’s inn. She looked at the two members of Orchestra and spoke.

“…We should have put out a call, not let Larra do it. Made an even bigger show.”

Colth shrugged.

“She said she’s not here to compete with The Wandering Inn. Just make an impression.”

“So we should have done it for her. Called in the others. Like Loud Lad.”

Instantly, Deni and his teammate, Gores, with the trumpet, turned hostile. The two members of Orchestra crossed their arms.

“If he was here, we wouldn’t be. We’re quits, Mihaela.”

“Still?”

Deni turned his head.

“Merdon’s got steady work guarding the Healer of Tenbault. Hah, well, ‘guarding’. I heard he couldn’t even stop a single Goblin tribe. Wouldn’t be surprised if she canceled on him.”

Viecel leaned over to murmur behind a gloved hand.

“Didn’t he just get spanked by Xrn? I bet you loved that.”

“I won’t deny it was funny to see him lose. His team’s cheap. He never got why Orchestra works together.”

Deni smiled viciously as Mihaela kept her tongue silent. A rarity, for her. It felt like she could remember the day when the nervous young man, a Bronze-rank, was introduced to her. Loud Lad—because of his voice, you see?

By the time Orchestra became a Named-rank group, he was a fixture. Until he got too big and became a Named-rank after a fight that blew out every window in the inn and half the eardrums of everyone present.

Ancient history. Just like her son, which no one brought up. Just like all the names.

Colth was still the kid, despite being thirty years old, and Deni still bullied him. Despite his numerous relationships and celebrity status.

The world’s greatest [Supporter]. He was already gone from the table. Of course he was. Larra would kill him later. He couldn’t help it. He was partly his class.

So he was down there, playing with Barnethei and the band, taking over one of the drums and playing with one of the staff. As good—perhaps better than the Haven’s staff, who were musically gifted.

But he was the supporter. If he squared up with Eldertuin against a mob, he could go hand-to-hand against the biggest Hobs. If he ran with Mihaela, he kept up.

She still remembered the day he’d become Named-rank. And she hadn’t been there.

 

——

 

His sword had snapped a long time ago. So he was holding a claw he’d snapped off the last Cericel, the blood-frenzied beasts that hunted in packs.

An alpha pack of them. No Scourgequeen—but a dozen competing Fangs and three times that many underlings.

More than one team was supposed to handle, let alone a single Gold-rank team. But they were on the path to Named-rank, right? Beatist’s Brawlers, and he knew them.

He knew them all. Izril’s [Supporter]—a Silver-rank. Deni kept telling him that he was Gold-rank at least, but the Adventurer’s Guild didn’t know what to make of a man who only got better if he was partnered with someone else.

Out of mana. Out of potions. But Beatist’s Brawlers fought with their fists. So did he. Colth buried the tooth again in the empty eye socket he’d gouged out and realized—the Cericel Fangbeast was dead.

He pushed it off him, grateful for the Skills and strength to fight them off.

“Boss. Boss—let’s get the rest.”

The pack was running off. Colth was gasping for air, almost vomiting with exhaustion. How many of the team were left? There were eight of them. His blood was running, but if one Fangbeast were left, he and Beatist could take it down.

He looked around at the fallen bodies. The world’s greatest [Supporter] raised his fists, but all he saw were slumped bodies, broken skulls.

“Boss?”

He walked around, pushing bodies aside. Calling and calling, dragging bodies out and trying to heal them. By the time backup arrived, he was still in denial. He carried his friend and captain’s body to the [Healer].

“He’s got to be alive. I’m the support. He’s…”

Then Colth looked around and realized he was the last one who’d made it.

 

——

 

That was the day they made him Named-rank. Mihaela’s eyes lingered on Colth as she remembered that old story that she had pieced together.

Colth lied. He was a better liar than most thought, and he’d told the guild that the Brawlers had killed most of the monsters. The truth, Mihaela and the Guildmasters believed, was different.

His team had never really been strong Gold-ranks. They had fallen in the first minute of the engagement. The real power behind the team had killed all the Cericel.

They all had stories like that. Each and every one of them. Larra herself—they were all adventurers and Runners from the old days, and here the new days were, staring at them.

Goblins, a white Gnoll girl, Drakes, and Antinium. The Guildmistress rubbed at one eye and sighed to the others.

“We’re old. And you’re growing bald, Deni.”

“Would you stop saying that?”

He felt at his hair as the inn slowly began to lower. The cheering hadn’t stopped, and the band was marching themselves at the wagons. In fact, the inn was waiting as the one with the [Princess] and the [Innkeeper] slowly rolled forwards.

“What a monster.”

It was Colth who said that, panting as he climbed back up to their seats. Everyone looked at him, and he nodded ahead.

“I heard she hit Level 40+. What a monster. It took Larra decades to get to her level.”

“Well, she’s the second-best [Innkeeper] in Izril.”

Mihaela bristled with all the pride in the world for her friend. That was why she was here and why she’d ridden the damn slow inn all this way. Because…she looked at the other adventurers. They stared at the High Passes and what lay behind them.

An [Innkeeper] with a magic door. <Quests>. The group stirred, and a final figure slowly floated past them on another dais surrounding the main one. The slowly-turning building revealed a woman reading a book and trying not to throw up.

“Valley. Valley, what are you doing?

“Oh, hello, Mihaela. It’s quite noisy out here, isn’t it? [Silence].”

The woman waved a wand vaguely, and Eld slapped his forehead. He had to raise his voice so she heard.

“No, you were supposed to be here. Valley—Valeterisa!

The Archmage of Izril sat there, in the library building, just like the absent-minded [Mage] who would wander around the inn and disappear for ages. Eight years, this time.

And she had a kid. Well—an apprentice. Montressa nervously tugged Valeterisa’s arm, looking horrified by the angry Named-ranks and Couriers. Valeterisa looked up and blinked.

“Oh, the seating, the seats. Yes, here I am.”

She pointed and popped onto a seat next to Mihaela. She pretended not to be reading under the table as the Courier glared at her. She debated kicking Valeterisa, but even now, Valeterisa would just ask, ‘why did you do that?’

So she just stood instead. Valeterisa sat there until Eldertuin tugged her up. Then they were walking down a ramp as Barnethei joined them. One of the smaller daises rose—and then they were floating forwards, towards a young woman.

And Mihaela wondered who she was. She only knew one thing. Ryoka Griffin’s friend. She bristled—but Erin Solstice wasn’t looking at her.

Larra was watching the young woman.

 

——

 

“They’re coming this way. Oh, dead gods, I’m going to faint!”

Jelaqua squeaked at the others.

The Named-ranks, the Couriers, and the other high-level guests of The Adventurer’s Haven were standing. They must be what the Horns were to The Wandering Inn.

Friends. The oldest, the realest guests of the [Innkeeper]. And they were assembling. In fact, the group of Couriers and Adventurers gave way for one of the [Lords] to step forwards.

To the rest of the world, they were the legends of the north. Pisces couldn’t take his eyes off Deniusth. And the famous duelist was looking at him.

“He’s just got a gold bell. So? That’s like a [Spearmaster]. I can take him. Let me just get another spear. Klb can back me up.”

Relc was eying Deniusth and flexing one claw. Ceria gave him a disbelieving look.

“He’s not just a Gold-bell duelist, Relc! He’s—one of the conquerors of Chalence!

“Okay?”

The Drake gave her a blank look and Selys looked aghast.

“Relc, even you have to know that name! Chalence? The dungeon two decades back?”

“You weren’t even a kid back then!”

“Yes, but—the teams came away with four million gold coins! They all became the richest adventurers—that’s one of the Named-rank adventurers who did that!

Relc’s mouth fell open.

“Six million gold coins?”

Chalence, what an old name! Yet it came to everyone’s lips, and then—Relc looked past Deniusth and he stilled.

“Yeah. I don’t know about him, but I remember her. Izril’s Courier. Hero of the First Antinium Wars.”

Mihaela Godfrey. The Antinium shivered. Because they knew her name. She was walking side-by-side with Eldertuin the Fortress and the people who’d become the most famous names of their generation.

Not even just adventurers.

Lord Erill Fienst, the [Merchant Lord], stepped into place with the others. He had been just a [Trader] when he first visited the inn. Just like Valeterisa had once been a student of Wistram, reading books under the table while nibbling on the free bread. They looked up, and The Wandering Inn’s side saw stories.

The Adventurer’s Haven’s friends and guests saw a reflection.

The [Vice Innkeeper] lowered his horn, handed it to one of the other staff members, and joined the group on the dais.

They were approaching Erin Solstice. Half of them had auras, and Lyonette felt her hands grow clammy. As surprise attacks went—

She looked around desperately, but Erin Solstice was just peering into that group. The staff were flanking the guests. An elderly woman was handing Barnethei what looked like a notecard, another member of staff. Mihaela was staring at her and—

And the [Innkeeper] was waiting. Erin felt goosebumps on her flesh, but not hostility. She was just—curious.

She thought she understood something, but before she could move, someone spoke.

“We should get out of the wagon. Come on—Ceria, don’t make an ice ramp. We’ll slip off.”

Erin started and looked around. Then she saw someone by her side. Jelaqua Ivirith grinned at her.

“What are we doing? Aw—come on, guys.”

But it was too late. The Horns of Hammerad had reformed, and they were forming up with—her guests. Numbtongue leapt off the lowering spire of earth, and Mrsha stomped over, shaking her fist at Barnethei.

“We’re just making a point. Hey, someone cast [Earthen Floor] or something.”

“How about [Light Bridge]?”

A Drake pointed a finger, and Grimalkin’s bridge of light rose. The dais was poised to meet it, and Erin Solstice found her friends ushering her forwards.

“Guys, it’s not a competition.”

“Of course not.”

Ceria soothed her and then made a place for Saliss. The Drake gyrated, giving the other Named-ranks a nod. They stared at him, and half covered their faces in resignation.

“Am I supposed to appear? Alright.”

Shriekblade popped into view, and the crowd turned as Temile and a few [Actors] were pushed into frame. Selys popped up behind Pisces, scowling, and hid behind Relc and Grimalkin. The Senior Guardsman looked very pleased to be included, but to Erin’s pure astonishment, she saw not only the Silver Swords, but—

“Pelt?”

The Dwarf stood importantly, arms folded. He looked at her and growled, just loud enough to be heard. A bass rumble.

“What?”

“Why are you here? You hate this kind of event!”

The Dwarf spat as they slowly walked up the bridge and hit someone. He looked at The Adventurer’s Haven and turned his head.

“The south’s gotta represent itself. Pride in your craft matters, girl. See? Even that one’s here.”

I am supposed to be here! Wait, wait!

Bird was waving his arms in the crowd. Krshia Silverfang hurried him forwards, and Lism tried to climb up the bridge until Mrsha began kicking at his shins.

Grimalkin, Saliss—the only person not here was Chaldion, and Erin suspected that was purely politics. And there should have been Griffon Hunt, the Wings of Pallass—

This was enough. Seborn and Wailant were glaring daggers at a Dullahan who must have been either a [Sailor] or a [Pirate]—he had tattooed armor?—and making some offensive gestures. Normen made a path for Pawn to walk forwards and was pushed into place by Alcaz.

Numbtongue, Joseph, Kevin, Imani, Palt, Lyonette, the Thronebearers, Mrsha, Grev, Nanette, adjusting her chef’s hat, Maughin, talking shop with Pelt about his smithing projects as Jelaqua tried to shush him, Rags, wearing her disguise ring as Calescent gulped at the Named-ranks. Garia Strongheart and Viceria, trying to keep Wailant from taking off his shirt and showing off his tattoos.

Ceria was still laughing, but Pisces and Yvlon were deadpan glaring at the other Named-ranks, and Ksmvr was writing down the names and details that Drassi was calling out. Grimalkin sighed—and Erin Solstice laughed.

She looked around, and Calruz was not there, but Venaz was, for some reason. He tried to edge forwards next to Erin, but Olesm and Belgrade practically clotheslined him.

The light! The light! Get an umbrella—Octavia, stand there!”

Fierre was hissing. But Lyonette stood there, and Relc rolled his eyes.

“I see you, Klb. Gonna come with or not?”

“I believe Mihaela Godfrey will try to murder me. Go on.”

Erin looked into the crowd and the void of space surrounding a single Antinium. He nodded to her, and she sighed.

“Guys.”

It wasn’t a competition. But it was. The Wandering Inn’s guests lined up as Salamani and Ci looked at Erin. The floating dais lowered itself ever so slightly as the two sides faced each other and a hush drew over the entire moment.

Something like an [Immortal Moment], but not quite. An expectation. Now—even the laypeople could feel two elements pressing against each other.

Erin Solstice’s aura wasn’t something you often felt. It was her inn. It was strange, silly, magical, and wondrous—and it was so her that you didn’t notice even if you were standing in it unless she was angry or something important was happening.

It was only present, like an invisible gas, when something else revealed it. And that was The Adventurer’s Haven’s aura.

It felt like the essence of magic. A charge in the air, far more vibrant than Erin’s. Like possibility, like being alive. The performing staff, the grand, floating inn, the legendary names—

The greatest [Innkeeper] of Izril stood among that crowd. Where was she? The staff? Some of the people standing on Erin’s side tried to pick her out, but perhaps she was still making her entrance. And many had locked eyes.

Lyonette and Barnethei were staring at each other with pleasant smiles on their faces. He was more relaxed than she. Mihaela was glaring into the crowd where a certain Slayer was politely looking the other way, relaxed as could be.

Colth found himself being glared at by a little Gnoll girl, and Eldertuin nodded at the Horns.

Where was the [Innkeeper]? Larracel of Havens?

Grev was peering about, trying to push forwards, and some of the others who had never been there or didn’t know what to look for had missed her.

But Erin Solstice just looked down. She saw one of the staff, wearing a less-flashy uniform than the other performers, standing behind Barnethei. Like a [Cleaner], perhaps, her hair streaked with grey. She was hardly as tall as Eldertuin, and Erin realized she might be taller.

The other woman’s skin was black, and she had no magical robes, nor a wand. In fact, even Pisces missed her as he scanned the group. Yet Erin Solstice just looked at her and saw who many of the new guests to Haven missed.

Not colorful Barnethei, who was the ‘innkeeper’ that a few idiots claimed to have met. The real one, who waited tables sometimes and listened.

Larracel of Havens was watching Erin Solstice. The moment their eyes locked, the two felt each other’s true presence.

The air was like a physical divide between the two. Not even Lyonette wanted to step forwards. She was uncertain what would happen next. Not a fight—but was this a contest? She looked at Erin and saw not a wrinkle of fear or anger on the young woman’s face.

Then Lyonette’s ears cleared, and she finally heard what Erin had been saying this entire time. After all—The Adventurer’s Haven was another inn.

If anyone would have felt the contest, the pressure—surely it was Erin. But she had neither flinched nor felt that hostility.

Slowly, the [Innkeeper] walked forwards, and the older woman did likewise. Their friends stood back, and the crowd looked at the two [Innkeepers] as they approached.

They were…the least interesting people in that crowd of names and faces, surely! Their friends were far more impressive. But Erin Solstice’s hazel eyes lit up, and she hesitantly stuck out a hand.

“I—don’t know how [Innkeepers] are supposed to meet. Hello there. You’ve come a long way. Can I offer you a drink?”

She saw two bright, blue eyes regard her, and then Larra, Larracel the Haven, spoke. Her voice was soft, and each word was enunciated, like the [Wizard] she had been. Someone who had once cast a spell to create a home even in the middle of the dungeon. She had turned that power into this inn.

“When [Innkeepers] meet, most have offered me a room and food. Some compete and show off. Others are less friendly. But we are [Innkeepers]. It would be my honor if you also had a drink in my inn and any meal you wanted. Hello, Erin Solstice. I’m Larracel Delais. [Innkeeper] of The Adventurer’s Haven.”

“Mine is The Wandering Inn, Liscor. But you knew that.”

Erin smiled. She felt the other woman’s force, pure magic behind her, an aura surrounding her entire inn. It was intimidating—or should have been. But Erin’s eyes had lit up.

Was that a hat the Haven’s guests saw? Flickering fire? Larra’s gaze flickered. She looked at Erin and, hesitantly, reached out.

Mihaela realized why Larra had asked for her to come. Perhaps it was she who was…nervous? After all, it was just her old friend, the scolding, bossy—

Larra’s fingers touched Erin’s. She took Erin’s hand as the younger woman closed her hand, and they felt their auras meet.

Magic and wonder met. They didn’t collide, but ran together in one moment. Erin felt the [Immortal Moment] open—and the crowd blinked upwards.

What they heard was different than what the two [Innkeepers] saw and said to each other. Blinking, the crowd saw spells flicker to life.

A Familiar, a spectral imp, floated through the air to The Adventurer’s Haven. The same spell Valeterisa had taught Larra. It flew through an open hatch and came out with a plate of food.

Behind Erin, a breeze blew through the air, and a shower of flower petals rained down. For a second—Mrsha looked up, and the [Garden of Sanctuary] stood open to that garden of fish. She reached out and caught a flower petal.

The crowd pointed up and gasped. Mihaela Godfrey touched her face. The Guildmistress of First Landing looked down, and nothing appeared to have changed.

She wore running pants, a tunic—and her hair was cropped short and brunette. She inhaled through lungs that worked normally—and nothing was different.

For her. She looked as young as she remembered, for a moment. Pisces blinked at a group of young men and women his age, kids, nudging each other and pointing at the garden. Teasing and fidgeting, despite the austerity of the moment.

Montressa’s mouth dropped as a [Mage] her age fiddled with her glasses and peeked over her book.

“Oh, an aura combination. How fascinating. Where’s my notepad, my notepad?”

Grimalkin nearly dropped his. And Erin Solstice looked at someone just a few years older than her as she shook hands.

For everyone else, the moment passed in, well, a moment. But Erin Solstice’s eyes ran from person to person, and she saw them. Young. Crazy. Like the Horns. Like…

“Your inn looks so strange to me. But very familiar. I can see how you got here so quickly. Hello, again. I have to admit, you scared me so much I called in my friends.”

Larra looked at Erin, and the [Magical Innkeeper] held up her hands.

“Who, me? I’m not scary. I’m silly. I’m pleased to meet you!”

“Me too. But I have to say—you know some terrifying people. The Cyclops, the Slayer—and you have a hat made out of fire.”

“That’s just—”

“A bit of bullshit?”

Erin choked on her words, and Larra put her hands on her hips and gave her a sardonic look. The other [Innkeeper] shook her head.

“Please, my own crowd gives me enough. You’re the world’s best chess player, at least. And a [Witch]? I recognize the magic.”

Erin Solstice nearly lied, then she hesitated. Ruefully, she tipped her hat, then took it off her head.

“…My hat is overfull. I’ll have to do something with it. No, I get to. And you’re a Named-rank adventurer. Larracel the Haven.”

The other woman’s chin rose. Proudly, and she nodded.

“I am. Though my days of adventure are behind me. An inn is a different kind of adventure with dangers aplenty. I’ve seen bandits and war and strife—but I can admit I’ve been retired a while. So have my silly friends.”

She looked at the others, and Erin ducked her head, smiling. Then she realized why Larracel was here and looked up.

“Oh. Is that why you came here?”

She looked south, past Liscor, to what she knew was beyond it. Lands not tamed. Larracel sighed, and she brushed at her hair. She turned to the others and shrugged.

“I would worry about these idiots too much. They need someone to nag them. We look old, you see. Mihaela’s hair is all white. But I feel only as if someone hit me with an aging spell.”

“Is that what being old is like? Don’t you get more responsible?”

Erin looked at Larra, wide-eyed with disbelief. The other [Innkeeper] looked at her, and her teeth flashed as she laughed.

Never. Now, shall we go to your inn or mine first? Look at all these people. Invrisil was always filled with drama-loving hogs. It is the City of Adventurers. Between you and me, we can probably sell out our inns. Shall we compete?”

Erin blinked.

“I’ve never competed with anyone before. Not everything’s a compet—ow!”

Larra gently shocked her! With a bit of static electricity!

“I don’t want to hear that from the woman who just played ninety chess games yesterday. You don’t compete because you don’t have any rivals. Well—”

She turned, and her inn came to rest. Every door and window on the inn flew open, and her staff stood there as arcane familiars hovered through the air. Erin blinked up at them all, and The Adventurer’s Haven was right in front of her. Larra pulled down one eyelid with a finger, before she became an old woman again, and stuck out her tongue.

“…My inn can move. So I’ve won.”

Erin looked at her in pure astonishment, mouth open, as the [Immortal Moment] faded. For a second, the crowd held its breath, then Erin threw her arms around Larra and hugged her.

“You’re so cool!

Larra chuckled as her friends looked at her. She glanced over her shoulder, and the [Vice Innkeeper] snapped to attention.

“Barnethei—get to work. Let’s go to my inn first. It’s closer. You can put your magic door in my inn, and I’ll charge it as much as it needs. Introduce me to your guests. Now, who’s this girl and why does she look like trouble? Here.”

She looked at Mrsha, pulled something out of a pocket, and Mrsha sniffed at the toffee. She popped it into her mouth, and it instantly glued her teeth together. Erin Solstice laughed as Mihaela came forwards.

“Hello. I’m Mihaela Godfrey. Courier.”

“Oh, I’m Erin. Say, didn’t you hit Ryoka?”

“Yes.”

Erin frowned at Mihaela as everyone held their breath. The explosively dangerous Courier with her temper stared at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] waggled a finger.

“Well—well—did she have it coming?”

Mihaela stared at the sky.

“Only a bit.”

Erin stared at her and then slowly looked around. Adventurers, new to her, clustered behind Mihaela, and the nobility were getting upset they weren’t being recognized. Barnethei was already jogging to placate them and begin organizing things, and Lyonette was hurrying after him, not to be outdone.

Erin Solstice exhaled and looked around. She took Mihaela’s grip, and the woman coughed. She tried to stop it, but she coughed and coughed, a deep, rasping cough, and produced a handkerchief. There was a bit of blood on her lips, but she just looked annoyed.

“Ah, a customer.”

Saliss rubbed his claws together, and Mihaela shot him a glare. She kicked, and Saliss’s eyes shot open. Erin blinked as Mihaela’s shoe thunked into Saliss’ shin, and he hopped up and down.

Aaaargh! Pain! Actual consequences!

Everyone stared at him wide-eyed, and Erin wondered if Faerie Flowers could do anything. Or…she saw the Horns nervously standing there as Larra looked at them. Both [Innkeepers] traded glances and tried not to like the other’s friends instantly.

Erin looked at The Adventurer’s Haven, then put her hands on her hips. Her friends wondered why she looked so exasperated, but then Erin burst out. To everyone’s mild amazement, she stomped her feet.

“I thought everything would go back to normal after this party! But—darn it—it looks like things’ll be exciting for a while.

She stared around ruefully, and Relc looked at Selys, who rolled her eyes, and at everyone else’s aghast and exasperated expressions. Then he started laughing. Erin turned to face the crowds, and Larra raised her hand. The Adventurer’s Haven flashed with light as spells activated, and Erin called out to the crowds.

“Well, what are you waiting for? The inn is open! Both of them!

And then she got to work.

 

——

 

That night, two people in The Wandering Inn heard a voice speaking. It said this:

 

[Goblin Soulbard Level 38!]

[Skill — Directional Sound obtained!]

[Skill — Song: Ballad of Battle (Redfangs) obtained!]

 

[Magical Innkeeper Level 48!]

[Bound Item: Personal Trapped Safe Room Door of Warmage Thresk deconstructed.]

[Skill — Inn: Door of Portals (500 Miles) obtained!]

[Spell — Playful Radiant Fishies obtained!]

 

But the first person who noticed was Liska, who came bright and early the next day. She saw the piles of ash and dust and stared at the blank wall where the door should have been and wondered how many people were trapped hundreds of miles away from home. Then she realized she was out of work. And she panicked before wondering why.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Notes: A few notes to begin with. If you somehow missed it—we have a new audience statistics page based on the survey we ran! Statistics are important, and while we’re still working on the other details, I can say with positivity that the odds are you’re a male reader from America.

It surprises me that 2nd place is Germany for readers! Sorry about, uh, the Laken name. Also, this story appeals to a 90% male audience. I wonder if that’s the story or the audiences it’s found.

Anyways, the numbers don’t lie unless they’re mis-cited or the survey is biased or inaccurate or…big thanks to @Brack_Giraffe for the artwork and for @SimmonTak for putting together the site to show off the numbers!

Now, onto this chapter. Did you know I had a month off at the start of this year? I had to actually check to see if I took that much time off after Volume 8 ended.

I don’t feel it. I think this break helped, but again, I’m learning how to deal with the long journey that is writing. I had to do that at the start of this, and later, and I thought I had a rhythm, but I guess I’m just a bit tired, still.

Making stuff is weird. ‘Creators’ or ‘influencers’ are such bad words for it…it’s a mix of ego and personality and just trying to do something that hopefully matters. Or gains you attention and fame and money. Even the goal matters. I just wish it was easier. I can’t tell what this was, but it felt like a bigger challenge than usual to write.

But perhaps I’ll rally, or keep switching things up if I must. I’ll let you know; I just suspect the projects I have going and want to add to, like editing Volume 1, are adding to my usual fatigue. If I can complete them, I should be able to rest. I promised to release the edited chapters over break, didn’t I? I’m sorry—I forgot because I just zoned out for a while.

The goal is still, somehow, to do the remaining half of Volume 1 by Christmas. That’s going to be, uh, interesting. But re-editing Volume 1 is important. I’ll figure something out. For now, the Geneva chapters await. Those won’t be hard to write at all. Thanks, and hopefully this isn’t rambling.

 

 

Persua’s Story by Ellen Czinski! (Like the tweet or however you’re supposed to do it! It’s great. And sad.)

 

Callidus Meme by Lechat!

 

Forount, and redrawn Walled Cities with the power of AI by Mg! (No, seriously, I think they fed the AI a copy of their art then redrew elements of it based on their original drawing, but using AI. So it’s theirs but also AI-assisted?)

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.22 GN

Trigger Warning: See the link here for details.

 

Geneva Scala dreamed of the past, some days. She knew, then, she was in a memory. They called it ‘lucid dreaming’ on Earth, and the [Doctor] had, privately, always thought it was a hoax. Despite people claiming to be able to control their dreams, it bordered too much on pseudo-science, and she had the same feeling from it as friends who tried to get her to admit that exotic foreign herbal tinctures and acupuncture were replacements for medicine.

She had always been meaning to look up some studies and see if there were any actual data behind the myth. Perhaps, then—that was why her subconscious always brought her back to her journey into becoming a medical practitioner.

It was a long, long path. Geneva had entered into med school and actually been getting hands-on at 25. Which was fast; she’d managed to gain acceptance in the grueling sea of applications without having to take time off or build up a resume.

A resume, to be accepted into the right school. The costs? Not to be spoken of when you were adding to your student debt. Geneva remembered vaguely resenting a lot of college, which was a four-year pre-med journey normally—before you actually got into medical school.

She’d done it in three years in a BS/MD program. To get into medical school, you had to be very, very focused on science. But not just that—you had to prove you were the right candidate. So in a sense, Geneva had been, in college, preparing for a second round of applications and admission tests.

That was a level of academia unknown to most of the world, let alone the one she was now in. Even the Minds had been slightly alarmed by the mental conditioning, as they saw it, that some people went through.

Which was funny for giant amalgamations of Selphids formed into a collective. But as the Second Mind had pointed out—how long was school, even for someone who dropped out at high school? Eight years? College made it twelve—sixteen, more depending on if you were in graduate school?

Possibly no other experience would shape you as much, especially in your formative years. Parents might have less of an impact.

It was this memory that stood out to Geneva. Among the many things she’d done to apply for med school, she’d known that students needed to get patient-contact hours. Experience in varied fields that proved they were more than a bunch of essays.

There were a number of ways to do this. She chose to be a first responder since she had enough experience to be accepted. Well, the requirements weren’t that high, but she had seen medical emergencies before, and she was confident she wouldn’t freeze up.

More strenuous activities like climbing, rafting, or any sport led to someone getting hurt, and she’d had to help call in a helicopter for a friend who’d taken a group of college students climbing. Their leader had been the one who broke their leg.

Compared to search and rescue, being a first responder had seemed far more fitting to Geneva, who was not fit or confident enough to find someone lost in the wilderness. She had been so focused on the requirements and building up her application for med school she’d forgotten what first responders did.

All this to say that Geneva was nineteen years old when she first touched a corpse. Not an animal’s; she’d lost a beloved pet long, long ago, and that had started her on this path, almost by chance.

—The gravel driveway was crunching under her shoes as she walked up the slope. She’d volunteered with a bunch of other pre-med students, and by chance—or because they were close by in their dorms—she actually knew the guy who had also shown up.

He was freaking out, though. Already. He must have been here eight minutes before her, but there was no rush. Volunteer first responders were called on to head to accidents, medical emergencies, and more. Sometimes, though—they arrived for cases like this, where the victim was already deceased.

Suicide. Geneva hadn’t known that was the case when she was called, but the dispatcher had been fairly certain. Her role, and the adrenaline spiking through her body, changed to apprehension. She wasn’t needed to save a life, but for something else. That was why her coworker was so upset.

Nor were they even the first to arrive. The coroner was already done. They were being nicer to the first responders. Nicer—in that the coroner put the body in a bag for them to carry to the van. First responders weren’t like EMT’s. 

It didn’t smell as bad as she feared. That was what Geneva remembered, in this dream-memory. She feared a stench so foul she wouldn’t forget it or that she was going to panic. 

Her classmate wasn’t helping. He was panicking about carrying the body. Geneva was afraid of what she might see. But that fear turned out to be groundless.

The coroner had arrived first. Whomever this was was already dead. All Geneva saw was a black tarp and a shape under it. No flies, no…

Her partner bent down and almost touched the feet. Then he straightened. She could hear him breathing a mile a minute, and she didn’t think that was what he wanted. Not in this room. 

In her dream, she remembered that the wallpaper was peeling. Peeling in those rounded strips or torn off. She hadn’t ever recalled that when she thought of this day.

That was her gift. An older Geneva now watched the younger one trying to calm down the other student—but he was already backing away. 

And she remembered how the coroner’s face had looked, a twisting of the lips as he turned to her and realized he’d have to help. Then she bent down and felt something too stiff and awkward in her arms and waited for that burst of panic, ready to fight it off and do what she’d surely have to do in time.

…It never came. She just watched her step as they moved out through the house’s corridors, and the idiot who couldn’t lift at least held the door open. Then? Then she realized she was touching a dead body, and it was a moment she might not forget. But it hadn’t sent her into a spiral or taken her off this path.

In her memory, she wondered, even now. Whose face had been under that sheet of plastic? Sympathy, determination, and that crunch of gravel and straining in her arms.

Then she woke up.

 

——

 

Geneva Scala remembered the dream as she woke up and someone greeted her.

“Good morning, Geneva. Have you been sleeping okay?”

Idis, the Selphid, was as cheery as ever. Geneva didn’t know when she had fallen asleep but she answered slowly.

“I’ve been having the same dream.”

“Are you remembering your dreams? I remember all of mine now!”

The Selphid was instantly excited, and Geneva nodded stiffly. Her body swung out of bed, and Idis began hurrying it around, putting a pot of tea on the stove in the subterranean quarters they had been assigned in the Gathering Citadel, the home of the Minds.

By now, it was something Geneva was used to. She’d asked Idis to let her feel her body, but it was like riding along, not having to do the, well, the sheer mundanity of some activities like brushing your teeth. Idis did it and still seemed to relish the sensations she and Geneva shared.

“Idish.”

Geneva muttered as Idis brushed their teeth with the toothbrush she’d had made, rather than using the alchemical mouthwashes she didn’t quite trust. But that was the problem with a Selphid; sometimes they couldn’t quite hear you. So Geneva Scala concentrated—and spoke with a second voice.

(Idis. Don’t swallow the toothpaste.)

“Oops, sorry, Geneva. It tastes so good!”

The Selphid stopped, and Geneva felt her body spit. The [Doctor] rinsed her mouth, and then she thought again.

(We’re going to be late if we savor breakfast. Let’s just eat some cereal and go. The Second Mind is waiting.)

She could sense a tin of cereal grains on the table. Slowly, despite her body washing its face and combing its hair, Geneva Scala reached out, and she, her mind, slowly pressed on the tin. It was different to how hands worked. Foreign. She had to exert pressure here and here, because the damn thing stuck—and she kept forgetting she should press from the outside.

It made sense to try to push straight up, from the inside, but that meant projecting her will through the thin metal, and that was ten times harder than—

Pop. The little lid opened, and Geneva mentally exhaled as it did. Idis strolled over, humming. Then she recoiled as she saw the open tin.

“Did you do that, Geneva? I can’t do manipulation yet!”

The doctor just murmured her agreement. And the [Telepath]—Geneva Scala—carefully watched and hid everything she truly thought and felt deep within her mind, locked away behind her consciousness.

She was learning.

 

——

 

The days after Geneva Scala had gained her new class and resisted the Third Mind’s attempts to force her to cooperate were better.

Better, for being a hostage of the Minds. Better, because she had gained some autonomy. Her body might need Idis to be moved and she might be prisoner to it, but her mind was free.

And her mind could move mountains. Or at least, pop the lid off a tin.

(Small steps make a thousand miles. A very good saying. Of course, Fraerlings point out that not all steps are the same size. That, too, is wisdom.)

The Second Mind ‘spoke’ in the same way Geneva did. When she wasn’t inside the…landscape of one of the Selphid Minds, she could sense the meaning and words themselves much like hearing them, but without the possibility of being misunderstood.

Only the Second Mind bothered; the other Minds found it infinitely faster and more nuanced for Geneva to enter their gestalt and communicate there. The Second Mind was, of all of them, an ally.

The radical, the free-er thinker; identical to the others. A slowly moving orb of thousands of slowly-writhing Selphids. To others, they appeared to be elastic slugs, these ones dark in color from oxidation by the outside, living, pressed together, and held hovering in the air by pure mental force alone.

The stuff of some people’s nightmares. Yet the Second Mind was a calming presence. It had decorated its floors with bright colors, experimenting with palettes to see how they affected the emotions of people who walked the corridors.

The Second Mind played music and read books. For Geneva, it had put a chair and even pillows, a stuffed animal in one corner. It kept switching out which one was there. A monkey, a crocodile, a rabbit…

In that sense, Geneva Scala was still an experiment, someone to learn from. But she appreciated at least the sense that she was more than a resource.

All the Minds did. The Third Mind had been censured, and it had pulled back from its more invasive uses of her own consciousness. Accordingly, she and Idis had begun to be taught by the Minds one of the purposes of this place.

The Minds were leaders of the Selphids. They were super-intelligent, powerful, and had old memories and knowledge to draw on from all the Selphids who made them up. They had capabilities that had allowed Selphids to survive even the wrath of other species, and their one greatest threat was the Wasting.

Well, their existence was a secret only Geneva and few others knew. Their true goals—ending the Wasting being one desire—were unknown to the world, as were their true capabilities. But one of the things they gave [Honor Guards] and elite Selphids like Calectus, and now Idis and Geneva, was a class unheard of by most of the world:

[Telepath]. It was the Selphids’ great weapon, and it was useful in combat, diplomacy, and everywhere else.

It was hardly infallible, though. Most Selphids could not best a [Mage] throwing a [Fireball] at them even with mental abilities. Yet for someone like Geneva, it could be very useful indeed.

Could she ‘see’ into a patient’s body? Stop hemorrhaging with more than a Skill—locate a shard of metal hidden away? At the very least, she could now move things with her mind and sense other people’s thoughts.

Her training was with the Second Mind. It often consisted of meditation and learning how to move mentally. For instance, like the tin—Geneva’s mental power was limited by her proximity to an object.

Not by space alone, though. What was interesting was that unlike magic, telepathy didn’t scale up in the same way by sheer distance. Rather, it was Geneva’s understanding of things.

She could not open an object she hadn’t seen before. If it had a screw-on lid or a latch, she wouldn’t be able to do more than pull weakly on it. If she were handed a ball or a scalpel, she could make it move. But an object she had no idea of, not what it was made of or the entire thing, was far, far harder to manipulate.

(Sense each object completely. Meditation is part of this. [Monks] have learned many lessons we remember. Your dreams you now remember because you are learning to be aware of what your mind is doing. Sometimes, you will be aware it is playing a trick on you. Mental control, even magical, will be far more difficult. But flying may be beyond you without Skills.)

“I don’t know how I’d even begin.”

Geneva had a headache just pushing around a soccer ball the Second Mind had placed between them. A child could kick it infinitely harder than the slight pushes she was doing. The Second Mind lifted the ball up and tossed it to one of its [Guardians], who caught it and retreated.

(We are the Minds. Thousands of Selphids’ wills joined. Ours is not exactly a fair competition.)

“How can you fly all the time, though? I know you do have to rest.”

Geneva stared at the floating orb, and the Second Mind executed a kind of mental shrug in her head. It looked like a Selphid wearing a Gnoll’s body shrugging.

(We know ourselves perfectly. Each Selphid that makes me up is a part of me, memory and experience. Each Selphid is lost in me, never to be individual. At least, not without me deliberately separating off those experiences. It is a great sacrifice. Our creation is constantly changing as Selphid bodies die, and in that sense, we are a wasteful being for our species. Yet powerful. Perhaps we have lost our way as a species and considered a Mind the end result, rather than a choice.)

That was why the Minds hated the Second Mind, incidentally. It questioned their very existence. It was…well, dissident thought made manifest.

Six Minds occupied this Gathering Citadel. Of them, Geneva knew they were ranked in terms of importance by number. There was a First Mind, tasked with looking into the Earthers, who led the group. But they voted collectively; the Second Mind was a radical. A free thinker who took in Selphids who had journeyed far from home.

The Third Mind was her true warden. It was the one who tried to stop the Wasting, the death of all Selphids before their time, and in that, Geneva was united with it. But she had opportunities to meet more in the days after her new class.

 

——

 

The Second Mind’s lessons did more than give Geneva some power even without Idis sharing her body. It earned her the respect of the other Minds, enough to learn their ‘names’.

Minds were odd things. They had personality, as Geneva well knew. However, even a broad collective wanted a name. Rather than take one that was made up, though, each Mind was a word.

For instance, this Second Mind was referred to by a word that summarized its purpose or perhaps its vision and how it viewed itself and its role. It was known as ‘Contradiction’.

By contrast, then, the Third Mind grudgingly told Geneva it was called ‘Dictum’, and she had to admit, it was a fitting name.

She met with ‘Egress’ five days after gaining her new class.

Egress was grumpy. That was the first thing Geneva noticed. It was like a well-worn track, and it resented doing the same thing, even as it understood the value of not extrapolating. Egress was tired.

Egress was old.

(This Egress is the oldest of six. Once, it led Minds. Now, it serves another point until the very foundation of Egress shifts to a new name and purpose.)

She understood that this Selphid was comprised of so many ancient Selphids that it had grown stuck in its thinking and been given a different task compared to the other Minds. It was, perhaps, less adaptive, and the sad part for Egress was that it knew it. So it had voluntarily shifted its role.

“How old does a Selphid grow? What is the average age of Selphids within your body?”

Egress was silent a moment, but the room it was in was not. Rather, very sturdy barriers of glass and magic were surrounding this Mind, so it could still ‘see’ around the room—but the forges where hammers swung and metal cooled did not end.

It was making weapons. Weapons and armor and even items for the Bodies of Fellden and other Selphids. Geneva saw a chestplate of armor that could be adapted to multiple forms shining with some kind of bright magic as Egress enchanted it and manipulated hot steel in the air without needing tools. Only the sheer hammering force required such implements.

It could only forge a fraction of items compared to an army of smiths, but what it did make was of a quality only Fraerlings could exceed, and they were tiny. Still, Geneva understood why Egress disliked the work; it made valuable things to defend its people, but it was boring.

Accordingly, the Sixth Mind’s touch was weaker than the others, as if the monotony weakened the collective itself.

(…The average age of Selphids in Egress not replaced due to Wasting or the needs of continuum is ninety-one years.)

It had taken a few minutes to calculate that. Geneva’s eyes widened.

“How old is the oldest Selphid within you?”

(Six hundred and two.)

“How is that possible? I thought half-Elves were the only ones who lived nearly that long!”

For answer, the Sixth Mind lifted a burning piece of metal into the air and began to shape it as it spoke to her.

(No Selphid bound within a body, alone, has lived past two hundred years in the last two Ages. Selphids are introduced to parasites, disease, pain, and distress. The Minds are controlled environments. Nevertheless, time affects us. Is this information germane to your understanding, Doctor?)

“I think it is. But I need to look into your biology.”

The Mind dourly agreed, which felt in Geneva’s mind like a thousand grumpy Lizardfolk nodding.

(Hence Egress. I have nearly completed prototyping. A more fascinating challenge. Egress appreciates the stimulation. Your second request is difficult. Each Mind must tabulate. It is foreign to us. Need your—statistical analysis truly be done?)

It sounded annoyed, and even Contradiction had hesitated when she asked. But Dictum had insisted, and Geneva nodded.

“It is. You called me here for a perspective and understanding unlike—”

(Yes. The point is already made.)

The annoying thing about Minds was that they never let you finish a metaphor or analogy. They got your point whenever you thought of it.

The ironic thing about the Minds was that when Geneva met them, she had thought she was encountering some kind of biological artificial intelligence. Some grand force—and they were.

But like everything, reality didn’t meet expectation. The Minds were collectives, a gestalt of countless lives, not a supercomputer. Thus, as the Second Mind had shown her, their weaknesses were all biological:

They could get trapped in a way of thinking. If they lacked perspective in their constituent parts, the greater whole might still lack it.

Thus, when Geneva Scala had begun her research into the Wasting, she realized that the Third Mind had no spreadsheets, no concrete data it could show her about the Wasting.

It had taken tens of thousands of Selphids who had encountered the Wasting in their personal lives or seen its effects or tried to stop it into its body. But when Geneva asked it the basics, Dictum had floundered.

 

——

 

“If this is a plague, can you show me a breakdown of Selphids infected by the Wasting by geography, time, age, and so on?”

It had been unable to. Nor had the Mind appreciated Geneva wanting it to copy down all the data it had in quantitative form. Even for the Minds—

(It will take cycles upon cycles of thought! The other Gathering Citadels must all be queried and the knowledge cross-referenced. The Third Mind will be at work for a week straight!)

So Dictum had complained, but the other Minds had allowed Geneva’s request to go through. Mostly because they saw her point.

Scientific analysis was something Humans came up with because they died and they couldn’t share their information at the speed of thought. It was a weakness of the Minds, and hence—Geneva Scala’s value to them.

So Dictum was unhappily now processing data for hundreds, possibly thousands of years of Wasting events from the memories of all the other Minds and trying to pinpoint them across a map and having to write it down.

It meant it had no time to speak with her, and in the meantime, Geneva was free to pursue other avenues to improve this world’s medicinal knowledge and help with the Wasting as a whole.

Hence, Egress.

 

——

 

Geneva Scala was a doctor.

She was also a surgery resident in her third year on Earth. If she went back home, with all her knowledge and experiences, a surgeon might well admit her as a very, very promising doctor who’d operated on battlefields and who had an intimate knowledge of the Human body.

Experience like that was invaluable, and Geneva might be the best authority among Earth’s medical practitioners on adapting medical practices to non-Human bodies.

…None of that meant she was near the level of a practicing expert in medical fields. She was also not an anesthesiologist. She was not a biologist. She didn’t know (much) about the effects of radiation or how to deal with cancer. Mind you, you had questions on nuclear physics on some exams—

—But she was aware of her lack of knowledge. So Geneva Scala had decided that all her understanding of the bodies she had worked on, the lives she’d saved as The Last Light on the battlefield, were anecdotal.

Did she really understand how Dullahan bodies worked? Did she know, conclusively, how a Centaur was a mix of Human and horse?

No. Were Lizardfolk even lizards or were they mammals in disguise? The microbiology of each species alone was a mystery to her, and Selphids were arguably the biggest mystery of all.

So Geneva had asked for a Mind to help make her something no other person on Baleros had been able to do thus far. Egress slowly shaped metal and glass and magic to exacting perfection.

(Not even a Fraerling could do as well. For they cannot see the final product. Egress understands. Refraction of light. A [Glassblower] once observed the same when working for an [Archmage]. Zelkyr, they called him. He wished glass eyes for his Golems but gave up.)

Slowly, it placed a gleaming lens of glass in a large contraption of metal still gleaming blue from forging. It adjusted, grumbled, and cast a spell to enhance the image again.

The resultant object was nowhere near as precise as what Geneva knew from home. Yet it was still a microscope. It had to be far larger because even Egress could not adjust the minute parts perfectly, but with magic, it could magnify beyond belief.

Even so—getting down to the cellular level was tough, and Egress soon realized that the slightest imperfections or misadjustments meant Geneva ‘missed’ what she was trying to focus on by miles. Metaphorically speaking.

(Can this not work?)

It grumpily cast [Eagle’s Eye] on a circle of wood for her, and Geneva could see the very pores on her skin. She looked up as it tried to adjust the lenses it needed to have perfectly aligned and tried to figure out a system so it could be manually adjusted. It had no eyes, so it needed a volunteer to help it.

“Unfortunately, this is far, far below what I need to see.”

(Then Egress shall ponder. Go, go, go. You shall be summoned when Egress is finished.)

It shooed her out, but it seemed rather pleased by the difficulty. As for Geneva—she walked off and spent the rest of her time in lessons with the Second Mind and then investigating bodies of dead people that the Selphids were only too happy to show her—so long as she sewed them back up afterwards.

She needed to learn.

 

——

 

Those were the days before Fetohep of Khelt called an alarm across the world. When the Minds feared an advent of Seamwalkers, they dropped everything they were doing and spent every moment obsessively combing Baleros for the threat or monitoring the battles elsewhere.

Geneva Scala did not see The Dyed Lands changing, but she felt the Minds desperately assessing the damage and trying to evacuate their people from the first waves of monsters.

She worked and dreamed and made a few discoveries.

In her dream, she remembered something. The dead body in the body bag. The smell wasn’t bad.

Even so—that idiot threw up. So she had to walk through a mess, and there she was as the coroner and she carried the body out to the van. And he said, as they were maneuvering the body into the back—

“That one won’t last long.”

She agreed.

 

——

 

Memory was a strange thing. Geneva knew that memory cells actually changed in your mind; they were rewritten, and so your memories changed too. Perhaps her class was uncovering the truth, or at least, putting some memories into clarity.

The Third Mind was grumpy when it finished its work. Dictum presented her with a chart highlighting the Selphid Wasting occurrences by region on a map of Baleros and the world, and she looked at it blankly.

“…This is just population data? I can see Wasting occurs where there are more Selphids.”

(So?)

Geneva bit her lip. This would have been so much easier with a computer instead of the papers that the Third Mind had laboriously copied down the data onto. It had had to teach itself statistical analysis from her memories, and it seemed really fed up. She still caught a current of…fear from the ripples after Fetohep’s warning and the battle at the Meeting of Tribes.

“Can you perform another comparison? I need you to show me the number of Wasting occurrences by density of population.”

(How would—aggravating, aggravating.)

The Third Mind actually sank in the air as it realized what Geneva wanted it to do. Rather to her amusement she realized—it wasn’t made up of a lot of Selphids who liked numbers.

Another flaw of the Minds was that while they had [Guardians] and helpers, they were individualistic. The Second Mind had the most capable staff; the Third Mind had been so used to being superior that it had no one to delegate this work to. It was the only person who could do the job. Glumly, it told her to come back later.

Meanwhile, Geneva Scala was working on an actual discovery courtesy of the First Mind.

Continuum.

Of all the Minds, the First Mind was the one who got to worry about Earth. And unlike anyone else, the First Mind could look into Geneva’s head and see an image of a nuclear weapon falling. It could understand a billion—and it worried.

But it said little of this to her. Continuum knew how the world worked—and it tried to see how the world could change.

So the First Mind had given orders, and the unhappy Bodies of Fellden, the Selphids who fought and executed the Mind’s wills, had given Geneva Scala some of their most precious resources.

(The Bodies of Fellden are a vast group. A name for all Selphids acting as the Minds’ will. Each Gathering Citadel may employ them under this title. Some have more combat capability than others. Calectus is among the best of our number.)

It shunted the information to Geneva as she worked on a table in front of it. She was concentrating hard, but the First Mind was listening to her background thoughts.

(This body in front of you may cost hundreds of gold pieces, or less if the owners are unaware of its worth. Many times, a Selphid may pay tens of thousands of gold coins, even for a body that may soon be useless. This is unto…artifacts as most non-Selphids understand it.)

It gestured down at the dead Gorgon, and Geneva glanced up and nodded.

“Especially if they have loved ones.”

(A regrettable difference between species. What do you observe?)

Slowly, Geneva Scala lifted something out of the body, and one of the [Guardians] sighed.

“I’m afraid I need to investigate this. Which means you may need to cede the body to me.”

(Acceptable. Can Egress manufacture a microscope to your expectations?)

“Not as precise as I want, but…this is invaluable.”

Geneva Scala was holding something she’d removed from the body. She felt like she was performing actual mad science, because this was dead tissue. Not a transplant. And yet—she looked down at the strangest thing.

She thought it was…well, she had a thin strand of muscle fiber and what might be a tendon. Geneva knew all about connecting tendons and the many, many complications from tearing or snapping one completely.

It was a difficult process with a lot of rehabilitation, and she had never done anything like having to reconnect them—even repairing the War Walker’s body, Bastiom, had been more about pouring healing potion into the right spots and connecting whatever she saw.

This though—Geneva Scala had never, ever run into something in a body her scalpel couldn’t cut through. But she’d had to actually yank the entire tendon out of the body as well as the individual strands of muscle.

They even looked subtly different as they curled up, and Geneva was carrying them over to the next version of the microscope as she spoke.

Because she had a feeling she was about to see Galas-muscle up close.

In a sense, it was well that Egress couldn’t yet manufacture a microscope that took her down to the maximum level of Earth’s microscopes. It was getting close—she was down to views of muscle fiber.

That had to be—200x magnification? She had to guess. And she wondered if it was even possible to get to the molecular level with the Mind’s help. This—this was already revolutionary for this world, but only Geneva could understand what it meant. She focused, twisting a knob that the Sixth Mind had labored on for ages. And what she saw made her blink.

She wished she had access to a medical database. Even Wikipedia would mean she wasn’t reliant on memory! But the First Mind was able to help her cycle back through memory to the point where she could actually ‘pull’ pages of textbooks into the mental landscape of the First Mind.

Geneva did so now, jotting notes down as a horde of Selphids, all wearing lab coats, followed her about. As if she were a professor in a laboratory teaching a bunch of students about dissection.

Geneva pointed up to a blown-up image taken from her eyes as she adjusted the microscope with her physical body.

“This is what I’m seeing right now. Galas-muscle. I’m almost sure that’s what it is, and here—is an image of regular muscle from memory.”

A bunch of pink strands with odd striations—little lines—appeared. It looked just like long branches of pink with black dots. The black dots flanked the muscle fiber most of the time, and they looked—some of the Selphids frowned.

“What is that?

“The black dots? Nuclei. A kind of—well, I suppose you’d call them the center of a cell. The databases with all the information a cell needs to multiply. The instructions for doing so.”

“These are in muscles? They look uncanny. Like parasites.”

One of the Selphids looked disturbed, but the rest were nodding. Their eyes were swinging from the image Geneva had seen back home to the galas-muscle. Because there were differences.

For one thing? Geneva Scala’s own eyes hurt a bit as she tried to count how many striations were in the galas-muscle compared to the regular muscle.

A factor of two-to-one? Three? The galas-muscle obviously wasn’t pink in her microscope; you often got dyed samples for better clarity, and lighting mattered. But it was more—vibrant.

Vibrant, in a way she wondered if it would show up on a camera. It had a subtle iridescence to it. And she thought that change in color might be a sign of magic.

Well, the other big clue was this: each nucleus in the galas-muscle looked slightly larger, and they had a different color to them. Pale grey or silver, and Geneva Scala wondered what the hell was going on at a cellular level.

“The Galas-muscle is tougher. Stronger. Even in bodies where rot has set in, galas-muscle does not degrade. A rotting corpse of a Level 30 [Warrior] can be stronger than a fresh one without such muscle.”

One of the Selphids observed knowingly, and Geneva caught the image of two Selphids swinging an axe. One could swing it and push their body so hard they tore muscle and crashed it into a tree; the other swung, and the entire tree shook and began to tilt and fall over.

“There’s something changed on a cellular level about galas-muscle. You said it develops as a result of high-level classes?”

All the Selphids nodded.

“Not quickly, though. If a [Warrior] dies at Level 34 having [Greater Strength], they might not have any. But if a Level 22 [Veteran Lineholder] dies after decades of fighting…they may have some.”

Geneva Scala stared at the two images and frowned.

“In that case, it seems clear to me that Skills aren’t biological. They’re intangible—this is a change due to…what, levels? Your class? Magic? I wonder. Hold on, I’m going to check something.”

She went back to the Gorgon and extracted more samples from what she could identify as non-galas-muscle. Yet when she put it under the microscope, the Selphids began murmuring.

The nuclei.

It took Geneva a dozen samples, but she found in the muscle along the Gorgon’s abdomen, arms, and tail—where muscle would be very important rather than, say, non-vital areas for a warrior—a telltale sign.

Some of the nuclei had changed color. Geneva Scala saw the faint tinge of magic, and she began working on a theory.

“This must be galas-muscle in development. I could be wrong, but a fundamental shift is occurring in the Gorgon. I’m also…confused.”

This entire time, she had been inhaling the smell of a dead body, and the Selphids were good at keeping rot and other signs of decomposition from corpses, but the Gorgon was an old body from the mercenary company.

Cut open, it was smelly, to be blunt, and some of the muscles had begun to, uh, liquefy. The stench was increasing to the point where a preservation spell had to be cast so this long dissection wouldn’t result in worse rot.

—However, the galas-muscle was not rotting at the speed of the rest of the body. Indeed, Geneva Scala could barely cut it; it was closer to steel wire than muscle!

“Even diamond-edge scalpels might have trouble. Imagine performing surgery on someone lined with this stuff.”

She shook her head. One of the Selphid [Mercenaries] nodded.

“Even Selphids have to learn how to move past Galas-muscle; it’s too tough to shift. If the damn stuff snaps, we can’t easily reconnect it.”

Geneva’s head snapped up.

“You can reconnect tendons and ligaments? Muscle fiber?”

“Of course.”

The Selphids looked amused, and one actually tried to show her what the Selphid meant.

She was a writhing—her body was myriad, and she had no eyes. She felt contained. She was squeezing part of herself through a—

“Stop!”

Geneva threw her mental shields up and pushed the sensation of being a Selphid out of her head. She nearly vomited, and the First Mind instantly censured itself.

(Your perspective—is not that of a Selphid. Apologies.)

It tried to show Geneva instead as she collected herself. She had the vaguest sense of a Selphid slowly secreting something over a bit of torn muscle and manually closing it together. In fact, they could do it with bones too.

“It is tiring. But that is why bodies do not rot with us. We can also…put elements of ourselves into a body to stop it from rotting.

They could slow decomposition. They were living, biological factories that could consciously produce—Geneva’s mind spun.

What? Platelets? Fibrin? Any medical company in the world would sacrifice everything on an altar to get one Selphid for them to learn their means of production. Imagine being an athlete and being able to manually knit together a torn ACL!

The First Mind was growing excited as Geneva began thinking in a dozen different ways. One of the Selphids in its mental image tapped Geneva on the shoulder.

“Medical practices, yes. Getting a Selphid to secrete a vial of the substances you require…done. We require a living subject. You will not injure yourself; perhaps a squirrel? What are you thinking about, ethics?”

“Ew. That sounds like a lot of work. A vial?

Idis complained, but the other Selphids were shushing her. Yet the First Mind’s inquiry was focused on something else Geneva had thought about.

“…What do you mean, transplant?

Geneva Scala focused, and a few thoughts flew together. Well, surely it made sense. She looked down at the galas-muscle in front of her.

It was curled up, and even Selphids probably had a lack of knowledge or inclination to try this. Yet the First Mind was thinking of [Saw Doctors], [Necromancers of Flesh], and there was a precedent.

Such images made Geneva feel vaguely queasy—and that was madness. Sawing off an arm and putting it on someone else?

She wouldn’t think of that. Not yet. Certainly not with someone living. But what if—all in the context of dead bodies, right?

Dead bodies didn’t have rejection issues. Dead bodies, that a Selphid could use, weren’t repairable by healing potions. But if a Selphid could conduct spot-repairs, even if it was tiring for them to do so and impractical…

What if you harvested galas-muscle from bodies well past usability? Arm muscle here, leg muscle there—it would be madness to try to copy them over, and what kind of surgeon on Earth would try?

But if a Selphid could join tendon to bone…could you replace an entire body’s muscle with galas-muscle? Or at least, the part the Selphids cared about?

It was insanity. It was something no decent medical student should think about. But—the First Mind was already asking how many bodies they had, especially ones that had no further use. Just an arm? What about an arm?

Geneva Scala’s fingers twitched, and she hesitated. Galas-muscle was used for combat, for war. She kept hearing a name in her mind, the apocryphal tale.

Slowly, she saw more bodies being walked over to her, and she stared down at the cords of flesh in front of her. And she wondered if she could walk if you could heal a spine, or give someone who was paralyzed a new lease on life.

 

[Surgeon Level 36!]

[Skill — Advanced Organ Transplant obtained!]

 

Yet all Geneva Scala heard as Calectus flexed the arm of a Lizardman and the First Mind began alerting the other minds in excited telepathy was a voice. It said one word to her.

Frankenstein. Frankenstein…

 

——

 

Geneva Scala’s learning from the Minds was a long process, in secret, in their most hidden abode. So hidden that most of the world didn’t even know the Minds and Gathering Citadels existed.

Even knowing about the Minds could get you in trouble. Knowing where they were? Well…the Minds could pluck that information out of your head. They suffered few enemies.

So no wonder no one had found her. Even if they knew the Bodies of Fellden had taken her, every Gathering Citadel was home to the ‘Bodies of Fellden’. So chasing rumors of that company would lead you across Baleros to no end.

Plus, who had the resources to go up against Minds? Resources, inclination, and most importantly, knowledge of why The Last Light was more than just valuable, but essential?

Well, Niers Astoragon, weeks before Erin Solstice played her famous chess tournament, was on the job. Jungle Tails was retreating, and after making sure the biggest fires were out, he had a walk through Elvallian.

Through the Fraerways, obviously. Although they were crowded of late! There were actual Fraerlings walking about, investigating his citadel, and Niers couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Titan.”

“Tallguards. Need any help?”

A few Tallguard were marching down the Fraerway, armed for battle. They stopped as Niers descended through part of his palace, and one saluted.

“Just investigating reports of roaches and possibly a cat. Do we have permission to set up a cat-trap?”

“…By that, you mean a fake mouse with [Grand Fireball] worked into it? There are cats in the city. Blowing them up is discouraged. We had a [Druid] lay down several spells, and we have a [Detect Life] spell calibrated to several species like that.”

“So that’s a ‘no’?”

Niers smiled.

“That’s a no.”

The Tallguard nodded. One hefted a crossbow and glanced around.

“Then can we set up an outpost?”

“Where?”

Again, Niers was surprised, and he eyed the portable crossbow the Fraerling held. She gestured to it.

“Little ballista emplacement. Along the walls, maybe. We’ll just build out somewhere unlikely to catch fire if there’s a siege. We can fire a few ballistae, teleport back to safety—in case of Tallfolk attacks.”

Niers had never had so many Fraerlings around, and he was reminded why the Fraerling settlements survived; they had the same attitude towards defensive preparations he did. He lifted a hand.

“Teleportation doesn’t work if we lock it down. You need to talk to—damn, my [Chamberlain]’s a traitor. Talk to Perorn—no, wait. Talk to Magus Major Collex, and tell him I sent you for access to our safe network.”

“Ah, good. Thanks, sir. Should we get you a list of fortified areas? Not that we’re staying here long, we understand.”

“Please.”

The Titan watched them march off and shook his head. Tallguard. They were actually competent, or so they felt.

If he had had an entire Fraerling settlement at his back when he first started the Forgotten Wing company…

Niers sighed. Fraerlings did not take sides. The few that worked for him in combat were not an entire city’s manufacturing capabilities. That made you a target, and as Paeth had proved—no city could withstand an army alone.

However, he had an army of Fraerlings dedicated to fighting the Dyed Lands and enacting retribution on Jungle Tails for their actions. That meant that he had more options than he had ever thought of before.

Amazing options, given their magic. The one flaw was…

Niers grimaced. His last conversation with Iuncuta Eirnos had been frank and straightforward.

 

——

 

She had already taken over Peclir’s old rooms. They were constructing a mobile war room in the [Chamberlain]’s quarters, and it looked like a miniature doll’s set to the Tallfolk, but this was real.

Tallguard setting up weapon racks, training areas—and places for [Healers] to tend to wounded. It might become an entire settlement in miniature or an outpost in time, but Eirnos had gestured to all of it and given Niers a hard ultimatum.

“The Fraerlings are here to stay for a campaign, Titan. However, we’re not your personal forces.”

“Meaning, Iuncuta Eirnos…?”

She was a difficult person because Niers knew he shouldn’t annoy her—and half his instincts were grating against her own authority. Only Foliana bossed him around, and rarely.

But the female Fraerling who was leading all the other settlements’ leaders didn’t seem to be one to be easily intimidated or cajoled. She had fury-red hair and a longspear, a rarity for Fraerlings, who mostly didn’t use that kind of weapon. She also had an empty eye-socket, which she often showed people by flipping her eyepatch up. It had to be for intimidation; he was fairly sure she could get a prosthetic.

“Meaning the Fraerlings don’t want to fight your battles. We’re not here to make the Forgotten Wing company stronger than the other Great Companies or make you artifacts. Anything, and I mean anything, you want us to do? Unless it’s an emergency, it goes through me for approval. If I think we’re being used to fight your wars or drawn into something personal to your company, I’ll pull us out.”

She meant it, too. Niers tried to reassure her.

“And if I were to cede a lot of resources for any actions taken…?”

“I assume you’d do that either way. If we’re killing Dyed Land monsters, the cities expect a huge share of whatever you get to further the Architects’ damned research. No bribes.”

Wonderful. However, Niers put his hands behind his back.

“There will still be scenarios where I would like to call you in for help, Eirnos. Call me Niers.”

She gave him a mirthless grin.

“I knew you’d say that. So did all the other leaders, so they chose me to head this group.”

“And why are you so qualified?”

She leaned over and looked Niers in the eye.

I don’t admire you like most of the others, Titan. And I don’t get my people killed. If you have a ‘special mission’ for us that isn’t part of taking down Jungle Tails or fighting through the Dyed Lands and finding Gindal’s city, you had better have the best of reasons.”

The Fraerling gave Niers a huge grin and was disconcerted when he laughed. Niers apologized, but his eyes glittered.

“Oh, is that all, Eirnos? Trust me. I always have excellent reasons.”

 

——

 

As Niers strode through his palace, he thought that Eirnos was going to be tricky. But again—she was a Fraerling commander. She probably dealt with life and death, and she had led armies and made terribly fraught choices. Her missing eye proved she’d paid for some of her mistakes.

But she was not the Titan of Baleros.

He knew all kinds of secrets. And what he’d learned was that compromising your values wasn’t a question of integrity. It came with the job when you led hundreds of thousands of lives.

One of the things he’d learned, for instance, was about loyalty.

Oh, Peclir was betrayal, and that was different. Foliana was still kicking herself about missing him, and she was still recovering from her strange injuries. Erin Solstice and the new Fraerlings had definitely helped her. One of the Fraerlings had praised her recovering condition as the result of some real good curse-breaking.

“We don’t have many [Witches], so it’s good to see the Tallfolk have some craft left.”

Niers smiled about that. But he had a lot to do, so he was busy writing instructions down.

“…be…back soon, Umina and Marian. Tell Kissilt to do the same. Cameral is…employed…for the Dyed Lands, and you two are either employed or needed for class.”

He didn’t know if Venaz, Wil, Merrik, and Peki would get Yerranola and return or not. Feshi?

Feshi had graduated. Niers Astoragon slowed, and he looked up sadly.

She had already written him that she wouldn’t be coming back.

He lost students to accidents, changing events, and some dropped out due to lack of confidence or something else, of course, marriage…but Feshi’s was always the one that struck him the most.

His student was now a Chieftain, and she had to help lead her tribe. He shook his head as he finished writing Umina.

So much to do.

So the Titan only stopped by the barracks where some of his finest were quartered. The line holders, the vanguard of his armies, the Selphid Immortals had served, if not all of them, for decades.

“Titan! What can I help you with?”

“Captain Ollosq. Can I walk with you? I have a few things to talk about. Just around the citadel, maybe.”

The Selphid, who was wearing a looted Medusa corpse, was only too pleased to put Niers on her shoulder and slither out across the palace. She had a huge hole in her chest covered by a shirt, but the Selphids certainly appreciated all the free bodies.

Ollosq was clever enough to know that Niers never wanted a walk for no reason.

“Disruption in the ranks, sir? Squad to fight or is it something else?”

She flicked her tongue out as Niers checked on the walls under repair and the citizens of Elvallian. He gave them a wave, and they were still cheering him as if this mess wasn’t his fault. He murmured to the Medusa—obviously both were under privacy spells at all times.

“No, Ollosq. Just a quick word. You see, I’ve had this problem come up—among my many busy problems. I know you’re getting ready to head to the Dyed Lands—”

“Ready to go, sir. Give us the order, and we’ll reinforce the front.”

The Selphid smiled, and Niers nodded. He stared past Ollosq’s shoulder as if admiring the birds flocking to the aviary bearing Fraerlings, keeping her face in the periphery of his gaze.

“It’s just that I’m in need of a talk with, oh, the Minds. But you know how they are. Impossible to reach.”

Ollosq was a Selphid, and a good one, so the Medusa’s face never changed, but if you were wearing a Ring of Sight, you could see via [Detect Life] the Selphid squirming about in her body.

“The Minds, sir? Never heard of them. You’ll not find a single one in my company, on my word.”

Niers grinned, but he waved that off.

“Ollosq, I’m not accusing you of pulling a Peclir. Not at all. But everyone knows that a Selphid’s still got obligations, and a good soldier has to weigh them. Just like Lizardfolk and Nagas.”

“I understand your point, sir, but I don’t know who these…Minds are.”

Ollosq’s voice was very calm, and Niers wished he’d asked to ride in the palm of the Medusa’s hand. Well, it would work if she wasn’t a Selphid—it was hard to control hand muscles to stillness.

“Oh—well, maybe I’m wrong, Ollosq. But I had a message for them. A serious one. Non-hostile, I think it’s important to say, but it’s critical they learn.”

The Medusa kept slithering on after her pause. Her voice lowered slightly, although it kept as friendly as could be.

“Not that I know them. But what would you say if you were trying to get a message, sir? Maybe I could workshop it for you.”

Niers stroked at his chin.

“Well, obviously you have to start with some greetings. After you say something very cordial—a few jokes—much respect, you know?”

“Of course.”

Significant respect, I’d say. We’ve never had issues. Oh, I’ve been a rascal with one group, but I imagine they don’t think we’re at odds. If anything, I’d say they hate the Howling Maelstrom and Iron Vanguard more than me. Even Eyes of Baleros have a history.”

“…I wouldn’t know, sir. But let’s say that’s all true and Forgotten Wing was so well-liked Selphids work with it. What could possibly be important enough to tickle these Minds?”

Ollosq glanced down, and Niers Astoragon put his hands behind his back.

“Ever heard of The Last Light, Ollosq?”

“Never, sir. Oh—that story about a [Doctor]? Yes, that, and I think I heard her name in the academy? Some Naga with artifacts telling tall tales in the barracks, but not personally.”

Niers nodded. He adjusted the truth spell on his ring as he clasped his hands behind his back and went on.

“I bet even the other Minds don’t know much about her. Aside from rumors. Which is why it would really shock some of them to know that the Bodies of Fellden walked off with her. Or maybe they all know, in which case my inquiry is just a matter of course. How is she, is she eating well, when are you going to return her? That sort of thing.”

Ollosq’s smile was getting glassier by the second.

“That sounds—pretty aggressively like kidnapping, Lord Astoragon.”

Niers coughed sideways lightly.

“I wouldn’t say that. In fact, if I were talking to the Minds, diplomatically, you understand—”

“Of course.”

“—I’d say that if she showed up, unharmed, we might let bygones be bygones. Completely unharmed, of course. Nothing to do with her memories. I know the Minds are very secretive, but I’d make sure to be discreet, and they know I am. If that happened, we’d drop it and I’d send them a cask of wine or something.”

“Do the Minds even dr—I mean, I get your point. Sir.”

Quietly, the Medusa came to a stop in a garden, and Niers glanced up at her. She wasn’t sweating, but the Selphid was very still as the Titan smiled.

“That’s all. I think that’s what I’ll tell them if I find them. Thank you for your time, Ollosq.”

The Medusa nodded as Niers prepared to jump to one of the Fraerway exits by the walls. She unlatched the hidden door built into the stone for him and paused.

“Out of curiosity, sir? What would you say if the Minds didn’t know where this Geneva was? Could be it was an accident and that it wasn’t the Bodies of Fellden who did this.”

“Oh, I know one of the Gathering Citadels has her, Ollosq.”

“Could be an accident—”

Niers sprang and caught the door. He looked back at the Medusa and smiled.

“I know. If they weren’t certain, I think that’d be that.”

“Just that?”

The Selphid waited, and Niers sighed.

“Well, obviously then I’d be lost without a clue. The Minds told me their answer—and I’d have to begin my search. Alone. And whatever I find, I’d probably have to deal with alone. But I’m a busy man, and I’d say my patience would be about three days—once I talk to these Minds, you know? It’s a very serious thing. A friend wants me to find Geneva Scala, and you know how that is.”

“Absolutely, sir. Mind if I take a little break before I get back to work?”

The Selphid gave him a bright smile, and Niers gave her a salute.

“Take all the time you need, Ollosq. I’ll see you later for work.”

He shut the door, and Niers Astoragon calmly pulled out a [Message] scroll as Umina wrote him a reply back. He scribbled a reply, muttering under his breath.

“Three days. It’s not hard. Just get an…get Paeth to get a [Mage] capable of [Memory Transcription].”

Of course, that entire little conversation and event was far more than three days ago. By the time Erin Solstice had her big meeting with the owner of The Adventurer’s Haven, Niers Astoragon was eight days overdue.

But he knew where Geneva Scala was. The question was—how was she?

 

——

 

The Gathering Citadel was empty as the Second Mind floated through it. It left its chambers. To most, it seemed as if the gargantuan orb of flesh, squirming, began to rise.

Through no visible means, it floated higher. Higher, into one of the vast, circular tunnels that let it move through this place.

Few species had such architecture in mind. This resembled a kind of worm-like tunnel, an arterial network of veins within an underground fortress.

It did not appeal to the sensibilities of Humans or other species. There was a word for the very fear the aesthetics of Selphids evoked.

Trypophobia. The fear of holes. Well, among other visions. You see, Selphids privately, secretly, were drawn to the very same imagery that other species were naturally conditioned to fear.

It was truly a natural phenomenon. Humanity had been taught deep down, on a primal level, to distrust the sight of a hundred thousand holes gaping at you—it might be a swarm of insects burrowed into the bark of a tree.

Something infectious waiting in the flesh. A billion insect eggs waiting to hatch upon the leaf of a vine. Nature had informed biology, hence most people’s natural aversion to the imagery.

Selphids were the opposite. It reminded them of the inside of a body. A long, thin tunnel they called home in rotten flesh was their natural state. In the same way, Humans feared the uncanny valley—the features of someone who looked close to normal, but who had some oddity that made them clearly unnatural—Selphids found it appealing.

Humans of Earth had evolved, long ago, to recognize the uncanny valley in faces because sometimes, someone who looked off wasn’t Human. Geneva had told the Second Mind, Contradiction, that a theory was that Humans had killed off another species, Neanderthals, in their early ages.

It must have been a terrifying thing to see someone standing in the darkness outside a campfire or your abode and not know whether it was one of your people or someone…else. Of such encounters, an entire species developed an instinctual paranoia.

Contradiction understood these things. It studied psychology and even appearance, and it understood this:

The Minds were to other beings, even other Selphids, horrifying. The Gathering Citadels scared many species.

It was valuable to know what others thought of you. Wisdom, to the Second Mind, was exploring perspectives outside your own.

Slowly, the Mind of the Selphids rotated as it floated upwards. The Gathering Citadels were vast underground structures. Even the tireless Selphid bodies would have quailed at hollowing out so much space—but the Minds built them by hollowing out dirt and stone with the ease of telepathic beings of their scale.

They had also decorated the Gathering Citadel. Now—the Second Mind floated up, through a tunnel in the stone. And it passed a statue.

A graven wall of stone slanted down on either side. The carvings were decorative. A Selphid understood that, but another species? Only Geneva Scala, of every visitor here, had immediately understood what she was seeing.

The twisting, odd branches upon the wall could be roots at first until you realized they were veins. Beating hearts and organs graven onto stone. In another place, above what might have been a massive keyhole—another entrance for a Mind to move through—a cluster of faces stared blankly down.

They were faces of Selphid host-bodies. Living beings, forever memorialized on stone. To Selphids, it had been a great honor.

Some of those faces had once belonged to unwilling hosts of Selphids. Contradiction studied the faces with its telepathic sight. This Gathering Citadel was old. It bore the mistakes of their kind.

But did the other Minds, its peers, take this place as a lesson or a symbol of past greatness? Did they question what they saw every day?

Last of all—the Second Mind came to a halt in this chamber, where strange stalagmites of fleshy stone rose. More decorations. It swiveled, and past the slanted walls of stone rose the statue.

This was the greatest mystery of the Gathering Citadel of all. As Geneva had observed, the Minds were actually poor at keeping physical records, trusting to the power of their shared consciousness. So there was no record that the Second Mind had found as to what the statue looming above all was.

Even the vast Mind was dwarfed by it. It appeared to be a giant of some kind, robed, two hands raised and placed together, fingers reaching out. As if to clasp in prayer or some other odd gesture.

Geneva had not ever seen this in person. It was too…dramatic. Even the Second Mind agreed some things should be kept secret from her. But it wanted to ask what she made of it for a few reasons.

Oddity one. The statue had only four fingers on each hand. Three fingers and a thumb. That was then—reminiscent of Gazers, the only species to have that difference in digits. It would make sense for Selphids to honor their cousins like that. Save for…

Oddity two. And yes, the one you noticed first.

The statue had no head. Instead, a bulbous growth sprouted from the top, and a huge, nearly circular hole replaced the ‘mouth’. The rest was fungoid, dotted with holes and strange growths that twined upwards like ‘hair’.

No Selphid looked like that. No Gazer, even the most wildly diverse. What being, then, was this?

The Second Mind had a few suggestions. Artistic license? Some kind of ancient Selphid who had encountered a vastly powerful class? A sculpture that was beautiful—for there was a twisted appeal to the Selphids—yet unreal?

Or perhaps was it something else? There were darker theories in that single statue that overlooked the meeting place of the Minds, and Contradiction contemplated them one by one as the others arrived.

Six Minds slowly emerged from their own tunnels and floated into a circle. Six—a large number for this Gathering Citadel.

They were roughly even in mass. A Mind could grow larger, or smaller, depending on the number of Selphids contained within its form, and size was a primitive, if useful indicator of possible mental strength or the complexity of their thoughts. In practice, quality still mattered.

However, the Second Mind was indeed second of all six in terms of rank. It had proven itself wise enough to support the Titan in ages past. It had made mistakes, like trusting Velan the Kind, but it had also foreseen his madness and saved countless Selphid lives.

It was the one who reached out across continents and dreamed of where Selphids might go and find welcomes. The Second Mind was, among other things, a reason why adventurers like Jelaqua Ivirith and Viecel Cohex could venture to places like Izril and not be hunted on sight.

Pay a [Bard] to tell stories of Selphids. Pay Barelle the Bard to influence thought. The other Minds, some of them, called it ridiculous until it bore fruit. That was why Contradiction was placed second. Most of the Minds realized that its role was essential.

The Third Mind was different. It, Dictum, was a known dissident in thought to the Second Mind and vice-versa. It was obsessed with the Wasting, which was fair to its chosen role, but it was also—drastic.

It had forced Geneva Scala’s kidnapping. It had been her unwelcome captor, prying into her thoughts until the Second Mind intervened. In its way, it was as radical as the Second Mind, and so the two traded thoughts warily.

Not that the Minds did small-talk. They entered a merging quickly, but not deep. It was akin to them all lifting up a tarp over their heads and facilitating instantaneous thoughts, but not drawing together so close their minds blended. They were individual collectives if that made sense; they had their own purposes.

And perhaps, secrets. Well, the Second Mind had one. It had brought something to this gathering, a tool, a rarity for Minds to carry anything because they were so self-sufficient.

Egress, the Sixth Mind, noticed it first. It nudged the object slightly, and something wriggled in a pool of water in the center of the room. Another aesthetic choice, but the Second Mind addressed it not.

Their conversation, mentally, went as follows: first, the First Mind uploaded all the information it had just received from the other Minds regarding the Titan’s threat. Purely factual data that all the Minds could use.

Opinion came next, once they had the same information. It was then that the Fifth Mind, Sympathy, opined.

(Not a threat. The Titan appeals before conflict. He would not unless he had an open perspective.)

(His position militarily is untenable. He is fighting Jungle Tails, the Dyed Lands, and has no reason to involve himself in a conflict with Selphids. Nevertheless, it is a threat.)

That came from the Fourth Mind, Inconsolable. A Mind who pondered war and battle and often protected Selphid interests.

(It is dangerous. Geneva Scala’s position here is now in jeopardy. Her place here has attracted the attention of the other Minds. They are united in disapproval if not intent.)

Continuum was unto a kind of leader, at least, the first among equals. It was also the one who had communicated with the other Minds. It shared some of the censure it had received emotionally.

The Second Mind was quiet.

Here were things most people did not know about the Minds, including their existence: not all Minds were united. Each Gathering Citadel, and there were precious few, were hidden to the world. And each other.

In the past, Minds had disagreed so much they had battled each other. These days, Selphids were a weaker species, so such strife was discouraged by all. However, Niers’ threat to dig up a Gathering Citadel was as much of a threat as his clear statement that he would have Geneva Scala back.

(The simplest solution is to remove Geneva Scala after gathering what intelligence she has.)

Egress offered cautiously. It often took the mental approach to solutions that was simplest in rhetorical debates like this. If only to frame arguments.

As usual, the Third Mind objected.

(Geneva Scala’s worth is an increasing variable due to her class and growth. The Titan is unable to locate this place by magic. We will sense any intruders.)

(That sounds like arrogance.)

The Second Mind interjected its thoughts for the first time, and the Third Mind broke off. The other Minds agreed with the Second Mind at once.

(The Titan has located other Minds before. He is the world’s greatest [Strategist]. Geneva Scala’s presence here should be weighed against his actions militarily, not a better-case scenario.)

Dictum agreed with the Second Mind, but all the Minds caught a current of refusal already in its tone. That was…not good for the Second Mind.

It would prefer to convince its peers to let Geneva go, now, and make such pacts as could be forged if the [Doctor] were still sympathetic to them. Yet it was clear the Third Mind was not going to let that go without a fight.

The First Mind was eminently sensible. It was pondering the Earth problem, but it understood that keeping another world’s child hostage was not a good look. If they could take some of Geneva Scala’s ideas—what had changed?

Some Minds might share all information equally, but these Minds were individual because a collective united in thought might weaken itself because it had no other viewpoints. Yet by the same token—secrets could be dangerous.

The Second Mind slowly levitated up its prop as the other Minds turned to it.

(Geneva Scala should be freed. The Titan’s wrath is not consummate with our goals. If he knows about Earth, and I believe he does, he is beyond vested in her. A Great Company’s sympathy towards our people has been a hard-won thing.)

(The Wasting—)

The Third Mind began, but the other Minds censured it, a mental kind of ‘shut up’ nudge. It would have its turn. The Second Mind continued, placidly, as the being swimming in the water below it moved.

(Geneva Scala is my final point in and of itself. She benefits not from captivity. She is a being of desire, and she was captive of Okasha. Now, us. Cooperation, true cooperation, is not won by coercion.)

Then it tugged on the object it ‘held’, floating in the air. And all the Minds focused, briefly, on the dim consciousness swimming around the decorative pool of water.

It was…a fish. Just one of the common varieties of fish that the Second Mind had asked one of its helpers to find for it. And the Second Mind was holding a fishing rod. It had just snared the fish, and it deftly yanked up the wriggling creature into the air.

The other Minds took the entire speech and the object demonstration in and processed it all in seconds. The Sixth Mind, Egress, projected a reply underlined by sarcasm.

(The point is already made.)

No one ever let you get away with a good metaphor, here. The Second Mind tossed the fish back into the water and silently waited.

(Geneva Scala has already informed this Gathering Citadel of numerous advantages. She is mapping out the Wasting in data analysis. She has not even begun her research. She has created a tool from Earth, and—she has learned how to transplant galas-muscle into new bodies.)

The Third Mind’s rebuttal was strong. And that last part about the galas-muscle? Unwelcome. The Second Mind stirred.

(Is this too far? I must object. This treads upon the sacrosanct. It pushes at the Minacien Wall.)

The other Minds fell silent at the weight of that accusation.

The Minacien Wall was an agreement between the Minds. It referred to one thing: any action or deed that would incur the wrath of other species that had nearly wiped out all Selphids after the fall of the Selphid Empire.

Stealing bodies, controlling living beings, was the most well-known example of that. Okasha had violated the Minacien Wall, and the penalty was normally death. But there were other things you could do as foul.

(The bodies were dead.)

(I do not believe Geneva Scala would agree to this.)

(That she did indicates her understanding of this procedure medically as a net benefit. It benefits Selphids as well.)

(To create bodies as tools of war?)

Dictum and Contradiction sparred as the other Minds observed. However, Contradiction was unhappy when Continuum weighed in.

(Geneva Scala has produced one great discovery already. Transplanting galas-muscle is something only she can do with her advanced knowledge and techniques. The Titan’s ultimatum closes in, but we have not gained an appropriate understanding of her value. Delay is this Mind’s decision.)

(Delay?)

The Second Mind hadn’t expected that. Yet the Third Mind reacted with instant approval—and that made the Second Mind curious. What would a few days of delay do? Yet the other Minds seemed ambivalent, and the Fourth Mind agreed as well.

Three out of Six Minds were already in favor of delay. The Second Mind cast against, but with almost a majority, they only needed one to agree, and Egress did.

(The Titan will be ignored until he is able to press the issue. Continue with Geneva Scala’s training and assist her by all means. All the Minds will interact with her.)

Astonishing. The First Mind clearly intended to get as much from Geneva as it could before returning a vote. The Second Mind realized it was now up against two Minds. Or more.

The Third Mind was oozing satisfaction as the Minds prepared to float away. But Egress halted as it turned to the Second Mind.

(Ah.)

It wasn’t so much that word as a kind of realization-understanding that the other Minds felt. They all turned and focused on the pool of water where the fish had been caught. The Second Mind’s little demonstration was back in the water but…

It floated, belly-up, and there was no thought in its head. It had been caught, released—but the hook had dug in too deep or the shock, the air, something—

It was dead. The Second Mind hovered over the dead fish. Then, silently, it picked up its body and the fishing rod and floated back to its chambers. Pointedly, it sent one thought back to the others.

(When Selphids ruled this world, Fraerlings were one of the few species we never conquered. They were one of the species who returned us to sanity.)

Then it floated away and went back to thinking. Thinking…which turned to worry as the days continued.

 

——

 

The same dream haunted Geneva every few nights. It was—well, a bit annoying, but she noticed something else a few days after her discovery of galas-muscle.

Geneva Scala did not know what had happened on the day when ghosts came back. Only that all the Minds were silent—and disturbed. Nor did she know about the Titan’s hunt for her until the Second Mind told her.

(Your time here will be cut short. If all goes well. Perhaps try not to be so intelligent or discover anything for a week?)

That was a joke, or so Geneva thought. And it was easy for the Second Mind to say that—it was hard to stop your own brain from working, and another Mind could tell when you had an idea.

The dead body. The person she had never known, whom she carried away on her first day on the job—Geneva had forgotten something poignant. Ridiculous, really, but she did recall that after she’d taken the body to the van, nausea had hit her all at once. And she had, embarrassingly, hurked up a bit of her own lunch onto the ground outside as the coroner watched.

He had been kind about it, but Geneva remembered the pure embarrassment after how much she’d tried to be stolid. She must have forgotten it wasn’t a perfect lead-in to her career.

How the mind played tricks on you. Well, that gave Geneva a bit of sympathy to the Third Mind and, indeed, the other Minds in the next few days.

They were all introducing themselves to her, and they were all—well, not perfect. The Third Mind was passionate about stopping the Wasting, but it was tired. It had tried, Geneva learned, over 24,316 different alchemical creations on volunteers. It had tried magic, Skills—and nothing had stopped the Wasting. Even if it had never done statistical analysis—it knew every attempt it had ever made.

Time waned even the other Minds. Like the Fourth Mind, Inconsolable. Of all the minds, even Egress, this one was—senile?

(Hello again, Geneva Scala.)

That was how it greeted her, then seemed to hover in the air in embarrassed silence when she first met it.

“We have never met individually, Fourth Mind.”

(…A mistake. This Mind has met other individuals. It is distracted with the Dyed Lands.)

The Fourth Mind tried to hide embarrassment. It removed a Selphid from its body, and the Selphid hung limp in the air. Slowly and sadly, it placed the body on a waiting tray of stone a [Guardian] held out solemnly.

(Even Minds fail. The Wasting takes more of us, year by year—but time slays us.)

“What killed this Selphid, may I ask?”

It was small, thin, and darker, purplish and almost black with oxidation. Selphids in a body were often orange or yellow, even greenish at times—they could also change color and even fluoresce. This one was dead.

(Time. A factor unknown. Exhaustion. This mind sensed the vessel was coming to an end.)

It did grieve a bit for its lost part. That surprised Geneva.

“Do Minds care for the Selphids that make it up so?”

(Naturally. Joining the Mind is a welcome and a grief. Each Selphid ends its life. It is a death, even if it is a calling. The death of ego. The death of an individual. Separating an individual Selphid from a Mind is…rare. And they are never the same.)

“Can it be done?”

The Fourth Mind seemed surprised by this line of questioning. It was fidgeting—lifting various diagrams of bodies it had procured for her.

(This Mind had planned on discussing anatomy. Very well. We will discuss Selphids instead. Yes, a consciousness can be returned to a body. It is very, very difficult. Dangerous. But it can be done. For a Mind—even harder because the original Selphid must be preserved as it was, because a separation is all but impossible. The original must be restored into a new form. Even harder.)

Did it mean cloning thoughts? Cloning a person? The Fourth Mind seemed to understand Geneva’s unease. It moved the [Guardian] away, but Geneva looked at the dead Selphid and had to ask.

“This is an imposition but—may I study this Selphid?”

The Fourth Mind hesitated, and the other Selphid looked aghast. For some reason, this seemed like the first question that was uneasy to the Selphids, despite Geneva investigating countless dead bodies.

(This Mind allows it. For your understanding of the Wasting. How goes it?)

Geneva Scala shook her head, but not in denial. She approached the Fourth Mind as Inconsolable gave directions for the Selphid body to be preserved magically and sent to her laboratory. She indicated a stack of papers Idis was arranging with her body.

“The Third Mind has compiled a wealth of information. But it is so precise—may I ask for help?”

(This is the agreement of Minds. Step forwards, and this Fourth Mind shall aid you in—)

Geneva Scala reached out as she floated upwards, and the papers whirled around her, arranging, shifting—

 

——

 

“…Perspective.”

Then she was floating over a visual depiction of the map of Baleros. Geneva looked down and thought that the Americas of her world matched this continent. Not perfectly, but this continent above all others was the most diverse in terms of climate.

A warm, warm southern jungle contrasted with the frozen north of Dullahans. Around the upper middle were the flatlands that Centaurs had created, and the port cities and trade routes snaked through the untamed wilds.

The Dyed Lands were a pulsing dot in the lower southwest of Baleros, a spreading colorful stain.

That must have been the Fourth Mind’s understanding of the map, because the ones Geneva had did not indicate this. It was linking with her, boosting her own intellect and understanding.

This was the realm of a Mind, and it gave Geneva added cognitive ability and sheer time in the form of mental processing power. Imagine a think tank on Earth with this ability?

Well, Geneva was using it right now to sort through the raw data the Third Mind had given her. It was eager to know what she made of it—and she realized now that it must have seen something. But it had learned enough of the scientific method not to color her own perceptions unduly.

Therefore—she looked and saw. And what she first saw was a breakdown by date and location and yes, relative population of every Selphid that had ever fallen victim to the Wasting.

What was the Wasting? It was, quite simply, disintegration by parts. A kind of full-body death where a Selphid slowly lost parts of itself until it expired. Bits fell away, as if a Selphid were rotting to death like the corpses they inhabited.

And that was a terrible death, because unlike other species, Selphids were a mutable organism. If they lost part of themselves, any part, they did not necessarily die, but they lost memories and bits of  their selves. This Wasting was a death of their very identities, and it was as close to Alzheimer’s as anything Geneva had encountered.

A bunch of notes—her mental notes—fluttered up and pinned themselves to the hot, humid air where Geneva was hovering. Firstly, the Wasting was not transmissible as far as she understood it. The Minds and other Selphids behaved as if it were, but even when a Selphid had been sharing a body with another Selphid, it hadn’t necessarily ‘spread’.

It normally affected older Selphids, too. However, some Selphids had gone into centuries without being affected, and others were struck down decades in. No known cure. No known vector. Some Skills—especially high-level Selphids—could hold it off or even regenerate and grow faster than it killed them.

For a time. But even Named-ranks fell to it, slowly. It was a plague of the Selphids—but here was the thing. That was a misnomer because it was not something another species had done to Selphids.

At least, as far as the Minds could tell. In its efforts to erase this phenomenon, the Third Mind and many other Selphids had investigated whether this was some kind of retribution for the old Selphid empire or a way to keep them weak.

That wasn’t even paranoia; the Gnolls’ stolen magical potential proved that it was definitely a concern. However, the Minds were fairly convinced that this was not created. They were very, very good at finding out things, and they had investigated the matter.

(Thoroughly.)

Geneva Scala twisted as the Fourth Mind emphasized that. She did not…like how it thought that. But she let it go. What species wouldn’t look into its own demise? It was too long ago for her to do anything about it. An entire species was in jeopardy, so she lent what insights she could to the data so painstakingly acquired.

The map of Baleros was the most accurate sample of data as other continents had very, very few Selphids by comparison. Even so—

“Can I get the other continents displayed? For contrast? Even if the data is suspect, I’d like to see it.”

Again, the continents appeared, and Geneva slowly ‘toggled’ through her mental and the pictorial depictions of the data. If she turned on the sheer numbers of Selphids who fell to wasting—

Baleros turned red below her, a spreading stain of crimson and black the more Selphids who fell to the Wasting. As she had observed—the map highlighted population centers. Even more crucially, it was doubly confusing because the population centers moved and changed over the years, so the Fourth Mind showed her how each decade, different cities and provinces had more Wasting occurrences.

“The data is skewed.”

A Selphid Garuda observed, flying next to Geneva. The [Doctor] nodded and concentrated.

“Now, let’s see the distribution based on Wasting events to Selphid population density. Ah.

Instantly, the map changed. It was a complex equation, trying to balance out this part. Not because you took the number of Selphids affected by wasting and divided by the population. More—because doing that was so difficult without formal censuses.

A Selphid who developed the Wasting might not know about it for a while, and might travel somewhere else to seek a cure or live out their remaining years. They might not tell anyone—so the Third Mind had had to check, double-check, and rely only on hard data.

Even so, Geneva instantly saw something odd. But she swooped from continent to continent to make sure she was right.

What she saw was, firstly, no real data or evidence of most parts of Izril, Terandria, Chandrar, and places like Drath and the House of Minos having any change in Selphid Wasting. The numbers were too inconclusive, and Selphids had developed the disease wherever they went on these continents.

“Too many mobile Selphids. Those who do develop the Wasting in cities follow the exact same path in Baleros.”

Geneva swooped down, and the world dissolved, and she landed in—

Pallass? Geneva stared around the City of Inventions and saw a bunch of elevators in construction. Drakes, working to and fro, a master-smith, a Drake, calling out orders to a bunch of working Drakes and Gnolls.

This was Pallass as one of the Selphids in the Fourth Mind had once seen it. The Fourth Mind overlaid this with scrying orb images of modern Pallass. But the smell, the feel of being there came from Selphids who had walked the City of Inventions before joining the Fourth Mind.

Up, Geneva shot, feeling like this was something she could do all day, touring countless memories of the world. She wanted to see it all.

(Duty calls.)

The Fourth Mind whispered, and Geneva wished it was not right. She looked about.

“I have theorized that corpses—the consumption or inhabiting dead bodies is a vector for this disease. But the Third Mind told me the Wasting occurred even during the Selphid Empire.”

(Yes.)

“Inconclusive, then. Diet…if no continents have a difference in Wasting that we can immediately see, maybe diet isn’t a factor. Back to Baleros.”

The world spun, and Geneva began inspecting the map again. What had the Third Mind seen that was so interesting? She frowned at the relatively even blotching of Wasting. It was indeed—fairly uniform when you accounted for population.

Except…she eyed the map and had an idea.

“Can you—overlay the population graph again? No, wait. Just take the numbers of Selphids by area. Then show me this map.”

The Fourth Mind had to take a few moments to do this. When it figured out how to display the data, it began highlighting what Geneva wanted.

In short—it showed her the places where Selphids were—but where they didn’t suffer from the Wasting. Then—the Fourth Mind began to buzz with excitement, and Geneva Scala exhaled.

“We’ve found a clue.”

She didn’t know what the clue was, but the Fourth Mind broadcast a triumphant note that made every Selphid, from Idis in Geneva’s body to the other Minds, look up and laugh and smile. Statistical analysis won, and—no wonder the Minds couldn’t see it!

Few Selphids would come to them from these spots. There were a few around the world that might be just statistical anomalies because only a few Selphids had ever lived there, like Khelt or another paradise. But if you wanted proven populations of Selphids in a region and almost no Wasting events?

There were exactly two spots in the entire world with sufficient data to create anomalous zones. And guess which ones they were?

 

——

 

“This cannot be a coincidence. Now, of all times? Rhir. Rhir and The Dyed Lands.”

Calectus, the [Honor Guard] of Selphids, was present with a number of high-level [Guardians]. The Third Mind had convened them to speak about what Geneva had found.

(The data is beyond refuting.)

“Is it…could it just be that Selphids have perished there too quickly for the Wasting to take them, Third Mind?”

One of the [Psychic Guardians], Ressk, didn’t quite understand the significance of the data. It was Geneva who replied.

“No, this is about Wasting events, Guardian Ressk. We did not look at the number of deaths, but the number of Selphids who developed the Wasting in these areas. I am sure many Selphids did perish in these areas.”

“Both are Death Zones.”

Idis muttered out of the corner of Geneva’s mouth. She fell silent as the older Selphids glared at her. Not Geneva.

(That is a fallacy in thought. Now the data is presented, it is clear. Rhir has developed only six cases of the Wasting since its resettlement six thousand years ago.)

One every thousand years? And—Geneva Scala pointed down at the map the Third Mind had worked up.

“That’s one oddity. The second is this. Look at the relative number of Wasting events around the Dyed Lands. They decrease the closer you get to the origin point. It’s less concrete than Rhir—”

In that more Wastings occurred, but the number faded out the closer you got to the Dyed Lands. Almost as if something there was stopping the Wastings.

By now, every single Selphid was getting excited. Even if they didn’t follow the data analysis, they understood what that meant.

“Then—something in these locations is protecting Selphids.”

“Or there’s another factor. Either way, I need to know what it is.”

“You cannot tell based on some—similarity between plants? Animals? Magic?”

Now they were reaching. Geneva Scala shook her head. If this were Earth and she had an unlimited budget and resources, she’d instantly call for a full analysis of both areas. Soil, climate, local fauna, magical spectrographs, everything.

Failing that? The Third Mind was deliberating with the other Minds.

(An expedition must be mounted to The Dyed Lands. This comes at the worst time. But the Minds must investigate this place.)

“Not Rhir?”

Geneva only knew about the hell of continents by reputation, but the Third Mind was adamant.

(It is further. And the Blighted Kingdom is—inquisitive. Demons aside. The Dyed Lands are far easier to secure.)

“Every new monster is pouring out of there.”

(Then Selphids shall join the taming of The Dyed Lands. Geneva Scala, you have done well. Very, very well. A tangible hint emerges. Continue your work. This is proof—proof you will help us find the cure in this generation.)

The Third Mind was beyond ebullient. Geneva feared it was making too many promises, but she had to admit, this seemed like a tangible lead. She was only too familiar how hints or evidence didn’t provide a cure, though. If this were analogous to cancer—she couldn’t help.

Then again, she had never heard of cancer or any disease just disappearing in a geographic location. Diet, lifestyle, exposure to harmful chemicals informed rates of cancer—but this was something else.

She decided there was still more she didn’t know. Geneva’s investigations had to continue, and she was growing excited, not least because she was learning more and more. She had agreed to try and transplant more galas-muscle into a single body with her new Skill. The Second Mind was teaching her more mental tricks.

After this day, the Third Mind was so pleased, it offered her a reward only a Mind could give: anything.

 

——

 

In your daydreams, have you ever wondered what it would be like to fly into a cloud? A boy or girl imagining being a superhero?

Such dreams had to be pleasant. Telling your boss exactly what you wanted. Winning an argument. Eating a favorite meal again, or reliving triumph, correcting a failure.

However—the mind was a weak thing, and imagination only colored these ideas faintly. In the heart of a Mind—Geneva Scala put on a red cape. She pointed a fist up—and flew.

The world disappeared below her, and she felt gravity beginning to drag on her, but fall away. It was terrifying, exhilarating, and real. She felt the cape flapping behind her, and when she stopped, hovering in the air, she could look down and see her home, her apartment window below.

Someone was staring up at her. Pointing. Geneva looked around and saw someone poking their head out a window back on Earth. As she hovered there, she could see a helicopter taking off on a skyscraper, hear shouting—

That was when this false reality grew too real. She concentrated, and the world blurred away.

“This is my reward?”

Geneva Scala was unsteady, but the Third Mind reassured her. A Selphid walked out of white space and smiled.

“Anything you wish to envision can be done.”

Geneva Scala looked around. Anything? 

The Minds truly were like a thought experiment. A thousand things flickered before her, and she imagined what someone might do if they could experience anything. The knowledge that she was within a Mind stopped her from going on.

Geneva Scala reached out—and held a coffee cup. A latte. She took a sip and then drank a mouthful down, and it was so real she dropped it and almost backed away.

I am within a Mind. 

I am Geneva Scala.

She centered herself, as the Second Mind had taught her, and the sense of boundless power and the fraying of reality stopped. The Third Mind seemed displeased.

“The Second Mind teaches you too much. What is the harm in indulging thought?”

“Thought leads to action.”

“Philosophy. Enjoy yourself, if only memory. This is a gift.”

So, Geneva Scala looked around and then decided to revisit a memory. She stood on a beach, with Luan, Ken, and the Earthers, and dabbled her toes in the water. But this time, instead of sitting there with Aiko, she asked if she could try canoeing and walked off into the water. For a little while—

She imagined she was free.

 

——

 

Niers Astoragon never received a reply from the Minds regarding his offer about Geneva Scala, from Ollosq or via any other means.

He had not expected any. The offer-threat had multiple purposes. Yes, it tipped his hand, but it escalated timetables on the other side. Which wasn’t necessarily good for Geneva if the Minds were hostile to her survival, but he had to hope they were not.

He suspected they wanted her for the same reasons he did, and the Wasting disease for Selphids? Well, he had motive. He knew it had to be Minds, and so Niers just needed to know where they were. The reason he’d said this all publicly was simply because he wanted this to be above-board.

Jumping a bunch of Minds was already risky without this looking like an attack on their species. If the other Minds disavowed whichever group this was, Niers had a better chance of not causing a diplomatic incident.

At the very least, he could claim he’d warned them.

Not that Niers wanted this to come to blood—it was just a distinct possibility. And yes, the Minds might think they were undiscoverable in their Gathering Citadels, but Niers had found one group before. Mind you, they had nearly killed him when he popped in, but it had been a valuable lesson.

Minds were still capable of being idiots. If anything, they were highly intelligent idiots sometimes, and unless one was geared to strategic thinking, Niers knew he could locate them. In fact—

He had Erin Solstice to thank, and she had asked him to find Geneva Scala herself.

It all went back to the day when she had come back from vacation. Niers had begun laying plans before that, but Erin had provided the perfect catalyst. When she’d challenged him, on television, to a match, Niers had refused.

 

——

 

It hurt him, physically, to step away from the board, but he knew she’d smoke him, and if he wanted to beat her, he had to see how good she’d be. Watching her thrash poor Pisces with a dozen top-level Skills was something he was going to put on repeat.

“Save the recording. But get me Eirnos. Now. I want Foliana and Umina’s reports and every single [Diviner] we’ve got. But get me Eirnos.”

When the Titan spoke like that, he got what he wanted. Iuncuta Eirnos was not pleased to be summoned, but she found him watching the scrying orb of Erin Solstice playing.

“A bit tall for you, isn’t she?”

The Fraerling quipped, but Niers barely reacted to her jab. He was checking an hourglass.

“I need to participate in the chess games. And probably broadcast my live reaction. I take it you’re watching the news?”

“Your mysterious chess partner? We’re on campaign, Titan.”

Eirnos snapped back, but even she had to admit that she was watching the news. They were all stationed in one of Niers’ forward bases, pushing towards the Dyed Lands. It wasn’t some campground affair of tents—they’d set up magical buildings and mobile fortifications—one of his Chess Towers was providing a level of defensive fortifications few groups could match on the march.

The Titan barely looked up.

“And I’m on two. Three, counting Jungle Tails, Iuncuta. I told you that I wanted your people’s help? Well, I’m going to convince you to call every Farspeaker and [Mage] under your authority to help me out.”

Iuncuta Eirnos laughed in his face. She leaned against her spear.

“If this is to get more angles of your Human interest or win a chess game for a level—”

She stopped as Niers glanced up at her. The Fraerlings exchanged a look, and Eirnos’ smile flicked out.

“You’d better have a damn good reason. The Fraerlings do not go to war against the Tallfolk without a damn good one.”

“I’m looking for The Last Light, a Human [Doctor]. This is the moment. I need you to hack into Wistram’s scrying spell and find her.”

Eirnos blinked her good eye. She understood what he meant at once.

Everyone who was magically gifted or paranoid knew about the scrying spells being reversible. Wistram’s scrying orbs could be used to create a bunch of informative cameras—and Wistram itself was not so advanced that another party couldn’t break into their spell.

Especially Fraerlings. However, Archmage Eldavin had solidified the spells’ intricacies so it would be tougher. Not impossible. Even if you couldn’t break into Wistram’s network, you could essentially pinpoint whoever was using a [Scrying] spell and linking into a network and backtrace it to their device.

“That’s an invasion of privacy above your authority, Titan. If we’re found out—I know about that [Doctor]. Some kind of famous healer, eh? The answer is still n—”

“The Minds have her. And unless I miss my guess, they’re close to violating the Minacien Wall.”

Niers was very gratified to see Eirnos go perfectly still. Her good eye flickered, and her fingers slowly tightened over the butt of her spear.

“How certain is that claim?”

“Certain enough that when we find Geneva Scala—you can interview her and find out why the Minds would be so fascinated with her. If you don’t think I had reason to fear this, I’ll stand trial with every Fraerling settlement and conclave of Minds you want.”

Niers Astoragon knew that claiming someone was violating the Minacien Wall could make you an enemy of every Selphid—and it was not a claim you threw around lightly. But he just bet the Minds were at the very least reading Geneva Scala’s thoughts.

That alone gave Eirnos pause. Foliana wheeled herself into the war room.

“Is this about your girlfriend?”

For once, Niers didn’t rise to the bait. He turned as one of his aides hurried in.

Cameral, the Dullahan, looked terrified, but he was doing well as Niers’ assistant. He had a sheaf of papers, and he put them down as the Titan looked at Eirnos. She spoke.

“What do you want, Titan? What are my [Seers] after?”

Niers pulled up a piece of paper and showed it to her. It was…a sketch. A sketch of a partly-rotted face and a Selphid within a corpse. It had a name, and he had nearly three dozen of them.

Courtesy of Umina, Marian, and Cameral.

“In Talenqual, the Bodies of Fellden were working with the United Nations company, a group of Humans, and the Last Light before they carried her off. I had my students use a memory spell and yanked an illustration of all of them. They may have rotted a bit over the months, but I need you to find every scrying spell in this area.”

He had a compass, and he circled a vast region around Talenqual; everywhere he thought the Bodies of Fellden could march in a month’s time.

“That’s fucking huge.”

Eirnos grunted. Niers shrugged.

“Find one of the faces here.”

“If they’re in a Gathering Citadel, there’s no way you’ll find them. The Minds ward everything.”

Foliana’s head snapped up, and she gave Niers an uncharacteristically serious stare. Cameral looked blankly at the Titan, and Niers gestured for him to remain silent. Cameral was going to learn one of the secrets of Baleros today. He had an eye on Erin Solstice announcing her challenge to the world as he replied.

“I know that. But the Bodies of Fellden are their mercenary group. Not their protectors. In short…”

In short, they might not all be in the Gathering Citadel. Eirnos blinked as she got it.

Everyone needed time off. Gathering Citadels were underground, boring damn places. The odds that the Bodies of Fellden were working somewhere else were high, or at least, on vacation.

During a huge event like this—the odds of one of them watching a scrying orb were through the roof. Niers just had to find them.

“Here are their names. Try scrying them first. I know our Fraerlings can break through or bypass low-grade anti-scrying spells. Find them, Eirnos. All I need is where they are.”

But that doesn’t find you a Gathering Citadel. This time, the Iuncuta didn’t say that. She was thinking. She nodded, slowly, and turned on her heel.

“How long is this chess tournament supposed to last?”

Niers glanced at Erin Solstice. He shrugged.

“You’ve got an hour or more. I think she’s going to beat me, but I’ll throw every game if I have to. Find them.

 

——

 

It turned out the rush was unnecessary. By the time Niers watched Calidus Reinhart beat Erin Solstice—purely due to his luck and her exhaustion, he might add—Eirnos was waiting.

She handed him a map with a circled group of dots. All of them in the same city.

“Did you throw all eight games?”

“Don’t talk to me. She wasted Fraerlings as well as everyone else. So this is where they are?”

Niers glanced at the map, then he just took a compass, found every single forest and body of large untamed space within fifty miles, and circled it. Then he handed the map back.

“That’s where the Gathering Citadel is. Six spots, and I’ll bet you they’re in an area marked ‘Gold-rank danger’ but without any known valuable resources. This spot—in the hills, here, is my top guess.”

He pointed at the second-largest body of land in a valley that he’d pick. Eirnos didn’t take the map.

“You’ve got your intelligence. Am I supposed to fly out there? I’ve never fought Minds, but I know the record. They’ll tear up a column of your best—and you have Selphids in your ranks. How are you going to make sure they’re there? Three-Color Stalker?”

“No. Get me Golems.”

Niers’ eyes gleamed. Even Foliana wouldn’t be appropriate against the Minds. Eirnos’ brows rose.

“You mean…?”

“If you have a [Necromancer] or a [Puppet Master]—I want them to send in Golems, puppets, and undead. On flying carpets, no trained animals, or similar spells. Have them scour the area.”

“Remote detection? To find a Gathering Citadel? You must be mad.”

Eirnos scoffed, but Niers shook his head.

“Even an underground base needs air vents. If they think I’m coming, they might be stupid enough to call the Bodies of Fellden back. At the very least—someone takes them food and other resources. Put sentries up there and all the other spots. When you locate them, I’ll have a strike force ready. You want to watch?”

He stood up. The Iuncuta was giving him a disturbed look.

“We’re on campaign against—”

“We’ll take a flying carpet. I’ll move a force with the right preparations into the area. I have a number of Fraerling specialists I want you to lend me. I’ll be there—and if you want to watch, be my guest. But we might be fighting Minds in the tunnels.”

He was striding to find Cameral and giving the orders. Now, the other Fraerling was watching him. That was the difference between them.

She might be a proven war-leader, an expert hunter of monsters, and she certainly didn’t find him intimidating—but Eirnos was still a Fraerling used to Fraerling strife. She didn’t hunt people.

“Better take notes, Iuncuta Eirnos. When we find Peclir, I’m not going to bother with a raid. Let alone a warning. We’ll knock on the Minds’ door, but if they don’t open up, I’ll drag them out of their lair.”

The Titan was striding fast. Because despite his ability to find the Minds, they had been holding Geneva Scala for ages. If he had been back here, instead of lost on Izril, he might have found her sooner. Right now?

Hurry, hurry. His mind was buzzing. The Minacien Wall was something the Selphids had created to prevent more reprisals. But it was also there for everyone else’s safety.

When the wall came down—

Bad things happened. But how sure was Niers that bad things were happening? Maybe Geneva Scala was just a guest of a powerful force of semi-neutral Selphid leaders genuinely trying to save or safeguard their species, treated well but simply hostage?

If one of his students said that, he’d fail them out of their class. Besides—Niers scratched at his beard. No Minds had officially replied to him in any capacity, but he’d received something odd from one of the Selphids under his command. While they’d been marching back from a campaign against the Dyed Lands monsters, one had handed him a slip of parchment. It had one word scrawled on it, and he took it to heart.

‘Hurry.’

Hurry.

 

——

 

The Second Mind knew something was wrong. It knew it, but it didn’t believe. It didn’t send Niers Astoragon the message until it had a reason.

(I asked you to not discover anything.)

Geneva Scala looked calmer, happier after walking through her memories. The Third Mind was very, very pleased, and even Contradiction couldn’t deny that Dictum had achieved some success.

Continuum and the others were very pleased, and that meant Contradiction had to rely on Niers Astoragon being able to pressure the others.

What disturbed the Second Mind was this:

The other Minds, First and Third, which it thought might be colluding in purpose, should have forced a decision ahead of the Titan finding them. If they wanted to keep Geneva Scala, that was the most logical course of action before the stakes were against them.

Instead, they’d opted to wait. Which implied a plan. Something other than Geneva Scala finding clues about the Wasting. The second cause for unease was Geneva Scala herself.

“I know, Contradiction. But I am committed to helping the Selphids as much as I can. My oath as a [Doctor] doesn’t diminish that.”

This was true, but Contradiction was still disturbed. It floated around her, and her own telepathic abilities were stronger. Idis was humming inside Geneva’s body as the two communed, and the Second Mind didn’t sense Geneva’s faint unrest at the Selphid’s presence.

Perhaps she no longer felt as much a prisoner in body and mind. Yet the Second Mind was still—

(Why did you transplant the galas-muscle into the bodies? Why have you agreed to keep doing this? This action does not seem to me to be something you would do, Geneva.)

She hesitated, then. Geneva almost shrugged.

“It’s dead bodies, not living ones. I draw the line on Human—that is to say, experimentation on people, but these bodies are already dead. If I can level and find ways to correct injuries or understand how magic or galas develop…”

She felt at her own back as she spoke. It all sounded very reasonable, all understandable. The Second Mind had no nerves, and the component Selphids in it needed very little that larger bodies did.

Nevertheless, a thousand Selphids squirmed. The orb of them shivered.

(You say this reasonably, Geneva Scala. I can tell you believe your words. I point out that this does not sound like you. You told me once that the ethics of your profession were a slippery slope. Are there no parallels in your own history to your actions now?)

It watched her face and sensed her thoughts suddenly go into a kind of arrest, a frantic…Geneva Scala’s eyes flickered, and her confidence changed.

“I—that’s just a children’s story. Frankenstein.”

Frankenstein? The Second Mind was confused. It listened to the parable of Frankenstein’s monster. Which, yes, was a mix of popular belief at the time, culture, and a number of other elements.

All very reasonable for someone from Earth to relate to her actions here as a cautionary tale.

…Which was why the Second Mind felt something was wrong. It floated around Geneva, leaving the center of the room. Its own personal [Guardians] watched it. They could sense the Second Mind’s nervousness. Its unease.

(Geneva Scala. Why does the myth of Frankenstein come to your mind?)

“Because it applies? It’s a warning, Contradiction, but I understand Selphids are a being, and these bodies are something they need to live. If I can create a more stable vessel or—recycle them, isn’t that a net benefit for all?”

The Second Mind was aware it was, by nature, too powerful. The Minacien Wall meant it should not look into her mind. Even that, even reaching into her head, was a technical violation under the strictest version of the idea.

Perhaps the Minacien Wall had been designed to discourage Minds from being created.

Even so—the Second Mind broke the Minacien Wall in that moment. It had to. It reached out and touched Geneva Scala’s memories.

(Geneva Scala. Your story of Frankenstein befits a girl from your world. Not a doctor. Surely there are historical examples you can think of.)

Then—her face twisted into uncertainty. Then, the Second Mind saw her mind connect to something she knew full well. A story not rooted in fiction, but reality. She looked up at the Second Mind, and her lips grew bloodless.

“I—there is. There have been people—who experimented with no regard for safety or ethics. But this isn’t the same. This is dead bodies. This is…”

She fell silent, because her eyes were flickering left and right. And the Second Mind thought that surely they had done that too. The living and the dead. If monsters of her world had—why would the most principled [Doctor] of this world not deliberate more?

She had performed the galas-muscle transplanting experiments before even asking for time to think it over or talking to the Second Mind. As if it were natural and only a children’s story had any bearing on that.

(That is not like you, Geneva Scala. Tell me, has anything—changed of late? Have the other Minds done or thought anything unusual? Do you notice anything fundamentally different about yourself?)

It could not tell, not without moving her into the center of the mind and searching her very core as the Third Mind had done—and that was a violation of her privacy and self.

Yet Geneva Scala just shook her head. She ran a hand over her head as Idis spoke up.

“S-Second Mind, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’ve been here the entire time. I would have reported anything weird. I promise.”

She sounded and felt genuine. The Second Mind acknowledged Idis, who did seem to care about Geneva. And she was loyal to the Minds, not knowing allegiance to any particular one.

But Idis was a junior Selphid and a burgeoning [Telepath]. She could not sense…

The Second Mind was about to put this down to paranoia when Geneva Scala spoke.

“Nothing—major, Second Mind. Just one thing.”

(Tell me. Anything.)

Geneva looked up with a huge frown. She spoke as if this were all silly and in an embarrassed tone, but she did say it.

“I’ve been having a dream. The same old dream. It’s just—me, on the first day of me being a First Responder. I—it’s stupid.”

(Go on. Tell me. Dreams are a part of thought.)

The [Doctor] shook her head. She spoke, feeling stupider by the moment, as the Second Mind hovered in silence.

“It’s just a lucid dream where I can sort of tell I’m sleeping. But it happens the same way—I’m at my job as a first responder, going to investigate a…a suicide. Some poor person shot himself. I’m the last one there. The coroner’s already been there, and my friend—no, he’s more like a college classmate—he’s freaking out. Because the body’s in the body bag. We don’t even have to handle it, just carry it to the van. But my classmate can’t, and he actually throws up. So the coroner and I have to take it out of his bedroom. Out…to the car. I didn’t remember all of it, but I’ve been remembering how I threw up and what the coroner said. It was the first time I touched a dead body. That’s all. I guess it’s a kind of parable or maybe my subconscious is warning me as well? What do you think?”

She laughed and looked up, slightly embarrassed because in her entire rambling retelling, not once had the Second Mind interrupted her.

Contradiction floated in the air, and Geneva Scala thought she saw the mass of Selphids…twitching. Writhing, as if every single one of them were moving. It was contained, though—and the Gathering Citadel was dark, the shadowed veins of the fortress still.

That statue loomed in the Second Mind’s thoughts as it sent one thought back to Geneva. One thought—and the fortress changed. One thought, and the Second Mind feared.

(Geneva Scala. Your dream is strange.)

“Because I have it every night?”

The Second Mind projected a shaking head into her mind. A thousand Selphids, slowly shaking their heads and staring at her with worried, dead eyes. The world began lurching as it projected something into her head. Unease. Fear. It showed her…a [Doctor], sitting warily in a padded armchair and speaking with it, just like Geneva was doing now.

One of the first times they’d met, when it had made contact to upset the Third Mind. The Second Mind showed her this memory it had.

(Geneva. You told me the first body you ever touched was when you were fourteen. It was your father. A heart attack. You tried to resuscitate him. Don’t you…remember?)

Geneva Scala looked up. Her eyes opened wide, wide—and she had the memory of her first day as a first responder.

Touching a dead body. Vomiting—but being calmer than she thought. The coroner, her classmate—the crunch of gravel under her feet.

Her father?

She couldn’t remember a thing.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: This chapter is shorter. I have adopted a new strategy. Write less than 10,000 words per day. Also—edit a chapter from Volume 1 if I can.

I need to get it edited. I know this must sound like an obsession, and a poorly-managed one at that. But I have learned to edit the current chapters better. The problem is—it’s stressful, trying to do Volume 1 at the same time. It’s been taking a toll on my energy, and it’s also just exhausting having it hang over me.

The benefits of finishing Volume 1 are great. So I think I need to work hard on editing it, because it’s too much on the plate. So I’ll try to economize each regular chapter down to under 20,000 words and edit fast.

Always something new. Always another challenge. The point is not to let it get overwhelming. There are good days, and bad days to writing.

This…well Halloween is coming up around this chapter and the next. But these aren’t Halloween chapters. That’s a coincidence. Halloween chapters are spooky but generally, I regard the holiday as cheerful. These are probably darker chapters. I don’t know how many I’ll do, but here’s the first one. Wish me luck for the rest.

 

Medical Note: Yeah, that’s right. I’m writing two notes. This one isn’t medical per se; more about the science mentioned here. If anyone finds scientific inaccuracies (bearing in mind this is a magical world), please describe them.

Geneva is actually looking at a strange magical cross between biology and magic here, and her microscope can see all kinds of weird things, but I lack the terminology to explain it because biology class was a long time ago, and I have not the background. So terms will also help. She can see muscle fiber, but not the pure cells that make up the muscles yet. Of course, it’s also not a cross-section, but that’s for reference. Your expertise may be needed later.

Are there practicing microbiologists reading this story? I should consult the survey if we had that kind of question. Sort of personal, but you get all kinds of readers. Anyways, the point is that science is hard.

Science is hard—but dresses are harder. Food is stupid. These are all highly technical fields to write, let alone describe someone dancing properly. It’s why writing often captures the mood, rather than technical elements of how you hold your body. That’s called writers sucking at describing things and faking it. Just a note to say that I will try to correct any bad science but sometimes stuff is also stupid to our understanding. Like almost all of Dullahan anatomy.

 

Toren Pumpkin by Ashok!

 

Sad Niers by butts!

Twitter: https://twitter.com/buttscord

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/buttsarts

 

Hill Erin, [Grandmaster of Scales] by Miguel!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/cmarguel

Twitter: https://twitter.com/cmarguel

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.23 GGGGGGGGG

(Trigger Warning: See the link here for details.)

 

Now you saw it. All the little lies added up.

The face staring back at you through the mirror changed. It might be you, that pointed nose, the irises like cat’s eye stone, light brown and sometimes piercing. A fitting stare for a dedicated student, someone who strived for excellence in her studies because she thought it mattered.

Who gave away free time, friendships, to become a better student. To gain a degree, no matter how many long rotations she worked. Coffee for blood, exhaustion for a friend.

To become a doctor. The same stare that asked whether this was all worth it. And the girl who looked so determined was not the same person the woman saw.

A stare fitting for the only [Doctor] in a continent plagued by war. Cropped hair halfway down the neck, as done by a razor, not a barber. And then you could see those eyes staring past a mask of someone else’s blood. As if all the death and slaughter had turned her into a butcher of flesh, not a practitioner of medicine.

There you are. A friend had once called her hawkish when she was focused. The face looked familiar. It seemed to be the one she’d always had, and that was Geneva Scala’s face.

But—now you knew. And you saw all the little cracks in the mirror. The warp in the glass. Was her nose always shaped like that? Perhaps the nostrils were too thin. Had she always worn her hair like that? Did she…did she used to have glasses?

Was that person in the mirror even her? Why was she smiling? Her lips curved upwards without really understanding what a smile was.

The face in the mirror shook slightly, trembling. As if the glass were water instead and she was staring into a deep, deep lake. And what was reality was unclear because she couldn’t tell. She couldn’t trust her memory of how she looked. She couldn’t trust anything.

How long had that been going on? Was she even the same Geneva Scala who’d come here, or had she…forgotten something important? The stranger stared back as her room shook and a Selphid babbled in her mind.

“No, no, nonono…”

Idis whispered as Geneva Scala stared at herself and thought of her dreams. She could no longer remember her father. She remembered, so vividly it was as if she were there, the day she had touched a body when she was nineteen. Funnily—despite being affected by whatever phenomenon that made Earthers forget their families—

Geneva couldn’t remember her father’s face. And everyone could remember they had siblings, parents, with effort. She couldn’t remember his name.

Scala? She stood there and felt the walls of the Gathering Citadel move. As if they were slithering around her, shifting like the cells of some vast being. She had known this place as a prison before.

Now, it was turning into a nightmare, and she feared it had only just begun. Again. And again…the [Doctor] closed her eyes.

Why was it so difficult? From battlefields to Talenqual, she had thought the long path of finding a balance between her calling and her life was hard enough. Then Okasha, Talenqual—to here.

She was at the bottom of a pit, and every time she felt like she was climbing, she realized she was still sinking. Now there was water pouring in, a sea of it. Geneva Scala looked around, but there was only her in the mirror.

No friends. Not even in her own skin. No one to trust.

Or if there were one—

There was just one against five. The Gathering Citadel shook once more as Selphids stood or crouched uneasily. Calectus and a squad of [Psychic Guardians] stood outside Geneva’s room, waiting for it to end.

 

——

 

The war of Minds lasted for nine hours. It was a war.

Geneva could not see it, but she felt the vast presences clashing around her. It was different than a battle of auras. This was thought and emotion waged in the air, and even a strand of it sent some Selphids into a fury—or simply knocked them out.

The physical war made the Gathering Citadel shake. Telekinesis on a scale to cause tremors. All of this was just the side-effects of the true battle.

The Second Mind had tried to reach out, past this underground fortress, to the other Minds. It, Contradiction, had levied a charge against the First and Third Minds, of breaching the Minacien Wall.

Contradiction had tried to rally the other Minds to its side. Alert the other Minds something terrible had happened here. It had moved within moments of learning the truth from Geneva’s dreams, upon barest suspicion.

The Second Mind had been too slow. It never reached its peers outside this place. When it turned for help from the other three Minds, it found none.

Five Minds battled one. They were all working together. All united in thought.

It was all a conspiracy.

Nine hours. The shaking stopped after forty-eight minutes, but the war kept raging. When Geneva was allowed out of her quarters by the third hour—she saw the Minds.

They were floating in the center of the room, locked in silent strife with the Mind in the center. The Second Mind was…twisting. It would buffet them, and ripples of force would pass across one of the other five. But it was losing.

She did not know what was being done to it. She heard nothing from it. Only a voice.

(We will speak to you tomorrow, Geneva Scala. Rest easy. The Minds will be in agreement when you wake.)

Dictum spoke. And then the horror really began, because Geneva felt as though she should have raged. Shouted, protested—defended the one friend and protector whom she respected in this place. She wanted to.

But she didn’t. And some part of Geneva, now that she was aware, the budding [Telepath], could sense this. Like a half-asleep prisoner in her own head, and she had been one so long in body, she felt herself getting tired.

Her whirling thoughts slowed, like a laundry machine suddenly out of power.

S-should I t-take her to her rooms, Minds?

Idis stuttered with Geneva’s mouth. The Minds pulsed. Five voices spoke, sounding strained.

(Yes. Go.)

Even her Selphid was disturbed. Even the other Selphids who escorted her to her rooms looked—Geneva Scala stumbled forwards despite Idis controlling her. She tried not to. But she was already…trying not to…

Sleep. For in her dreams, there was nothing deeply unpleasant. Just dead bodies. Just memories.

But they were not hers. So who dreamed? Geneva—or whoever she was becoming?

 

——

 

Niers Astoragon hurried. He had only a single note to go off of. Only suspicions and clever tricks to even assume Geneva was in the right place.

It was like playing an entire game of chess blindfolded or with a curtain between you and the chess board. When the curtain fell—you hoped every piece was as you imagined it.

They never were. Not in war. And the stakes…

They were higher this time.

He had been too slow of late. Too slow, too incompetent. This time, he moved as fast as he dared. But even he could not move mountains with his mind alone. And knowing his opponents’ might—he had to make sure he was ready.

“Have you found them? Foliana, you’re staying.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re cut up and still healing, no matter if the curse is broken. I need full-bodied people I can back up—and you’ll be a liability, even as a [Rogue], if they grab you. You’re staying. Besides, I need you to pretend I’m on the front. Have a body double—one of the Tallguard. If I don’t come back, melt the region.”

She didn’t object after that. The Titan of Baleros couldn’t afford to move with her anyways. Where he was going, stealth and speed were both too hard for someone of Foliana’s size.

He paid a visit to one of the Fraerling settlements.

 

——

 

It was an honor, even for the Titan, to be granted admission to a Fraerling settlement he had not known the location of. He knew the name, of course. Most of the big ones were known to other Fraerlings by name, even if they were hidden.

This one was called Itelloi. It was nothing like Paeth. Itelloi Under Shadows might never be found by Tallfolk. They had traded the danger of Tallfolk finding them like a tree in a forest for other threats.

Like whatever burrowed. And there were thousands of that kind of threat. They faced difficulty importing food, and their home was no tree.

It had been a giant egg of some insect. Itelloi was too clever to make the walls out of cellulose and chitin—they had replaced most of it with steel and stone and wood, which meant they were not…adapting to their home.

Their Tallguard were very good at being stealthy as befit their home. They were also, coincidentally, one of the most mobile Tallguard forces that Niers had ever encountered. They were willing to go far to get whatever their home desired, so they’d been one of the first to join Iuncuta Eirnos’ taskforce.

Patrol Captain Shoike was their liaison, and she personally removed the enchanted blindfold as Niers disembarked the bat. Either wherever Itelloi was was large enough for a bat population—a subterranean cave, he suspected—or they’d teleported the damn bat in from an entry point.

Flying with a blindfold on was not pleasant. You just let the harness hold you tight and tried not to think about whether you were upside-down or not.

Under normal circumstances, Itelloi would have still greeted the Titan, the citizens would have probably asked him to host a seminar, and there would be a celebration. The Architects were not present, though.

He didn’t have time for them. And the circumstances had dictated that Itelloi, not the more public Reton, had answered Niers’ request.

The Titan actually knew Commander Rozcal, a huge Fraerling who wore Crelerbane Armor and fought amongst the Tallguard. They were far more likely to answer a request if he needed something made—but even the best Fraerling [Enchanters] weren’t up for this kind of job, necessarily.

“Our armory is open to you, Titan. I will be taking a log of whatever you request, but given the circumstances—we have opened all but our emergency options.”

“I’ll compensate you for whatever I take in materials. I’m only looking for one set of objects. Do you have any gear or Tallfolk-sized Selrite protection?”

Patrol Captain Shoike hesitated.

“We’ve armed eighteen Tallguard in optical and psionic protections. As for amulets—I think we have three made of Selrite.”

“Then I need all three.”

“—Given the circumstances, the Architects would prefer to have one on standby.”

Niers turned to the Patrol Captain as Eirnos followed them. She wasn’t smiling, and she was handing another Tallguard a list of items she wanted too. Niers was the only living expert in what they were up against, so the [Strategist] took the time to clarify his remarks.

“If I’m stealing Itelloi’s actual protections, their Allotment—if this somehow ties into keeping the city safe, disregard my request, Patrol Captain. But if Itelloi wants to be safe—give me all three. Because if this turns into a prolonged conflict, which it should not, then you’ll need more than one amulet designed for Tallfolk. You’ll need hundreds. And I suggest that you begin pulling any blueprints if you haven’t already.”

The Patrol Captain processed his request, then nodded.

“Three it is. What kind of munitions did you want?”

“Vortex bolts?”

Eirnos suggested. Niers shook his head. He looked around and saw the other Fraerlings for the force he’d mustered. No Rozcal. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. But Gindal had volunteered, and he was a crack shot with a crossbow.

“Got anything electric? It stuns Selphids, and it goes straight through their bodies. Electricity, then flame or frost. They can disable a vortex bolt.”

The Iuncuta rebutted his statement after a lengthy pause.

“…No they can’t. That’s a miniature void which eats everything in its radius. It literally sucks in Adamantium, even if it can’t fully mangle it.”

Niers raised his brows. Eirnos and Captain Shoike exchanged a long glance, then Eirnos handed the quarrels back over.

If that didn’t spell out the stakes, Niers wasn’t sure what would. And here was the thing—he had never fought Minds before.

Not fought them. He’d dropped in on some, and he knew of their existence—but he did not relish this. No one liked fighting on someone else’s home ground, and Niers had the uncomfortable thought that he was doing what Jungle Tails had just tried to do to his capital.

Nevertheless—hurry.

Eighteen Fraerlings with Selrite gear. Three amulets. By rights, he should have a hundred of each, if he wanted to march into a telepath’s sanctum.

This would do. Niers gave orders.

“I need a set of gear for myself, Eirnos, and our leaders from that eighteen. My amulets are going to go to three people I will select—our [Commander] class, [Mage] class, and a [Rogue].”

“Not Three-Color Stalker?”

Eirnos was learning, so Niers shook his head.

“It would mess with her abilities. She’s a subterfuge-assassin. I need someone more suited for…battles. Besides, she’s wounded.”

“Everyone else goes without? We’ll have Fraerlings and Tallfolk exposed.”

“Yep. We’ll be taking Centaurs, Dullahans, and Naga. Centaurs are hard for Selphids to control. Dullahans and Naga are slightly more resilient to mental effects. Our [Commander] will be [Captain of Discipline] Theilo. He specializes in holding ground during losing battles. Or marching troops into storms of arrows and spells.”

The Fraerlings looked at him. That didn’t sound like any kind of smart tactics to them. Fraerlings, again, were clever fighters. They valued the lives of each Fraerling and armed them well and didn’t commit to bloodbaths.

In that way, they were flawed. Sometimes the best way to win was to throw blood into a grinder. Niers knew all the tactics.

“He’s from the Rustängmarder.

“The King of Destruction’s forces? I thought they’d rejoined him!”

Niers just grunted.

“A few violated their contract clause by resigning and then marching over to him. The rest have to honor their contracts, but they’re not going to renew them. Why do you think that lot haven’t appeared behind him? He’ll hold our forces even if they’re being influenced.”

Theilo was also able to execute traitors and turncoats with his Skills. Niers didn’t say that part out loud. The Titan wasn’t taking many soldiers, Tallfolk or Fraerling.

“If they have a group of high-level Selphids in that citadel, our force might be outnumbered, including Fraerlings, Titan.”

“We’re after one Human. If they don’t negotiate, we’re in for a fight anyways.”

“So the solution is fewer bodies?”

“Fewer minds—yes. Everyone else is on carpets a mile up. The Minds have an advantage in their home. We don’t win if we have to go in. We just make it a battle where they know if they kill us all, their home will be pounded into rubble.”

Niers selected one of the Selrite helmets and tried it on. Selrite was something he didn’t understand, but Fraerlings had made it back when they toppled the Selphid Empire.

The damn stuff expired, though, so few sets were maintained. Time to make more. The very material was named after Selphids, the only known telepathic species—or at least, the best at it.

Oh, this is going to be messy. Niers didn’t smile, though he did feel alive. He tightened the strap and grimaced as he felt a dull kind of pressure at the back of his own mind.

“Damn, I hate this stuff already. We’re moving out within the hour. Tell reconnaissance I want to know where the citadel is—if they can’t find it by the time we’re halfway there, start burning mana. We’ll send the amulets ahead and put scouts in the ground.”

It would take two days to travel there from where they were, even with Fraerling birds and flying artifacts. Eirnos raised her brows.

“Let me give it a shot. If we haven’t found the citadel by then…”

She paused, and Niers waited. The Iuncuta’s eyes flickered, then she spoke. With a bit of hesitation, until that phrase lingered too loud in all their minds.

The Minacien Wall.

“…Start burning the forests.”

Patrol Captain Shoike looked horrified, but Niers clapped Eirnos on the shoulder.

“You’re getting the hang of it.”

That was all. He was out of the Fraerlings’ settlement in twenty minutes. All Niers could do then was wait. Wait—and hope that message forgave him the distance and his preparations. His stomach didn’t churn as he flew. The Titan just held still.

Wondering what he’d find when he got there. And when he did—

Well.

It was all done, in motion, and waiting for him when he arrived. Like a perfect moment for him to arrive. Not immortal, but something else.

A dark, twisted dream. Come what may, the Titan would wake them all up from it.

 

——

 

When it had begun teaching her, Contradiction, the Second Mind, had talked with Geneva about the pitfalls and dangers of being a [Telepath].

(Controlling the physical world is difficult. Lifting an object with the mind alone is taxing. Telepathy is dangerous. By giving you the means to resist the Third Mind and myself—I am giving you the power to change your mind.)

“Can’t anyone do that?”

Geneva recalled sitting with the Second Mind as it brought over some props—it loved props to demonstrate what it thought of—and it projected amusement to her. It looked like a laughing little child, Lizardfolk, rolling around on the ground with mirth. It showed her the first object, and Geneva recoiled from the…warm touch. Almost fleshy.

(No. Someone without training can change how they reason, change their perspective, change facts and even memories. They can desire and want—but they cannot change how they think. You could. You could reach into your own head and move something. Forget how to breathe.)

That worried her.

“Is that—likely?”

(No. But it is possible. You are a [Doctor]. You know how medicine can harm if used incorrectly.)

Of course. When Contradiction phrased it like that, Geneva was less worried. So it showed her the first trick of keeping her mind secure.

(When Okasha controlled you—she had a Skill. To isolate your mind. This is the same principle.)

Geneva shuddered, but the Second Mind was gentle.

(It is not a prison. It is…a place where even your thoughts do not reach. Safe from yourself and any other. It will not avail you against a full Mind.)

“So what good is it?”

As Geneva understood it, even with training, she was like a five-year old child being taught by a master in some martial arts. But even if she mastered a technique—a Mind was like a sumo wrestler and a master combined. The Second Mind replied steadily.

(To keep some part of you constant. Put anything you need to remember to use in there. Think of it like…a reminder.)

It showed her a calendar with a red circled date. Geneva thought it was like having a schedule. Fix something you couldn’t forget in there—

(It is very useful for keeping track of things too. All Selphids who work for us don’t forget assignments.)

The Second Mind joked. Like many things, this kind of mental safeguard was eminently applicable in just organizing your thoughts. Keeping an idea from being forgotten, especially if it were important.

Then it showed her a more physical defense. Geneva held a strange…cage.

Was cage the right word? It looked like one of those wicker balls made of twigs, twined together to create a primitive cage people used to catch animals or hold objects. Only this one was far more…intricate. It had a hundred different threads, inside and outside, like roots forming the most complex puzzle.

It was also—warm and felt like flesh, not metal or stone or anything else.

(This is Selrite. It is a natural protection against mental effects. The Minds will not let you wear it, but it is important to know how to turn off your own powers or protect others.)

“What is it…made of?”

(Tissue. Brain tissue.)

Geneva’s hands flew away from the orb, but the Second Mind continued.

(Not from people. Monsters. Some monsters have the same kind of mental power as we do. Many live in the sea. I think a snail is a viable source of Selrite. It is, in fact, a psychic aid. It boosts control.)

“How—how is that supposed to protect me?”

Geneva had handled many things without feeling the need to wash her hands, but this? The Second Mind nudged at it, but to Geneva’s surprise, it didn’t lift the bauble. It couldn’t.

(The Selrite is a kind of physical telepathic presence. But I cannot move it. If you wear it, you will be harder to affect. Can you understand why? Try lifting it. Try…doing something with it.)

Geneva tried, but to her surprise, she couldn’t move or affect the Selrite at all. And it was not hard to understand why.

All the little connections and the makeup of the amulet were a mystery. She couldn’t cut it open, so she didn’t understand how it…looked. There were probably other tricks to it, so the Second Mind explained.

(Like a blacksmith’s puzzle—this is too complex for a Mind to understand. We can lift a blacksmith’s puzzle by force, but Selrite would resist us. Very clever. [Enchanters] have learned from this design. Even modern [Enchanters] like the late Archmage Nailihuaile copied this design without knowing why. Amulets of Xion, Selrite—many adventurers have safeguards against this rare kind of threat, even if they have forgotten why.)

It made her own mind feel dull when she put it on, as if there were a constant thought she couldn’t quite place, always getting in the way. Geneva could see it wouldn’t be practical to wear this all the time, but the Second Mind told her these secrets because it felt she should know.

Because it wanted her to be more than just a captive aiding the Minds. Because…perhaps, it had feared what now occurred.

It was too late for Geneva to put the Selrite on. She hadn’t felt the first changes in herself, so she put, into that box of her true self, something she needed to remember, lest she lose it all without seeing it.

What? What could she store that she was certain of? She had already forgotten…forgotten…

What could she trust? Memories of her company? Ken? The Second Mind?

There was only one thing Geneva Scala could trust, and so it was this. Ere she slept, she put one thing into a box in her head and checked it every night.

She recorded her dreams. Each one—

So she could see how they began to change.

 

——

 

The first time Geneva Scala picked up a dead body was when she was nineteen years old. The victim had taken their own life.

The body was already bagged. Her classmate was throwing up. The coroner took the body to the van, and Geneva was surprised at how she did not panic.

That was the first dream. The first time it happened. Geneva now wondered about the others. Because she began to…remember other details.

Had her classmate thrown up, which made her vomit afterwards? Had the coroner really muttered they wouldn’t last and complimented her afterwards?

Her first memory of the dream indicated that she’d forgotten those details, but they were so vivid…perhaps she’d forgotten? But how could she forget the rest? Washing her mouth out with water, apologizing to the coroner—as he joked with her. Kissing him on a whim.

They’d dated for three months.

Was that a lie?

She remembered it distinctly. Barlevos, his name, the old van that was always cold—but her memory in the box said otherwise. And—the memories felt real. But the box—

Geneva Scala woke up, and the Gathering Citadel was quiet. Idis swung her out of bed, and in silence, she ate breakfast, then reported to the First Mind.

Continuum sounded tired, but it greeted her.

(Do not be alarmed, Geneva Scala. All will continue as it has been. Our conflict is done. Contradiction has expressed its discontent. The Titan still seeks us out. When he arrives—we may render you to him.)

Geneva Scala blinked and opened and closed her mouth. That was not what she’d expected. She hesitated.

“Is the Second Mind—”

Alive?

The First Mind simply projected an affirmative.

(The Second Mind is undamaged. Merely exhausted. As before, you will report to the Minds to learn and teach. This is all.)

As if nothing had happened, Geneva Scala was sent away. If anything, now the First Mind was speaking of letting her go.

But she knew that was just the false layer of the dream. She had seen the walls peel back, and she waited now. Waited for the horror. Her dreams were changing, and a part of her screamed that every second while the rest of her pretended all was well.

 

——

 

The Second Mind thought nothing for a long time as Geneva Scala stood in front of it. It hovered low in the air, as if even gravity were too much. When it spoke—Geneva Scala felt no strain, but a kind of fuzziness to the thoughts. Vague asides, confusion, as if it was having trouble focusing.

(Failure—I did better than—Geneva Scala. What did you eat for breakf—Minds united behind the Third. We think alike. I have failed.)

It said nothing more. Geneva walked up to it.

“Are you alright? Are you—hurt?”

The Second Mind, Contradiction, visibly vibrated. It did not look hurt, but it was beaten, and Geneva understood just how badly when it replied.

(I have agreed to think alike.)

For a Mind…she understood. Geneva wanted to know if it would tell the other Minds what was going on. Or set her free. But those questions faded.

The Second Mind had accepted the other Minds’ conclusions. It said nothing to her of her dreams. It just floated there, helpless.

“Contradiction. What should I do?”

Geneva Scala looked to it for anything, and the Second Mind’s reply was slow.

(You…have time, Geneva. Do what they want of you. That is all you have we lack. No Mind can do what you can do. I shall…I shall continue aiding you in some way. The Minds all want what is best for us.)

She looked at it. The Second Mind had no whisper, nor anything else to say. Geneva Scala bowed as Idis whispered a goodbye. And the [Doctor] did what the Second Mind had suggested.

She got back to work.

 

——

 

“I cannot tell you what is causing or preventing the Wasting without knowing what is different about the Dyed Lands or Rhir.”

Geneva had some satisfaction in telling the Third Mind that. Frustrated, it sent her off to the Fourth Mind so that Inconsolable could plan what it needed.

(Soil samples? Background…radiation, pollen, local plants, fauna?)

The Fourth Mind was dismayed by all the things that could go into your wellbeing, and most of these things, like pollution, were invisible.

“It’s difficult, I know. I could truly use a…victim of the Wasting. To see what the effect of the Wasting looks like on a cellular level.”

Geneva had prepared a cross-section of the galas-muscle as well as the dead Selphid she had been given, but the victims of the Wasting were burned and destroyed almost instantly. The Minds were paranoid about allowing it to spread, even if there were no known transmission factors, so they routinely culled affected parts of themselves.

(Your presence may be needed. The Titan—annoying. Annoying in his presence searching for us and the Dyed Lands. Perhaps complimentary?)

Like the First Mind, the Fourth Mind seemed annoyed, but almost accepting of the Titan demanding her. Geneva was curious.

“So you’ll let me go?”

Really? The Fourth Mind paused and then replied without giving her any emotional clues.

(The Titan is dangerous. You will have your choice, then. Whether he keeps you against your will is another scenario.)

She was not sure she liked that, but it was more than she had ever received. Geneva went back to describing what even an attempt at comprehensive analysis would take.

“I need to be able to read the countless factors I have no understanding of. I’m no chemist or expert in how to take pollution or other elements from the air. For soil samples, you would dig down deep enough to avoid surface contamination…”

(…But how would you inspect the soil?)

Comprehensive testing for various known contaminants on Earth? Geneva didn’t know, and she knew there were even more magical elements here. The Fourth Mind grew increasingly dismayed, and Geneva Scala realized she’d made a mistake.

Whether she was a scientist or not, she should have started with a fundamental rather than moving into applied medicine. Here was a question: was the periodic table even relevant in this world?

It surely seemed so. Geneva had a few theories, so she put an experiment into practice. Well, several.

The Minds had a plethora of resources, so Geneva got her microscope—or rather, the Selphids had to port and assemble it because it was nearly six feet high. The Sixth Mind, Egress, had had a terrible time creating it.

For instance, [Eagle Eyes] was a spell or enchantment that made things appear larger. But what Geneva realized and most [Mages] did not was that eagles and other species adapted their eyes to focus on distant images. Whereas microscopes, well, magnified an image.

The difference was subtle, but essentially, the Sixth Mind had been virtually unable to focus the microscope with that enchantment because it was adapting a far-sighted spell for a very, incredibly near-sighted experience. It had eventually figured out the mistake with Geneva’s help and just amplified the image—and put enough light spells in the microscope to light up any room Geneva was in.

She wanted to see if there was any change to the periodic table she knew. The problem was—she had very few distilled elements. Like, for instance, the old copper hydroxide and glucose experiment would produce a known reaction to Geneva. She’d done that back in science class.

Lacking that, she went to a few basic tests. Firstly—she found a flame and tried to generate a color other than fire’s natural orange-red.

She thought of Erin Solstice when she did that. She hoped the young woman was well. Geneva sometimes could watch recordings of scrying orb events, but the Minds never used a live feed.

Anyways, the flame reacted in the way she wanted. Iron dust produced gold, flour made it flare up, and when she requested copper sulfate, the Fourth Mind reached out to the Fifth Mind.

Sympathy was a Mind dedicated to understanding the known world, and it was obsessed with understanding the Dyed Lands among other tasks, like recovering alchemical recipes for Potions of Regeneration and so on.

It knew what Geneva wanted and produced what she took to be copper sulfate; it made the flames green, and she had to assume that [Alchemists] had discovered how to make that because it was a known reaction to them.

This felt like it was all normal according to the periodic table she knew. Geneva’s final test that day was to take a bit of gold and continually slice, pound, and reduce it into the thinnest flakes of gold she could.

Under a microscope, the element refused to change or look any different. Which suggested that like her world, it was impossible to simply change an element like that. These basic tests made Geneva even more curious to know how magic played a role in these fundamental interactions. No wonder alchemy was considered trial-and-error—she would have feared to try any of the more dangerous tests even in a controlled environment with magic being undetectable and potentially everywhere.

Say. What did magic look like under a microscope? Geneva asked for a Selphid to cast a spell to conjure rock, mud, or something else for her. She already had the Selphid cells and Galas-muscle cells ready to go on a slide, but what did a stone look like up close?

Unless they were dyed or an interesting cut, rocks were a lot less fun to look at than cells under microscopes. Geneva expected to see not much from the piece of a [Stone Dart] spell she put under a microscope, but then she realized two things:

Firstly, the [Stone Dart] spell began collapsing the instant she tried to dissect it. The moment she snapped a bit off, the spell would crumble and pieces would dissolve into nothingness.

“It’s a weak spell. Geneva, Geneva, you need a longer-lasting spell. Let me try! [Mud Splatter]! See! I—oh.”

Idis was so eager to help out when she realized the problem that she cast a Tier 1 combat spell she used to blind her opponents. The [Barbarian] splattered the microscope, and Sympathy, the Fifth Mind, silently observed the splatter of mud hit the slide—and the carefully tuned microscope—and the lenses…

(Selphid Idis. Your help in this juncture is not required.)

It took an hour to clean everything up. When Geneva tried again with a small splatter of mud, she saw something odd happening at last that almost made the hour’s wait worth it. Even Idis gasped out loud.

“Wh—it’s breaking apart! Geneva, do you see that? Do you—

The mud was pure. In that it had no microorganisms, no other debris—it was magical mud, so it made sense that it had no impurities. In a sense, magical creations were the most perfectly untouched matter you could find.

The second thing was that Geneva thought she could see the magic making up the mud. Or if not…see it, she could see the effect of the magic leaving the spell Idis cast.

It was dissolving before her very eyes. The mud was—unmaking itself at a microscopic level. By the time she saw it visibly dissipating, the structure of whatever this fake mud was—was already unstable.

If that was what magic looked like as a temporary spell, could you detect magic with a microscope? Just by holding it up to an artifact?

Geneva asked Sympathy for a magical artifact—several of varying intensities—as she did a cross-section of the galas-muscle. She wished she had some cells undergoing mitosis, cellular division, so she could see the magical effects or change in biology at play. Lacking that, or the Wasting, she could just see odd…cells…

“They’re too colorful. They don’t look notably bigger or have increased nuclei—but even though I’ve stained these muscles with a dye, I can see the nuclei aren’t what I’d expect—black. Is this the quality of magic adding color here? Is this also why it doesn’t rot?”

Magic infused muscle might be slower to rot, even after so long, because it was magic. In the same way—undead were known to wander about despite being decomposing corpses and skeletons who were definitely suffering the effects of heat, weather, and so on.

If magic were a kind of preservative on a cellular level…Geneva wondered what you could make with that. She was taking out the slide of galas-muscle and inserting the Selphid’s cross-section as Idis murmured.

“Let me just adjust it here. And here. It looks perfect. Okay, Geneva!”

She was acting as a kind of lab assistant. Geneva Scala wondered how Idis felt about the Minds’ quarrel. She wondered if she should be doing something.

I am a captive, and my memories are changing. I need to do something. The Second Mind suggested I get back to work. Was that a hint or was it telling me to do the opposite? Do I wait for this Titan?

She thought, in that private space in her head, as Sympathy waited. She still wanted to be free, but she wasn’t sure if Niers were better than the Minds. From what she knew of him—he was the amalgamation of Baleros’ entire mindset. His company fought countless wars.

But he was also a Fraerling. Did that mean…?

Geneva’s mind focused on the view Idis had calibrated for her at last. She had seen the Galas-muscle up close, but she didn’t know what part of a Selphid she had selected for the cross-section. She had assumed it would be like the epidermis, perhaps, or, since Selphids appeared to be some kind of offshoot of an amoeba or snail or sea cucumber, a representation of their body as a whole.

Geneva Scala’s thoughts, milling about, slowly went silent. So much so that Idis felt the [Doctor] stand there and stare into the microscope. Slowly, Geneva adjusted the dials, but she said nothing. Idis had to pump her lungs.

“Geneva? Your heart’s picking up. Geneva? I’m, um—getting adrenaline spikes here and here and—I’ll just—”

The Fifth Mind slowly broke off from its mental tasks.

(Is something amiss, Geneva Scala? Your thoughts are different.)

The [Doctor] said not a word at first. Single-mindedly, she just kept focusing the microscope, zooming out, back in—as if trying to see whether Idis had made a mistake. But no—even if you dyed this sample. Even if you…

(Geneva?)

She started and looked up. Idis was worried, and the Fifth Mind…the Fifth Mind felt her sudden unease. Sympathy focused on the Selphid’s sample in front of Geneva and reached out, but hesitantly.

(What did you see, Geneva Scala? Was it the Wasting? Something about the dead Selphid? It came from the Sixth Mind. Is Egress in jeopardy?)

“No. No, I…this can’t be right. I need another sample. Someone find me another—do Selphids molt? Can I get any cross-section, from any Selphid?”

She was so agitated she stepped back. The Fifth Mind wavered, and Idis raised Geneva’s hand.

“If you only need a tiny, tiny bit—”

She sensed Geneva’s actual panic. Idis actually managed to remove part of herself—barely the tiniest of fragments, already close to microscopic—onto a sample tray as Geneva focused on it. She zoomed in and focused and zoomed in—and Idis saw what she did.

So why was the [Doctor]’s heart racing? Geneva Scala’s mouth went dry, and she looked up as Sympathy, Idis, and the other Selphids looked at her.

“It looks the same as the dead Selphid’s. But—”

(What is it?)

The Fifth Mind yanked the images from her mind in its worry. It scoured through them, but it didn’t see what was wrong. All it saw was the already-foreign landscape of interconnected cells. Cells, which made up skin, something that even Selphids barely understood despite their grasp of anatomy.

Yet Geneva saw what was odd at once. She stared down into the microscope at the cells of Idis’ body…and then she looked up.

“…that shape isn’t like any cell I’ve ever seen. There’s no nucleus. There’s—”

She focused again, and she had seen how the cells were different. Patchwork ‘walls’ of epidermal cells, plant matter, tissue of other creatures. Even if it looked different, sometimes like odd, surrealist art, organized or mismatched like scar tissue, thousands of individual pieces—it still had rhyme and reason to it.

This? She stared down and saw no core component of any cell. No nucleus. If she had a better microscope—would she have seen mitochondria? Vacuoles?

She had wanted to see cells undergoing mitosis, division, and she had taken a sample of her own flesh and gotten to see some of that up close, just like normal. Like Geneva, Idis’ body was still trying to carry on, and so Geneva saw some of the objects in front of her…dividing?

No. She saw a strand gather and pluck one of the shining clouds upwards. Up and up until it coalesced like a fruit upon a vine—but so twisting, the edges of each ‘cell’ fitting together like the edges of a star, not like a cell. Then the ‘fruit’ dropped away and began to unwind itself. Unwind and unwind—

And she saw nothing that looked like a cell. Nothing—and Geneva’s mind was empty as she tried to grasp what she was looking at. Only one thing made sense, and it popped into her head so slowly.

Everything she knew was based on her world. Everything was of Earth—which had first started with the amoebas and microorganisms brought here or formed during the gas coalescing, meteorites through space.

The only thing she could imagine that would look so foreign would be something that had no common roots with Earth. Something…Geneva looked up, and the Fifth Mind caught the word in the air. It shivered, like Geneva’s crawling skin.

Alien.

 

——

 

That night, two Genevas slept. One went to bed as Idis tucked her in. She was disturbed, but she slept as most dreamers did; to wake hours later, with only dreams to mark the passing of time unless her rest was disturbed.

The other sat inside a box. She only came out then, in dreams. She was the Geneva who watched her other self with horror and disgust.

This Geneva feared she would not remain. She was the screamer in silence as she stood before the Second Mind. Perhaps she was the conscience or the woman who spoke the hippocratic oath and believed it.

Perhaps she was just a creation of the Minds and not even this was real. She had no power save to be a dreamer, an observer of this dark descent. Yet the path was well lit, the road gentle, and it carried her down step by step.

Only her will slowed the fall.

Geneva Scala felt a revelation upon her. Like a foreign dawn, but the sky was black. She stood upon a beach of sand as black as midnight. The waters of the vast sea beyond were blood red and seemed to squirm before her, like the viscera of some dead creature.

She did not know how far it lay, nor how deep the waters went. The sand was scattered with masks. Faces, staring up at her as she walked barefoot towards the water.

The faces were hers. They whispered to her.

“It was always here, the clues. The dreams are changing.”

“The Titan will arrive too late.”

“You will never be free.”

Geneva Scala bent down to touch them, but the masks went silent when she bent—and when she stood, a second woman stood there.

Geneva Scala, alike in face and voice, watched the dreamer. But this one was different. Her skin was too pale. Her lips bloodless, and the [Doctor] realized that this Geneva was dead.

A faint orange light pulsed beneath her skin, and when she lifted her hand, another presence squirmed through her flesh.

A Selphid. But the Selphid and the [Doctor] were the same. In this moment, the [Doctor] knew what the Minds were going to do.

Or she suspected. But the other Selphid-Geneva just beckoned her.

“They won’t hurt you. Come, come on. Why are you so afraid?”

“Stay back. They promised to respect my will. I have done nothing wrong to hurt them. I will not—not become that.”

The woman backed up onto the sand, away from the beckoning other Geneva. The Selphid woman stood in the water as it moved around her legs. She sighed.

“You know what they are. And this—Geneva. Geneva.”

Her eyes fell out of their sockets. Her mouth moved as it bled, and Geneva’s flesh opened as if a hundred scalpels had cut into it. Did you think you had a choice?

The [Doctor] tried to run. She backed away from the dark sea where the knowledge of Selphids lay. So the sea followed her.

It walked onto the beach. A red tide engulfed Geneva’s legs, pulled her in—and she drifted down. Down, fearing what the depths held.

Even the Minds didn’t understand it all. She could almost sense them, foreign objects adrift, like ships in this sea of uncertainty. They were playing with what they knew, heedless of what lurked below.

Now—now she was inside the sea, Geneva saw it. She was floating in this ocean of blood. A world of secrets. A conclusion sprang to her mind, and she looked around.

There it was. There—a pillar of grey, broken stone. Something made of sin and destruction, crumbling in places. Where it leaked into the rest of the world, the regular ocean waters were stained. But it had been there, intact, for a reason.

The Minacien Wall.

She was on the wrong side of it. And all the Selphids, Minds, herself, were plunging into depths that should have been forgotten.

Another presence made itself known, and Geneva sank past the Second Mind. It was in the waters too, and like her, sinking. Sinking…and it had no power to help them swim.

A single voice made up of a hundred thousand different ones spoke to her. Dreamily, quietly, and she shuddered even sleeping.

(We dug into the brain of reality and inserted ourselves into it. Tricked into believing we should belong.)

She was sinking. Were the Minds doing something to her? Geneva reached out as she saw a flicker in the depths. She saw herself, dreaming.

She was nineteen years old, and the dead body was loaded into the van. Geneva Scala was flirting with the coroner. Not a trace of horror as she smiled.

A Selphid squirmed towards the body as she presented it to the new owner. Geneva stood back and bowed slightly as a Selphid sat up and gave her a thumbs-up.

“No. That’s not how it happened.”

But only she remembered that. The Second Mind sank with her, and it whispered again.

(The wall was not there to protect them from us. The water rushes out, and the lurkers peek through the gates. Pray they are blind.)

 

——

 

She woke, and Idis was sleeping. Between her dreams, false and prophetic, Geneva Scala stood. She stumbled around her rooms, blind, striking into walls.

The pain from her nerves woke Idis up. She found Geneva’s brain, but it was still half-dreaming. Frightened; the Selphid had heard that other species sleepwalked—she spoke.

Geneva? What’s going on?

The [Doctor] never said a word. Idis didn’t know how to handle a living body. She reached out to find one of the [Guardians] or the Minds. Then she hesitated.

The woman was looking for something. Tearing through her belongings. The things she’d taken from Talenqual scattered around the room.

Her mind was still…moving. A thought lurked so deep that even dreaming, Geneva saw it. When she found it, buried in a sealed container, Idis went still.

 

——

 

Geneva Scala stumbled to the microscope, sitting silent and waiting for her in the laboratory she had been given. Her thoughts whirled.

Idis, like a big sister, was guiding her, telling the Third Mind that Geneva was investigating something.

Parasite. In her flesh. Okasha had been controlling. But this was something else.

The Minds had violated the Minacien Wall.

Selphids didn’t come from this world.

They had to come from somewhere else. Their very cells told her they weren’t like other species. Not Dullahan. Not Human. Not Drake…

So what? A connection burned in her head now, a sickness that she would only cure or make worse by confirming it.

The light burned her eyes and woke her—but Idis made her pupils itch and dilate and adjust. Geneva placed what she had taken on a tray and stared at it. Idis was shuddering, but she knew what it was.

Of all the things that Geneva had brought from Talenqual, her tools, her notes—there was something that had sat there, almost forgotten. Yet it still glistened with strange appeal. It still smelled as sweet and appetizing as when she had asked for it.

A gift from a brave man. The same one who had brought hope and a cure through desperate waters. By his name, he alone redeemed a city rotting in Chandrar’s sands.

Seve-Alrelious, the Hundredfriends Courier, had spoken to Geneva of his home. He had cautioned her and told her fairly of the cost and what there was to be gained. He did not know how his home had changed, but to the [Doctor], he had given her a rare thing. A gift.

The flesh of A’ctelios Salash sat there. The sustenance from which all of Tombhome’s children had to eat or be driven insane. To eat just a shred was to be changed—forever.

Not a bit came close to Geneva’s mouth, and Idis herself kept Geneva’s hands well away for Selphids knew the cost as well as every species. Yet Geneva was not there to eat it.

She stared down the microscope. And the truth was there, staring back at her. Geneva began laughing. Hysterical laughter—until Idis spoke.

“No, no. That can’t be right. That’s not right.

She understood now, the same conclusion Geneva had come to. Something even the youngest student of science would infer. Geneva stared down at the foreign cells below her, spreading and trying to propagate even now. Magical. Unlike any other cell from Earth.

And so similar to Selphids’. There were many differences, but she saw the same spindle of spiraling thread instead of a cellular wall. She saw…

They were related. Geneva looked up and saw someone’s face in the mirror. She stared at the unfamiliar face, twisted by Idis’ uncertainty. The Minds pulsed in the back of her head. Asking why she had woken.

They were doing something to her. Bile filled Geneva’s mouth as she laughed. And the Minds went still as they felt her revelation. Be wary. Even now—be wary what you asked for. She could only do her job, and she did.

“So that’s where you came from.”

 

——

 

Selphids and Seamwalkers were related. No—there was one more thing to add. One more piece of the puzzle.

Selphids and Gazers, the two children of Baleros, were the offspring of Seamwalkers. Somehow, at one point in this world’s long history, they had emerged from Seamwalkers. Perhaps they were the direct descendants of some variant—or offspring produced in some manner.

But the truth was that neither species belonged to this world in the same way as other species. That was why Selphids were so unique. Perhaps that was why they Wasted.

They should not be here.

Yet they had levels, they had classes. They were a people. Did they not deserve life and dignity?

Geneva Scala wrestled with that idea the next day. She felt—exhausted. Yesterday felt like one long nightmare, and she was relieved for day to come. The Minds had been up all night when she shouted her revelation at them.

Morning saw Idis sleepy and silent, and Geneva fed herself. When Calectus took her out to see the Third Mind, she found herself staring at the glowing, faint veins of orange in his skin.

“Geneva? What’s with the staring? It’s sort of embarrassing for Selphids.”

Idis muttered in her ears as Calectus affected not to notice. Geneva hesitated.

“Nothing. Is Calectus supposed to be—attractive, for Selphids, Idis?”

“Calectus? He’s got good body mass. We don’t have features, but he’s very adept with his body. He’s my boss, so it’s all work to me. Why?”

“Just observing.”

It was strange, but Geneva understood what Idis meant. She had heard Stitch-folk weren’t as taken with each other’s appearances but the quality of their cloth and character because they could change their forms. She wondered what adept meant.

Idis was like a second-person in her body. Geneva wondered what another Selphid would be like.

 

——

 

The Third Mind was calm and reassuring when it spoke to Geneva.

(This news is neither welcome nor unwelcome, Geneva Scala. It is a very useful hint. You are to be commended.)

(Thank you, Third Mind.)

She replied back with a smile. The Third Mind wanted her to make sure that this link was true. Obviously, they had no Seamwalker flesh, but it had begun a search for a Gazer body. And meanwhile, Geneva was going to look at every species’ cells for other hints.

The other Minds also gave Geneva strict instructions to keep this knowledge secret when she visited them. Obviously, this would reflect poorly on Selphids. Of course, Geneva agreed.

They had their own tasks, but more and more revolved around Geneva and the Titan, now. The Fourth Mind suspected it had found forces lurking just outside of its mental range, and it feared their location was known.

Timelines accelerate.

Continuum refused to elaborate, but it had Geneva Scala link with it. She sat in the Mind, and Idis carefully held out Geneva’s arm.

“First Mind, are you sure this is alright?”

“It’s fine, Idis.”

Geneva had designed the syringes that drew her blood. And if Idis numbed her arm, she barely felt the sensation of a knife cutting. Then a drop of potion, and she saw nothing amiss with her arm. Just regrown flesh.

“Do the Selphids have enough healing potions to waste, First Mind? The coming healing potion shortage has to affect everyone.”

Continuum waved the concern aside.

(Healing potions will affect Selphids least of all species, Geneva Scala. We need none here. The Minds have always known how to create and alter things. You who uncover more and more secrets of us—perhaps it is time to show you something else. Something only a Mind can do. Would you like to see a vessel for Selphids being prepared? It has been a long time since one was made. But this is a special case.)

“A what?”

Geneva Scala stood, and the Mind directed her to go down. Down—to a place she had never seen in the Gathering Citadel before.

(Idis. You will stay behind.)

“But First Mind, how will Geneva Scala walk?”

(This Mind will be her legs.)

Geneva Scala let Idis remain behind in a temporary body. She didn’t actually walk, but floated down. And she saw something in the lower rooms that made her smile—flicker out.

“First Mind. What is this?”

(Ah. You disapprove?)

The First Mind was surprised. But—how could Geneva not? She stared at the blank Lizardwoman’s face and saw the Lizardwoman breathing. She lay in a bed that Geneva recognized, dimly, a copy of a design other [Healers] used.

Healing crystals and different tinctures sat around her. The Lizardwoman lay there, staring upwards, but she never said anything.

She never moved or did anything other than blink. Geneva saw her breathe, but there was nothing beyond those slitted eyes.

“What is this?”

She already knew, but the First Mind explained calmly.

(This Lizardwoman was dead when we found her. The Bodies of Fellden confirmed her death with spells—but preserved her on the way back here. Her heart began to beat, but whatever gave her levels and a class is gone. Your talk of Erin Solstice was not the first that the Minds have heard of the phenomena between life and death—but your methods have increased the rate at which they are brought back phenomenally. Though Potions of Regeneration are exceedingly rare.)

“You brought back—her body? But she’s not alive?”

(No. Yet she is closest to what Selphids once did. Possess the bodies of the living. This—is a solution between the two. The Minds have also forbidden this. I, Continuum, have agreed to lift the ban.)

“This isn’t right.”

The First Mind swung Geneva around to face it, but not before she saw more bodies lying there. Tended to by [Guardians]—and something beyond it she half-saw. A vat, perhaps. Of bubbling liquid and—

(I thought you would understand the necessity, [Doctor]. You—still—do not?)

The First Mind sounded confused. And displeased. Geneva Scala shook her head.

“What are you talking about? How could I—there are parallels in my world, First Mind. If these people could be brought back, they are not ‘empty vessels’. How were they found? Were their demises manipulated? I have to insist you stop this. At once. I respect the Minds, but this has gone too far.”

She lifted a finger—and the First Mind hmmed in her head.

(Very well. I will give orders for this to stop. Cease your worrying, Geneva.)

It began to carry her upwards, but Geneva tried to stop it.

“I must insist, First Mind. I cannot take your words. Not until Iseethatyouproperlyendthis—

 

——

 

“—Thank you, First Mind.”

Exhausted, Geneva Scala let Idis bow her and carry her back. The First Mind dismissed her.

(As agreed, Geneva Scala, a cessation at once. Do not speak to Idis or any other about it. The Second Mind awaits you now.)

She nodded. Idis carried her into the corridor and then whispered to Geneva.

“What was that, Geneva? I mean—you can’t talk about it? You were gone for a bit. Not too long—”

“Oh, nothing, Idis. Just something I had to—correct.”

Geneva rubbed at her forehead. She was growing tired. Her sleep wasn’t fulfilling even without midnight research. And her mood turned sourer still when she visited the Second Mind.

It was paranoid, controlling, and asked her countless questions about her discovery. Her day. Geneva Scala answered shortly, and the Second Mind seemed increasingly displeased by the answers.

(Too quickly. Too quickly now. But how long? Since your defiance of the Third Mind? Why did I not see? We are Minds. We have no eyes.)

It made no sense, babbling to itself. Geneva took it back. Compared to the Fourth Mind, the Second was losing itself faster. Contradiction turned to her, and Geneva Scala bowed.

“I have to get back to work, Second Mind. Did you have anything to teach me or was this it?”

She waited, and the Second Mind slowly beckoned her forwards.

“One thing, Geneva Scala. One thing…I have someone I would like you to meet.”

The scowling [Doctor] stepped forwards. Her head hurt, and she felt cloudy. Her dreams were unrestful, and they kept repeating. She wondered if a Mind could stop it.

…Hadn’t she asked them about that? Geneva just wanted to cure the Wasting. She did not like the Second Mind. Why did she keep thinking that?

She frowned as she looked around for the Selphid she was to meet, but the Second Mind simply lifted up something and put it in her hands. Geneva Scala was about to tell it she had no time for pranks and leave—then she looked down, and her jumbled thoughts cleared.

Her eyes flickered. A shock ran through her, and the Last Light of Baleros, Geneva Scala—felt herself slam back into her body suddenly. She jerked and nearly dropped the jar, but the Second Mind caught her. The second Geneva vanished, and for a moment, she stood there.

(You’re still there. Don’t forget.)

Contradiction whispered to her. It couldn’t do more than this. It was thinking like—it looked weak and in an agony, as if its own thoughts were locked by the other five. Geneva shuddered—and then looked down at the object, no, the person it had used to ground her back into reality.

A squirming, dark purple and orange and…a little shape moved behind the glass, shuddering with each vibration of Geneva’s hands. As if the light and sound—Geneva felt its thoughts and realized each motion, each sense was overwhelming without the protection of a body. And it was trapped in here, in this—

Terror, regret, guilt, all of it poured through with a sense of familiarity as Geneva Scala looked down. The little Selphid whispered to her.

“Geneva?”

“Okasha.”

The Selphid sat there, whispering in a tiny voice in the jar with a few airholes cut in it. Just a jar—Geneva had thought she would be transported somewhere else. But that was all the Selphids gave her. A jar—a prison for one of their own who had violated the Minacien Wall.

It felt so long ago. Geneva bent her head over Okasha as the Selphid cried out.

Tell the Minds I’m sorry, Geneva? I’ll do anything to make amends. I’m sorry for what I did to you, but I don’t want to be here any longer. I’m so sorry.

“Okasha…”

Geneva Scala looked up, and the little Selphid flinched as something fell into its jar. It searched around greedily for it, but it was just water. Water and mucus and salt, which was what tears were.

The [Doctor] looked up as the Second Mind floated above her. Contradiction spoke heavily.

(It is all drawing to a close.)

Then—Geneva knew what she had to do while she still had a mind to do it. She bent over Okasha and spoke for a while. When she looked up—Geneva Scala stared back at her through a mirror. Her lips moved, and Geneva heard herself speak.

“I am the center of the Mind.”

“I am the mind in the Center.”

“I am myself, and we are me.”

Then she paused and looked herself in the eye, and a smile crossed her lips.

“I am Geneva Scala.”

 

——

 

Waking was beginning to blend with sleeping. She knew time was passing, but not how much. In the way of dreams, time didn’t matter. Moments felt like hours, and days passed in blinks.

It was just Geneva Scala, the real Geneva, watching a false figment of her slowly changing as the Minds willed it. She had moments of lucidity and wondered if this were how someone under a degenerative mental condition felt.

She had heard some coma patients were trapped in their own bodies. Unable to tell the outside world they were aware of everything they saw and touched and felt and heard, but she had only understood that horror in an abstract way.

This was far worse than anything she could have imagined.

She could now see the conclusion, and the Titan’s promise seemed less and less like salvation, if it had ever been that. Now it looked like a day of awakening. But it would be from nightmare into horrific reality.

“You’ve always been prisoner of the Minds. You knew it. You knew it, and the lie was ever thinking you’d leave. Did you think you’d make it? You shouldn’t have survived that first battlefield, Geneva. The Minds are far, far cleverer than a mere war and [Soldiers]. This time, you won’t make it.”

The second Geneva spoke to her, like some kind of dark other consciousness. She stood in Geneva’s head, growing larger every day. A figure wading in bloody waters in her vision of the Minacien Wall.

A [Doctor], hands covered in gore as she stood at an operating table in the middle of a warzone, watching patients die and die without potions or hope.

A blank-faced woman, working by candle-light into the night, the Last Light, scarred and numb to her friends.

Geneva Scala, sitting on her bed as Idis tried to cheer her up. Contemplating her end.

Her mistakes were coming back to haunt her again. If the other Geneva was what the Minds wanted her to be, a growing stain in her head—all the moments she didn’t remember, her dark suspicions—the Geneva who still was remembered her follies.

They assailed her from the start. Why had she ever joined a mercenary group? She had volunteered by telling them she was a [Doctor]. She had known—even the moment she appeared on Baleros—what would happen.

It was pure arrogance that led a surgical resident in her third year to think she could replace industry, veterans, and all the tools and things that made medicine in the modern era. She should have died with Sergeant Thriss killing her for insubordination.

Or in a hundred other moments where [Soldiers] should have run her through. And after—staying and wandering from battlefields, trying to bring some kind of decency and hope to a war?

All she’d done was make it worse. She’d fueled the bloodbath that occurred between the Razorshard Armor and Roving Arrow companies. More than once, Geneva had wondered if her bringing back soldiers for them to die fighting had driven them to escalation.

If those were her two mistakes, she could have said that at least she walked away from the warzones and tried to make a difference elsewhere—but even there, her failures compounded. Her clinic…it had helped stop the Yellow Rivers epidemic. In part. In some small way, perhaps.

But she’d forgotten about Okasha. The Selphid had endured half a year without appreciation until she’d snapped. It might have been her fault in many ways, but in this self-reflection, Geneva saw how all the warnings were there. The irony was that if Okasha had been her patient, Geneva would never have taken her for granted like that.

Lastly and finally—the Minds. She should have known. She should have been more careful. She should never have given them what they wanted so plainly.

I am a [Doctor]. But I should know how even medicine and knowledge is twisted and used. 

She should have done so many things. Instead…Geneva was drowning, and there was no way out. The waters were closing in around her head, and the blank spots were growing.

 

——

 

When she could think, when she felt fully in control of her faculties, Geneva Scala thought of a way out. She wondered if the Titan would bring an army. If she managed to escape the Minds or he forced them to leave, what then?

She already felt…certain that the Minds would be done before he arrived. But even if she reached him like this, she didn’t want this.

She couldn’t remember the morning. Each Mind saw her, day by day, and the Second Mind last and shortest of them all. But Geneva felt like the moments blurred together. She would catch herself walking back from meeting the 5th Mind or think she was about to meet the 3rd Mind—and not remember what she’d done.

Time and reality stabilized around the Second Mind’s visits. It might have been trying to undo what was going on or—halting it temporarily. But it had agreed to think alike.

“What have I done? Second Mind? Do you know?”

She sat in front of it, and the Second Mind floated there in the air. Its ‘voice’ was oh so quiet.

(I do not know. I fear.)

“So do I. May I see Okasha again? One last time?”

Silently, the Second Mind took out the jar. Okasha always cried out when she sensed someone there.

“Hello? Is that you, Geneva? It’s been so long.”

It had only been a day. But to a Selphid, senseless, it must feel like solitary confinement. Geneva held the jar.

“Okasha. I’m sorry.”

“Stop—stop apologizing. Not for this. I know what I did. The Second Mind is kind. Kinder than Calectus or…I deserve. It’s been showing me what I’ve done wrong. How you felt. I—I don’t want to ever do that again. Geneva, I’m the one who was wrong.

The Selphid squirmed in the jar. Geneva Scala shook her head.

“I ignored you.”

(The hand that swings the sword is still larger to blame.)

Contradiction whispered, and the two fell silent for a moment. Okasha agreed, and Geneva sensed her desperate, confined thoughts slow. Perhaps she too was learning to become a [Telepath]—but Okasha’s class was red.

“Geneva. I’m glad someone else is helping you walk. I…I should be punished. I should have to join the Bodies of Fellden as a [Conscript]. I will. I’ll make amends, and they can watch me and make sure I never get near another person again. But please? Please ask them to give me a body? There’s nothing here. I’m going crazy. It feels like years have passed. I can’t remember what things feel like.”

She pleaded with Geneva, and the [Doctor] hugged the jar to her chest as Idis hissed silently in her mind. She had no sympathy for Okasha, who had endangered her people and violated the great law of Selphids.

But Geneva still did.

“I’ll try, Okasha. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to. The Second Mind might…”

She looked up, and the Second Mind whispered.

(I will try.)

“I’ll ask the other Minds as well, Okasha.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Geneva. I’m…”

 

——

 

Sorry. Idis was striding away from the Second Mind’s rooms angrily. She was angry, and Geneva felt the emotion in her veins as the Selphid provoked her biology.

“You shouldn’t forgive her, Geneva. Not after what she did. She violated the Minacien Wall. I know she did it to save your life, but she started becoming a controller. She—deserves that jar.”

There was something so ironic about Idis’ claim that Geneva laughed despite herself.

She’s the only one who should be punished, Idis? Really?

The laughter was so strong that the Selphid had to work to keep Geneva from guffawing as Selphids passed by. So many were moving, some bearing weapons, others bringing supplies down.

Down…Geneva’s mind wrenched away from that.

“The Minds are—doing what they know is best. I’m here because we’re doing what Selphids need. Curing the Wasting. I know some things are off—”

“Like the Second Mind?”

A passing [Psychic Guardian], Ressk, turned his head as Geneva and Idis argued. Hurriedly, Idis bowed to him and moved them onwards. She whispered mentally instead.

(That—that wasn’t right. I know there might be things that aren’t fully right. But they promised to give you to the Titan.)

(Do you know what they’re doing to me?)

The Selphid missed a step, and Geneva stumbled. She fell, and Calectus, walking down the corridor, grabbed her. Geneva looked up as the [Honor Guard] steadied her.

“Doctor Scala. Idis, be more careful of her.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Idis began to salute with Geneva’s hand, and Calectus gave her a reproving look. Idis guiltily snatched the hand down, and Geneva, in control, gave Calectus a waxy smile.

“What about you? Have none of you violated the Minacien Wall?”

The other Selphids passing by her, Ressk, Calectus, Idis—all of them fell silent. Each one different. Ressk, the loyal servant of the Third Mind, was silent to his master’s will. Idis tried to say something.

“We’re—the Minds are intelligent—”

And Calectus? Geneva Scala looked up into his face. A female Dullahan adjusted her head, but the Selphid inside stared down at Geneva coldly. She had misjudged other people, the Minds included, but never more than him.

[Honor Guard]. He looked down at her and shook his head.

“You should rest, Doctor Scala. Sleep on your worries. The Minacien Wall is stronger than you think. We have not even cracked it.”

He meant the words for Idis, and the Selphid fixed on him with Geneva’s eyes, but her uncertainty radiated through Geneva’s body. Yet the [Doctor] just chuckled, and even the Selphids shivered at her voice. She spoke to him and saw an escape. But a terrible one.

“We’re on the wrong side of it, Calectus. And we’re sinking.”

Even the [Honor Guard] froze a moment, but he continued on walking. And Geneva…came upon her plan to end this bad dream.

 

——

 

They could not have her mind. It might be arrogance to think that she mattered that much, but she had already seen how the Minds wanted her to build their Selphids better bodies.

She…remembered the basement. Vaguely. The First Mind’s revelation escaped her direct understanding, but she remembered how she’d felt.

And that was only what she remembered. No, she would not be party to more violations of the Minacien Wall. They might want her to cure the Wasting—but would a day come when they asked her to operate on a living person, to change someone against their will, implant galas-muscle into them?

Worse, was there a day when she would agree without a second thought?

Her dreams were getting worse. Now, the nineteen year-old Geneva Scala hummed as she brought a body out for a Selphid to infest. She flirted with the coroner, and her best friend smiled at her, and he stared at her as a glowing orange line wriggled through his flesh.

When will I be comingled with a Selphid? Two, becoming better together? A symbiosis of two species?

Then she woke. And she saw how the Minds wished all species viewed them. Only Contradiction, the Second Mind, understood the horror of its own species.

It must…be so hard to accept that you could be the monster. That there were reasons to fear you.

No more. No more, and not me.

Geneva Scala hatched a plan so deep within her own head not even the other Minds could see it. She had thought this when Okasha began taking control.

How did you beat someone in your body? Now—she was both a prisoner in her head as well as a prisoner of her own consciousness. How did you resist the Minds? Even if she beat them—how did she stop Idis?

Idis was in her. She, even when sleeping, could lock down Geneva so fast the [Doctor] would be helpless. She’d done it before—reacted before Geneva could cut her hand, stopped her from falling or making mistakes.

Even if Geneva reached for a blade or tried to run, Idis would be there. The Minds were worse, but Geneva realized that she had an opening. One way out that no one would expect.

That night, Geneva Scala had a hard time getting to sleep. Her changing dream and that other self waited for her. She tossed and turned, and Idis grew tired as she tried to soothe Geneva.

“I’m gonna throw more…what did you call it? Melatonin in the body. Geneva…”

“Sorry. Just try to get some sleep, Idis.”

The Selphid needed rest just like Geneva. But the [Doctor] was tossing and turning so much that Idis stayed up well, well past when she wanted. To Geneva’s amusement, she realized that was the first drawback Idis had ever suffered for being in Geneva.

Well, it suited her plans. Geneva Scala slept, but unlike Idis, she put something in her head. A reminder to wake.

 

——

 

“What are you doing?”

The Other Geneva knew what this Geneva wanted, but she couldn’t stop her. Soon, she might—but the [Doctor] just dreamed for a bit.

And what her new self showed her was a dream.

It had no basis in reality—just Geneva’s imagination. It was based purely off what she’d been told and her own horror movies and sense of the unnatural and what she found horrific.

Unfortunately, she was a doctor. So her images of dripping sclera of eyes mixing with cilia waving in a mass, like the inside of some foul stomach, were all too real. She looked into a cavern of veins, some massive, hollowed out structure.

A body with too many eyes. A creature long-dead, but still growing in the sands of Chandrar. A reminder of the truth of this world.

Tombhome. The Selphid-Geneva pointed to it, eyes darting with her own fear.

“You think this is a terrible fate? You will be prisoner there, and if you think this is bad—

She tried to pull Geneva away, but the [Telepath] floated towards that vision. She turned, almost amused, to her enemy.

“If this is bad, is what’s happening to me any better? All I know is that even the Minds fear it.”

“You don’t know what you’ll become. You will regret it.”

That might be true. Geneva felt a true fear in her marrow as she stared at the open corpse’s mouth. It was welcoming her in. But she clung to one person who stood at those gates, waving to her.

“Perhaps. But it won’t be a tool of the Minds. I know only the Second Mind as the one Selphid I trust. And I have seen how it must think alike. But…at least I know one person of A’ctelios Salash I admire.”

Seve-Alrelious smiled at her, and Geneva slowly began walking towards him. The other Geneva called out.

“Stop! Minds! Idis. She’s—”

 

——

 

Then she woke up, just as her thought told her to. Geneva sat up in the darkness, and Idis woke.

“Geneva? Is something wrong?”

“No, Idis. I’m just—restless. Go back to sleep.”

Geneva Scala slowly got up. The Selphid sleepily protested.

“Can we lie down? Your body’s tired.”

She didn’t feel Geneva’s heart beating a bit faster or notice the chemicals moving through her body. It was a quiet dread. Geneva slowly crossed her room and found the pantry and her things, scattered on the table, as messy as her lab was not.

“In a second. I’ll just have a bite to eat before I sleep.”

“Good idea.”

The Selphid barely moved or thought as Geneva Scala slowly bent down. She would have if Geneva was doing anything so dangerous as, say, reaching for a knife. But she was tired—even Selphids got tired.

And complacent. No Mind was watching Geneva. She was just…

Having a bite to eat. Geneva’s room was dark, and the [Doctor] turned on no lights. She didn’t want Idis to see.

She had to find a knife to cut, and Idis never noticed as Geneva took something and held it in one hand. She opened her mouth—and then stared down at the warm thing she held.

There was no going back. She knew that, and she thought she was prepared. But she truly wasn’t. Geneva wondered…what would happen to Idis. By all accounts, any Selphid could fall victim to A’ctelios Salash’s flesh too.

That was why the [Doctor] wavered. Could she do this to Idis? Did that violate her oath?

Your oath? Who actually respects it? Are you clinging to your oath when they have all taken every single violation and excused it?

Part of her mocked that. Geneva’s hand trembled. She opened her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut.

She was supposed to be a [Doctor].

“Geneva?”

Idis woke and seemed to sense something was wrong. She inhaled that strange, tantalizing aroma, and Geneva’s arms jerked. Her jaw tried to close, but Idis stopped it. Then froze. She made a sound.

No! What’s going on? G—

The [Doctor] felt the Selphid spasm. Then Idis went silent. Geneva stumbled—but the hand which seized her wrist was far, far too strong. She was still holding the meat.

But someone else was in the room. She struggled, but the figure effortlessly shoved her back, and then her feet left the ground. She floated—and a voice spoke in the darkness.

“Don’t move. Don’t alert the Minds. We have minutes once one of them checks on you, but they are all searching for the Titan’s followers. We must be near the exits before they sense us.”

Who—

The power keeping her up faded. Then Geneva felt herself lowering, and a light bloomed. Panting, hiding the flesh in her pocket now, she looked up and saw her door was open.

Eighteen bodies stood there, each one’s eyes pale, lifeless—but the faint glow beneath their skin marked them as Selphids.

Selphids? Geneva looked up, and [Psychic Guardian] Ressk stared down at her. Then she was confused.

“Ressk?”

The Third Mind’s own [Guardian] looked around and grabbed Geneva’s bag of holding. He threw it into her hands.

“We are leaving. The [Guardians] have decided this has gone too far. This is more than just the Minacien Wall being breached. The basement—what they are doing to you—enough.”

“You’re the Third Mind’s [Guardian].”

She didn’t mean it as an accusation—not quite—but Ressk just looked at her.

“Yes. I was meant to guard the Third Mind and execute its wishes. I am also meant to be its check. I failed. No questions. Run. We’ll cloak your mind.”

Geneva stumbled; she could barely move with whatever they’d done to Idis. When the others saw that, the Selphids grabbed her and helped her run. Eighteen stormed down the hallway and through the Gathering Citadel.

Geneva saw bodies lying in the hallway—and she realized they had fought their way to her. Silently, but they had to ascend through the Gathering Citadel.

“The Titan is on his way. If we reach his people, they can take you to safety.”

The [Psychic Guardian] led the way with two others. The First and Sixth Mind’s own personal [Guardians] had rebelled. They ran, and Geneva followed them. But they never made it higher than the 3rd floor.

(TREACHERY.)

One of the Minds must have checked in on Geneva or tried to reach her thoughts. When it sensed her absence and noticed the other Selphids, the entire Gathering Citadel shook with that word.

Run!

Ressk and the Selphids tried to take Geneva up the stairs, but the Bodies of Fellden and forces in this citadel came down, leaping and crashing into the traitors without regard for injury. Ressk took Geneva down the 3rd Floor, and her heart juddered in her chest.

This was the Third Mind’s—

One of the Selphids screamed. Then Geneva saw the body crash into one of the stone walls and flatten as the Third Mind vented its fury.

(RESSK. TRAITOR.)

“Run, [Doctor]. Someone, tell the Titan—”

The [Psychic Guardian] slowed. Ressk passed by an open hallway, and Geneva saw a pulsing orb of Selphids rising. It tried to grab her—but Geneva Scala felt Ressk push the Third Mind back.

Somehow—his skin writhed, and his bones began cracking. Geneva looked at him as the Selphid stared at the Third Mind. Slowly, he walked into the room.

“The second floor!”

The remaining Selphids just grabbed Geneva and towed her on. Five were left; the others were fighting or dead as the Minds simply pressed and they fell, motionless.

But the remaining five had something on them. Rings and amulets of that twisted material.

Selrite. They took Geneva up and would have gone to the First Floor save for another wave of Selphids. So they ran the long way around as one tangled with the others, Rampaging, swinging a burning pair of daggers.

Four left. They were passing by the Second Mind’s chambers, and no force came to kill them. Geneva Scala saw one Selphid look behind, raising a bow—then vanish as a spear struck them through the chest.

It struck the Selphid, and the body dropped without a sound. The last three Selphids whirled, and a figure stood between them and the stairs.

“Calectus.”

Geneva whispered. The [Honor Guard] raised a glaive and set himself as the remaining three Selphids looked at Geneva. Slowly, one tugged an amulet off his chest.

“We can’t beat him. Doctor…”

He stared at her and then fell forwards as the Minds touched his. But the amulet rolled from his fingers, and the Selrite touched Geneva.

She slowly picked it up and saw nothing in the dead Selphid. Nothing moving.

He was dead.

The last two strode forwards as Calectus advanced, but his eyes were on Geneva. She was putting on the amulet. Why? He lunged, suddenly attacking in a frenzy.

The [Doctor] pulled something out of her pocket as the Selphids fought. Idis was moaning, incoherent, and the other Minds were shouting, but the vibrating amulet was stopping them. Geneva Scala looked at the flesh in her hand.

No. Geneva! Not that!

Idis screamed as she saw Geneva lifting the piece of flesh from the Carven City. Poison, an addictive poison that would never leave you. A hunger that grew—

The [Doctor] made her choice. She raised her arm, and the Minds threw their force at the Selrite, but it shielded Geneva from their telepathy even as it began to crack from the force. Idis was still stunned.

The Second Mind’s chamber doors lay open as Geneva Scala opened her mouth. Even so close, she was shielded from it. But not from—

A pair of chopsticks hit Geneva’s hand so hard they snapped it back. The Second Mind snatched the piece of flesh up, and Geneva grabbed for it—until a soccer ball hit her in the head.

Objects, playthings, props, surrounded her. The Second Mind had no power over her while she wore the Selrite—but the chopsticks just grabbed the piece of material and tore it off her chest, snapping the links of silver.

Clever. The other Minds had never considered how to bypass Selrite, but the Second Mind knew that it could manipulate everything but Geneva.

Contradiction!

Geneva grasped for the choice hanging in front of her, but the Second Mind spoke as the Selrite amulet landed upon the floor. The flesh-metal began to break apart.

(I cannot allow you to do that, Geneva. I must think alike.)

Its mental tones were tired and sad as Calectus strode towards Geneva. He tore her away from the piece of flesh, and the Second Mind addressed the [Honor Guard].

“Search her rooms. Confiscate the poison from A’ctelios Salash. The mutiny is done.”

“By your will, Second Mind.”

Geneva looked around as Calectus grabbed her arm.

“Idis, take control. Idis—are you alive?”

“Calectus? I feel sick.”

Idis whispered, but she was regaining control of Geneva’s body. Helplessly, the [Doctor] watched as Calectus bent over the bodies of the Selphids who’d tried to let her escape. He thrust his glaive into the torso of each one.

More death. There was no escape. Not one way or…the Second Mind hung there, and Geneva heard it whispering to her.

(I’m sorry.)

 

——

 

The day thereafter, the Minds pretended nothing was amiss. The Third Mind summoned Geneva only to tell her that the Titan had left his warfront against The Dyed Lands.

(He may be heading in this direction. The Fourth Mind estimates he may arrive in four days’ time. Three, if he rushes. All will be well.)

It was rewarded with a smile. Geneva Scala smiled at the Third Mind. Ever since she was nineteen, she had been in service to Selphids and the Minds.

“Yes, Third Mind. What shall I work on today?”

(Continue your research into other species’ biologies. You may go unless you have need of this Mind’s abilities. Be as productive as you can.)

It was grand and wise, and it pushed her to work harder. But the Third Mind reassured her, even when she came up with little. It was okay.

Soon, things would change and be even better.

 

——

 

The Second Mind said nothing. Nothing to Geneva. It just sank so low it was practically on the floor, and its [Guardian] offered it treats. But it didn’t want to eat.

It just floated there. Geneva Scala waited for orders. She waited for instruction and asked the Second Mind.

“Do you have anything you want me to do, Second Mind? I am at your disposal.”

It took the Mind nearly eight minutes to reply. And when it did, it just said three words.

(Yes. You are.)

Nothing more. It did not dismiss her; she just left.

 

——

 

Geneva Scala was no longer in control of her body. She hadn’t been for a long time.

She was out of ideas. She sat and watched the Other Geneva growing. Now, she sat across from Geneva, across a table in the United Nations’ headquarters, clasping a mug of tea in her hands. But there was nothing reassuring about this. It was just proof that the other Geneva looked like her. Mimicked her.

Spoke to her.

There was pity in her voice. A kind of macabre sympathy. As if a nightmare were almost regretting what came next. Yet there was also a contempt for the [Doctor] that ran in every word.

“You failed. Stop struggling. You, of all people, should know there is no way out. The Titan was your hope, but he is too slow. He is a warlord, a killer; he does not save people. He never did. But you knew it was going to turn out this way.”

“Did I?”

Geneva Scala looked up blankly. She was staring at her hands, which had scars and calluses from working with a scalpel. She looked around for Ken, Daly, Luan—all the others.

“Some days, I think this is all one bad dream and I’ll wake up and go back to class and get a job as a surgeon. This entire world—felt fake at first. I wish it was.”

The other Geneva laughed with all her memories and scorn.

This world is very real. Tell me, Geneva. Why did you try to help people? Don’t say it was ‘because I’m a [Doctor]’. Don’t say it was because of your oath. Was it your ego? A god-complex?”

Geneva flinched. It said the word. The last defense against a Mind—was no defense if she was her own opponent. The other Geneva’s eyes lit up.

“Oh yes. I know that word. The Minds have more to learn from you, Doctor Scala. Something only you can do. But don’t fear this will all end with you waking up. This world is very real. You knew it. Only a real world would be like this. A place where all good intentions are used for someone else’s gain. You knew the world was like this and people would take you and steal everything you had and throw you away when you were worthless.

Geneva looked up. And at last, there was actual, genuine anger in her eyes. Her hands made fists, and she cried out the same words she’d said in her mind upon those bloody battlefields.

“What did I ever do to deserve this? If you’re me—tell me that. What did I do? I just tried to save lives! I didn’t ask to be crippled. I didn’t ask to be kidnapped. What have I done to earn this?”

Slowly, as if drip-feeding it into her ears, the other Geneva replied.

“Isn’t it obvious? You didn’t fight back. You don’t kill. Look at you, complaining about the most unnatural thing. It’s always easy to attack you. Even rabbits struggle, but you? You swore an oath. You could have eaten that flesh. But you thought it would hurt Idis, so you hesitated. Even at the end, there’s something funny about how you keep trying not to harm anyone—and that you expect things to work out for you. Ressk died along with seventeen other Selphids. They killed to try to set you free. But you won’t, even if it makes things so much simpler. What a pointless oath. It belongs in a fairytale or a paradise like Khelt. Here? It doesn’t work.

Geneva Scala didn’t respond. Her head was bowing, lower and lower, as the tide washed in. A filthy bloody pool of regret and darkness to drown her.

One more day. The Minds were almost done. They laughed at the Titan and everything else. He had to move armies. All they had to do was…change someone’s mind.

The [Doctor] looked up, and a voice whispered to her.

“You’re already dead. You know how this ends. Lie in your grave quietly. Don’t cry, don’t cry. We’re creating something completely new.”

 

——

 

On the final day, Geneva Scala woke up. She remembered…everything.

Her dream of being nineteen years old, that false memory, was an old one. The truth was that it had some basis in reality. She had been a first responder volunteer, and she had touched dead bodies—but before that as well.

There had been a coroner and a friend she didn’t really know who freaked out, and he’d thrown up—and then helped pick up the body. The coroner had been unpleasant, but softened up and talked about his job.

That was all. When Geneva woke, she could see how long the lies had been going for. How deep the manipulation was.

She didn’t lie to herself, not today. This lucidity meant it was time.

The Minds didn’t summon her. They no longer pretended to anything. The Selphids remaining in the Gathering Citadel were arming themselves but only preparing for the Titan’s coming lightly. The Minds didn’t expect violence.

The Second Mind was nothing like the one that had been bouncing soccer balls, experimenting, joking when Geneva Scala entered its chambers.

“It has not moved or thought in three days. I…I will leave you.”

The Second Mind’s [Guardian] whispered to her, and Geneva Scala approached the Second Mind. Contradiction did not react to her. She sat.

“Will you let me enter your center, Contradiction? One last time? It’s today, isn’t it? Do you know what will happen?”

(No.)

The thought was very faint. The Second Mind did not move; the Selphids just slowly squirmed together. Geneva reached out, but they recoiled, pushing inwards, away from her hand.

“Will you let me speak with you? I need a friend.”

It said nothing. The [Telepath] reached out, but she felt a wall far beyond her ability to breach. The Minacien Wall?

That the Second Mind would not speak to her, today of all days, filled Geneva with a terrible anger. Today, at last, they sprang to her eyes. Idis was silent. As if she no longer knew how to even lie.

Please, Contradiction. Say something. Tell me the Titan can help. Can’t you convince them? Can’t you try? Even if you think alike—is this it? Can’t I do anything?”

The Second Mind didn’t reply. It was weak, beaten, and Geneva Scala knew it had struggled and fought terribly for her. She knew it, but for once, the [Doctor] lashed out.

“I thought you could do something. I thought the Titan was supposed to be the world’s greatest [Strategist]. Where—where is he? Why has no one come? Where’s Daly and the Bushrangers? Where’s Luan? Where’s Umina and the Hundredfriends Courier and all my friends? Where are the companies I’ve helped? The people whose lives I apparently saved?

She clenched her fists, and tears sprang to her eyes.

“I never asked for anything back. I never needed it. I did what I could because I thought it was making a difference, and that was fine. But when I need it—just once, right now?

She looked around.

“Anyone? Please?”

No one spoke. Not Idis, not the Second Mind. Geneva Scala sat there, and tears leaked onto the floor of the Gathering Citadel. Day passed into evening, and she just sat there. Waiting. But no one showed up to change this story before the finale.

It was just her.

 

——

 

The Titan of Baleros descended into the valley where the Minds waited. Flying carpets flew overhead, and [Mages] hovered so high they needed breathing spells to just exist.

Fraerlings sat on the shoulders of Tallfolk, and small and large wore armor. A few had amulets or other magical protections; a squad of eighteen Fraerlings armed with Signim were mounted on bats, and a single [Rogue] was waiting alone.

They had squads. Teams of Tallfolk, each equipped with a [Mage], a trap-expert, front-line fighters, archers, and Fraerlings. Niers had his own command squad, but he was hanging back.

Death-Commander Theilo, his formal rank, had command on the ground under Niers. The scarred Stitch-man had an amulet around his chest, and he turned to the Titan.

“We are prepared to launch an assault at your command, Titan. I expect the Selphids have dug in. How many casualties should we be prepared to take until a retreat?”

“60% or if I fall. It shouldn’t come to that. We’ll make contact first.”

“Very good, sir.”

The conversation did not go unnoticed by the other officers. Or the soldiers. They were grim, the rest of the army dug into higher positions, but Niers had told them who they were facing.

Minds. Possibly multiple of them, who could attack from afar and stop your heart or brain with a thought. The Titan was probably the only thing keeping them in place; they thought he was their trump card.

What he told no one, but Eirnos had probably guessed, was that one of the Titan’s best Skills was useless.

He could turn off levels, magic, and Skills.

Not thoughts.

“Selrite Bane Team—do we have [Detect Life] spells on the Minds?”

“I sense six super-clusters of life, Titan.”

They had the magical edge. Niers nodded.

“Your orders are to obey Plan B without fail if I execute it. Hold back from any fighting until then. Do not enter until I give the signal.”

They checked their crossbows and blades without a word. Plan B sounded innocuous. But Plan B meant everyone was about to die.

Plan B was that they flew into the Gathering Citadel and tried to kill every Mind they saw. It might work since they were armed with Selrite gear.

It wouldn’t come to that, hopefully. So why did Niers feel a growing sense of dread as he called out, magnifying his voice to be heard in the jungle and dirt mounds.

There were a few camouflaged tunnels that led into the Gathering Citadel from above. Another bad way to siege this place; it meant they had no alternate entrances. In theory, it meant the Minds were trapped, but they had every advantage.

“Minds of Baleros! I’ve come for the Last Light. I would like to meet her. I would like a response. I’ve been very polite—now, I’m knocking on your door. You have thirty minutes. If I don’t see her by then, I’m coming in to find her. If I so much as sense a single intrusive thought—I’ll stop being so nice.

His voice echoed dully off the far hills. It was no idle threat, and Niers felt his forces tense. He felt like the Minds would agree to show Geneva to him.

So why did he have that pit in his stomach? Not [Dangersense] but true intuition? 

Hurry, the note said. Hurry…

He feared he was too late. But the Titan could only wait, wait and curse not being everywhere. He leaned heavily on the pedestal on which he stood as the Fraerlings and Tallfolk waited. He really had gone as fast as he could.

But he had been months late. Months on Izril. His eyes sunk into their sockets, and the Titan whispered a promise. Not something the Minds could hear, just for him.

“I know. I know it was so easy to grab her. And until I started bothering you, there was no one to interfere. No one could; this world is ruled by dictators and tyrants, and power confers every right. I should know; I’m one of those people. So you may have done something and think you’ve gotten away with it.”

The Minacien Wall. The Titan’s gaze rose, and he did not smile.

“You must think I’m a fool. If you try to play me, go ahead. But though I may benefit from the same system we all do—I’m also the end. I’m the blade even immortality can’t turn. I’ve seen the faces of Elves, and they knew the exact same thing. However long you rule, however secret you may be and however many levels you hoard and how much power you acquire—”

His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

“—someone will take you to task for it. Now show me. Where is the [Doctor]?

 

——

 

(It’s time.)

When the Second Mind finally bestirred itself, Geneva Scala looked up. The Titan’s voice was so loud that even the few entrances to the Gathering Citadel let it echo down.

“Surely the Minds wish to see you. Geneva—”

Idis urged her up, but the Second Mind stopped them both. It rose slightly.

(The Minds will commune together. They already gather. Geneva Scala. It is time.)

It sounded so weary and weak that Geneva feared it was dying from what had been done to it. But the Second Mind slowly floated upwards.

(I do not know what this night brings. Only that I am sorry it ever came to this at all. I go to the other Minds, and we shall have one final reckoning. As for you—you are a prisoner of this place. In both body and mind. There is no easy escape for you, but perhaps you may reach him.)

“I thought the Minds were going to present me to the Titan regardless?”

Geneva was surprised by the Second Mind’s thoughts. It trembled slightly, and its voice became weaker still.

(They intend to. But that would be the worst of all. Run, Geneva Scala. Flee to him and tell him everything.)

“Second Mind! Wh-what are you saying?

Contradiction rose higher. And it seemed to Geneva that the Selphids had all gone still in its body. Yet its voice grew stronger, its mental link brighter.

Brighter, but with a painful brilliance. As if it were bursting a dam, breaking a bond. Contradiction flared like a sun, a match in the darkness before it burnt out.

(Idis. The time has come for you to make a choice. I am going to my fellow Minds. But I shall not think with them. Once more—strife. I will offer them one last choice, and you must make your own. You have seen everything that has happened to Geneva Scala. I tell you this: the Minacien Wall has been violated. Crimes against thought and people have occurred here. But you knew this. Will you help Geneva Scala flee?)

“Second Mind—I’m loyal to my people. Y-you’re asking me to betray them? Betray Calectus? He’ll kill me.”

(Courage always has a cost. Or it would not be courage. You have watched far, far too long. Ressk made his choice. I have made mine. What of you?)

In the dark room, the Second Mind turned to Idis. And Geneva’s…what? Her friend? Her captor? The Selphid who had gotten to know her most, the one who had replaced Okasha, writhed with uncertainty. She spoke with the [Doctor]’s mouth.

“I like you, Geneva. I’ve seen just how good you are. You really are helping everyone. I thought you were just pretending—but you—you didn’t deserve this. I’m sorry about this.”

She bowed Geneva’s head, and the [Doctor] waited. Then she felt one hand slowly rise. Idis studied it and flexed the fingers.

“It feels wonderful. But I’ve felt so guilty it made it all so much less fun than it should be. I wish Calectus hadn’t chosen me. Minds? Minds! MINDS, THE TRAIT—

Geneva’s voice rose in a scream as Idis began to shout with both thought and will. Geneva’s voice strained and then cut off. The [Doctor] staggered—then slowly collapsed onto the ground. She tried to move, but suddenly—she couldn’t. She lay there, spasming, and then understood why.

The Second Mind hovered there, and Geneva reached for the Selphid’s thoughts. Her companion—

“Idis? Idis?

Neither she nor Idis had expected…the Second Mind’s voice was quiet.

(There are always consequences.)

“You killed her.”

Geneva tried to raise her head, but she couldn’t. The Second Mind replied faintly.

(You and I differ in one respect, [Doctor]. For all I admire you, I am no healer. Idis made her choice. Now, you must make yours.)

How was she supposed to escape now? Geneva began to laugh hysterically. Until the Second Mind placed something in front of her. It unscrewed the lid, and Geneva stared at an oozing little being in the glass jar. A voice called out.

“Second Mind? Is that you, Geneva? What—what’s happening?”

(No other Selphid can bring you to safety. The choice is yours.) 

The Second Mind waited as Geneva Scala stared at Okasha. Then she was laughing, laughing bitterly as Okasha called out blindly, afraid. Not in hatred or despair, but in irony.

It was all coming full circle.

You can’t escape.

Slowly, Geneva Scala pushed, and the jar tipped over. The lid fell out, and a blind Selphid squirmed along the ground towards the closest safety it could sense. But when it reached her, it froze. It crept along one ear and felt at her body.

Geneva? Is that you?

“It’s me, Okasha.”

The little Selphid felt at her head.

“Why are you here? Where’s…where’s Idis?”

“She’s dead. I can’t walk, Okasha.”

The Selphid slowly squirmed towards Geneva’s face, urgently, and then froze. She was shaking, the [Rogue], shaking with desire, but she began to roll back.

“No. Nonono. This is a trick. This is a test. Not me, Geneva. You know it. I know it.”

The [Doctor] couldn’t even nod, but she blinked as the Second Mind slowly began to rise. Leaving her behind.

“Tonight is a reckoning for all of us, Okasha. I think it’s time to face it all. Help me end things. I don’t think either of us are coming back.”

The Selphid reached out and touched the [Doctor]’s cheek.

“…Oh. In that case…let’s go.”

Slowly, she crawled into Geneva’s skin. And the [Doctor] slowly pushed herself up. Okasha whispered in her mind.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, though, Geneva. Not you.”

“Sometimes, Okasha, it doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”

Geneva Scala got to her feet and turned to the door. Okasha was taking over her body, but she made Geneva’s legs move, hurrying—but someone was already blocking the doorway.

 

——

 

Contradiction floated into that familiar room where five Minds were already waiting. A statue rose above them all, a precursor, perhaps. An ancestor?

A Seamwalker?

Now it made sense. Like a dreadful puzzle finally uncovered, all the pieces lined up. Was this a monument to past hubris or a warning?

The Five Minds were confident, even arrogant as the Second Mind reached them. They parted, waiting for it to float into a ring of six—but it moved into the center instead. The Third Mind floated back, and Dictum felt shocked.

It thought it had won. It might become the Second Mind, soon. Or even the first. Its pervasive ideology had influenced the others. Yet the Second Mind…rebelled.

It had been forced to think alike. Contradiction had been, like Geneva, a prisoner to its own thoughts. Unable to act to help the [Doctor] save in ways that the other Minds agreed with. It shouldn’t have been able to dissent any longer.

—But it was a Mind. Anything could be done. If you were willing to pay for it.

(Second Mind, take your position. The Titan is waiting for Geneva Scala.)

The First Mind tried to reprimand it, confused. The Fifth and Sixth Minds were worried; they could sense something was wrong. The Second Mind pulsed one thought to the others. A brief flicker of minimal thought. Like terse words, quiet, guarded.

(Idis is dead. I have ended her life. The Last Light is fleeing. I hope she reaches the Titan. Whatever plans you have, I have come to offer you one last chance for salvation.)

The other Minds physically recoiled. Their shock became anger/resignation/wrath as they processed this and understood why the Second Mind was here.

(So. You are unable to think alike. This was inevitable. You leave little choice, Contradiction. This Gathering Citadel cannot withstand your treachery. Not now. You will be merged.)

Continuum spoke briefly, and the Third Mind shivered with delight. The Second Mind did not dignify this with a reply. It simply rotated, as if searching for a face among the other five or its own.

They had no faces. No eyes. No bodies—and perhaps that was the final arrogance of Minds. To think that they could replace people. The First and Third Mind were trying to subdue it, but the Second Mind forced them back and called out to the others.

It was weaker. So weak even the Sixth Mind might best it, but it called out to them.

(Minds. There is still a chance not to do this. Geneva Scala was kidnapped the day she came here. From the very start, the Third Mind has violated the Minacien Wall. You have been party to it all, but even now, upon the precipice, there is time. This is a long road, and you have chosen to walk every step into depravity. But I implore you, turn back now.)

(Second Mind, you do not weigh the costs-benefits. The Wasting will kill us. We have already decided, again and again. This appeal at the final hour does no good.)

The Fourth Mind tried to appeal to Contradiction, as if Inconsolable spoke reason. It received a backlash of fury, of frustration, and of such grief and disappointment that it recoiled. The Second Mind turned to the Fifth and Sixth. Even then, they would be half and half.

(What use is a mind if it cannot change? If it cannot learn and grow? You two, Sympathy, Egress—why do you support the Third and First Mind blindly?)

(Why do you dissent continually, Contradiction? Can your mind not process teamwork, collaboration, unity?)

Egress shot back as the other Minds slowly pushed at the Second Mind. Yet it kept up thinning barriers.

Merged. The First Mind was calling for a merge. That was how Minds were made. That was how Minds…died. When two Minds came together to form an even greater mind, absorbing all of the other’s perspectives and ideas and capabilities.

But this would be no equal merge. The Third Mind had too much sway, and its ideas, Dictum, dripped in like poison.

(All of us. Six minds become one. The greatest Mind of all.)

(All?)

Even Continuum hesitated at this, but the Third Mind was insisting.

(The Second Mind will hold too much sway in an unequal merge if it is just you or this mind alone. Six Minds—united.)

Now it was pushing, using every scrap of influence it had to persuade the other Minds into something as horrid as its other deeds. There were sixteen minds left in this world.

Then—eleven? This was the Gathering Citadel formed to halt the Wasting, with more Minds present than any other group. A supermind of them all would be beyond any other being since the days of empire.

It was wrong. But the other Minds were seeing how the Second Mind had rebelled, and if it melded with any one Mind, it might destabilize them. Why not?

They drew around the Second Mind like vultures, tearing at its mental barricades and beginning to take it apart. It fought back, holding itself together, but they were snatching the Selphids away from it. Merging it with their bodies.

The melding was more than that, though. They were flowing together, no longer spheres in the air, but a writhing mass, a sea of bodies that would become something new.

Contradiction still called out as Continuum, Dictum, Inconsolable, Sympathy, and Egress began to lose themselves.

(You fools. Do you think becoming one is the answer? Do you think one mind defeats six? You are lost. Original, new thought by its nature cannot be found within a group. We are no better than the Selphids who became us. We never were. Stop. Please…)

Its voice was being lost in a haze as Contradiction began to dissolve. It gathered the most powerful Selphids to it as the other Minds began to merge around it. Like a dying soul, surrounded by other Selphids.

The irony was that they didn’t understand each other. Even so close as they were, even as Minds…the Second Mind thought differently.

It saw now, as they reached for it and the walls came down, how they thought. Or rather, how they forgot.

…Forgot to see the individual wish among the mass that they were. Hear the single voice, the [Doctor]’s will and place as equals to theirs. They were the will of thousands. And the thousands never considered that they could be wrong. That the suffering of one eclipsed their own.

Like a city of people, they had empathy and desire and virtue and good intent, but they passed by the desperate, the hurt, every single day. A city of souls that only believed in the city, not the parts.

The Second Mind—was different. The Selphids being torn out of its heart were no better or worse than the others. But it was made up of Selphids who had gone to other nations. And they were…

Lonely. They had endured the scorn and distrust of other species, and struggled, making friends and companions without their people to rely on. And when they had come home, they had been strangers.

That sorrow was in Contradiction’s soul. A memory made countless times by children, Selphids who had opposed their families, stood alone regardless of whether they were right or wrong. The conviction to believe something else, no matter how it hurt.

If they were wrong—the other Minds shivered and trembled before that simple thought. If they were wrong and they were committing a sin, what happened then? The foundation of everything fell apart and they were damned and useless.

What then? How could Contradiction think that way? They reached for answers, but the Second Mind had none. In its heart—it only had fear, determination, and sadness.

If we are all wrong—the Third Mind whispered and shook.

…Then we fail and begin again. We pay for our mistakes.

The light they had been following was flickering, and the Minds were lost on a dark crossroads as infinite and lost as another planet. The dark side of the moon. They clung to this vision, despite the pitfalls and the doubts. If that light went out, they were lost.

They were too afraid to try. Too old, following a looping thought that they had to succeed. Too proud. The Second Mind wept for them. They were no better than the Selphids who made them up. Just afraid, five Minds. And it felt itself falling apart at last.

(We are all damned, then.)

Five voices became thousands, united in purpose, and one single Mind spoke. The Combined Mind pushed at the desperate Contradiction…no, whatever was left, as it did to the Second Mind what had been done to Geneva Scala.

Unmaking. Changing.

(You cannot deny the Mind. Geneva Scala will not flee. The Titan will be dealt with. The Wasting ended. We have already succeeded.)

The desperate Mind held its ground. No…the other Mind squirmed with its component bodies, and a kind of dark satisfaction filled the thing that had been called Contradiction.

(Geneva Scala is free. She will escape. No one else will. The Titan will rain down wrath upon this place.)

(His army cannot best this mind. Nor will the Last Light reach the Titan. We have already sent her on her way.)

What? What did that mean? The rapidly disappearing Second Mind…was confused.

(No. I saw her.)

(So did we.)

And the darkness closed in as the Second Mind began to join with the others. And it understood—

Everything.

 

——

 

Geneva Scala straightened, Okasha helping her to move. She stumbled as Idis’ corpse was slowly moved by the new Selphid. She was numb—but she knew she had to run. She almost thought she’d make it.

Until that voice whispered to her. Until her alter ego stood in front of her, in the doorway. She was a Human woman who looked so much like Geneva—save for the orange veins under her skin.

The face was almost perfect. The body? Muscles stood out oddly, as if they weren’t quite adapted yet, and she was far too strong. Too quick; she crossed the room and grabbed Geneva’s arm as Okasha gasped.

“Who—”

The Selphid-Geneva caught The Last Light as the [Rogue] twisted.

“[Slippery Esc—]”

“[Thought Blank].”

—Lying on the floor as the other Geneva knelt on her back. The [Doctor] looked up, and a familiar voice spoke to her.

“I told you it was too late.”

“Geneva? Who’s this?”

Okasha didn’t understand. She struggled, but the arm was twisting Geneva’s back, and something would break if it put even a hair’s more pressure onto Geneva.

A doctor’s understanding of the Human body. Geneva stared up through the searing pain into two dead eyes. But the intelligence behind them was so familiar.

It was like a mirror. A mirror twisted by the Minds.

“You’re me.”

It was so stupid to say, but Geneva had to confirm it. The other Geneva picked her up, and Geneva felt her muscles tense—then fire uselessly. A mental power was locking down her and Okasha.

“Half you. Half the Minds. I am you unburdened. First of many. A [Telepath Healer]—for now. Stronger than you. I gained none of your levels, sadly. But I can level, unlike the Minds.”

“Impossible. Copying a person? That’s wrong. That’s—the Minacien Wall—”

Okasha babbled. The other Geneva just dragged Geneva to her feet.

“The other Minds sent me to make sure the Second Mind didn’t try something like this. Poor Idis. They’ll deal with Contradiction. As for you—it’s time to take you to your end, Geneva. Don’t worry. I will deal with the Titan kindly. Perhaps even stay and help him. He isn’t an enemy. Just too nosy for his own good.”

Now, Geneva saw it. Her feet dragged, but the other Geneva lifted her with the strength of galas-muscle, effortlessly, using her mind to pull Geneva along through the Gathering Citadel. Not up, but down.

The Titan was warning the Minds they had twenty minutes left. Twenty minutes…but far too much time.

“Doctor Scala. The Titan is w—”

Calectus was striding down the corridor with a group of guards, but they froze when they saw the two Genevas. Not in horror—but cautiously.

“The time has come for us to meet, Calectus. Wait for me. I shall take Geneva to the basement. Then meet him.”

The [Honor Guard] bowed instantly.

“Do you need a helper?”

“This body is strong enough. Oh, and Idis is dead. Okasha is in here—Idis died bravely, it seems. I’m sorry about that.”

They stood aside, and Geneva’s rolling head caught Calectus’ eyes. She was dragged towards the staircase, and they began to head down. Now—Geneva understood.

“That’s what the Fourth Mind meant. How long…have you been here?”

“A few days. Didn’t you wonder why you were needed less and less? The other yous didn’t last long. I was the first one who succeeded; they took a template of you and placed it in a Selphid. Then into a body. Soon—we won’t need that. Here we are. You’ve been here before, remember?”

Geneva did. The basement was waiting.

 

——

 

The Titan of Baleros stood outside the Gathering Citadel and waited. He had an hourglass out just for the show of it, but he was counting. A third of the time had passed already, but the Minds had made contact.

(Geneva Scala will appear before you Titan. We accede to your request.)

A presence below the earth spoke, and the soldiers and Fraerlings shivered. Niers could not hear the voice himself due to the helmet, but it was relayed to him. Eirnos felt at her helmet, frowning.

“That voice. I’m reminded of Old Ones, from adventurer stories.”

Niers snorted, but lightly. He murmured out of the corner of his mouth as he saw someone emerge from the citadel’s entrance.

“Old Ones don’t sound like that. If one speaks, you’re dead. But I agree; it’s the same feeling.”

A few of his older soldiers chuckled as everyone turned to him, and Niers covered the smile as Eirnos glared out of one good eye. But he was feeling that pit in his stomach deepen.

Everything I wanted is happening. No blood, no violence.

So why was he certain something was wrong? Niers stared at the body making its way to him through the undergrowth. His soldiers trained bows on the Selphid, but Niers raised his hand.

“Where’s the [Doctor]?”

“She will be arriving within ten minutes, Titan. The Minds have sent me to assuage any fears.”

The Selphid bowed and smiled. It wasn’t one of the higher-ups. Niers eyed the enchanted leather armor and the twin swords the Selphid bore. The warrior noticed the look and bowed again.

“The Minds ask you forgive their precautions. The Forgotten Wing Company is not to be underestimated.”

“Are they speaking through you, then?”

The Selphid’s gaze didn’t flicker—they never did. But the inside of one cheek pulsed in much the same manner.

“Not I. They will find a [Guardian] to act as a proxy momentarily. Forgive us, Titan. The Gathering Citadel is deep.”

“So I understand. But I will be quite merry if I see Geneva Scala unharmed. Will I be seeing that…?”

Niers waited for a name, but the Selphid just shook his head.

“The [Doctor] will appear before you unharmed, Titan. Negotiations can come afterwards. I promise you, she is coming. This is no trap for your forces.”

Niers twisted a ring on his finger as the Selphid glanced at him. A figure was striding past the emplaced soldiers. Death-Commander Theilo.

He was inspecting the [Soldiers], addressing them with a few words, confirming their readiness. The Rustängmarder’s leader felt no nerves. In fact, he was so bold he strayed towards the entrance of the Gathering Citadel.

“Hold your ground!”

Instantly, a voice sounded from within. The Selphid and the other soldiers tensed, but Theilo simply halted. He did not draw his curved sword nor his shield strapped to his back. Instead, one chainmail arm rose, and he briskly saluted a Selphid who half-emerged.

“I simply wish to salute my opponents if we come to battle.”

Niers saw a wary Selphid wearing a Lizardfolk body holding a glaive at the ready. His eyes narrowed.

[Honor Guard]? It looked like the Selphids had a number of them. They must be dug-in, and Selphid [Honor Guards] were tough as nails.

“Commander Theilo, we’re not looking for a damn war. Back to the ranks.”

The fearless commander saluted Calectus, and the [Honor Guard] slowly returned the gesture. Theilo spun on his heel and marched back to Niers. Gindal was giving Niers a look out of the corner of his eye.

“Do you need to bring the most insane officers possible, Titan?”

The Selrite amulet glinted on Theilo’s chest—one of the three figures wearing it. The [Rogue] was sitting, and their top [Mage] was eating a snack.

“Please stay away from the citadel, Titan.”

The Selphid looked worried, but then rallied.

“The Minds know you have not yet come for battle.”

“Wonderful to be trusted at my thoughts. Or rather, words.”

Niers smiled drily, but that pit in his stomach kept sinking. He saw Eirnos worriedly feeling at her helmet as something spoke to them.

(The [Doctor] is coming, Titan. We will await a meeting shortly.)

Niers’ eyes slowly narrowed, but he said not a word as his subordinates relayed the words. But Eirnos? She turned and looked at him.

Did he…hear that voice too? She felt at her helmet and saw the Fraerlings, all eighteen of them, shivering.

They’d heard it too. All their helmets were on.

Was that supposed to happen?

 

——

 

The lowest floor of the Gathering Citadel lay in darkness. So far underground, and cold. Yet it was not empty. Dozens of faces stared blankly up at the curved architecture, beams and supports like veins and curled ribs.

Neither alive nor dead. Empty faces, looking up into oblivion. A Beastkin, face shaped like a rodent, stared next to a Dullahan. Chests rose and fell, but they had no minds left. Geneva Scala saw each one was resting upon a gurney, but they were not strapped down.

Geneva stared around the room—and she had seen it before. But the number of bodies had grown. And there were even more changes made.

Bodies lay there, tended to by poultices, even primitive IV drips. Who had made them? This Geneva? The Minds?

There was worse down here than the vacant Lizardwoman, the empty bodies of people who had been. Projects in progress.

Strands of galas-muscle hung from a rack like strips of meat curing. Limbs sat in runes of preservation next to internal organs, muscle and bone—and a body that had been stripped of all its component parts and was being…rebuilt.

Rebuilt without half the organs a normal person needed to live. Muscle reinforced, bones inserted experimentally.

A body built for Selphids, for battle. Geneva’s eyes whirled crazily around the room. Then she focused on something else. Geneva Scala stared at a vat she remembered—but the liquid that glowed a faint ochre color was now filled with something. She focused on it and saw…an arm, floating in some kind of liquid.

That was her arm. Then, Geneva Scala saw the same freckles near where her thumb and forefinger met. Her hand—and she knew it well. She turned her head and forced the words out beyond the panic and bile.

“You’re cloning me?”

The other Geneva placed her down on one of the waiting beds, securing her arms and legs, and rotated her shoulder with a sigh, just like Geneva did. She fiddled with some glasses that weren’t there and nodded.

“The theory is simple. If a Potion of Regeneration can regenerate a limb—why not a body? In fact, the Minds remember that such a thing has happened, though the results aren’t proper clones and end—poorly. However, my theory was this: why does a Healing Potion not heal severed limbs? Cells still undergo mitosis—they’re still ‘alive’ even after being separated from the body for a time. Something else triggers the potion. My theory was that it was the energy of the body or magical potential—so I took a vat of healing potion and injected mana and a [False Life] spell into it.”

She gestured at the arm.

“It will be you. Slowly. It seems to have a number of complications. My successor can figure out how to make use of an unlimited supply of bodies—and perhaps that’s how we clone galas-muscle—or at least suitable bodies. For now—when I leave, the Minds will have more helpers than just you or me. They’re all ready.”

She pointed at the breathing bodies lying there. Then Geneva felt it.

The Minds were copying her memories into the Genevas. Her dream. She almost felt herself oozing away, piece by piece, and a replica of her, subtly altered, was being spun into the heads of each body. When it was done—when they were satisfied, each Geneva would wake from her dream.

And they would be loyal to the Minds, like this Selphid version of herself.

Geneva had a vision of dozens of them standing—and all smiling like this one was. She stared at the Selphid that the Minds had made.

“That’s not me. You’re not me.”

The Selphid shrugged self-consciously.

“True. I am the Minds and you comingled. They couldn’t trust just any Geneva with meeting the Titan. Those will be closer to true clones of you, with their memories tweaked. Still, I am the best of you and the Minds. Does it matter who I am? I will cure the Wasting. The Minds will have their [Doctor], and Baleros and the Titan their Last Light. Geneva Scala will remain, and if Earth ever makes contact, her family will have their daughter. Just not you. What is there to complain about? Haven’t you wanted more [Doctors], Geneva?”

“Not this. Not you. You—you have no morality. Look at this.

Cloning. People who’d been rendered brain-dead. Mind-alterations and—and that Selphid-Geneva. She was the wrong side of medicine. Someone with all that knowledge and no principles.

Monsters had been recorded in Earth’s history. Geneva had never thought she would be used to make another.

“I can’t—”

She struggled and realized she’d been strapped to the gurney. The other Geneva was stronger than her, faster, and she had more mental power. Okasha was gagging with pain as the other Geneva effortlessly froze the Selphid. The [Doctor] felt like a fool, like some kind of character in an action movie—

“What are you, some kind of action hero? Are you going to burst free and beat me in a fistfight? You don’t harm, Geneva. The Minds have been disappointed by you from the start, but at least you were never a threat. If you had poisoned yourself with the flesh of A’ctelios Salash, you may have ruined their plans. But you didn’t.”

They were too alike. Was there…Geneva stopped trying to break the thick leather, because she couldn’t. She lay there as the other Geneva picked up a scalpel. And her eyes…were sympathetic.

“I’ll make this quick. The Titan is waiting.”

She walked over and the [Doctor] panted.

“Why kill me?”

She was trying to delay, but the other Geneva didn’t buy the trick. She inserted the blade into Geneva’s wrist as she inspected the blood running under her skin.

“I’m sorry to say this, but you’re no longer needed. You’re evidence—and besides, the Minds find you entirely unhelpful. Your replacements will argue less, but you—the Second Mind made you too stubborn. Hold still.”

She cut open Geneva’s skin, and a tiny Selphid reached out to try and seize the scalpel. Without a word, Selphid-Geneva stabbed Okasha. Then she seized the [Doctor]’s wrist. There was still sympathy in her eyes, vague and distant. No compassion. No remorse.

“It’s really over, Geneva. You never had a way to win, and I am sorry about that. Was there anything else you wanted to say?”

She could feel the Minds now, slowly taking her consciousness and altering it. Preparing it to be placed into another body and another.

It wasn’t fair. She closed her eyes. She could remember everything, all the false dreams, all the signs. She had no more tears, no more screams.

All dreams ended eventually. She was helpless as the scalpel touched her wrist and opened an artery. A quick, painless death. The other Geneva expertly found the artery in her other wrist and cut open both legs. Geneva felt her body begin to grow cold unbelievably fast, and Okasha tried to close the incisions but was locked by the other mind. So Geneva’s mind began to flicker in and out—losing focus. Remembering all her regrets. Helpless to the cruel reality.

Helpless as…the day she’d begun to fall.

 

——

 

“So, she’s unharmed and the Minacien Wall hasn’t been violated?”

Niers Astoragon was speaking chattily to the Selphid outside. The representative was reluctant to speak, but it did assure him all was well.

“You may speak to the [Doctor] yourself, Titan. As for the wall—our interpretation varies, but the Minds are confident this must not come to battle.”

Niers was glancing at the opening as he fiddled with his ring. He kept twisting it back and forth, although the [Detect Truth] spell never changed.

“Oh, I’m sure they are. Well, the [Doctor] has…eighteen minutes to get here. I’m sure I will be happy with her condition. You do know I’ll have to search the Gathering Citadel from top to bottom, right?”

The Selphid’s smile vanished.

“The Minds will not permit—”

“Oh, and you think I’ll just turn around and walk away? I’m sure an inspection under magical oath to reveal nothing will be acceptable. But the Minacien Wall is larger than you or I. The Minds must know that. This matter involves old nations who will want more than the Minds’ assurances all is well. Or do you want me to involve Drath, the Blighted Kingdom? I assure you, they won’t merely inspect.”

The Selphid hesitated. He put two fingers to his head and communed with the Minds. After a moment, he smiled.

“…We shall discuss your investigation, but the Minds are not opposed.”

“There, you see? The Minds can be reasonable.”

Niers gave the Selphid a cheery smile, which was half-heartedly returned. But the Selphid was fairly relaxed—

The defenders in the Gathering Citadel were less so. However, they were still confident in their position, and the Minds were too.

A [Psychic Guardian] under the 1st Mind was watching the Titan’s forces, but calmly. Calectus, who was heading the physical defenders, was giving quiet orders.

“That [Rogue]. [Mark of Danger]. Enchantments?”

“[Flame Resistance]. [Grounding Totem].”

A Selphid was fortifying their position. Another coughed gently as they watched the Titan’s forces. The magical casting did not go unnoticed.

“Titan, they’re enchanting their position against our munitions.”

Eirnos whispered to Niers. The enchantments countered the two elements she’d loaded her quarrels of crossbow bolts with. The Titan glanced at her. The Minds shouldn’t know what they’d brought. Unless…

Eirnos felt at her helmet. She’d been hearing the Minds’ voices. Now, she felt a pit in her stomach.

How good was the Selrite they’d brought? Had it gone bad? Was it too low-quality to stop a Mind?

But the Titan just stood there. He turned back to the other Selphid and glanced at his yawning [Rogue], the antsy Tallguard.

“One last question while we wait—”

“Yes, Titan?”

The Selphid put a smile on his face, but Niers wasn’t looking at him. He stared past the Selphid.

“…Thirty minutes. Not too long, not too short. I don’t care how big your fortress is. Anyone faced with an army outside your gates doesn’t wait the thirty minutes to show me the [Doctor]. She should be here right now.”

“I believe she’s indisposed, Titan. I assure you, she’s safe—”

The Selphid spoke, looking disturbed. Niers Astoragon stared at the Selphid, but his eyes went right through the soldier.

“All the [Detect Truth] spells tell me you’re being honest. Or as honest as you can—but the Minds play games with thought. Do you think I’m stupid? If they’re being honest, they would have welcomed me in. One last question.”

The Selphid stared at Niers uncertainly as the Titan turned his head. But it was not to him that the Titan addressed his final question.

Death-Commander Theilo of the Rustängmarder. Tell me. Can you detect a shred of honor from that [Honor Guard] or anyone else?”

Theilo’s head rose, and the scarred face twisted into a macabre grin.

“No, Titan.”

The Selphid was still staring at Theilo when Niers raised his crossbow and fired. A bolt of fire blew one kneecap off and Eirnos lifted her own crossbow as Niers spoke.

Take the citadel. All forces—advance.”

The Selphid slowly fell to the ground as Theilo stomped a foot over one hand reaching for a sword. Then the Selphid began to scream—but it was too late. The Forgotten Wing’s soldiers turned to the citadel.

 

——

 

“They’re charging! Alert the Minds! Alert the—”

The attack was so fast it caught even Calectus and the Selphids off-guard. It had surprised the soldiers on the Titan’s side too, but they came surging across the ground as Calectus lifted his glaive.

“Ready formations. Inform the Minds—get the [Doctor] up now. Any soldier who enters, dies. Bloody the Titan.”

Whether the Fraerling realized something was amiss or he was trying to force his way in for an upper hand, he was about to be disabused of that notion. There were six entrances to the Gathering Citadel—and all six were killzones.

He’d have to fight his way through corridors that sloped up before they went down, and the Selphids were entrenched with angles on any attacker and barricades.

The Titan had better [Mages] and his Fraerlings. But the Minds had telepathy. The first soldiers began turning back before they got to the openings—but a voice snarled.

“[Order in the Ranks]. [Fight or Die]. Charge behind me!

Death-Commander Theilo overruled the soldiers’ own thoughts, and the conflicting orders to their legs and arms returned to the wild charge. He was coming up on Calectus’ chokepoint.

The [Honor Guard] saw bows raise, sighting as the fearless commander stormed towards the entrance. Idiot. Calectus took no pleasure in this, but he braced as he saw the Rustängmarder’s officer duck in.

Theilo was no fool. He dodged back as an arrow shot past him and returned fire with a hand-crossbow. The bolt went wide, and Calectus spoke.

“Brace for spell.”

He saw a shining, azure bolt hit a wall over his head and braced for lightning or fire. Calectus heard a glass crack and then—

 

——

 

—spewing vomit from his lips. The [Honor Guard] got up. He heard nothing. Just a ringing in his head. One of the [Psychic Guardians] was shaking him up.

Dizzily, the Selphid rose. He looked around and saw Theilo again. Why—why was he so close? He was running through a Selphid sagging at their post, half-fallen out from behind their barricade. Soldiers were flooding the tunnel.

What had hap—

(Close your ears! Block them up!)

The [Guardian] screamed at him mentally. Calectus blocked off his auditory connections just in time. Another screaming wail blasted through the corridor, and he felt the sonic vibrations striking his actual body within the armored corpse.

Selphids jerked and collapsed—then Calectus saw the wax in Theilo’s ears. And more arrows were landing around them—

They were sonic projectiles. Sonic? Where was the fire? Calectus swung his glaive up and deflected a ball of acid. He stumbled back.

“Fall back to the next checkpoint. Fall—”

No one could hear him, so the [Guardian] screamed it mentally instead.

(Fall back to the next checkpoint!)

Selphids ran. Calectus felt the [Guardian] querying the other checkpoints, but they were all under attack.

No one is reporting at Gateway 2. Gateway 5—

([Rogue]. All have been—)

A scream through the mental link and silence. Calectus didn’t understand. The [Rogue] was still out there. He had a [Danger Mark] on him. He…

He realized they’d been tricked as the first Selphid dropped. Calectus felt at his nose and then shouted.

Sleeping gas!

 

——

 

“Sleeping gas?”

Eirnos was mustering for the command force. Niers was waiting for a breach, but he was impatient. Gindal was loading his crossbow; he’d sent a bolt ricocheting into the citadel ahead of the soldiers.

“Titan, what is going on?

“Here. Helmet.”

He tossed something at her, and Eirnos grabbed the helmet reflexively. She stared at it—then felt at her own helmet. Then she saw the eighteen Fraerlings ready to go—standing down. The Tallguard looked confused, but Eirnos stared at them, the [Rogue] and [Mage] joining their command forces—and removing the amulets.

Then she got it. She swore at the Titan.

You tricked me.

Her helmet was fake. The Titan winked at her.

“Fire and electricity do work on Selphids. But the Minds have trouble with things they can’t see. Stopping gas or sound is hard. We have an opening. Strike team, what do you see?

The Tallguard and [Rogue] were already inside the fortress. They’d been infiltrating all along, and one reported back.

“—There’s been fighting here, Titan. I just found a bunch of dead bodies. Something’s wrong. Too many defenders—we’re going undercover.”

In. Theilo. I want those defenders down or surrendering. Charge.

The Titan was sweating. He’d called the Minds’ bluff. If he was wrong, he’d just started a war with the Selphids.

He didn’t think he was wrong. He adjusted his helmet as the Death-Commander reported, breathless.

Soldiers taking casualties. Selphids are retreating to second line defenses. The Minds are striking us down.

“Give them something to think about. Unleash our special unit.”

The [Soldiers] fell back as the Death-Commander turned. The Minds were wiping out [Soldiers], hurling them into walls—turning off minds. But they wavered as a new wave rose and advanced ahead of the [Soldiers]. The Selphids looked up—and the first Ghoul bounded at them.

Draugr Guard, charge!

The Rustängmarder had two special abilities. And undead neither feared the Minds—they had no brains to control—nor were they so easy for Minds to deal with. The Titan narrowed his eyes. Eirnos was swearing a blue streak at him, but all his tricks…

Would they make it? He feared they were already too late. The Minds had months. Months—and the [Doctor] had been here all along. If he found her—

Who would he find?

 

——

 

[Surgeon Level 36!]

[Skill — Advanced Organ Transplant obtained!]

 

She’d forgotten she had changed classes. Forgotten her reservations. Geneva Scala saw herself standing before the First Mind, showing it the galas-muscle she’d extracted.

 

The First Mind was growing excited as Geneva began thinking in a dozen different ways. One of the Selphids in its mental image tapped Geneva on the shoulder.

“Medical practices, yes. Getting a Selphid to secrete a vial of the substances you require…done. We require a living subject. You will not injure yourself; perhaps a squirrel? What are you thinking about, ethics?”

“Ew. That sounds like a lot of work. A vial?”

Idis complained, but the other Selphids were shushing her. Yet the First Mind’s inquiry was focused on something else Geneva had thought about.

“…What do you mean, transplant?”

Geneva Scala focused, and a few thoughts flew together. Well, surely it made sense. She looked down at the galas-muscle in front of her.

“Transplant galas-muscle into new bodies? First Mind, Inconsolable would surely be able to make use of soldiers with that kind of strength, even if it was just one in ten thousand!”

One of the Selphids was growing excited. Calectus himself was stepping forwards—he had a Lizardfolk body today.

“The [Doctor] could try transplanting the muscle into my body.”

(This suggestion is good. Geneva Scala, will you attempt the procedure?)

The First Mind, Continuum, was warming to the many ideas this presented. And Geneva agreed. She looked up with a huge frown on her face.

“…I’ll try it. But only if Calectus agrees to show me how he melds the tendon and muscle to bone.”

(Naturally.)

The [Surgeon] bent over the Selphid as he lay down and cut open his flesh. She saw a writhing Selphid retreat as she pinned the muscle into place and touched the two places where she thought they needed the primary connection. She watched as the Selphid oozed over the spot and the muscle was reattached almost instantaneously.

“Amazing.”

(Splendid. This opens up new possibilities. Every body with galas-muscles is now a resource. You have done well, [Doctor]—)

The First Mind was congratulating her as it sent notes to the others. But Geneva stopped Calectus before he could sit up and before she closed the wound.

“There, Calectus. Can you secrete whatever substance it was? Idis. Vial.”

The Selphid hesitantly oozed some of whatever it was into a vial, and Geneva stoppered it up. The First Mind eagerly shoved the Gorgon’s body over to her.

(Transplant the rest of the galas-muscle into Calectus. This Gorgon should have enough—adapt it to the legs and other regions. Do not forget the abdomen.)

The [Surgeon] looked up. She put the vial in a rack and labeled it carefully. She would need to ask Idis and the other Selphids to recognize the substance and see if they could secrete the exact same liquid or if it was different from Selphid to Selphid, like blood-type, before she began tests.

“No.”

Calectus’ head rose slightly from the operating table. The First Mind hesitated.

(…No?)

Geneva Scala turned to face it. The [Surgeon] nodded to Calectus.

“That was the first and last time I will ever transplant galas-muscle in a dead body unless I need practice. And if I do—I will render the body unusable by Selphids. It is my belief that transplanting organs like this will lead to unethical behavior. With that, First Mind, I believe I will begin researching the compound Calectus used. It may enable me to repair damage to nerves or reattach muscles. That could save lives or reverse limb paralysis.”

The First Mind hovered there for a second as Calectus sat up, but Geneva was already stitching up his arm.

(The ability to transplant galas-muscle—)

“Makes super-soldiers. I understand what you’re about to say, First Mind. Respectfully—I will not be party to it.”

Geneva Scala looked up, and the First Mind grew angry. Continuum lifted the vial dismissively.

(This is only a benefit to non-Selphids. You are on the verge of aiding Selphid-kind.)

“That vial could replace healing potions. Transplanting muscles may create new or sustain bodies for Selphids, but not galas-muscle.”

(I order you to continue transplanting muscle into Calectus.)

The [Doctor] looked up at the First Mind and folded her arms.

“I refuse. Now, if you will excuse me—”

She turned, and the First Mind touched her thoughts. Geneva stumbled—and Calectus and Idis caught her. She got up after a second and rubbed at her head.

“—What were we talking about, First Mind?”

“Transplanting muscle into Calectus. You were going to research that.”

Geneva Scala looked up blankly, and then she raised a finger.

“I would like to speak to you first, First Mind. About historical precedent. And Frankenstein’s monster—”

The First Mind hovered there, confused, and then with growing chagrin as the [Doctor] spoke.

 

——

 

…What was that memory? Geneva Scala felt the memory go by in a flash. It was familiar to her—but the last part hadn’t been.

The last part felt—different. Like a memory she’d forgotten, like that false dream. Only this one felt true. 

She was bleeding out. Dissolving as the Minds and the other Geneva took her apart. But another memory flickered in front of her head.

 

——

 

—Even so—getting down to the cellular level was tough, and Egress soon realized that the slightest imperfections or misadjustments meant Geneva ‘missed’ what she was trying to focus on by miles. Metaphorically speaking.

(Can this not work?)

It grumpily cast [Eagle’s Eye] on a circle of wood for her, and Geneva could see the very pores on her skin. She looked up as it tried to adjust the lenses it needed to have perfectly aligned and tried to figure out a system so it could be manually adjusted. It had no eyes, so it needed a volunteer to help it.

“Unfortunately, this is far, far below what I need to see.”

(Then Egress shall ponder. Go, go, go. You shall be summoned when Egress is finished.)

It went back to trying to focus the lenses, but before Egress could turn back to its labors, Geneva Scala cleared her throat.

“Egress—may I ask you to add that to a list of projects? These are the other tools I would like you to work on. I have blueprints.”

She was no [Engineer] like Paige, but she could illustrate how they should move and act with her memories or imagination. The Sixth Mind sorted through the notes. It grew confused despite understanding what she wanted.

(Simpler than microscopes, but confusing. What purpose is this?)

It waved the drawing of a strange leg at her. Not a leg like Geneva’s, but what resembled a bent piece of metal, almost like a bent hook of metal. There was another version that resembled a kind of shoe attached to a rod, but Geneva thought that the bent metal version would be simpler.

“A prosthetic foot and leg replacement. It is far less adaptive than the magical prosthesis or Golem limbs I’ve heard of, but this would be a fraction of the cost. Can you prototype one with spring-steel?”

Only a Mind like the Sixth Mind could expedite something like that. Egress certainly thought it was possible, but it hesitated.

(This does not benefit Selphids. A replaceable limb in a body that rots is not useful.)

“On the contrary—it would extend the longevity of some bodies. And it would be a net boon to countless people if you could create a cheap, simple way to manufacture such limbs. Something a [Smith] could make as easily as possible? Non-magical steels and such.”

Geneva Scala hinted as the Sixth Mind floated there. She also had a primitive hearing aid. The Sixth Mind consulted the list.

(Hearing aid. Cheap magical spell. Please experiment with the following and rank hearing aids by cost and efficacy. But the microscope—)

“This matters as much as the microscope. Please prioritize the limbs at least. There are Selphids who have bodies with damaged limbs. I would like to try fitting them for how well they work.”

Egress hesitated, but Geneva was pestering it. Pestering it—every single time it wanted her to focus on the microscope, to at least try making a leg.

 

——

 

The 4th Mind, Inconsolable, was preparing a force for the Dyed Lands. It would take time, cooperation with other Minds, and countless amounts of personnel and resources.

“And blankets.”

(And blankets. This Mind has accounted for basic necessities.)

“What about water purification? Body warmth, access to fresh water—and non-perishable supplies that can be digested by all species.”

(…Yellats. They dry well. This is a good point in case the Dyed Lands are completely inhospitable. As for purification, [Mages] can perform the correct spells if specialized. Or [Druids].)

“Can [Alchemists] mix up something? Also, in addition, take baby powder and formula. Something that infants can ingest. This is critical.”

The Fourth Mind turned from scribing a list of required supplies to Geneva.

(…Why baby powder?)

The [Doctor] gestured to its map. And she pointed at the villages and cities in the path of the Dyed Lands’ expedition.

“There are thousands, hundreds of thousands of people who will be displaced. Whatever soldiers you were taking, you will need more. More, to build camps that don’t fall to infection or chaos. Look at my thoughts—”

She had seen how poorly a lot of humanitarian aid went. If the Fourth Mind went, it needed to take a force ten times what it was planning.

(…The expedition should be investigating the causes of the Wasting. This is a civilian effort.)

The Fourth Mind tried to reprimand her. But the [Doctor]’s eyes flashed.

“There is a crisis going on in the Dyed Lands that few mercenary companies seem to be aware of. If the Minds act now, they can win a war and stop a loss of life and calamity that will become a hundred times worse—before it even begins! Baby formula.”

She pointed at the list, and the Fourth Mind ignored her. 

“I will not cooperate in investigating the Wasting unless you add that to the list.”

The Fourth Mind glanced at Geneva Scala, and she felt a pulse and put a hand to her head. Her mind blanked as the Fourth Mind picked her up and placed her at the entrance to her chambers. She looked around, blinking, and it put a thought into her head.

(You are completely cooperative with our goals, Doctor Scala. Go back to your investigations.)

It suggested, and the [Doctor] glanced up and smiled. The Fourth Mind relaxed and went back to writing as she began to walk off. Until the [Doctor] turned and replied.

“Of course, Fourth Mind. But before I go—if you are going to the Dyed Lands, have you thought about water purification tablets—”

 

——

 

The gaps in her memory.

The [Doctor] saw Geneva Scala obeying the Minds, even beginning to act like a Selphid, joking with Idis, relaxing—

But the holes in her memory?

They filled with something else.

 

——

 

(Geneva Scala, you will not tell anyone about this—correlation between Seamwalkers and Selphids.)

Sympathy was worried. It was having other Selphids see the connection between the Selphid and A’ctelios Salash cross-section. Geneva Scala was nodding obediently.

“I would never do anything to jeopardize the Minds.”

(Good, good.)

“However, may I have permission to investigate the link further? If there is any more of a common cause—I would like to approach A’ctelios Salash’s denizens for cooperation. Or the Hundredfriends Courier.”

(What? No. Why would this be necessary? This does not serve the Minds.)

The [Doctor] blinked as it reinforced the thought in her head, and she bowed—but her head came up.

“Yet the discovery—if there is a common link between the flesh of Tombhome and the addiction it causes, something not even magic can solve—it must be genetic. If the very cells are that foreign, no wonder no one has come up with a cure. The dependency on A’ctelios Salash can be cured—

(Enough!)

The Fifth Mind’s outburst was worried and angry. Geneva Scala fell back as the other Selphids went silent.

(You are supposed to be working for our goals. Focus on that, not the city of Chandrar’s abominations. They are a single city.)

“Yes, Sympathy. But—”

Geneva Scala looked up at the Fifth Mind as the Selphids glanced at her. She spread her arms helplessly.

“—I am a [Doctor].”

 

——

 

The memories were connecting.

Geneva Scala was dying.

The other her was slowly extracting a screaming Okasha into another jar, watching as the [Doctor] bled out.

Now—Geneva Scala understood. She focused on the blood falling without end, and she saw it.

That was why they’d copied her. Because…

Because even when they changed her, she annoyed them. Then she saw it. Her head fell back, and her breathing grew softer. She remembered arguing with the Fifth Mind, the Third Mind going back and forth with her about galas-muscle.

And one last thing.

 

——

 

The Second Mind could juggle. 

All Minds were probably capable of it, but the Second Mind had fifty balls, and it was performing loops with the balls. Importantly—it wasn’t manipulating them through telekinesis, but actually tossing them.

(Much harder, see?)

Geneva Scala didn’t see the point if it could do the same by just floating the balls around. The Second Mind was put out.

(It’s because it’s hard. See—oops.)

It dropped a ball, and a few colorful orbs rolled past Geneva. She shook her head.

“I don’t know if I find it that amusing, Second Mind.”

(Laughter is healthy. But let me try a smile instead. Let us talk about what will happen when you leave this place. The first thing you should do if the Titan frees you is find some Fraerlings. Your company has had contact with them—you should too. Of any being in Baleros, he can help you with that.)

Contradiction still thought she’d be free. Geneva smiled and shook her head, but indulged it.

“Why Fraerlings? Because they’re fascinating biologically?”

(No. Because all your wishes, your desires to spread medicine, to make it accessible for all? You cannot do it alone nor disseminate your methods easily. You have no tools, nor even the resources to make more. But Fraerlings have these things. They have industry and a mindset that understands your knowledge. Of any species—they have something to teach you.)

Geneva’s head rose. The Second Mind projected a little smiling Fraerling, Noa, into her mind, and the [Doctor] blinked. Her heart soared as the Second Mind went on.

(If any species could change things within a generation—it would be them. Find them, Geneva Scala. And you will not be a [Doctor] alone.)

The words struck her straight in her heart. Geneva got up and, despite herself, paced.

“You think I’ll—they’d listen to me? I’ve been trying. But it’s so hard to find help.”

(The Titan will listen. Clever people do. And when you do, I promise you, [Doctor], it will be better. All of our fighting, our pettiness keeping you here. This is a flaw of Minds. It is deep, and comes from fear, insecurity, pride. We amplify our best and worst traits. But Fraerlings?)

The Second Mind laughed. And it sounded like a hundred thousand voices laughing at once.

(They hide for their own safety. Yet I think, our wars and our failings, it must all seem so silly to the smallest, weakest folk. Yet they are often better than we are. Not always, not as a rule, but often. Can you guess why?)

The [Doctor] shook her head as she sat with Contradiction, and despite herself, she did smile. Softly, the Mind of the Selphids offered her a juggling ball, and she tried to throw them up and make them spin in the air.

(…Because they must be far braver than we are.)

 

——

 

The Titan had taken the upper levels. But there were six floors not counting the basement below him, and the Selphids caught off-guard by his attack were falling back under Calectus.

Soon, the Minds would finish wiping out the undead waves and capture the [Rogue] and Fraerlings causing havoc behind their lines.

They were…planting objects all over the Gathering Citadel. Not attacking the Minds directly, but placing something in the corridors.

Selrite beacons? It was like a bunch of mental sirens going off everywhere. Loud thoughts—interfering with the Minds’ own focus and control.

Fraerling tactics they had never forgotten against the Minds. Yet they were still temporary distractions. The Minds were stemming the onslaught. And the only reason the Titan had gotten this far at all was because he had struck while they were distracted.

Six were becoming one. And while the Second Mind resisted them, they had to focus on it. But the final Mind would be able to deal with even the Selrite. Then—it would negotiate with the Titan whether he wished to or not.

And the Second Mind had no more strength to resist the others. It was being pulled apart, assimilated.

The Second Mind thought of Geneva Scala as it was dying. It was vanishing into the Combined Mind, but it kept all of its secrets and shame till the very end.

The rest of the Mind was assembling, arrogant, convinced nothing could stop it. Geneva Scala was dying, and the false version of her that it had made was superior in every other way.

…So what was this? This gnawing sensation at the edges of the Combined Mind? It came from the Second Mind, some kind of—strangeness. A wrongness.

Fear and self-loathing so strong it almost overwhelmed the other five Minds combined. But the Combined Mind was more than enough to force the other elements that had been the Second Mind to think alike. It would inform the Combined Mind’s intellect, but not…

…Not…

A strange feeling stole through the Combined Mind. It felt something running through its body, its physical body and the mind itself. A strange current in familiar seas.

(What is this? What has been done?)

It had overwhelmed the Second Mind easily. The shattered Contradiction had put up even less of a fight than expected. As if it were already weakened. The bodies of its Selphids squirmed around the others restlessly—and their thoughts seeped into the others.

A strange thought occurred to the Combined Mind, and it kept trying to exterminate that final, tiny group of the Second Mind that held themselves apart. But it was getting distracted by a thought that grew louder with every passing moment. And it wondered how the Second Mind had even thought with this desire in it.

No, not a thought. A kind of feeling that the Combined Mind put into words. And it had never…felt like this before.

(I’m…hungry.)

Hungry? Selphids had the ability to ingest food, but the same physical receptors that simulated hunger weren’t in them. Yet this feeling was growing stronger by the moment. An overwhelming urge that was spreading from Selphid to Selphid. In fact—the Combined Mind realized parts of it were—

Were they trying to eat each other? Its bodies were mindlessly crowding the others, trying to tear bits off them.

(Stop. Enough.)

It instantly excreted them, splattering them on the ground—but that feeling was spreading. It was—

It was like a disease of the mind. Once it felt it via one Selphid, the urge was so overpowering, so ravenous that the other Selphids began falling prey to it.

What was it? The Combined Mind lost its focus on the Second Mind’s remnants. Then it realized—the Second Mind was physically holding the other Selphids back from it with a telekinetic barrier. As if the remaining Selphids knew contact was—

It had done something. The Combined Mind searched through the memories of the Second Mind it now possessed. It did not have to search long.

An odd, three-day fast. Weakening, its thoughts jumbling and disassociating as…

As the Second Mind fell to ruin. No, it provoked the rampant hunger and let its body slowly begin to ravenously tear itself apart. Waiting. Waiting for—

The Melding. The Combined Mind felt a sudden surge of fear. It began to shed the Second Mind’s constituent parts as fast as it could, but it was too late. Contradiction had planned this. This—it had foreseen the Third Mind’s ambitions to meld.

And so it had done the one thing it knew it could do that could neither be stopped nor halted. It had taken something from Geneva Scala.

The flesh of A’ctelios Salash.

(You consumed it.)

Then the true horror hit the Combined Mind. And it realized why it was so hungry. Not just hungry—the tiny bit of flesh had been divided up amongst thousands of Selphids. Just enough to poison them with a hunger for Tombhome—

Not enough to sate them. And the Second Mind had slowly amplified that hunger until it had driven the individual Selphid minds insane. Only this core was untouched. And the Combined Mind had just—

Assimilated the hunger of A’ctelios Salash into its being.

(What have you done? You have killed us. Killed—)

(Yes. Yes, we did.)

A tiny group of Selphids rose out of the Combined Mind, separating from the writhing Selphids as the Mind slowly began screaming. They were eating each other.

(The flesh. The flesh!)

Geneva had an entire lump. Where had Calectus taken it? Suddenly, the Combined Mind had to eat. It was so—hungry.

(That? I burned that poison. There is nothing left. We are ended.)

A tiny orb of Selphids rose, barely a hundred, exhausted. The Combined Mind tried to strike at it—but it began screaming. Screaming, and the room shook as it slowly began drifting downwards. Its mental powers were weakening—Selphids sloughed downwards and began squirming around. Then—tendrils of them began rising.

Eating each other. Seeking—flesh. Any flesh would do. They surged around the room and into the tunnels. Thousands of Selphids, trying to cling to sanity. But the Mind was already—

The hovering orb of Selphids thought as it hung there. It was also dying.

(This Mind is no longer Contradiction. We are Redemption, as much as any of us will ever earn. Time to end this.)

Slowly, it reached out with all the force left to it. There was no other Mind left to stop it. Instead—thousands of screaming Selphids were descending into the Gathering Citadel. Flooding the hallways. Transforming into something else.

Redemption feared what it had felt gnawing on the edges of its sanity. But all it could do was this: it reached out to the place it had called a home. The fortress where great crimes had been done.

The Titan was still entering the citadel when he sensed the change. His forces felt the ground shaking first. They fell back, and the Titan began giving orders to prepare a bombardment. But he hesitated as Redemption reached out—

The Gathering Citadel began to rise. A twisting structure only a Selphid could appreciate rose from the earth, dark stone openings gaping and dirt and plants raining down as the Fraerlings and Tallfolk retreated.

Selphids in Redemption started dying from the backlash of the telekinetic strain. It didn’t matter. The Titan saw the citadel rising and saw multiple points of entry appearing. He pointed to the nearest one.

There!

Was this help or a sign of something worse coming for them? His forces charged into the black openings, and Redemption kept lifting them all. It thought dimly.

(Now. Now we will end this unsavory tale once and for all.)

 

——

 

The Selphids in the Gathering Citadel knew something was wrong before it started rising. They had felt the Minds’ triumph—then anguish.

They were embattled with the Forgotten Wing’s forces on the top floor. Calectus was securing an arm to a Selphid who’d had it nearly chopped off. They all looked up, and this night grew from bad to worse.

“Is it the Titan, [Honor Guard]?”

Even with the Minds’ plans in place, Calectus hadn’t taken the Titan’s forces lightly. He and the Selphids had fallen back to the second line—and the [Guardians] had stemmed the attack of the undead and soldiers. But they kept pushing, and the Selphids could neither breathe nor hear easily.

The Titan knew them too well. Gas seemed foolish on Selphids—until you realized how small their actual bodies were. Selphids still had to breathe, and the gas worked on them faster than any other species.

Calectus turned his head, wishing more of the [Psychic Guardians] hadn’t turned traitor.

“I don’t know. Find one of the [Guardians]. Ask them to inquire with the Minds.”

One of the Selphids went running to find a [Guardian], and Calectus reached out with his own limited telepathy. He saw the undead burning as magical traps filled the hallway with flamethrowers, but a Fraerling [Mage] was already directing the soldiers to dismantle the traps.

With an enchanted pickaxe. The Selphids tried to fire on the warrior, but a roaring Draugr charged through the flames, and Calectus had to bring it down himself.

He ran the giant undead through with his glaive and pinned it to the wall, Rampaging to hold it into place. His voice was desperate.

Minds? Are you there?

He whispered, but the Gathering Citadel was oddly quiet. Not in sound, but in…thought. The presence of the Mind was gone.

Then—the fortress began to tremble. He felt it rising and lifted his glaive, yanking it out of the half-melted Draugr—then spun.

“We’re rising? Are the Minds doing that? The Titan? To arms!”

The other Selphids snapped to attention. They lifted their blades, but they had no idea where the enemy might be coming from. They stared ahead—and then Calectus heard another sound.

“The Titan’s forces are past the traps!”

Brace for contact! What is that—”

It was coming from below. It sounded like…water? Or something else, higher-pitched. No—it was in the walls. In the marrow of his body. The [Honor Guard] turned his head uneasily and looked into the dark tunnel behind him. Then he saw the soldier he’d sent to find a [Guardian] running back.

“Dead.”

“Who is? The Second Mind? The [Doctor]?”

No. The [Guardians] are dead. They all collapsed.

Calectus turned. He looked at Theilo’s advancing forces. Then behind him, into the deeper part of the fortress. Then he heard the sounds of Selphids fighting. Screams. And the screaming grew louder and louder.

“What is…”

The [Honor Guard] had served the Minds ever since they had hand-picked him to join the Bodies of Fellden. He was Level 38, and he had his enchanted glaive at the ready.

But nothing had prepared him for this. A dark mass began to flow down the hall, towards the Selphids.

Enemies! Kill them!

A [Mage] threw an orb of acid, but it barely detonated in the mass of whatever it was before it came on. They were black—twining—reaching for the Selphids in a huge mass, like a single organism. More began to flow from an opening in the wall, an air shaft. They squeezed out and dropped, and as the light caught them, Calectus saw what they were and recoiled.

Stop! They’re Selphids! They’re—

Selphids? Thousands of them were wriggling on the floor, writhing towards him. A sea of bodies. The Selphids inhabiting bodies stared at the Mind’s components. Then they heard the screaming.

A mass of Selphids engulfed the nearest soldier. He fell, trying to shake off his people, asking what was happening—then screamed as he realized they were devouring his body. And him.

The scream was mental and physical. Calectus felt a presence beating at his head.

Staring eyes. A city within the hollow pupils. A waiting home in the desert.

Flesh. Stilled hearts. Tombhome.

“A’ctelios Salash’s madness! They’re—”

A screaming Selphid [Mage] threw a burning orb of fire and burnt the Selphid bodies before they poured over him. Calectus moved. He whirled his glaive and chopped down a wall of the Selphids. The Minds!

More were coming. And screaming Selphids with bodies joined their number, possessed by the same hunger.

“Retreat! Re—”

Calectus backed up, but he looked down, and to his great surprise, he didn’t see a leg. Just a mass of writhing Selphids. He swung his glaive, tried to use it to steady himself. Yet he was falling, and the [Honor Guard] screamed once. At the woman—the last legacy of the Minds.

Doctor!

The mass covered him—then blew apart as a sonic bolt struck them. Selphids convulsed, dying, and the [Honor Guard] looked up. His ruined body stared blankly up in relief as a figure halted.

“We’ve just encountered some kind of monster mass. Titan—it’s attacking the Selphids.”

Death-Commander Theilo looked down as Calectus reached up for him. A voice spoke through the speaking stone.

“We see it too. Barriers. Don’t let it touch you. Survivors, Theilo? Do they know what this is?”

The Rustängmarder looked down at the [Honor Guard]. He raised the crossbow and calmly reloaded it. The Selphid looked up, but those eyes searched for his honor…

Theilo shot Calectus through the chest. The Selphid began to melt from within as the Rustängmarder clicked another bolt into place.

“None worth mentioning, Titan. Soldiers, advance.

 

——

 

“…I can’t sense the Minds.”

Deep in the basement of the Gathering Citadel, the Selphid-Geneva looked up, and her composure slipped. She stepped forwards—then felt the Gathering Citadel rise. She stumbled and put a hand on one of the gurneys where a body shifted. A Lizardwoman blinked up at the ceiling as the Alternate Geneva’s head rose.

“The Titan? I have to—”

She still had time, but she went hurrying for the door. Okasha was weeping, bottled again, and the other Geneva began to run—until a voice spoke.

“I can’t let you do that.”

The Selphid spun, and her eyes widened.

Geneva Scala was still alive? The [Doctor] was staring at her, immobilized by the straps. She should have bled out minutes ago with four arteries severed. Only…

The [Telepathic Healer] focused on the woman, and her smile twisted.

“Clever. [Hemostatic Pause].”

Geneva had halted her own blood loss with a Skill. She was as pale as a sheet, but—the other Geneva raised the scalpel.

“I don’t have time for this. What has the Second Mind done? You must have colluded.”

“I don’t know. I fear…people are dying. But I can’t let you go. Not you.”

Weakly, the [Doctor] tried to free her body. One of the leather straps jerked and twisted as her mind fumbled with the clasp. It was so funny that the other Geneva almost laughed.

“You—what are you trying to do?”

“Stop you. I swore never to hurt someone. But you—the Minds have imprisoned me. Made me their captive. Stolen my thoughts and twisted them into you. They can’t have my soul. Not you.”

One of the leather straps loosened, and Geneva actually pulled an arm free. The Selphid realized that Geneva was using her mind—and she was trying to lock down the other Geneva’s limbs.

Geneva’s mental strength was nothing compared to the Selphid’s. Contemptuously, the other Geneva walked over and lifted a scalpel. She cut Geneva Scala’s throat, and this time, the blood began pouring as the [Doctor] began choking.

“They already have you, Geneva. They already know you. Every memory, every embarrassing mistake and all you are. I’m proof of that.”

(I know.)

The Last Light grabbed the scalpel before it could go straight through her chest, into her heart. A blade was digging into her chest, but she kept it from sinking deeper. Her hand was already shaking—she was choking, her lungs filling with blood.

But—her eyes were staring at her clone, and Geneva clung to one thought. Even when they’d taken her memory of her father away. Even when they’d begun making her the [Doctor] they wanted. Someone who loved Selphids—

Even if it was one memory or a hundred—they couldn’t change her entirely. She was still the doctor. Everything she had lived and done made up Geneva Scala. 

One memory altered her. But the [Doctor] stared her frustrated clone in the eyes. Her lips moved, trying to sound out the words.

“You can move my body and alter my mind.”

The tip of the scalpel was juddering with her heartbeat. Okasha’s jar was shaking. Geneva’s lips whispered as her mind strained against her opponent’s.

“I can’t defeat you. But I can still hold my beliefs.”

Her voice was soft and broken by defeats. Sorrows. Even so…the Selphid’s eyes focused on Geneva’s bloody lips.

“No matter what, I’ve still chosen this. It was my choice.”

Geneva Scala’s voice spoke in the Selphid’s ears. Geneva’s throat bled, a stain of red leaking down into her clothes. How was she speaking?

“And I have always chosen…”

The scalpel was plunging down with all the strength of galas-muscle, but it stopped, and the straining arm began to rise. Incredulous, the Selphid-Geneva put all her strength and weight into the arm, but suddenly, Selphid-Geneva was forcing it back. And she felt that the [Doctor]’s strength doubled, tripled—multiplied in strength. Almost like—

Then the Selphid heard a sound, and her arm weakened. She looked up, and a body moved. It whispered as a Lizardwoman raised her head. The voice was different. The body was different.

But the doctor’s head rose—and the Selphid heard a dozen voices whispering the same words. From a dozen different lips and perspectives, each one changed. But the same.

“…to be a doctor.”

The bodies sat up. The waiting vessels moved, and the Minds’ chosen basis for their army of clones was bleeding, choking on her own blood. The Selphid tried to plunge the scalpel down again, but a hand caught hers.

She looked into the gaze of an unsteady Beastkin, fur matted, body stiff from lying there—disoriented, but snarling.

“What are you—”

The other Geneva hurled the Selphid-Geneva back, and the Selphid stumbled. A clumsy paw went to close the bleeding, but it slipped.

So a Lizardwoman seized a needle and thread, then dropped it for a healing potion. The Beastkin tore off one of the straps, and another one snapped the scalpel.

“What have you done?”

The Selphid turned and saw more people getting to their feet. Geneva Scala, the one with the original body, looked up and saw.

“Everything you wanted.”

Geneva stared down at her hands, and they were a Lizardfolk’s. Then she looked up—and even sight was different. She gazed at what she remembered to be her face—and stumbled as she replied. Or some other version of herself did.

“We’re leaving. But you’re not.”

The Selphid searched for another scalpel, but a dozen telepaths tore it away. She had control of a body filled with galas-muscle—and she leapt at the first Geneva. The others grabbed her, trying to tear her hand away as she snapped a Drake’s neck.

The thrashing Selphid sent them flying. She was screaming.

You can’t kill me. You’re not capable of it, even if you copied yourself a hundred times.

They threw her down, but she kicked hard enough to shatter the ribs of another Human. The Gathering Citadel was shaking, and now they could all hear the mental screaming in the air.

They were struggling to hold the Selphid down as she rampaged. She rose and grabbed the original Geneva by the neck—she was lying where she had been freed, unable to move without help. A dozen hands grabbed the Selphid, but she knew she was right.

“You’re still the doctor. But I’m not. I am the Minds and Geneva Scala comingled.”

“Yes. You’re the only one who doesn’t deserve a body.”

Someone whispered in her ear. ‘Geneva Scala’ froze—and then she felt pain. She cried out and swung around, scattering Genevas, but it wasn’t them who was hurting her.

“[Sneak Attack].”

Okasha was in her veins. The Selphid was attacking her within her body—and Selphid-Geneva’s host body began to spasm. Until one of the Genevas called out.

“Okasha. Leave her. Help…me…up.”

“But she’ll—”

Okasha slithered out as they brought her over to the original doctor’s body. She helped Geneva rise, and the [Doctor] flinched when she saw the other Geneva’s head come up.

…But her body just flailed around wildly when it tried to rise. One of the Genevas, a Dullahan, adjusted her head. She held a bloody scalpel and a hammer.

She’d cut the tendons and broken the bones. The other Genevas stared at her. She raised the hammer to bring it down on the other Geneva’s face, but a hand caught hers.

“No. I will take no lives. ‘The health of my patient will be my first consideration. I will not use my medical knowledge to violate human rights and civil liberties, even under threat’.

A Geneva half-fish and half-Human whispered the same words that the others knew by heart. Yet the Dullahan simply tore her arm away.

“We serve more than humanity. The Minds were right.”

The other Genevas stirred, but the Dullahan tossed the hammer down.

“The bodies of the dead are already defiled by undeath. The dead I could cut apart and reassemble. Not the living.”

She looked around, and the first [Doctor] was shaking her head. Another felt at her face and jerked—a Drake coughed and stared blankly at the liquid dripping from her mouth. The Oldblood Geneva whispered.

“I should have never left the battlefield. Things were simpler there.”

Another Geneva disagreed. A Gnoll bent down, lifting a fallen Geneva to her feet.

“We have grown arrogant. We should have been a better person, first.”

“…The mysteries of this world. Find them. This entire planet is ailing. The Eir Gel. A scalpel cannot cut away the next pandemic.”

Pale as a wisp, another Geneva with feathers breathed within another body’s flesh. The [Doctors] looked at each other. Each one was different.

Each one was a different perspective. But they were all—the Selphid-Geneva made of the Minds stared up at them. In silence, they surrounded her until one broke the silence. The Dullahan looked up sharply.

“Something is wrong. The citadel is screaming. Run if you want to live.”

Geneva snapped at the others. They began to run for the stairs, but one of the Genevas bent down, reaching for the fallen Selphid.

“Wait, she’s—”

She looked up for help, but the others were running. A second Geneva stopped, closed her eyes, and ran back to help her carry the Selphid-Geneva up. But the rest were running up the stairs.

How many were there? They ran up the stairs and stopped when they saw the Sixth Floor. It was a sea of black shapes, wriggling around. The first Geneva Scala stopped and bent down.

“A Selphid?”

It latched to her hand and began trying to consume her. She tore the Selphid off her with a cry, and a mass of Selphids rose.

“Run higher!”

“No, this way!”

The doctors shouted at each other. They weren’t alike. One went pounding back to the basement—another group began running up the stairs, and more ran straight through the sixth floor.

The group heading up the stairs vanished as a torrent of Selphids fell, a wave of them eating everything in their path. The rest began to run as screaming Selphids fought crazed members of their kind. They looked up as the doctors ran, some stopping to drag Selphids to safety, others helping each other flee.

 

——

 

The entire damn Gathering Citadel had gone insane.

Niers Astoragon didn’t know what had happened. One second he was bracing for the Mind’s counterattack, the next, he was in the citadel, taking the Selphids by storm as they entered through the new entrances.

The next—a new foe had come out of the tunnels and begun attacking Selphids and his forces alike.

Selphids, forming some kind of living creature that ate everything it could see. They were screaming, and the Titan was calling his strike groups back.

Form up! Form up and burn everything in the tunnels! I want walls of flame! Flood the openings with magma—

“Titan, what about the [Doctor]?”

Strike groups, delve and find her. Blockade every door you get to.

He sent them into that hell, and they went. It always surprised him. Fraerlings riding Tallfolk were shooting wildly into the dark as Selphids lunged at them, bodies and masses.

If anything—it was easier than fighting the Minds. This crazed sea of Selphids could be blocked off. Yet it wasn’t like fighting monsters either. The screaming was mental, and Niers felt it even with his helmet on.

His soldiers were bleeding from their noses and eyes, and he saw a [Forcewall] implode. An avalanche of bodies covered a screaming Dullahan, but Fraerlings hit the armored [Soldier] with flame spells.

Burning, they yanked him out and tore Selphid bodies off his flesh as they dumped potions on the [Soldier].

What are you doing? Pour mana into those [Forcewalls] or I’ll execute you here.

Niers screamed at the [Mage], but the [Barrier Magus] protested.

“They destroyed my spell! They’re using telepathy!”

This crazed group of Selphids was still acting as a Mind? Niers whirled.

“Solid barricades—I want solid barricades and acid spells. No—fire and electricity. Strike groups, move faster! We are in danger of being overrun! Push forwards and secure that staircase!”

Eirnos and Gindal were sniping Selphids with bodies as they came charging towards them, but Gindal yanked down another Selphid’s arm.

Some aren’t mad, Titan!

Put them down! Niers almost shouted that, but he choked on the words.

Contain them! Don’t let them near our soldiers, but don’t shoot them—or our strike teams! Treat them like they’re infected! [Volley Fire]!”

He was listening to the strike groups. One had already taken casualties. Another was silent.

—found the [Doctor], Titan. Bringing her up—refuses to go without saving as many Selphids as—

“Grab her and run. Strike groups, fall back! Target is acq—”

“Strike Group 4 has found the [Doctor]. She’s got a damn Selphid in her.”

“…What? Strike Group 2, confirm you have the [Doctor]? Nevermind that, get up here! At least one of the Minds is alive!

 

——

 

Redemption could feel the Combined Mind dying. But it was slaughtering everything it came across, and it was gaining…cohesion.

The Second Mind hadn’t expected that. Yet it felt the Combined Mind reforming, scattered though it was. No longer a collective, but a kind of consciousness.

What was it becoming? A thought echoed up, and Redemption shuddered as it heard the thoughts.

A ravening hunger without end. A vision of a body lying imprisoned in the sands. Deep—stilled hearts. A prophecy.

The Combined Mind spoke. Whispers in the flesh, killing the Forgotten Wing Company’s [Mages], flooding the Titan’s forces as he screamed at his strike groups to get the doctor and evacuate through whatever door they could find.

 

(…the sleeper shall wake.

it shall devour the mind of Baleros and the blood of Izril

it shall eat the goodness of Terandria and the flesh of cloth

so that it might devour god itself)

 

(Madness.)

Redemption tried to process the words and that certainty. A prophecy? It didn’t understand—but it copied down the words and the knowledge of this place.

None of what had been done, just the warnings. All of it. The despair, the folly of the Third Mind, and all this tragedy. Then Redemption reached out.

The backlash of lifting a fortress out of the ground was killing it. But it still had enough force left in its being to do what must be done.

(Descend into us.)

The Combined Mind was beginning to kill everything. It had all the powers of a Mind. This—this was the Second Mind’s mistake, thinking it could kill the Minds without creating something worse.

Ah, well. At least the Second Mind had assumed it could be wrong.

Redemption reached out as it sensed the last living beings who could conceivably flee heading for the exits. It felt for every other one of them and tried to open a gap.

…But it was time. It reached up and out. And the Mind screamed to the heavens at last.

 

(I am formerly the Second Mind of Baleros. Hear me, Minds of Baleros. Hear me, Emperor of Drath, King of Rhir, Demons, Ruler of Khelt, and Mages of Wistram. You, who pledged to watch us—we have breached the Minacien Wall. Great sins have been committed here, and A’ctelios Salash’s madness runs rampant through this Gathering Citadel. No more. Nevermore. Wake us from this dark dream.)

 

It reached out, and on his throne, the Blighted King sat up, heart pounding. The [Emperor] of Drath sat up from his meditations.

The leaders of Maelstrom’s Howling, the Iron Vanguard, the King of Khelt—the Keyholder of Samal—

They didn’t wait.

A Centauress, Gwelin Fellstrider, galloped to her armory and found the coordinates. She began activating a contingency as an Archmage opened a scroll with hands that shook. They had preparations for this day. Old spells stored away in vaults…

And they had used so many. The King of Khelt stared at the dissolving spell scrolls and wondered how many contingencies they had left.

Yet he still activated them. Redemption felt the spells focus on it, like a beacon. Below, the Combined Mind was still gathering its power. But even it should not withstand what was coming.

Good.

The last Mind in this place floated higher, and at last, exited the Gathering Citadel for the first time ever since it had been created.

A hostile wind blew over it and all the contaminants and dangers of a world beyond. No place for a Mind—and it wished it had eyes to see.

It looked out of the eyes of the other species, instead, and saw an orange glow. The night had not yet turned to dawn.

…Yet the sky was alight. A flaming sword burned through the skies from ancient Drath, and more spells flew in its wake. Burning meteors, and the sky crisscrossed with light as the rulers of nations, Demons and paradise alike, answered the Mind’s call.

Redemption hovered there, watching until the first spell touched the Gathering Citadel. Then—it felt able to rest.

 

——

 

“Not yet! Damn you idiots! Not yet!”

Niers Astoragon howled at the sky. He saw a flaming sword meant for a giant descend. Drath’s wrath lit up the Gathering Citadel like a torch. But Redemption—

It did not intend for a single part of the twisted Mind to escape. It was willing to damn its fortress to hell.

Open a line to Drath and the Blighted Kingdom and—tell them to hold their fire!”

A bolt of lightning struck down, and Niers was thrown off Theilo’s arm. He got up and saw something coming through the sky. The Titan cursed and pulled something out of his pocket.

[No Magic, No Luck, No Skills, Only Strategy].

The Arrows of Razzimir winked out of existence—but more spells began to overload his Skill. Some of the incoming attacks didn’t even flicker.

He looked up—and a thousand arrows were raining down around him, turning whatever they touched to ash or stone. The Blighted Kingdom. Niers coldly pointed up.

“The Blighted Kingdom is beginning to attack. They are ignoring our hails!”

Eirnos screamed at the Titan. He spat blood from his mouth.

“Activate our Tier 7 scroll. [Superior Counter Fire]. Tell them to hold.”

The air filled with thunder as a volley shot back through the skies. The rain of death stopped—or rather, slowed. Eirnos had unrolled a scroll, and it activated as the Titan swore.

[Zone of Slow Time].

They had minutes. The Titan looked into the tunnels and saw dead Selphids. The undead—were fleeing. One ran, a Draugr, turning away from the fortress, and a mass of Selphids reached out—and crushed it into the wall.

“Titan?”

Even Death-Commander Theilo stared into the dark mass as it slowly gathered. But the Titan, the Named-rank Adventurer, just spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“Where’s the [Doctor]?”

“Two floors down.”

“Then we’re opening a path for her. Form up. An Old One’s coming.”

Eirnos slowly looked at him, and then half the soldiers fell to their knees, screaming. A twisting blade pierced through even Niers’ mind as his Selrite helmet cracked.

An orb floated through the corridors, gathering from the Selphids. A voice spoke in the dark.

(…shall consume.)

“Or be buried here. Then, in a thousand years, someone digs you up and finds you. Minds, undead—Crelers—you all don’t tend to die with time.”

The Titan spoke loudly as the Combined Mind halted—one part of it. Even the slow time spell wasn’t affecting it much. He raised his crossbow and nodded to Gindal. The Fraerling leapt into the hands of a [Rogue] who vanished along one side of the corridor.

The Titan was bleeding from his eyes, but the Combined Mind halted. Slowly, Niers Astoragon saw Theilo moving his soldiers left. He reached into his bag of holding, and pulled out an object he’d taken from his armory from his days as a Named Adventurer. He loaded the bolt into his crossbow as he spoke.

“I’ve killed your kind before. Eirnos—[Redirect Spell] on my position.”

The Fraerling Iuncuta’s eye glittered. She removed her eyepatch, and an eye focused. The burning hail of Arrows of Razzimir overhead winked out—

A shining constellation of them shone in her gemstone eye, growing larger—then bursting out as the Combined Mind shielded itself. The Titan fired his crossbow and spoke.

“[Raise the Banner]. [Mark Target].”

 

——

 

…The hail of spells slowed for only a moment. For ten minutes, they halted, then resumed. A pillar of gold shone down and turned the very earth into pyrite. Flame, lightning, and other spells began to disintegrate even the Gathering Citadel.

Even the other Minds of Baleros joined in the wrath—but the armageddon touched down only after the last soldier left the citadel.

The Titan’s forces were falling back. They were burning the ground around the Gathering Citadel, trying to stop the Combined Mind from leaving—but they began fleeing in earnest now. They leapt onto carpets and teleported away. The Titan of Baleros himself emerged, half-supported by Gindal, wiping blood away from his eyes, nose, and ears. He stood there, speaking.

“I’ll have a report on what I saw later, Your Majesties. Later. Be kind to the Selphids. This was one group of Minds. One group…I am positive they were acting independently. No, I don’t know if it’s all…[Detect Life] spells on my position if you can. We got one part—a crater. Melt whatever you can, and I’ll make sure there’s no possibility there was another level beneath.”

He turned to look at the crater of liquified rock and soil as the spells channeled the hole in the earth deeper. Making sure there was no possibility anything could hide in the deeps. No dungeon.

No Old Ones. As for the Titan—he glanced at other figures in the distance, running away from the burning spectacle. But his eyes…were on only one group stumbling his way.

 

——

 

Geneva Scala emerged from the burning hellscape as the entire region began to disappear in the kind of destruction that Niers Astoragon had only seen a few times in his life. His promised wrath had come to the Minds of Baleros.

He’d left Fraerlings and soldiers alike there. The Titan looked up as he counted the gaps in his ranks, and his eyes fixed on someone being supported by several [Soldiers]. Eirnos looked up as she tallied the Fraerling dead.

“Is that her?”

Niers didn’t know. His strike teams had vanished below. Babbling about visions and multiple [Doctors].

“There are Selphids and other survivors fleeing into the forests. I’m either minded to round them up and kill them all—but there are local companies converging on the scene, and all four Great Companies are moving. Are there other survivors? You—are you Geneva Scala, the Last Light of Baleros?”

“Yes. It’s just me.”

“Was anyone held hostage in the citadel or were there just Selphids?”

Niers stared at a Human woman, burnt and wounded across multiple spots on her body. She walked oddly, and one of the Fraerlings had said she was infested. He was nodding to a Fraerling specialist, but the [Doctor] spoke.

“Just me. Me—I have a Selphid in me. Don’t kill her. She helped me escape. I couldn’t move without her.”

Eirnos made a sound. Niers’ eyes lifted, and a weary [Doctor] met his gaze. The Titan held up a hand towards his troops, and he turned.

The Gathering Citadel was burning behind her, and she looked so tired. So this was the Last Light of Baleros. He looked her up and down, and she stared at the small man who led one of the Great Companies of Baleros.

At last, Niers Astoragon nodded to her.

“It’s good to meet you, Doctor Scala. I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. Tell me—what would you like to do first?”

The [Doctor] looked at him, and her lips twitched, but she didn’t quite smile. She looked back and then at Niers, and then, she began to giggle. And laugh.

The Fraerling was polite and waved his people to get her a healing potion—he must have thought she was mad or lost for words at what she’d endured. But the truth was that Geneva Scala looked back at all the madness and her last prison, and despite it all, despite the madness of Minds—she stared at the burning fortress. Then at the Forgotten Wing Company and knew there would never be enough of her to find her friends, to make sense of this world and try to do something, thankless as it was.

But—she laughed with hysteria and mad relief until she wept—

She was no longer alone.

 

[Prisoner of the Minds class removed.]

[Condition: Haze of Delirium removed.]

[Condition: Corruption’s Accomplice removed.]

 

[Conditions Met: Surgeon → Psychic Surgeon Class!]

[Class Consolidation: Telepath removed.]

 

[Psychic Surgeon Level 37!]

[Skill — Greater Resistance: Mental obtained!]

[Skill — Enhanced Telekinesis obtained!]

[Skill — Dexterity of Thought obtained!]

[Skill — Enhanced Telepathy obtained!]

[Skill — My Oath Binds You Like My Conviction obtained!]

 

 

 

 

Author’s Notes: Well, I did a short first half and then edited a Volume 1 chapter. Then I wrote…21,000 more words.

It happens. Big chapters are almost inevitably impossible to write while maintaining editing. I’m unfortunately going to have to write this one off for edits. Which is fine so long as the chapter was good.

This is truncated a bit because we haven’t been with Geneva as long, but it’s hopefully still good. Horror doesn’t always work the longer it gets.

I’m tired after writing this one, but I’m more satisfied than not about how some parts went and yes, editing does help a lot. You should see what the changes are…well, mostly the fighting, which I wouldn’t have been able to do if I were the old me who wrote this and posted moments after with no revision.

The point is—I hope if you read this, it may have disturbed, but you found it worth reading for whatever reason. If you didn’t due to the warnings, well, I understand that. We’ll keep moving on. The world’s changing, and I wonder how it’ll change next? Ours, this one, whichever.

I hope you had a good Halloween and gave out as much candy as you ate.

 

Mind by Brack.

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

Geneva and a Selphid Friend by Butts.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/buttscord

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/buttsarts

 

The Hall of Minds by Enuryn.


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.24

(Author’s Disclaimer: The numbers contained within this chapter are entirely based on one person’s perception and have no necessary connection with reality.)

 

It was one thing after another, these wild days. It proved the Gnolls were right. They always were when the wind changed.

More than [Historians], more than [Kings] and nations—Gnolls had successfully predicted more changing of eras than any other species.

That was a…fact that either had no value or all the value in the world. It was something that only a few people knew.

The night had been quiet for so many, and when the people of this world woke, they did not know, yet, what had changed.

Selphids did. They woke to news via [Message] spell or the sudden suspicion in the air, like smoke and death and dark things brought into the light of cleansing flame. A familiar feeling.

Suspicion. Their own people warned enclaves and individuals first. Friends telling friends, simple [Messages] that lacked for many facts, but contained the important truth.

The Minds had breached the Minacien Wall. Those that did had been destroyed. Dark deeds had been done.

Unlike other species…no, exactly like other species, the actions of a few would reflect on them all. Was it fair? Possibly not. The Minds had authority among Selphids, but their people had not known, by and large, where or who or what these Minds had done at all.

It didn’t matter. Word would spread. Indeed, it was already being discussed, in what would happen—the fallout.

(This has been the worst day for our people in thousands of years. The Minds have delivered no cure to the Wasting, but more death.)

The Minds. They had not been the only ones in Baleros, but they had been a sizable minority. And arguably…did it matter? Minds had violated the Minacien Wall. They were all culpable in that sense.

(That they—violated the Minacien Wall. We have no context for why, only the outcome. Any survivors must shed some light.)

The remaining Minds were discussing the incident quietly. Their usual secrecy and attempts to work independently had been dropped for the purposes of this event. Indeed—the different Minds were being unusually—frank.

(Context? CONTEXT DOES NOT MATTER. The Minacien Wall was BREACHED. Stay away from the [Doctor]. Stay away from the survivors lest we compound this—this disaster.)

One of the remaining Minds was leaking so much raw distress the others had to dampen the influx of thought. Not all of them were upset, but none of them were in denial. They had processed it and realized the truth.

The six Minds who had convened at that Gathering Citadel had not, in fact, come together organically. They had been chosen, some merged for the express purpose of creating a new Gathering Citadel that would combat the Wasting. Each of the six had adherents and affiliations—if they had been public to the other Minds, they would have had factions of support similar to Wistram and other political bodies.

The First, Second, and Sixth Minds had even possessed what was analogous to disciple Minds who had learned from them.

Under the cold light of day, a decision was being made. The Minds speaking to each other from their citadels were not as numerous as the six. So many Minds in close proximity was not normally needed.

Still. The Minds were interrupted by another Mind who represented a group of three.

(This Mind represents north.)

It combined the mental handshake with images of cold stone and snow. The other Minds recognized it and began to fill it in on what they had concluded—little as that was—but this Mind was brusque.

(Our conclave is at work. We have understood what has come to pass, if not why. The conclusion is enough. The Mind that was spun from Egress has come to a decision on its own. It has voluntarily agreed to unmake itself. Into sub-Minds where Egress’ perspective is reduced or into Selphids if possible.)

The other Minds were shocked into silence by the announcement. Six Minds had perished—and more would also be dissolved.

(The Second Mind is not culpable if it—Redemption—signaled the breach. Few Minds remain. This conclave urges Dissonance to remain.)

Dissonance, one of the Minds who had hither-to been silent, signaled understanding.

(I shall consider these thoughts. Nor shall I be blind to Contradiction’s possible corruption. For now—I shall devote my first thoughts to emotion. Mourning. Then, think.)

It was a perspective different from the others. But they listened hard, because the Second Mind had been the one who called down wrath and truth upon the others. What conclusions did they come to? Simple ones. Cautious ones, tempered by guilt and realization just how dark the crimes had been.

(Leave the [Doctor] alone. Warn Selphids abroad. A scourging must not come again—but perhaps it already has been set in motion. Ten—no. Nine shall remain. The Minds of Baleros should consider their place. Consider the future.)

The remaining Minds felt the Selphids’ place in this world shaking—and they had no one to blame but themselves. Grief from Dissonance…one of them did pulse one last thought out.

(…That we have committed so many wrongs. It does not change the fact that the Dyed Lands are expanding. It does not change the fact that there are children from another world appearing. Paeth on the Coast has appeared. We now suffer—)

(—rightly—)

(—it matters not. This Mind suggests one last course of action to the above. To be deliberated upon: send an emissary in humility and cooperation. To either Forgotten Wing or this United Nations company. If neither will have it, then further abroad, for we desperately need allies who are not Selphid. An alliance that does not contain the Minds as the leaders.)

This proposal was met with arguments, but more acceptance than not. Already, reports were coming in that many Selphids in the Blighted Kingdom were either being watched or politely being asked to leave.

For now, it was polite. Yet—if it needed to be, it needed to be. The nine remaining Minds conferred.

(Outreach? Now? Who would trust…ah.)

(An agent like that even exists?)

Some of the Minds had no idea what was being referred to, but they slowly began to agree.

(Very well. In humility. This is the greatest priority of the Minds. So…send our last representative abroad. In outreach, to aid, not dictate. Send the Duck.)

So the Minds reached out and sent an order to an agent of theirs. It heard and obeyed and quietly…

Quacked.

 

——

 

It was an ashy morning. The ash drifted down from where it had been blown into the skies, like snow. It was probably toxic, and the Great Companies, civilians, and people who had gathered to stare at the crater in the ground were being advised to wear masks.

Even nearby cities saw Lizardfolk wearing cloth masks or staying indoors—but the majority of the fallout was being contained by wind spells. The ash blew across the jungle, and [Weather Mages] were even dispersing water into the air to hopefully mitigate the effects. It might well poison the ground, so they were being careful to localize the rainfall. But the ash had to stop.

Why were the Great Companies doing that? Well—there was a rumor in the city. A Lizardman serving tables was chatting—they liked chatting—

“I heard it was The Last Light.”

Several people at the tables glanced up, and the Lizardman nodded happily as someone at the table he was waiting glanced up. They accepted a cool fruit drink and pressed it to their forehead before gulping it down.

“Really?”

Their companion sniffed—and sneezed. The eighth time since they’d sat down. The [Server] wagged a claw with a wink.

“Yep. Heard of her? The [Doctor] who stopped the Yellow Rivers stuff—she appeared and told one of the commanders to do it all. Then—vanished. I knew she wasn’t dead. But a Selphid fortress?”

He shuddered.

“Right next to our city. They’re crazy. Maybe…”

He trailed off, then smiled brightly. No Selphids were in the cafe; everyone looked too alive, but the Lizardman glanced over to the kitchen where another order was ready.

“I’ll be back in a second with your food.”

“Another glass of water, please.”

The first person sitting at the table waved their cup, and the other one sneezed into a napkin. The Lizardman trotted off, and the two turned to stare at each other.

Geneva Scala glanced at the falling ash and then at Geneva…Scala. Or were they?

A Gnoll and a Drowned Woman looked at each other. The Gnoll kept sneezing, but she eventually got it under control.

“…What’s your name?”

“G…no, maybe we have different names, now? What’s yours?”

“I was thinking on that. And the future. Did—she get out? Did the bad one?”

“I don’t know.”

They had stuck together, but however many others had made it…the rumor was that at least one woman was in the company of the Titan. But these two were not her.

They had no levels—at least in [Doctor]. The Gnoll scratched at her fur. It felt—normal. She didn’t have any dissonance with this body, just a feeling as though everything were new. And everything smelled.

She wondered how much she’d been—altered. But she had to believe she was her. And who was that her?

“…I’ve got seven levels in [Survivor]. Four in [Telepath].”

“That’s a lot. What did you do?”

“I don’t know. What about you?”

“Eight in [Telepath], but it’s [Purified Telepath].”

The Gnoll frowned at the Drowned Woman.

“Why did you get that? It sounds better than mine.”

“Perspective?”

“Hrr. Why did I say hrr? Everything smells.”

The other Geneva took a glass of water and gulped it down. She asked for another refill.

“Well, I’d rather be in the water. What now? Do we find—her?”

The Gnoll scratched at her chin.

“I don’t see why we would. She’s with the Titan. I hope she’s well, but we…we should see if anyone else made it. How much gold did you find?”

Amazingly, they had enough to pay for a café. The Drowned Woman counted and shrugged.

“The Minds must have forgotten to remove this bag of holding. I’ve got…a lot. Was this body a [Smuggler] or something? I may be an alcoholic.”

“Wonderful.”

They sat there in silence as the Lizardman came back and wisely left a pitcher of water. At length, the Gnoll spoke.

“Let’s team up. We can do more together. Let’s team up and…figure out what happens after that. The world has the Last Light. Let’s do something else that matters.”

The other Geneva looked up and smiled. She reached out, and the two shook hands. The Gnoll felt the cold grip of the Drowned Woman tighten on hers. Unspoken…they looked into each other’s eyes. Then outside at the fallout.

But the sun was rising. Slowly, they sat back, and the Gnoll decided to order a baked rat. For just a moment—

Rest.

 

——

 

Quietly, then, the day began. Quietly—with no great wars or events save a kind of exhaled breath, the subdued exhilaration after a party.

In Liscor, The Wandering Inn, guests woke up with hangovers and oddly refreshed minds thanks to the sleeping Skill. They woke up—and knew that The Adventurer’s Haven was still headed south, past Invrisil.

That the legends of the north had come south and were heading to the new lands of Izril. That Erin Solstice had met Larracel Delais and that new, strange, and perhaps wacky days were yet to come.

…One Selphid sat up in bed without her usual smile. Jelaqua Ivirith had rooms at The Wandering Inn, but she often stayed in Pallass. Last night at least, she and a certain Dullahan had found this room, but he’d stumbled back to Pallass after realizing that bed was not going to accommodate someone of his size and weight.

She should have been smiling today as well, but she didn’t. She read the little [Message] scroll that was reserved for emergencies…and closed her eyes. Without a word, she rolled up the scroll, then sat there, head in her hands.

Everyone else didn’t share her sudden change of mood. The patter-patter of eager paws on the floor signaled a little Gnoll bursting out of her room in excitement. And like a herald, she was followed by other feet and then a predictable thump-thump of heavy footfalls.

“Jelaqua, are you awake? Let’s have breakfast together. Is she here, Seborn?”

“Probably. Unless she and Maughin are in Pallass.”

Even Seborn’s usual doleful tones were cheerful, and Moore sounded energetic. Ulinde joined them, and Jelaqua looked up. She hesitated, then called out.

“—Be right there, you lot. Save me a seat.”

Later. She’d tell them—the Selphid didn’t know what to say. She stared blankly ahead and wondered what it would change. Nothing, she hoped. But she feared—

The Minacien Wall. The Selphid put a smile on her face. No use keeping secrets, but no use spoiling their good mood.

She’d tell them tonight.

 

——

 

It would change many things, but not immediately. The only effect that news had, this morning, was that Erin Solstice noticed Jelaqua was bummed out.

The [Innkeeper] was eating leftovers and dipping a roll of buttered bread in her bisque as she grew heartily sick of the taste. However, she was in good spirits, and she sensed that almost everyone else coming down the stairs felt good.

If hungover. Ceria Springwalker was rattling Octavia’s doorknob until the [Alchemist] tapped her on the shoulder.

“Ceria. What do you want?”

Hangover cures. Give. Here. Gold.”

The half-Elf shook a bag of gold at the Stitch-woman pleadingly. She was joined by several other guests, including Seborn, Alcaz, Relc, and Menolit.

“Relc? Menolit? Why are you two here?”

Erin blinked, and Relc stared at her.

“Why am I here? Who am I?”

“Didn’t you give Relc a room, Erin?”

Lyonette looked exasperated, and Erin hesitated.

“I did? I did. You normally go to work before breakfast, even Relc. Hey! Wait. Did Menolit get a room too?”

“I woke up in Bird’s tower. Someone put a blanket on me. I had this pie. Think it’s still good?”

Menolit had breakfast…which might have been what he was eating when he passed out. Bird folded his arms.

“I wish to have a lock installed on my tower, Lyonette.”

“We’re replacing your door, Bird. But isn’t it nice that people like your tower?”

Bird thought about it as he picked up a spare omelet and put a chicken leg on top. He turned.

“No. It’s my damn tower.”

He stomped off, and Erin laughed. It was rare for Bird to be that mad, but he wasn’t seriously angry. It was a difference in emotions.

She was feeling perceptive today after levelling up. Intelligent. Erin noticed Jelaqua trailing behind her team as she came down the stairs.

“Hey, Octavia, better get another cure for Jelaqua.”

“Hm? Oh—thanks, Erin.”

The Selphid jumped, and Erin blinked. Maybe it wasn’t a hangover? Anyways, the inn was filled with chattering guests, and Erin saw Liska wringing her paws as Ishkr calmly passed out food with Calescent.

The Goblin was in the kitchen, and Erin stared at him. He stared back, and she smiled.

“Calescent! Wow, this is wild.”

There were Goblins and Antinium working here, and she didn’t know all their names! She looked around and saw a Hobgoblin with one leg using a long wooden leg as she poked a surprised Yvlon and handed her a plate of food. An Antinium Worker being shown how to sweep by…

“Silveran! There you are! I knew it! Shoo, shoo! You have a job!

Silveran jumped, and his mustache wobbled. He fled as Erin chased after him. The inn’s guests laughed as Ishkr took the broom and began shooing Silveran out the door.

“Morning, Miss Erin. We may need to deal with a small situation after you eat.”

“Oh? What’s up, Ishkr?”

Erin was still waking up, but Liska was opening and closing her mouth behind her brother.

Small situation? They’re trapped in Invris—

“It’ll keep. Have your breakfast first.”

Ishkr nudged his sister in the ribs, and she and he began elbowing each other as Erin blinked at them. She went to sit back down, yawning.

“Erin. Did we really meet the Adventurer’s Haven yesterday? Was I drinking with Named-rank adventurers? And did I really—and you have to be honest here—did I really see Mihaela Godfrey do a kegstand? You have to tell me.”

Yvlon Byres was begging for a whiff of sanity as she raised two bloodshot eyes at the table. Erin Solstice thought about it.

“Is that the thing where you balance on a keg with a straw and drink lots of the alcohol?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds about right. You forgot the part where Ceria did the same thing.”

Yvlon glanced over at the hungover half-Elf.

“…No, I believed that part even without Godfrey. The Adventurer’s Haven. There were what, four Named-ranks? More?”

“Well, counting Saliss and Tessa, yeah—wait a second. Is Tessa here?”

Erin frowned around the inn and then looked up. But the Named-rank Adventurer wasn’t there—she sat up from behind the bar and scared Seborn out of his chair.

“What?”

“Oh, good. You eating breakfast?”

“Yep.”

Tessa crouched back down, and Yvlon stared at Erin. The [Innkeeper] scratched at her head.

“Some night, huh? And guess what? I leveled up! I think I did, at least. Wait a second…”

Erin put a hand on her chin. She felt like she was forgetting a key thing. Level up. Great stuff. Fun [Innkeeper]…

Deconstructed door?

Erin’s smile turned waxy for a second, and Ishkr glanced up as Yvlon blinked and smiled.

“That’s great news, Erin! Right?”

The [Innkeeper] gave her an unconvincing smile that made Pisces and Ksmvr stop chewing and glance at each other. Lyonette’s eyes narrowed, and she saw Liska’s panicked look. Seborn grunted and reached for his daggers as Mrsha turned her head.

“Y-yeah. Totally great. Um. Ishkr? What was that thing you were gonna mention? I’m just gonna go over here a second, Yvlon, and—”

A scream echoed from the entrance of the inn. Everyone looked up—and a wailing Gnoll and laughing Drake burst into the room.

Saliss of Lights and Xif had apparently fallen asleep in the rec room. Whereupon they’d tried to get back to Pallass, only to find—

“Someone’s destroyed the door to Pallass! I—I’m stuck here!”

“You’ll have to walk back! Four hundred miles!”

Saliss was laughing at Xif as the [Alchemist] wrung his paws. Erin Solstice saw all her guests look up in horror and lifted a hand.

“Wait, I have a new Sk—”

Too late. The inn exploded into chaos as the adventurers went pouring out to see what had happened. Lyonette threw up her hands in despair. Mrsha looked around for Temile, the Players of Celum, and wondered if they were stranded in Invrisil or worse—Celum.

And Erin? She thought for a second, then waited for everyone to flood out of the common room. Silently, she looked around and counted the people who remained.

“This bad, Miss Erin?”

Calescent looked put out at the people who’d abandoned his meals. He looked at the Goblin and Antinium staff, and one of the Goblins decided that if Ceria wasn’t eating her meal, she would. She sat down and began to eat—until someone glared at her.

Rags had stayed in her seat. Tessa appeared from behind the bar, and Saliss emerged from behind the common room door, sniggering. Erin saw Seborn take a gulp of water and put her hands on her hips. She eyed Ser Dalimont and nodded.

“Well, well, well. Are you all the smart ones?”

“I’m the lazy one. I’m not getting up and running around in the morning. Besides—no one disintegrates a valuable object.”

The [Rogue] toasted Erin. The [Innkeeper] laughed and then saw a timid girl raise a hand.

“I’m here too, Miss Erin.”

“Nanette!”

The witch was munching on some toast with melted cheese on it by the fire. Erin beamed at her. She closed her eyes and thought for a second. She heard a squeak, and when she opened them—

Nanette jumped as a door appeared next to her. But it was not the door to the garden or even the true door of the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Erin opened her eyes—and they widened as Saliss rubbed his claws together and chortled.

“I’ll pay you 50 gold coins to keep this a secret from Xif all day.”

Erin just smiled as a door appeared, framed by stone, and a glittering crystal knob and oval mirror of glass showed another inn—where a distressed group of Humans, including Temile, suddenly jumped and leapt back and began pointing at—

The [Door of Portals]. Erin Solstice felt it ready to go and eight different spots it could reach. She beamed as the door swung open.

Mrsha and the distressed guests were just in time to see the door opening—and the stone archway allowed Temile and a relieved flood of guests to pour through. Liska’s eyes bulged as she saw twenty people race into the inn, and Drassi threw herself down on the floor.

“Oh, thank the Ancestors! I was afraid I’d be stuck—”

The Players of Celum followed and several citizens of Liscor, Celum, and Pallass.

Twenty-nine people came through the door, and Liska expected it to blink out like normal after half that. But it didn’t. The portal stayed open, and Erin exhaled. She clapped her hands and laughed in delight.

“It’s got juice! I could send, like—eighty-three more people! To Invrisil! I could probably open a door in Riverfarm! I’ve got a magic Skill door! I’ve got a magic Skill door!

The upgraded [Door of Portals] looked cooler, could send more people—and it could reach a hundred miles farther than the last one. Erin danced around as her guests stopped in awe—right until someone wandered through the door and inspected it on Erin’s side of the inn.

“Oh. Here it is. And I thought I’d have to begin work right away. Mmm…mm. Apprentice, look at this.”

Valeterisa, the Archmage of Izril, walked through the door, and everyone turned to stare at her. Valeterisa, or ‘Valley’ as some of her friends from the Adventurer’s Haven called her, had a plate of food floating behind her. It bumped into her cheek as she turned.

“What’s this?”

‘Eat me.’ A folded notecard was placed on top of the plate, and Valeterisa blinked at it.

“Oh, breakfast. How convenient.”

She began eating as Erin turned to her. And the [Magical Innkeeper] saw how Larra ran her inn. The sleepy Archmage looked nothing like the woman who had carried Fissival into the sky.

Yet she was the same one, and Montressa du Valeross appeared to Bezale’s delight. She stopped as she saw Ceria, Pisces, and the others, but she tugged nervously at Valeterisa’s arm.

“Archmage, you’re supposed to be at The Adventurer’s Haven for breakfast.”

“But this is magic.”

“Mihaela Godfrey told me to fetch you! Archmage, please…

The thought of annoying the famous Guildmistress was so apparently distressing that Valeterisa noticed Montressa’s anxiety.

“Oh, very well. After I just inspect this door for a little bit. She’s going to visit this inn anyways. I’m just…hm. Hmmmmmmmmmmmm. Hm. Ah, it’s been replaced by a door made of Skills. Just as I thought. Completely incomprehensible enchantment if there even is one. Take note, Apprentice. This is what we call a sidegrade. Or—how did Nailihuaile put it? ‘An upgrade made of gold-painted shit’. I was just about to work on this door too.”

Valeterisa poked the door absently. Erin’s dancing stopped, and the [Innkeeper] turned.

“Say what now?”

The Archmage of Izril looked around.

“Well, it’s a Skill-based door. It probably scales off of levels, not magic. Which means I can’t upgrade it anymore.”

Valeterisa looked around, and everyone stared at her blankly.

“I was going to do this. I’m sure I mentioned it? At Fissival?”

It seemed to occur to her that this wasn’t Fissival. The Archmage uncertainly looked around, and she edged back into Invrisil’s side. Then she made a fist and struck her palm with it as her mouth fell open.

“Wait. This means I can make my own teleportation network. And I have less competition.”

She smiled.

“Yay.”

 

——

 

Erin Solstice had a new door. The news was only slightly tempered by Valeterisa’s revelation that it was no longer contingent on the magical enchantment.

“Ignore Valeterisa. This is a good thing for your inn. The best outcome, in fact, and time will doubtless prove that—especially if Valeterisa makes good on her promise to create a teleportation network. Which is no guarantee; she has failed before.”

Larracel herself came to inspect the door, or rather, her inn did. It was still hovering around Invrisil, having stopped for the combined party between inns.

She walked through the door, and Erin felt her enter her inn, as if a sudden charge of electricity were filling the building. Not hostile—just foreign, a sense of an [Innkeeper] whose level exceeded her own.

Was that how Agnes and the others had felt? However, Larracel didn’t look like some former Named-rank monster or a terrifying woman.

She was short, pretended to look like a member of staff, she had greying hair, and the magic in her eyes was only there when she wanted it to be. She was, in fact—a bit like Erin Solstice.

—But the difference was, she was also a [Mage] and an adventurer. And she’d been doing this for a long time.

“Erin Solstice. Hello and good morning. You must have leveled up. I didn’t, but I’m sure I made progress towards my next one. Congratulations.”

“Oh, thank you—”

There was something more formal about Larra, so Erin almost offered her a handshake, but the other [Innkeeper] just stood there until Lyonette hurried over.

“Won’t you have a seat, Innkeeper Larracel? Can I get you anything to drink or eat?”

“Do you have any of this coffee I think I saw your inn advertising? I would like to taste it properly prepared. And whatever anyone else is eating.”

The [Innkeeper] sat down and smiled at Mrsha.

“Hello there. Who is this young woman?”

Mrsha shyly held out a paw, and Larra shook it.

“Ah, the scamp. I think I know your name. Mrsha?”

Beware of this woman’s gifts! Mrsha narrowed her eyes and stared at Larra’s fresh omelette as the [Innkeeper] turned to greet Nanette and the other diners. Larra didn’t even bat an eye at Numbtongue, and Mrsha slowly reached out—

Someone tugged at her ears before she could mess with Larra’s plate. Mrsha froze with a hefty pinch of salt and saw a glowing imp-familiar tugging on one ear. She hid her paws behind her back as that [Innkeeper] turned—and one of Larracel’s eyes glowed.

“I’ve seen a lot of pranksters like you, young woman. If you want to start a war, just don’t complain about how it ends.”

Mrsha decided to sit up and be very polite. Larracel reminded her of Shaman Theikha—in that she seemed nice, kind—and might throw Mrsha into the sky if she got mad.

“It’s great to see you again. I mean—we met yesterday, but thanks for coming over.”

Erin was only slightly flustered, but Larracel just chuckled.

“Let’s not stand on formality, Erin. You, I like. Besides, we’re not two [Innkeepers] who need to negotiate like the local associations. My crowd is sure to bother you—if only because they want to get to the south and my inn’s too slow. As for the door? Valeterisa’s only focused on magic. It’s better to have a Skill.”

“You think so?”

Erin had begun feeling some chagrin about the original door being lost, but Larracel calmly cut a bit of the omelet and ate as she explained.

“Doors that aren’t Skills can be stolen. I have heard a few attempts were made on yours—and a door that can be taken makes you a target for [Thieves], no matter how good the security is. This is far, far better for your inn. If Valeterisa makes her network, your inn is still valuable.”

“Yeah, that’s right! And people have stolen my door before—plus, I think this one’s got a lot more mana. I can tell. I can send way more people over without charging it up. Although…it might not be able to be manually charged by mages anymore.”

“Well then, it’s consistent. Did you gain anything else?”

“Just a spell. Wait, I can cast magic! I have—[Playful Radiant…Fishies].”

Erin’s excitement diminished as she said the spell out loud, and Pisces snorted loudly. Prixall and Ulvama glared at him, and the latter wiggled her fingers. He jerked back as a spider emerged from his hash browns.

“Interesting spell. Is that Goblin magic?”

“Yeah. I mean, I have a few other spells—mostly [Witch] stuff. I can use my craft to fuel the magic. Like a sorcerer?”

“Interesting. I’m a [Mage], but it is something that both our inns are so magically-based. I hate competition, so let’s not compete.”

Larra chuckled. Erin smiled in relief.

“I don’t actually know much about magic to tell you the truth. [Witch] stuff, a bit, but not magic magic.”

Nanette sat up indignantly at her table, but she was too shy to say anything in front of the other famous [Innkeeper]. Larra raised her brows.

“Oh? Well, I can give you some pointers. I’m technically a [Wizard], but [Mage] magic isn’t much like other types. Mine is embodied in a lot of objects, my inn especially. Would you like to visit it? Or I can summon my hordes to your inn.”

Erin had seen the Adventurer’s Haven from afar, but she and Larra had needed to deal with the literal crowds who flooded both inns. She hesitated.

“I wouldn’t be interfering, would I?”

She knew Larra had noble guests and…but the [Innkeeper] waved that off.

“The Haven is large enough to feed an army, which it has done time and time again. My staff can handle everything—you’ve met Barnethei?”

“That guy who snuck in?”

Larra nodded with a smile.

“He’s ambitious. And he’ll probably be your largest competitor—but he keeps my inn running without my direct influence. He could easily accommodate a few dozen more. What do you say?”

Erin looked around, and half her friends were nodding or trying to get her to say ‘yes’. And she had to admit, she was curious, so she agreed.

“Just so long as we’re not being a bother! I could help bring breakfast.”

Larra laughed, but affectionately. She patted Erin on the hand, then reached out and grabbed Valeterisa’s arm.

“You’re coming too, Valley.”

“Hm? I am?”

“Yes, you are. I have new clothing sized for you, so you can put your robe away, and I’ll have it washed.”

“But it’s perfectly clean. I [Cleanse] it—”

“I know. I’ve had a word with your helper, and she’s told me how ‘clean’ you are. You’ll eat more food, then you’ll wash, wear new clothes, and be a person for a bit.”

Valeterisa shot Montressa a glower as her apprentice hid behind Larracel, but she followed the [Innkeeper].

“But I have so much to do. I’m an Archmage, Larra. Technically, I outrank you socially.”

“I’ll let you read books in the bath.”

“Ah. Well, lead on.”

 

——

 

There were so many parallels to Larra and Erin. They had both come from analogous pasts; they had adventurers for guests who treated the inn like a home. Famous friends.

Like Erin, Larracel had built and rebuilt her inn, upgrading it with her levels. Like Erin, she had magical features. She had participated in famous events—in the north—and her inn was a kind of hub, an independent safe haven.

Even the Assassin’s Guild and other nobles knew that a guest of Larra the Haven was not to be attacked. They could try, but she was a former Named-rank adventurer, and her friends were quite, quite dangerous.

However, even the staff were capable of putting up quite a defense. Like Erin, Larra was not always visible, and Barnethei, similar to Lyonette, was the acting head.

Even their inns were similar. For instance, Erin’s was on a hill. Larra’s floated.

Erin had grass outside her inn. You could walk across the dais of the Adventurer’s Haven past the outdoor tavern area that led to tables and benches like a café and stare over the railings down to the earth below, or, if the daises were connected by simple bridges, walk to the connected farm, library—

Very similar. Right down to the second floor of the tavern area where a miniature guild was located that could perform Adventurer, Mage, and Merchant guild functions.

Oh, and the arcane familiars who helped the staff were analogous to…Mrsha…and, uh—uh—the multiple suites of guest rooms were like how Erin had multiple floors to her inn.

By the time Erin Solstice’s eyes stopped bugging out, even her most loyally proud friends had stopped trying to make comparisons.

The Adventurer’s Haven was a complex. And it had multiple rooms as large as Erin’s [Grand Theatre], each one styled to the Haven’s unique reputation.

“Magic and excitement. The outdoor section is for relaxing—our indoor areas are often used for the nobility, like the Pub of Best Moments. Not usually one for children, but all your guests are welcome to it—it’s semi-exclusive. For children, we have a few magical rooms I’ve made over the years.”

Pub of Best Moments? Erin had no idea what that was, but Ceria was nudging Yvlon, and the [Armsmistress] was refusing to look too awed.

“Whoa, so all these rooms are ones you’ve made?”

“With Skills. I enchanted around the Skills I have. I was a Named-rank adventurer, so I have less Skills than you do solely based around the inn, I suspect. But here—take a seat, and I’ll give you the regular’s experience.”

Larra led them to the nearest table, and Erin saw that there was a crowd this morning. In fact—the nobility were nowhere to be seen. This was the open area, and so it appeared that few of the most exclusive guests wanted to hobnob with the crowds.

Or maybe they were nursing hangovers. Aside from Valeterisa, few of the famous guests had appeared, and Erin suspected they were getting hangover potions sent to their rooms.

Unlike Erin’s inn, they had soundproofed walls, so a noisy little Mrsha wouldn’t wake them up. But Larra’s inn was not just for the wealthy.

In fact, Erin saw some people who looked like they had nothing to spend sitting nervously at a table—but sitting there as Larra nodded to them. They didn’t recognize her, despite her meeting Erin—their eyes were on the man who was walking through the inn with twenty members of staff.

Barnethei, the [Vice Innkeeper], played the part. He strode past tables, shaking hands, and, Erin noticed, personally delivering baskets of food to some or directing guests elsewhere.

“Barnethei comps drinks and food. He’s also in charge of entertainment—he was a [Server] working my tables, and right now, he’s over Level 40 and he could start his own inn and make it famous. He might, but he’s agreed to at least stay with me until we reach the new lands.”

“So you are heading all the way there?”

Larracel seated herself with Mrsha, Lyonette, Nanette, and the other guests with a smile—but this one was tired.

“Oh, I couldn’t leave my idiots behind. I’ll go as far as I can. The Haven is not prepared to be on the edge of a wild zone, let alone a death zone; in that sense, I feel like your inn is better-prepared. But we’ll at least make the journey.”

That was part of the reason she’d sought Erin out. Barnethei glanced up, but Larra didn’t say that, and a warning flick to his hair with magic made the [Vice Innkeeper] keep on his way.

Erin Solstice didn’t seem to notice. She glanced at the new guests, but saw no one coming to take their order. Larra smiled as she saw Erin checking out this area.

“Confused? You don’t get a waiter unless you want to buy something. There’s a law in my inn, and so I think even Invrisil’s people have heard of it. Like this—”

She raised her hands…then eyed Nanette and Mrsha.

“No, how about this. You two, lean over.”

They did, and Erin heard Larracel whisper to them. Mrsha blinked, and Nanette let her clap her paws loudly. Then the witch spoke in a nervous, loud voice.

F-free bread?

Erin looked up and saw something soar out from behind one of the open windows to a kitchen at once. An Arcane Familiar, the imp with little horns, wings, and a tail, leapt into the air and grabbed something. It flew their way and instantly deposited—

Bread! A basket landed on the table, and Larracel added.

“Water, too.”

More cups and a pitcher were dragged into the air, and to Erin’s delight, water, bread, hot and crispy, three long rolls similar to a wider baguette, were placed at the other tables in a basket with a big blue cloth.

“Free bread?”

Lyonette was astounded and mildly aghast. But when they saw that, the nervous guests copied Larra, and regardless whether they muttered or shouted, the familiars brought out a basket.

Valeterisa hadn’t yet gone to her bath, so she stopped and absently tore off a huge chunk of bread, despite her breakfast. She began nibbling.

“It’s better than it used to be. You’re still not giving out free butter?”

“Go take a bath.”

Larra pointed, and Valeterisa wandered off, Montressa correcting her course. The Haven’s [Innkeeper] whispered to Erin out of the corner of her mouth.

“I used to give out free butter. But it does cost too much—and someone would eat as much of it as she could when she was a poor student. Every single day. That’s what each guest gets, though. A basket of bread. I have a Skill. [The Innkeeper’s Daily Supply].”

Oh! Rags blinked. She had skulked behind the others, wondering if she needed to use her ring, but she and Numbtongue were being suffered, if warily, because of Larra and Erin’s presence. That sounded like her Skill.

“That’s so nice of you.”

Erin was smiling hugely, but Larra waved it off, embarrassed.

“I have a farm—the Haven is fairly sustainable. I decided the free bread was a good way to welcome people. Besides—it’s only something I can do with the familiars. They take baskets about, wash dishes—put dishes in soapy water, that is. They’re not clever enough to wash anything but enchanted dishes without me breaking a dozen each week.”

One of the familiars floated past Erin, and the other woman checked to see if they were intelligent, but the familiar didn’t react to the insults.

“Are they smart?”

“They’re no Djinni. Or Golems. They’re just mana—Valeterisa taught me the spell, and I’ve adapted my own. Hers are ironically more clever—and I heard how she was stuck in her mansion for years. I have your friend to thank for that, actually.”

“Ryoka?”

Larracel tried her bread as Mrsha picked up a menu and stared at the food. The [Innkeeper] gave her a smile.

“Order what you like. Yes, Ryoka Griffin. She may have stopped by the inn—most City Runners do—but before she freed Valeterisa so no one took notice if that was the case. If she is ever in the area, I intend to thank her. No one else could free Valeterisa—and we should have. But she informed us she was well.”

She sighed, and Erin suspected that Valeterisa’s absent-mindedness was not new. Larra stretched at her table as Erin looked around.

“So you have tons of guests who come and go, huh?”

“Some, like Viecel, our gambling addict, travel to other continents like Baleros. It isn’t uncommon for them to appear after years. Mihaela’s constant; I’m just a short run away for her. Valeterisa…she used to be here every day, reading my books and eating bread. When she became an Archmage, she fell out of touch. I got a [Message] spell from her every year, and the people I asked to check on her never came back. More than a few friends are like that.”

For a second, Larracel looked old and sad, and Erin imagined Ceria or Pisces coming back as they became famous adventurers. But then Larra was briskly countermanding Mrsha as the girl scribbled an order for a waiting familiar.

“I said order what you like—but you’re not having wine. That’s the Royal Menu. Everything on there is overpriced. Order from this instead!”

She tried to hand Mrsha another menu, but the girl reached into her money pouch and slapped down a handful of gold coins as she glared at Larra, much to Lyonette’s chagrin. Larra eyed her, then turned to Erin.

“…I can see you have an equal number of characters in your inn.”

“Yep. Goblins and silly kids. Say, no one’s gonna try to kill Numbtongue and Rags, right? I kind of have this thing in my inn…”

“No killing Goblins.”

Larra finished Erin’s sentence, and the young woman’s mouth dropped open in pleased surprise. But Larra just chuckled.

“I did do my homework. Barnethei can read. Ah, here we are. This is our menu…and get Miss Mrsha here some of our finest white wine vinegar. Since she would like an experience of fine drink.”

Mrsha sat up excitedly as Lyonette opened her mouth to protest…then closed it. Which really should have clued Mrsha in. Erin was still admiring the look of the inn.

“It’s so vast! You’ve got a library and a farm…do you have a hot spring?”

Larra looked amused.

“Not a hot spring. I have bathtubs, and it’s hard enough to transport all this wood and metal—let alone that much water! I would like a swimming area, but I can barely lift all of this.”

She gestured at the floating inn. It had descended a bit, and to get to the inn, you could walk up a ramp or use stairs. Erin imagined it could also descend to ground level if need be.

“So you’re the one lifting all this? With magic?”

“Yes. I lift it all. When I was a Named-rank adventurer, I created safe zones out of magic. It’s my speciality, and in this area, I may be one of the world’s best.”

That was Larra’s simple reply. It wasn’t arrogant—you could certainly take it that way, but she was a Named-rank.

More food flew in, although one of the servers wearing that colorful uniform appeared to present a plate of hot food with a flourish. Mrsha glanced at the duck leg and full meal—but she stared at the pale liquid in a crystal cup. She looked at Lyonette, but the [Princess] whispered to her.

“If Larracel allows it, I suppose there’s no help but to let you have a bit. Just a sip, though.”

Mrsha importantly lifted the cup—then hesitated as she smelled the white ‘wine’. However, she noticed the other guests watching her, and so she took a huge gulp.

Mrsha tried to swallow—then her eyes bulged. She stared around—then leapt off the table and ran to the railing.

Someone cried out in horror as a little Gnoll spat her mouthful of vinegar into the air…and glumly sank back to the table.

Alcohol ain’t great. I don’t see what you find in it.

She handed the notecard to Pisces, who gave her a bemused look. But he folded the card up and tucked it in a pocket.

“It is an acquired taste, Miss Mrsha.”

Mrsha the Suddenly Sober nodded as Erin covered a laugh and Larra nodded.

At this point, the Haven’s open deck was inviting and fun for Erin—and she saw Larra’s familiars and her style as something to admire.

—But she still had that feeling Inkar would have known very well.

That of someone seeing a hill smiling at you. Erin was waiting to see more of Izril’s greatest [Innkeeper] that she knew was there.

The irony, of course…was that Erin Solstice herself didn’t see how Larra welcomed her into her inn as equals. The irony was that her friends, her guests were as familiar and normal to Erin—but even the Haven’s regulars woke up and took notice.

 

——

 

“…my back itches.”

Deniusth, the Named-rank adventurer and captain of Orchestra, a Named-rank team in its own right, was a gold-bell duelist. One of Izril’s most famous bachelors—but not because he was celibate. He was a famous figure in the north, a musician, and he came stumbling out of his rooms looking like he was dead.

“You smell like shit.”

“You look like shit.”

Mihaela Godfrey and Colth bullied him the moment he stepped out of his door. Deni glared at both, red-eyed.

“You had your fun yesterday. Stop bothering me.”

“You’re too old to drink like a Silver-rank. You coming for breakfast? We’ve got that other [Innkeeper]. Eld’s already heading down with most of the others.”

Deni grunted. In truth, after a night like last night, even Mihaela would have lain abed for a while. They were older, and getting up at the crack of dawn wasn’t mandatory, especially in the Haven.

…That they’d woken up was because it was hard to sleep. Nigh on impossible, actually.

“My damn back itches. Who’s here?”

“Shriekblade.”

Colth spoke, and Deniusth looked at him.

“Who—oh, Salazsar’s killer. Damn. We’re going to be meeting our southern counterparts, aren’t we? I hate [Rogues].”

He rubbed at his back where a [Rogue] had once stabbed him, and Mihaela glanced out the window. She was no [Lady] or high-level specialist, but…

“I don’t see more than a few Runners, but I’ve heard of Garia Strongheart. Some kind of fighter-Runner. Those Gold-ranks look snappy.”

She’d delivered for adventurers in emergency runs, even gone on a few adventures herself. Colth grinned, but Deni just grunted as he checked his clothing in a full-length mirror.

“We’ll see. Reputations in backwaters are always inflated.”

He said that—but the truth was the captain of Orchestra took the time to fix his appearance, and his entire team was waiting for him to make an impression as they descended towards the open seating area.

If Liscor was getting to meet the myths of the north—the same could be said of the Haven’s guests. Here came the south, and they wanted to make a good impression. After all, some of them forgot, but most, even Deni—remembered.

They had once been Silver and Bronze-ranks too.

 

——

 

It was in the eyes. A reflection. It wasn’t that the older you got, the more you changed. It was just that you kept remembering.

What was it like, that sensation of first meeting a Named-rank adventurer, a Courier? That feeling in your chest of intimidation, comparing yourself against them.

Ambition. I will be this someday—

But the surreality of it never faded, sometimes. The feeling of being a Courier and turning your head before realizing it was you.

Colth was like that. Mihaela envied him. She was the Guildmistress of First Landing. The Courier of Izril. That was bone-deep.

These days…she looked and saw a young woman sitting with a Goblin, and her eyes flickered as she saw Garia Strongheart’s awestruck face. The City Runner had muscle—and showed it off. She’d adjusted her shirt so it exposed her stomach. She looked a lot thinner than her Runner’s Guild image on file.

So much so—that she could be a different person except in eye and hair. Mihaela saw Deni’s eyes lock on Garia’s midriff and took care to step on his foot by accident as they walked towards Larra.

She just wondered if Garia got cold. Then she remembered she wasn’t young and cursed.

When was someone going to invent a potion of de-aging?

The most famous [Alchemist]-adventurer, Saliss of Lights, had put his feet up on his table as he watched his peers approach. He nodded to them, as relaxed as he looked.

No one else was. There sat a young woman with arms made of metal, staring at the Named-ranks and Gold-ranks who’d tagged along with Larra’s inn. As if her arms made of metal didn’t make even Viecel blink and Colth ooh under his breath.

The [Necromancer], Pisces, sat next to an Antinium that Mihaela’s skin crawled just from looking at. But there was a half-Elf with a skeletal hand, a half-Giant trying to hide behind Jelaqua Ivirith…

Like Erin, Mihaela thought of her company as entirely normal. Deni dyed his hair blonde. Colth was still a kid who called everyone ‘boss’ and acted like his class, [Supporter]. Eld? Eld was a responsible [Lord] of House Terland. The other adventurers, Gold and Named-rank, were people. Powerful, but only impressive at times.

Like Larra.

In that, Mihaela didn’t realize how she came off to the others. She would have seen a white-haired woman in the mirror, grumpy, coughing blood occasionally, no longer the fastest, proudest Courier who had served in two Antinium Wars. She would claim that she walked around like everyone else and that only when she used her Skills did she move fast.

That kind of talk made it sound like Mihaela was just any older woman in the crowd. Selys Shivertail knew better. She looked at Mihaela and saw someone like Tekshia. Her grandmother had the mark of her level. Mihaela walked like she was on a piece of moving ground that carried her forwards while the rest of the world had no escalator.

She would walk, head turning to lecture her friends, and walk around a surprised guest without even bothering to look at them. Her feet would carry her over a chair, and she’d skip ahead, a four-foot hop, from platform to platform, like Selys stepped over a crack.

Looking at her reminded Mrsha of Wer. That ease of movement was like everyone wanted to be able to move. Mihaela’s walk was the envy of small children. She looked like she could run up a cliff the wrong way, because she had.

Similarly—her companions. Where Mihaela saw a dyed-hair pretender, she had long ago tuned out Deniusth. When Numbtongue focused on the [Musician]-[Duelist], he thought he heard music. It followed the Named-rank adventurer, a solo violin playing. The bow to his violin hung at his side like a rapier, and the gold bell attached to it never chimed. Pisces glanced at another adventurer, who carried a brass horn, and he heard a trumpet’s solo serenading the new day.

The Trumpet of the Battlefield, Gores Caneth. He scratched at the light beard on his chin, accompanying the rest of his teammates, Orchestra, the band of adventurers from the north.

Even the ones without music or that kind of grace that marked them apart looked different. For there was someone that all the Horns knew and got up to nod or bow respectfully to.

Eldertuin the Fortress, Eldertuin Terland, was a giant second only to Moore. Even in regular clothes, the clothes seemed to be thicker than Ylawes’ armor. He was careful and respectful of others, as someone of his height often was, but people avoided him like they avoided walking into a wall. He just gave the feeling that if you slammed into him at full force, even on a wagon—the wagon might be the one that gave way.

There were other teams hovering in the background, too. One of the adventurers produced a handkerchief as they watched the newcomers to the inn. Or rather…was he made of handkerchiefs?

Mrsha blinked. For there sat someone—man or woman, she couldn’t have said. And the figure looked humanoid, but instead of skin, they had blowing handkerchiefs and cloth of every color, often silk or rich clothing, instead of a body. The bits of cloth waved within a kind of suit, complete with a cane no less and gloved hands…but was that even a person?

Erin turned her head and whispered to the nearest person to her, Ceria.

“Um. Is that person made of cloth?”

“Yep. That would be the Favor of the North, Caleis Berkesson. Stitch-man.”

“Oh, that makes so much…where’s his face?”

No one replied. The two Goblins, Rags and Numbtongue, felt that familiar chill down their skin that made them want to run.

This felt like dying. Rags narrowed her eyes and held her ground. Numbtongue felt for his sword self-consciously and saw the gold-bell duelist looking at him.

Even Shorthilt wouldn’t stand much of a chance. Numbtongue was sweating along with the other teams who were Erin’s friends.

The Silver Swords, the Halfseekers, the Horns of Hammerad—even the Wings of Pallass and the Flamewardens had shown up. Nailren’s team and the Silver-ranks like Vuliel Drae hung in the background. But Larra got up slowly and urged Erin to her feet.

“This would be my crowd. More of them in one place than usual—but I hope you will treat them kindly. Many of them cause trouble, and if they do—refer them to me. You lot, stop showing off. This is Erin Solstice. And she suffers mischief about as much as I do.”

The little speech made the watching Named-ranks stir. With that kind of endorsement—they looked at Erin Solstice, and if some of them had been acting superior, it faded.

For there sat the world’s greatest chess-player. The [Innkeeper] who had posted a Mythical Quest. She looked at them and smiled.

What did they see? A smiling giant with black wings playing chess against the greatest [Strategists] of this world? Or just a young woman who looked slightly uncomfortable in her body, slightly weak—and her hazel eyes had no magic in them.

But if you looked close, you realized her hat was made of flame, and it flickered almost invisibly in the air. A certain stillness hung about her. Like a moment that stretched on forever.

“Hi. I’m Erin. These are my friends—the top adventurers around Liscor. You’re all welcome to my inn.”

Two groups met, and Erin Solstice’s voice reminded her guests of who they were. Pisces’ chest inflated, and Erin wished that Griffon Hunt were here. Then she had a thought.

Wait a second. How good was her door?

She focused on something—then cursed and realized she was out of her inn. Everyone else was searching for the best way to make contact, and Erin’s eyes flickered to Invrisil. Her inn was in the capable paws of Ishkr. She wondered if…

 

——

 

There was a right and a wrong way to make an impression on this group. One bad word—and the two sides were enemies, and the Named-ranks were the high-and-mighty lot from the north.

Mihaela said nothing. She had been that bad impression many times, and she wasn’t an adventurer. She waited for Eldertuin to say something, but Eld was so slow. He was just opening his mouth when the wrong person spoke.

Deni.

“I don’t recognize a lot of the teams here…”

The Violinist glanced at the Horns, the Flamewardens, Bevussa, and Mihaela wondered if kicking him off the Haven’s edge would save the moment. As Lyonette had noticed—she reacted faster than anyone else. But she didn’t, and to her relief, Deni continued.

“…but that face looks familiarly unfamiliar. Ivirith, is that you? How the hell are the Halfseekers? You haven’t been at the Haven for a long time! Get over here.”

He broke the ranks and strode over to Jelaqua. To everyone’s surprise, he clasped hands with the Selphid, and she rose.

“Ah—you remember me, Deniusth?”

“Of course I do. Eld, Colth—who here knows the Halfseekers?”

“Ah, I knew it. Only, I didn’t recognize the half-Giant or the others. Seborn, though—looted any ships recently?”

“Learned to swim, Alburz?”

The Drowned Man called back, and a Gold-rank Captain came out of the crowd and feinted a punch. But he stopped as Moore stood.

“Dead gods, a half-Giant. Er—hello. The Halfseekers always change.”

To Erin’s gratification, more adventurers recognized Jelaqua, including Eldertuin, Colth, and a number of others. Even Larra nodded.

“I did have the Halfseekers at my inn more than once in their iterations. I should have said something, Miss Ivirith.”

“Oh, no. We’ve just been knocking around for a long time. Since we were Silver-ranks. We get everywhere…”

Jelaqua’s cheeks were orange with a huge blush. But Deni turned to Mihaela.

“Have you met the Halfseekers, Mihaela?”

“…Name’s familiar. Why?”

“They’ve been around since before we were Bronze-ranks. In one form or another—I remember the Halfseekers when Jelaqua was a rookie fresh from Baleros. Well, they’ve changed, but I recognize another group there. Silver Swords—the team that can’t go a week without getting into some kind of adventure. I heard you lot could find a damsel in distress in every well you pass by.”

Dawil rose to his feet with a laugh. He swept the other adventurers a bow as Falene hesitated, but countless adventurers recognized the name, if not the trio by face.

“That’d be us. Dawil Ironbreaker, Ylawes Byres, and Falene Pointyears at your service.”

He began shaking hands as Falene turned red with fury. Erin let out a sigh as Eldertuin himself turned.

“…And this is Captain Ceria of the Horns of Hammerad. It’s good to see you so well. I thought you’d died.”

“Without you, we would have. Eldertuin, it’s an honor.”

The half-Elf took his hands, and eyes turned to the Horns. Then the murmur picked up because even if they weren’t as old—this was the team who’d been on the news.

“The team that raided the death-zone? The ones who got teleported to Chandrar…?”

A few incredulous murmurs, but then people were shaking hands. Introducing themselves. Ironically, perhaps, the older teams of Flamewardens and Wings of Pallass were least-recognized. But Keldrass rose, and the Humans and other species warily approached.

The one person who didn’t immediately rise was Saliss of Lights. He grinned at the other adventurers as they recognized him—but it was only when the smiling Colth appeared that Saliss swung himself up.

“Saliss of Lights, it’s an honor. Colth the Supporter.”

“I know you, kid. Looks like the north’s come down to play. Watch out—us southern Named-ranks aren’t fun. Right, Tessa?”

He glanced sideways, and a Drake appeared, much to half the adventurers’ shock. But Colth just shook Saliss’ hand so earnestly the Drake was taken aback.

“I am delighted to meet you, sir. And if I might add, it’s my fondest wish to adventure with you at some point.”

Saliss blinked at Colth, then his face turned to one of horror and disgust.

“Uh…you’re being serious. Dead gods, you’re actually…gaaah.

He fell out of his chair and lay on the ground.

“I’m allergic to people like you. Someone save me.”

He tried to cling to Yvlon’s legs and was rewarded with a look of surprised annoyance. Then Saliss sighed and sprang to his feet.

“Saliss, hello! Need a potion—you see me, not Xif. Hello, yes, I’m naked. And I still dressed better than you. Saliss—hello, Eldertuin. Where’s your crazier half, Viecel?”

Mrsha was shaking hands with bemused adventurers as if she were a peer. They rubbed her head and exclaimed.

“Who’s the cute kid? Wait, I think I know this one from the television—it can’t be, right?”

She puffed out her chest and began to introduce herself—but then someone raced into the inn and began shouting.

“I’m here. I’m here! I thought it’d be next year when I got to visit—where’s the free bread? Suxhel, Suxhel, take a magical picture of me!”

Lehra Ruinstrider tried to pose in front of a pair of people eating at a table, and Stargazer’s Promise arrived with a bang. Literally, as Lehra ran into a chair.

Ordinarily, Erin just bet that Larra would be judging, and the [Innkeeper] was watching Lehra with a combination of forbearance and mild disapproval. But she clearly knew adventurers, and Lehra froze when she saw the horde of adventurers. She collected herself, then formed up with her team.

The rest of the adventurers certainly knew the Stargnoll. In fact, they seemed hugely complimentary, and it was such a departure from how Ceria had experienced Invrisil’s elitist adventurers that it was gratifying.

Then she had a thought and adjusted the invisible circlet on her head as she muttered to her team.

“Looks like Erin or our reputations are earning us more respect.”

“Skin-deep. We’re getting the Haven herself to vouch for us and Erin. They’ll be meaner later.”

To her surprise, it was Yvlon who muttered that back. Pisces looked up, and Ksmvr’s mandibles clicked together.

“Should I be more reserved, Captain Ceria?”

“Nah, Ksmvr. But what a crowd!

It felt like something to be recognized, even so. And to the Horn’s astonishment, several Named-ranks were singling them out, even amidst the meetings.

“So you’re Captain Ceria herself. Hello, hello. My name is Colth. Colth the Supporter. I am truly pleased to meet all of you, Pisces, Ceria, Ksmvr, Yvlon. I hope we have the chance to work together at some point!”

Colth the Named-rank shook all of their hands so fast that the Horns were left staring at him. He was one of the youngest Named-ranks, Lehra obviously notwithstanding, but he looked excellent.

Orchestra, Deniusth’s team, were dressed like a cross between performers and adventurers. Eldertuin had a more nobleman’s casual outfit, and his partner, Viecel the Selphid, was similarly attired.

But Colth? He wore chainmail over leather—mithril chainmail—and he had one of the most diverse adventuring belts Ceria had ever seen. His hair was one of those rarer colors—green and brown—and his belt had a throwing axe, sword, wand, two vials, and a loop of something, clearly magical rope attached.

And that was what was on his belt, not in his bag of holding. The [Supporter] was mobile despite the heavier armor and all the gear, and he smiled earnestly at the surprised Horns.

“Adventure with us?”

Ceria blurted before she remembered—this was Colth the Supporter. Famous for empowering teams and being a force in his own right. The Named-Rank grinned.

“It’d be my first time adventuring with a [Necromancer] and the Antinium. That’s valuable insight. But excuse me—is that Jewel I see? Glitterblade? Colth.

He strode over and scared the daylights out of Jewel. In fact—Ceria saw him shaking hands with a surprised Anith, Nailren—

“Does he know every adventurer by name?”

“He should. It’s practically his class.”

Yvlon muttered back. Pisces blinked at Colth and then glanced around uneasily.

“It is quite convivial, I agree, Ceria. Suspiciously so. One has to imagine that there is a Captain Todi for every Colth.”

“I do not see a Todi, Pisces. Maybe the Haven only has nice friends?”

Ksmvr’s optimism was cute. Ceria smiled as she glanced around—she didn’t miss that some of the adventurers were hanging back, especially from Ksmvr and Pisces. Or just the Drakes. This was a good meeting, but she…

She focused on Numbtongue. And Rags, but Rags was sitting at her table since she wasn’t an adventurer. Numbtongue, though, Erin was tugging him forwards, and Ceria was expecting something else here. But even she was surprised by what happened.

 

——

 

“Um. Um—Larra, have you formally met one of the inn’s family? Numbtongue.”

Larracel turned, and Mihaela Godfrey stopped shaking Garia’s hand—the [Martial Artist] looked as though she might faint. Deniusth turned, and the adventurers fell silent.

The Hobgoblin stood there as Erin stood in front of him protectively. She went on, voice determinedly cheerful.

“He’s actually a Bronze-rank.”

“What.”

Mihaela’s voice was flat, but Erin explained how Numbtongue was technically an adventurer. She was eager to introduce him to the adventurers. Even if they reacted…

“There’s a rule in my inn. No killing Goblins, so I’ve got them as guests. I figured it was best to introduce him around. Just in case.”

She met Larra’s eyes, and there was the first point of dissonance between them. Larra’s brows rose silently, but she nodded to Numbtongue and—

Everyone waited for the adventurers’ reactions. Especially and critically here—

Deniusth’s. He had felt at the red scarf around his neck the instant Numbtongue had appeared—and his healing wound. His eyes sharpened, and the pupils turned into points as Numbtongue stared at him. Erin cautiously lifted one of Numbtongue’s hands for him—and the [Bard] gently plucked his arm out of her grip.

Not a good idea. He spoke, and Mihaela started at the sound of his voice.

“Hi. I’m Numbtongue. Goblin.”

The Guildmistress stared at him, but then Eldertuin nodded.

“Eldertuin the Fortress. Viecel the Gambler.”

He spoke, carefully, indicating the Selphid. Colth started, then smiled—but more artificially.

“Colth the Supporter. Well, there’s an adventurer I didn’t know about!”

A few chuckles, but everyone turned to Mihaela. She eyed Numbtongue.

“I’m not an adventurer. Mihaela Godfrey. I can see this inn’s guests are going to be weird. Still better than Saliss.”

“Love you too, Mihaela.”

It was astonishing, almost—and Erin was getting hopeful. Even if this wasn’t being televised, this was a miracle! But Deniusth was staring past Numbtongue’s head. He scowled, then spoke.

“…I’m not doing this. Not again.”

“Deni. This is Erin Solstice’s guest. The Wandering Inn’s guest. Try to at least say hello.”

Larra glanced at Erin and gave him a warning look, but the Violinist threw up a gloved hand. He swatted at a familiar prodding at him with a breadstick.

“No. And don’t try to bully me. I’ve done this dance once. No more.”

No more? Then, Erin blinked at him, and her mind focused on a connection. She looked at Deni—then at Jelaqua’s suddenly melancholic features and the adventurers—some of whom were looking at Numbtongue with distrust or horror or disbelief.

Or among some—a kind of pained nostalgia. And at the Halfseekers. Then it came to her.

“Garen Redfang.”

That name dropped among the adventurers, and then it became clear. A group walking up the stairs and talking in disbelief froze—and Deni turned to look at Erin.

“Yes. We’ve done this before.”

He glanced at Jelaqua, and a world opened up to Erin, and she wondered what it had been like the first time a Goblin came to the Haven. Not today—but whenever the Halfseekers had been here. Deni stared at Numbtongue with a mix of hostility and guardedness. He tugged at his scarf.

“My team just lost a battle against Goblins, Miss Solstice. No offense, but we’ve had a Goblin among adventurers and seen a King. Izril’s done this before.”

Numbtongue’s shoulders hunched—but then he looked up. To Erin’s surprise, the [Bard] spoke to the Violinist as he turned his back.

“Yeah. But I’m neither Garen nor Velan. Garen Redfang was my Chieftain, my father. I’m a [Bard].”

Deni’s head turned back. He blinked at Numbtongue, then the guitar on the Hob’s back, as if he’d never seen it before. He stared at his team, and Orchestra turned with more curiosity than they had to anyone else in the inn.

“…That’s new, at least. Ever heard of Kraken Eaters? Tribe up north?”

Numbtongue and Erin traded a glance. Rags sat up, and the [Bard] replied after a long second of searching Pyrite’s memories.

“…Heard they suck.”

Deni blinked, then he grinned. And to Erin’s huge gratification, the Violinist stuck out a cautious hand and received the most cautious of handshakes.

“I like you. And that little Goblin there. I heard she took Crowdcaller Merdon down a peg. That’s good enough for me.”

A handshake. Erin let out a huge breath, and Larra blinked at Deni as if she hadn’t expected that. But then Erin turned—and threw up her hands. She began running as Numbtongue blinked around, and the adventurers didn’t pay attention at first—until she threw her arms around someone who grunted.

“Erin.”

“It’s you again! I told you it wouldn’t be long! Guess who leveled up? You’re gonna get drinks and—

Mrsha sat up in her chair, then her eyes widened. She howled and leapt over to hug the legs of an embarrassed [Bowman]. Heads turned, and Ceria’s jaw dropped.

“No way.”

Griffon Hunt. Izril’s trackers. What is this, Invrisil?”

Colth laughed at his own joke, and Saliss threw something at him.

“He even tells bad jokes! That’s my thing! Tessa, kill him.”

The team of Griffon Hunt had just arrived, and Larra’s head whirled around as she saw Erin laughing in delight.

“I knew Ishkr would figure it out. My door reaches Riverfarm! My door reaches—waitasecond. Ah, man. Does this mean I’m gonna have to negotiate with Laken? Drat.”

Larracel the Haven focused on Erin as a few pieces came together. The [Magical Innkeeper] had her new Skill all of a morning and she had realized it enabled her to…?

Barnethei had come with drinks and food to the adventurers, but he gave Larra a significant look. They watched Erin try to hug a grumpy Revi and then hesitantly greet Briganda, who gave her a one-armed hug as Cade bounced in her other arm.

So that was The Wandering Inn’s [Innkeeper], eh? The other guests focused on Erin. They had come south to Liscor to make a splash, but it turned out the puddle was as deep as a lake. And Liscor…

Erin wasn’t the only thing changing or ready to roll with the unexpected these days.

 

——

 

Liscor’s Council got news that Erin’s door was ash in the morning. They convened, of course; not a day went by when one of them wasn’t finding the others or they weren’t meeting formally, it felt like.

“Looks like the door isn’t broken. Coffee? Tea?”

Lism had a bagel in his mouth as he shared around a tray of food. Tismel had brought it this time, which proved something about something.

In fact, the two old-guard Council members, Zalaiss and Tismel, showed up routinely, if for no other reason than these Council meetings were important.

“Now there’s a relief.”

Jeiss sighed, but everyone had already agreed to give Erin a day or a week to un-destroy her door or find a new one under a toadstool or something. Lism chewed on the bagel as Krshia cleared her throat.

“Apologies, honorable Shassa. A minor emergency has occurred, and it seems the Council may need to adjourn. Another city has just connected to Liscor, and an [Emperor] has just sent us an—invitation. To Pallass, Celum, and Invrisil it seems.”

“An—an [Emperor]? Not at all, Council.”

A nervous Drake stood before them, and she was properly confused, agog, and perplexed. But Liscor’s Council just gave each other resigned looks.

“Our [Negotiators] are working up a speech and gifts and whatnot. Let’s conclude our business here, first.”

Lism put the bagel on a plate and folded his claws together. The [Druid] blinked at him.

“But the [Emperor]—”

“He’ll keep another few minutes. But we would be delighted by your offer, Shassa. Do you have lodgings in Liscor?”

“I tried The Wandering Inn, but it seemed full up. I found an inn in Celum…”

The [Druid] had been offered a rock in Nalthaliarstrelous’ garden or any place in the hedge maze, but she’d wanted a bed. Instantly, Alonna began scribbling a note. The Mage’s Guild’s Guildmistress passed it to Elirr, who handed it to the [Druid].

“This is for Timbor Parithad’s inn or Peslas’ if your tastes run more to fancy, the Tailless Thief. Both will put you up.”

“Free of charge. Breakfast, dinner. Personal service not included.”

Lism added hastily, but Krshia nudged him. He had to stop saying that—the [Innkeepers] could clarify.

“Oh! This is very welcome, Councilmembers. I actually have one more friend from Oteslia—”

“Let me write a second note. If you, personally, would like to head the sample project, I think we have just the candidates, [Druid] Shassa. Or help find and vet the proper instructors? Make sure it’s all working—we would welcome Oteslian expertise.”

Alonna was smiling, and the [Druid] appeared energetic.

“Of course. I didn’t expect you to see me so quickly—it’s just that I saw the issue and I thought—well, thank you very much. I will, uh, move my things and see that building you offered.”

The Council was very pleased, and they murmured amongst themselves.

“We can have Hexel make a new one if it would help. Something central?”

“We’ll need multiple ones. That’s [Architect] thinking. Nice, safe areas—damn, will we have to negotiate for spaces in established properties? Tismel gets to do that.”

“Me?”

“It’s a net positive, a net positive, Tismel. You just need to convince everyone of that.”

Lism was sighing for some reason, though. Krshia eyed him.

“What, exactly, is wrong, Lism?”

“Oh…damn it. I think we need to pay Erin Solstice.”

Jeiss looked at Lism, aghast.

“For what? For—oh.”

Then they all remembered a promise Lism had made. Off-handedly, yes, and ages ago. But that was the thing. Whether it was coincidence or inevitability—probably pay the [Innkeeper].

“I think this is excellent. And a new Human settlement? At times like this—what do we do? Did the old Council toast things, Zalaiss?”

“Something like that. A cup of wine, clinking glasses together—”

“We’re on the job.”

The other Councilmember sighed, but Lism snapped his claws.

“A good laugh. That’s the thing. A good…mocking, suitably evil laugh. For all the little children and especially Miss Mrsha.”

He smiled with such villainy that Shassa looked aghast—then thought of Mrsha. Mrsha…who, at this moment, was having a sneezing fit and had no idea why.

Why did her fur shiver? Lism chuckled, then tried to really give it a good guffaw and a cackle.

“You baked ham.”

Krshia rolled her eyes, but Jeiss tried it.

“No, I feel what Lism is saying. I can’t wait to see my kids’ faces. Or how Beilmark reacts. She’s going to love it.”

They looked at Shassa, and the [Druid]…the [Teacher] saw Lism’s Council try on a laugh. Tismel was bad at it, but Alonna gave a quite evil chuckle. Raekea…

Ha. Haha. Ha?”

—Had no sense of grandeur. But Elirr’s laughter started back in his throat, and he came out with an escalating overture of dark hilarity, which turned into the deep sinister guffaws of the final villain in a dark castle.

Everyone fell silent, and Elirr turned red.

“Did I do that?”

“Dead gods, Elirr. New talents. New talents. Don’t laugh like that when we meet the [Emperor]. Druid Shassa, we like to have a bit of fun. Thank you for your time. And good luck. We’ll have a class of…students for your school thing very shortly.”

Dark days had come to Liscor. The children sensed it upon the wind, but even they didn’t know what was coming next.

 

——

 

“What a monster.”

Larra had to actually step away when she saw Griffon Hunt appear. Barnethei had found her and whispered what Erin had done. She stood there, shaking her head.

And trying not to let her own hands shake. It was an irrational feeling, but—

“Larra? Is everything cordial?”

“She’s perfectly friendly—but she’s a monster. She hit Level 40 so fast no one saw her coming. Where did she come from? That was deliberate as well.”

Larra whispered back. The [Vice Innkeeper] glanced at Griffon Hunt.

“Should I prepare the welcoming team?”

“Do that. Are you scoping out Liscor?”

“I’ve already sent someone to get all the new things, and I’ve surveyed the inn’s staff—those that you don’t see here.”

“Anyone you want? Be polite, Barnethei.”

He smiled at her reproving look. He was as ambitious as Larra was not these days. It felt, sometimes, like she had a wolf on the leash, and he wanted to run free. But both of them knew—not yet.

Even so, he was preparing for it.

“Just one. The [Princess] is a bad idea—”

“Definitely.”

“—and the rest of the staff are either new, quit, or don’t have much of a spark. But there is one of them I want badly enough to offer him whatever he wants.”

“Make your offer then, but don’t be surprised if Erin comes after you. I need to meet an [Emperor]. Oh—and keep an eye on Deni and the others. Colth knows how to play nice, and Mihaela’s somehow the most professional person here, but we are friends. Allies at least. Oh, and get the inn moving again. It’s a long road from Invrisil to Liscor.”

“Completely heard and understood, Larra. I’ll keep an eye out.”

The Haven nodded, and they broke up. Erin was more than Larra had expected. But the adventurers could be a handful as well. When they got up to mischief, no one could tell what happened next.

 

——

 

Deniusth washed his hands vigorously at one of the Haven’s sinks. The beauty of this inn was that it had plumbing. He envisioned this ‘Wandering Inn’, which he had been told was one of the better ones in the region.

From his brief look in, it was a world apart. But then—these new lands would be even more rugged.

Another adventurer joined him at the sink. Which meant he’d also probably been shaking hands with the Goblin.

“On our best behavior, Deni?”

The tone was a bit too familiar because this wasn’t Colth or Mihaela. But Captain Jolrak of the Salt Reavers was a good Gold-ranker. One of many coming south, so Deniusth let it slide. But he interjected some coolness into his reply.

Larra asked it of us. When the Haven asks a favor, adventurers answer. Best foot forwards with this Erin Solstice. Besides—she’s clearly important. Is that an [Emperor] out there or am I just hearing the gossip wrong?”

His ears were very good. Captain Jolrak shook his head, but not in denial.

“Not there, there, but apparently the [Innkeeper]—not the Haven—opened up a door all the way to Riverfarm. Now everyone wants to meet an [Emperor], and they’re getting ready for formal introductions.”

How many oddities did this [Innkeeper] have? Larra was a force herself, but she wasn’t as…spontaneous. Anyways, Deniusth hurried outside to see Larra and Erin Solstice whispering together.

“Yeah, he’s an [Emperor]. I forgot. You get Griffon Hunt, and he’s gotta do formal…stuff.”

“You mean, introduce himself to Liscor, Invrisil, and all the cities you have now connected? There is a route from Pallass to Riverfarm via your inn.

“Yep?”

Erin gave Larra a blank look. The older [Innkeeper] opened her mouth, then exhaled.

“It must be nice to be so young.”

The [Magical Innkeeper] chuckled, and her eyes swung to Deniusth and then to the other adventurers.

“Well, look who’s talking. You just brought the best adventurers of the north into Drake lands. Or you’re gonna, via me.”

Deniusth paused as he dried his hands on a handkerchief. Larra raised her eyebrows, and the two [Innkeepers] regarded each other.

“I suppose I deserve that. Well, will you give me some hints on how to meet this [Emperor]? Barnethei, come over here. We’ll have to deal with that.”

“Sounds great. I’ll just—hey. Wait. Me too?”

Erin tried to edge away, but Larra took hold of her arm and towed Erin back. The [Innkeeper] would have run, but Lyonette seized the other arm, and Erin groaned as she saw someone storming towards the Haven. Lism and the Council, followed by—

The consequences! It happened to me at last! Mrsha! Learn from my mistakes. Mrshaaaaa—”

Erin let her voice trail off and pretended to sink into a crowd of people who were varying degrees of upset with her. Deni turned and saw a little Gnoll girl give Erin Solstice a somber salute.

“…Even the children here are weird.”

“No, that’s about par for the course. You just don’t see kids that much.”

Colth reappeared, having shaken every single person’s hand in existence. Deniusth glanced at him and grunted. The two Goblins were chattering to each other, and the newer adventurers from the south were swapping stories. But now that the pleasantries were over, Deniusth had one pressing question.

“Say—Byres.”

He found Ylawes Byres, and the Captain turned to him. They shook hands—again—and Deniusth gestured to The Wandering Inn, whose portal door was now surrounded by people entering and leaving. Erin Solstice was shouting.

“Hey! Stop hopping through! I’ve got…fifty-one more transits, then it’s down for two hours! Everybody freeze! Say, this is so neat. I can tell exactly how many people I can transport left.”

“…Some inn, huh?”

“It grows on you, Sir Deniusth.”

Ylawes smiled weakly. The Named-rank waved that off.

“Don’t do the lordship thing with me, Captain Ylawes. That’s old news. Five Families are the only ones who matter, so Eldertuin is the only real [Lord] about with a pedigree. Tell me, adventurer to adventurer—what kind of amenities does Liscor have?”

All the adventurers not following Erin to meet this [Emperor] looked about. Now they got to the real meat of why The Wandering Inn—and Liscor—were so valuable. After all—they were all headed to the new lands.

“I would have thought you had all the supplies you needed from First Landing.”

Ylawes seemed as surprised by the question as the other adventurers. Colth clarified with a big smile.

“Oh, goods, sure. Food? Larra the Haven’s got enough for anything regular, but we’re headed into the wilds. First Landing has a lot of rare items from abroad, but it’s not an adventuring city, if that makes sense. There are things you can only get for a reasonable price by heading abroad or by finding cities that manufacture the goods. I bet Invrisil doesn’t have that problem, so we’ll hit those markets.”

“So not potions?”

Ylawes scratched his chin, and Deni tried to clarify.

Unique potions we wouldn’t be able to get at First Landing. Any high-level [Alchemists]—First Landing has some, but their best goods are often not for adventurers and are snapped up. Any artisans, rare items—even high-quality rope.”

“Rope?”

It was an interesting paradox with the north and south. The closer to established civilization you came—the less unique and useful items appeared for adventurers.

Oh, you could get good rope that [Sailors] used or high-quality stuff anywhere there was flax or hemp. Or enchanted rope—but if you wanted, say, silk rope that was ideal for some kinds of climbing, you always poked around local cities.

Deni wasn’t actually a specialist, but Colth was. Ylawes…was not.

“The Silver Swords tend to make do with whatever gear we can scrounge. But—Yvlon—this is my sister, Yvlon Byres.”

“Ah, the one who killed an Adult Creler.”

Deni glanced at her arms, which were a sight, and she shook his hand very gingerly. He would have loved to ask questions about that, but it had to be a sensitive subject.

“Yes, Ylawes? Pleased to meet you, Captain Deniusth.”

“Does Liscor have unique amenities for sale? I’m thinking of Pallass and Maughin—Xif and Saliss—what does Liscor have?”

Yvlon frowned, but she knew more than her brother and began rattling off items. At first, Deniusth’s heart sank.

“Well, Liscor does have Shield Spider parts in quantity. It’s cheap gear Silver and Bronze-ranks use. Their thread has never been harnessed that I know of. They have…a local [Alchemist], Octavia, who does reasonably priced potions in her shop at The Wandering Inn. It’s literally connected to the common room.”

“That must be a fire-hazard.”

Another adventurer joked. More were coming over to listen, but Deniusth’s smile grew strained. Reasonably priced potions?

It didn’t seem to occur to the other adventurers that they were Named-ranks. Colth was taking notes and asking questions about this [Alchemist]’s level, but Deniusth was just about to find his teammate, Terra, and get her to take notes when Yvlon said something interesting.

“For unique gear…I’d say you’re looking at the Yoldenites, acid jars, and Master Pelt, but the last one isn’t going to make much gear unless he’s in a good mood. Oh, and Kevin’s bicycles, maybe?”

“Hm? What was that about acid jars?”

The Named-rank swung around warily, and to his mild horror, Yvlon Byres actually found the Antinium and he produced a green jar of glowing acid.

“We are armed with eight of them, Comrade Yvlon.”

“Please tell me you keep them all in a bag of holding, Ksmvr?”

“And on the windowsill. They provide a very beautiful nighttime glow.”

Even Yvlon blanched, but then she was showing the jars around.

“Oh, and Erin does magical cooking. Bulkup Bisque she calls it and another meal that makes your skin tougher. I think she has a few more like Mana Candies—Ceria, got any Mana Candies?”

“I do.”

Revi, one of the adventurers of Griffon Hunt, had actually been snacking on them. Erin had given a bunch to the team, and the [Mages] crowded around.

“Magical food that replaces potions? Acid jars? How fast does it melt skin?”

“Seconds.”

Deniusth held the jar away from him as Colth whistled.

“That inn’s loaded with gear for Silver-ranks. No wonder the adventuring scene has taken off—even Gold-ranks must love the inn.”

“The door especially.”

Eldertuin agreed, but Deniusth scowled.

“Master Pelt’s the person for our team to visit—although we’re relatively good on weapons. Orchestra uses musical instruments. Perhaps he could make a custom horn for Gores?”

He indicated the other Named-rank on his team, Gores, and the younger man nodded. Aside from that—Deniusth was mildly disappointed. And at least a few adventurers noticed.

 

——

 

Ceria Springwalker wondered what she would have felt like meeting all these famous names a year or two ago. If she were still in the original Horns with Calruz—she just bet he’d be half blustering, half trying to impress or compete with the Named-ranks.

Herself, she felt different, and the circlet had to be part of it. Even Pisces was watching Deniusth with a kind of awe as he excused himself.

A gold-bell duelist. Ceria had heard that the Violinist could use his bow like a sword and that Orchestra had a powerful combined attack that often led them to fight monster swarms. Eldertuin had personally helped out her team at the Village of the Dead, and she liked him a lot. He was the solid, reliable Named-rank that had contrasted with Elia Arcsinger at the time.

And he was still a contrast to some of the adventurers, who Ceria thought were full of shit. Or at least—they seemed to be looking for magical items and artifacts where Erin sold acid at rock-bottom prices.

They were, Ceria realized, perhaps not arrogant intentionally, but just on another rank than the Horns and other Gold-ranks. And what that rank was—if not just levels—was economy.

“I’ve replaced most of my gear with magical items for armor. It’s very tough keeping the magical interference down—you either have to spend a fortune on something top-end or keep replacing each item and making sure it can fit your equipment. How do you budget in the Silver Swords?”

A [Mage], a Dullahan, surprisingly, was speaking to Falene and Ceria. She had robes but armor underneath, a magical belt, amulet, earring—Ceria and Falene eyed the adventurer.

“The Silver Swords, ah, aren’t as financially successful all the time. We tend to be given an odd assortment of gifts.”

“Really? Maybe you should work around First Landing for a year or two if you want just gold—nothing like cleaning out a noble’s backyard for a few thousand easy gold pieces.”

The other [Mage] had literally hit her magical interference limit with how many magical items she had on. Ceria imagined that even if you hit her with an arrow, her gear would protect her from the first…three. Even in the head.

That was a lot of extra security for a Gold or Named-rank—but even the ones like Deniusth, Colth, and Eldertuin only had one Relic-class item at most. If that.

In Eldertuin’s case, it was his tower shield, a gift from the Terlands. It made his already-formidable defensive Skills better.

The irony to Ceria was this: while her team could always use more gold and artifacts and were undergeared compared to their counterparts, the newcomers had less to gain from Liscor and even Invrisil and Pallass’ markets. Half of them immediately began heading for Erin’s door in hopes of gaining Pelt’s attention.

“…Fat lot of luck they’ll have with that.”

Ceria muttered with amusement to Falene as the Dullahan [Mage] hurried after her team—she was part of Eldertuin’s group, Gold-ranks who supported the two Named-rank leaders.

She thought Falene would make some kind of snippy comeback, but to her mild surprise, the half-Elf rolled her eyes and adjusted her glasses.

“They are the famous northern teams. Not many adventure in the south for a reason. Half would be more likely to take a Terandrian contract than head all the way down to Celum.”

That only mildly surprised Ceria. These were not teams who raced ahead of the pack normally. They had already made their fortunes.

“I’m just surprised Orchestra is still adventuring. They are the team who got part of that four million gold bounty, right? Lord Deniusth—why’s he want to adventure?”

“Purely boredom, Captain Ceria. He retired—then came back—then retired—but I think he gets bored performing in the north. Don’t hold it against him. His team fought the Kraken Eater tribe when they raided a city, and he took that wound against their Chieftain.”

Ceria and Falene jumped, and Colth the Supporter appeared. Falene instantly nodded at him, and Ceria smiled warily.

“And you, Colth?”

He grinned at her.

“I’m young. I still can’t settle down, and I’ve tried.”

Wasn’t he one of Izril’s most famous bachelors? Ceria knew at least three famous [Ladies] had publicly been entangled with him. He certainly seemed more genuine than Deniusth, but Ceria wondered.

…Well, she appreciated the insight, and Colth nodded to the staff of the Haven circulating with drinks.

“Larra’s got refreshments out. Can I get you two anything? You might not know this but she has half-Elven wines, even.”

Really?

Both Ceria and Falene were instantly interested, and Colth spoke to one of the servers, who went into the back and came out with a genuine vintage.

“Berry wine straight from Gaiil-Drome.”

Falene rolled her eyes, and Ceria nudged her.

“Hey, it’s from home.”

“Not a fan?”

“Oh, no. It’s just one of the villages—”

Falene took a sip and found it quite enjoyable, and Ceria snorted as she took a sip as well. The taste was very light to many sensibilities, but it grew on you the more you waited before swallowing.

“Falene’s actually from Gaiil-Drome, so she has standards about wine from our people. This is what you’d call the rural stuff. Me? Anything from home is too rare to complain about.”

“Does the Village of Springwater have a wine?”

Ceria laughed.

“We have a few half-Elves who’ve ‘practiced’ for a hundred years, but they refuse to bottle it. Real old-time half-Elf villages never sell vintages. The traders come by too often—by which they mean every few months. Practically every day.”

She and Falene laughed. Colth grinned.

“Well, I have heard that’s how the old villages work. I’ve always wanted to visit, but the few times I’ve been on Terandria, I didn’t have anyone to introduce me.”

“Yeah, you’d need someone who came from a nearby village or that place to get in. Even for a Named-rank. And there aren’t that many half-Elves in the adventuring scene, even in Terandria. How many have you met?”

Colth counted.

“…About a hundred and five. Above Silver-rank, obviously.”

Ceria choked on her drink.

“What, really?

He grinned like he was younger than they were—which he was—but like he was some Silver-rank scamp.

“I get around. I adventure with other teams, remember? And I have a great memory. I have to, in my class. By the by, I also noticed that a lot of half-Elves at higher ranks here are female. There’s Falene Skystrall, Ceria Springwalker, Elia Arcsinger and her daughter…”

Falene blushed and waved away the compliment, but Ceria’s eyes lit up, and she smiled impishly.

“Oh, that? Well—most half-Elves who make it to high-ranks are female. The male ones just don’t make it. Hazard of the job.”

“…How’s that?”

Falene frowned as a few adventurers turned to Ceria. The half-Elf’s ears lowered, and she whispered somberly.

“Fame. Oh, we’ve got Archmages Eldavin and Feor, but they have access to high-grade magic, and you know [Mages]. Most adventurers? Gold and Named-ranks? Half-Elves live a long time…but disease cuts us down. I couldn’t tell you how many venereal diseases famous Named-ranks have. Tragic. That’s what happens when you’re so famous.”

She looked sadly to the side, and a few adventurers made a face of horror and disgust. Falene hesitated. She narrowed her eyes and whispered.

“That’s not true.”

Ceria laughed, and Colth’s eyes lit up. She watched the other adventurers talking, and the [Supporter] slapped one leg.

“Ceria, this is going to catch up with you someday.”

“It hasn’t so far.”

The half-Elf merrily took a gulp of wine. It was her newest hobby to do this kind of thing, and so far—the consequences hadn’t landed on her.

Tong.

She froze, goblet raised, as she heard a sound in her head. Neither Colth nor Falene seemed to have heard it—but Ceria heard a loud sound that was entirely non-natural in her head. She looked around—but she didn’t know if the circlet had caused it.

That…might not be so good. What was that?

While Ceria glanced around, Colth was speaking.

“…love to join the Horns on an adventure. Or the Silver Swords. Your Dwarf companion, Dawil, is a master [Axe Thrower]?”

“[Axe Champion]—he’s got an odd story behind the class. I’m sure Ylawes would welcome you on an expedition.”

“Just let me know. If I’m free, I’ll join for an equal share of whatever you get.”

Ceria and Falene smiled politely, but Colth glanced at their faces.

“I mean it. Ask around. If I’m free and it’s not crazy—send me a note and call me up. If you’re up against a dangerous monster, need someone with auxiliary Skills—it’s a benefit to me, too. Especially the Horns, frankly. I haven’t partied with a [Necromancer] or Antinium, and that will be a valuable insight to my class.”

“Really? How does [Supporter] work?”

Ceria nibbled on some of the free bread—it was mostly flatbreads—as Colth gestured to a table. Barnethei was whispering to one of his staff, and Ceria noticed the flamboyant [Innkeeper].

“…baking powder, Amentus fruits—we’ll test them for poison—these matches, and any other local goods. Once we can bake it, Larra wants her Skill to produce the fluffier breads.”

He handed the staff member a bag of gold. Ceria’s ears perked up. Well, the Haven wanted all of The Wandering Inn’s advancements, eh?

Colth had heard it too. He made a little note to himself.

“Baking powder. That’s right, you have matches. I wanted some of those firestarters.”

“Can’t you use a magic wand?”

Ceria expected him to have all the gear he needed, but Colth just smiled.

“Deni’s team and I might be able to afford it, but Silver-rank teams would love something faster than flint and steel. Plus—if you need a light and there’s a magical monster about, you don’t want to give it a clue.”

Now that was a level of preparedness the [Mages] respected. Falene looked impressed.

“Do you actually prepare to that extent?”

“If I know the monsters are magical, of course. I’ve gone to House Byres more times than I can count for silver-tipped weapons, and starting a fire is the easiest way to smoke a lot of monsters out. A [Supporter] needs to know these things. And like I said—the more people we support, the better.”

“Ah, so a [Necromancer] empowers your class? Is that secret?”

Colth shook his head.

“Not at all. It’s something I’m quite open about—once I journey with someone of another class, I can pick up some of their class Skills.”

Really? Impossible.”

Colth raised his hands.

“It’s not as convenient as it sounds. I have to practice magic—I picked up instruments from Deni, and I try to learn new trades as I go. Tailoring—difficult, but I spent a few years learning the basics. Spellcasting is the hardest. If I’m in a group, actively casting with you two, I can cast a spell like I were a [Mage] twenty levels lower than my [Supporter] class. If I’m not partying with Pisces? I’d be able to cast about forty levels lower. So, a Level 6 [Necromancer].”

Which meant he was claiming his level was…Ceria blinked. Falene frowned.

“That doesn’t sound…too useful, I must admit.”

“Ah, but animating a skeleton even at Level 6 could be very situationally useful. And having a backup caster at Level 26 is useful too. Combat classes—I can pull good Skills. In fact, I’m always searching for someone with a good, low-level Skill to complete my build.”

“Your what?”

Colth pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Ceria and Falene.

“My classes and Skills. I’ve organized them—I can choose which ones I use, so I configure it. This is my go-to arrangement, but I’ll change them up for magic or stealth as needed.”

Ceria stared down at the strangest thing she’d ever seen. It was…a list of Skills, spells, and other notes about Colth.

Warrior Skills: [Basic Footwork], [Survivalcraft], [Improved Parry], [Evasive Roll]…

Tier 1 Spells: [Stone Shard], [Arrow of Light], [Flareburst], [Detect Magic]…

He had it all noted down, and Ceria felt like she was reading something intimate—yet Colth’s class let him choose.

Colth. Are you showing them your stupid adventuring sheet? Stop harassing the others.”

Mihaela caught sight of Colth and shouted, but the [Supporter] protested.

“It works! They don’t appreciate it.”

“This is…amazing. It’s almost like I can picture you fighting. You could put this in one of those Adventuring Rooms that Wistram’s come out with. Or those games the E—the children were talking about.”

Colth’s eyes lit up as Falene murmured. She was somewhat aghast, but he—

“You know, I’ve thought about that! If you can write down someone’s Skills and talents, why not make a game of it?”

Colth! I swear, you’re not starting this again. Colth!

Mihaela and his friends were shouting insults at him. Ceria grinned as a certain Kevin turned his head, and his eyes lit up. If only Leon and Troy were here to hear this!

“A game?”

The [Supporter] nodded sadly. He jerked a thumb at Mihaela.

“Larra’s banned me from trying it. But I had rules and numbers to represent combat. Actually, I do it for adventurers too, but privately. But in this game, you’d have numbers to represent how good you were at, say, swinging a sword. So if you hit someone, you’d calculate that against how good a monster was at defending or how tough its scales were. I didn’t really have it down—and Named-rank adventurers get touchy when they fail to stab a Creler and get eaten.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I call it—Havens and Havoc. For Larra. I was even going to have a full game made. With little pieces and maps for kids to play. But I couldn’t figure out how to do combat or the rest without it being arguing over whether you’d hit someone or not. I had these cards—”

“You need dice, dude. Twenty-sided dice.”

Kevin sat down at the table. Colth’s head turned, and the Named-rank adventurer blinked.

“Who’re you?”

“I’m Kevin. Hey. Just wanted to say dice is the way to go. I’m not an expert, but twenty sides on a die, a hundred—and then you roll for damage and stuff. Cast the lightning bolt!”

Kevin winked at Ceria, who gave him a knowing look. Colth blinked.

“A twenty-sided die? Can you even make one? But…oh, I get it.”

Who was worse, Kevin or Erin? He winked as Ceria snorted. She ran her eyes down Colth’s list. The [Supporter]’s eyes lit up, and then he sighed.

“Where were you eight years ago? If I’d put in dice, figures…”

“What happened to the game? I imagine it had a shot.”

Colth gave Ceria and Falene a woebegone smile.

“Oh, I put gold into the project, and I had it all going well. Then I found a backer. Maviola of the House of El.”

He spread his hands and threw them up.

“Poof. It wasn’t even her fault. But half the [Traders] heard House El was backing it and decided it wasn’t worth the investment. That’s reputation for you. At least Valeterisa’s projects are making money. You want to talk about bad investments—she’s always been eating Larra’s bread for free. Come to that—Viecel’s adventuring because of the money too.”

The Selphid [Gambler]? Ceria glanced at him.

“Is it the gambling?”

“Partly. He also has about eleven children he’s raising across the world. Anyways, you two want my help? Just let me know. It’s also good for me to know a team’s specialty. Sometimes I might connect a team to another that needs a good group of trackers, for instance.”

He nodded to Griffon Hunt. Ceria smiled and thanked him. The [Supporter] smiled at her as he stood.

 

——

 

The world according to Colth was far more analytical than not. He could—or at least, he tried to—pin a value on people’s abilities.

Whether or not that worked was debatable, and Mihaela would kick him if he did it around her, but Colth believed that there was some merit to reducing people’s abilities to numbers.

After all—a number could be used in a calculation. And wasn’t that similar to someone’s gut instinct if you could win a battle or not?

His number-theory had made some people’s fortunes, and so he often ran the simulation in his head. With that young man’s tip, Colth now thought it made sense. There was randomness in everything. So…for instance, how would you rate that little Gnoll girl’s attempts to steal from Deniusth?

 

Stealing Check: 13 (random: 5, he turned his head as she was reaching up over the table + 2 concealment + 4 [Natural Concealment] + 2 agility. Dexterity?)

Target Check: 33 (random: 15, looking her way + 9 dexterity + 3 fencer’s gloves + 6 [Flash Hands])

 

The end result was that the girl, Mrsha, put her paw on the plate of honey bread as Deniusth stared at her. She tried to snatch it and ran, crowing, with an empty…plate…in her paws. The Violinist took a bite from the bread as Mrsha the Slow stared at him and slunk away.

Well, you couldn’t reduce the world to numbers. There was always an unforeseen variable, but it was fun. Speaking of which—Colth got up to do the other thing adventurers loved doing, especially veterans to new ones.

Pump them for valuable information. And if he could have seen an invisible roll in the skies, he would have realized there was at least one odd variable going on.

 

——

 

“So, tell us about this dungeon in Liscor. And Albez—any other big dungeons about? Come on, Jelaqua, Ulinde, help a fellow Selphid out.”

The Halfseekers fell silent as Viecel brought up the topic. He was smiling at Jelaqua and Ulinde, who looked intimidated and gratified that their senior Selphid knew them.

“You want to ask us for advice, Adventurer Viecel?”

Ulinde squeaked. But Viecel just winked.

“Jelaqua’s a senior adventurer. I’m just sorry we never seemed to meet—I was in Baleros a lot, but I definitely know of her. It’s a long route to the new lands—anything worth seeing before that? Deni, you want to take a stroll in Liscor’s dungeon?”

“Pass. I’ve had enough dungeons for a lifetime. I made my fortune there—I’m after more in the new lands than a hole to wander around in.”

The Violinist waved his hand, and Yvlon interjected seriously.

“The dungeon in Liscor is no joke. It may have been cleared of a lot of traps, but there’s at least one monster that’s Gold-rank or above. It nearly killed Xrn the Small Queen, and it’s still roaming.”

All the adventurers looked up. Viecel’s smile turned serious.

“I heard about that. But I heard it was a [Witch]…what monster?”

Numbtongue started, and Rags turned from surveying the inn, because she knew it too, at least, from Badarrow’s stories.

Facestealer. Mrsha shivered, and Deniusth noticed. He swung himself up and offered her his violin’s bow. When she grabbed it, he hoisted her up onto the table.

“There’s a dungeon boss monster on the loose and no one’s hunted it down? Seriously?”

Mrsha blinked as Orchestra surrounded her—and then began to feed her snacks.

“Such a cute girl!”

Some of them had families, and Mrsha squirmed as they tried to pat her on the head. Help! I’m surrounded by old, affectionate people! Help!

“Boss monster?”

Ksmvr tilted his head, but this was adventurer jargon.

“Dungeon bosses. The biggest, baddest monster, sometimes the leader or head of the pack. There is usually one or two—how bad is this one?”

“It’s gotten Gold-ranks. And it paralyzes everything that gets near it. I don’t know…we never went up against it ourselves, but we’ve heard stories. It lurks around corners with a bunch of severed heads on sticks.”

“Dead fucking gods. An intelligent one lurking in—how big is this dungeon?”

Some of the Gold-rank teams from the north lost their appetite for Liscor’s dungeon just hearing about Facestealer. Others wanted to know if it was really ‘that’ tough. Ceria…

 

Intelligence Check: 26 (random: 6 + 4 memory + 3 lore + 13 combined intelligence)

Target Check: ??

 

Scratched at her head. Yvlon shook hers.

 

Intelligence Check: 27 (random: 18 + 4 memory + 4 lore + 1 specific intelligence)

Target Check: ??, check impossible.

 

…If you were still representing it as Colth thought of things. Something about Ceria made the [Supporter] curious. He kept glancing at her. He had no idea what it was, but his instincts told him that she was, even among the adventurers here—

Promising. So he was inclined to listen to the Horns’ perspective. Then again, he also had a strong feeling about a number of adventurers present.

Colth could be considered to be a kind of talent scout on par with the best [Generals] and [Trainers], even if that wasn’t his exact class. A lot of the adventurers present were the real deal in his mind. Character and natural ability made up a successful adventurer, and they’d survived a lot.

Anyways. The adventurers looked at each other until one of them, arms folded, spoke.

“If you want an actual expert who’s run into it before—ask Numbtongue.”

Halrac the Grim glanced over, and the [Bard]’s head rose as everyone turned to stare at him. Numbtongue blinked—and then realized, yes. Even compared to the Flamewardens and Bevussa’s Wings of Pallass—he and his brothers had gone down into the dungeon and seen more of it than any but Ceria.

“You actually ran into that monster and lived? How?”

Deniusth was mildly incredulous, but Numbtongue shrugged.

“Luck. Trapped it in a trap room.”

Oho.

Nothing would do but for Numbtongue to repeat the story he’d once told about surviving the dungeon and getting treasure from one of the rooms. He told it well, and even Erin’s guests were surprised—they hadn’t heard all of it before.

“Wait. Wait. That thing was melted by acid and what sounds like dozens of Tier 4-5 spells and then broke a trap room? That’s…not right.”

One of the Gold-ranks didn’t believe Numbtongue at all, but Garia Strongheart broke in.

“It did. I saw it when Belavierr was here—it attacked Xrn, and her head opened and…melted part of it. Straight into the bone. But it still survived.”

“…Okay, it’s a Named-rank boss that stalks a dungeon on its own territory. And you lot haven’t tried to trap it? Then again—if these Raskghar didn’t and the Antinium couldn’t—damn. That’s some monster. I wouldn’t want to live near Liscor with that thing around.”

“They have precautions. But yeah.”

The Horns shivered, but Ceria raised a hand reluctantly. Her mind flashed back to the time when she had met Calruz in the darkness, and she shivered.

 

Intelligence Check: 31 (random: 10 + 5 memory + 3 lore + 13 combined intelligence)

Target Check: ??

 

“…I have to break it to you all, but that isn’t the boss of the dungeon. Not even close. That Facestealer is one of three sub-guardians, and the real monster is way deeper down.”

Keldrass, Bevussa, and the other teams who’d made a history of going into the dungeon turned. Eldertuin’s brows rose.

“And you know this how?”

“Skinner and Facestealer were part of a trio. Along with another one that’s dead. Well—that means one’s left, and they were all guarding the real center of the dungeon. Along with other monsters like those suits of enchanted armor and Crypt Worms.”

Ceria remembered the inner city, and the other adventurers listened to her tale of screaming fleshy monsters in that ruined city that even the Raskghar wouldn’t enter. An entire tribe of them under Calruz had failed to reach the hole in the center.

“…Well. That’s a Vengeance Dungeon if ever I’ve heard one.”

Colth remarked slowly. Eldertuin nodded.

“No wonder you tried the Village of the Dead. That dungeon…sounds no less nasty in its way. And Liscor is keeping it contained?”

“The monsters either have to go through a series of trapped rooms or a hole in the ground. Liscor’s been building defenses around it, but the truth is that most of the monster attacks that hit Liscor came from there. I think they killed a lot of what was likely to come out. Plus, adventurers have fortified the area, so it’s harder for a swarm to emerge.”

“Nasty. Well, I’m not going down there.”

One Gold-rank Captain shuddered. Another shook her head. Ceria closed her eyes and remembered that dark time—but it was over. And she agreed. There was nothing more down there.

 

Intelligence Check: 24 (random: 2 + 6 memory + 3 lore + 13 combined intelligence)

Target Check: ??

 

“Let’s do the Ruins of Albez instead. I know it’s empty, but a team just found some treasure there—wait a second. It was you!

The Horns were again the center of attention. Pisces brushed at his hair as the other adventurers talked enviously—until someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“Say. You wouldn’t happen to have that map you used to scout the ruins of Albez, would you? Where did you get that information?”

“Ah—the Free Hive had a map in their possession, and Ksmvr, apparently, gained hold of it.”

Pisces nodded to Ksmvr, and the Antinium clarified.

“As a matter of fact, Pisces, it was Olesm who had it from Prognugator Klbkch.”

Ceria remembered that. She still felt vaguely bad about letting Olesm down—and in hindsight, he’d been robbed of a fortune. Then again—Yvlon rubbed at her arms.

“That was another adventure with some high costs. We ran into a series of traps and a Flame Elemental.”

“Nasty. But—do you have that map by any chance? Because I’d love to buy it or look at it.”

Colth’s eyes lit up as Pisces frowned at him. The [Necromancer] absently began to dig through his bag of holding. Ceria glanced at Colth as she felt a prickle of…insight.

“Why’s that?”

The Named-rank adventurer saw Pisces produce a roll of parchment and elbowed Deniusth hard in the side as the Violinist suddenly left his seat. He looked at the Horns seriously.

“Because…if you found one hidden vault in Albez, who’s to say there isn’t another? Did you ever check that original map for hidden text? Enchanted writing?”

The Horns looked at each other as every adventurer sat up and a burn of excitement ran through their veins. Pisces froze with the map in his hand.

“We cross-referenced it with older maps, I believe…”

He turned to Ceria and Yvlon for confirmation, and Yvlon’s eyes flickered.

“Yeah, I went to the Adventurer’s Guild and bought some of the treasure maps on offer. They had pretty thorough records if you wanted to pay for it—it’s been tapped for ages, so even the best [Treasure Hunters] sold their findings.”

“But that means there might be a room that you could have missed or—you have a map. Actual blueprints. All they had were the ruins. Hey, let me look at that map, and I’ll pay you for your time. If we find anything…I’ll give you a cut of what I get. How about it?”

Deniusth reached for the scroll, but Colth elbowed him hard.

“You’re done with dungeoning, Deni. And you’re old. See? You can barely stand.”

He’d gotten the other man in the liver, and Deni doubled over.

“I’ll pay a fee to look—”

“No, let us look. Hey, Horns, you want a favor? One favor—you name it. You want to hit another Adult Creler, we’re with you. It might not have anything anyways.”

Pisces was backing up, holding the scroll, but half the adventurers weren’t even looking at him. One group was just glancing at the sun.

“…Can’t we get to Celum from that other inn? How far away is Albez?”

They began to stroll off…and then walk and then run as other teams decided this was a fine idea.

“Albez is long empty. The odds of finding anything are minute!”

Keldrass snorted some smoke, but his eyes were on the scroll. Ceria felt like kicking herself. All this time. All this time and they had never gone back!

Then again—Albez had been traumatic, for Yvlon especially. But could Warmage Thresk have had a second armory? Was he the only one who…

“Come on, Pisces. Be a friend and share it. Your team’s already gotten the Village of the Dead raid and Albez. There’s a limit to luckiness!”

The other adventurers were pressuring the [Necromancer] hard. He was refusing, but Ceria saw more than one [Rogue] doing something to the air. She was reminded of [Secretaries] and all the powerful Skills—and Pisces wasn’t warded. One snatched a bit of foolscap up and began to draw as Yvlon noticed and cursed.

“Hey, you—”

Seborn grabbed, but the [Rogue], a half-Elf who looked barely fourteen, did a backflip away.

Come on, guys!

His team began to race away, and Viecel cursed.

“Well, that’s torn it. Let’s share, and I’ll split what I find. Come on—”

Pisces was looking outraged at the other teams running for the door. He began to run after them and Yvlon was doing likewise when Ceria…

Had a thought.

 

Intelligence Check: 41 (random: 18 + 7 memory + 3 lore + 13 combined intelligence)

Target Check: 40.

 

“—Pisces, we’re already in trouble. Let’s share the scroll. For a cut of whatever any team finds.”

She spoke suddenly, and the [Necromancer] looked up. His outrage turned to resignation as she nodded to the other teams.

“Thank you, Captain Ceria, for some sense! Already—oh, look at this. Is there any [Spymaster] in Invrisil? We need to treat the paper—I bet if there was any magic it’s more complex than [Detect Magic]. But these rooms—Albez has shifted, but we could properly check this.”

Deni, Viecel, even Eldertuin and teams like Jelaqua’s were all over the paper. They practically ran towards Invrisil, arguing over what to do first as Yvlon threw up her hands in exasperation.

“Well, there goes anything but a bit of gold! I almost hope there isn’t any treasure in Albez. Damn it, Ceria.”

She cursed, but lightly. She knew that Ceria had a point—it made no sense to hold the scroll after those [Rogues] began stealing copies. But it made her angry.

Only a few adventurers were left who refused to join the rush. Even Orchestra was heading off to find the treasure, but some were either not interested like Saliss, had a job like Tessa, or were just not inclined to join the rush like Stargazer’s Promise.

Lehra was complaining loudly, and the Named-rank was staying put.

“I’m not going to search with a hundred amateurs. That’s how you run into monsters. Besides—I already found everything I wanted in some ruins.”

Ironically, Ceria realized that Lehra, who hailed from a tribe who specialized in searching ruins, was probably the best person to search—but the Gnoll showed little interest in that.

“You don’t want to try to find something in Albez, Lehra?”

“I want to talk to Erin about her quest. Dragial wasn’t the only person looking for Mershi. Niila is still out there, and Fissival is going to be after it too. Besides—so many adventurers are going to fight over whatever they find.”

Lehra seemed fairly certain it wasn’t worth the effort. Or perhaps she had her eyes on something even greater.

Only one last person hadn’t joined that rush from the Haven—and that was surprising to Mihaela Godfrey. She had been staring at Garia, who was full of nerves—but she turned as Colth emerged from the bathrooms.

The world’s greatest [Supporter] had been listening to the entire story of Albez—and Liscor’s dungeon. While it had taken Ceria several attempts to figure something out, it was understandable. Her past felt long ago, and if you missed something once, recorrecting that error in thinking was hard.

But Colth? Colth was the universal specialist. He saw opportunities most people missed—and while any number of adventurers who’d been listening to Ceria, Numbtongue, and the others had made the same mistake, Colth had not.

He glanced at Ceria’s too-cool expression as Yvlon cursed. Ksmvr had already noticed his Captain’s odd silence.

“Captain Ceria. Is there some reason we are not heading to Albez? It occurs to me we could still have a chance at establishing mass-dominance in our hunt, especially because we know Albez.”

The Antinium’s words made Pisces and Yvlon glance up. Ceria glanced sideways at Colth, and the [Supporter] whistled and put his hands behind his head.

“…I might have some kind of an idea. Unfortunately, Adventurer Colth figured it out too and we might be in a competition. Unless we’re going to start elbowing each other for seniority? Yvlon, get over here.”

The [Armsmistress] eyed Colth, but he put up his hands.

“Now, Captain Ceria. I’ve competed with other adventurers before, but it leaves a bad taste in my mouth the more vicious it gets. If what I think you and I are thinking is right—we could share. Possibly even with any other interested adventurers here. If I’m right.”

Mihaela’s ears sharpened, and the confused Horns and other adventurers looked up. Saliss blinked—then swung his head from Colth to Ceria. He put his chin in his claws.

“Hm? Hmm…”

What had they just figured out? Ceria stuck out a hand.

“It’ll be dangerous. But let’s say you get a share and we see what we get first.”

“Very fair. We’re going to need to be safe, but we have the drop on everyone headed to Albez. If we swear everyone here to secrecy—”

Ceria. Just what are you planning?”

Yvlon stuck out an accusatory finger at her friend, and the half-Elf turned—and her face turned into a huge, evil smile.

“…I just thought of something. Something we all forgot about, no, I forgot about because I’m dumb as two rocks. One rock. We’ve been leaving something extremely valuable behind from one of our adventures. Something as obvious—and potentially as lucrative—as Erin’s door.”

Her team stared at her. Erin’s door had been, unironically, the greatest treasure to come from the semi-disastrous Albez expedition. What could this be?

Everyone was thinking now of the stories that had been told. The dungeon, the crypt, Albez…Pisces muttered.

“The most obvious loss was all the artifacts that were burnt away. Could there have been something in Thresk’s armory—?”

Could they have reconstructed the magical dust? Ksmvr slapped his forehead.

The runes.

Everyone turned to him. The Antinium waved his arms.

“Captain Ceria, of course! The runes! Each one is so valuable—”

“Dead gods!”

Yvlon turned white with horror as she recalled how Earlia’s team had earned money from the dungeon.

“There’s dozens, possibly a hundred Insanity Runes we left behind! That—that’s a fortune! Ceria, do you think they’re still there? Please tell me we weren’t that stupid and forgot!”

Ceria shook her head, but not in denial.

“No, we definitely left that behind. But don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? That’s the first place all the teams will check!”

The half-Elf nodded and her panicking team calmed down when they saw Ceria wink at them.

“Doesn’t matter. Someone clued me onto that back when I was on Chandrar. We’re good.”

They were so astonished they just stared at her for a second. Firstly because they’d been left out of the loop—and secondly because Ceria was acting like a proper captain. Yvlon’s mouth worked until she frowned.

“Wait, if it’s not that—what?”

Yvlon’s eyes were squeezed shut. She was going back to the first expedition, and her arms hurt—her heart hurt.

“Could it be…the crypt doors that Skinner came out of? The sarcophagi?”

“Nope. They’re not enchanted as far as I can tell.”

Ceria shook her head. She was thinking of something else, based on the retellings. Her circlet, her conversations with adventurers, dead gods, even Omusc the [Pillager] had made her realize what Colth, with his fresh perspective, had picked up.

One ultra-valuable thing. Just lying there in sight of all the adventurers. Saliss’ eyes narrowed. They swung to Numbtongue, Ceria, Colth—and then he snapped his claws.

“Aha. I’m smarter than you all.”

He sat back with a grin. Yvlon’s kicking foot twitched—and then stopped. She stared at the naked Drake, and her mouth became an ‘o’.

“Pisces. I have it. It’s so obvious—how did you not think of it? You, of all people!”

Pisces looked offended—and slightly paranoid. He sniffed heartily.

“Me? Why—why would I be the lone fault in our collective thinking? I am not the career adventurer here.”

“Yes, but you’re the one who’d think of this first, Pisces. You…filthy [Necromancer], you.”

Ceria and Yvlon were teasing now. Pisces stared at them, and then he felt that tingle in his head too. Wait a second. Wait…

Only Ceria had actually ever ‘seen’ what they had left behind. So naturally more people wouldn’t have had that direct link. But when you thought about it—

What did an adventurer do to earn money? Find treasure, but how many Trolls just kept jars of gold hidden in the earth? How many Crelers invested in artifacts? Dungeons contained such treasure, but there was another basic way that Relics and artifacts were generated and made.

Pallass had done the smart thing after the Wyvern attack. It was now a growing hub of high-quality leather and meat. What had Ceria seen that she had left?

Well—how about the sight a crazed Minotaur had once shown her? Deep in an infested city lay the corpse of one of the three guardians of the dungeon.

Stalker. A once-invisible beast so powerful it had not succumbed to rot. And it was still down there. Hide and all.

Pisces’ mouth fell open, and Colth rubbed his hands together. He looked around at Ceria.

“Now, how big did you say this beast was? No—first off, let’s swear everyone to secrecy. And then—let’s have a team up. Time for an adventure.”

He smiled, and Ceria bared her teeth. After all—Stalker’s corpse was in the center of the dungeon. In the most dangerous spot, where Facestealer hunted. But they had a Named-rank—Named-ranks in the area.

The question was, how would they adventure? And of course—what could go wrong?

All their encounters with Liscor’s dungeon had always gone so right, after all.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: Well, after that last big chapter, I am now trying to bring us back to shorter chapters and resume edits.

…I edited two chapters so far and am going for a third. Still, I have about 30 chapters left of Volume 1, so it’s still a bit of a hill that I’ll take down piece by piece.

This is news from me. In other news, I just played and beat Ghost Song and Signalis, both horror/eldritch games that I consider a cut above regular games. Good storytelling in each. Far better than Resident Evil Village’s new DLC, which has the worst story.

Yes, I play games on my time off. I just don’t mention it. It’s my version of TWI, I think, where I destress because games don’t make me think. Finding good stories in games is, uh, rare. But I do have hope. It’s just an interesting genre of its own with tropes and bad writing and sometimes just blind spots I notice.

I’d love to do one of those video essays but I’m no expert in verbal communication and I’m busy, but I always like seeing cool projects like that. Odd Taxi, for instance, was a great TV show I watched. Cells at Work, especially the spinoff, also fun and non-taxing, non-dramatic (like, say, a House of the Dragon or the Lord of the Rings stuff which feels too involved for my time off), and I’ve been pleased by the wealth of good stuff.

Well, I had nothing else to add, so I decided to talk about fun stuff I found for a bit. Look forwards to that poll chapter—it won by one vote! Thanks, and hopefully the story continues to be entertaining. Also, skuuul. Schuul? Something like that.

 

 

[Playful Radiant Fishies] by Lanrae!

 

Frostmarrow Behemoth Upgraded by LeChatDemon!

 

Adventurer’s Haven Symbol by Kylara!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Interlude – Adventurers (Pt. 1)

“When did it happen?”

“What happen?”

He leaned on the pommel of his horse’s saddle. A rich saddle, high-backed and made for long-distance riding. Padded subtly, and enchanted so you had even less chance of slipping during a ride.

All the things he didn’t want to show the youngsters. All the things he had never had when he was young, because he hadn’t really needed them.

Deniusth the Violinist looked at the saddlehorn.

“This year. It feels like it’s been disaster after disaster—great events happening. People dying. The changing of an age. I know that’s probably why—but what started it?”

Eldertuin, Viecel, and Gores were the ones he was addressing. Orchestra was there, but they were the Named-ranks. Gores had been with Deniusth from the start, when he’d carried a rapier and the two just played musical instruments for fun.

“The King of Destruction waking up?”

Eldertuin scratched at his chin; he’d gotten rid of that stupid-looking beard from a few years back. Odd, how it felt like just a moment ago that Deni remembered seeing it.

Odd, to think Valeterisa was wandering about the inn as if she hadn’t been gone eight years. Eight years. And he hadn’t woken her up.

Not that he’d known. But they’d known. Not that they were the best of friends—but they’d known each other. It was just counting the adventurers who’d vanished, even Couriers, and hearing Larra stop sending people to ‘check on her’.

It was standing at her mansion after dodging the artillery spells and looking into that doorway and feeling his [Dangersense] tingle.

It was—being afraid. He’d never told anyone that he’d gone. Then some City Runner did the impossible and woke her up. Saved Salamani, too.

Was he intimidated by them? The rowdy Gold-ranks, riding ahead of the ones who’d chosen a wagon, the Silver-ranks he didn’t know, who were staring at him?

Or was it the feeling in his bones? Deniusth shook his head.

“It’s not just the King of Destruction. It feels like—of course him waking up had something to do with it. But all these recent events. Why did you come south, Eldertuin? You’ve got a family. Kids. You’re a Terland.”

“I’m just married into the family. Alorelle and I discussed the matter, and she knows House Terland will be needing representatives in the south.”

Eldertuin murmured, shrugging his broad shoulders self-consciously. Deniusth had never been married—oh, he’d been standing with a ring on his finger twice. Before he’d fled the altar—or the second time, someone had broken into the wedding and eloped with the bride.

But never married. Yet even he, the constant philanderer in his friends’ eyes, the one Mihaela could never let up about his dyed hair, as if that were the greatest vanity in the world—

And Alorelle just let you go? To the new lands of Izril, an entire continent’s journey away? To danger and death and perhaps glory?

Eldertuin was the [Farmer] who had a swing that could knock an Ogre flat, who’d risen to become a Named-rank, married into the Five Families. A real roots-to-riches story. Literally. He’d grown turnips or something. The man who’d gotten everything you could ever want.

He didn’t really talk about his wife. His children, yes. But she seldom visited the Haven…three times over their entire marriage of a decade and a half?

It was one of those things you didn’t talk about. At least, not out of the blue.

At night, after all the laughing and reminiscing had been done, while you were nursing a drink and everyone had gone to bed, or over the campfire in the midst or at the end of a journey together—that was the time.

That was the time to bring up all the names of the dead and the things you couldn’t say under blue skies. Because it was too personal.

Deniusth had adventured for a long time, and nothing had ever been as rewarding. Nothing had made him feel as alive, not any drug or experience. Yet he also quite liked the experience of being a famous celebrity in the north.

“Not just that.”

He murmured as they rode to Albez. How long had it been since he had been here? Forty damn years ago, elbowing aside [Treasure Seekers] and civilians digging in the dirt when it was first uncovered, a snot-nosed Bronze-rank with a practice sword he’d sharpened up? Deniusth began to speak, and the other Named-ranks and older adventurers listened.

“I first realized it when Maviola El resigned.”

A few heads rose, and he saw the Halfseekers looking at him. In fact, some of the Silver-ranks, what—the Pride of Kelia, those Gnolls, the Flamewardens, Drakes riding the wagon—they looked at him oddly.

Oh, right. Hadn’t she come down here? Deniusth stared back in time.

And he was old enough to remember the [Lady] of House El when he’d first become Gold-rank and gotten invited to those parties. Already old. Well, she’d been in her nineties when she passed, hadn’t she? Red hair gone mostly white like Mihaela’s was—but a blazing tempest of ideas, arguing with other [Lords] and [Ladies], setting fire to things.

“It wasn’t just that she resigned. It was who she put in her place. Deilan El. You know, he’s a progressive in House El?”

“I thought he was just good at manufacturing stuff.”

The other Named-ranks were up to date on a lot of politics in the north. Deniusth snorted.

“He is—but House El would have loved to replace Maviola with a more conservative pick. Someone who went back to their basics, manufacturing crossbows, providing magical goods—not a radical who continued Maviola’s Kaalblades and Valeterisa’s projects. I heard she was considering Desinee El, her niece. She would have been stable, stepped down after a few years—instead, you got someone who believed in her vision. That kind of thing is what I mean. It felt like it was happening around the world.”

He looked again at Jelaqua Ivirith and wondered what the Minds of Selphids were. A friend had told him something had just gone down in Baleros—they were sorting out the aftermath, but it had warranted some kind of long-range Tier 7+ bombardment from Drath.

And the Blighted Kingdom.

What was going on? It felt like things were shaking. Shaking so hard that all the old constants were moving. Even Named-ranks like him felt it.

Insecurity. He had not been at the battle in Ailendamus or seen ghosts himself. Deni still didn’t know what that King of Khelt, that undead ruler, had called the alarm about.

Yet—he had looked upon a Revenant with his very own eyes for the second time in his life and been reminded that there was a nation ruled by undead. That was probably why Terandria had sent that crusade. Dead gods, you had that in the same year the Gnolls claimed the Drakes had stolen their magic.

And last year, someone had said that the Slayer of the Antinium was dead, and Deni had been toasting the news in Mihaela’s guild.

Maybe that was the start of it all. The world was shaking, and Deniusth thought of Seamwalkers in his mansion in Colosset, one of the lovely harbor cities of the north. Despite all his comforts and blankets and riches, that made him cold.

It was not the only reason he’d come this way. But the Named-rank adventurer looked around and felt like the others had sensed the same thing he had.

A calling, perhaps, among the best. A sense that if they wanted to remain Named-ranks—they had to go.

The New Lands called him. Called him like a song, a stage, and a waiting audience. Deniusth felt an almost erotic urge, and he had never lusted for anything or anyone like that. Young and old, just like Mihaela always said.

“Albez. There it is.

They’d been travelling fast from Celum. The mad rush of adventurers had largely changed to a group’s travel. A few had raced ahead, but Deniusth knew that Eldertuin had the actual map they’d been cross-referencing with older details.

“I can’t believe Ceria Springwalker gave you that.”

“She must think she owes you a favor for the Village of the Dead raid. I can’t believe you went.”

Even Viecel the Mad Gambler had called it a bad bet. Eldertuin shook his head—he’d come back covered in glory, but it was temporary, and he hadn’t gotten that much out of the raid.

“A friend asked me to help. An old friend. I didn’t go in half as hard as they did.”

“Young idiots. Charge a death-zone with Revenants—”

Deni began and then closed his mouth. Some of Orchestra, his team, looked at him, and he looked so aghast the younger members began to laugh.

“Dead gods. Did I just say that?”

It was the exact kind of thing he’d heard older adventurers say of him. The Named-rank stared up at the sky. Then he turned in his saddle.

“…Think we’ll find anything in the ruins?”

“Who knows. But it’ll be a good warm-up. What’s the worst that could happen? I’ll bet you we find something interesting within the first hour. Wager a finger on it.”

Viecel flipped a coin up, and Eldertuin groaned.

“Viecel…”

But it was too late. The Selphid caught the coin and grinned.

“[Wager Set].”

 

——

 

Named-ranks. They were so different from Gold-ranks that even older adventurers like Jelaqua and Halrac were watching and listening to them.

For one thing, they were older, by and large. Colth and Lehra were outliers by far. Named-ranks, though…they were that because they did the impossible.

Orchestra was the team that cleared the dungeon, Chalence, and made a fortune beyond fortunes. Saliss of Lights, jokester and nudist or not, had killed entire swarms of monsters by himself.

Every single one had more than one story about them. Eldertuin the Fortress had held down half a dozen Trolls in single-combat. Viecel had famously killed one of Terandria’s [Dukes] in an honor-duel that had ended a war between Baleros and Terandrian kingdoms.

They were larger than life—and surprisingly normal. They roughhoused at the Haven like kids, but Jelaqua was curious.

What made the Named-ranks so different? She had seen Eldertuin and Elia from afar, but this was her chance to see them in a more natural element than a raid. And…she glanced at her team.

How far and how long away was that rank, if they would ever reach it? Jelaqua glanced at Halrac and sighed and knew he had to be thinking the same thing as he looked her way.

“A lot’s happened in a year, yeah? Garen and…”

She trailed off as Moore and Seborn looked at her somberly. Jelaqua stared up, then back the way they’d come and grinned.

“…And we still keep coming back to The Wandering Inn. We’ve leveled, but will we ever change that much? I wonder. We’ve got Ulinde now, and you got Briganda, Halrac. Did you get much new loot from Riverfarm? That [Emperor] okay with you riding off?”

“We did ask, Jelaqua. As for gear—Halrac’s wearing his Boots of Balance. That’s about it. What’s with that flail?

Revi eyed the blue-tinted metal flail at Jelaqua’s side, and the Selphid laughed self-consciously.

“Oh, we got that from the Meeting of Tribes. And a few other things. I’ll show you how it works if we run into any monsters.”

Revi shuddered, eying the scythe edges of the flail instead of spiked balls.

“Just so long as you do it well ahead of me. As for monsters, maybe we’ll get a few zombies, but with this lot—what could stop us?”

She indicated the sea of adventurers, and Typhenous chuckled.

“Revi, are you tempting fate?”

“Someone’s got to. Come on, aren’t you curious?”

Revi indicated the Named-ranks, and Jelaqua knew what she meant. She did wonder…what kind of a threat would challenge all these Named-ranks? An Adult Creler? Worse? Even with Albez and Liscor’s dungeon for that matter—

What could go wrong?

 

——

 

Elsewhere, in Liscor, a group of Councilmembers were adjusting their clothes as they waited for a door to open to visit Riverfarm.

An [Innkeeper] was already over there, introducing Larra to an [Emperor]—right before an angry street-light chased her around for causing so much trouble. A coven of [Witches] were equally as bemused, but more than one was considering a shopping trip to Invrisil.

But that was their side-quest to have. The real adventure was already taking place.

The Horns of Hammerad, Colth the Supporter, and Stargazer’s Promise were the three teams in The Wandering Inn who hadn’t raced off to Albez. Of course, there were a lot of Goblins lingering about, but Colth looked as cool as could be.

“So, you’re gonna grab this Stalker’s corpse? Want, uh—want a paw?”

Lehra looked excited at the prospect, but her teammates elbowed her.

Their [Monk], Emper, looked disapproving.

“Etiquette, Lehra. It’s their treasure.”

“Technically, it’s no one’s…”

Elgrinna murmured. Lehra whined in agreement, but Emper and Suxhel were steadfast.

“The Horns have been fighting in that dungeon for ages. If they want help—”

The Horns of Hammerad glanced at each other. Ceria scratched at her hair.

“Tempting, but I think we’ll try it alone. With Colth, I mean.”

“Aw, that’s fair. But if you need the hide processed, I know a guy.”

Lehra was the most reasonable of adventurers despite her clear desire to be included. In fact—amazingly so.

The other adventurers who hadn’t gone to Albez and weren’t part of this exciting moment could just listen in. And that was Saliss of Lights, Tessa, and even Glitterblade, Jewel’s team.

“Damn. Do you think we could just go down and find…?”

Jewel’s teammate, Hilten, looked at Toimt and Jewel, and she kicked him. Hard.

“You want to get in more trouble, Hilten? Besides—that’s a Vengeance Dungeon. You don’t just waltz through it. We have no maps from the adventurers who’ve scouted the traps. We’re not geared up for it, and there’s a boss monster on the loose.”

“Yeah. But…damn.”

Some teams had all the luck. The Horns were that team as far as Glitterblade were concerned. Although that ‘luck’ might have come from the [Innkeeper]—that was what Jewel was betting on, and it was why they were volunteering their time as effective bouncers for the inn.

Also, they were curious to see how Colth and the Horns would tackle this issue. Because—of a surety—Glitterblade was going to blab about Ceria’s revelations if any of the other teams came back from Albez. Them or the other guests who’d been listening in. More than one avaricious ear had been snooping on Ceria’s comments, and there were even some [Lords] who’d hurried off upon hearing about the fantastical corpse in the dungeon.

That meant that the Horns had a day or two—or less if the Albez rush didn’t stay all night. They were on a time limit, and Ceria was outlining the problem.

“I think I could rely on my memory if we got to the Raskghar camp—the problem is, I have no idea where that is anymore. Or all the traps Calruz took me past. Nor do we have any guides. Numbtongue, do you remember anything about how to get through the dungeon?”

The [Bard] glanced up.

“Nope.”

“What about a guide? Damn—Bevussa left.”

Yvlon cursed. The Wings of Pallass and Keldrass’ Flamewardens were some of the most experienced teams who’d made a habit of continuing to explore the dungeon. Well, that was half the issue. The other half was—

“So this inner city has a bunch of fleshy humanoids. Do they attack with any kind of acid? Any…magic?”

Colth was frowning as he tried to parse the threat. Ceria hesitated.

“No. They just overwhelmed even the Raskghar with sheer numbers. I think they might regenerate—Calruz kept ordering the Raskghar to hack them up.”

“What kind of numbers? Hundreds?”

“Thousands. The longer you stayed, the more arrived. He estimated there might be tens of thousands or more. Hundreds? It’s a huge city. Pallass might rival it in sheer size.”

“Pallass? You’re joking.”

Ceria was closing her eyes shut, and her fingers were pressed to her temple.

“I never thought of it before—but it was vast. That hole in the center…we were hours in it, but Calruz always retreated before we were overrun. And the Raskghar—well, they were Raskghar, and they had artifacts. They still had to flee.”

“We’ll call it massed monsters, then. And assume there’s more dangerous types or surprises. So, from the opening—here’s the dungeon maps the Adventurer’s Guild had. No one has a route to this inner city yet, but it’s going to be a long journey through a trapped dungeon with monsters everywhere.”

Colth was plotting the route out, and Yvlon and Ksmvr, even Pisces, were listening in. Colth the Supporter had already proven he was an analytical adventurer.

This was a lot of variables. Traps, monsters, Facestealer…Ceria Springwalker, for her part, was thinking.

She had the circlet on. She knew she was being empowered by its effects, intelligence being the most obvious one and her increased spellcasting abilities. And what her mind was telling her—

Well, even without the circlet, Ceria was pretty sure she would say that this was a terrible idea.

Horns or not. Even after clearing the Village of the Dead—no, especially after running into Tolveilouka, she should know how stupid it was to go in without preparations. How would she tackle this?

What’s Colth going to say? Ceria waited, and the Ultimate Supporter looked up with a smile.

“Alright. I’ve formulated my plan. Do you want me to share it, Captain Ceria, or do you have a preference?”

“Me? I was going to say we’re not getting to Stalker’s corpse without a lot of unnecessary risk. Frankly, I’d ask for two more Gold-rank teams as backup at minimum, especially with Facestealer in the mix.”

Ceria sighed. Lehra looked up excitedly. But Colth just rubbed his hands together with a smile.

“You think so? I won’t rule it out, but I think we can begin now—and possibly gain intelligence about our route and even recover Stalker before Deni and that lot get word of it.”

…What?

All the adventurers looked at him. Even Saliss turned to Tessa and tapped the side of his head. She shrugged, but Colth was a Named-rank. His eyes glittered.

“Us Named-ranks need to prove we’re worth more than the title. Let me show you how a professional takes down the dungeon.”

He winked at the others to show them he was just kidding, but—Ceria’s brows rose. And what separated the Named-ranks from regular adventurers? Well…she had to admire it.

 

——

 

Albez was just past Remendia, half a day’s ride out. If you had Skills or magic, you’d get there faster—and the adventurers had plenty of both.

Actually, Remendia still slowed them up because half the city wanted to meet Deni and the other Named-ranks.

Bronze and Silver-rank adventurers were flocking to Albez even an hour into the first part of the dig. They rode up, stopped, did the wide-eyed and whispering thing, then approached and asked, meek as kittens, if they could help join the search.

Deniusth lifted an arm and wiped sweat off his brow, then cursed as he got dirt on his forehead. He was holding a shovel and tossed it to the huge, scarred [Thug] who’d become a Silver-rank.

“You want to dig? We’ll give you a share of whatever we get, but Orchestra and Variable Fortress have a claim on any relics—with a share to the other Gold-ranks that are here. Deal?”

“Yes, sir! It’s an honor to meet you, Adventurer Deniusth.”

The famous duelist smiled wanly, then retreated. He had dirt all over his cloth armor, and he removed one glove and stared at the blisters.

He did not reach for a healing potion, but he did stop digging. The first hour…the first half hour…

The first fifteen minutes had seen him going into Albez and choosing one of the spots they’d thought hadn’t been searched and digging like he was a young man. Then he’d quickly lost his patience and energy.

An hour in and he was done. Deniusth went over to sit, drink some water from a flask, and watch the other adventurers at work.

“We barely need diggers—not with [Geomancers].”

He watched as Moore shifted a huge mass of dirt with a spell, but the half-Giant had to be careful and work around the crumbling ruins he was excavating. It was all too easy to bury more of what they wanted to get at—hence the tools for specific unearthing of doorways.

More adventurers were sitting about, but the majority were down there, checking different spots as Eldertuin and the other Captains traded off Ceria’s map.

Deniusth was being watched by Anith of Vuliel Drae, Nailren of the Pride of Kelia, Jelaqua, Halrac, Keldrass, Bevussa, and a bunch of other teams. What they noticed about the Named-rank was his impatience an hour in. The first thing that made Named-ranks different?

“Damn this. Hey! Harper!”

He shouted at one of his teammates. And yes…she was a harp-carrying adventurer. She seemed to be a ‘junior’ member of Orchestra, a Gold-rank. But then, his team was rated as Named-rank as well as having two adventurers.

“Yes, Deni?”

“Contact Remendia. Tell them I want to hire [Diggers]. And get more [Geomancers]. We don’t have to dig ourselves. Get a hundred.”

The other adventurers turned and blinked. Hire diggers? The cost of a hundred, especially if they had a guild, would be hundreds of gold pieces! More!

…But the Named-rank Adventurer didn’t even seem to consider the cost of that, even if they found nothing. Nor did his teammate.

“Want them here in the hour?”

“Sure. Get the Driver’s Guild to transport them. Hey, Eld! I’m calling in diggers! Stop wasting your energy—this stupid ruin’s deeper than I remember!

One of Keldrass’ teammates shook her head when she heard that and lifted the shovel she was using.

“Fucking incredible. That’s a Named-rank for you.”

“He’s got the coin. This isn’t fun anyways.”

Keldrass didn’t know if he was defending the Named-rank on principle or because he saw Deniusth’s point. But the Violinist certainly had leadership of the other adventurers. A lot threw down their tools when they heard that—but more kept on going.

“Hey, the armory of that [Mage] that the Horns found is practically excavated already. Should we take a look down there? I bet you they cleared it out. But maybe there’s a few gold coins that weren’t melted?”

An adventurer joked, pointing to the section the Horns had gone into. It was, in fact, very neatly excavated. In fact, someone had even marked the place off with bright paint, and a few confused adventurers were pointing at the others.

“Why not?”

Some of the teams present were from Invrisil, and so the Waterborn Raiders, a less…upstanding group of adventurers, had also come to see what might be dug up.

They were staying far, far away from Moore. Griffon Hunt, the Halfseekers, a lot of teams had become famous from the Village of the Dead raid. Not theirs. Not enough.

Why, even the Distinguished Staves looked like they’d upgraded some of their gear from the payout. The Waterborn Raiders still felt like they’d been cheated of the true haul of goods—but it had been coin in their pockets, despite losing one of their own. They should have gotten more given that.

Old Geni had, at the raid. The Distinguished Staves looked smaller, despite the shiny new staff one of the [Wizards] was using.

None of these Named-ranks even knew her, beyond a passing name. These northern lot had sat on their asses, and now they were taking charge of this? Well, they weren’t going to get their way.

Spoken Vow, the team that had gone with the Horns, was still mourning one of their downed teammates. Well, most of them were.

A [Knife Fighter] named ‘Riz’, no other full name or last name given, glanced up as she heard the Waterborn Raiders’ comment. She turned to her captain instantly.

“Hey. Didn’t the Horns run into some kind of trap down there? Think there are any runes left? I know someone who’d pay a lot for them.”

“I bet any [Merchant] would.”

Her Captain blinked, then brightened up with sudden interest. The Waterborn Raiders looked up, and Spoken Vow and their team traded glances.

“…Those Named-ranks look like they’re having brunch. Say, Spoken Vow. You just stay here and we’ll take a look for you and report back, huh? If there’s something, we’ll cut you in.”

The Captain of Spoken Vow, Mickey, was not an idiot. The Waterborn Raiders were sixteen strong, and Spoken Vow was down a member, but they were also a numerous Gold-rank team. Both groups eyed each other—until Riz interjected.

“You can’t pry runes off the wall without gear. Any excavation will take a while, and it’s a trap room, idiot. Unless you cracked the walls. Then, maybe, we’d be able to grab something, but that much stone will fill all our bags of holding. Let’s go down together. If there is a profit—two teams are better than twenty.”

The Waterborn Raiders’ leader hesitated and eyed her. She gave him a big smile, and he blanched.

“Right you are. Stop growling, Orelo. Idiot. Come on.”

He shoved one of his teammates, and Spoken Vow relaxed, surprised, as the Waterborn Raiders glanced around, then both Gold-rank teams sliiiid towards the opening in the dirt.

 

——

 

The sight of two Gold-rank teams disappearing into the ruins might have gone unnoticed as the other adventurers were still working, but not to most [Rogues].

“Oi. Viecel. Did you see that?”

The Selphid looked over as the [Rogue] in Variable Fortress glanced over. The Selphid’s eyes followed a pointing finger.

“What?”

“Two teams just headed into that place the Horns cleared. Might be they think there’s something valuable.”

“Oh, really? Well in that case—get Eldertuin and Deni. Anyone have an hourglass?”

“Uh…”

“Nevermind. It’s been an hour.”

The Gambler sighed again. Then, as Insill came over to offer the Named-rank adventurer a flask of water , the Drake [Rogue] saw the Selphid produce a belt knife—and press it against one of the three fingers on his right hand.

He cut the dead finger off and tossed it to the ground. Insill froze, and the Selphid looked up.

The [Gambler]’s face was blank—and then he smiled.

“Is that water for me? Thank you—don’t mind the finger. I knew it was a bad bet, but imagine what I’d have won?”

He kicked the finger aside, and Insill was motionless until Viecel reached for the water flask. He took a huge drink, then waved to Deniusth. Insill saw him glance at the Drake.

“Thanks, kid.”

“N-no problem, sir…”

Insill backed up, and his team had seen the entire thing. Pekona wasn’t digging—she only had one hand. She sat, quieter than she even normally was as Dasha, Anith, and Larr all took a break.

“Did you see that? Guys—guys, did you see—

“Yep. Stop staring, Insill. He’s a Selphid. No wonder they call him the Mad Gambler. I bet you he does that all the time.”

Dasha was trying to play it cool, but she was gripping her beard hard with one hand. Anith shook his head.

“A bet? He bet we’d find treasure—what happens if he wins?”

Insill didn’t know, but he knew what happened if Viecel lost. The Selphid’s missing fingers suddenly made sense, and the Drake saw the [Gambler] waggling his two fingers—forefinger and thumb—at Eldertuin. He didn’t hear what the Fortress said, but Viecel lifted his two fingers and spoke loudly enough for even Vuliel Drae to hear.

“[Double or Nothing]! Something by tonight. Two fingers—”

“Selphids. Dead gods.”

Some of the other adventurers were mildly horrified despite being veterans. One of them looked sideways at the others.

“Not the craziest thing they’ve done. Did you hear there was something in Baleros this morning…?”

Before they could gossip, Vuliel Drae saw Deniusth leap to his feet and go running to the place where the Waterborn Raiders and Spoken Vow had disappeared into.

Those bastards!

Naturally, half of the other Captains ran after him. But before even the Violinist could get into the secret lair of Warmage Thresk…they heard a shout, and then Spoken Vow, the Waterborn Raiders, and a third adventuring group emerged from the tunnel, arguing.

All three had pickaxes and tools, but the third adventuring team looked like they had been working harder than the rest. And they were clearly confused—their Captain stared around at all the other people present.

“—the hell? What map? We’re not sharing anything, so back off—Ceria Springwalker’s contracted our team to grab those runes, and if you want them, you can talk to her. We’ve been here a damn month and—”

The Silver-rank team of Gemhammer made Deni’s mad dash slow. The other teams looked up, and Jelaqua’s mouth opened. Nailren spotted the familiar face of Earlia, with a mining helmet on, and her team—and realized why he hadn’t seen her about since coming back to Liscor.

“She did what?

Captain Earlia spotted the Named-ranks and went white. But her team was wearing bright, shiny new gear, and they had marked off Ceria’s dig-site—

And they’d been harvesting the runes. Ever since Ceria got back from Chandrar, in fact. Deniusth slowed as he realized why Ceria might have been eager to give away the map in the first place.

 

——

 

“You’ve been dismantling the trap room? You didn’t say, Ceria!”

Yvlon was outraged to hear about it, but Ceria just rolled her eyes.

“I was going to let you know—once we had all the runes harvested. Some are broken or fragile, and besides, I hired Earlia’s team. They get 30% of whatever we sell it for.”

“30%? That sounds low.

Yvlon was astonished, but Ceria just smirked as she contemplated the disappointed adventurers.

“She leapt at the offer. She knows how much all that’s worth, especially for a Silver-rank team. Earlia told me it’s not even hard, assuming no monsters are in the area. I promised we’d help clear out any nests, but she’s just been carefully pulling the runes out.”

“How’d she do it without getting caught by the spell?”

The half-Elf tried to remember.

“Earlia claimed they’d do what we did—toss a bunch of soot and cloud ash down there. Apparently it’s a fire that bakes ash to the walls. They are professionals.”

Ksmvr’s mandibles were still open, but Yvlon realized what Ceria had done.

“You mean—we just gave all those excited adventurers a treasure map when Earlia’s team has been taking the only valuable thing in Albez out for ages?”

“We didn’t promise them that. But yeah. It’s pretty funny when you think about it.”

The half-Elf snorted. Yvlon just gave Ceria an odd look, but after hearing Colth’s idea, she couldn’t rightly complain. Because what sounded to Yvlon like a bit of skullduggery…both made her feel like she was emulating Ylawes.

And frankly, it seemed like a real Named-rank move. After all, the Horns were about to enter Liscor’s dungeon with only an hour of prep time.

“Ready?”

Colth was standing at the edge of the chasm, looking down into the pit. Yvlon knew there were steel barricades in place down there, which had to be unlatched to let adventurers through. She tensed, despite herself, and Ceria turned. Pisces was standing with Colth, looking—surprised. Even awkward, but the other teams gathered around to watch saw the ropes begin to lower.

“Ready! Let’s do this!”

Colth was strong enough to lower the ropes himself, but Yvlon hurried over to help, and the first being began to descend into the darkness.

Into the dungeon of Liscor, where the last protectors of the dungeon waited. They had battled the Antinium, even with the Small Queen’s advance. They had husbanded the depleted monster populations—and the dungeon had reconfigured against the tireless adventurers.

In the darkness, troops of enchanted armor patrolled. Hordes of monsters, Crypt Worms, and undead stayed clear of the Free Hive’s trapped entrance and waited.

 

——

 

Snatcher sensed the first body dropping into the chasm and turned from counting heads. So few heads.

No monster heads. The Raskghar were gone. The Goblins were gone. Less adventurers—and it hadn’t gotten the blue thing’s head.

It had tried. The being of thread had given it a chance, and it had tried—but the last of the three great protectors hadn’t been able to take the most valuable part of its collection.

Light had burned it. Magic had nearly…nearly killed Snatcher. But the head.

The heads.

So many heads had eluded it. The little white thing. The five green ones. The adventurers.

Was it…angry?

Was Snatcher angry? Such an odd emotion to have after all this long while. Pain was a rare thing for it. Names, pain, duty…those were so long ago. It still remembered what it was supposed to do.

Guard Mother.

…But it had long since given in to its desires. Taking heads. It had Stalker’s face, and it would have taken Skinner’s—if Skinner had ever had a head worth taking. This should have contented Snatcher, for its home was decorated with its trophies.

But was it…angry? 

WAS IT ANGRY ABOUT THE PAIN? ABOUT THE INTRUDERS? WAS IT ANGR—

Something walked the dungeon, and Snatcher prowled out of its lair, and monsters fled before it. It knew danger and death—but if this intruder had a head worth taking, Snatcher would have it. It wanted more. More and more, and it was starting to wonder how many heads lay above.

How long did it have to guard Mother?

Was she even still down there? Oh…yes. 

Did she have a head worth taking?

 

——

 

The Horns entered the dungeon, and the whispers began at once.

“Okay, we have no idea where we’re going. So—let’s try the routes on this map that Bevussa’s team used and go from there. If we find an old Raskghar camp, I might be able to navigate to another one.”

“We should have asked Calruz for help.”

“…No, we shouldn’t have.”

Ceria’s voice and Yvlon’s were very distinct as the team crept forwards. The metal barricades that demarcated ‘danger areas’ and safe zones had several layers due to Facestealer and the other monster threats. The first layer was around the opening of the chasm. It took some doing to lift the heavy metal bar and open the door, and the Horns were arguing the entire while.

“Dead gods, I hate this place.”

Pisces muttered as Colth kept silent—for now. Ksmvr’s voice was a whisper.

“Captain Ceria, Comrade Yvlon, please keep quieter.”

“Right, Ksmvr. Damn lever. Okay…there’s a trap left here. Left!

The scream was just in time—a body slammed into the wall and avoided a magical trap. Instantly, the team began arguing.

“Say that earlier, Ceria!”

“I said left! Why are you going left?”

“I just heard left!”

“Well, listen to the context in my voice, Pisces. Any monsters ahead?”

The whispering team fell silent, and Colth called out.

“None that I can see. Let’s call out the traps—show Pisces ahead of time, maybe?”

“Got it.”

They moved ahead, and the adventurers slowly navigated around the traps. They were…too casual.

“Dead gods, I need a snack.”

Ceria, keep your voice—

“Movement on our left. What’s that?”

Everyone froze…and something crawled away from them. Colth murmured.

“It looks like just a small scavenger insect. Bile maggot. Bigger than most I’ve seen. I hope they don’t…hatch.”

“Dead gods, how many monster species are down here?”

Yvlon was disgusted. Pisces replied.

“Let’s not go that way if possible. Just on chance.”

“Fair point. Alright, we’re going ahead. Watch for traps—and if you hear any rumblings, remember the Shield Spider avalanche?”

“Dead gods, I hate this place.”

The Horns of Hammerad were not enforcing silence or cohesion as the figure in front stumbled forwards warily, head swinging left and right. In fact, they were trusting too much to the map. If a monster jumped them…

Lehra Ruinstrider was watching the Horns’ progress with Colth. She would be the first to admit her team had poor adventuring discipline. She’d realized that after their final battle with Dragial, actually.

The Halfseekers…that was a professional team for all they were fun and relaxed. They had excellent teamwork; Lehra’s did too, but their team tended to support the Stargnoll.

But the Horns? Lehra had heard they were good enough to take on the Village of the Dead raid, but their banter right now was the most unprofessional stuff she’d heard of—and she did know dungeons.

The Ruinstrider tribe didn’t do dungeons, mostly, but the distinction between ‘ruins’ and dungeons sometimes got too close for comfort. You kept quiet, you took few chances, and you didn’t trust the map.

The Horns were doing a lot of stuff wrong, and Colth didn’t seem inclined to reprimand them. If anything, he was observing them and even bantering with Pisces.

“You know, for a team that did the Village of the Dead raid, I can’t imagine this dungeon is much worse.”

“It’s traps. I hate traps. I have had entirely too many experiences encountering hunters’ snares or traps in forests.”

The [Necromancer] grumbled. Colth gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as Lehra watched.

Unprofessional. Chaotic. Too loud by half—Ceria was chomping down on some fries, and Yvlon was eating them too. Dead gods, they even had Mrsha in between Ksmvr and Colth watching it all.

It would have been the most irresponsible dungeon crawl ever—if the Horns were actually down there.

The view of the dungeon lurched, and Ceria winced.

“Pisces, can you keep the view steady?”

“I can’t tell if the skeleton trips. What’s that on our left?”

“A wall.”

The adventurers were crowded around…a scrying orb. And the orb was giving them a wide-angle view of a dungeon, two swinging skeletal arms, and a very faint light as a skeleton awkwardly navigated the maze. Ksmvr was drawing a line down their map as they reached the last point Bevussa had been to. Mrsha was hugging Pisces’ arm as they saw an axe swinging in front of them.

“Dead gods, an actual swinging axe trap.”

“Yeah, well, this one shoots spikes out the sides if you get too close. Pisces, can you make the skeleton roll?”

Stop heckling me. This is hard enough to do at range!”

Pisces hissed. The skeleton hesitated—then did a few steps, and the viewpoint spun—and everyone heard a crash and snapping sounds.

“Good job, Pisces.”

At this, the [Necromancer] threw one of the napkins at Ceria. He pointed at the scrying orb as Colth stirred.

“Is the undead dead or…?”

“I believe I can reassemble it. Hold on. The further we get from our location, the more difficult this will be to project my mana. So I need less distractions and more guidance, Ceria.”

“Sorry, Pisces. I’d make it a Frostmarrow Skeleton if I could—but I don’t know if you can control it. Here, have some fries.”

Everyone sat back as Pisces went to work, and Lehra turned to her team. Suxhel’s mouth was still open, and they all sat there—including Jewel’s team—with a kind of—of voyeuristic shame hanging about them.

“Is this even legal? This feels like cheating!”

“Cheating who, exactly?”

Elgrinna was smiling, but Lehra felt like someone should be holding up one of those yellow cards in that soccer game she’d watched.

“It’s just so cheap!

The skeleton got back up, and the Horns went back to directing Pisces forwards, but more quietly. Lehra gestured to it.

“Look at them! They get to explore the dungeon with a skeleton, and they’re not even—people have died and—that’s Named-rank adventuring?

Colth had come up with the idea. He looked quite pleased about coming up with the concept—and he was even extrapolating ideas.

“Adventurers have tons of items that do the same thing. [Beastmasters] would use mice or birds—canaries in the mines, you know? But a skeleton is so…expendable. I may see if other teams bite at the idea if I can copy the spell once we’re done here.”

“The scrying orb’s a great idea. We never had orbs—let alone ones to burn.”

The reason why they could use an ‘expendable’ scrying orb was mainly due to Palt and other high-power [Mages] capable of casting the scrying enchantment. Ceria was jotting down a note—if you could make a free scrying orb out of a glass orb, that was a spell to learn.

Lehra’s team was used to scouting, but they felt this was a bit too easy. However, another adventurer disagreed.

“It’s cheap, underhanded, and as safe as can be. That’s Named-rank for you. What, did you think we played fair? Rookie.”

Saliss of Lights was watching the Horns with one sardonic look at Colth. He glanced over at Lehra and kicked at her lightly.

“But Adventurer Saliss! You don’t do this!”

Saliss pointed at his chest.

“I don’t do that?”

“You fight with potions! This is…”

Lehra ducked as Saliss actually threw another napkin at her face. He looked genuinely annoyed by her comment.

“Listen, kid. Lehra. Rookie. Newbie. Peon. Uh…child.

Her team looked unsure whether or not to take offense, but Saliss pointed a claw at Lehra.

“—Shut up. If you ever say that to me again, I’ll have Tessa kick the fur off you. You sound like some kind of wet-behind-the-ears Bronze-rank.”

“Adventurer Saliss—”

“You shut up too, whoever you are.”

The Drake pointed at Emper, and the [Monk] fell silent. The Drake stabbed a table with one claw.

Adventurers don’t play fair. You want to know the last ‘fight’ I had outside of the Meeting of Tribes? I fought a room full of high-level [Rogues]. And what I did is—I inserted a Potion of Acid Clouds into the room and closed the door.

Lehra fell silent and blanched. Saliss glared at her.

“If it was Crelers, I’d do the exact same thing but add fire as well. When I hunt monsters, I don’t walk up to them and give them a shake of the claw and wish them a sporting match and agree not to hit them under the belt. I ambush them when they’re sleeping. If I need to, I dig a hole and put sharp sticks at the bottom. If I think there’s a fair fight, I run away and come back later.

“But you fought Belavierr and the armies—”

He grabbed her arm and hissed at her.

That’s not adventuring. That’s idiocy. This is real adventuring, and if you had any sense, you would have taken out that Wall Lord who was hunting you the first time you beat him rather than let the Halfseekers clean up your mess.”

Chastened, embarrassed, Lehra ducked her head. In fact, Colth turned to give Saliss a long look, which the Drake returned with a middle finger.

“I don’t want to hear it, Colth the Upstanding. She’s a rookie, and she needs to hear this. Or she won’t live another year.”

Lehra shrank down at her table and stared at her plate. That was until Saliss stomped off to ask Ishkr how annoyed Laken Godart might be if Saliss showed up. The Drake was really unhappy to learn Laken was blind.

“Saliss has done a lot of heroic things against overwhelming odds. Like his defense of Pallass. He’s looking out for you. Don’t take it the wrong way; he is right that you and your team need to work on surviving before being heroes.”

Colth got up from the table where Pisces was walking his skeleton into a wall. Lehra glanced up.

“I know that—it’s just, I don’t feel like a Named-rank all the time. Most of the time.”

Colth was sympathetic. He patted Lehra on the shoulder.

“Completely understandable. I made it to Named-rank, oh, six years ago, and you’re younger than I was! But you need to remember something, Lehra. Even if you don’t feel like it—your threats will be Named-rank. If someone goes hunting you, they don’t take a band of [Thugs], they bring an army. Same for adventures. You’ll be the highest-level person there, and you can’t be the one who folds.”

His words struck Lehra harder than he could have known. She had been at the Meeting of Tribes. If she had been able to use the Blade of Mershi properly or…

Watch your back! Watch your—

The scrying orb went dark, and Yvlon stopped shaking Pisces as the snarling, red-eyed monster leapt. Pisces jerked back in his seat.

“Children.”

The monstrous child-mimics that pretended to be children had snuck up on Pisces. Colth groaned and hurried over as the Gold-rank team began arguing over what had gone wrong.

“I thought you were a duelist, Pisces. Why’s your skeleton got all the grace of a drunk Palt?”

“Hey.”

Palt looked hurt as he trotted past them. Pisces protested.

“I may be able to control it—but I am not used to seeing through a scrying orb. I hope we haven’t lost it. We should enchant a plain piece of glass—and I need you to stop shouting in my ears!”

“Right, sorry. What if…we sent the skeleton in armor?”

“We’re not losing good armor.”

“Okay, then, what about a Flask of Fire? Or something to defend itself?”

“How about a [Haste] spell? Or [Speed]. I could cast [Speed], and we could give the skeleton a shield. Frankly, we should probably add [Light] to it as well. Sneaking around in the darkness made it harder to navigate, and the monsters clearly took notice it was there.”

Colth sat down, and the Gold-ranks conferred as they went over the issue. Lehra glanced up at them and sighed.

“Why’s it feel like the Horns are closer to Named-rank than we are?”

“Maybe they are if they combined all their levels, compared with ours. No—that’s definitely the case.”

Suxhel knew their team was Gold-rank, but she eyed Pisces and compared his probable level to Lehra’s. In levels, the Horns might actually be superior to Stargazer’s Promise.

But what made Lehra better? Well, aside from sheer levels like Colth or Saliss, the answer was one thing. Lehra glanced down at the gleaming bracelet on one arm.

 

——

 

Relics. The first monster encounter at Albez was fast—but stronger than anticipated.

“Lich. Undead horde. Liiiiich!

It was a throwback to the first monsters that the Horns had ever encountered at Albez. Namely—an undead spellcaster.

A Lich.

The body of a dead [Mage] emerged as the first civilian diggers caved in a hither-to unexplored tunnel. A Lich rose out, shooting lightning bolts and [Fireballs], and hundreds of undead poured after it.

The ruins of Albez had been a magical community, so the dangerous undead variant made sense. It was more than a match for most Silver-rank teams with its sheer magical killing ability.

…But not that many Named-ranks and Gold-ranks. In fact, the first bolt of lightning never even hit the terrified woman running screaming away from the Lich.

“[Accident Protection: Monsters]! Get out of there!

Earlia’s [Mining Captain] Skill made the first bolt of lightning swerve. It was such an odd Skill that even the other adventurers were surprised. But then the adventurers were charging into the fighting.

Frankly, it was overkill, and half the teams didn’t even get into the opened pit. The adventurers were in more danger of hitting each other, and Halrac loosed one enchanted arrow that detonated on the Lich’s barriers before he heard a shout.

No area of attack spells! Damn it, get out of the pit—nevermind, warriors in!

The sensible thing to do would be to stand back and hit the undead in the pit with [Fireballs], but the adventurers had gone in—and more monsters were awakening from the fighting.

The undead horde had, apparently, been sharing space or competing with huge, burrowing…pigs. They had huge tusks that rose upwards with shovel-like ends, and their mouths were cilia, waving tendrils that feasted on dead meat.

“Rotbore Pigs!”

The angry pigs were as large as boars, and they slammed into the undead, and the adventurers in the pit were facing their charge as well as the corroded weapons of the undead and the Lich’s indiscriminate magic.

Again—

It was overkill.

Eldertuin the Fortress slammed a sword against his shield, and the Lich whirled. A bolt of lightning, orb of acid, and fireball all shot towards the Fortress’ shield, and he hunkered behind it.

“[Provoked Opponent].”

“I’ve got a bead, Captain. Want me to take a shot?”

The [Archer] of Variable Fortress, his team, was aiming at the Lich. Halrac loosed another invisible arrow, but it had shields up, and it was surviving the first volley from adventurers confident enough not to hit the adventurers below.

“No. Let it attack.”

Eldertuin held his ground, and the shield barely vibrated as more spells lashed it. He glanced over—and Deniusth had his sword drawn, but Orchestra was also standing at the top of the pit. Casually, the Named-rank swung his bow through the head of a climbing Ghoul, but that was all.

Orchestra had a huge attack radius, and so the adventurers who’d jumped down—Dasha, Jelaqua, the Waterborn Raiders, and a host of others—would have been hit. Deniusth was eying the Lich, but he saw Eldertuin and knew there was no point to showing off.

After all—the Fortress’ shield was beginning to awaken.

Eldertuin had a tower shield, huge and square, curved to protect a lot of his body even when held at his side. He could cover his entire form with it, large as he was, and it was the one relic-class item he owned.

A gift from House Terland upon his marriage. It was decorated with their motifs, a beautiful relief on the front, but the real secret was the object in the center.

It was…

An eye. And the eye was normally closed until enough magic hit it. Whereupon it slowly began to open…

The Lich only sensed something was wrong when it saw a gemstone eye of the Golem Shield open. Then it saw the eye’s pupil glow white—and the undead began to fly back.

Too late—a beam of light lanced across the ground, and Halrac threw up his hands to shield his face. He saw it pierce the barriers and hit the Lich—when he lowered his hands, a flaming shower of ashes was falling.

“Dead gods. Now there’s a shield.”

Briganda swore in admiration. She hadn’t gone down into the pit, but she was ready to leap. No wonder Eldertuin had held an entire part of the Village of the Dead raid on his own!

“I hear it’s got other effects. Like a localized earthquake. None of the Named-rankers going to show off? Viecel’s just sitting there.”

The Selphid was indeed, as were Orchestra. But then—Revi blinked down into the pit of adventurers and saw a few teams shouting.

“Hey! Let us back out!”

The Waterborn Raiders were climbing up. They had been mad enough to leap into the fight after realizing that Earlia’s team were taking the runes, but they were backing out. And indeed, even the other Gold and Silver-rankers in the pit were climbing out.

It had been barely forty seconds. What was—Revi looked into the pit, and her jaw dropped.

 

——

 

Hundreds of undead. That was not an idle thing. Vuliel Drae or the Pride of Kelia could conceivably take down that horde, but if they leapt into that pit, they had good odds of never coming out. They would require planning, traps, chokepoints—but Nailren was sure he could have taken the undead down with enough arrows and time.

…Yet that was the difference between his team and, say, a Named-rank one. Saliss of Lights could eliminate that horde in five seconds, he was sure.

Now, the Gnoll saw something that made his heart skip. Because if that was true—

Then how fast was one adventurer taking down this horde? Even Deniusth had fallen silent, and the other teams, from Spoken Vow to the Raiders to even teams like the Silver Swords, were shocked. Ylawes backed up—shield raised despite himself—

Because Jelaqua Ivirith’s flail wasn’t stopping.

Demas Metal. It was whirling, blades coated in water and gore, and the metal edges swung through Zombies and Ghouls so fast that the [Steelforged Whirlwind] barely stopped moving. She didn’t riposte, parry, feint, or do anything so slow as take the undead on one by one.

Her flailwork was that of a Gold-rank adventurer who’d done this for ages—but it was a careful dance of hammering her opponent, pulling the flail back, and hitting them again. Death by a thousand strikes.

This? The Selphid herself was caught off-guard by the lack of resistance. She slashed through a zombie’s corroded chainmail and into its chest, whirled the Demas Metal flail around—

The only thing that lasted more than a second was a Crypt Lord. That horror appeared, and Jelaqua’s flail slashed at its sides, its ‘face’, and bloated body—it swung at her, and she danced back—then the Crypt Lord stared at its missing arm. It went down so fast Ylawes wondered if he could have done that with one of his Skills.

“Dead gods! Ivirith is tearing them up! Was she always that good?

An adventurer from the north exclaimed shakily. Ylawes saw Dawil reaching down and swung himself up the crumbling dirt walls.

“That flail—”

“It’s like that metal was made for her. Look at her!”

Dawil was beaming, and Ylawes smiled despite himself—although he felt frankly envious. When Jelaqua halted, the Selphid was panting. Her dead body’s chest rose up and down, and the Selphid looked around.

“What the—did I do that?”

Everyone looked at her team and then the minced bodies. A Ghoul crept up, cradling a severed arm, and leapt at Jelaqua. She turned with one hand raised to punch it—and the Ghoul vanished mid-leap in a blaze of magical missiles.

“How many was—”

Ylawes lowered his arm as dozens of arrow-spells hit the Ghoul mid-jump. Falene broke in, breathless.

Sixty-one. How did he—

She looked up, and Moore lowered his staff, blinking. The Silver Swords looked up, and then Ylawes saw what had changed about the [Green Mage].

That staff he held was made of dark metal, reminiscent of iron, but infused with sprinkles of light, like it was some kind of gemstone ore embedded in the metal. And the tip was a set of sapphire claws clutching an orb that glowed with power.

“…Did Moore always have that staff?”

Ylawes was almost certain he had not. The half-Giant lowered it, and Falene’s mouth worked. Then she pointed.

“No. That’s—that’s—

Wall Lord Dragial’s personal staff and the gift from the Demas Metal tribe glinted among the Halfseekers’ personal equipment. In fact, Ylawes thought Seborn had a new cloak, and Ulinde seemed to be wearing boots adjusted for a Drake…

 

——

 

“They looted the Wall Lord. They looted a Wall Lord of Fissival? And got away with it?”

Deni couldn’t take his eyes off of the Halfseekers’ gear.

“Apparently, they split some of it with the Stargnoll’s team. Did you see that flail? That’s…what tribe was selling that metal? It’s not even enchanted, and she tore up that group of undead. We could do that. Obviously. But—”

The Named-ranks reacted to the Halfseekers’ performance in the pit almost more strongly than the lower-rank teams. Because they saw what that meant.

That staff might not be relic-class, but if it wasn’t, it was as good as anything Deni or Eldertuin’s [Mages] had. And gear?

Gear was what separated Named-ranks from Gold-ranks. Levels too, but gear?

Saliss of Lights was a kind of exception in that he could manufacture his own gear, and it was a limited supply. But those items changed everything.

Eldertuin the Fortress had no fear of a [Warrior]’s worst nightmare: hostile magic. Similarly, each Named-rank Adventurer tended to have an object or objects that put them above ordinary members of their class.

For instance, Deni had heard that Three-Color Stalker had a pair of blades that would kill almost anyone she stabbed—and there was nothing more terrifying than a contest where the first blow ended everything with the world’s best [Rogue].

There was something else Named-ranks had that other adventurers didn’t, and that was exemplary gear that wasn’t based around combat.

In fact, as the [Diggers] got back to work and the adventurers decided to make camp around Albez’s ruins, Deni went to chat with the Halfseekers. He had noticed Griffon Hunt’s Captain had an invisible bow, too, and in exchange for being allowed to inspect both, he showed them his scarf.

“My instrument is obviously custom-made. An old enchanted violin from the Rihal Imperium, apparently. Whatever that was. It’s got a host of magical effects.”

“It’s that old? So your team plays magical effects? Like a group of [Bards]?”

Ulinde was nervous and excited, but you needed a rookie like that, and Deni let her admire the bow of his violin—while cautioning her to be careful, because it was sharp.

“Exactly. Magic, swordplay, and music all in one. But we have a lot of tools for every encounter. For instance, this saved my life.”

He tugged at the scarf with a grimace, but the huge wound in his neck running into his chest didn’t hurt. He just…felt it.

“That’s a death-wound if you don’t mind me saying so, Captain Deni.”

Typhenous observed quietly, and the Named-rank’s lips twisted.

“I was just lucky enough my team got to put it on me. Someone else might have died of shock. It’s the fourth Relic-class item between our team.”

More than most. Briganda whistled as Deni let them touch it.

“A Scarf of Wound’s Relief. We bought it after Chalence. Half a million gold pieces, and that was a steal.”

Half a million—

“It’s worth four times that or more, by now. It’s saved our lives so many times I can’t even count. No wound will worsen or bleed with it on—and it’ll slowly heal. Slowly…I’m not risking a healing potion. The damned axe might have been poisoned or putrid.”

His only other option without the scarf would have been to rush to the Healer of Tenbault and beg her on hands and knees to save his life.

Gear made the team. Deni wondered if the Halfseekers would consider an offer on any of their artifacts. Then again—even for someone rich off of Chalence’s loot, there was a limit to how many Relic-class items you could buy.

“No one’s getting the Helm of Fire. I mean, none of us. It’s a huge bidding war between nations, still. The Walled Cities versus that Emir from Roshal…damn shame. We’re the ones who could use the items and get them!”

Deni groused as he stared at the dark ruins. They had found nothing tonight, but he wanted to find something.

Relics. They were worth thousands of gold pieces spent on diggers, ten times that. If he had a proper set of legendary armor or…there was nothing else for him to buy. Potions? Maybe a few rare ones.

Expensive homes, security, connections? All these things didn’t matter when a monster had you in its claws.

Relics. Deniusth wondered how many were buried in the new lands. And—he thought of the Blade of Mershi. How many Named-ranks might be made by a single Relic alone?

Assuming, of course—you could hold onto it.

 

——

 

Three more skeletons died in the dungeon of Liscor that night. One ran into a trap. Two were taken out by monsters, but in their journey, they managed to get further ahead than any adventurer ever had.

Nevertheless, Pisces’ head was sore from trying to move the skeletons, and Colth was encouraging, but practical.

“This method works. The problem is—we might run into Albez’s treasure seekers, but they’ve apparently camped out for the night. Good for us. Let’s try to refine our strategy tomorrow.”

“Er—pleasure to be working with you, Colth. Do you want to stay here…?”

“If you’ve got a room, I’ll take it. But let’s go over Ceria’s memory again. We have to plot a route to this city. Sorry, boss, but this is the only thing we can do while Pisces rests. We could do more dungeon runs, but I think we shouldn’t agitate it.”

He was meticulously making maps of Ceria’s own memory and comparing them against other blueprints of the dungeon. In fact…Colth seemed to be coming to the conclusion that they needed more intelligence about the dungeon’s layout.

Which he suggested meant a visit to Calruz. Ceria didn’t know if that was wise, but she had to admit, Colth’s methods had been zero-risk, all potential reward so far.

By contrast, the restless Lehra had gloomed off, and Saliss and Tessa seemed unaffected by the search for treasure.

“I don’t do dungeons. Tessa, this nostalgic for you?”

“Hm. I killed people. I only did a few dungeons.”

“Right. You eating well? Erin feeding you?”

“Mhm.”

“What’s ‘mhm’? Yes, no? Give examples.”

Saliss poked Tessa until she drew a blade on him—but then he just poked her with a spoon.

They were a different kind of Named-rank than Colth and the Haven’s lot. Less focused on the adventure, at least for the moment. Saliss had once claimed that any adventurer who made it to Named-rank was crazy in their own way, and Lehra might qualify.

Colth…Colth was professional, intelligent, and oddly sycophantic at times. He had taken to calling Ceria ‘boss’, and she’d heard he did act like that. Well—sometimes the madness wasn’t obvious. Sometimes it was.

 

——

 

Viecel the Gambler tossed the last two fingers on his right hand into the fire. Eldertuin had adventured with the Selphid for a long time, but even he winced as the Gambler removed the digits.

“Enough damn gambling, Viecel. This is meant to be fun. The odds are we’re not going to find—”

Deni snapped at Viecel, but the Selphid just looked up with a flat expression. Then he smiled.

“Want to bet on it? Come on, Deni. Put some gold on the line. Life’s no fun finding just a small treasure.”

We don’t all have fingers to spare. We’re not all damn Selphids.”

Viecel shrugged.

“Fingers aren’t worth much, that’s true. In that case—I wager a real wound. Blood or treasure, even up.”

“Viecel. Enough.”

Eldertuin grabbed his arm, but the Gambler was relaxed. He spread his arms.

“It’s just a wound either way, Eldertuin. And besides, it’ll add to whatever we get if I win. I’ve got to send something back to the kids. Especially now.”

He looked earnestly at the Fortress, and Eldertuin looked like he wanted to argue—but all the Named-ranks had heard about Baleros.

Besides, these were old arguments. Viecel had bet worse and more before.

Perhaps they should have stopped him long ago. The Gold-ranks were talking with Silver-ranks and Bronze-ranks about stories, and some of them were asking, enviously, how you reached the level of Horns or beyond.

“It’s not luck. It’s taking a risk. A calculated risk. You always, always play it safe, rookies, but sometimes you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do.”

The Waterborn Raider’s Captain was more genial than expected when they were sitting with full bellies around an open fire, but other adventurers cautioned him.

“Don’t say that to the younger adventurers. Then they just take risks. Figuring out what’s a calculated risk in the first place—that’s how you make it.”

“The higher-level you are, the less risk you have to take. I didn’t make the rules.”

The Waterborn Raider’s Captain defended himself with a glance at Deniusth. The Violinist pretended to ignore it—but then he stared into the distance.

“Risk. You say that now, Captain Foeer, but I’ve got a mountain of risks I never took. Friends who I never backed—and never saw again. The Archmage of Izril was just some kid when I was a Bronze-rank, you know? We were never friends in the sense that we were that close, but she sometimes helped us out. And for eight years, she was lost. Colth, Eld, Mihaela even—we’re the last ones, but when I look at you all, I knew this many adventurers growing up.”

He gestured at the gathering of hundreds, and the Violinist took a cup of warm cider. He drank it and felt the warmth seeping into his bones and a painful nostalgia.

“Eighteen. Eighteen adventurers from the Haven’s days are all Larra knows. Eighteen originals. That’s how many make it, you know. Eighteen ever retired or made it to our age.”

He looked around, and the younger adventurers fell silent. Yet Deni didn’t mean to dampen their spirits. He looked around, then sprang onto one of the barrels he’d paid for from Remendia.

“I don’t know if it was worth it—but I never was able to quit adventuring. Even after I made my fortune. It drags me back again and again, and when I’m here—I see a new chance. The new lands of Izril.

He looked at them, and they all stared up at him, some with eyes shining, others as jaded as his. Deni took a huge drink.

Never touched. Never explored! A new era upon us—this is a rebirth, friends. A new chance! Everything I’ve failed at, this time, I’ll do it right. I’m going to head into Izril’s new lands like a Bronze-rank and start afresh. And when I do, any adventurer I meet will be right there with me. We’ll team up, Bronze-ranks and Orchestra. Will I see you there?”

He looked around and received a wild cheer from most. The Violinist grinned and felt that excitement calling him on as he tossed more wood on the fire.

 

——

 

A new start, with all the gold and artifacts his team’s got.

Seborn muttered sardonically to the Halfseekers. Ulinde broke off from her admiring stare of Deni, and Jelaqua stretched out.

“Let him rile the young ones up, Seborn. I thought you were all about hope these days?”

“Faith isn’t blindness. He’s going to get some of them killed.”

The Drowned Man eyed the food from Remendia, and he didn’t recall Deni starting that fire. Halrac seemed to share the same opinion.

“If the Named-ranks are going south, I hope they’ve brought more provisions than a regular adventure. We’re not going. Are you, Jelaqua?”

“Ah, I have things in Pallass to think of—and we’re flush from recent events. We’ll…think on it. The real question is who here is going. I’d have thought that Griffon Hunt would go.”

“We’ve got a contract with Emperor Godart, and that’s almost as good as new lands.”

Revi put in, and Typhenous and Briganda nodded. The Halfseekers raised their brows, but Halrac’s new boots obtained at practically no danger spoke to that.

Their two teams were more content than almost any other group. Vuliel Drae, the Pride of Kelia, even the Flamewardens were raising tankards to Deni’s speech.

“Relics in the new lands. Or more? What could they find there that they couldn’t find in a dungeon here? Even tomorrow?”

Jelaqua wondered sleepily. No one had an answer, but perhaps…Halrac looked at Deni and thought of Ulrien and his own team of Griffon Hunt. When he looked around, he saw Revi and Typhenous, still ‘new’, and Briganda.

Perhaps, the [Bowman of Loss] realized, it wasn’t about objects to Deniusth and the older adventurers.

Perhaps it really was about…who.

 

——

 

Everyone was asleep, and it was, apparently, some damn [Witch]’s hour as a [Necromancer] stomped through the underbrush, swearing as his robes got caught on every conceivable branch. Pisces Jealnet was up late, and he’d been walking for forty minutes.

Forty minutes at midnight. Plus, the new [Portal Door] that Erin had set up was a huge, huge problem for clandestine meetings like this.

“You want me to keep it here? I guess…and you can still adjust it. See? The dial system is even there! What, you want to go somewhere, Pisces?”

He had to give her a lie about an early-morning Players of Celum performance, and he was sure Erin hadn’t bought it. But she had put it out, and then?

Well, let’s assume you got to Invrisil unseen. Which was already uncertain. Then, Pisces had to walk the quiet streets and hopefully not get mugged. A real possibility, even for a Gold-rank adventurer—someone might not know who he was, and that didn’t stop a club from hitting the back of his head! He’d elected to cast [Invisibility] the entire way.

Then he had to get out the gates, and the [Guard] didn’t exactly just let anyone out—or back in. Pisces had decided just to jump off the walls. Getting up? Well…he felt like he could [Flash Step] past a [Guard] when the gate opened.

This wasn’t a Drake city—Invrisil had low walls and little paranoia about saboteurs. But then Pisces had realized he wasn’t anywhere close to the place he’d been shown on the map. So here he was, hiking for forty minutes to some alleged ruins near a forest.

He was mad. He was, in fact, not having fun at all or feeling like this was a productive use of his time. It felt like another lifetime…living in a dirt cave around the Floodplains, not washing, ever, and occasionally waking up with centipedes in his hair. Let alone skulking around in the middle of the night.

Pisces didn’t know how you did it. Part of him suspected that you just got used to the privation. After all—he slowed as he saw some old stonework long since abandoned. It looked like a mill and farmstead, literally overgrown by trees.

It was…too nostalgic for him. The [Necromancer] saw no movement around the ruined windmill, but one look told him that was where anyone would be sleeping since it was the most intact building.

“[Detect Life].”

The [Necromancer] was still invisible. He saw no less than six figures, two apparently watching from the ruined walls of the farmstead and four inside the windmill.

“Sloppy.”

Not that he’d have done much better. If someone were trying to detect you…well, Pisces at least could cast invisibility. Something occurred to him, and he tried another spell.

“[Detect Death].”

Ah. Suddenly, Pisces noticed a lot of other signatures…in the ground. He stopped, because buried in the farmstead’s ground were no less than thirty-four skeletons—and two undead gargoyle-skeletons.

And an undead giant cat.

Now that…that was a trick he hadn’t ever pulled, simply because he didn’t run with hordes. But it was the oldest [Necromancer] trick in the book. Any [Bounty Hunter] or Bronze-rank adventurer coming out here wouldn’t have much proof these vagrants were up to no good.

And if they did force the issue, they were going to have an unpleasant surprise.

Did they dispose of people after them? Did they attack [Guards] or were they just robbing corpses? He had defrauded—well, scared people out of money. How did they get food? Robbery or…

Pisces shook himself as he stealthed forwards. It wasn’t his responsibility. And yet—

He knew the person he was going to see.

Ama, the [Necromancer] from the very first days of Pisces learning magic, had changed markedly. He still remembered her—and himself—as gangling…ganglerous teens. Yes, that was a suitable word for it.

Oh, they’d been studying magic and raising undead, but there was something about their youth that had been too much pretense. Everyone, really. It reminded Pisces in an unhappy way of Gothica. But where Gothica was seriously a [Goth], whatever that meant, some of what the young [Necromancers] had been had really just been rebellious, hanging out with undead because they knew it was ‘wrong’.

Well, jokes or not, they had all paid for it with their lives. And the real [Necromancers], Feren, Gewilena…

They had been Pisces’ age now, even a year or two on him still. Now, he realized how they must have seen the new acolytes and [Necromancers]. Feren had been always concerned about being found, hoarding money—and getting Az’kerash’s undead-farm to work.

As Pisces had observed, it hadn’t really gotten off the ground. The rotting zombies made people sick and stank—and fell apart. None of the [Necromancers] understood farming, and so they also stole and caused trouble and pretended their undead were something more than putrid corpses. In that sense, they might have been no better than a group of [Bandits] with undeath magic—

But for Gewilena, the artist who made sculptures out of bone and gave them life. She and Feren had been a cut above the others. While he was more pragmatic and a good fighter—he had even tried to teach Pisces [Flash Step]—

Gewilena had been able to make powerful undead out of bone. Her undead creations had been on par with a Bone Horror, Pisces suspected.

This was all ancient history, of course, but Pisces remembered it all. He hadn’t ever been caught. His father had made sure of that—and the local [Lord] had put the others to the torch.

He’d thought no one survived. But Ama…Pisces remembered her. Another student of Gewilena, obsessed with cats. By the looks of it, she had reached Gewilena’s level in artistry.

If not common sense. It was odd, going back down memory road now. Pisces had always remembered himself as being the best [Necromancer] behind Feren and Gewilena. Which was…possibly true? Ama was just one of the kids who didn’t have his touch, his magical ability. His fencing grace.

Dead gods, I was insufferable. The younger Pisces had been constantly after Feren or Gewilena. Good thing he had adopted a measure of gravitas and dignity after Wistram. Yes, that was how he was going to think of it and not remember any embarrassing moments ever after that at all.

But Ama, think of Ama. Pisces walked past the undead, listening. He could hear quiet murmurs and shushes from the hidden figures. They were about as good at this as…well. Kids playing at being outlaws.

Ama must have set up the undead like this. He could sense her magic strongest of all. She was the new Feren…and these were the new Pisces and Amas.

So why are you doing this, Ama? Didn’t she learn the lesson he’d learned in Ailendamus? They would hunt you down.

He didn’t know, but this was his first chance to talk to her since the battle against the monsters. She’d told him to meet her here and that they would be waiting.

Well, to be precise, he’d had to meet with one of her acolytes twice in Invrisil, who, both times, had told him that she was ‘thinking’ and ‘investigating’ his background. After the second meeting during a gibbous waxing moon, he’d been told to come here.

“…think he’s going to show up, Deathlady Ama?”

“We’ll see.”

The windmill was denuded of the actual blades, but the door was intact. Inside, Pisces could see a bunch of pallets to sleep on, some mismatched cooking supplies, and a lot of bones.

It wasn’t the worst campsite, he supposed, and he heard a scraping sound—which turned out to be the four [Necromancers] carving bones inside.

They had little curved knives, and they were carving some of the Gargoyle bones to better fit new undead. Even, Pisces saw, painting them. One was using a very crude water dye and painting…whiskers onto a cat face?

Yep. That was Ama. It looked like she had not only salvaged the last cat undead he’d partially destroyed, but was making a new one. This one had a movable jaw, but looked like one of those tigers from the books of Baleros. And, apparently, it would have orange and black stripes. A lighter yellow-orange for whiskers.

Ama didn’t notice Pisces, despite her eyes focusing on the view out the windmill’s open door. She was watchful, even as she patiently cut slivers of bone off what would become an articulated cat’s leg.

“Do you think he’ll join the cabal, Deathlady?”

“We’ll see. He’s a Gold-rank adventurer now. He hasn’t tried to turn us in…”

“He must be over Level 30! At least! He could lead us to greater magic. Teach us—”

“Lead the cabal? Haven’t I done well enough? Are you trying to replace me, Rodden?”

She turned, and the carving knife gleamed under the moonlight. One of the younger [Necromancers] froze and stuttered.

“N-not me! I’m just saying, he’s a famous—I’d never do that, Deathlady!”

Pisces rolled his eyes. Well, Ama didn’t seem to need to establish a rule of fear if that was all it took. They were kids, the other five [Necromancers]. Young…teenagers to young adults.

Strange. Ama appeared far older now, watchful—and he recognized the burn scars on her arm and face. Nor did she seem entirely unskilled with the dagger.

Time had not been kind to her. Well, nothing for it. Pisces paced back to the forest, stepped behind a tree, and unraveled his invisibility spell. He emerged and heard, even from afar, a cry of alarm. He raised one hand and wondered what the hell he was going to do.

 

——

 

“What are you doing here, Ama?”

He only asked her that when they were alone. It took twenty minutes—the younger neophytes, the ‘Apprentices of Death’, the [Necromancers] didn’t want to leave Pisces be. They were agog and incautious. More than one like Rodden told Pisces their real name by accident—then tried to pretend it was an alias.

By now, Pisces had figured out the entire organization of this cabal. He’d participated in a few, but never really fit in…this was a less-harmful version of the stereotypical necromancer living in a dark castle and raising undead.

Sometimes, they allied with bandits or were part of a gang. Other times, they were individuals—Ama’s group was made up of locals around Invrisil. They stole bones and corpses, dug up valuables, and, Pisces suspected, sold their undead to gangs.

Still, they were pests not even worth having adventurers go after. Their theft of the Gargoyle bones really was the grand heist of the year.

Ama folded her arms and scowled at Pisces.

“It’s been what—eight years? Seven, and that’s the first thing you say to me. You show up, a Gold-rank adventurer, without even apologizing?”

“For what? I saved you from being attacked by Vaunt’s soldiers—what were you thinking, trying to rob them? Attack them with an undead? There were Gold-rank adventurers out there, and any one of them could have wiped out your entire group, Ama. I have a friend who could punch that cat to death with her bare hands.

Ama sneered—and grew angrier.

“You must be crazy. That’s an [Artisan Bone Construct], my Sillias. He’s chased off Mothbears and killed Corusdeer!”

“Is he a Bone Horror?”

Pisces was sardonic. Ama, outraged.

“Bone Horror? He’s better than a mismatch of bones—didn’t you see how he moves? Like a cat! He can even flex his back like a cat and—

“I meant in terms of combat ability.”

“Combat ability, what are you, Feren?

She sneered at him again, and Pisces blew out his cheeks. This was not how he expected his first conversation to go—which really meant he’d forgotten how [Necromancers] were. Each one thought their undead were the best.

“I’m not talking about aesthetics, Ama, I’m talking about sheer killing ability. Yvlon Byres can take out two Bone Horrors with her hands. I saw her smash in an Adult Creler’s head with a broken sword. Do you want to see what happens if your cat makes her mad?”

Ama hesitated. She swallowed a bit as, perhaps, she hadn’t realized how close to a hostile adventurer she’d gotten.

“That’s just a rumor. Your team didn’t really kill an Adult Creler. You did? You?

She gave him an incredulous look that Pisces felt was slightly warranted. He just sighed and scrubbed at his hair.

“It’s been a long time, Ama. I didn’t recognize you at first. Only that cat gave you away. Gewilena would have been proud.”

He expected that to bring them back to the start, but Ama’s face went white. Then she raised a hand and tried to slap him.

“How dare you bring her up!”

Pisces stepped back, and she overbalanced. He saw her right herself and kick out—he stepped back.

“What are you doing?”

The other [Necromancers] were watching from afar. Ama caught herself, and then she raised a wand.

“You—”

Pisces saw the tip glowing fiery-red and moved before he thought. His rapier rose and knocked the wand aside. Ama froze as he held it past her head.

“What is wrong with you?”

The [Deathbane Necromancer] snapped. He was furious now.

“I gave you those Gargoyle bones—I let you and your cabal go, and now you’re trying to hit me?”

“You think that makes up for what you did? You sold us out, Pisces. Gewilena, everyone—everyone died but Feren and me. All because your father figured out where we were hiding!”

Ah. Suddenly, Pisces’ fury went out, and his arm lowered as if a heavy weight were upon it.

“…I never told them anything.”

“So they just found us without you doing anything?”

Ama spat. Her cheeks were white, but a flush was creeping back into them. She turned, and the same fury that had propelled Pisces up till Liscor was still in her. Only in her—now Pisces understood.

He sheathed his rapier.

“I didn’t, Ama. Truly. Believe me, I wanted to stop it, but the first I heard was that Lord Ecte was going after the farm—from my father. He beat me half to death, and when I arrived—all I found was ash. Then I saw them execute Gewilena and the others.”

Ama listened, eyes wide with disbelief—but flickering.

“That can’t be right. They found us without a warning. No scouts—the first thing I saw were those [Knights] marching in. Feren told us to run, but we were still eating lunch when they attacked. Gewilena’s undead got two, but everyone else’s…Feren had to kill a [Knight] to get us out.”

“I didn’t know that. I thought he was burnt. No one mentioned casualties. I…I didn’t tell them.”

“They must have followed you.”

The other [Necromancer] was still angry, but it was draining out of her, replaced by old grief. It was a long, long time ago. This felt like opening a wound up, but Pisces had already thought of Gewilena before. And Ama…

“I don’t think they needed to. They just needed to know we were there. It wasn’t as if the farm was that well hidden, Ama. Once Lord Ecte got wind of it, how hard would it have been to cast [Detect Life]? I could tell you were all here—and the undead in the ground.”

She looked up, alarmed, and then her face twisted over.

“Feren never believed you sold us out. He thought they tortured you.”

“Feren’s alive? Is he here?”

Pisces latched onto that. The most skilled [Necromancer] had been in his mid-twenties, no duelist like Pisces, but able to cast [Flash Step] and [Deathbolt]. He had also wanted to be like Az’kerash and even tried dying his hair white in imitation of his mentor. Pisces had always thought that if anyone had been able to make it…

“No. No, we parted a long time ago. He’s still in Terandria. Working with Ailendamus.”

“…What? You have to be kidding.”

Ama shrugged.

“I was with him for a long time. But he’s obsessed with creating a huge cabal and an undead army. He wants revenge—but Ailendamus hires him to cause trouble with other nations. Raid villages, attack people—idiot. He was up to something big the last I heard of him.”

Pisces shook his head.

“You’ll need to tell me more about that. And you? How’d you get to Izril?”

“The same way you did. I just—left Terandria. Izril was closest, so I went to a port, but there’s almost nowhere safe. I should have gone to Baleros or Chandrar, but I couldn’t afford it. I finally found a place to make my undead here. And it’s been going well. Sillias is my finest creation—no matter what his ‘combat capability’ is.”

She had to actually raise the undead from the ground to show him off. Pisces saw the cat flex, roll over, and even pretend to wash a paw with a bone tongue of all things.

It was impressive and reminded Pisces of Gewilena…but it was also amazingly useless.

“How long did you spend on making that tongue?”

“Uh, five months. It was hard figuring out how to move it properly. Want to see him perch on a ledge?”

Ama was excited to show her cat off, but Pisces was glancing at the sky.

“I’ve got to get back to the inn. I just—I wanted to know what’s going on, Ama. What’s your cabal doing?”

Learning necromancy. What else? This…this is art. And I’m happy without your help. Those Gargoyle bones will make great protectors and fuel more projects. Thanks for that. You’re a famous Gold-rank. I can’t believe those damn adventurers don’t stab you. What else is there to say?”

She looked at him like a stranger, and Pisces glanced around the ruins. He imagined living in that windmill, and looked at the kids.

“Do you rob people for money?”

“No. What are you, trying to make sure nothing comes back to you? Believe me, I won’t try that if we run into an adventurer.”

She said it too fast, crossing her arms. Pisces huffed.

I’m not—we’re old friends, Ama. At least, we were. I just don’t want you to get in trouble bothering the wrong people. Do you need money?”

She shrugged defensively.

“We get by.”

He dug in his bag of holding.

“I bet. Here.”

He held out a handful of gold, and the [Necromancer] stared at it. She almost reached for the gold, then her face turned paler, and she swatted at his hand.

“I don’t need that. I don’t need you.

“It’s just a gift.”

“Well, I don’t need it.”

“Fine. I’m trying to be helpful. Clearly, I wasn’t needed here or anywhere else! Let’s agree to part on that.

Pisces lost his temper and turned on his heel. He stalked off—but Ama called out after him.

“Pisces, wait!”

She caught up to him, and he turned. The angry [Necromancer] saw Ama hesitate. She looked back at the cabal, then whispered to him.

“You…my cabal is small. Since you’re such a high-level [Necromancer], will you raise a Bone Horror or something for them? I had to tell them we knew each other.”

He stared at her, and she flushed. Pisces bit his tongue, and Ama whispered.

“They’re causing no one harm, but they want to all level up and earn lots of gold. They’ll run off to another cabal—the Gargoyle bones are huge. It’s better if they don’t.”

“There are other cabals about Invrisil?”

She gave him a long look.

“Not Invrisil specifically. But there are some bad ones out there. Please, Pisces. Getting involved with Izril’s gangs is a bad idea.”

Without a word, Pisces looked at the [Necromancers]. He sighed…then fished in his bag of holding. He spilled a pile of bones onto the ground and, with a flourish, clicked his fingers.

“Will…this do? It’s just a bear.”

The two-headed warbear rose—or at least, a simulacrum of one. The original bear and his Skeleton Lord were back on Chandrar, so Pisces just used the Gargoyle bones for this one.

…The bear head looked stupid with bone fragments crudely making it up. Pisces supposed he should alter the design or carve some bones up to make it look better. But he knew Ama’s method took forever. Maybe some paint? But that flaked off in combat. Maybe it could do more than lumber about.

He expected Ama to sneer at his creation, but the [Necromancer] gasped, and the other five practically sprinted over as the warbear rose. Pisces looked at Ama.

“It’s not nearly as functional as your cat. My original was lost…what?”

“How—how did you do that?”

“Do what? Oh, I had the warbear’s template saved.”

“No, animate a Bone Horror like that? It takes half an hour for me to raise one, and you—”

Pisces blinked at Ama.

“I’ve always raised undead that fast. It’s harder with creations above regular skeletons, but—I’ve practiced.”

“Practiced? Who practices animation speed? You had no ritual, and the bindings—the bindings are terrible.

Ama walked around the undead, and Pisces bristled.

“It does well in a fight.”

“It probably only lasts as long as it fights. Ew! Is this how you articulate the joints? Look, it’s paw barely does more than go up and down!”

Ama fearlessly wiggled the warbear’s paws as it reared up, demonstrating a classic swipe. Pisces grew defensive.

“That’s all it needs to do.”

“Yes, but you could make it actually adaptive. This thing just charges and bites, doesn’t it? You know, bears are more clever than that. Have you inlaid the bones with more strength or speed?”

“N—not everyone has time to make a custom undead. I, in fact, know how to make a Skeleton L—

Pisces hesitated and closed his mouth on that. Ama hadn’t heard.

“Classic Pisces. You make undead like Feren. No customization.”

“I made a skeleton with a crossbow in its chest!”

She gave him a blank look as he furiously poured bones out of his bag of holding. Pisces neglected to mention that he hadn’t used that combat skeleton in almost any battle—he really did just raise skeletons or the warbear or the Bone Behemoth.

Frankly—when you had a Bone Behemoth, most problems got squashed. Aside from armies of monsters. But Ama just sneered at his skeleton.

“Hey, raise the Scottie the Scout Skeleton. Bring him over here.”

“Scottie the Scout…you name your undead?”

Pisces forgot how Ama was. Actually, Gewilena had named all the zombie laborers. She just gave him an arch look.

“Yes, I do. And I have [Personal Undead] Skills.”

“That’s a Skill?”

That’s a Skill? Ahem.

Pisces froze as he heard a voice that no one else did. Ama flicked her brown hair out and pointed.

“Death Apprentices, clear some space. Let me show my peer what he’s forgotten. Scottie—dance!”

The skeleton was just a normal one, although for some reason he had an jerkin and pants on. Clearly new clothing, not the stuff the skeleton had been buried in. For a given value of new—it was tattered stuff. The skeleton with its bright yellow eyes did a jig in place with surprising nimbleness.

That was…actually somewhat impressive. Skeletons had mobility but not dexterity. Pisces could get his to run, but a dance? He refused to look impressed as a voice spoke in his head.

Young Pisces. It seems appropriate that now I reach out to you. At your…convenience, we must speak.

Absolutely, Archmage.

Pisces was sweating suddenly, and he wished Ama didn’t look quite so smug given her audience. She took his expression for mockery and glared.

“Not good enough? Okay, Scottie—flip.”

Scottie the Scout Skeleton backflipped. Pisces’ eyes bulged. It wasn’t even an amateurish backflip; Scottie curled up into a ball and then landed with both arms raised.

“Wh…”

That’s quite impressive.

Even Az’kerash sounded mildly intrigued. Pisces stared as Scottie kept dancing.

“You can make a skeleton do that? Did you just say—[Personal Undead]? I’ve never heard of that. And believe me, I, uh, I’ve been studying from the greatest tomes of undeath.”

Ama just laughed at him.

“Why would they have anything to do with Skills? And you don’t know how fast skeletons can move? Scottie can run on a vertical wall. Hey, make Scottie do a wall run for Pisces.”

The other [Necromancers] herded him off, but Ama stepped forwards.

“Just between us two, I suppose I’ll share that since you showed us your bear. Not a lot of [Necromancers] know about [Personal Undead]. I know, because Gewilena did it.”

“She never told me about that.”

Pisces felt hurt, and Ama shrugged.

“Maybe she didn’t have the Skill. Not a lot of [Necromancers] named their undead. They treat them like disposable tools. Feren hasn’t named a single undead he’s ever raised. I bet you haven’t either. If you don’t treat a skeleton as valuable, of course it’s not going to do anything.”

Pisces and Az’kerash stared at Ama in silence. She smirked.

“You’ve never named a single skeleton, have you?”

“I, uh—had one of my skeletons named Toren.”

Pisces neglected to mention who named it. Ama folded her arms.

“Well, there you go. It’s like pets. [Personal Undead] can gain useful Skills—Sillias mends himself from scrapes, so I don’t have to keep repairing him—even your damage is gone.”

“Archmage Chandler? Is this true?”

Pisces had to ask. Surely, in the two hundred years of Archmage Chandler’s existence…the great Necromancer of Terandria was silent.

I have not needed to nickname any undead without personality. Nor have any of the apprentices I ever taught expressed such odd behavior…undead were servants and protectors in my time. Interesting subsections of magic exist everywhere. As for imbuing bones with additional power, that is something I practiced when necessary. However, this cat…undead is overdone in every respect. Does it have a purring function?

Pisces looked at Ama, and she gave him a triumphant look, as if feeling she had won something. Which…she had. He stood there as she exhaled.

“I wish I’d had Sillias when we were back at the farm. We might have gotten everyone out.”

“I’m sorry, Ama. I…I am sorry.”

She looked at him bleakly, then turned away.

“You’re famous, and you have a team now. I’m glad. Listen, we’re not always going to be here, but if you want to come by, I can teach you how to make a Scottie. Did you—ever learn how to cast [Deathbolt] or other spells? Finding tomes or swapping spells is hard. I feel like I could learn it now, but Feren never got around to teaching me. Or any other spells.”

“I might. I’ll think about it. Right now, I do have to run. I’ve got to go get some sleep, Ama.”

She nodded at him, but when he turned, she held out her hand. He reached out to take it, and Ama curled her fingers.

“I could take some gold. If you’re giving it away.”

He gave her a slightly irked look, but produced a handful of gold coins—and then another. Ama hurried it into her own bag of holding, and the two stood there, not quite sure how to continue.

“—How is the, um, adventuring going, anyways?”

“Oh, we’re exploring a dungeon. With Colth the Supporter, no less.”

Pisces snorted mildly, but Ama looked stunned.

A Named-rank? How does he fight? Isn’t he one of Izril’s most eligible bachelors?”

“Possibly. He’s not that charming.”

Ama gave Pisces a long look.

“And you’re the judge of that? What’s it like, anyways? Is he the best fighter in the world or something?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t even gotten into the dungeon. I’ve actually been exploring it via a skeleton. I have to control one and send it down hundreds of feet and miles into the dungeon, past traps—to navigate through it. Sensible, but slow.”

“You can control it that far?”

The [Necromancer] was impressed, but this was more familiar to her, so Pisces described the orb setup and how Colth had come up with the idea. Only here, far, far away from the inn and prying ears did he say what he suspected the rest of the Horns had thought.

“It was a novel idea coming from someone who’s never worked with a [Necromancer] before. Very sensible, safe, and practical. Colth is about as adept as, ah, a junior [Necromancer].”

She laughed at that. Colth had been very pleased by his idea, and Pisces had forbore mentioning that they’d used expendable skeletons in Albez—and spiders, here. Colth had tweaked the concept and made it more useful, but it wasn’t that original.

“So he’s smart enough to be a [Necromancer]. That’s better than most meatshield adventurers I’ve run into.”

“True, true. He is a dangerous man. I don’t know in which sense, but I do know that. I wonder how these Named-ranks will act in Drake lands…ah.”

The ah was because the giant cat, Sillias, was padding over. Pisces backed up, but then he saw it twine around Ama, like an oversized, affectionate regular cat. He wasn’t sure if she’d commanded her undead to do that or if it was just created to do that at odd intervals.

Either way—the [Necromancer] stroked its head and scratched it under the chin, smiling, and Pisces had to admire that.

“…It is a work of art. He is. Gewilena would have been proud.”

Ama colored a bit and nodded at him.

“You really don’t make art anymore, Pisces? You? Gewilena taught you to carve bone as well as I did.”

His head lowered. Pisces stared at the ground, then felt a burning itch around his neck. His skin crawled on his back, and he looked up—and Ama’s smile went away.

“No. I do admire Sillias, Ama. But…my undead, as many as I can raise, as strong as they can be—they’re still not enough. I abandoned artistry to make them strong enough to kill monsters. And they’re not capable of killing real horrors. Not yet.”

Uncertainly, Ama glanced at the direction of his warbear, still being inspected by the junior members of her cabal.

“Is that why you’re adventuring? How many monsters are there in the world, anyways? How many Creler nests? I’ve never seen one and I live out in the wilds.”

She laughed uncertainly, and Pisces looked somberly at her.

“The bad ones look like people. They are, in my experience, the most difficult to kill.”

Ama stopped laughing and gave Pisces a longer look. Then she did nod, ducking her head to hide her face behind her long bangs.

“Yeah. They are. I stay away from them, but you and Feren…how many more have you met?”

“I met a number on Chandrar. Then I was rescued…I ran away. I left some good friends behind.”

Pisces whispered, like a confession. He looked at the cabal and Izril—safe. Despite the monster hordes. Ama watched her old friend’s face, and she saw Pisces look over his shoulder.

Again. She had thought he was impatient and wanting to be gone. Then she wondered if he was looking…southeast. Following the distant connection of death magic she sensed coming out of him. Impossibly far away.

“Chandrar’s a long way away.”

That was the only thing she could think to say. She had never seen the continent of deserts and old kingdoms aside from scrying orbs. It was just an idea to her, like Khelt or Az’kerash himself.

But Pisces…he nodded, then said something he hadn’t told his team or even Erin. A conclusion he’d come to.

“It is. It is, Ama. It will be a long journey back, and an ordeal. However—I have left too much unsettled with foul men and abhorrent deeds on Chandrar. I abandoned noble folk. I hope they can wait. Either way, I must return and bring them here. Or be damned.”

His eyes stared into the distance, and then he looked nothing like the boy with the practice rapier who she remembered, eagerly sitting around with the other young [Necromancers] and playing at undead. Then, she could see how he’d become a Gold-rank adventurer. And though neither she nor Pisces could see it, nor hear his voice…the Necromancer could see them and hear.

The Archmage of Death smiled, like a man named Perril Chandler once had, when he breathed and held Silvaria’s honor in his hands. Like an older mentor seeing a worthy pupil on his long, treacherous road.

A path so dangerous even he would have hesitated before stepping upon it, for he knew Roshal and Chandrar’s treachery. But—the Necromancer’s lips moved, his thoughts focusing, thinking. Wondering what he could give his successor for the trials ahead.

And while Az’kerash watched Pisces, the Tyrant of Cloth, the great ruler of those lands who knew both Roshal and Chandrar better than any other—she watched Az’kerash.

Nerrhavia smiled too.

 

——

 

Nothing much else happened that night. Aside from one person getting a very…suitable notification that made this morning fall into context. A decision had been made, or possibly, a threshold crossed.

Two points on a dataset made a line. A cluster, a trend. Well, if this were going to continue—if this were more than a hobby—what would it become? A voice measured the choices thus far and spoke:

 

[Prankster class obtained!]

[Prankster Level 8!]

[Skill – Convincing Lies obtained!]

[Skill – Pardon the Joke obtained!]

[Skill – Mischief Bank obtained!]

[Mischief Skill – Wings Upon Ice obtained!]

 

“Oh? Ooooh!

A half-Elf flailed around in her sheets and then landed on the floor. Ceria Springwalker couldn’t believe it. A new class? Now?

Was this comeuppance or…? She couldn’t tell, but after some thinking—and especially analyzing that unique Skill—she decided this was a good thing. The [Cryomancer] was tempted to run outside, but it was late. So, instead, she just tiptoed outside, saw a sleepy little Mrsha being led to the outhouse by Lyonette—and froze their door lock solid.

She did not level, much to her dismay.

 

——

 

The next morning, Pisces wondered why the normally friendly Lyonette served Ceria a burnt piece of bacon on some untoasted bread with a scowl. And she had, apparently, personally burnt the bacon.

Mrsha was also slightly bleary-eyed and scowling at Ceria, but forgave the half-Elf when Ceria promised to teach her some magic.

“Quality over quantity, I guess.”

He had no idea what she was talking about. But then, Pisces himself was, ah—low on sleep. He was very, very grateful for Erin’s [Twofold Rest] Skill, because he had had an unpleasant night.

Ama was one thing. But his night hadn’t ended with her. He had had…a very interesting conversation with Az’kerash.

 

——

 

The Archmage of Death was—chatty of late. He asked Pisces about his studies, his team, and his return from Chandrar. Even Erin Solstice.

Was he aware of Erin’s quests? Perhaps he was regarding Pisces more and more as an unofficial apprentice.

Pisces was, of course, as polite as possible, but the Necromancer hadn’t contacted him to impart any magic or purely for social politeness.

Young Pisces, I have reached out regarding the new lands of Izril. It is my understanding your team has not decided to enter the new lands. Is this so?

“N-no, Necromancer. They have made no such commitments.”

Pisces began sweating the instant he heard this. Az’kerash’s mental tone, however, was pleasant. Even conversational. Pisces wasn’t fooled.

My interests tend towards the new lands of Izril also. In the pursuit of your own levels and your career as an adventurer, I suggest you embark there as well.

“To…assist you in your goals, Archmage? My team has commitments, and while I am sure there is a wealth of opportunity there, I cannot force my Captain, Ceria, to do anything.”

Pisces replied swiftly, and Az’kerash paused.

“Naturally, but I would assume you have no little weight. I happen to know there is a great opportunity in the new lands—the <Mythical Quest> aside. If not what, it will be invaluable to all, or so my source assures me.”

He sounded displeased, so Pisces clarified.

“Naturally, then, Archmage. You—you think it is that important?”

Az’kerash took his time replying, and when he did, Pisces’ heart sank.

Just as I have taken your side against Roshal, young Pisces, so too do I assure you that the new lands have an opportunity you must not miss out upon. Consider this a friendly piece of advice.

Pisces swallowed. Well.

“In that case, Necromancer, I will begin my preparations at once.”

Properly, young Pisces. Properly. But your foresight in accepting my guidance is noted.

 

——

 

Pisces’ forehead rested on the table. He wondered what he was going to do.

Well—obviously, go to the new lands. He’d known from the start that the Necromancer’s help had consequences. Now, he was calling in the favor from Chandrar.

And it had been a favor worth having at the time. But could he endanger his team? Pisces shook his head.

What…what would Az’kerash ask of him? Perhaps just to find whatever this was. Either way, the favor had been called in, and Pisces was only grateful he hadn’t missed all the hints Az’kerash was dropping.

His wrath…would not be pleasant. But Pisces looked at Ksmvr, who was gobbling down just toast with butter and cinnamon for breakfast, and Yvlon and Ceria…and he spoke as Ceria was munching on her single piece of burnt bacon.

“Everyone, I have decided I will be joining the expedition to the new lands. Purely as a matter of self-improvement. You need not accompany me, nor do I expect it. I am quite self-sufficient, and frankly, I can understand if you would prefer we split a time.”

It was—harder to say like that. Pisces tried to sniff and sneer at the same time as he gave his team an arch look. Yvlon nearly spat out her breakfast porridge.

“You what? The new lands? Where is this coming from, Pisces? We haven’t discussed it?”

He raised an arch eyebrow.

“No, indeed? Well, I have decided. For myself. Last night. I’m sure you can form your own opinion, Byres, but I’ve made up my mind. Again, your attendance is not mandatory.”

She turned red instantly, and Pisces waited for a punch or a snap. Instead, Yvlon exhaled hard.

“Did Ceria freeze your door locks, too? I’ll…well, it’s not like the idea isn’t appealing. But this is a team-decision, Pisces. Some forewarning would be appreciated.”

The [Necromancer] shrugged, trying to keep his brows arched.

“Again, Byres, this is my personal decision. You need not join me. I am announcing my intentions to the group as a whole. What you decide isn’t my concern.”

This time, her fist clenched hard on the metal spoon, and it began to bend. Yvlon gritted her teeth.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were deliberately saying it like this to annoy me—”

“Comrade Pisces, Yvlon, please. Pisces is simply letting us know his intentions efficiently.”

Ksmvr looked worried and patted Yvlon and Pisces on the shoulders. She calmed down and shot Pisces a quick—hurt look.

“Sorry, Ksmvr.”

“Yes. Well, I’m determined.”

Pisces felt his stomach clench and guilt shooting through him. He turned to Ceria, and the half-Elf was propping her head up on her chin.

“The day gets weirder and weirder. Why are you so certain, Pisces? I thought you’d be keener on going back to Chandrar, not Izril.”

He flinched. The [Necromancer] avoided Ceria’s gaze and mixed truth with half-truths. The best sort of way to lie.

“First the new lands, then Chandrar, perhaps. W—I am not ready for Chandrar. Suffice it to say, my mind is made up, and if you all would prefer to stay here, I understand. Now—are we going to investigate this dungeon or not?”

He got up swiftly and backed away from his team. He hoped Yvlon would look angrier, but she just—gazed at him, and Ksmvr looked hurt and Ceria too perceptive. Pisces whirled away, not sure what he wanted.

But he didn’t want to lead them to their deaths.

 

——

 

“What the hell was that about? Silver and steel, did Pisces sleep on rocks or something?

Yvlon whispered to the other Horns as Pisces stalked off. She was upset—not just angry at his sudden announcement, but at how uncharacteristic it was.

“He did come back to the inn quite late. Perhaps his sleep was less than adequate? He is upset, not at us.”

Ksmvr tilted his head left and right. Ceria and Yvlon frowned at him. But they had forgotten.

The [Teammate] folded his arms smugly. [Sense Affection (Platonic)].

“Now that’s interesting, Ksmvr.”

Ceria murmured as she watched Pisces’ back. Her eyes flickered, and Yvlon muttered.

“It’s not like I haven’t thought about the new lands, but where’s this ambition coming from? Do you think it’s about Roshal? Does he want to level up that badly?”

Her hand clenched, but Ceria shook her head. She looked at Ksmvr, Pisces, and then nodded to herself.

“…I bet it’s that favor he called in for Erin.”

Ksmvr and Yvlon looked up. Ceria scratched at her head, thinking hard.

“There’s no reason for Pisces to be this dramatic about it—or unpleasant. It was like he was baiting you, Yvlon. Or else he’d try to persuade us all by being smarmy or debating it. I think he doesn’t want us to go. But he has to.”

“What? He’s being threatened—”

Yvlon half-rose, and Ceria clarified.

“Favor called in. Sort of different.”

“Then we must go with him. Is it because we did not obtain the Helm of Fire?”

Ksmvr looked agitated, and the half-Elf shook her head.

“Impossible to say, but I bet whomever Pisces is in debt to isn’t happy about that. Promised a Relic-class item and it gets put up for auction?”

“Who is it, do you think…?”

They hadn’t asked, and Yvlon had probably assumed, like Ceria, it was a ‘contact’ on the level of some local [Bandit Leader] or whatnot. But when you thought about it—Ceria’s eyes narrowed, and her mind began racing.

“Could be a [Lord] or [Lady], could be something…else. You meet powerful people by chance, believe me. The question is—are you guys up for a journey to the new lands?”

Yvlon’s mouth opened, and Ksmvr stared at Ceria. His mandibles clicked, and Ceria looked after Pisces. The Horns of Hammerad hesitated a moment, and Yvlon’s chin came up. She began to nod, and Ceria was smiling when Ksmvr spoke up.

“For Comrade Pisces, of course. But I do not see the point. What do these new lands have?”

Ceria and Yvlon twisted in their seats and saw Ksmvr staring blankly at the map of Izril and the new butt appended onto it that Gothica had scrawled there, hanging on a wall. His antennae waved, but the eager adventure in his voice? It was not there. Ksmvr scratched at his chin and then sighed.

 

——

 

The Horns’ quiet mood was not really noticed with the rest of the bustling inn. And when the Named-rank came down the stairs, the energy returned to maximum.

“Colth! I thought I sensed someone sleeping up here. I missed everything yesterday. Mrsha said you were doing something in the dungeon?”

Erin Solstice was getting out of her wheelchair and stretching. Colth bowed to her.

“Just a bit of careful dungeoning, Miss Solstice. How’s Larra doing? I’m sorry I missed the [Emperor]. How did that go?”

“Um, it’s going. Well, everyone’s mad at me, but we’re doing the introductions-thing. It’ll take a bit, but I guess we’ve gotta do it. I’m going over to Riverfarm now to be nice…and negotiate a deal.”

“Erin? Negotiate?”

Relc rubbed at his earholes as he chewed on breakfast. He looked over, and Erin shook her fist at him.

“Hey! I can too negotiate! I’m getting cheap, unlimited eggs. Since Mister Ram is a [Rancher]. Deal of the century.”

Lyonette rolled her eyes and whispered to the others as she passed by the table.

“She’s neglecting the door transport fee, Liscor doing trade negotiations and all the other cities, tariffs, oh, and Wailant is trying to declare his farm a separate entity that everyone has to deal with—Ceria, did you actually eat that toast? Mrsha sneezed on it! I have real breakfast. Let me get it.”

The half-Elf didn’t appear affected by the news. She turned back to Pisces and raised her brows.

“Ready for another day of skeleton-explorations, oh Captain, my Captain? Since you’re making all the decisions. We’ve got time. But let’s look into who else is going to the new lands, eh? I wonder if the other teams are working with a group or a nation.”

Pisces slowly nodded and, with a sigh—got back to work.

 

——

 

Unlike other days, neither Liscor nor Albez were bearing immediate fruit. Which was not to say there was no fruit possible!

The civilian [Diggers] were hard at work by the time that Ylawes Byres got up. Unlike the other teams from the north, he was used to sleeping on hard ground, and Falene even had a few tricks to make the ground soft and keep them warm in the autumn.

…Which was why he objected, slightly, to the sight of a magical tent being deployed by one Gold-rank team and Orchestra’s actual house.

“Is that a house, Dawil?”

“Lad, that’s a house.”

Even the Dwarf didn’t have a smart remark in the morning as the two swished tooth-cleaning liquid in their mouths and spat it. It looked like a colorful cabin—with reinforced metal doors and windows.

And arrow crenellations. Someone had mixed a fortress’ defenses with the homey design.

“It’s one of the Haven’s specialties. Must be that Larracel either made or loaned it—you know, a deployable resting spot? I’ve heard that you can weather monster swarms in it.”

“I wonder how it works against Shield Spider avalanches?”

Ylawes had to admit—the sight of that cabin did not make him feel better about his own sleep. Nor did these Named-adventurers frankly.

Ylawes liked to think he was a…a…good adventurer. He tried not to overcharge people in need. He fought well, he thought, for his level and rank. His team made a difference.

It just felt like that commitment to the Silver Swords’ ethos was leaving them behind. The Halfseekers, yesterday, had proven what a massive spike in power their new gear afforded them. Griffon Hunt? Well, Halrac’s team wasn’t as notably different—but they were in the employ of an [Emperor], and to hear Halrac talk about it, it had its perks.

What had Ylawes done for the Silver Swords? The [Knight] felt like it was what he hadn’t done for them. They hadn’t done the Village of the Dead raid. They hadn’t gotten much from Wistram, just a few secrets. Big ones, but non-actionable ones at the moment.

He…even his latest level up hadn’t rewarded him with a Skill. He’d survived an encounter with a horrific Golem in the academy and hadn’t gotten a Skill.

Oh, and his sister, Ysara, didn’t have one kind word for him after years of not seeing her. If there were one upside…no. Even that wasn’t a direct benefit, just a worry.

Ylawes only felt more weight and a kind of competitive pressure he didn’t like. And he saw the same feeling among the lower-ranked teams.

“Dead gods. So that’s Named-rank.”

Captain Nailren of the Pride of Kelia had been at the Meeting of Tribes, but even he seemed surprised by Orchestra’s fame. He turned as Ylawes walked over.

“Captain Ylawes.”

“Captain Nailren. Good morning to you, sir. Do you know if there’s a breakfast?”

“Orchestra’s apparently paid for it for everyone. Not sure what we’re doing, no? All the civilians are digging for us. Just stand around and eat.”

The Gnoll wasn’t too familiar with Ylawes and vice-versa, but they were both teams who’d gone into Liscor’s dungeon and thus cordial. Ylawes saw skewers of meat being roasted by a [Cook]. A cook, instead of camp provisions!

Nailren noticed Ylawes’ consternation and grinned.

“I wonder how they’ll do in these new lands. Is your team going?”

“I…don’t know. Perhaps. It’s a large commitment, and we may be needed in the north. What of your team?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

The Gnoll’s reply surprised Ylawes, but Nailren just stared south.

“I wished to come to The Wandering Inn to ask Erin Solstice for advice—and to stock up on supplies and deliver the Antinium, Antherr. But the new lands? They are my people’s lands, no matter if every other power in the world is going. A real, true adventure. Of course I must go. I just fear I’ll be outmatched by the competition.”

He gazed at Orchestra and shook his head. Ylawes found some real sympathy in his heart for the Gnoll. When he did think of it like that—

“It is not fair that the Gnolls’ lands are being taken. I can agree with that, Captain Nailren.”

The Gnoll looked surprised by the comments, but he nodded at Ylawes.

“You’re kind to say so.”

“It’s just words. Can I grab something for you to eat?”

“I have to get my team’s food—let’s go and see, hrm? I smell…oatcakes. Geh. Maybe I’ll just have the meat.”

The Gnolls did not appreciate a hot oatcake dipped in a bit of honey. Then again, it did sit a bit heavy in Ylawes’ stomach assuming he’d be doing something strenuous soon.

Not that it seemed like that was going to happen anytime soon. The instant a new or old passage was uncovered, a team would head into it and clear whatever monsters there were and report it had already been searched.

Albez wasn’t like Liscor’s dungeon; the endemic monster population was incredibly small. Undead were often a more common threat because they could just stay buried for ages; a living monster had to eat.

Anyways. Ylawes re-introduced himself to some of the Silver-rank teams being ignored with all the Gold and Named-ranks about.

“Captain Anith of Vuliel Drae? Your team made it out of the Village of the Dead raid, then.”

The Jackal jumped and gave Ylawes an odd look before bowing. He was reserved, dignified—and his team was completely ignored by most of the Liscorian teams.

“Captain Byres. Mostly unscathed. Pekona lost a hand.”

Ylawes bit his tongue because he’d forgotten one of their number, the silent Drathian [Sword Dancer], had lost a limb dueling the Revenant. She just nodded to him as Dasha waved at Dawil. Dawil pretended not to see her.

“Not inclined to trade stories?”

The Halfseekers and even Griffon Hunt were talking shop with a lot of the northern teams, but Anith, Insill, Larr, and Pekona looked uncomfortable.

“We’re…not that welcome among some of the teams. After the dungeon incident. With the moths.”

“Ah. Of course.”

Ylawes had been there, and he knew that was their fault. Still…there was such a thing as forgiveness, and they’d fought in the Village of the Dead raid. He studied Pekona’s severed wrist and wondered if she could use the long, curved blade with only one hand. Actually—it looked shorter. Perhaps she’d switched out the sword for a one-handed version?

Katana, he thought the name was. Which meant the shorter blade was a…

“My team is having breakfast with the Pride of Kelia. Why don’t you sit with us?”

Vuliel Drae had been eating alone, so they brightened at the offer. Dawil and Nailren gave Ylawes a longer look, but they were cordial as they made room. Falene, of all people, scowled as she finally emerged from her tent.

“My sleep…would have been better at the Adventurer’s Haven. Perhaps we should have reconsidered our position, Ylawes. I don’t think this joint dig will yield much reward even if we do find something.”

She hinted, strongly, that they should return, and Ylawes nodded.

“It’s good to be sociable though, Falene. We may run into many of these teams, and watching a Named-rank one is a sight. I know Orchestra, and I’ve seen Variable Fortress fighting—let’s mingle. I don’t think Deniusth has the inclination to stay more than a day.”

He was certainly pushing the civilians hard. And impatiently—Ylawes suspected that the map Ceria had given the adventurers hadn’t yielded anything good.

If he were a suspicious sort, he might actually suspect Ceria had checked those locations with Gemhammer already. No, she was quite…honorable? At the very least, she was no rogue.

“You’ve seen the Named-ranks fight?”

“I grew up in a noble house. And any boy follows Named-ranks about whenever they’re in the region. I begged my father to take me to some of their dungeon crawls—and watched from afar.”

Ylawes was embarrassed, but he did know more about the Named-ranks than Falene and Dawil, who were Terandrian.

“In fact…Orchestra’s had a lot of teammates over the years. Crowdcaller Merdon was a member of their team, and they’ve even journeyed with Barelle the Bard.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. Aren’t they a bit of a contentious team, though?”

Dawil grunted, and the Silver-ranks looked surprised. Anith frowned.

“Contentious, Captain Ylawes?”

“Dawil’s exaggerating. Mostly. They just tend to be a polarizing force in the adventuring community. Lots of rivalries for an adventurer with as much history as Deniusth. It’s political—the Silver Swords don’t often get tangled in that sort of thing.”

“Like Walled Cities teams and Gnoll adventurers. I get it.”

Nailren sighed through his nose. Ylawes hunted around for an interesting factoid about Orchestra or Variable Fortress.

“I…hm. I even know they have a rival group. Or nemeses.”

“What, a team that wants them dead?

“Not an adventuring team. No. More like a group of mercenary-assassins. They call themselves Symphony. Orchestra and Symphony who like to fight each other—I didn’t come up with the names.”

Everyone was giving him a look like he was lying. Ylawes was adamant, though, he’d heard the rumors! Dawil just chuckled into his beard.

“Well, at least they’re consistent with their enemies. If we ever pick a fight with them, we’ll have to change our names to the Silver Tambourines.”

The laughter at that was pleasant, and Ylawes ended up feeling better about that morning than last night’s fruitless excitement.

Deniusth was not so pleased. The Named-rank was watching the digs and complaining loudly when Ylawes walked over to see if anything was happening.

“That’s almost all the rooms we’ve seen on the map. Is Albez tapped? Colth never showed up, damn him. I think something’s up in Liscor.”

“Give it until midday or evening, Captain? We’ve paid for a lot of help…”

“We might as well see it through. Anyone else have any hints about Albez? Can we send more [Rogues] to check out the tunnel the Horns found?”

Deni gave orders despondently as Ylawes marched up to where Halrac was sitting. Jelaqua was showing off her new artifacts with her team.

“Halrac.”

“Ylawes. Enjoying being back around Liscor?”

“My back isn’t—nor Falene’s. But I was glad we made it for the Orefell attacks.”

Halrac nodded.

“Good job. We would have gone, but I didn’t think we’d make it to Invrisil then Celum to Orefell. We might have with a carriage, but the odds looked grim.”

It was rare to hear a compliment from Halrac. But he didn’t tend to prevaricate—which meant it was genuine. Nor did he make excuses.

“Briganda has a child, doesn’t she? It’s entirely understandable.”

“Hmm.”

The [Bowman] didn’t say anything else, just grunted. Ylawes found a seat as the two watched the adventurers milling about.

“How is the job working for an [Emperor]?”

“Relaxing. But rewarding. Boots of Stability.”

“That’s…quite good for not embarking on an adventure. Or did you? How did you get them?”

Halrac relayed the experience of first doing favors for Laken Godart as Ylawes listened.

“Not that we’ve gained more artifacts of the same quality, but it makes our job very consistent. We can take down [Bandits] or monsters, and the pay is low—but it has perks like housing, food, and so on. I’m still tempted by the new lands, but not much. It’s too far for Briganda, and Typhenous is old enough to make it a long journey. Revi’s the one who’s itching…”

“She won’t quit the team, will she?”

Halrac hesitated.

“I think she won’t. She’s more loyal than you think, but it’s her choice. Actually, I had a thought—well, having access to Erin’s door means we can still go abroad.”

It was certainly the largest convenience Ylawes had ever found. He was about to talk about Wistram and his feeling of failing Erin—or perhaps his sisters—when Halrac glanced at the dig.

This is a waste of time, though. Albez is huge, and we’re either looking for one spare room amidst all the others or digging in the wrong place. This was a city—unless we uncover the entire hillside, there’s no chance we’ll find anything more since Ceria’s map is a dud. I’ve been doing a lot of digs, and the amount of earth you have to shift is insane.”

Ylawes agreed.

“Plus, [Treasure Hunters] and [Geomancers] already scoured the region. If there is anything valuable, it must be beyond them. Shame your [Emperor] doesn’t own Albez.”

Halrac paused. His lined face flickered, and his eyes shifted.

“…Hmm.”

Suddenly, he got up and motioned to Ylawes. The [Knight] blinked, but Halrac was already walking over to where a group of three were playing cards.

“Do you have any Mages?”

“Nope. Go digging.”

“I don’t want to. I can tell that card’s going to shock me.”

They were playing with a magical deck, and Revi was complaining as Typhenous indicated a pile of cards you pulled up. She put a handkerchief on her hand as Briganda and Typhenous scolded her—until Halrac squatted down.

“Ylawes just had an idea.”

“Ylawes! Pull up a seat and pick up some cards. Want to drag the Silver Swords over and talk? How was Wistram?”

Briganda grinned up at him, and the [Knight] squatted next to them, but Halrac made an odd gesture where he pointed a forefinger forwards then dragged his thumb around.

Instantly, Griffon Hunt fell silent, and Typhenous whispered a spell.

“…[Hush]. There we go.”

Again, Ylawes was reminded that this was a professional team that knew hand-signs. The [Bowman] spoke louder as the magic settled over them; it felt like a bit of cotton was inserted into Ylawes’ ears.

“Revi, Typhenous, do you know anything about Albez? Who owns the ruins?”

“Halrac, not me?”

Briganda protested, and he looked at her. She lifted her hands.

“…Revi, Typhenous?”

Typhenous’ eyes sharpened as he glanced at Ylawes, and Revi whistled.

“Halrac! You’re not thinking—wait, that’s smart. But no way we can buy Albez. Even Laken wouldn’t go for that.”

“It depends on whether or not it needs to be bought. Typhenous?”

“Halrac has a point. Technically, Remendia sells permits to Albez, and so do Ocre and a few other settlements—they split the profits. But no city owns Albez. That would imply they’re accountable for monster attacks and incidents here. I wonder. Are you thinking we try a totem?”

“Contact His Majesty first. But have you got one?”

Briganda patted her bag of holding.

“Sure do. Eight five-foot sized ones from the prospecting trip we did. I’ve got three in my bag, and Typhenous, Revi, and you should have the other five. Think it’ll encircle Albez?”

Ylawes was incredulous.

“Excuse me, are you suggesting the [Emperor] claim the ruins? Can he do that?”

Halrac just grinned—and he did have a mirthless grin.

“Temporarily. If it’s unclaimed land, he can put down a stake. The eight totems we had were from him inspecting the hills. We set them up—it can cover about five hundred feet—and he checks if there’s any minerals. He was trying to buy a goldmine.”

That felt like it was exceptionally underhanded to Ylawes. Especially if the owner of a patch of land didn’t know how much that was worth. Still, Typhenous was already sending a [Message] off, and Griffon Hunt didn’t have long to wait.

“As long as it’s not disturbing anything…he’s interested in trying.”

“Well, let’s set up the totems. We’ll tell the others if we find anything—Ylawes, want to join in?”

 

——

 

The totems being hammered into the ground didn’t escape some adventurers’ notice, but Halrac didn’t explain what was being done. Typhenous just lied about it being a kind of dowsing, and all Ylawes saw was the decorated totems of the Unseen Empire being arranged and then Typhenous and Revi relaying what the [Emperor] said.

“…He’s busy, so he’ll relay it via Rie’s [Mage] when he can. He says no good here.”

“Is it claimed?”

“…Temporarily, but he says it looks ‘dark’ except for the people above the ground. Can we try the edges of the ruin, over there?”

Griffon Hunt began to yank up the totems and move them as Dawil whispered to Ylawes.

“Now that’s a kind of Skill usage I never thought I’d see. Smart.”

“You don’t think it’s odd, Dawil?”

The Dwarf shrugged.

“Lad, it’s making use of all your tools available. If you’re going to say it’s cheating or unethical to do what you can—that’s like saying it’s unfair to have a map and compass rather than the stars and your own memories.”

When he put it like that…Ylawes decided to help move the totems. It wasn’t hard; he just helped clear a hole and hammer them in about five feet, and that was enough for the [Emperor].

“No good. Keep moving towards the exit.”

They had to redeploy them twice, then hammer them five feet deep before the [Emperor] figured out the problem. Revi cursed to Vuliel Drae and the Pride of Kelia, who were also loitering around.

“It’s a no-go, Halrac! He just said he sensed dirt—right at the edge of the ruins! Damn! Snap my stitches. It’s all dark in this area. Looks like he can’t see into a dungeon.”

She kicked a totem and hopped around angrily, but it was real disappointment in her voice. Ylawes exhaled a bit.

He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or not, but apparently, the [Emperor] could claim this land because it was up for grabs and very deliberately no one’s property…but either magic was suppressing his Skill or it was somehow accounted for.

“Dungeons can’t be explored via an [Emperor]’s Skills? I wonder if that’s because they are still inherently part of whatever they used to be. Well, at least we know the edge of Albez is here.”

Typhenous kicked at the crumbling edge of the pit, which indeed was where the excavation ended. Halrac began to tug up one of the totems and nodded to Ylawes.

“It was a good try. Guess that’s it.”

Ylawes Byres nodded. The Ruins of Albez were old, anyways. When a place like this was known, it got explored to every conceivable part, and it was rare for someone like Ceria’s team to catch a break.

Now—true secrets—those were rarer. More dangerous. He rubbed at his face. He had always dreamed of finding a clue to a real treasure and quest like that, like Liscor’s dungeon, actually, but…it was harder to be simply given a task with no goal.

How was he supposed to answer a call to arms? Even if it came from everything he knew and held dear. Why not his father? Why was he the ‘only one that could be found’? Had that really been…

A ghost of House Byres?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know what was true or the scope of the threat described—and it would have been very helpful to hear that his family had a buried armory. Or even where he should begin his quest.

“…Perspective. Boundaries. Even a continent would narrow it down.”

“What’s that, lad?”

Dawil looked at Ylawes, and the [Knight] jumped.

“Oh—”

He hadn’t told Dawil because even his friend might think Ylawes was crazy. The [Knight] had been wanting to pay a visit home to look up the name, at least, before he told Falene and Dawil.

Yrendiev Byres.

 

——

 

“The Silver Knight of the Skies is no more. Yderigrisel is dead in body and soul. His spirit joins the legions of the brave and damned in the lands of the dead. This war is lost. But we have dealt a blow to the enemy. Now, House Byres must rise to the call.”

Ylawes barely heard the voice at first. His head was still ringing—the small cabin of the ship deck he’d been allocated was a poor place to fight. But he had fought in close-quarters before.

His sword lay on the ground, and the ghost aimed a blade bearing a familiar crest down at the [Knight]. He had disarmed Ylawes—

“Who are you?”

“Yrendiev Byres. Has our house grown so small, [Knight] of the modern day? You are the only one I could reach. Another journeys with the might of Chandrar—the other lies on lands claimed by the enemy. So to you—I call you to arms.”

It was a harsh face, half-remembered, as if the person bearing it had begun forgetting what they looked like. But the armor…the armor was silver, translucent, and the face was visible, though even the hair and eyes were forgotten—the scars stood out.

The sword never wavered as it struck Ylawes harshly on the shoulders, as if knighting him a second time. Then a hand grabbed his shoulder and forced him up.

What do you mean?

“Prepare for war, [Knight]. Resurrect Byres’ arms and forces. Our oldest foes are not eradicated, and these new ones fear no enchanted blades. Find the corpse of the Silver Dragon and pledge yourself to Byres anew. Then—scour Izril of its tainted foes. Down to the last child and drop of blood. Poison every river and well this time.”

“Poison? What poison?

The hand released him, and Ylawes inhaled, choking. When he looked up, the [Knight] was turning his head.

Damn them all. Seamwalkers and monstrous consumers of soul. To arms, House Byres! To arms and glory! Silver and steel and death!

He raised his blade as he turned, seeing some unimaginable foe in the distance. Once, that head looked back, waiting for an answering roar from his descendant across the ages. But all he saw was—a confused stare.

 

——

 

He had bruises on his throat after that—and chilblains from where the ghost had grabbed him. That was proof enough, but Ylawes had still wanted to investigate that name. But the thing that had halted him—had thrown him into doubt was something the ghost had said.

What poison?

Wells? Rivers? Poison? Ylawes knew Yderigrisel was dead. Was his corpse still…somewhere in the world?

What war? What battle? How was he supposed to…

He should have felt honored, chosen. This was the moment in every story that a [Hero] was called forth. A champion needed.

…But that ghost had no face, and the wrath in his voice was so murderous it had made Ylawes’ skin crawl. And for once—Ylawes had wondered if he were doing the right thing.

Or if not the right thing, the practical thing. First, he had reconsidered Goblins and Antinium as dread foes.

Then he had seen the [Crusaders]’ power, which he so envied. Now? Now he looked at the other teams who had somehow advanced past him. Silver and steel, honor and duty. These things were good and constant—so why did Ysara shout-whisper at him in the night that she couldn’t bear to be in their family’s home more than a day or two whenever she returned?

That she was glad Yvlon was no [Knight]?

…Yrendiev Byres. A name was more than anything else. A record that he existed was surely in the Byres history books.

That would at least prove something, be a starting point for a decision, but Ylawes had rushed to Orefell, and now he was here. At least Erin’s door would make the journey faster. Maybe he could head from Riverfarm. That was only a three-day ride!

Ylawes brightened up, and then something occurred to him. He glanced at the ruins…and at the totem poles and wondered if Halrac had thought of that.

Surely he had. Ylawes was not the man you went to for an underhanded or even cunning plan. The [Knight] opened his mouth and hesitated.

Should he…?

“Ah. Halrac. Wait a second before you dig up those totems.”

The Captain turned to Ylawes, and Dawil glanced up. The [Knight] hesitated.

“It occurs to me—well, I don’t know much about how all this works, but is it conceivable there’s one use you could use the totems for? With Albez?”

“Like what? We—Laken—can’t tell what’s down there.”

Revi folded her arms, but Ylawes was shaking his head.

“No, this is true, but I just thought—boundaries. Even if it’s just confirming what we allegedly know, isn’t that useful in and of itself? Even if you can’t see what you’re aiming for, if the imprint is there—then you’d know something is there or not there. Does that make sense?”

It did not, and Revi gave him a look like he was mad until Ylawes managed to explain what he was trying to think of. Then—Dawil was slapping him on the lower back.

“Lad, that is the most intelligent thought I’ve ever heard of! Pointy! Toss away that staff because Ylawes is taking your class!”

Even Halrac gave Ylawes a quick smile. The [Knight] tugged up a totem pole as Briganda had to have Typhenous explain it.

“Wait, we can’t see the dungeon…”

“Ah, Briganda, we cannot. But it occurred to Ylawes there in a stroke of genius that if we cannot see the dungeon—we can still have His Majesty confirm the dig site encircles Albez completely. And perhaps…if there are any buildings not hither-to uncovered.”

Then Briganda got it, and even the Pride of Kelia and Vuliel Drae were excitedly planting totems around, moving the eight like a net, dragging it around Albez much to the amusement of the other adventurers.

Hey, Griffon Hunt, Silver Swords, if you’re bored enough to play plant-the-stick, come on over and let’s compare artifacts!

One of the Waterborn Raiders was shouting as the other teams worked. They ignored him, and Ylawes got into the rhythm.

All Laken needed was a moment, so Typhenous would hold up a hand for five seconds once the totems were planted, get the ‘all clear’, and they’d switch four totems to the next spot, moving in 500-foot chunks. It was fast—but Albez was huge.

They were two-thirds around the entire pit in an hour as they got into a real rhythm, and Ylawes feared they’d find nothing after all. Still—he’d be satisfied with that and feel like they’d truly plumbed every depth of this place.

Then, Revi halted as they were picking up the totems and put a finger to her forehead, smudging her cloth-skin with dirt. Typhenous looked up suddenly.

“Wait. Go back. Back—

All the adventurers looked up, and Ylawes found his heart skipping a beat. Typhenous tugged Nailren back, Insill ran back, and they replanted the totems. Revi frowned—then pointed at Ylawes and Briganda, whose two totems were next to the pit.

“Hey, bring those two up! Bring them—over here!”

She gestured away from the pit, and the two warriors lugged their totems over. Then Revi told Nailren to do the same, and Halrac planted his totem in a huge rectangle…

…Four hundred meters away from the edge of the excavation. Rather near where Earlia’s team was working, actually. Revi gestured to Briganda as Typhenous murmured a reply.

“Drive the totems deep. Deep as they’ll go.”

“Got it. Aw, damn—”

Briganda began to split one in half from the repeated impacts, but Revi just urged her on. Ylawes drove a maul into the head of another totem and clumsily buried it deep. Then everyone was crowding around Typhenous and Revi.

“Well?”

The [Mage] held up a hand, and then his eyes widened. He smiled, and Revi suppressed a whoop—then groaned and looked at the other adventurers. Halrac just waited, but even his foot was tapping.

“That’s it. We’ll let you know, Your Majesty—and the other teams will be all over it. Thank you. Guys—we can either pretend nothing’s up and come back later—”

“Revi. There’s no way the other teams will let this slide. Even if they haven’t noticed us. Spit it out.”

Halrac nipped the idea in the bud and Revi cursed, much to Ylawes’ relief. Typhenous was the one who pointed straight down.

“Well, Captain Ylawes, Halrac, I believe then we should talk to Captain Deniusth and the others. Because His Majesty claims that while he can’t tell what’s too far down—given our small totems—the highest point is right here. It’s apparently buried, but there’s actually an empty pocket below—nigh on a hundred feet down. No wonder most [Geomancers] and [Treasure Seekers] didn’t find it.”

“Find what? What, Typhenous?

Briganda almost shook him, and the Plague Mage smiled.

“Well, he cannot be sure, but he is certain this complex connects to the rest of Albez. As for what we’re standing on—he says they look like stairs.

Ylawes’ head rose, and Dawil let out such a whoop that the other dispirited and bored adventurers turned. Deniusth’s head turned like someone hearing that call to adventure, and everyone looked down.

The digging began in earnest.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: It’s gonna be an arc! The people have voted, and what they said was–adventurers over Khelt. And I answer.

All the side-story options were arcs coming up, but this is the one we’re dealing with first. And again, I am editing Volume 1 and it is kicking my butt. But I did 3 chapters of V1 that I’ve edited while writing this chapter, so the system is working.

…This system will never happen again. This is actually a grind on par with Volume 8’s ending in terms of how much work it feels like. Okay, 70% of how hard it was to end Volume 8. Still a lot.

But the prize is a rewritten Volume 1, and I think there are substantive improvements–plus we might be able to put it into print. I don’t, uh, know if Andrea will re-record Volume 1. Seems like a big ask.

However, we are making progress. In other news…I’ve got nothing. God of War: Ragnarok is coming out soon. I feel like in an alternate timeline, I wouldn’t be a writer, just angrily reviewing most games for their stories. Which often suck. God of War has a, uh, 50-50 chance of being good. The last God of War was good–but it has some flaws.

I’ll start my career as a reviewer later. Writing for now! Get ready for some old and new plotlines mixing together like soup. Or some other analogy here.

 

Pirate Plushie by kalmia!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/kalmiayarn

Etsy: https://www.etsy.com/shop/GoodLongYarn

 

Erin and Ryoka and Belavierr by Deepsikk, the [Lazy Artist]?! I didn’t call them that.

 

Erin, the Greatest Chess Player by froggias!

(Reddit Post Link)

 


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Interlude – Adventurers (Pt. 2)

Adventurers in Albez, digging. Adventurers in Liscor, tossing skeletons into the chasm.

Adventurers everywhere. However, it wasn’t all about them.

While they were up and spending every waking moment in search of treasure, the party that Lyonette had started was still going on in multiple cities. More than three days had passed—this was the seventh, actually. By now, Liscor’s Council was really hinting that everyone should get back to work.

Gently, though, because there certainly was profit being made here. Every time it seemed like the party was winding down, someone else came by.

In this case—Riverfarm and a host of Humans flooded through Erin Solstice’s door. So, rather than a party, it was more like a week-long festival where you could take a break from work and see something new. Instead of a [Princess]’ plan, it was spontaneous.

Today, as every day, you could wake up in The Wandering Inn, and the first thing you might hear would be the scampering of paws. Breakfast would already be hot and fresh, and adventurers and guests would slowly emerge from their rooms, trained to follow the smell and head downstairs.

Goblin and Antinium workers were already up and still looked bemused as they went downstairs, wearing uniforms with the paw print and inn logos on them. A Hobgoblin with one foot was hopping as she tried to attach a peg-leg to her…leg.

New employees. Erin Solstice knew all their names by now, but the rest of the guests were still somewhat—unfamiliar with them. Not that the Goblins and Antinium had to do more than take food out.

The power of Ishkr meant that the inn was still handling the increased waves of guests, but it was also fair to say that the Antinium and Goblins had begun to pull some serious weight.

For instance, the Hob, one of the two the inn had been sent by Rags, was used to ordering silly Goblins around. She poked one, and that Goblin got to clean the outhouses. Another Goblin got to check the basement for pests like mice or insects. A third Goblin got to draw water from the well.

Her name, or nickname, was, somewhat pointedly, ‘Peggy’. Because of the leg. She had apparently lost it in a battle; another former Redfang who Rags had decided could be of better use in the inn.

The other Hobgoblin was male, and he got a fourth elbow to the guts because he was Mountain City tribe…and he was reading a damn book. At work! He closed it with a grunt and scowled—but he would often be reading in a corner. Unlike Peggy, this Goblin, Inkpaper, was a known slacker in the Flooded Waters tribe. Rags…somewhat approved of him, but had still given him to be Erin’s headache anyways.

There were more Workers and Goblins, of course, and even some Soldiers. They headed to work—or breakfast and relaxation until their shift started.

Breaaaaakfast! I hate bisque! Bezale, do you have that [Lion’s Strength] spell I asked for? Cast it on me! I will never bisque again!”

The Minotauress sighed, but Erin Solstice started her day with a big smile for all her guests, and they were legion. Gothica emerged from the basement where she’d installed a bed, Relc stomped downstairs with one boot on, and Pisces yawned his way over to a table where Colth and the Horns were sitting.

I’m late for work! I’m late, and Captain Z and Klb are going to kill me! Where’s my boot? Can I get breakfast—

“Gothica, please stop sleeping in the basement.”

“Up yours, Ishkr.”

“Well, here’s our [Necromancer]. Day three of skeleton exploring, eh? Let’s see if we can get past those damn monsters. I swear, they’re targeting us. Pisces, want to send down the first skeleton group and see how far they get?”

The grumpy [Necromancer] flicked his hand, and the bones of multiple skeletons rose outside the pit and began to rope down as a scrying orb glowed to life on the table as the adventurers ate. Today was biscuit and gravy day, and everyone got a big pot to share and dip fresh bread into.

“Yum. Big yum, Calescent. Numbtongue, there you are. Is Octavia dead?”

The Hobgoblin looked over and hastily yanked Octavia’s face out of her bowl of pottage.

“…Octavia.”

“Huh? I’m working, Master Saliss!

She jerked, grabbed a full salt-shaker, and dumped it into her bowl. Then Octavia blinked around, looked at Numbtongue, and put her face on her plate and went back to sleep.

Erin sighed and grimaced as she wiped her hands on her pants.

“How’s Riverfarm doing? Ishkr?”

The Gnoll appeared with breakfast for their table.

“I think Liska sent over today’s negotiators and let in a bunch of guests to Liscor already.”

“Wow, they’re up early. I may go back again. How’s things? Nanette? Where’s…”

This was The Wandering Inn—the new inn’s morning. If you wanted, you could stick around and listen to Erin or wait for something funny to happen.

But why wait when there was so much outside? The adventurers were already groaning at their table. The instant a skeleton opened one of the doors, a hand had reached through and ripped off a skull.

“Facestealer! Back them up! Back them—”

A wave of monsters was pouring out the shutters. Yvlon pounded a hand on the table and almost got up.

“That’s it. I’m going down there—”

“That thing’s holding a real grudge. Hold on. Let’s grab some arrows and clear the monsters out if they’re at the bottom of the chasm. Skeleton wave two? Maybe via the trapped entrances?”

Colth was scratching at his chin and checking on how far Albez’s excavations were going. They, at least, could make consistent forwards progress, no matter how much dirt they had to move.

And the rest of the guests were heading outside. Some lined up for the door, but most didn’t bother waiting. Liska was opening and shutting the door, grumpy and yawning.

“Door has 84 people left until it resets. One hour and forty-eight minutes until reset! Priority to diplomats or important people.”

“Am I important people? I’ve gotta get to work!”

Relc tried to shove past a group heading to Invrisil. Liska sighed and changed the door to Liscor.

“Liscor’s practically no mana charge. Go on through. But hurry up anyone going—I’ve got thirteen people waiting in Invrisil! Hey! [Form a Line].

The grumpy Gnoll snapped, and the crowd actually did just that. She was Liska, and she was mad mostly because she was getting good at her job.

In fact…the [Door Gnoll] really resented her class. Door Gnoll? Doorman?

Her powers included making people wait in line, checking on how much mana Erin had, and efficiently sending people to their destination.

Worst class ever.

Anyways, she let through a few more guests into Liscor, and the crowd muttered as they saw the Goblins and Antinium—but only the ones in the crowd not from Liscor. And in the city?

They were the least notable of all, because the sights continued. The first thing that hit the visitors was the fair.

People were still buying the Antinium dolls, and a booth to paint them was letting people—children and adults—color them.

Of course, by now, it wasn’t just Antinium. Someone had just come out with a miniature image of Forount, and people were queuing up to buy paint for the fleshy skin tones and metal armor.

Quality ranged from ‘lurid’ to highly realistic. Some people just used about four colors for the entire figurine, and a few had figured out how to begin adding shading and even weathering to the armor with knives and had created amazingly vivid versions of the [Brigadier].

Behind them, the impromptu bazaar in Shivertail Plaza was turning into a larger version of Market Street. The temporary stalls had been reinforced, and a lot of families—or the [Cooks] and people responsible for meals in said families—were inspecting a lot of cheap, good-looking produce from Riverfarm.

Cleverly, the [Emperor] had decided to offer samples of products based on said food, so you could also eat if you lined up. Not to be outdone, local farmers and the [Pirate], Wailant, had also put their goods on offer.

Drakle-Lischelle Products: Fresh, Highest-Quality Mutton, Pork, on sale.

That was one of the stalls doing good business that the guests of The Wandering Inn passed by. A bored-looking Rivel and old Bamer were manning the stall, and a Gnoll and Drake were shoving each other in line.

“Krshia! You’re supposed to be at the Council meeting.”

“So are you, Lism. I thought you were ‘attending to emergency business’ before we met.”

“Well…you didn’t say you were coming here! I need to run my stall.”

“So do I. Shoo.”

Lism trying to out-shove Krshia was fun enough for some people to watch the Drake versus the Gnoll woman—she was taller and heavier than he was by a good margin. But then it started.

 

“♪ Oooooooh~ ♫”

 

A group of voices began to rise in the distance. Heads turned, and Lism groaned.

“Oh, Ancestors. It’s them again.”

Everyone looked around, and there they were, occupying a little stage that was used for speeches or performances. Even Lism didn’t try to stop them, just stared with resignation—because the Council had approved them and everything.

Worse, they were growing in number. One of The Wandering Inn’s Workers not on duty practically ran over and joined a throng of people standing together. Drakes with odd helmets, local Liscorians being branded as menaces by their neighbors, and visitors from abroad.

The Yoldenites began to sing. And the choir began, once again, to sing another mass-chorus of the Yoldenite’s national anthem. Then all the best songs, north and south, that a group of voices could get up to.

It was free music. And you had to admit—it was a good outlet for a lot of [Singers]. The fact that a Worker had joined in?

Well, that was something new. But back to the point.

“Magical amulets on sale! Straight from the Meeting of Tribes and the Gaarh Marsh tribe—never suffer a bug bite again. Or what about a bracelet? [Lesser Strength]!

“[Lesser Strength]?”

A lot of people looked over at that. Regardless of profession—the Golden Gnoll, Qwera, was unveiling another hot item. She had actually not put these bracelets out until today. She had told her customers, candidly, to check back every day or they might miss her new item.

Right now, the [Merchant] was showing everyone an astonishing price tag.

“Five hundred gold pieces per. And before you turn away, this is a bracelet on par with a Skill most [Warriors] train for! I have twenty bracelets, and the price goes up the less I have. Do I have any takers?”

She made her first sale within a minute. Whereupon the price did go up, and the rush that followed…

Well, that was just one good on display, and it was pricey, the lot of it. Qwera did stock goods for people who didn’t have lots of gold to throw around, but one of the most tempting options—a snazzy hat with [Far Sight] on it, a blue tricorne—was still twenty-two gold coins.

A lot of money, but not impossible for a good [Hunter] or someone with a lucrative job to pay for, let alone a successful [Trader] or someone like a Guildmaster. One of Qwera’s [Stall Keepers] eyed the guests from The Wandering Inn, but since Qwera was staying there, the Drake replied curtly.

“No touching—we’ve got a stock of six. Different colors. If you can’t afford it, then come back tomorrow. We’re unlikely to sell all six by then.”

If you can afford it. The tone of the Drake suggested this was unlikely, and the disappointed guests stared at the hat.

Twenty-two gold coins? A lot, a lot. But what were you to do? Not everyone was as rich as Mrsha. A lot of the fun items on display would be sold to even Goblins and Antinium for the right price. But if you didn’t have that price…

In the inn, the adventurers were after the big stuff. A monster’s corpse. In Albez, adventurers were honing in on some stairs buried deep, shifting dirt and stone—a slow process to dig a hundred feet down. Even at their fastest, with magic, they’d barely gone more than twenty feet in a day.

Which was, to be fair, a lot of down, especially through rock. Gold-rank adventurers. Named-ranks. But as two guests of The Wandering Inn looked at each other, they exited Liscor, past the [Guards] who eyed them with only mild interest. They wandered out onto the Floodplains, and one patted the other on the head and pointed past two waving antennae.

“Adventure time?”

Adventure. Yah.”

The other figure marched off, carrying the first on his shoulders. The one doing the carrying was an Antinium, and he had a tall spear and clothing, not bare carapace. Even chainmail, and the one on top cackled and waved at the surprised Humans coming from Esthelm.

He was a small, grey-skinned Goblin, and he had a necklace of huge fangs and his own set of baggy clothing, but no hat. A hat would really improve his look, both felt, especially one to complement one of the crossbows from the inn he carried.

The two had no ranks. They weren’t Bronze-rank, they weren’t Silver or Gold and certainly not Named-rank, though they had names.

Infinitypear and Rasktooth had no guild registration—but they were certainly…

[Adventurers]. The two ran out past Liscor’s walls. Or—one did.

Rasktooth’s legs didn’t work anymore. They hadn’t since the battle at the Meeting of Tribes, but he sat on Infinitypear’s shoulders, pointing out spots for the Worker to march to. Infinitypear’s spear was high-quality, and the [Shopkeeper] and the [Guards] had eyed that.

One of the Watch’s [Guards] muttered to the other at the gates.

“…That wasn’t an enchanted spear that Worker was carrying, was it? It looked, uh—shiny.”

“Maybe a low-grade enchantment?”

The Gnoll frowned at her colleague. They both stared at Infinitypear’s spear and didn’t recognize the sigil burned into the wood or the conical tip made of Adamantium.

Spearmaster Lulv had lost his spear. Right now, Infinitypear was using it as a walking staff. But it also doubled as a pretty good weapon in the Antinium’s opinion.

Adventure. What would today bring? The two had no idea what it would be, but they were sure they could find it. Rasktooth looked around. He spotted a Rock Crab scurrying across the grass, a stand of dangerous boom-trees far in the distance, and inhaled the fresh air as the High Passes began to light up with the sun.

“Want to beat up spiders, Infinitypear?”

“Nah. Let’s find treasure. Gold pieces. Seven more.”

They had fifteen gold pieces, a huge amount from previous adventures. They had bested the racoon and found a treasure buried in a pouch on their first adventure. They had picked up the fallen [Merchant]’s pouch on the run with the Titan and gotten a reward for it.

They had fought in the Meeting of Tribes and survived a war between five plus armies and had stolen Spearmaster Lulv’s spear.

Then, they’d uncovered five silver coins and an old dagger buried under the blue fruit trees where Erin got her fruits. And beaten up eight Shield Spiders.

They’d had some great adventures, hadn’t they? This time, Infinitypear took them towards the caves as Rasktooth fed him an apple he’d snatched from the breakfast table. He cut it up, handed a piece down, and crunched on one himself.

“Enchanted hat is just for me, Infinitypear? What about you?”

“I don’t know. Don’t care. Hat is good.”

“You sure?”

“Yah, yah.”

Rasktooth patted him on the head. They liked that word, ‘yah’. A combination between yes and yeah. The Goblin grinned.

“Yah, you good. But what about other Antinium? You don’t want to go to your Hive? Sing?”

He was hinting. Infinitypear took him everywhere, but he knew the [Crusaders] were back in the Hives. They were everywhere, and the Free Hive was important, and Infinitypear was hanging out with the Goblin.

“It’s okay. All Painted Antinium and Individuals have to report in the Hive. Later, later. Doesn’t matter.”

Infinitypear airily wandered away from the Hive, and Rasktooth looked down at him.

“You not bored with me, Infinitypear? You can say.”

“No. We brothers. I said I would carry you places. Liscor…other places. Far, far away.”

The Antinium [Adventurer] looked up. Rasktooth patted him on the head.

They had met during the Fellowship of the Inn, on their quest to save Mrsha. It had been chance that they grew to be friends, but Rasktooth and Infinitypear…understood each other.

Neither one had known the outside world until it came to them. For Infinitypear, as one of the Antinium who was lucky enough to be painted by Pawn’s new ways. For Rasktooth?

The five Redfangs had killed the Raskghar who ruled them and set the Cave Goblins free. When he had first looked up at the sky, the Cave Goblin had sworn never to go back to the dungeon. And Infinitypear had gazed into the wild world beyond Liscor with the Titan leading them and realized how much more there was.

“Am I heavy, Infinitypear? You’re an [Adventurer].”

“So are you.”

The Cave Goblin nodded.

“Yes. But…other lands is far. Very far. You don’t have to carry me. The inn is nice. Has lots of food.”

“I will carry you. We are brothers. Yeah?”

“…Yah.”

Sometimes, Rasktooth said silly things like that. He had paid a high price for going to save Mrsha. As high as Apista, and she was flying again. The Antinium ignored the suggestions.

They had a connection deeper than either one had figured out how to say. But they liked the words.

Brothers. A thing that Numbtongue had taught them. Rasktooth looked up and swung his crossbow up as they headed to their first cave. He sniffed the air.

[Hound’s Nose].

His Skills were different than Infinitypear’s. The Cave Goblin sniffed and muttered.

“Smells like foxes.”

“We kill foxes? Sell pelts?”

The two thought about that. Rasktooth thought he heard scrabbling and wondered if there were a family of them in there. Liscor’s fox population was small, and they had bright orange fur.

“Nah.”

“Naaaah. Want to try feeding foxes?”

“Good idea. You got food instead of this apple?”

“Dried meat in my pouch. Do foxes eat apples?”

They spent the next fifteen minutes trying to lure a fox out by tossing treats into the cave and making fox-like noises. No fox came out, but the two were heading away when Rasktooth saw a little shape dart out and grab the food. A cute little one!

This was a pretty darn good adventure already. Then Infinitypear was marching to the next cave. And his pace seemed to pick up, despite the pack he wore and the spear and armor and Rasktooth.

[Spirit of the Wild]. The further he got from Liscor, the more energized he got. Plus…

[Find Roads Less Travelled]. Rasktooth cackled as he spotted a promising hill in the distance and a crack in one of the cliff faces bordering the Floodplains. He pointed ahead and aimed the crossbow at a Shield Spider pit he spotted. Liscor was fun enough for now. But Infinitypear wanted to see the sea and everything beyond it.

Rasktooth wondered if they’d be together when Infinitypear did. He hoped so. But today, they quested for enough gold to get that hat. It was a pretty good day.

 

——

 

Rasktooth and Infinitypear were the happiest adventurers in the entire region. The Horns of Hammerad—were not.

Pisces glumly stared at a bag of shattered bones and powder that Ksmvr and Yvlon came up with. They ascended the ropes cautiously as Ceria covered their exit with Colth.

“Okay, the dungeon really doesn’t like us. It definitely knows the skeletons are foreign. How many did we send?”

“Eight. Eight, and I think I found the iron armor we put on our leader.”

Colth waved a mangled piece of metal with a hole in it. A suit of enchanted armor had punched straight through it.

Pisces tossed the scrap metal aside and shook his head.

“I’m running out of bones. At least—bones I can use for lesser skeletons. Why is this so difficult?

In fairness, the Horns had done some good work. They’d found four Raskghar camps or spots that Ceria had thought they’d used as outposts. They had expanded the map that the other adventurers had used incredibly far, if narrowly, hoping to find the inner city—

But their progress had stalled because it felt like every monster in the dungeon and Facestealer itself were after the skeletons. Almost as if…it or something else had taken notice of the intrusions and decided to do something about it.

“We could go down there?”

Ceria suggested mildly. Colth made a face.

“I don’t really want to take down that Facestealer thing when it’s waiting for us, do you?”

“Ah, point. At least it’s too heavy to climb the ropes.”

They suspected it had tried, multiple times, but the adventurers didn’t just leave the ropes attached—and the one time something had jerked the rope when Yvlon lowered it down, it had snapped it clear of the anchors.

The possibility of that horror just waiting for them to descend was a good incentive not to head down, but Pisces was getting sick of rebuilding skeletons.

“This is…I agree this is the safest, most expedient option, Colth, and you can control one or two skeletons while you’re helping me.”

The [Supporter] had been practicing and looked up as Pisces rubbed his forehead.

“However, this is extremely taxing to send undead so far into the dungeon. I have a headache, and we’ve only done two waves.”

“Maybe take a break on it, then, Pisces. The last thing we want is for you to snap or get tired. How about I do a skeleton run from the traps? Facestealer doesn’t seem to want to go through that area. It just takes longer.”

Pisces nodded, and Ceria looked at Ksmvr and Yvlon, who had less to do.

“Sounds good. I know it’s slow—so how about we take a little break? I’ll help Colth navigate. Yvlon?”

“Ksmvr and I will head to the markets, then. I want to find some good saddles. Even if we use undead horses—and I really don’t know if we want to chariot-ride across Izril—we have to have good saddles.”

“And food. I will keep inquiring as to the best food supplies to take. If we go on a long adventure into lands hither-to unexplored.”

Yvlon sighed.

“Yes, if.”

“If. Hypothetically. Theoretically. In reference to Comrade Pisces’—”

“Yeah, yeah. We get it.”

Ceria rolled her eyes, but fondly, and Pisces bit his tongue. Neither Yvlon nor Ksmvr had said they were going outright yet, but Colth glanced at Ceria and then at Pisces.

They hadn’t answered his statements about going to the new lands—but they were acting as if they would. Pisces grouched back to the inn, rubbing at his head.

 

——

 

It was odd, you had to admit, for The Wandering Inn to have a routine. Even a temporary one. Yet it seemed like some of the excitement had left, and Erin Solstice realized four whole days had passed without her causing some kind of incident.

Not to say something wasn’t happening. Oh, no. Liscor and Riverfarm were negotiating, and there was important stuff in the works for the Horns and elsewhere.

“No luck, Pisces?”

“Monsters and whatnot, Erin. Monsters and whatnot.”

“Almost makes you want a Toren, huh?”

He gave her a wan smile.

“Not quite—but I’m starting to see the appeal of a stronger undead. Maybe I should work on it. But, argh, I just don’t have the right bones.”

“Don’t you have all those fancy bones from the Gargoyles and…?”

Erin waggled her fingers, and he shrugged.

“Oh, Gargoyle bones. Yes. But I was hoping for some real, high-quality ones. You see, there’s bone and…I can see I’m losing you.”

Erin was edging towards the stairs.

“What? N-no, I’m just, uh—I’d love to hear you talk about bones for thirty minutes, but I’ve got this thing I’m going to do and—has anyone seen Nanette?”

Pisces rolled his eyes and waved Erin off as he sat down. Erin looked about, and the truth was, these quieter days were just fine.

Larra’s inn was still moving south to Liscor. The adventurers were about to get their due excitement. It was only a matter of time. The new lands waited.

Wasn’t this fine? Yes, it was. In fact, Erin only had one—two concerns, really. She wiped her hand on her apron as she walked around the inn. That one problem was—

Nanette.

Mrsha the Exceptionally Welcoming abandoned the table where she had been taking lessons on palace dynamics from Lyonette and Ser Sest. The [Princess] sighed loudly, but she let Mrsha go because the girl had a good reason.

Nanette. Like Calescent, but even more so—the witch was the inn’s newest member of the family. She was Erin’s responsibility, and the [Innkeeper] had realized she needed to be mindful of Nanette in a way she hadn’t with Mrsha.

Not just because Nanette needed support. Not just because Erin had promised. The truth was—Nanette was a pretty resourceful girl and older than Mrsha.

But that wasn’t perfect. Nanette deserved more. The problem was, ironically, that if Erin didn’t bear Nanette in mind, the young witch would take care of herself.

 

——

 

Nanette was in The Wandering Inn, but it took Erin a while to find the young witch. Mostly because Nanette stood at the highest part of the inn. Or rather—just below it. She called up the stairs into the tower as a Worker peered down at her.

“Hello, Mister Bird?”

“Hello, girl witch Nanette. Is something wrong? Are we under attack by monsters or armies?”

“No, Mister Bird. May I come up into your tower?”

The Worker considered this. He had begun locking his tower, and he had a big sign that said ‘Only Birds Allowed’ on the door. But Nanette was peering up at him, and he stared at her round cheeks and earnest face.

“You ask permission. This is good and wise. Let me see. Do you have tribute?”

The Worker sat on his tower perch, listening to the hustle and bustle of the inn below. Above it all, a bucket of arrows sitting by him as he fiddled with his bow. Nanette fished in her pockets.

“I have a speckled green egg shell I found in Riverfarm. A baby bird hatched out of it, and it was blue.”

“Oh. Oho. This is a worthy tribute. You may ascend.”

Bird grandly waved, and she came up the stairs. She presented him with the egg, in a few pieces, but glued back together, and Bird admired his gift.

“Very good. Very good. I, Bird, accept your tribute. As I am an emperor of my tower.”

“Are you an emperor, Mister Bird?”

He thought about it.

“I have too many classes as it is. So no, not an [Emperor], just a ruler of my tower. Which I must zealously guard. Did you want to survey my domain?”

He pointed around the tower, and Nanette admired the view. In all four directions, she could see the sky and the landscape of the Floodplains. Only the walls of Liscor had a better view. And the [Guards] didn’t get to sit down much.

“May I sit for a bit, Mister Bird?”

“Oh, of course. Have my seat.”

Bird stood up, and Nanette refused—but eventually sat as Bird stared out at the people coming through the gates. He said nothing at all, and Nanette watched him.

So this was Bird’s life. He sat, the wind blowing on his face, and watched it all, sometimes without speaking for an entire day. And he seemed happy.

He didn’t shoot as many birds these days. Just the ones that mattered. Bird was surprised that Nanette didn’t say much—Mrsha chattered, despite being mute. But Nanette seemed to understand how Bird liked things.

Or perhaps she was doing what a witch did and learning before judging. Yet Nanette had brought something, and she timidly offered it to Bird as she placed a kettle on the ledge of his tower.

“Would you like some tea, Mister Bird?”

“Oh? Oh. That would be nice. I have decided I am a tea person. Coffee is too fast. Also, it tastes bitter.”

“When did you decide that, Mister Bird?”

Nanette poured them two cups, and Bird took one. He sipped it gingerly—Antinium had to use straws because they had no lips, but he seemed very pleased nonetheless by the steaming cup.

“Just now. Aha. This tea tastes like what I imagine flowers taste like but they do not. They are also too bitter.”

Nanette laughed. She blew on her cup and sipped it, for it was growing cold, and she and Bird felt very, very pleased. So much so that Bird pointed something out to Nanette.

There were a number of mundane and magical birds that only a true watcher of the skies could observe. He pointed out a dove-tailed swallow, bright red, flashing through the air. He had hunted them before, but this one was performing several aerial feats.

Loop-de-loops in the air at high speed. Each one graceful, spiraling into the next. Bird pointed it out to Nanette.

“That bird is called a Redfin Swallow. It comes from northern Izril around the Vail Forest. It is a graceful bird that has a lot of friends where it nests. Unlike the Garbichug Revolter, which is the most disgraceful not-a-bird because it neither flies nor tastes good and eats waste. Which is over there.”

He indicated the nasty-looking bird, four feet tall, drooling, with teeth in its ‘beak’ and a ragged plume of filthy feathers. The garbage-eating pest was a hazard that Liscor paid Bird to shoot—but not even he would eat one.

Nanette wrinkled her nose at the famous pest, but then she admired the Redfin. Bird watched it glide in a loop over the Garbichug’s head. It insulted the monstrous bird, who would eat sewer waste or other birds or their eggs if it could climb their trees.

Tswah! Tswee—that was the kind of sound the Redfin made if Bird had to do anything as inelegant as translate bird-speak to words. The Garbichug made a sound like an explosive meal going through a digestive system in reply and snapped its mouth open.

Bird drew an arrow and loosed it. The Garbichug was over eight hundred feet away, but Bird had the Skills and aim to hit it. The arrow sped at the bird-monster—and the Garbichug ducked.

“I hate you.”

Bird shook his fist at the Garbichug, and it turned and flipped up its tail at Nanette and Bird. That gesture was bad enough—then it began to defecate.

“Ignore it. Nanette, do you know why the Redfin flies like that?”

Bird stared up at the Redfin, still swirling through the air. It was not ideal for getting anywhere, and he wasn’t shooting arrows at it. Nanette frowned. There was no visible mate, so…

“Because it wants to? For fun? Because the Redfin is happy?”

Bird looked at Nanette. He put out a hand and patted her gingerly on the shoulder.

“I see you are wiser than Erin. No wonder you are teaching her witchcraft.”

She laughed and ducked her head, and Bird and she went back to watching the landscape, ignoring the Garbichug. It was eating its own waste. It would spit it out at attackers later.

Bird had a new hobby, and he confessed it to Nanette as some visitors came up towards the inn. A Human was wearing a huge, rose-shaped hat, which really did look like a rose from above. It had multiple folds of cloth, had to weigh eight pounds, and was two feet high.

…Presumably, it was some latest style, but the woman looked about to take it off when Bird rose from his tower, cupped two hands to his mandibles, and screamed down at her.

YOU THERE!

She jumped, saw an Antinium staring at her, and froze. The guests looked up as Bird screamed down at the woman.

“I…LIKE…YOUR…HAT!”

The Human stared up at him, checked her hat, and waved back and said something neither Bird nor Nanette quite heard. Bird sat back down as she continued on her way, bemused. He stared at the sky, then at Nanette.

“I am in a quandary of thought, Nanette. Every day, I dive deeper into my new class. I am a [Liar].”

She blinked at him, and Bird went on. He stared blankly at the hatted woman.

“I lie important lies. About her hat. Which is trash. It does not even belong in a garden. Why do I lie? I have been thinking—I lie because I wish to level. I lie about the truth because the lie in itself makes someone’s day better. It must be a good lie, or what is the point?”

She listened to Bird’s philosophy, which sometimes he spoke to the Workers who came to hear him. Bird, the [Hunter]. The [Liar].

By the time Erin found them, Nanette and Bird had been sitting for nearly fifty minutes. Bird was smiling, and he looked at Nanette—then at the Garbichug edging towards the road in hopes of scaring some of the travellers for food. It was watching him—he’d fired eight shots at it so far, and it kept dodging. Bird looked at Nanette, then turned around so the Garbichug was in the opposite direction. Then he looked straight at it.

“I’m looking in the other direction. I’m looking that way.”

Nanette politely looked the way he was pointing. Bird’s head never moved—but the Garbichug eyed him, then began a waddle-charge to the road as one of the [Guards] shouted and they began to stride out to chase it off.

Bird’s bow flashed up, and he loosed an arrow. The Garbichug looked up just in time for Bird to shoot it through the head. It flopped backwards as he fired three more arrows into its head.

“That was a lie, you idiot. I lied!

Bird shouted down at the dead Garbichug. Nanette was vaguely impressed. She had no idea a [Liar] could do that.

Erin was less impressed.

“Bird, you’re not gonna eat that thing, are you? There you are, Nanette! I’m going to Riverfarm to meet the [Witches]. You want to come?”

The young witch looked over and thought as Bird gave Erin a look of horror and indignation.

“Riverfarm, Miss Erin? I might pass.”

“Oh—okay. But do you want to do anything? I could go into Liscor or…”

“I’m fine, Miss Erin. I’m sitting with Bird. He’s very kind.”

“Ah. Well—that’s great. Yeah. If you want anything, just ask, okay?”

Nanette nodded politely. Erin gave Bird a look, and he saluted her.

“I cannot read your eyes, Erin.”

“Be nice, Bird.”

Erin didn’t quite know what else to say. She tromped downstairs as Nanette and Bird sat there, peaceful. After a while, Bird murmured to Nanette.

“Do you have any good lies, Miss Nanette?”

“Hm. My mother said the worst lies are the ones we tell ourselves. Then the best ones must be something else.”

“Oh, interesting. Interesting. Then tell me a good lie—and about birds. You see, I am a columnist for the newspaper, and I must know lots about birds. The Garbichug was a native bird of Rhir that no one wanted. It is actually over thirty thousand years old and predates the Blighted Kingdom. No one bred it nor did they spread them to other continents because anyone thought they were a good idea. The stupid birds swim. They are clever enough to dodge arrows, and they survive too well, so every continent has them. In the Rihal Imperium, Garbichugs were cultivated as a war animal and unleashed on their foes, which earned them international censure…”

 

——

 

“Not going to take Nanette to Riverfarm, Erin?”

“Nah. She’s listening to Bird talk about bird-history. Which is like the one thing he doesn’t lie about and he’s somehow qualified to talk about. I guess I’m going alone. Unless anyone else wants to come? It’s not a two-day trip. Anyone?”

Erin looked around, but Octavia had work, Numbtongue was looking over from where Badarrow and Snapjaw were preparing for a Wyvern ride with Icecube so they could all go mining, and Lyonette was trying to run the inn.

“Do you need to go to Riverfarm, Erin? I am sure His Majesty is negotiating—delicately.”

Which means don’t mess it up. But Erin just flapped a hand at Lyonette.

“It’s not that. I’m going to speak to the [Witches].”

“Oh. Oh? Well—Mrsha might be interested. Ser Dalimont could take you both if you’re good. Mrsha?”

The girl was thinking. Either she stayed here and Lyonette gave her lessons and the inn had to do its thing or she went into the city and had fun—but Visma was busy painting her dolls. Nanette was sitting with Bird, and Gire was being an adult-Chieftain.

And what were the odds Erin did something crazy? Mrsha decided to bet on Erin. She marched on over as Ser Dalimont nodded. Erin sighed.

“It might not be that much fun, Mrsha.”

The girl shrugged. Worst came to worst, she could play with Riverfarm’s kids or see what Traffle was doing.

Traffle, the nickname for the first Elemental of Law with its glowing eye, who often glared at misbehaving people. Like Mrsha and Erin.

 

——

 

In fact, Traffle was one of the reasons Riverfarm was so popular. A strange creature like it was—all metal and magic—was enough for people to point at it. Some wanted to prove they’d been here, and Laken had begun asking Mister Helm to make, with a [Painter]’s help, little keyrings with Traffle’s likeness on it.

And he’d asked Nesor to figure out a way to make magic pictures accessible for all. If you could do a scrying spell and record that—why not an image?

Well, progress marched forwards, and Traffle scuttled on its legs, followed by a crowd of fascinated tourists. Erin saw the light it was based on flashing colors—and it was one of three already.

“Miss Solstice. Good morning to you. Are you here to meet His Majesty? He is wrapped up in talks, but if you have any—designs—we would, as always, appreciate knowing in advance.”

Lady Rie spotted Erin within minutes of her coming through the door. Well, the guards who were watching the door had probably found her.

“I’m not causing trouble! I’m just, uh, looking for a [Witch] or two, Lady Rie.”

“Ah, well then. Witch Eloise and Hedag are advising His Majesty, but may I help you find another Witch?”

“I guess. Agratha or Oliyaya?”

Rie smiled and found one of her people to escort Erin and Mrsha down the brick street. Erin huffed a bit at the implication she was going to cause trouble—but even here, people noticed Erin.

The crazy innkeeper. The one who nearly flooded Riverfarm. Mrsha patted Erin on the leg solemnly. She knew what it was like to be stigmatized as a monster who caused trouble.

In Erin’s case, Mrsha felt it might be justified.

 

——

 

“Witch Erin! My, and little Mrsha too? To what do I owe the pleasure? Come in, sit, sit.”

That bright and cheery greeting belonged to Witch Agratha, the [Witch] of normalcy and friendly cooperation.

…Which was why it was so disconcerting to hear it from Witch Oliyaya of all people. The hook-nosed stereotype of a [Witch] cackled gently as she admitted Erin, Mrsha, and Dalimont into her abode.

As Erin had noted, if Agratha was friendly, Oliyaya was her inverse and liked being the bad [Witch] in stories. However—she seemed to like both Erin and Mrsha well enough.

Especially Mrsha, in fact. The [Witch] pulled Mrsha’s cheek gently as the Gnoll somewhat respectfully climbed into a seat.

“A troublemaker after my black heart. Burned down any homes yet?”

“Don’t give her any ideas, Witch Oliyaya. Lyonette’d kill me.”

Yeah, she was a good girl! Mrsha held up a card, but Oliyaya just laughed at her.

“A girl or young woman must be free to cause trouble. Run rampant! Anyone who tells you to sit and plait skirts and mind your manners is a fool. You, my girl, if you haven’t burnt at least one house down by the time you’re a woman, you’ve wasted your life.”

She gave Mrsha a serious look, and Dalimont bit his tongue. Mrsha had to really think about this one.

“Surely it would behoove Miss Mrsha to have some manners, Witch Oliyaya? With greatest respect.”

“And what would you know, [Knight]? Did you, as a lad, ever break a window or a cup by throwing rocks? Wrestling in the mud? Pulling the tail on donkeys? Always a good way to break a jaw early.”

Oliyaya tapped Dalimont hard on the chest, and the [Knight] regretted his comment.

“…As a boy, I was indiscreet, Witch Oliyaya—”

“Then a girl should be just as much so. Especially this one. Now, let my apprentices fetch you some tea. Witch Erin—your hat is upon your head, and I greet thee.”

Then Oliyaya tipped her hat with its staring eyes, and Erin reached up and lifted a hat made of flame. Erin looked at Oliyaya and began to get a sense of what made the other [Witch] tick.

“Thanks, Oliyaya. How’s business?”

The old woman shrugged.

“I am a [Witch] of cities, now. Larger, with more emotions to use in forming hexes. Grudges that run deep—but so many people! The old magic may suffer, but I admit—gold has its uses. Just the other day, I sold a charm to attract lice to a very nice young woman.”

Dalimont winced. Oliyaya slapped his knee with a long ladle—she had a cauldron on.

“A comment from you, [Knight], and I will ask if lacing a rival’s birthday cake with shards of glass is more or less foul than my charms. And then I will eject you from my domain. Nastiness must have an outlet, and sometimes the punishment is deserved. Do you know that young woman’s reason to curse another? I thought not.”

The [Knight] decided he’d be quiet for the duration of this visit. Erin gave him a side-eye.

“Do they really do that in Terandria?”

“There’s foulest sorts of all kinds anywhere. Noble classes and squabbles means they go to extremes more often than not. Ask Eloise—or do you think she’s not used daggers while drinking tea? What can I help you with, Witch Erin?”

Then Mrsha realized she hadn’t actually known why Erin wanted to meet [Witches] again. Her last encounters, while fruitful, had been—fraught. Why again so soon?

The girl noticed Erin Solstice doing something for the third time this morning. The [Innkeeper]—who, despite her rest Skills, didn’t look as fully rested as she could be—wiped the fingers of her right hand on her shirt.

The gesture did not escape Mrsha this time, or Oliyaya. Erin lifted her hands and spoke hesitantly.

“Oliyaya, I’ve been having this, uh—problem. And I’m not positive, but—is there a way to tell if someone’s messing with your dreams? Or if you’ve been cursed?”

The other [Witch] raised her brows.

“You’ve come to the right [Witch], Erin. Only Mavika or perhaps Alevica could help you as well—tell me what you dream of. Coise, my bag of tricks.”

Her apprentice, one of three, brought Oliyaya her bag of holding as Erin hesitated.

“It’s…someone in my dreams who’s bothering me. I’m pretty sure they’re there. I don’t wanna say specifics, but it’s very vivid. And it’s been bothering me when I wake, too. It wasn’t so bad, but they’re harassing me more and more. Probably because I kicked them.”

Mrsha and Dalimont sat up and looked at Erin in astonishment, but Oliyaya was already at work.

“Ah, a bully who knows the old ways of hexing and dream-speak. Interesting.”

She took a little bag that looked like it was made of silver cloth and poured in a number of substances.

“Your inn and level should protect you as much as that hat on your head, Witch Erin. But I suppose even Belavierr could be hexed—and you don’t weave protections, eh?”

“Nope. I thought about sleeping in my garden, but I felt like that wasn’t a long-term solution. And it feels like running away.”

“Well said! You should take what’s under your hat and build some great magics.”

“You think so? I’ve been pondering what to do first.”

“Protections before anything else. If you need help, come to us—but first, let’s see how badly this interloper is meddling. Here is a little bag—but before you touch it, can you tell me what I’ve done?”

Oliyaya put the silver-cloth bag on the table, and Erin hesitated as she reached for it. Like another [Witch]’s style, Mrsha realized this was a test or teaching. And Agratha explained—Oliyaya tested.

“Hm. Well, uh, I’m not an expert, but Nanette has had a few talks with me, and I know the basics. My guess is that you put a bit of craft into an object that lets you focus your magic.”

“Like all witchcraft. What did I do?”

Erin floundered, then she eyed the bag and peered inside.

“Silver. Silver’s like a natural de-curse and purifying thingy. You put silver in here and powdered Sage’s Grass? Aloe vera…I don’t know the others.”

Erin had seen the familiar plant, but Oliyaya nodded.

“Spider plant and aloe vera—plants that purify, yes. But the trick is to have meaning as well as natural plants with such qualities. I also placed in that pouch the shoe-dirt of an honest man. Riverfarm has a number of them, helpfully. Men and women. And lastly, a piece of quartz which glows.”

She showed Erin the final lynchpin of the curse-bag, and the stone glowed serenely.

“Now put it around your head—or fingers—and we will see if it reacts to ill-intent.”

Erin Solstice did just that. She draped the silver bag around her neck, and Mrsha wondered if it would do anything fantastic or just change color after a while. Witch magic was hard to…

Oliyaya seemed to be expecting a slow reaction, so she was reaching over for the kettle of tea. So did Erin, and the two were thus very surprised by the odd smell that replaced the various herbs in Oliyaya’s cottage in mere minutes as Oliyaya was pouring tea. The [Witch] glanced up, and Erin lifted the bag and her nose wrinkled.

“Hm. I would have told you to wait until we finished a cup. Or keep it on you a day. Dump it on the table?”

Slowly, Erin did, then turned the bag inside-out. Even Oliyaya’s apprentices muttered—and the [Witch] eyed the contents of the bag.

All the herbs had shriveled up. The Sage’s Grass powder turned black, and the crystal was dead and cracked. Indeed, even the inside of the silver bag had tarnished black.

“Ah. Well. That is a curse indeed. Although…hm.”

Oliyaya sifted through the contents and, to Mrsha’s mild horror, picked up the dirt from the honest man’s shoe and tasted it. She spat and took a sip of tea—then spat that out too.

“…Not the most ill of intent. Even so, someone put a lot of power behind that hex that haunts you, Miss Solstice. Too much, I daresay. It’s both crude and well-done, as if a master-mason used expensive materials for a primitive design.”

“What now? I could send to my Order for a counteragent, Miss Solstice, but the Thronebearers would need access to the keep…”

Dalimont offered, but Oliyaya snorted.

“Thronebearers? Yonder sits a [Witch] amongst a coven of Izril’s [Witches], Ser Knight. Begone from my cottage! Although—that holds true of all of us. We do not let our own suffer hexes. Come, Erin. We’ll find Mavika and get to work on our own.”

Erin looked relieved as she stood, and Mrsha leapt from her chair and nodded to one of the apprentices with excitement.

She knew it. She knew Erin wouldn’t let her down.

 

——

 

…The ritual of the [Witches] to find out what was going on with Erin was the most boring thing Mrsha had ever seen.

Oliyaya shook a cup full of dice painted with letters and numbers and rolled them out onto a table. She organized them together into an anagram as Witch Mavika placed a crawling bug on a map of Izril and let a raven, blindfolded, peck at it until it was eaten. Then she marked the spot.

Witch Alevica was there too as a final expert in curses—if not lifting them—and she, frowning, tied a piece of string to Erin’s finger and then let it dangle with a little coin tied to the other end. The coin began to twitch in various directions as Alevica placed a compass over it.

Y’all suck.

Mrsha held up the card, and Oliyaya laughed at her.

“Did you think we were all excitement, little Mrsha? Go elsewhere, for this is fascinating if you have half a head! Look, Mavika…I’ve rolled nineteen times, and nary a one makes sense. Nineteen names, or so I glean. I recognize a few as cities and towns—”

“And so goes my chart. Izril—but it makes no sense. Either the spell is trickier than we have thought—or another trick, twicely wrought.”

Mavika hunched over her map of Izril, and it had fourteen different dots—all scattered, seemingly at random. Alevica shrugged.

“Witch Oliyaya, Witch Mavika, you’re better at location divining than I am. All I get are tugs in every which-way—but none of them consistent.”

“So you can’t locate where the hex is coming from? I, uh—I think it might be hard, regardless. Isn’t stopping it more important?”

Erin took the string off her finger. But Mavika, Oliyaya, and even Alevica shook their heads. They stood in the place where the Summer Solstice had taken place, a place of power, and while the rituals were low-key, they still had a thrum of magic in the air.

Three to help Erin, place, and none were poor [Witches]. There was magic enough here, if not showy.

Yet…

“It is not that, Witch Erin. You may not sense it as the loci, but we would halt this magic against you if we could not divine the source. The issue is—whomever has hexed you is not hiding. But we find the source everywhere. And look—this is no coincidence.”

Erin glanced at Mavika’s paper and Oliyaya’s word-anagrams. She had begun to spell out names, and each one was different—but they were proper nouns.

The names of cities. And Mavika’s crow had hit more-or-less exactly on where cities were overlaid on the map of Izril.

“…Huh?”

“Either this hex is spread across dozens of cities or there is a trick involved. The focus of it is material…but it is not moving, yet somehow diversified.”

“Weird. Weird. She—no. It’s tricky, isn’t it? I knew it would be. Beating annoying people always is.”

Erin glumly stared at the map, but Mavika scratched at her chin.

“Finding the source of this curse may be easier than we think. After all, if it does not hide or flee, the answer may be equally easy. We simply need to find the closest source.”

“Ah, then a direct locating spell, not one that lets us roam? Alevica, you would do well for a focus. You Runners go in straight lines—give us your socks or a sprig from your broom.”

Master—

Alevica backed up, and Erin lifted a hand with Mrsha.

“Can we have the broom? Not the socks.”

The next eleven minutes were infinitely more fascinating than the previous thirty-eight had been. Watching Oliyaya and Mavika steal a not-inconsiderable amount of bristles from Alevica’s flying broom was funny.

Watching them call in Eloise and Agratha for their compatible skillsets was fascinating. Because what the five [Witches] did—with Erin’s help even—was to weave a little wicker-bird out of Alevica’s broom-thistles. In the center of it, they placed the ruined bag of charms and then tied it to Erin’s fingers that bothered her.

“Now, it will lock onto the closest one of these many odd phenomena, my dear. What you find will depend on what we do next. I would advise you to bring a cudgel and perhaps some thick cloth robes. And a few friends.”

Agratha gave Erin some kindly advice as Erin peered at the bird. It kept turning so its beak faced one direction even if you tried to spin it the other way.

“A dowsing charm. Oh my gosh, it’s so cool!”

That impressed her? The [Witches] traded a glance, but Erin loved the way the little bird would always turn to face its target. Because it was not magnetic or a trick—it was pure magic.

Simple magic, but to Erin…

“If that impresses you, we could make another one so the little rascal never escapes your notice.”

Oliyaya grinned at Mrsha, who looked alarmed and backed up. Erin shook her head, smiling, and looked around.

“Well, I have a curse to find! I’d, uh—well, thank you. And thanks so much for doing this!”

She began to nod or bow—then she reached up and tipped her hat, and the [Witches] smiled because that was an infinitely better gesture. They tipped their hats at her in reply.

“Witch Erin, for a fellow [Witch], we make time. And for you, we also offer you a discount.”

“Thank y—huh?”

Oliyaya was conferring with Alevica and Mavika and Eloise, and Agratha looked interested too as she wrote down a sum.

“Gold will do, or a favor. But the gold is nice.”

The [Witch] handed Erin an estimation, and the [Innkeeper]—sighed.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice’s journey to Riverfarm did not take too long, but it was her mission after that which would get interesting. Nor did she take Agratha’s warning lightly.

At the same time as Erin was getting to work, though, Pisces was glowering a hole into a wall. Mostly because he felt like the dungeon was winning.

Facestealer haunted the halls. And it had a grudge out for his skeletons. Pisces, now with the understanding that Toren had lived for a while in the dungeon in all probability—suspected the grudge was against both adventurers and skeletons.

But what irked him was that he was a Level 38 [Necromancer], practically on the cusp of truly hitting a benchmark in power, and he could barely get a few skeletons down the corridors.

The problem was—Pisces hated to admit it, but he was rusty.

Not since Chandrar or even the Village of the Dead raid. Pisces realized that he was actually a bit—behind in necromancy.

Oh, he could raise an undead warbear or a Bone Behemoth faster than Ama could dream of. He had helped create a Frostmarrow Behemoth and could animate large numbers of the undead.

Yet—Sillias had proven that necromancy was not just mass-animating undead. If anything, that was Az’kerash’s method, and Pisces had once criticized even the Necromancer for his lack of ingenuity.

Dead gods, where had Gewilena’s spark gone? His own intelligence and wit? Pisces was scribbling on a piece of paper, shaking his head.

Skeletons. What am I, Colth?

The [Supporter] was getting on Pisces’ nerves a bit with his upbeat attitude—and the way Pisces thought that Colth was distinctly copying him and learning his tricks. As if he thought he knew real necromancy.

Well, Pisces had already come up with a few ideas now he’d taken a break and stopped following Colth’s lead. They had gotten far in four days doing the same trick…time to escalate their tactics.

Bone Crawlers. The same undead that the Horns had run into with other adventurers could crawl up the walls. Would Facestealer even grab them? Pisces doubted it could jump or climb. Then again, there might be aerial traps…

It didn’t matter. You could create undead for any situation. Speed…what about mice-undead? Yes, a lot of them! And then Pisces could make something even faster.

What if…

What if you took a wheel and attached a skeleton to it? A spinning wheel-skeleton?

No. No, that was stupid. Plus, it’d be unable to turn. Pisces drew over that concept with a frown.

“Another cup of this coffee, Ishkr? I clearly need it.”

He was furiously sketching a better undead…what if he just animated a damn horse and had it race through the dungeon? Pisces was even sorting through his bones and beginning to engineer a new skeleton off the design—

“Pisces, no undead in the inn! You’re disturbing the customers.

“Miss Lyonette—”

The [Princess] scowled at him and pointed at the other customers, who were eying the piles of bone.

“No. Your rooms or somewhere else, Pisces. Away from the inn.”

“But this is—”

No. Erin may put up with it, but I will not.”

Scowling, the [Necromancer] rose. All these impositions on his time! It would take ages to perfect a new undead, anyways.

“We are not made of time before the Albez teams come back, Miss Lyonette. I hear they’re nearly at the door to Albez, and if we lose our prize, Ceria, no, Yvlon will be—”

“Less upset than me?”

The [Princess] faced him down, and Pisces opened his mouth. He eyed Lyonette and thought about the odds of talking her down. Pisces huffed out of the common room.

His rooms, then. Damn. But he wouldn’t be able to come up with a Bone Crawler by night, would he? It would have to be mice and undead-men.

Alas. If only Colth could do more than control a few skeletons. Granted, it was impressive he could do it at that range, but Pisces had seen how well his skeletons were controlled. Dodging traps was hard enough to manipulate a skeleton into doing.

It was like…well, using the scrying orbs, as cheap and convenient as it was, was unlike how Pisces controlled his undead. It was rather like Numbtongue’s video games. The Hobgoblin had expressed an interest in taking control of Pisces’ skeletons when he saw how it was going, but Pisces couldn’t give him control.

He wished he could, but only a [Necromancer] could directly control the undead, and Facestealer was fast. Traps, other monsters…

If only he had a faster skeleton. Pisces’ feet slowed as he turned away from the stairs.

Or…help…

No.

It was a bad idea. They’d never—she’d never agree. Right? After all…well, she had one of her skeletons. Scottie? If he just borrowed that alone—

Pisces tapped his fingers together and stared at a wall as Saliss and, surprisingly, Grimalkin trooped past him for the common room. Saliss waved a claw a few times in front of Pisces’ face, but then shrugged, walked on, and stuck a piece of paper on Pisces’ back.

“I, ah, need a quick trip to Invrisil, Miss Liska. Priority. Adventuring business. And I may have one or two people on the return.”

Liska sighed—but she nodded and adjusted the dial as Pisces walked over to the door. Erin opened the door and then decided to engage Pisces in conversation. The line of people waiting groaned as Erin delayed them further. This was the problem with privately-owned teleportation services.

“Pisces! What’re you doing? How’s the dungeoning? Lose more not-Torens?”

“Sadly, yes. But I may have an—unorthodox solution.”

“The best kind? I’m going to check out a curse. I guess I’ll take you off the guard-list. Eh, I’m sure I can get someone else to help out. Maybe Tessa. But she stabs people dead.”

“Ah, good l—a what?”

But she was already wandering off. Pisces stared after her and shrugged. He waited for Invrisil—then turned as someone booted him as hard as she could.

“Mrsha!”

He glowered, and the Gnoll girl innocently pointed at Pisces’ back. He turned—and found the piece of parchment that Saliss had stuck to his robes.

It said, ‘kick me’. 

Pisces saw Mrsha innocently smirk. She turned—and he stuck it to her back-fur. Pisces watched as Mrsha looked around in horror at the crowd, and Ekirra stuck his head out of line. She fled.

 

——

 

Snatcher was not getting tired of this. It knew there was nothing in the worthless heads it took from the undead. Not like the one with purple flames for eyes.

It didn’t care. Like petty malevolence, it was destroying all the annoying undead one by one. Even as they came in groups and divided—it hunted them down.

Perhaps it was instinct. Perhaps Snatcher somehow knew they would make it angrier. But it lurked in the dungeon with the active suits of enchanted armor and didn’t even destroy them. The pitiful defender of this place, in service to Mother—the force that controlled the army of armored warriors—also knew the undead were intruding.

But where one was diligent, Snatcher was petty. And it was aware that there were…adventurers above.

But it was a long way up, and it was not unaware of the risks. It had been damaged by the blue thing. For that head, it would risk much—but not for no reason.

Right now, it was simply—if not enjoying, then welcoming attempts to frustrate the adventurers.

Like a kind of game to show them how worthless their undead were, it had even let them re-close the steel shutters. Once they passed through—the undead would die.

Two attempts this day. Snatcher did know time, if vaguely. Once, it had known so much more. Rules—all the foolish rules, its duty—

That was in the past. Now, it waited and sensed four shutters open simultaneously. So the undead were splitting up, were they? It sensed little rodent undead, and…

Twenty larger ones?

Skeletons? How was that happening? It didn’t matter—Snatcher sensed the armored figures spreading out, heading to catch the undead. They would never make it to their destination, the city within. The dungeon was wide, and the skeletons were clumsy, slow.

These were facts.

So Snatcher crept forwards, not even bothering with the heads. Not for this fake thing. And it sensed one skeleton emerging from the shutters to face it.

The unluckiest skeleton, then. Snatcher strode forwards contemptuously—until he sensed something.

Something odd and unusual. This skeleton was no living being. It had no…

Soul.

And Snatcher knew souls. This was, like the others, a creation guided by another intelligence. A [Necromancer]. Snatcher knew that too. Yet this skeleton was better-made than the others. And a foreign presence controlled it, not the clumsy one and the more adept one from before.

If anything—this was in the middle of the two’s abilities. Still weak. But Snatcher halted not because of the power behind this force—but how the skeleton moved.

It stood there, arms outstretched, as if welcoming Snatcher into a huge hug. Legs spread so confidently, jaw agape, that the last guardian of this place felt—offended.

A mocking pose. The skeleton waited as Snatcher regarded it—then it clearly decided that Snatcher was too slow. The boss monster held perfectly still.

A rectangular, uncanny silhouette in the darkness. A brown leather body with two vertical sockets with no true eyes, just wounds in the face. Long, crushing arms that made claws. No mouth. No face.

Snatcher. And this skeleton…this arrogant throwback that had no true craft or power behind it? Not like this place had once been—

Snatcher charged. So fast the skeleton jerked back. A hand shot out—and the skeleton ducked.

Snatcher missed. The skeleton rolled sideways and sprang to its feet. Snatcher turned. It hadn’t seen the other skeletons do that—

Another fist swung towards the wall, and enchanted stone cracked. But the skeleton wasn’t there.

Scottie the Scout Skeleton ducked down. And as Facestealer looked down and raised a fist, it saw the skeleton put one leg forwards and lean on it, the other leg back, two hands splayed, skeletal fingers supporting it.

Like…

A City Runner about to—

Sprint. The fist hit the dungeon’s floor, and Scottie ran. He took off, arms and legs flying, as Snatcher looked up and began to lumber after him.

Fast—but Scottie was faster. And the traps? Snatcher expected it to run into the traps—until it saw something that surprised it.

The skeleton didn’t bother to hop the complicated pattern to escape this trap, nor did it walk through the traps that would make anything but Snatcher explode from the inside out—it kept running and then veered left.

Onto the wall. The skeleton’s feet glued to the stones, and it ran for ten paces—along the wall—then dropped onto the floor. It was still running as Facestealer slowed, realizing it would never catch the skeleton by speed alone.

—Above the dungeon, a [Necromancer] was whooping and laughing at Pisces’ face. Ceria, Yvlon, and Ksmvr were watching an excited group of ‘admirers’ and Ama and Pisces. Yvlon was counting with a sickly smile on her face, and Colth was blinking.

But Ama, masked face and hood and all, was smiling. And the undead were racing through the dungeon as Pisces ruefully watched, but with a heart pounding full of excitement and yes, even fun.

Snatcher?

Snatcher began to get angrier.

 

——

 

What did adventuring mean to you? Was it a job or a calling? Was it for a purpose like finding power?

Should it be fun? Surely, it should. Or why call it that? All the danger, all the grit, the taste of fear-vomit in your mouth, and the burning of your lungs as you held in your blood through a seeping wound in your side—

If you weren’t alive then, if that didn’t mean something, why would anyone do it?

A pack of skeletons raced through Liscor’s dungeon, adventuring in a style no one in the world practiced today but that [Necromancers] of old had once used in their adventures.

A Goblin and Antinium duo happened upon a great big cave and mound of dirt along part of the High Passes, and it was so strange because it looked like a stone plug had been inserted into the top. It…thrummed as they got closer.

And the teams in Albez dug.

In fact, Albez’s dungeon was the most boring, safest, and most tedious adventure Ylawes Byres had ever had. Four days of waking up, watching Remendia’s hired diggers at work, occasionally shifting dirt himself, and, well, socializing with other adventurers.

Socializing in itself was not Ylawes’ complaint. It was the pecking order, the showing off, the competition and squabbling between teams that made him feel like he was at a social convention as House Byres among the northern nobility.

If he were at Liscor, he could train with a sword, ask even Pisces, even Numbtongue perhaps, to practice with. Here?

“Byres, come on! It was a mistake, a mistake!

The Captain of the Waterborn Raiders called out as Ylawes walked away from the dueling space they’d set up. He shook out his gauntlet, and someone caught him.

“Lad, you need a healing potion?”

“My gauntlet caught most of it. I don’t think the metal’s torn.”

“Bastard.”

Nailren’s comment was followed by a glare, but the Waterborn Raiders were mocking Ylawes. The [Knight]’s skin felt torn under his armor, but he’d dodged most of the Skill.

“Couldn’t take losing in a fair fight? Skills in a duel?”

Someone jeered at them, and the Waterborn Raider’s Captain turned red.

“Dasha, shut up.”

Insill whispered as the Gold-rank Captain glared at the Silver-rank team of Vuliel Drae. But Dasha was right, and a lot of adventurers began jeering the Waterborn Raiders’ Captain themselves.

“Anith, please tell Dasha to stop. I brought it upon myself, dueling other adventurers for practice.”

Ylawes yanked off his gauntlet and saw his skin was only a bit torn.

“What was that move? It felt like he wrenched my arm around.”

“[Riptide Cut]. Looked painful.”

Dawil offered a potion, but Ylawes held up a hand.

“Save it. It’s not like they’re that cheap.”

He grimaced, flexing his hand, and instantly regretted the comment—it was hurting more by the second. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and offered him a jar.

Pekona showed Ylawes a very…natural jar of ointment.

“Soothes pain and helps heal. Not very magical. Want it?”

“Thank you.”

The cream did have some kind of pain-numbing quality, and Ylawes smiled as he felt the pain recede.

“What is this for?”

Not healing injuries you get in practice. Pekona swears by it—apparently, healing potions are bad for training.”

“Well, she’s right there. Thank you.”

Vuliel Drae and Nailren’s team clustered around Ylawes as the conversations died down and the Waterborn Raiders skulked off. Everyone was just bored—well, the Raiders had an axe to grind—but the truth was this was a terrible adventure.

“I almost wish I were in Liscor’s dungeon.”

Insill murmured; Nailren glared, and Larr, the Gnoll teammate, kicked Insill.

“Kidding!”

The Drake [Rogue] looked guilty, as he did every time the Face-Eater Moth disaster was brought up. Ylawes was one of the few adventurers—and only Gold-rank team—that tolerated Vuliel Drae’s presence.

He felt they were properly remorseful. He couldn’t say if they’d paid for their mistakes, but they’d gone into the Village of the Dead, and he liked the quirky team.

Anith, the Jackal Beastkin, was like a Falene with more fur, very analytical. Falene had not appreciated the comparison and frozen his bedroll solid.

Dasha was not a female Dawil, because she tried too hard to play into her half-Dwarven ancestry, but she was outspoken and brave—and a fairly competent craftswoman before she’d become an adventurer. She, apparently, was a Level 21 [Baker].

Insill was the most timid [Rogue] that Ylawes had ever met, but he seemed to be the glue that held together his team—he was the one who helped other people, and he was actually adept enough to set traps.

Seborn and a lot of [Rogues] that Ylawes had met didn’t go in for setting traps that much. But Larr, their [Ranger], was also an adept multi-tasker. Notably, Larr was also a member of the Hawkarrow tribe—same as Nailren. But he was also related to the Soliest Yerr tribe’s most prized craftsman, Honored Shedrkh, and Larr often asked to send pelts of monsters back to him.

They had depth. That was the point. Get to know someone and they had depth. Like Nailren’s team, actually. They came from the Fletchsing tribe, a subclan of the famous Hawkarrow Tribe, and had fought in the Meeting of Tribes with Mrsha’s alliance. Ylawes didn’t know all the details, but Nailren had escorted the Antinium Soldier back and had plans to head to the new lands.

His teammates were all actually new, apparently. Which surprised and embarrassed Ylawes because he thought he would recognize different Gnolls—but no one really did. No wonder they weren’t the most social—after returning from Liscor, the six Gnolls had all traded places with different Gnolls that Nailren picked up. All above Level 20—which meant that Nailren was running an adventuring team scam.

Well, the Guild would call it that. The truth was that for a Silver-rank team, a bunch of Level 20+ [Hunters] was good enough. Apparently, Nailren’s team was part of his tribe’s way of training promising recruits. Their Chieftain, Eitha, sent him the ones she wanted trained up.

That made Nailren far more interesting to Ylawes. He was apparently a good enough leader to direct the ever-changing Gnoll team into keeping a rather good reputation as a Silver-rank team. And they’d gone into Liscor’s dungeon more than once.

Nailren was also fascinating in that he and Larr came from the same tribe, but Larr had never heard of the Fletchsing clan and kept giving Nailren questions about home.

“So, how is Chieftain Eitha doing?”

“Recovering from her wounds in the Meeting of Tribes.”

Nailren nodded as they sat down, and the Gnolls from the Hawkarrrow tribe all nodded. Larr squatted down, frowning.

“And your Chieftain? Of the Fletchsing tribe?”

“Hrr. Doing just fine.”

“You’ve all checked on them?”

Larr glanced too-casually at the other Gnolls, and one of Nailren’s ‘adventurers’ glanced up.

“Me? I’ve never met the Fletchsing Chieftain. I didn’t know we had a subclan until Chieftain Eitha told us.”

“Hrm. Hrrr. Interesting. Interesting.

Larr edged forwards, glaring at Nailren until the Gnoll’s nose was practically embedded in Nailren’s cheek. The Silver-rank Captain pushed him back.

“You are young, Larr, yes? Stop nosing around and go back to the Hawkarrow tribe and ask to know. Just because you are Shedrkh’s nephew does not mean you need to know everything.”

Ylawes watched the interaction with some amusement as Anith grabbed his teammate and muttered to Larr. Insill, as always, tried to soothe tensions, even if Nailren looked amused more than anything.

“Sorry about Larr. He’s just been away from home—but hey, if we get something out of this dungeon, maybe we’ll visit! Help out. I mean—we’ve all promised to visit his tribe.”

Nailren looked amused at the black-scaled Drake.

“You might not be the most welcome at the moment, Insill—but then, your team seems good, yes? Not a bad idea. If we ever get that staircase.”

He nodded to the huge hole and the teams of [Diggers]. It looked like their bucket-system for hauling up dirt had slowed again.

Ylawes hadn’t realized how deep the dungeon was until he remembered Emperor Laken said ‘a hundred feet’. A hundred damn feet down was…insane.

This secret part of Albez was clearly a secret even when the city had been intact and unburied. Digging that far down, even with magic? The deeper you went, the narrower the hole got and harder it was to excavate dirt. Rocks, soil, and roots had slowed down the teams immensely. Even with magic, the fact that they were nearing the staircase after four days showed how hard Deniusth had pushed the excavation work.

However—the Named-rank Violinist and the other Named-ranks were as happy as could be. They kept congratulating Griffon Hunt and had promised Halrac a share of any artifacts, apparently.

The same hadn’t been said for Ylawes’ team or Vuliel Drae and The Pride of Kelia, despite them helping. It was also probably why the Waterborn Raiders looked so sour.

No one wanted to leave, but they all had a feeling that if there were artifacts or relics, the other teams might get gold instead.

“Don’t mind the Raiders. I heard they’re just upset that the Named-ranks will ‘pull a Ceria’. Their words, not mine.”

“I thought Ceria was quite fair with the Village of the Dead raiders. Didn’t you all get a big payout?”

Nailren shrugged and looked at Anith. The Silver-rank Captain frowned and indicated his team. They had a few magical artifacts, and they hadn’t exactly seemed pressed for gold.

“We were paid very generously. I don’t know what he is talking about. Dasha has an enchanted axe straight from Hedault, and Pekona paid for a new sword from Drath—”

“I can’t hold the old one.”

The one-armed [Sword Dancer] was the last member of Vuliel Drae, but Ylawes didn’t know much about her other than her origins—and silence. She had lost a hand during the Village of the Dead raid and paid a higher price than most survivors. However—she didn’t complain, and she was apparently still adventuring. He thought she kept sneaking away from her team in the middle of the night, but he didn’t know if that was his imagination.

“So what’s the Raiders’ problem?”

Larr looked up, and Nailren grinned. He tapped one ear, and the Gnoll murmured.

“This is just a rumor, but some of the teams complaining have…ties. To the gangs or other interesting groups.”

Ylawes knew the Waterborn Raiders were former…[Raiders], but his scowl grew. Dawil just rubbed his beard, and Dasha copied him, much to his annoyance.

“Oh? So what do they know?”

“Word is, some of them asked Savere in Chandrar where Ceria’s relic is. They claim they don’t have it, and the Siren’s got a grudge the size of the High Passes against Ceria. So the Raiders think…”

“Ah, of course. And now they’re getting nothing for sitting around on their asses?”

“Some people are never happy, eh?”

Nailren chuckled. The truth was that was what most teams were doing, and if they got a hundred gold coins for doing that—it would be a fortune for Silver-ranks and more than anyone deserved.

“This adventure sucks.”

Ylawes was gratified to hear one of Nailren’s teammates say it. The Gnoll tossed a bit of dirt at a female [Huntress].

“Patience, Kelthe. Getting paid to sit around is also adventuring. But it’s truly boring, I agree.”

He glanced at Ylawes, and the Silver Swords’ Captain grimaced.

“Want to spar? I won’t use Skills.”

Pekona offered, but Ylawes was done for the day. Insill glanced at the dig-site.

“I hear they think we’ll reach the door by today. Deniusth and Eldertuin were going around telling all the [Rogues] and [Mages] who know enchantments to get ready to de-trap the place. No one wants to burn up the loot like the Horns did. But there might be monsters or guardians. Should we…prepare for a fight?”

Ylawes glanced at the [Rogue]. He pointed to Falene, who was reading a spellbook with Moore and working on a new spell—the constant activity of [Mages].

“Falene could cast a few buffs if we know we’re about to fight, but Dawil and I are ready. What does Vuliel Drae do? The Pride?”

His team was, admittedly, famous for their ability to charge into a fight any second. They’d survived Gargoyle ambushes where other teams would need preparation time. Nailren hmmed.

“I could dig us into the rocks above the dig site. But I don’t know what’s coming out. Plus, I doubt positioning will help us with our arrows. Not compared to Halrac’s enchanted ones or a Named-rank. Your team, Anith?”

“That would be mostly Insill.”

Everyone turned to the [Rogue], and he raised a claw.

“I could dig a hole. And put a pit trap in it.”

Ylawes stared at him. The [Rogue] colored under his black scales.

“Really fast! I just, uh—I need a hole first. Because of my Skill. [Deploy Pit Trap]. But it’s only the cover. It’s a convincing cover, though. See?”

Nothing would do for him then to show Ylawes on a tiny divot in the road. Insill had to set it up, which looked like him pulling a tarp out of midair and arranging it for about a minute or two. When he was done, a bit of fake earth only slightly noticeable if you stared at the edges would hide a treacherous…

Ylawes stepped on it, and it sank alarmingly—about a foot.

“Interesting trap. Does it work a lot?”

“Well—I got it after the Village of the Dead raid, and it’s not much use in dungeons since I can’t dig holes. Or against most monsters. But it’ll be really useful if we run into—”

Anith looked up mildly, and his lips twitched.

“Crelers? They climb holes.”

Dasha nodded.

“Ogres will just get stuck. You can’t dig a hole big enough to trap their foot, Insill.”

“Most species can climb holes.”

Larr added. Pekona raised a hand.

“Pit traps don’t kill most things.”

Stop bullying me!

This was clearly a running gag. Vuliel Drae’s humor was one of the things that kept Ylawes here. He smiled—and then heard a shout.

It’s time! Everyone up! Everyone up! We see the door!

Every adventurer looked around—and then they were suddenly all on their feet. Deniusth was standing by the entrance to the hole and bellowing.

Hold it, hold it—don’t crowd around! You idiots, you’re too fast! Back away from that door! Anyone touches it and I’ll kill them after whatever comes out does!

He was shouting down into the hole as dozens of adventurers clustered dangerously around the edge—in fact, they were in jeopardy of collapsing the edges on the [Diggers].

Eldertuin solved the problem by striking his shield with his sword.

Silence!

The gong of sound made everyone wince and look at him. The Fortress gave crisp orders as Viecel grinned—and the Selphid’s new body waggled four fingers. He’d been betting every day that this would be the day they got to the treasure.

“Everyone, stand back. [Geomancers], [Mages], forwards. We are not going down this hole. We’ll adjust it into a ramp. We need it wide, and we need to prepare. Team Captains, to us. Everyone else, it’ll be an hour yet, or two!”

He glanced at the sky.

“Plenty of time before evening.”

Excitement filled the air as Ylawes looked at Dawil.

“Looks like this is it. Get Falene and set up with Griffon Hunt and the Halfseekers?”

“What about our Silver-rankers?”

“That too. Anith, Nailren, coming?”

The Silver-rank Captains hesitated and looked gratified Ylawes was including them. The Gold-rank Captain pushed forwards, and the other Captains made way for the three. But for Ylawes, Anith and Nailren would have had to hang back, so many teams were gathered around Eldertuin.

He was including Halrac, Deniusth, and, surprisingly, Jelaqua in a small circle giving orders. Behind them, Moore and other experts were reshaping the hole, burning up mana to widen it.

“We’ll have a ramp down to the entrance, but we are not going in. Whatever’s down there, if there’s monsters or anything, it comes up to us. The worst thing we can do is bunch up and make our numbers-advantage useless.”

Eldertuin was giving solid, reasonable strategic analysis to the others. Deniusth was practically dancing from foot-to-foot, but he was nodding.

“What can we expect?”

“If it’s like Ceria’s trap? Magical doors that put you into kill-rooms and an Elemental guardian.”

“Nasty. But we can beat a single elemental. However—we have to get this treasure without triggering a trap. So our best [Rogues] head down there and analyze the door. Then [Mages]. Who’s the best at enchantment breaking?”

“Uh…we’ve got an expert in the Distinguished Staves. Ylawes—where’s—Ylawes, isn’t Falene Wistram-trained?”

Everyone looked at him, and Ylawes shook his head.

“She is—but she’s a [Battlemage]. We’d defer to any experts.”

“That would be me.”

To Ylawes’ surprise, Typhenous raised a hand. The old man stroked his beard with a huge smile.

“I have seen a lot of trap spells in my time. I may not be technical enough to remove them—but I can tell they’re there. More importantly, I can usually tell if a specialist will succeed or fail at removing the trap.”

“That’s good. That’s essential. If we can’t remove the magic or trap at any point, I am willing to send to Invrisil for experts. Hedault himself.”

Deniusth was telling the crowd, and everyone agreed. However, the excitement was palpable, and Eldertuin spoke.

“Then we send down the first team. Who has [Lesser Teleport] scrolls? Deni, I know your team has them. Lend the squad that investigates the door a scroll—though it’s faster to just run up the ramp, maybe.”

“We’ll put archers with sight lines on the door, but only Level 20+ experts and above. No friendly fire! Who’s got [Stoneskin] spells…?”

 

——

 

It was a flurry of orders and contingencies in the thirty-three minutes it took to reconfigure the ramp. Moore backed up, sweating, and Ylawes heard him audibly tell Jelaqua he was ‘spent’ on mana unless he wanted to risk mana burn.

“Wow, they pushed some of our [Mages] hard.”

The hole in the ground had shifted into a long, sloping ramp. But by the looks of it, it had taken out thirteen [Mages], some Gold-ranks. Even a member of Orchestra was lying down.

“Should we let them rest before we try the door?”

That was the smart thing to do. Falene had used half her magic—but Dawil just glanced at the eager teams, including the Raiders.

“Everyone’s raring to go, Falene. Besides—I think we might be overkill. Or if we’re not, then a dozen [Mages] won’t make a difference.”

That was fairly true. Ylawes knew the Village of the Dead raid had pulled in more teams to take it on than most events in modern adventuring history—but there were more teams here. Including Named-ranks.

“Just stick together. Vuliel Drae, I know we haven’t practiced, but if Nailren covers our group, just have your team stick to our flanks. The Silver Swords are good at fighting in the center.”

“Even Mage Falene?”

Anith was surprised, but Falene was already casting barrier spells. She smiled archly.

“I am a [Battlemage], Captain Anith. If I realize I’m in trouble, I’ll teleport to safety.”

“Yes, as you can see, she’s the bravest member of the Silver Swords.”

Dawil rolled his eyes. Seborn, Typhenous, and three other experts were walking down towards the door as the civilians ran far, far back to the waiting wagons and horses. Falene reddened.

“I would like you to try fighting monsters with nothing more than enchanted robes, Dawil, then question my bravery.”

“Falene, Dawil—”

They were looking bad in front of the Silver-ranks. Dawil shot back with a huge grin.

“Done. I’ll do it in your robes—without underwear either.”

“You wretched, cave-dwelling homunculus—”

“Door’s opening!”

“What?”

Everyone looked up. It had been seconds since the adventurers went down, but the first thing Ylawes saw was Seborn, followed by Typhenous, running like a natural athlete, arms and legs pumping, coming up the ramp.

“It sensed us! It sensed—it’s a trap!”

Then Ylawes felt his skin prickle and [Dangersense] Skills began activating. The air hummed—and a voice filled with wrath echoed up from below. A recording.

“YOU ARE NOT THRESK. ALL WHO SCHEME TO PILFER THE LABORATORY OF UDATRON WILL DIE.”

“Oh shit.”

Insill raised his shield, and Ylawes’ head rose. Thresk? Wasn’t that the one who Ceria’s team found?

But there was no time to ask more. He saw a flash from the ramp’s entrance, then Halrac loosed an arrow that thumped with an explosion. The Gold-rank Captain shouted.

Elementals! Dozens of—

“What did he just say?”

Dawil looked up in time for the first howling gale of air to billow up, a Wind Elemental in full fury—followed by a raging being of flames and more of both kinds. Ylawes saw bodies of stone charging up the ramps as [Mages] began to fire, and he counted—

“Water, Fire, Earth, Wind—Elementals?

Falene looked horrified. Which told Ylawes that binding so many powerful Elementals, even if they weren’t on the level of the Gnolls’ Khoteizetrough, was far beyond her capabilities. Ylawes wavered between charging from their second line and holding. Some teams that had begun to race forwards were pulling back, but it was Deniusth who shouted.

Eldertuin, hold down the ground! Orchestra—concert time!

Twenty-seven Elementals appeared from the trapped laboratory. Twenty-seven, where Ceria’s team had nearly fallen to one. But they had been Silver-ranks at the time.

This time—they had Named-rank teams. Ylawes didn’t see Eldertuin and Viecel among the fighting as it broke out with the huge Water and Earth Elementals, each seven to nine feet tall, emerging and swinging at the nearest adventurer—but he saw them surround Variable Fortress, drawn in by Eldertuin’s Skills.

Yet Deniusth’s team, Orchestra—Ylawes had never seen them fight so far. He expected Deni to show off his golden bell, but he didn’t. Instead, the Named-rank team stood in place. Some were even sitting down.

Gores, the Trumpet of the Battlefield, and Deni, the Violinist, stood in front of their band of fourteen. Fourteen, and some were Gold-ranks or even, Ylawes had heard, Silver-ranks.

What mattered to Orchestra was how good you were with an instrument. He saw a cello-player sitting next to a drummer who held only enchanted sticks—the world was his drums.

Deniusth began playing on his violin as the first notes echoed from Gores’ horn. They played in perfect synchronization, and Ylawes recognized the tune.

The Five Families’ Ballad—Return to New Home. The tune they had played since they had come to Izril.

The first few bars of the song let the rest of the team join in. The drummer beat the first few notes on the stones as the Elementals rose. An Air Elemental conjured a deadly-looking orb of compressed air and drew an arm back to throw it.

Was it shaped like a Drake or a Human? Or a…Gnoll…? Ylawes didn’t know, because then Deni’s bow began to scream upon the violin’s strings. He played louder—and the crescendo of sound rose so fast that Ylawes’ ears popped. He saw the trumpet swing up—and Orchestra’s instruments glowed.

The next thing Ylawes saw was a hole in the clouds. He lowered his hands as the ripple continued through the air. Sound and force—

Half the Elementals in the air vanished. Orchestra’s Combined Skill was angled up, and whatever sound they’d played wasn’t directed at Ylawes, thankfully. Nevertheless, he saw the cone of projected sound clip part of the ridge over Albez.

It hit the stone, and the stones cracked, shattered to pieces, and went flying like shrapnel. Of the Elementals—the Flame Elementals just winked out. Ylawes swore he saw a crystal heart of an Air Elemental explode.

Dead gods!

“[Combined Skill — Onslaught Performance: Louder Than the Sea’s Roar]. Orchestra, get them!”

Deniusth lowered his bow with a flourish, saluted the other adventurers—then his team broke up. The Violinist leapt up, impossibly high with magic, and played on his violin.

Sharp sounds. So sharp that they cut through the flames of one of the Flame Elementals—exposing that glowing core. Deniusth caught himself on a foothold in midair, and his violin bow lanced out like a rapier, striking the core through the center. It shattered, and he whirled back.

The trumpeter, Gores, just aimed his trumpet like some kind of weapon and blew another note. It had so much sonic force that it sent another Air Elemental reeling backwards—and Halrac shot it through the heart.

“That’s Named-ranks?”

Insill’s jaw was open—until Ylawes grabbed him.

“Heads up. They’re coming!‘

An Earth Elemental charged their way, and Ylawes raised his shield, gritting his teeth.

“[Shield of Valor]!”

A hammer’s blow from a fist bounced off his glowing shield, and the three teams surrounded the Earth Elemental. Falene shot a dozen Tier 2 spells into it at close-range, but it did little more than chip at the enchanted stone. Dawil swung his hammer into a leg, cursed, reached for his broken axe—

It’s harder than regular stone!

“Arrows not working—[Piercing Arrow].”

Nailren hit it in the forehead. The Earth Elemental’s forehead cracked slightly, and the rest of his team pelted it with arrows and stared in dismay. Ylawes backed up, deflecting another blow without his Skill—

It was strong! Stronger than a Gargoyle or a Troll. The [Knight] cursed, and Anith spoke.

“[Arrows of Light]. Dasha, support Ylawes and Dawil! Pekona—”

“[Lightning Iai].”

A flash and shock along his arm. Pekona drew her curved blade and slashed into the Earth Elemental’s arm as it swung again—but like his, her cut was shallow. Insill appeared at the Elemental’s back—stabbed once, then hopped away.

It was too tough! Dawil yanked Dasha out of the way as the Earth Elemental kicked, and Ylawes hoped Falene had a better spell.

The Silver Swords didn’t need to come up with one. Nailren took one look at the Earth Elemental as his team’s arrows uselessly rained over it, and he called out.

Switch to ropes. Loop the arm! [Rope Arrow]—get me an anchor.”

His team dropped their bows, and Nailren shot one arrow under the Earth Elemental’s arm.

“[Loop Shot]—web it down.

He seized the loop of rope he’d secured as the arrow wrapped around the arm. The Gnoll seized it—and was nearly dragged off his feet. But his team grabbed the rope, and another threw a loop on the Earth Elemental’s other arm. Ylawes, blocking the swings, saw the Earth Elemental turn—but eight Gnolls including Larr suddenly were hauling on one arm. It stumbled, and Dawil pointed.

Right leg!

While Larr had the left arm, he, Dasha, and Ylawes began to hammer on the right leg, breaking it at the joints. The Earth Elemental roared like grinding stones and began to heave the Gnolls off their feet—until it nearly fell over.

“[Muddy Ground].”

It was sinking. Its other leg was sinking as Anith turned the ground to mud, and Falene conjured more bindings of light. The enraged Earth Elemental had only one arm to swing, and it flailed at the adventurers—until Insill threw a ball of mud at its face.

“Hah! Blinded! [Mud Throw]—”

He ducked a swinging arm and backed up, wide-eyed.

It doesn’t need eyes!

“Idiot. Move—[Heron’s Wing Slash].”

Pekona leapt forwards, and Ylawes leaned back as her cut sprayed his armor and helmet with shards. He got one in his eye and cursed—but he heard a groan. When Ylawes could see, he saw the Earth Elemental’s leg collapsing. It was falling over!

With only one leg to support it, the Earth Elemental fell backwards and landed on its back with a tremble. Nailren’s team lost control of the rope, but he shouted for them to drag it down and anchor it to stones. And that left the warriors with an opening to hit it as hard as they wanted.

“Good!”

The [Knight] lifted his sword and charged in.

“[Shield Breaker]!”

He swung his shield’s edge into the Elemental’s chest, where he thought the heart should be, and the stone cracked. Dawil joined him as Ylawes raised his sword for his best Skill—

Silver Swords, back it up! Back up!

The [Knight] aborted his final charge. He looked over—and Dasha ducked out of the way.

“[All or Nothing Charge]! Eld—”

Viecel the Gambler pointed, and Eldertuin the Fortress raced past Ylawes. The Gold-rank Adventurer saw the older man raise not his sword, but his tower shield in both hands—like an improvised maul, the edge pointed down—

“[Hammer of the Ogre].”

This time, the [Knight] lifted his shield and saved his face from the spray of stones. Dasha shouted in pain, but when Ylawes looked up—he saw the Earth Elemental was split in two. The pieces were stirring—until Eldertuin bent down and yanked something glowing out of the chest.

“Elemental down.”

He turned, nodded to the [Knight], and Ylawes Byres felt a flicker of envy, admiration—he saluted Eldertuin the Fortress, and the man smiled, even as his head was turning for another threat. Ylawes whirled—and there were no more Elementals.

The fight was already over.

 

——

 

It turned out that in the lineup of elementals, the Earth Elementals were the only ones who’d lasted more than a few seconds in the face of so much adventurer firepower. Air, Flame, and Water Elementals were dangerous foes that could drown you, suck the air out of your lungs, or burn even steel as Yvlon had once found.

…They weren’t much good against five Tier 4 spells hitting them at once. With Orchestra’s Skill, the adventurers had literally overwhelmed most of the others.

Mind you, that was not to say it had been a bloodless battle. Several adventurers had broken bones in the first swings of the Elementals, and one Silver-rank was so badly burned she was being rushed to a [Healer].

“Twenty-seven Elementals. And Ceria’s team only ran into one?”

“Might have been a higher-grade one in the confines of the other [Mage]’s secret armory. It apparently burned artifacts up—these weren’t that hot. Tough, though. Imagine being a single Gold-rank team and running into this many? What happened, you lot? I thought you were going to check the door.

The adventurers, in the aftermath of the fight, were harvesting the pieces of the Elementals’ cores, the only really valuable part of them. Maybe the Water Elementals’ water—but it was just mud in the ground now.

“We never got the chance. Turns out there was a huge detection spell that was scanning us for something. Probably an amulet to prove we were allowed in.”

Seborn shook his head as Typhenous peered down at the open doorway. The Plague Mage nodded.

“Regrettable—but unfortunately, we didn’t have the right angle. If we were doing this again, I would suggest tunneling from the side to avoid the spell and cloaking ourselves before approaching.”

“Well, we got the Elementals. Pretty sizable, dangerous lot. Which means this is probably a lot better than one armory.”

Deniusth was excited. He’d taken down six Elementals after his Skill, but Typhenous lifted a hand.

“As a matter of fact—no. Captain Deniusth, I think we were lucky.”

“How so?”

Typhenous pointed down where the first [Rogues] were very cautiously shining lights and spells into the laboratory of…Udatron. A name that some of the more historical adventurers were looking up as they spoke.

“I believe there were more elementals. Twenty-seven? An odd number. Look at this.”

He showed the others something odd—a sparking, but mostly dead, Elemental core. Ylawes felt the static in the air.

Lightning Elemental?

“It must not have been able to endure however long it was here. Perhaps there were other Elementals—there are a number of cores on the ground.”

“That’s worth a lot of money to Wistram. Damn—then how long has this place been hidden? How long does a Lightning Elemental last?”

No one knew, but Deniusth was eying the [Rogues], and they were very, very apprehensive about what they were doing. Yet…

Well, again, Ylawes had a sense of let-down. Not because the laboratory was not well-guarded or that it seemed to be empty—some people were staring inside and practically salivating at what they could glimpse.

No, there were just too many adventurers. Not that he wanted an honorable fight against Elementals, but they’d steamrolled the opposition.

By the same token, though…he felt badly that the Horns weren’t here. Yet they would have never found this place but for Griffon Hunt.

What had they found, though? Who was Udatron? It turned out there were some answers.

The Captain of the Distinguished Staves was a local [Historian] of sorts. He excitedly confirmed the name from a history of Albez.

“Udatron. I knew that name was familiar! Udatron and Thresk, two of the greatest [Mages] of Albez while it was a magical community. Warmage Thresk and Chronomancer Udatron were a duo who fought in the magical conflicts Albez took part in. Udatron vanished during a battle, it says, and he was presumed dead, but no one ever found the corpse.”

“Not unusual in high-powered magical duels.”

Falene murmured, and Ylawes nodded. But the Captain went on—

“Thresk, it was said, never believed his friend was dead, which led to his increasing paranoia and reclusiveness until he passed. If Ceria’s team really did find his armory close to this spot—it only makes sense this might be Udatron’s laboratory.”

“A time-mage’s laboratory? This is wonderful.

Deniusth’s eyes lit up. Dawil groaned.

“Oh no. Time magic? What kind of traps does he have?”

That sobered everyone in earshot. Ylawes Byres adjusted his sword and shield nervously, but it was in the hands of the adventurers, now.

“What do they see in that laboratory?”

“Well…a lot of magical paraphernalia. A small library—”

Deniusth’s smile grew wider with each report from one of the [Scouts] down there. The Gold-rank [Scout] was practically dancing as he pointed. Ylawes and the top-level teams stood around, listening to descriptions of the insides.

Anith and Nailren hung back, and one of the other team Captains drew them aside, perhaps to salvage more pieces from the Earth Elementals. Ylawes felt guilty, seeing the Silver-rank’s wryer expressions. And again, it was hurry up and wait because all of this had better not be an illusion—or trapped. But the Named-ranks were not about to lose this, and the [Rogues] were taking it at a snail’s pace.

“No signs of any big traps, but we’re going in slowly. Maybe…maybe this laboratory only had the door guards?”

“Elementals were Thresk’s magic. Perhaps this Udatron never set up defenses or reactivated them if he died in battle?”

“Maybe—but we can see something in the back. I think…there’s an armory back there. A laboratory, a mage’s library, and an armory.”

Everyone looked at each other, and Ylawes, despite himself, found the final reason why you adventured as Deniusth grabbed one of his teammates in delight.

The loot.

 

——

 

“They think there’s how much there? A…a lab? And how many books…? Yeah, from the age of Albez. And there were only twenty-seven—and they just found it thanks to Halrac’s team? Deni’s backflipping. Great. There wouldn’t happen to be some horrible time-magic trap that killed a few adventurers? No? I’m not wishing it on you, Revi. I’m just—well, we’ll take a share. Thanks.”

Ceria Springwalker didn’t quite scowl, but the Horns of Hammerad definitely grew quiet when they heard about Albez’s second treasure haul. The [Necromancers] looked up, agog, and Colth sighed.

“Well—that monster hide had better be good, or I won’t hear the end of it from Deni for a decade. No going back.”

Their map was expanding, but it seemed like they were tracing a kind of actual layout of the dungeon’s maze. And if Colth was plotting things out right, then they could tell where the four huge pillar-rooms full of monster nests were. Which then implied that the city and Stalker’s corpse was in the center of the four sections. Which meant…

Which meant the adventurers were really mad about all the amazing treasure that Albez’s group had dug up. Because even if they were going to get the hide of some amazingly powerful boss monster, some people wanted it all.

Fair. The Wandering Inn was abuzz with the news, and the treasure might really change things, especially the books if they were spellbooks. What kind of artifacts would Udatron, a great [Chronomancer], have? What magical equipment? Alchemical items?

No one knew, and it was all great. Udatron, a name without context in this modern age. For everyone save, perhaps, someone like an ancient Dragon—if Thresk and Udatron had ever been important enough to be on his radar. Which they had not.

Or…

Erin Solstice propped her chin up on her hand and stared silently out a window. She remembered that name. She remembered…a man, among many, summoned to safeguard time itself.

She didn’t know his story or anything else about what his laboratory might hold. So she said nothing, but at least one person noticed Erin’s wistful look.

Grimalkin of Pallass didn’t reach for a notepad. Some things he could simply remember. And besides—he’d begun wondering if the Eyes of Pallass had access to his home. He had a very in-depth security system, but there was always someone better.

He sat in the inn, thinking. A figure in repose, like some statue made to represent the physical body in all of its prime condition. Grimalkin the Sinew Magus. Grimalkin the Fist.

A famous [Mage]. A renowned one. He had fought in wars, bested [Mages] and enemy officers in combat—he had even dueled Archmage Feor. True, he had been mocked for his physical magic theory by a number of communities, but he had a lot of authority in Drake military systems.

Yet, as Grimalkin quietly sat, eating some couscous, he felt embarrassed. Here, at least. Because Grimalkin…

Felt rather as though he’d made a fool of himself. At least where The Wandering Inn and Erin were concerned.

Consider it from his perspective. He was used to people asking for favors from someone of his level. He had found The Wandering Inn very useful, if only because Erin had knowledge about health and musculature that he lacked from her world, and she was indeed engaging in her own right.

But Grimalkin had begun to keep a reserve after he felt that he was becoming one of ‘Erin’s friends’, a resource that she could call upon. He…was aware of how she could change and influence events, but he had determined that he did not want to be a piece in her game, especially because she was not, well, not important enough to keep sequestering his aid.

He had made a point to tell her that, to draw a line. He was a representative of Pallass, and she could not simply run rampant and call on him at will. That had been before she died, of course.

That had been before her body just happened to be the vessel for General Sserys of Liscor, oh, and Fetohep of Khelt made landfall on Izril and challenged the Walled Cities, in part, for her. And she learned how to post <Quests>. And let’s not forget being the best chess player in the world, the Titan’s chess partner, and she knew Foliana, Valeterisa, Larracel, the Wind Runner…

It seemed to Grimalkin that he had made a mistake. Or perhaps just fallen into a trap of his own design. From him being the person she was prevailing upon, he now felt…the opposite might be true.

And he was embarrassed. Embarrassed, because the proverbial shoe was upon the other foot, and now he had all the questions and she had answers and he saw the irony. He saw the fault in himself, and he was embarrassed.

Introspection was a virtue, but a painful one. Doubly painful because Erin was still…generating mysteries. He’d thought ever since he solved the Earth part of her background he would stop adding more questions to his list of Erin-quandaries.

But why did she know Udatron’s name? Why did he think she knew more about what the adventurers had found than she was letting on?

And did he deserve to know? Grimalkin sat there, chewing the pebbles of gluten and appreciating the dish. Imani had clearly made it.

“Well, I’m glad the Albez teams are finding treasure. I think. Hopefully no one throws open a time paradox again.”

Erin spoke lightly and turned from the adventurers hard at work. Grimalkin’s claw twitched as if he were reaching for a quill. The problem was that she was actually a very, very hard-to-read person. Chance words…could just be that.

Again?

Yet where Grimalkin before would have pressed her for answers, now the Sinew Magus had to wonder something.

Am I the unworthy one? Is she playing a game where I’m blundering around like the fool?

By rights, he should ask for her time, but he felt rooted in place. Not everyone was.

“Erin, are you done with your task in Riverfarm? I could use you making more magical foods.”

“Later, Lyonette. I’m actually going on another errand. Can I take Mrsha?”

“I—how dangerous is it?”

“Um—not very?”

“Really, then let me ask Ser Dalimont. Why do you have a bird tied to your finger?”

“It’s a charm. Geeze, Lyonette. You act like you’ve never seen a curse-sensing charm before. Say, where’s Nanette? Is she still sitting with Bird?”

The [Princess] looked about, and Grimalkin remembered someone mentioning the inn’s new guest. Again, he wasn’t regular enough to realize that this Nanette was a new part of the family.

I’m missing out. What else had he missed? Grimalkin looked around and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Mrsha seemed unchanged; although, he could no longer confirm this via [Appraisal]. Saliss was lying front-first on the floorboards, possibly unconscious, the [Bard] wasn’t here, a little lamb was staring at him from the basement d—

Grimalkin stared at Nerry. The lamb ducked down. Then poked its head up innocently, as if it were playing hide-and-seek. Unlike Nanette, the inn’s second new addition was deliberately keeping out of sight. Besides, Ishkr fed her whenever Nerry needed food.

Lyonette didn’t notice the lamb snooping on them. She turned about.

“I…no. She wasn’t up there when I took Bird lunch.”

“Well, maybe I’ll find her first. Saliss? Are you dead?”

He raised one claw up behind him, and Erin shrugged.

“Cool. Grimalkin! Hi! Do you need something?”

And there it was. The Drake knew she had seen him, and he sighed. Embarrassed, he straightened his spine and nodded at her.

“Not much of your time, Miss Solstice. If you can spare it.”

She gave him an odd look, and he wondered if her new class allowed her to sense his emotions—and she had already been good at that.

“Well, I’m sorta busy, but I’ve got time. Want to find Nanette with me? Mrsha, get yourself some lunch. You too, Dalimont. Can you make me a sandwich? I think I want to chase down this curse.”

Mrsha scampered off with the [Knight] as Grimalkin rose. Erin smiled at him, and he tried one on for size.

“I notice you are up on your feet, Erin. With a [Lion’s Strength] spell.”

“Gonna lecture me about using magic?”

“…No.”

He was tempted to, but the Sinew Magus let it slide. Erin cast around the inn.

“Locate Nanette. Locate…aha. She’s in the garden. Duh. Come on. How’s it been, Grimalkin? How’s things in Pallass now that the Meeting of Tribes has ended?”

He followed her to the open door and felt a nostalgic sense as he spoke.

“Pallass has not suffered unduly from the war, culturally or militarily. I understand there are Gnollish riots in some of the other cities. Not that Fissival had many, but there were protests in Zeres. Manus had them. Briefly.”

“City of War, huh?”

“I don’t believe they were dispersed with unnecessary force.”

“Just dispersed.”

He wasn’t going to defend that. Grimalkin walked with Erin around the garden and noticed more trees growing, but Erin was looking around, and her head rose.

“Ah. She’s up. And how’re you?”

“Adequate. I have been communicating with Ferkr, mostly. She may return to Pallass—but her future seems to be among the tribes. I have been sending her spellbooks, a curriculum, weight sets—”

“Isn’t she your apprentice? I thought she wasn’t ready to be a [Mage] yet.”

“She is possibly the finest apprentice I have ever trained. And I had little to do with that.”

Erin slowed as he ascended the hill. She looked at Grimalkin, and those words were true and close to his heart.

“She did the right thing. Didn’t she? You’re proud of her?”

The Sinew Magus straightened his back once more. He exhaled and felt his chest tighten.

“Immensely. That was entirely her character.”

“Yeah, but you taught her. You get a bit of credit for that, don’t you think?”

He felt gratified by that. Grimalkin ducked his head as Erin led him up the hill. She could be kind indeed.

She could be thoughtless. Well, Erin had too much to do, it wasn’t fair to say this was entirely her fault. But…

Nanette had free rein of The Wandering Inn. She was allowed to go anywhere, and the inn was safe. The family knew about the dangers of Erin’s other gardens, but Nanette had been told about that. She was intelligent and wise enough to occupy herself.

But someone—someone really should have warned her about the hill. It had slipped their minds.

 

——

 

That was how Erin and Grimalkin found her. She had been here for a while. Head raised, two brown braids hanging down the back of her neck. Her blue robes pooled around her legs in the grass.

Nanette was sitting, looking up at someone as if her legs had collapsed. As if they had no more strength to give. Her face was not blank—but it wasn’t torn by tears or grief.

It was just—stunned. Too stunned to properly register…

Erin put her hands over her mouth, and Grimalkin lowered his head. For there, standing with one hand on her hat, peering into the distance, was a tall woman. A [Witch], looking ahead as she so often did. Stern, but not unkind.

She stood alone, next to a tree, in this quiet place where mist clung to the ground. Nanette said nothing until she noticed Erin standing there.

“Nanette. I—oh no. Didn’t I tell you—didn’t someone—”

Erin looked around, but this was all her fault. Yet Nanette just looked up.

“I realized what this place was when I found it. Bird told me.”

Bird?

“Don’t be mad at him. He said it was a good place. I just…I didn’t realize my mother was here.”

Nanette looked up. Erin gazed around, and a scampering little girl ran up the hill with a sandwich. Mrsha dropped it when she saw Nanette and the statue and looked horrified.

“Nanette, I’m so sorry. I should have told you—warned you—”

The [Innkeeper] walked forwards, and Nanette shook her head. She looked up, and her round face stared at her mother’s. Longingly. Lost…but also with a kind of relief.

“She looks like I remember her. No, Miss Erin. Don’t apologize. I’m glad she’s here. It means…it means you remember her. She should be remembered.”

“Yes. She should.”

The little witch looked at Erin, and she understood what this Skill meant…more than most. She took a slow breath as a little Gnoll girl guiltily walked over.

“I’m fine. Really. It’s just…”

She looked up, and her brown eyes shimmered a bit. Nanette wiped at them.

“I’m allowed to cry, aren’t I?”

Tears trickled down her cheeks, and Erin looked so guilty nothing could be done. Nothing—but for Mrsha to hug Nanette. Erin bent down, and the little witch cried for a while.

Then she stood and nearly fell on her butt when she saw the giant Drake. He nodded at her.

“Miss Nanette. We have not met. I am Magus Grimalkin of Pallass. An acquaintance of the inn.”

“Oh. How do you do? I’m sorry, sir.”

“Not at all. I apologize for disturbing you.”

Nanette looked back at the statue, but she had been there long enough. Erin led her down the hill as Grimalkin picked up the sandwich.

I’m so—Nanette, come on, let’s get lunch. Lyonette, uh—uh—she was at the hill. And I didn’t tell her—

They returned to the common room, and everyone saw Nanette’s red eyes. Numbtongue looked up, and Lyonette gasped. Guiltily, the inn’s family gathered around except for Bird, who had done nothing wrong.

“I’m fine, really. I’ve been enjoying poking around.”

“Well—we need to be with you more, and you need to tell us what you want to do, Nanette! I mean it. How’s your room?”

“Very nice.”

“How’s…the food?”

Calescent looked worried until Nanette smiled at him.

“It’s all fine. I can’t ask for more, Miss Erin. Truly. I know you’re busy.”

“Is there anything you could possibly want?”

“Well…”

Shyly, the girl looked around. She kicked her legs as Mrsha handed the sandwich to Erin.

“…I was wondering if there were any books in the inn. Numbtongue has a few, but I like books. Mother would always take me to a library if there were one in the places we visited.”

Books! That’s it! Let’s get books! I’ve been meaning to get them anyways!”

Erin threw up her hands instantly, and Lyonette nodded.

“I’ll give you a budget.”

Guiltily, the inn’s family rushed about as Nanette protested they didn’t need to get—Grimalkin cleared his throat.

“If you’re looking for books, Miss Solstice, I recommend Invrisil or Pallass to buy them. I could list a few titles.”

“Thanks, Grimalkin. Why don’t we go now, Nanette? You and me, huh? I was meaning to go on a trip too—we can take Mrsha and get books, Lyonette. To Invrisil, I think.”

The [Princess] blinked, but one look at Nanette and she agreed. Erin decided they’d have a quick lunch, but she looked at Grimalkin—

“You wanna come? We can talk if it’s something you need to talk about.”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Why not?”

That was how he, Nanette, Ser Dalimont, Erin, and Mrsha ended up going for a walk into Invrisil. After a pastrami on rye sandwich.

 

——

 

“Like my new door?”

“It’s certainly a choice.”

Erin rolled her eyes as Liska operated the [Portal Door]. It worked like the last one, but instead of a cheap system with stones, it had a window that showed you what lay on the other side, and the dial was beautiful, made of metal, and swung from icon to icon burned into the wood. Invrisil’s looked like the City of Adventurers’ crest, the same for Pallass and Liscor. Celum’s wasn’t one of the city—it was a little pirate’s flag and a bit of growing wheat.

“Wailant’s Farm, see? The sigils just appeared. I think, uh—they look like what I’m feeling.”

“Ah. So Riverfarm is a crown over a stylized piece of feces?”

“…I should probably change that.”

Erin rubbed at the door’s sigil as if she could erase it. Grimalkin eyed the door and frowned.

“I don’t see more than eight symbols. I thought the old door had more connections than that.”

“Me too! But here—let’s go to Invrisil, and you can see what’s weird.”

Erin opened the door, hopped through, and they appeared in a street in Invrisil. A crowd was waiting, but as a few guests piled through past Grimalkin, Nanette looking around in delight, the door vanished.

Grimalkin turned, and to his bemusement, he saw something in its place. An…engraved stone, much like a druidic marker or some ancient waystone, was embedded in the paving stones.

“Fascinating. A gateway marker.”

“Yup! I think it only works places I know. So, uh…everywhere I haven’t been? I can’t open it. In fact, I’m pretty sure I now need to go somewhere to set up a marker.”

“Indeed. Not an upgrade.”

Erin put her hands on her hips and glowered.

“Well, guess what? You can’t steal this! Go on! Try! You can’t! People have been trying to move it all day. But only if I say you can, you can. See?”

That was useful for security, and Grimalkin gave her that. The stone was still heavy when she let him pick it up, and Mrsha and Nanette could barely lift it before he had to take it from them.

“Very useful—but again, the original door had a number of uses on its own. Yet you can transport how many people here?”

“Two hundred. Every two hours.”

“Incredible.”

Nanette whispered. Grimalkin nodded. If Erin visited more spots, she could doubtless install her gateway there too. He wondered how likely that was.

At any rate, they moved on as Erin asked where to go first. At least Ser Dalimont knew the city, and there were a number of good bookstores Grimalkin had requested books from. He was just about to direct her to the first one when he noticed something.

“Erin. Did you say that was a charm to sense a curse?”

Erin blinked down at the little wicker bird hanging from her fingers. She raised it—and Nanette peered at it.

“Oh, Oliyaya’s work. It’s moving that way. Very strongly, too.”

Erin Solstice’s eyes widened, and she saw the wicker bird pulling, pulling her down a street to her right. She looked at it, and Ser Dalimont hesitated.

“Miss Solstice, Witch Agratha did indicate this might be dangerous. Now is not the time?”

The [Innkeeper] nodded, but her eyes swung to Grimalkin.

“We do have Grimalkin. What if we just—checked? This is a big city, and I doubt, uh—I doubt it’ll be dangerous in the most dangerous of senses. I’ve just got this curse on me, Grimalkin.”

“As one does?”

Erin winced, but Nanette smiled.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing where the bird leads. It sounds exciting. And if it goes somewhere dangerous, we can turn back. You can always turn back.”

“Hey, that’s right! I’ve never done that. Well, it’s time for books and curses! Follow the bird!”

Off they went. Grimalkin realized they were going on an adventure. Funnily enough…he didn’t mind. After all, he had once resented it because it felt like Erin was making use of his power to her ends.

These days—he saw her glance at him and wondered who was going to help who.

 

——

 

The cave was…

Buzzing.

Infinitypear and Rasktooth hesitated as they saw how it had been blocked off. They had been wandering around it for a while, and save for the odd stone plug on top, clearly designed to be removed, it was sealed.

“What is this, Infinitypear? Magic buzzing cave?”

“No. Bees.”

“Oh.”

Rasktooth didn’t really know bees, having lived in a cave all his life. Thus, he wasn’t really afraid as the only bee he knew was Apista, and she was nice. Infinitypear had also never been stung by a bee—small bees would never pierce his carapace.

They were less wary than they should be. But the two [Adventurers] were debating unplugging the gap.

“Is this stupid, Infinitypear?”

“Yah. But maybe lots of Apistas stuck in there? We should free them.”

Since the plug was on top of the cave’s roof and Infinitypear had a clumsier Worker’s body, Rasktooth was climbing up there with his arms and prodding at the stone plug. The buzzing…seemed to thrum through the stone, and Rasktooth wondered if this was a bad idea.

Maybe just a peek? He wondered how secure the lid of the plug was. Slowly, Rasktooth lifted the plug and—

It popped right out. It was so light and so unattached that the Cave Goblin shifted it away from the hole instantly. He overbalanced, and Infinitypear ran around the cave to catch him—but Rasktooth caught himself.

“Hey! This plug isn’t on at all!”

“Oh? What’s—”

Then the buzzing grew louder, and Rasktooth froze. He tried to put the plug back, but too late.

Ashfire Bees blew out of the tunnel in a swarm. Nearly a hundred of them flew up in a mass, and Infinitypear looked up—

And then thought of how big Apista’s stinger was. How dangerous she might be if she were mad. Rasktooth was flailing, covering his face as they descended—

Stop!

The Ashfire Bees halted, covering the Cave Goblin, and their stingers did not jab into his flesh. They were filthy, covered in—something strange—and—

And a second swarm of bees flurried around, bright yellow and black. More Ashfire Bees as the first one retreated back into the cave.

What was going on? Infinitypear and Rasktooth froze as the second swarm landed around the roof of the cave, and the dirty bees from within crawled around the entrance. They were rubbing antennae…kissing? But who had spoken? Where had the other bees come from?

The answer appeared as four buckets were slowly placed down and a bit of sugary water sloshed between the buckets. Both bee nests descended, and a figure raised one of their hands as all four buckets fed the two Hives.

“This is dangerous. You are not Miss Mrsha. Did she hire you to take my job?”

Rasktooth blinked, and Infinitypear brightened.

“Grass Shell!”

The [Shaman] backed away as the two bee colonies devoured the sugar buckets. He looked like a plant. More grass had grown on his shell, even a flower or two. A bee landed on his shell and began to suck nectar out of it.

“The bees in this cave are angry-angry. They will sting you. The new bees don’t go in. Except if they are needed. Something bad is there. The new bees feed this one. See?”

He pointed to the ‘kissing’ bees, and Rasktooth and Infinitypear saw they were actually doing what bees did—trading nectar and food.

“You have a job feeding bees?”

“Yes. A Drake did it last time, but he overcharged, so I took his job. Is it my turn to lose my job?”

Grass Shell looked resigned to the whims of economic fate, but Rasktooth and Infinitypear assured him they were just adventuring. The [Shaman] brightened up.

“Oh. Then I am happy. I am feeding the bees. I am allowed to buy sugar and water and things bees eat and put them here every week.”

“What’s in the cave?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where did new hive come from?”

Rasktooth decided he was afraid of bees—especially the Ashfire Bees who were flying around and eating from the Floodplains’ flowers. Grass Shell shrugged.

“I don’t know. They flew here? I feed them too.”

“Why?”

Both [Adventurers] had many questions, but Grass Shell just puffed out his chest proudly as he put his hands on his hips.

“Because I am a [Shaman]. A [Beekeeper Shaman].”

The Goblin and Antinium looked at each other. Rasktooth held up a hand.

“Is that a good class?”

Grass Shell pondered the question.

“I get free honey.”

“Ooh. Good class.”

“Yes.”

This adventure had nearly ended in calamity, but it turned out to end in free honey. Grass Shell didn’t collect any from the angry Hive of dirty bees, and they actually pulled the plug back into place. Rather, he knew that the other Ashfire Bees were starting hives, and so he gave Rasktooth and Infinitypear a taste of a small jar he was allowed to harvest. It was so sweet it gave the two adventurers energy to race off—after thanking Grass Shell for his treat.

So many caves! Dangerous caves. Let’s not go to bee-cave again.

“Yah, yah.”

Rasktooth agreed as they wandered on. Infinitypear pointed to a new crack in the rock, so thin he could barely squeeze into it. Rasktooth, with his skin-body, would have had less trouble, but Infinitypear wondered if he could widen the gap.

It looked like it went into the mountain and down. Down deep, if Infinitypear were right—he tapped on the crack and heard an echo deep, deep down.

“Ooh. Big crack. Think we should go in?”

“No.”

The Antinium didn’t notice how Rasktooth had frozen on his shoulders. He peered down and wondered why his [Dangersense] was humming.

“Maybe a big drop? Maybe just a look—”

“Don’t go in there.”

Infinitypear halted—and Rasktooth stared into the crack in the mountain. The Worker slowly backed up. He tilted his head up to look at Rasktooth.

“Why?”

The Cave Goblin just stared at the crack in the rocks.

“The dungeon is down there. Bad death. Death…this is where Numbtongue went. Redfangs. Shield Spiders’ nest is here. And worse things. Below.

Infinitypear backed up fast. Shield Spiders? As in the entire nest of them? He looked at Rasktooth, alarmed.

“I thought adventurers sealed it.”

“They sealed some parts. This goes to Shield Spider nests.”

“How do you know?”

The Cave Goblin glared down at Infinitypear.

“I know. I live in dungeon all my life. I know everywhere in it. Even death-death-death city. Even metal armor place. Don’t go in. Stay away. Bad things are down there. Bad…things.”

He was so adamant that Infinitypear marched away. Somewhat upset, the two [Adventurers] slowed.

Bad things had happened there. Rasktooth didn’t look like he was in the mood for adventure any more.

“We go home now?”

Infinitypear pointed timidly at the inn, and Rasktooth nodded silently. They trooped back to the city.

Some adventures were too much for them. Too dark—and they wanted good adventures. Both of them knew they might not have a choice. Erin had promised them free food for a month, and what would happen after that?

What would they do? Infinitypear had worried—but as he neared the inn, that worry coalesced. He didn’t want to abandon Rasktooth—but he was still a Worker.

“Infinitypear. Before you go to the inn, you have to come with me.”

Grass Shell was on his way back, but he wasn’t headed to the inn. Infinitypear slowed as Rasktooth, who had been silent, looked up.

“Why?”

“Because we have been ordered. Remember? We go to the Free Hive. Revalantor Klbkch wants us.”

Then Infinitypear felt his heart sink. Rasktooth looked at Infinitypear as the Worker pointed to the inn.

“Let me put Rasktooth in a seat.”

“No. I go with?”

The Cave Goblin patted Infinitypear on the head. Because he felt the Worker tremble when Grass Shell said that name. He knew what Klbkch did to Workers he didn’t like. To Aberrations.

“That is not permitted.”

Grass Shell hesitated. Infinitypear’s antennae waved.

“There is no rule against Goblins in the Hive.”

“I’m pretty sure there is.”

Grass Shell muttered, but then the three were heading into the Hive of the Free Antinium via Erin’s basement. Perchance for destiny. But it was not one they wanted.

Everyone knew how a Worker’s story ended. The same for Cave Goblins like Rasktooth. The two [Adventurers]…

They wanted something more. Something better.

But the Slayer awaited.

 

——

 

A skeleton ran past a gateway deep in the dungeon. A barred door—and barred from the outside. As if it were there to keep something in.

Armored figures and Crypt Worms halted at the edge of the tunnels. They hesitated, and a few passed the barrier.

A writhing worm lashed out with arm-whips, screaming as it tried to tag the skeleton. But the figure—flew. It was running like a track champion from another world, and as it sensed the whips coming up, someone shouted.

Jump!

The skeleton leapt, both arms rising, a long-distance leap that carried it to safety. Then it touched down and began to cartwheel forwards. It sounded like it was laughing—but that was just the voices.

“We did it! Get the maps!”

The skeleton was dancing in place, raising its arms as the confused monsters looked on. The fact that it did celebrate—was because it deserved to. That was the difference between this undead and the mindless ones who walked the dungeon.

This skeleton began doing back-flips. And the voices continued.

Make it flip them off. Look, that Crypt Worm actually looks sad. Can your skeletons spit, Ama?

“I have heard throwing feces is a valid tactic. But I have not been allowed to keep a storage unit.”

“Ksmvr—who tells you this kind of stuff?”

“Bird.”

There the skeleton stood as the monsters, even the suits of armor with no flesh to break or lose—looked up. The Crypt Worms writhed forwards uncertainly, then turned to head back to the gates. The other monsters retreated, and the skeleton’s head slowly swiveled.

The celebration stopped.

“Dead gods. That’s…a lot of them. Ama, can you outr—they’re fast. Ceria, were they always that fast?”

“I—yes? We had a hundred Raskghar, sometimes. Ama, can your skeleton find Stalker? He’s in a plaza.”

All the skeleton had to do was climb one of the buildings, but shapes were emerging from the houses. Thousands of them, bounding across the streets, screaming—

Fleshy beings with no clothing, vaguely humanoid. Filled with missing holes and red, glistening flesh.

“A’ctelios Salash looks more inviting.”

Another voice cut in, and Colth’s tones were strained. The skeleton itself didn’t waste time arguing. Nor did its controller speak as she guided it to one of the buildings. It leapt up, caught a roof ledge, hauled itself up, and then leapt onto a balcony. From there, it ran at a wall of another house, kicked off it, and yanked itself up a window. Boosting itself up higher—

This is amazing. I had no idea skeletons could move—they’re coming up. Pisces, you taking notes?

“I am.”

This building afforded the skeleton a view of the entire area, and what it showed was…a city so vast it really did match Pallass. Then, the voices were silent. Only one spoke, cool, but trembling.

“I think we’d better save this image for someone more important to review. Chaldion, perhaps. There. There’s Stalker’s corpse.”

The swiveling skeleton stopped. The inhabitants of this place were climbing, but the skeleton pointed, and its finger saw a plaza not too far from here and a familiar monument.

“This must have been the exact same door we came through. I can even sort of see Stalker’s corpse around the monument.”

Yvlon grunted.

“I can’t. No…wait, is that a bloodstain? That plaza—compare it to Shivertail Plaza. That monument. Ceria, how big is this corpse?”

“Big enough that no bag of holding is going to cover it.”

Colth remarked, and there was excitement in his tone—and wariness. But the last voice broke in gently.

“Ama. We’ve found it. But I don’t think your skeleton…Scottie, is going to make it.”

The skeleton stood there on the tower’s roof, looking down at the screaming maws of teeth and thrashing tails and limbs from the things below. Then, and only then, a quiet voice emerged from its mouth, and its jaw moved in sync with a younger woman’s voice.

“No. No, he did a good job. You hear that, Scottie? You did the best job. No one could do it. Only you. Rest now.”

Scottie the Scout Skeleton stood there, his blue-flame eyes glowing in this place, a blank undead with no personality. No soul.

But these things were still given to him. He still had a name. So, even if she made him do it, the skeleton saluted. He grinned—and then the spell in the scrying stone cut out. The first figure pulled itself up, and the skeleton swung a fist.

 

——

 

It was done. Colth let out a breath it seemed he’d been holding the last hour as a single skeleton defied all expectations. Pisces lowered his hand, and his sweating brow was mopped by Ksmvr, who had decided offering drinks and handkerchiefs was his role.

Twenty-four times. Pisces hadn’t even known you could remotely repair someone else’s undead—or that link-magic worked between [Necromancers] like that. Twenty-four times he’d mended Scottie’s broken or seared bones and amplified the skeleton’s mana.

Ceria was reading from one of the spellbooks she had, the burned one.

“[Speed]. [Speed]…imagine what we could do if I actually studied enough?”

“He had [Lesser Speed].”

That was the only thing the young woman said. Ama, the [Necromancer], sat in the middle of her coven. Oh, her apprentices tried to pretend they were just ordinary bystanders, but the Horns knew better. So did Colth, but he seemed fine on ignoring them if they helped him find the treasure.

Each one of the junior [Necromancers] had thrown skeletons into the dungeon with about Pisces and Colth’s adeptness at best. But Ama’s skeleton—

Scottie. Ama had a hood on and a mask. She’d moved the mask so she could sip drinks, but not to be outdone, she’d still had a layer of face-paint underneath to make her features as white as chalk. Now—she sat there, very still.

The Horns’ skepticism of her was by now long gone. Even Pisces hadn’t expected the first skeleton to make it that far. Colth’s whoop of joy, though, never quite came.

Ama’s pale makeup ran and dripped from her chin, past her mask. Splatters of paint-tears landed on her robes. Yvlon looked askance. She glanced at Pisces—but he had never wept for his undead.

Ama, though—Yvlon looked at the crying young woman, reached out to pat her shoulder, then coughed and put her hands behind her back. She spoke, straightening her spine, as if she were some [General] delivering bad news to a grieving widow or lover.

“Scottie did a great job. The best of jobs, Ama. I’ve never seen a better skeleton.”

Pisces opened his mouth, and Yvlon, Ceria, and Ksmvr glared at him. He shut it. Yvlon went on.

“He did the impossible and kept going, even through traps and monsters—Facestealer itself gave up on him. Thanks to him, we’ve found the corpse of Stalker. And I—we’ll definitely reward you for your help. I hope Scottie can be remade?”

“Not with the same bones. I helped make him.”

One of the coven’s [Necromancers] muttered. They looked misty-eyed too, and one of them sniffed.

It was a skeleton. But somehow, Pisces watched Ama and realized that her skeletons mattered more than his warbear and even the Frostmarrow Behemoth. Because hers had names.

In fact—her skeleton was like—

Ivery. Ivery and Bearbones. Despite Pisces’ objections at the time to the naming of the Skeleton Lord and his warbear mount, because it made no difference—it clearly did.

The only cost was the emotional damage when you lost one of the skeletons. Again, why Pisces eschewed the practice.

And yet—here sat Ama. Ksmvr went over to Numbtongue to request a dirge, and Yvlon decided to pat her on the shoulder after all. Which the Hobgoblin began to play.

“Thank you for helping us, Ama.”

Ceria offered Ama her good hand—then decided to give her the skeletal hand instead. Ama took it, admiring Ceria’s bones, and looked up. Her watery gaze tried to turn into a haughty mask, but she just sniffed instead.

“Scottie would have wanted to go out that way. He was meant to do great things. I’ll rebuild him better. With…with spells on his bones so he can go invisible.”

“Or jump higher.”

“Or explode.”

Ksmvr added, and Yvlon nudged him, but Ama smiled waterily. There it was.

Somehow, Pisces’ [Necromancer] friend had already won over his team. Pisces hovered there, caught between relief, excitement, and a kind of indignation.

He wondered if Yvlon would have accepted his magic earlier if he’d named his undead. Called his horse…Hoofbone or something.

It occurred to Pisces that he might not be good at naming things. It occurred to him that Ama was practicing a different type of necromancy than he was. She looked up, and Pisces said the first thing that came into his mind.

“Gewilena would be proud.”

Ama looked up—and smiled.

“Yeah. She would be happy. And mad at me for getting Scottie killed. It’s okay. I know he’s a skeleton. He just did such a good job—

Her voice broke on ‘job’. Nothing would do but for everyone to get her a drink—and a piece of pizza. Only then did Colth feel he could interrupt.

“Maybe we can grab his bones. Once we get Stalker. We have a route, people. The way’s treacherous, but we’ve mapped out the location of traps, and whether it’s skeletons or living bodies, we’re getting that hide. Bones and hide, it occurs to me, if that thing has them.”

Pisces, Ama, and the Horns looked up. The other adventurers listening in stirred. Colth the Supporter smiled, and his eyes shone with real excitement for the first time. However, even Yvlon looked askance.

“We’ve found the corpse, Colth, but even getting here—how many skeletons did we lose? A hundred and twenty-five?”

“A hundred and twenty-six—”

Ksmvr had been counting. Yvlon traced the long route through the dungeon.

“Even assuming we found shorter ways than what Scottie took, we have to navigate around traps, watch out for ambushes the entire way. And Facestealer…I estimate a two hour round trek. We can’t run like Scottie, and I don’t fancy losing another limb. Anyone else?”

“We’ve already taken one for the team.”

Ceria and Ksmvr waved their respective arms that had been lost. True, Ksmvr’s had grown back. They gave Pisces a significant look, and he sniffed.

“Pass.”

The Horns of Hammerad’s humor made Colth grin. But the [Supporter] had a plan. He calmly laid it out for the Horns.

“I’m no fool, Yvlon. But knowing where the treasure is and how to get there makes our life easier. It may be time to call in other teams for support—but we can do it. With your [Ice Wall] spells, we can literally block our way out. Facestealer and those monster hordes are the real threat, and transporting Stalker’s corpse. Let’s take them on one at a time…well, for Stalker, the solution is a Chest of Holding. Top-grade. I’ll ask Larra for one, which means we’re carrying it. Or using undead to drag it.”

“Hordes?”

“[Invisibility]. If not, a cloud spell. If both those don’t work, I suggest undead and summoned creatures.”

“The only [Summoner] I know is Revi. Unless you…?”

“Larra can get us in touch with a Drathian supplier who sells single-use summoning stones. I’m willing to pay for two Manticores.”

Ama was calming down from losing Scottie. She listened with one ear to the adventurers talk. Fairly enviously. Pisces was frowning as he debated how useful the Frostmarrow Behemoth would be.

This was…a lot better than sitting in the windmill carving bones, she had to admit. This inn didn’t bat an eye at her skeletons. The food was interesting, and she—

She expected to be forgotten, but Ceria glanced over and gave Ama a friendly smile.

“Don’t forget Ama. If we’re hiring help, Colth, a skeleton escort would be useful.”

Me? I’m not an adventurer. I don’t fight monsters like that.”

“Have you not registered? Are we sequestering civilian help? That comes with a markup if she belongs to a guild. Tsk, tsk.”

Ksmvr propped open the Adventurer’s Guild rulebook and began to scribble an adjustment to their records, but Colth smiled.

“Use every tool is my motto. You don’t have to do anything. If you can send even eight skeletons with us remotely—that would be a nice group to delay a monster ambush. Do you have any more undead tricks to use?”

Yvlon nodded.

“Stuff Pisces doesn’t know?”

“Hey.”

Ama had to think. She scooted over, and her coven looked at her excitedly. From meeting with Pisces as equals to helping a Named-rank adventurer—

Some days just felt this good, huh?

 

——

 

One of the [Necromancers] in Ama’s Coven was named Rodden. He was one of the ones who had first gotten Pisces’ autograph, and until this very moment, he’d been debating begging Pisces to teach him magic—or leaving Ama’s coven.

The ‘Deathlady’ was a lot better than him at necromancy, but she was controlling, snappish, hoarded all the best bones and items they scrounged, and he had expected to gain gold from scaring [Merchants] or finding lost treasure in graves.

She—didn’t do that. She was almost respectable. Just living in the overgrown farmstead, making undead with admittedly superior qualities.

Rodden had met other [Necromancers], and they weren’t like her. Except for Pisces—he would have taken what he could and found someone else.

Now, he felt like he was lucking out. Imagine what he’d get for helping a Named-rank adventurer. Pisces was a [Necromancer] in the open. This was his chance.

Maybe the Horns needed a new teammate?

Rodden was outside the inn now, heading to the chasm from which the skeletons had entered the dungeon. He was there to disassemble the skeletons waiting to go in—and to scrounge up everything he could.

To keep the monsters from coming up the pit, Ceria, Ksmvr, and Colth had fired spells and arrows down, and the skeletons had killed a few monsters down there.

Even the corpse of a lesser Silver-rank monster was worth a lot. Not that he was going down there, oh no. The skeletons were standing there, but Rodden directed them to head down on the ropes. He’d have them carry up whatever they could and then disassemble them.

That was bones for him and whatever he’d get for the bodies. Ama wouldn’t notice, he was sure. Then maybe he’d beg Pisces for a word. After all—Ama might want to reacquaint herself with her old friend, but Pisces didn’t know all of what she’d been doing while he became an adventurer.

Rodden waited as the skeletons slid down the ropes, and something odd happened. They weren’t his undead—Ama had raised the lot and divided control among her coven. But he could feel…their magical spells vanishing one by one. Followed by a sound.

Crack. Crack.

Huh? Five skeletons slid down, and they vanished in five cracks of sharp, brittle bones. Oh no—Rodden groaned.

“Did they slide off the ropes?”

Undead were stupid like that. Tell them to jump off a cliff and they would. He hurried to the edge of the chasm and looked down. He got vertigo, but he fully expected to see a pile of bones at the bottom of the hundred plus foot descent.

Instead—he saw something else. It looked like a brown…rectangle. Oddly geometric, really. It had two long limbs, and its legs dangled as two huge claws dug into the earth.

It was huge. Ten feet tall? Twice, three times, four times as wide as Rodden, and so thick he couldn’t imagine how heavy it was.

How hard was it to climb hundreds of feet with only those arms? How…mad…would you have to be to do that?

Rodden stared down as two grotesque slits in the face of the monster angled up to him. He saw no eyes beyond—just wounds in Facestealer’s front.

“M—m—”

The [Necromancer] froze up. He had seen monsters, but Ama had killed them, and always, he’d been behind a layer of undead. In that moment, he realized he was no natural adventurer.

He wished he’d realized it this morning. For the man fell back on his butt—and even in terror, he longed to get up and run. Run and scream and tell them a monster was coming. Because the Horns were in the inn…but his legs wouldn’t move.

He lay on his back, trying to move, but he was paralyzed. Helpless. The man’s eyes rolled in terror as he heard the sound continuing.

Crack. Crack…the sound of claws digging into stone. Slowly, Facestealer hauled itself up. And the [Necromancer]’s eyes leaked tears as the first bit of Facestealer’s body lifted itself over the chasm.

It turned out—it was this sort of day after all.

 

——

 

In Albez, Ylawes Byres sat with Dawil and Falene, glancing at the entrance to the laboratory of Udatron. He tried not to, tried to talk with his teammates.

“…should head to House Byres first. It’s only a few days before, uh—Ysara might not visit.”

“Not after years in the south? Is she doing well, that sister of yours?”

Dawil murmured, just as distractedly. Falene raised her brows.

“I thought I heard you two arguing.”

“Things are tense. I’m sure she’ll visit. We should head back. Maybe Yvlon would go and—and then we can discuss the south. Things.”

Falene nodded a few times.

“Things. Yes.”

The Silver Swords’ usual flow and diction was being cut off. Falene and Ylawes blinked, looked away from the laboratory, but they couldn’t help it.

The [Rogues] and [Mages] were inside. They were de-trapping the place, and a group of Named-ranks and the Gold-ranks were clustered around the entrance. Waiting.

Deniusth was a mix of patience and impatience. He was telling everyone they would not rush in and lose this haul—while looking like he had the fullest bladder in the world. He paced back and forth, he talked rapidly—and he laughed.

Orchestra, Variable Fortress, and the other northern teams were in the greatest mood imaginable. A giddy excitement that might be higher than the actual dividing of loot.

Look what was inside. Ylawes didn’t know who Udatron was—and by now, everyone was scouring the history books for his name—but it was clear that the [Chronomancer] had owned a private lair not despoiled by any treasure seekers.

Unlike Thresk, this was no private room, but a full workshop. And unlike Thresk—there was no major death-spell that anyone had found.

“Maybe he really didn’t arm his laboratory. If that Thresk set up the elementals—”

Falene looked at Dawil askance.

“Who doesn’t arm a host of traps?”

The Dwarf tugged at his beard.

“…Someone who doesn’t feel like accidentally killing himself? A [Mage] of better times, Falene? Not everyone has to play with daggers like Wistram. I’m just saying. Either there’s one last Tier 7 spell the [Rogues] are missing or there aren’t any.”

They were advancing by inches, casting spells everywhere and trying to make sure they weren’t triggering a network of spells, but it really seemed like the laboratory wasn’t highly warded. Which made sense. Did you put a flame-jet spell where you were working on your magic?

Not just magic, either. The reason everyone was so happy was that it was clear there was both an armory and library. But what got Ylawes thinking was the revelation that Udatron was one of those classic [Mages].

“Alchemy and enchanting gear. Hedault will be doing backflips. That might be worth more than any single artifact. Imagine techniques from that age!”

A few teams were standing around, saying much the same thing as the Silver Swords. One of them—this was another local team that Ylawes didn’t know—was grumbling.

“Yeah, but we’re not going to get even that. Orchestra and all the top northern teams get everything.

Sour grapes for some. Ylawes shifted.

“Did Captain Deniusth ever say how the loot’s going to be shared?”

“He made a few promises that Gold-ranks would get a pick once they sorted everything. But that’s not exactly promising. Might take weeks to argue over, but I bet you Larracel will be where they argue. And the Haven is fair. I think.”

Dawil commented. Falene nodded.

“…We should get a spellbook. If we get a single pick.”

Ylawes and Dawil looked at her. Both [Warriors] opened their mouths instantly. Ylawes coughed into a fist.

“Hold on, Falene.”

“Yeah, pointy. Hold on. I could use a new hammer. I lost my axe at Wistram, remember?”

“You can reforge it. What’s more important, a bevy of new spells or a sword?”

“Ylawes could use a new sword. He’s been dying for upgrades for ages.”

“I could use a new sword, Falene.”

A spellbook is a hundred swords! Hear me out, you two—”

“No, go ask Archmage Eldavin for a bunch of spells. Isn’t he teaching them to all the factions?”

“Only Terras, not Centrists!”

“Well, join them and throw over your lot. Ylawes, my boy, you and I need gear. That Earth Elemental proves it. This is…uh…a necessity for the team.”

Falene was turning red, but Ylawes had to cover a smile.

“I’m with Dawil on this one, Falene. Besides, wouldn’t the spellbooks be grabbed before we got a pick?”

“Not if there’s a library. Dawil, I’ll enchant your hammer.”

“You couldn’t enchant a knife to cut butter. We followed your Wistram hunch, pointy. This time, one of us two gets the artifacts unless there’s nothing—and unfortunately for you, they saw a bunch of swords and weapons inside.”

The Silver Swords bickered as Falene protested. Ylawes knew it might be in bad form—but it was just humor. He did feel for the Silver-rank teams, though. They weren’t even pushing to get a look inside—just sitting together and probably grousing.

“Captain Anith?”

The Jackal Beastkin blinked and jumped as Ylawes waved at him. The [Knight] looked sympathetic as Nailren turned.

“Ylawes. Any word on whether we’re done?”

“No. How are your teams feeling?”

“Ah—well, we’re debating. The treasure, that is. It looks like there’s a lot, but the Silver-rankers aren’t too pleased. Even some local Gold-rank teams.”

The Waterborn Raiders again? However, Anith nodded to a group of lower-ranked and local teams, and Nailren sniffed.

“A divide between north and south. I’ve seen it with adventurers from Walled Cities. It’ll be interesting…well. We’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

Anith and Nailren traded glances. The Jackal glanced at Ylawes and sighed. Nailren scratched at his chin.

“…Nothing much. I’m going for a walk. Anith?”

The Jackal hesitated, then groaned.

“Let me find my team.”

They hurried off, and Ylawes raised his brows.

“What was that about?”

“No clue.”

Nailren’s team and Anith’s Vuliel Drae were drifting towards Ylawes’ team. The Silver Swords didn’t know what was up, but Deniusth’s loud voice made everyone raise their heads.

Almost done? What’s taking you all so long? You’ve been an hour and a half and you can’t tell—fine! We’ll wait!”

They really were just checking to see if there was some final death-trap spell. Ylawes sighed and decided he needed to pee too. He was wondering if they had a latrine or if he’d have to march for a while to get out of range—and smell—of the other teams when he heard a commotion.

Instantly, half the adventurers turned, expecting the trap. This was it. There was always a damn catch—

Deniusth lifted his violin bow with a curse, and Eldertuin put his shield up. But what they heard wasn’t an alarm. Rather—one of the adventurers landed, panting.

Wasn’t that the Gold-rank Owl Beastkin strategist from the Village of the Dead raid? She pointed.

“Captain Deniusth—there’s an army coming our way! All the civilians are running for it.”

“What? What army—the Antinium?”

Deniusth looked blankly at her. But the [Strategist] just shook her head.

“No—they’re flying Remendia’s colors! The entire city’s standing forces are headed our way with Ocre’s colors too!”

“What the—”

Ylawes was already on his feet as Orchestra and all the other teams abandoned the laboratory and rushed to the edge of the pit. The Halfseekers, Griffon Hunt, and other teams arrayed warily at the edge of the ruins.

Sure enough—Ylawes saw thousands of Humans coming their way. Deniusth swore.

That’s the city’s entire army. It looks like the Watch and—”

“What’s the move, Deniusth? Are they trying to steal the treasure?”

Viecel was alarmed. He bared his teeth, and the Captain of Orchestra looked around.

“They had better not try. Hey—Solar Strikes, deploy your team here. Jelaqua, put Moore up on the road. Everyone—fan out and stop them from encircling this place. We’ll go out and meet them, but no one sneaks down to the dig site!”

The other teams he knew nodded and fanned out fast. Ylawes caught Deniusth’s arm.

“Captain Deniusth, this can’t be a fight.”

“It won’t be—but we can’t let a city steal this treasure. Damn vultures.”

The Named-rank had a point, but Ylawes refused to let Named-ranks fight low-level [Soldiers]. He had seen Orchestra’s Combined Skill. It would be a massacre—and a disaster.

However, Eldertuin seemed just as determined to prevent this. He turned to Halrac.

“Got anything white? Raise a flag, Deni. We’re being peaceful.”

“Sure we are—Eld, you come with me. Ivirith, Captain Halrac—Captain Ylawes, you too, even. Might help to have some local teams. We’re being peaceful, and it’d damn well better stay that way.”

In short order, a group of adventurers, including Ylawes, were marching down the slope towards the Remendian army. It was a small army, and Ylawes bet they were under ten thousand strong even with Ocre’s help.

…But they outnumbered the adventurers by far. Deni was looking around.

“Damn. No one brought anything to impress them with? Maybe we should have ridden out. Where’s our horses?”

“Other side.”

“Well—just look impressive. Tell Moore to come with us.”

Ylawes didn’t worry about that. He was just watching the Remendian army slow down. He saw…a lot of nerves.

A very nervous Watch Captain and a local military commander who looked to be in his mid-forties halted, and there was a flurry as low-level [Soldiers], possibly even [Militia], came to a scattered halt.

Not a good sign. For them. Ylawes knew soldiers from House Byres—his family did have a standing force. This was an untrained lot. Still—the [Commander] shouted.

I am Commander Leir of Remendia! Captain Deniusth of the Named-rank team Orchestra! On behalf of Remendia, Ocre, and the town of Eesfalt, we would like to parley in peace! [A Pact of Trust]! Do we have your word?

What is Remendia doing here, Commander?

Deniusth hollered back. The Commander paused.

I would like to discuss your finds at Albez! Cordially, Captain Deniusth! Do I have your word?

“Damn. They know. Who leaked the information? One of the [Diggers]?”

Deniusth cursed, but he called back after a while.

“Yes, of course! Peaceful! We will approach!”

A small group of adventurers walked forwards as the other teams watched. Ylawes looked back for Anith and Nailren, hoping they weren’t doing anything provocative. If the Waterborn Raiders caused trouble…to his relief, he didn’t see anyone taking up archery positions.

That might have been enough for some of the soldiers to run. They knew they might be up against Gold and Named-ranks, and they stared with awe and horror at Deniusth as he stomped across the ground.

The [Commander], Watch Captain, two low-level [Negotiators]—and the head of the local Adventuring Guild—were all mounted. They dismounted, and Ylawes realized Remendia’s ruling Council wasn’t here.

Possibly Deniusth’s scowl had chased them behind the soldiers or this was a matter they thought better represented by combat classes.

“Captain Deniusth, we realize this is an…unfortunate moment. However, we felt we had to insist on this meeting.”

“With an army at your back, Commander? I warn you now—we are adventurers of the Adventurer’s Guilds of Izril. Strong-arming the treasure in Albez will not go well for you here or politically.”

Strong-arming? You—”

The Watch Captain fell silent as one of the [Negotiators] took over.

“Captain Deniusth, we are acting prudently. Legally, we have given you the right to excavate Albez’s treasures. However—we are aware this excavation is being done in part by the [Emperor] of Riverfarm.”

Was that what this was about? Ylawes stirred, and Halrac gritted his teeth. Deniusth’s face, though, was blank.

“And if it is?”

The Remendians shared a quick look. The [Negotiator] hurried on.

“…We are entirely aware of multiple forces in Albez, and it is true no one lays claim to the ruins, but we are still the gatekeepers. If there is a negotiation, we are willing to take it on in good faith. But Captain, we must insist on a share of Albez’s treasures.”

At least they weren’t trying to hide it. Deniusth’s teeth shone pearly-white as he gritted them.

“Ah. And you think this army will force us into giving over…a ‘fair share’? I regret to say, this [Emperor] merely facilitated finding Albez. Whatever shares he is entitled to are proportional. Frankly, I would have said Remendia is owed a similar due in gold—but I will not be forced into giving over a large share of Albez’s treasures, Commander.”

A quick look between the Remendian delegation seemed—confused.

“Just so long as you intend to pay us something, we’re willing to negotiate. We’ll halt here and begin the discussions if you will, Captain Deniusth.”

“At the tip of a sword? I don’t think so. Your army needs to stop now, Commander. I don’t trust them around Albez.”

The Watch Captain was purpling with anger as Deniusth glared. He burst out, despite the others trying to keep him silent.

“Well, we don’t trust you with the treasures unwatched, Captain! Named-rank or not, we won’t let you run off with everything! No matter how many adventurers you have—”

Orchestra’s leader bristled as Eldertuin frowned. The Guildmaster of Remendia’s Adventurer Guild interrupted.

“What Watch Captain Illthe is trying to say is—the Adventurer’s Guild will look coldly upon any hoarding of due shares, Captain Deniusth. I am here to negotiate in fairness between all parties.”

“Fairness? How much did Remendia pay you? When First Landing’s Guild hears of this—

Remendia’s side was getting agitated, and Deniusth was red in the face. Neither one was about to draw a blade, but the Captain of Orchestra looked ready to throw hands. But before he could, Eldertuin touched his shoulder.

“Hold, Deni. I think we’re working at cross angles on the same tree. Commander, can we clarify something?”

Ylawes had picked up on the oddities too. The Commander of Remendia looked relieved as Eldertuin, calmer by far, stepped forwards. Viecel frowned as Eldertuin gestured at the army.

“What, exactly, are you accusing Deni and the adventurers here of doing, Commander? Our assumption is that Remendia is trying to…persuade us to give them a larger share than they’re due.”

“What? No—we’re trying to make sure we get a share at all! Rather than you running off with everything!”

The Watch Captain exploded, and Ylawes felt a prickle on the back of his neck. He swung around, and Eldertuin’s brows rose as Jelaqua made a confused, ‘huh’ sound.

“Wait—Watch Captain, I assure you in the name of House Byres, we are not going to simply disappear with the treasures. Captain Deniusth was prepared to recompense every side for the artifacts recovered in gold—if not loot.”

Ylawes stepped forwards, and he was recognized. Commander Leir actually bowed slightly to him, looking relieved.

“Captain Ylawes of the Silver Swords! I almost didn’t recognize you—that’s a relief to hear you say that. You see, Captain Illthe? If an honorable [Knight] vouches for this—maybe this is all a misunderstanding.”

“I don’t understand. Someone spell it out for me.”

Deni growled. The Remendians looked at each other, and the [Negotiator] spoke up.

“We, ah—we were assured that your teams—not Orchestra specifically—but the adventurers present were intending to loot this new find in Albez and share none of it with Remendia. Or any other groups, including the Adventurer’s Guild.”

“Huh? What? Who said that?”

Jelaqua Ivirith’s eyes widened. But Typhenous was whispering to Halrac, and the Gold-rank [Bowman] was staring back at Albez. Without a word, Halrac whirled.

Deniusth gave the Remendians such a disbelieving look that even Watch Captain Illthe hesitated.

“Me? Defraud a city and the guild of…I was one of the adventurers who conquered Chalence. I paid out my dues then, and I have the coin to recompense everyone personally, even if I took every artifact in this laboratory we found! Who’s saying that? Are the [Diggers] unhappy I paid them standard rates? This is outrageous. This is…”

Ylawes Byres had begun to feel a sinking sensation the moment he saw Typhenous’ look of pure alarm. He looked at Halrac, and the [Bowman] was striding back, calling to Revi and Briganda on the ridge. Deniusth’s mind caught up with his mouth, and his head slowly turned, and Eldertuin groaned.

“No.”

Viecel the Gambler just looked back without a word. A…copper coin seemed to drop in Commander Leir’s mind, and he muttered as Viecel began running without a word. Ylawes saw him turn to the Guildmaster.

“—Who exactly called in that tip to your Guild? Guildmaster Penec?”

The Guildmaster looked at Deniusth’s slowly widening eyes, the teams on the ridge slowly turning—the Gold-rank teams mostly, and northern teams at that. He replied with a sudden wobble in his tone.

“W-we wouldn’t have taken that suggestion so seriously of Captain Deniusth from a civilian. Believe me. I had it from a Gold-rank Team. Three, actually. But the Captain of the Waterborn Raiders himself—”

Ylawes didn’t hear anything else. He was already running back the way he came. All the adventurers were. Deniusth flashed past him, and Ylawes was pounding up the slope as adventurers raised weapons.

Half of them were staring at Remendia’s forces, expecting them to charge, but Dawil roared down.

Hold your fire or I’ll break your toes! Ylawes, what’s going on?

“It’s a trick! Dawil, the lab! The lab—”

The [Knight] shouted, but he didn’t make any sense. Dawil gave him a blank look—and then Typhenous howled.

It’s a double-cross! They’re stealing the treasure!

Every adventurer looked up—then whirled to the dig site. Deniusth screamed.

Orchestra!

They charged up the slope, and now, Remendia’s army was following them. Ylawes wasn’t first by far—Jelaqua was faster with Viecel, rampaging, and Seborn, Deniusth, and the faster adventurers leapt over the slope shielding the ruins and the dig site from view. By the time the [Knight] got up there—

He saw what was going on.

 

——

 

The Laboratory of Udatron. Possibly one of the greatest hauls in Albez’s history, let alone modern times. It had never been pillaged, even when Albez was buried. Guarded only by the late Warmage Thresk, it had lain abandoned.

And it definitely had a trap, right? More than the elementals? There had to be a catch.

What if…the trap wasn’t there, though? What if you just actually, genuinely got lucky? Assuming that was true—there was loot for all. Of course, only the Named-ranks would get it and the top, new teams from the north who got to luck out just by coming this far south.

How many local Silver-rank teams and Gold-ranks might be upset by that? Especially teams who’d gotten a hefty payout—but no relics from the Village of the Dead raid?

Let’s assume you had motive. And enough teams were on board. The next question was—how would you get to that treasure before the Named-ranks? They would never give way to that kind of mass-pressure, and they were dozens of levels above the other teams.

A distraction would have to be on the size of an army. And it wouldn’t last long. But if every team in on it stayed behind, pretended to be digging in while everyone rushed to confront Remendia…that was their opening.

It didn’t take long for Deniusth to meet with Remendia’s leadership, but he had to be wary. The conversation was short, but between the posturing and miscommunications—he gave them about twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes was a short amount of time. Some people couldn’t finish breakfast in twenty minutes.

But time…as Udatron would have told you, was relative. Twenty minutes might be a sliver of time to read a book or write one.

…But to run into a laboratory? Especially one that the [Rogues] had already checked and were just pretending to check now? If you were inside, feigning casting [Detect Magic] on a rack of weapons, how much time did it take to grab one and stuff it in a bag of holding?

How many books or artifacts could you stuff in a bag of holding in five minutes? The next question was—how did you get away in the fifteen you had left?

Again, the trick was—Ylawes saw the last teams scrambling for the horses and wagons. Half were already riding out, and he saw pack animals running as figures cut their reins and made them stampede.

Stop! Stop!”

Deniusth was howling. He raced down the slopes, faster than anyone else. The Named-rank adventurer was sprinting at a group of Silver-ranks.

Vuliel Drae? No, a local team. And one of the Waterborn Raiders was slowed down, lugging what looked like entire urns into a wagon.

He’s coming! Run!

Half the teams were in flight already, but at the sight of the furious Named-ranks, the rest abandoned everything and ran.

Don’t let them escape! Get the horses! Get the—

All the mounts were either taken or gone. Deniusth stormed towards the wagon trying to head off as one of the Raiders tried to make the two mules race, but they reared in alarm, frightened by the noise. The cursing Gold-rank adventurer looked up as Captain Deniusth ran at him.

“I—look, Captain—”

The grinning Gold-rank adventurer looked for his team as they turned, riding horses in the distance. He raised his hands, turning pale as the Violinist leapt at him.

The Waterborn Raider flinched—then blinked. He looked down, and Ylawes Byres halted in horror on the slopes.

The other adventurers looked back as Deniusth shoved the raider back on the wagon. The man stumbled back—then the Violinist drew the violin’s bow he used in place of a rapier.

A string of blood clung to the bow as the Violinist yanked it out of the man’s chest. He turned, and in the deathly silence that followed, drew a dagger. Deniusth lifted it and threw.

Deni—

The dagger flew through the air at another Raider. The adventurer ducked—and the dagger swerved down into her neck. She grabbed at it, screaming—and then one of the Gold-ranks raised a bow.

“[Homing Shot]!”

She aimed a bow at a fleeing Silver-rank team on a cart. The arrow flashed out—and Halrac loosed an arrow. The two arrows collided in midair as he intercepted her.

Hold your fire!

The [Bowman of Loss] howled at her, but the first arrow was followed by a volley of magical arrows from one of Deni’s teammates.

Stop them!

Then the Gold-ranks were attacking other adventurers. Eldertuin yanked one of his teammates’ arms down, but the other teams were charging at the fleeing looters. Ylawes looked around in horror—and the other teams were now running for their lives.

Gores! Stop them!

Deniusth shouted at his teammate, and the other Named-rank halted. He raised his horn, aimed it at the closest groups fleeing, horses and teams, and spoke.

“[Cone of Sound: Brown Note].”

The ripple of sound went through the adventurers, and Ylawes saw the horses wobble in place. He saw adventurers lurch—then clutch at their stomachs and then—

That was horrific, but merciful. Adventurers slowed as web spells caught their mounts or the wheels of their carts. Some leapt off and ran—others just dropped their weapons, seeing the two dead Raiders.

The rest were running. The smartest adventurers had already been ten minutes in flight, and Deniusth was climbing onto a horse.

“I’ll kill them all. Tell Remendia to find them! Every single damn team—I want every Adventurer’s Guild on the continent to get them!

“There are dozens of teams. Dozens and dozens—Deni, stop!

Eldertuin grabbed his arm. The bloody Violinist was frothing with rage, almost literally. Spit flew from his mouth as he shouted at his friend.

I’ll have them, Eldertuin! Let go of me!

He raised his bloody bow, and the other Named-rank let go. Ylawes heard Viecel shouting at a [Mage].

“Tell them to find the other teams! All of them!”

“Who?”

“What do you mean, who—

Then the [Gambler] looked up, and Deniusth began racing his horse after the other adventurers. Ylawes, panting, looked back at the mess of the ruins, the adventurers halting with hands up—and he didn’t recognize a lot of the Silver-rank teams, or even Gold-rank ones.

And he knew this region. How many had come from Remendia? How many had he not even paid attention to?

Now he understood why they’d risked it. Deniusth had no idea who had the loot. Some of the Gold-rank teams—they had to have taken a gamble.

Relics and artifacts versus the wrath of Orchestra and the northern teams. They were headed straight south. To Celum? To Liscor? Or just into hiding? Deniusth spun and shouted one last thing as he rode at the fleeing adventurers.

Call The Wandering Inn! Tell them to catch them! Don’t let any of them through!

Then he was gone. But he had no riding Skills and…Ylawes saw the fleeing adventurers casting spells back the way they’d come at the few pursuers. Remendia’s army was joining the chase belatedly, and Ylawes Byres looked around.

“Lad. You’d better see this.”

Dawil appeared. Ylawes saw his hands were bloody—but it was from the adventurers. The two Waterborn Raiders were dead, and at least a dozen adventurers were down, crying out from their wounds.

This was—one of the bloodiest adventuring encounters ever. In minutes. The last few moments of the Albez windfall were—

Ylawes saw Dawil heading towards the laboratory. Falene was there, peering inside. Ylawes looked and saw—

Empty shelves. Strewn sets of holders for alchemical items, empty cupboards, all the neat, glorious, glowing treasures of Udatron sacked.

“Maybe there’s something in there. The wagons…Deni stopped a few.”

Viecel was standing in the center of the laboratory, looking around, clawing at his face in frustration. Ylawes saw nothing—and Dawil gave Ylawes a somber look.

“There will be blood for this.”

“There already has been.”

The [Knight] was shocked by Deni’s murder of the two other adventurers. He only hoped Eldertuin could stop the Violinist. Then he had a horrible thought.

“Nailren? Anith?”

So that was why they’d been—Ylawes turned and ran out of the laboratory. He looked for where the two Silver-ranked teams had been and saw—

Nailren’s Pride of Kelia and Vuliel Drae were sitting, warily eying the angry Gold-ranks, but sitting—along with several other Silver and Gold-rank teams. Ylawes saw Anith look at him as a furious member of Solar Strikes shouted at them.

“Didn’t warn us—”

One of the Gold-rank teams was snarling back.

“You want to try and shout while you’re outnumbered? We would have been shivved. They were watching us, and I didn’t fancy eating a [Fireball].”

Ylawes halted, panting, and Nailren and Anith turned to him.

“You two…”

Didn’t join in? Anith looked at Nailren, and the Gnoll shrugged.

“My people, contrary to popular Drake opinion, aren’t sneak-thieves. Plus, I don’t cross Named-ranks.”

“And my team’s made one mistake already. We figured it was better to avoid another.”

Anith nodded at Ylawes. The [Knight] sagged in relief—and then turned. The confusion and disastrous looting of the laboratory, the dead adventurers—

Dasha looked around and seemed to sum it up best.

“Well, there’s the catch. I knew it was coming. I just didn’t expect it to be like this, eh?”

She looked around as her team and the other adventurers glared at her. Ylawes Byres just sat down.

“I don’t understand. Anith, Nailren—why would the other teams do this? They’ll never adventure again. Even if some of them aren’t identified, the guilds might just ask you to pass a truth stone test. Maybe you could hide, but Deniusth will follow them to the ends of the earth. Where are they going?”

“Captain Ylawes. Everyone wants their big break. Sometimes—it’s hard to wait. And when you see it—”

Anith shook his head. The [Knight] supposed—he was just no thief. He understood that, at least. But not the rest.

“Where can they be going?”

“That’s easy. There’s only one place to go. It wouldn’t work as well—but it’s Liscor and Celum, and the inn’s close. Besides, where they’re going, even Deniusth won’t be able to track them.”

Nailren murmured. The Silver Swords looked at him, then saw the Gnoll staring south. Somewhere, perhaps, where even their reputations didn’t matter.

The new lands of Izril. It just depended on whether they got there. Or got caught.

 

——

 

The news of the fleeing adventurers from Albez didn’t reach The Wandering Inn for a little while. Even with the power of [Message] spells, the confusion and chase kept Colth and the adventurers there in the dark for a bit.

Of a surety, though, many adventurers were trying to get to the door. And despite his best efforts, Deniusth and the other enraged northern adventurers could only catch up later. Even the Violinist had to halt in the face of so many teams willing to loose arrows and spells at him.

What Erin Solstice did—well, that took place later.

The Horns of Hammerad were making a list of teams that might help them for gold instead of a share of their loot, blissfully unaware of Albez’s situation.

“Maybe we can just pay them since they’ll be flush with new artifacts anyways. I’d take Griffon Hunt, but I’ll take Named-ranks.”

“I can call in a favor. Eld, maybe. Deni’s a good dungeon-crawler, even if he’s tired of it. I’ll negotiate if they return. Otherwise—”

Lehra Ruinstrider was using the outhouse again. Eating so much of the inn’s food did not agree with her digestion system. Her team was idling as Saliss stared at the floor. Ama was listening to the teams talk—

And then they heard a sound. Ceria raised her head.

“Was that a horn?”

They listened. The long note was followed by another—and then another, in quick succession. None of them were local except Ksmvr, yet Pisces recognized that call.

“That’s…Liscor’s monster alarm call. What’s going on—”

Then they heard a crackle and thwoom, and Pisces leapt out of his seat.

“That’s a wall attack spell! What’s going on?”

Half the people ran for the windows. Lyonette whirled.

“Mrsha—Nanette?”

She realized both were with Erin in Invrisil. One of the Thronebearers placed himself next to Lyonette as Ushar reached a window. It was Tessa who sat up, peered out the glass, and spoke.

Monster’s coming. Bad one.

The Horns of Hammerad slowly looked up. Pisces strode to one of the glass windows and saw another bolt of lightning shoot from the walls. He felt the impact. But the horns were still blowing, and the people were fleeing to the gates. And from the showers of arrows from the walls—

Something was out there. Slowly, Pisces walked to the door.

“Pisces—”

Yvlon was drawing her sword slowly. But the [Necromancer] just stepped outside—and then he saw it from the edge of the hill. The chasm where the dungeon’s monsters came out. He didn’t see the skeletons—and he realized they’d vanished. What he did see was…a single figure walking out of a crater in the grass. Ignoring the arrows like rain.

Facestealer turned—and it held Rodden’s head in one claw. It looked around and fixed on the inn. On Pisces, it felt like. The monster began walking towards the inn.

“Oh dead gods. It climbed up?”

Yvlon muttered. Ceria emerged from the inn—and Colth. The [Supporter] took one look down at the monster.

“I didn’t expect that. Do you have a plan, Ceria?”

He looked at her, but the Horns were silent a long moment. Ama emerged warily, looking at Pisces. Then she saw her apprentice. Her face went slack with disbelief.

“Rodden?”

Pisces stared down at Facestealer, and he thought…it was smiling. It had no lips. It had no face—but he felt a malevolence from Facestealer as it walked at them like few things he had ever sensed in this world.

Like Skinner, it came for this inn. And Pisces—he saw the wall spells and arrows stop as the Watch seemed to realize they weren’t doing much good. The horns were still blowing, but the team of adventurers looked down.

“Horns of Hammerad—let’s kill this thing.”

One of them spoke, and the others turned. Colth raised his eyes, but his calm face broke into a smile like a demon’s, and he drew a pair of shortswords. His true colors?

Pisces looked around for who had said it—then he realized it was him. Ceria Springwalker turned to her friend—and Yvlon Byres clenched a fist. Ksmvr drew his blades without a word.

Horns of Hammerad—

 

——

 

“—charge!”

Snatcher was laughing indeed. In its head—the last defender of the Mother of Graves laughed. With wild abandon.

With a fury born of its wounds. A contempt for the city above.

And it had feared this? This? 

The spells barely harmed it. These were not the lashings of a Walled City. This was—

Weakness.

But there were things to be gathered here, it knew. And the same presences that had sent the skeletons into its dungeon—and the purple-flame one that had caused so much trouble—were coming for it.

Beautiful heads. There was a half-Elf. A rare head worth collecting. And that one—had metal arms. Snatcher wanted both head and arms.

There was one of the boring insects it had so many of. It wasn’t blue, but the [Necromancer]…Snatcher saw them coming.

Ice. A chariot. A roaring beast of ice and bone rose. Snatcher felt spikes of ice shattering on its body and a flaming arrow break on its front. It ignored it all.

Were they firing arrows at it? One kept hitting it in its left eye-socket, but they did not know Snatcher. From the building on the hill…from the city…

Nothing could kill it. Snatcher walked forwards as a howling giant of bone and ice ran at it. The monster felt the impact as the earth churned around it.

SOMETHING IS FAMILIAR.

The thought ran through the monster. Snatcher turned its head as it tore pieces out of the behemoth of ice and bone. The roaring monster tried to drive Snatcher into the earth, to shift it with brute force.

Its limbs cracked and broke before Snatcher did. A hill of ivory hit Snatcher—and the hill was the weaker force. Snatcher ripped through one arm and felt it breaking.

A man with brown hair stood on the hill, two swords in his hands. A grin—Snatcher looked up and recognized him.

ADVENTURER.

Words of old. He threw alchemy and magic, trying to bite through Snatcher’s hide. When he saw it didn’t work—he leapt down the hill with the woman with metal arms and the insect with two silver blades.

They danced around it, swinging swords, ducking as it reached for them. The insect began to fall over as Snatcher’s aura paralyzed it. Snatcher reached for the head—and the silver arms yanked it back. The woman staggered—and Snatcher waited for her to freeze—easy prey.

She did, the flesh of her stopped moving—but her metal arms moved. One elongated and grabbed the insect—and the others dragged them both away. She rolled to her feet with the insect and then screamed at it like Skinner.

Like fury. She raised a fist, and a barb of steel struck Snatcher.

It did nothing. More piercing barbs of steel struck it, but it ignored them.

The adventurer had seen—and he leapt forwards and stumbled. Snatcher reached for his head—and the blades whirled.

A crazed smile. He ignored Snatcher’s paralysis. As some did. He ducked one of Snatcher’s hands, and his blades stung Snatcher’s hide—

Barely cut. The smile never wavered as the half-Elf tried to freeze Snatcher solid.

She could not.

The [Necromancer] lifted a burning rapier and hurled it at Snatcher. He fired a [Deathbolt] at Snatcher as if to take its life.

He could not harm Snatcher.

Fifteen arrows had hit Snatcher in one socket, and it dug out the broken bits of metal and wood with a claw. The insect held back, but the woman with metal arms charged.

FURY.

She, like Skinner, ignored the paralysis. She punched and tried to tear—it held still. Her blows tore up the earth, and her arms made the air shake.

She could not harm it.

A sting. The adventurer drove a blade into Snatcher, and it turned. It grabbed—and the adventurer rolled. So Snatcher used a trick. It dug a claw into the soft earth, deep, a foot, two feet, six, digging down into the earth and stone—then pulled up.

The ground moved and hit the woman with metal arms and knocked her down the hill. The [Necromancer] dodged, and so did the adventurer—but Snatcher bent down to take his head.

“[Evasive Flip]!”

…Snatcher missed his leg. It turned, slowly, as ice formed around it. Walls of beautiful ice such as it had never seen in an age. Snatcher admired it as the ice coated it deep. Then Snatcher moved its legs, and the ice shattered.

The adventurer was laughing. As his kind did. Fearlessly, he stung Snatcher’s body with his blades. They were the only things that cut Snatcher’s hide. Snatcher reached for him once more—

Then the world exploded.

Snatcher—stumbled—and lost track of everything. It turned—and saw the building on the hill.

FAMILIAR.

What was it? Snatcher stared at the inn, and another force rocked it. Snatcher almost moved—and saw it.

A Drake upon the hill. He had no clothes. But he was throwing alchemy down. And the alchemy…hurt. A second one stood there with blades and shadows surrounding it.

ADVENTURERS.

Snatcher feared none of them. But it did—raise one hand to shield itself as the alchemy rained down. They could not hurt it badly enough.

“—just standing there—”

Ksmvr, don’t get close!

I cannot attack—

Voices. Snatcher barely paid attention to them. It was staring past the two Drakes. Up. Up. At that inn.

It had never seen it before. The inn was completely, utterly foreign, as was this little city. Even the land changed. All was different. Yet.

FAMILIAR.

Snatcher stared up at it, and a word rose in its memory, of long ages ago when its home had not been buried. When Mother was young. When Skinner and Stalker lived and there were more. From those days, the thought arose. Something it had seen once.

SANCTUARY.

Ah. Then Snatcher began to walk. Towards the Drakes. Towards the building. Yes. That…that was something it wanted too.

It rocked slightly. The alchemy hurt. It wasn’t enough—but its hide began to burn. And the adventurer with the blades was digging them into its back.

Them first. Snatcher feared them not. And now—more were striking at it.

Stay back! Stay back—only adventurers—

A man of cloth with a staff battered Snatcher’s arm. Snatcher caught the staff—and broke it. A thing of eyes, a Gazer, tried to hurt it. A Dwarf—Snatcher reached for her as the others dragged her back.

So many heads. But they were fast and nimble, and this was no dungeon. It should have snuck up on them one-by-one. The adventurers were always too quick.

These were not the ones who had come after Mother. These were not the armies to fear. Snatcher, even above, just had to wait for them to tire.

They could hurt it not. Yet—Snatcher needed more tricks.

Where had the woman of string gone? The beautiful head that scared even Snatcher? Her tricks were very good. Another trick?

Snatcher saw the half-Elf with her ice, and a lance of it struck Snatcher in the chest. It broke, of course—but Snatcher picked up the pieces and hurled them back.

Ceria!

…Not in pieces. Just thrown. A barrier breaking. Alive. Snatcher picked up a stone and looked around. Then it heard a voice.

“[Bane Blades].”

Aaaah. A blade pierced into its back, into Snatcher’s bone. The adventurer turned, and Snatcher threw the stone. It missed—and the stone hit the walls of the city and cracked there.

Faster, then. Faster—Snatcher began to grab and tear the air faster and faster. So fast the smiling man was nearly caught—but that smile never wavered.

A hatred upon his eyes.

“[Death Gamble].”

“[Disable Friendly Fire].”

Yes, those were the words. Pain upon his back. Acid? Snatcher—laughed.

The third adventurer was waiting, guarding the hill. Snatcher faced the woman of metal arms, the grinning adventurer, and the naked Drake now. It feared them not.

And now they were so close, kissing it with steel, and they knew it not. So Snatcher focused on the words, for it knew them too.

[Aura of Paralysis]. [Reconfigure Aura]—

Snatcher waited for their faces. For their faces to change to the ones it wanted. Then it would take their heads. The grinning man first.

They were changing beautifully, like all of the others, when Snatcher heard a shout. It looked at the building and saw a familiar Goblin with a crystal blade.

You, too. 

Snatcher remembered being trapped and felt the fury. It raised one claw and then—someone kicked open a door made of wood. A little closet next to the big building.

Snatcher saw a Gnoll. Brown fur kicking off paper. An expression of wariness and fear. It feared her not. She raised something on one arm—and Snatcher heard her cry.

—the City of Stars!

Then Snatcher froze. Then heard it, ringing through its being. A ghost’s howl—and it saw the light.

THE CITY OF STARS?

Snatcher threw up its claws. It saw the Gnoll change—and the light—the light!

A Gnoll in armor charged at it, and Snatcher screamed within its mind. It backed away as the blade kissed its hide. It did not harm Snatcher, but it began to back away. For it feared what came next. It sheltered its head from the sky, not the blade.

THE CITY OF STARS! MERSHI’S WRATH UPON US. THE SKY FALLING!

Suddenly, Snatcher was no longer unafraid. It turned—and began fleeing back home.

“—it’s running—don’t let it—”

Lehra, watch out—

The warrior of stars pursued it, howling, and Snatcher ran. It ran, sobbing, for it thought they were gone. Gone and dead.

Only when it was close to the chasm did it pause. The blade of Mershi tore its hide and tried to scratch its bone, but it was less painful than Snatcher remembered.

It hurt Snatcher less. The panting Gnoll stared at it and it stared back.

…Is that all? Is the blade no longer sharp? Where is the skyfall? Where is the army of stars? 

You…

YOU COULD NOT STOP ME WITH THAT. 

Not all the little heads it had gathered. A mountain of them, until the wrath fell upon it and mother and its city. If this was all—they would have laughed. Laughed and laughed in their warm graves.

Snatcher hesitated upon the edge of its home. It backed away from the blade of Mershi—and then it felt another lance of pain.

Colth!

Two blades dug into bone. Too many. Snatcher backed up again, and the man who smiled produced something it recognized. A burning brand, which pressed upon its hide and made the [Necromancer] howl in pain.

Then came the naked Drake, and he wore alchemy’s guise. A champion of Pallass? Too many—too many.

Snatcher backed away. It stepped back from Mershi and Pallass’ wrath, from the adventurer’s brand.

And fell back into its home. Snatcher fell and fell and struck the ground, and it hurt it not. Then it slunk away, back into the caverns. Too dangerous—and it felt the brand burning for it was marked.

It knew that name too, if only from afar. A name almost forgotten. It thought it was…

ROSHAL.

 

——

 

Facestealer fell back into the dungeon, and only then did Ceria’s ears stop ringing. Her [Dangersense] stopped making her want to puke.

The walls of Liscor were still sounding with alarms. The Antinium, the Watch—Ceria looked back at the battleground of the last…eleven minutes?

Eleven minutes of eternity. Of watching the monster take Tier 4 spells and ignore them. Stand there, as if mocking Yvlon, with Ksmvr and the warriors barely able to approach.

Her circlet hadn’t done enough. It had destroyed the Frostmarrow Behemoth! She didn’t think Facestealer had moved when the undead charged it.

What—

That was in the dungeon, and we were just partying above? Ceria’s blood ran cold, and she wondered who was more dangerous. It or Tolveilouka?

Probably Tolveilouka, because Facestealer hadn’t tagged Colth. It had gotten Ceria—her robes and barriers had saved her from it caving in her ribs. Colth—Colth had cuts and bruises from where it had hammered the ground and hit him with flying dirt and debris.

But he still grinned like a madman. Grinned—until Pisces seized him.

What was that? What was—

“Pisces? Peace! It’s gone—Lehra, come back!”

The Stargnoll was trembling despite the cheers rising from the inn. She alone had scared Facestealer, scared it back to the hole. But it was hard to say who was more terrified, her or Facestealer.

Saliss was morphing back into a Drake. The Named-rank [Alchemist] spat into the hole and turned.

“That confirms it. Watch Captain! Get the old man and post a guard on this hole and the dungeon’s entrance. You can’t stop it—but you can stop it coming up. I’m going back to my laboratory. Where’s Octavia?”

He stomped off, and Ceria thought he had seldom looked that disturbed. Yet her attention was on her screaming, cracked ribs—and Pisces.

“Pisces, what’s wrong—I’ve marked it. I need to talk to Larra, Viecel—everyone—”

It was something Colth had done. He had been a flurry of blades, but what—

What was that?

Pisces was staring at something in the adventurer’s off-hand. Colth had stowed one of the curved shortswords, and he’d used something against Facestealer. A glowing…

It took Ceria a second to figure out what it was. She’d seen the like in stables, but half-Elves didn’t bother with them. But it was, unmistakably, a glowing brand.

An odd one. A long strip of metal shaped into the brand at the end, glowing red-hot though Colth had not put it in a fire. It must have been enchanted—what Ceria noticed were two things.

One—the logo looked familiar, and her stomach twisted when she realized why she recognized it. Roshal. But the second—Pisces was white and shaking.

“You—why do you have that?

Colth’s eyes were calm, but he had Pisces’ own arm in a grip so strong he forced the [Necromancer] to let go. Yvlon, her arms cut and her skin gashed from her wild attacks, looked at Colth as Ksmvr’s blades, unused this battle, slowly came out of their sheaths again. Yet Colth just looked Pisces in the eye, and Ceria saw the brand…

Or a third of a brand. Because any branding iron was long—like a poker, to be inserted into a fire before the target. This one—was snapped off, so Colth held it like a dagger. He held it as Pisces’ arm trembled and spoke very quietly to the [Necromancer].

“Pisces, calm down. Pisces—it’s just a tool. We use every tool we have.”

That item is from—why do you have it?

Colth smiled, but not like he had smiled before, like someone courting death or the friendly, bland smile of the Named-rank. His third and last smile was perhaps the most genuine and secretive, and he spoke only for Pisces to hear.

“It does not define us. Any more than chains or scars.”

His hand tightened on Pisces’ arm—then he pushed the [Necromancer] back. Pisces, white-faced, hesitated, rapier in hand, and Colth’s lips moved.

The Horns never heard what he said—because he didn’t say anything, but Ceria saw Pisces stop—and then lower his rapier. Then they were lost in Zevara demanding to know what they thought, and Colth speaking. For Colth said two things that made Ceria think long and hard. The first was this:

“I am going to kill Facestealer. I’ve marked it—we can track it down. We’re going to kill it. On Larra’s Haven, I promise you. Once Deni and Eld get here, we’re going to take it down.”

Roshal’s brands never faded, and they tracked their quarry to the ends of the earth. That was one thing. The other? The other took Ceria a long time to figure out.

Mostly because unlike Pisces, she read no lips. But the circlet gave her the ability to replay what she’d seen Colth saying again and again, and she phonetically copied out what she thought he’d said. It was still tough because the first part of his short communication made no sense—proper nouns were like that.

But she thought he’d said:

Azam’du says hello.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: One 10k chunk, one edited chapter. One 1k chunk, one edited chapter. Day three? Write ten thousand more words.

Sigh. At least I am editing two chapters this week, but I’m tired. One more chapter until my break!

Listen, I am improving as a writer at least editing-wise. I think. It’s mental as much as technical—you know the feeling of trying to do something you’re unfamiliar with and getting exhausted? That was editing to me, and now it takes a lot less mental effort.

I’d say instead of five times as hard as writing, more like three? Editing still requires mental energy, but that’s a huge improvement. And I also know how to edit, so this is good.

Also, chapter. I am not sure I’ll resolve the arc in three parts, but I’ll try. And as always, I hope you enjoy. Enjoy…all the dramas of adventuring? Well, let me know what you think and talk to you later. Would you be the thieves or the non-thieves?

 

A Goblin by tobinkusuma! (Numbtongue?)

 

Mrsha by tatolord!

 

The Brown Tide by Brack, commissioned by Dado!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 


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Interlude – Adventurers (Pt. 3)

[Join a free gift raffle for Blood of Liscor, the next book on Audible! Open until the 22nd of November for USA residents only.]

 

(The author is on break until November 26th! I’ll be going to things. Like a wedding. Wish me luck and rest!)

 

Monsters.

They never left. They were never gone, even in bright days, even in happy moments—they were out there, preying on people in shadows. The only difference in this world was that monsters sometimes looked like what they were supposed to.

That felt like an appropriately Nerrhavia-like thought. She had told Erin, in private, that deep down under flesh and cloth, people were not so removed from animals. So—why quibble at being a ruler who employed horrors like you did [Soldiers]?

That was her logic. If someone committed dark deeds, the question was not whether they should be punished, but what use they had. The kingdom’s needs superseded the peasant’s. Not to say that the guilty would not pay, in the end, after she had used them up.

Everyone paid, in the end.

The cold logic of the Immortal Tyrant came back to Erin Solstice as she walked through the streets of Invrisil. With an armful of books. Mrsha was balancing one on her head that read, ‘The Lightning Thief and the Eyes of Baleros, Book 11’.

One of Garia’s favorites, apparently. It was one of those adventure tales and one of the few popular books in print across the world. Nanette had Book 15 in the series.

“I didn’t know they were still coming out with books.”

“The Lightning Thief is an enduring classic. Most likely because his adventures touched every continent in the world, giving him universal celebrity. I also note that his ‘sidekicks’ and his crew of affably-written rogues and associates are also diverse. Unlike other tales, which often tokenize the other species. Krsysl Wordsmith, for instance, has an objectionable habit of making non-Drakes a supporting role at best.”

Grimalkin of Pallass carried the most books, and he was reading as he walked. Why they were carrying books instead of stuffing them in bags of holding, Erin didn’t know. Perhaps because you should carry books. It felt like you were smarter.

“Well, I dunno about all that, but any reading’s good. I just hope Lyonette lets Mrsha claim this as reading practice.”

Erin herself had a book on Fraerlings. She’d asked, and the owner of the bookstore—a rare occupation given how expensive they were—had sourced two books.

The Hidden Folk of Baleros, by Eineith Stoneshield

Or—

The Titan’s Folk, by Niers Astoragon.

She’d picked only the first one at first. Not that she didn’t trust Niers, but Erin figured she’d ask him herself. Plus, it felt weird. But in the end, Erin had bought two. Because she had enough money, and because she sorta wanted to know how the Titan talked publicly about his people.

At any rate, she had no idea the Titan had so many written texts attributed to his name. Grimalkin was more impressed by Erin’s own attitude towards reading.

“You know, with exceptions, a lot of citizens read less than a book per year. Some, despite the common literacy of Izril, are not fluent enough to read novels. I assume it’s different…where you come from?”

Erin nodded.

“Y’know, Grimalkin. It amazes me the printing press hasn’t been invented here. I know you can magically copy books, but it’s less fast. I think.”

But then—it made sense why a magical quill that slowly, slowly could copy a book halted the printing press invention. People focused on making a hundred such quills or a Golem or…they managed to create entire libraries when there were magical kingdoms, but that vanished when someone turned off the magic.

Grimalkin’s scowl grew huger.

“A device to copy words? And Troydel has been—excuse me.”

He scribbled a quick note and then looked abashed. Erin smiled, noticing.

“Hey, the printing press is one of those things even R—well, even I think is great for everyone. But good luck figuring that out. What, do you print words on a piece of paper? Well…yeah, but good luck on typewriters. What, do you have a word, connected to a button and…I’m sure it’s hard.”

Nanette was happily peeking at the book as she walked.

“Thank you for helping me find the bookstore, Miss Solstice. Magus Grimalkin.”

“You’re welcome.”

He nodded, and Erin sighed.

“Yeah! It was fun, Nanette. I think I’ll go back and buy more books once Lyonette decides on our inn-budget for the month. Besides, I was getting tired of walking in circles.”

Or to be more accurate—not finding whatever prank Nerrhavia was pulling on Erin. They had spent most of the day, and Erin’s little bird had gone silent.

“It felt like we were right on top of it. Then…it vanished.”

“Some kind of moving individual? Mrsha smelled nothing.”

Grimalkin had tried to help find whatever they were searching for until the trail vanished, but he had admitted his magical means hadn’t located it. Erin frowned.

“Maybe. Maybe we could try later. Darn.”

Despite that, it had been a fruitful outing, and Erin got to relax and talk with Grimalkin about things other than serious matters. In fact, Invrisil, the City of Adventurers, was fun to visit on its own. Much like Pallass. How about that?

One of the things Erin did notice, though, was an increased population of Drowned Folk. Not a huge increase, but from one in ten thousand, they were now one in a thousand or more. They were just…there.

“Drowned Folk. I thought they were only really common on the coasts.”

“Thanks to your door…no, Invrisil is a hub. Yet it is true, they have appeared in Zeres and the other continents, but Izril especially. They are leaving the deeps. Nombernaught has surfaced on Izril. We may see them now as trade-partners, although the Walled Cities are wary of them.”

Grimalkin always had to take it political. Erin frowned, but she admired a shrimp Drowned Woman’s antennae. Although—said Drowned Woman was looking askance at a seafood display with smaller versions of her fish-half on display.

The [Grocer] was avoiding her eyes. Mrsha was trying not to laugh. And so was the Drowned Woman, Erin suspected. She looked mortified, but Erin detected more than a whiff of humor from her, and she wondered if this was a fun prank Drowned People liked to play. Her small group were entirely straight-faced.

Then again, so was Seborn. Erin wanted to talk to them—and she had plenty of time, so why not? Still, how did you go up to strangers?

“Hey, can I get fifteen shrimp—wait, how dare you?

Erin banged a fist on the counter and gave the Drowned Woman a look of horror. The [Grocer]’s face turned pale, and the Drowned Folk began laughing.

“Now there’s someone with proper sea humor.”

One of them commented. Erin stuck out her hand, and the Drowned Folk walked over as the [Grocer] looked down and Mrsha importantly pointed to a mackerel.

“I’ll take a bunch of shrimp, [Grocer].”

The Shrimp-Woman looked completely unabashed to be eating the smaller crustaceans, and Erin shook her Human hand. There was even a half-Dullahan Drowned Man, half shark, half armored figure crusted with barnacles. Another was half-half-Elf…

Another was a half-Elf. They greeted her and Mrsha and stared at Grimalkin.

“Seas take you deep.”

Nanette got an approving look, but the Drowned Woman exclaimed.

“Is that the little white Gnoll child in the scrying orb? It can’t be. And you…you look familiar.”

Erin was still not used to being recognized randomly. She turned beet red as the half-Dullahan man’s eyes lit up.

“I’d ask to play you in chess, Innkeeper Solstice! But not if you turn into a giant with wings. So here’s two little land-legends! Can we get one of those—autographs?”

Erin was so flustered she actually gave him a scrawled signature—Mrsha, a very fine one. The Drowned Folk answered her questions with great amusement.

“Why are we here? We’re just seeing which cities are best to travel to. With Nombernaught docked, Izril is not too far to sail about. The sooner we find which cities are friendly to our kind, the better.”

“Oh! Well, Liscor’s pretty far, but it has access to Invrisil and Pallass!”

The Drowned Folk traded glances.

“So we know. If it’s friendly to our folk, it’d be a wise place to mark. Is it?”

Erin hesitated.

“We only have one Drowned Person in, like, the entire city. Seborn. You don’t kn—Mrsha, don’t kick me. Anyways. Liscor doesn’t know Drowned Folk, but it’s pretty good, and my inn’s always open.”

The half-Shark man smiled.

“Those are good words to hear spoken, Miss Solstice. Better than most.”

That was better than most? Erin blinked, but the Drowned Folk nodded at each other. The Shrimp Woman popped a smaller shrimp into her mouth and ate it, shell and all, raw.

“Perhaps we’ll visit. Though I’d watch yourself. If it’s Seborn Sailwinds, he sails on the side of the Undersea Crews. And they’re unto [Pirates], not Storm Sailors. Then again, most look at us and see [Pirates] nonetheless.”

“See, I told you people know Seborn.”

Only because he’s a Gold-rank. Stop being weird.

Mrsha held up a notecard with a huge scowl. Erin floundered until Grimalkin raised his brows.

“You know Seborn Sailwinds despite him being a land adventurer? That was my understanding of how he became famous.”

“Not for his team. Sailwinds is a famous name. Therrium Sailwinds is one of the greatest [Captains] under the sea, for all he’s a raider. He and his sons—well. Watch out for him if you ever encounter his fleets at sea, Miss Solstice.”

The Drowned Folk nodded at each other, and Erin nodded slowly in return. It looked like Seborn had a past deeper than she thought.

 

——

 

At any rate, the Drowned Folk and books made for a fine day. Such a fine day that Erin enjoyed walking with Grimalkin and Nanette and Mrsha—and Ser Dalimont—despite not finding what she was looking for.

“What if we tried it tomorrow? I think we could.”

“I’m happy to do that, Miss Solstice. Mother never took me to Invrisil much—a [Witch] is less needed here.”

And Mrsha didn’t want to take boring lessons from Lyonette! She nodded too. But to Erin’s gratification, Grimalkin hmmed, then nodded.

“That’s acceptable. I’ll meet you in the morning.”

“Grimalkin, you have time? Thanks!”

“I can make time. It’s not as if I’m constantly in demand, even with my apprentices. Besides, I understand Lady Pryde arrived with the Haven. It’s been my intention to thank her for her support of my weights projects.”

“Oh. Oh? Pryde?”

Erin bristled at the name, but Grimalkin shrugged.

“She’s been the most studious adopter of my ideas. I owe her quite a bit.”

“She’s weird. And rude. And arrogant.”

“…I believe I can accept those qualities. It would not be the first time I’ve met eclectic characters. Like Saliss.”

Grimalkin looked everywhere but Erin as he said this, and the [Innkeeper] colored. Mrsha nearly fell over laughing, and Nanette pretended not to notice—or smile—and Erin fell silent for a bit.

That was the moment, and it was a fine, good one. Erin felt like it was a nice and peaceful day as they headed back to the street where a small queue was waiting for the door. Half the people wanted Erin’s or Mrsha’s autograph, but they hurried past the two [Guards], and the door opened instantly for them, as if Liska knew they were waiting.

A fine day—right until Erin got back to her inn and saw the churned terrain from the battle with Facestealer. And heard that Albez’s dungeon had led to six fatalities and half the adventurers were on the run and headed to her door at Wailant’s farm.

Then—well. Then Erin felt Nerrhavia’s hand on her shoulder. Or the Tyrant’s tongue licking—she twitched her fingers and grimaced.

Monsters.

 

——

 

The Albez thefts.

Facestealer.

Both events were massive, but the Facestealer attack was far, far more concerning to Watch Captain Zevara and most Liscorians. The first was just an adventurer problem.

“If it can climb once, it can climb twice. And it just ate all the Watch’s attacks. I am going to tell the Council we cannot stop it and Liscor is in danger of massive casualties. The Antinium have told me they’ve fought off Facestealer before, many times—and paid for it in the hundreds or thousands of deaths. While it was in the dungeon, I was—if not content—I assumed it was just another threat. Now that we know it can climb, I need action.”

“Yes, Watch Captain. I will kill it.”

Erin returned to see Colth the Supporter standing with Watch Captain Zevara and a number of people, including Guildmistress Tekshia herself. The old Drake was eating cookies as she listened.

Zevara was the incredulous one.

“You didn’t do more than cut past its hide, Adventurer Colth. And it’s retreated into the dungeon.”

“It’s been marked, and more Named-ranks will be returning to the Haven or The Wandering Inn shortly. I intend to kill it, Watch Captain. If we fail, then it will be a threat beyond Named-rank adventurers. But there are more ways to kill something than with blades alone.”

Colth smiled tightly, but he held his ground in the face of the Watch Captain. It was Tekshia who muttered.

“Bold words. And how far will Colth the Supporter go?”

She met his eyes, and the old [Spearmaster] gazed at Colth—a gaze he returned blandly. Blandly, but for the sharp emotion Erin felt under that smile.

“Right to the next level or the end, Guildmistress. I am a Named-rank adventurer. I don’t let that kind of threat live.”

She held his gaze, and Tekshia turned towards Zevara abruptly.

“Let them try, Watch Captain.”

Zevara nodded slowly.

“I’m pulling Relc and Klbkch into reserve. Beyond that—the Watch will take precautions, but we really are…I’ll ask Commander Olesm for reinforcements. Yes. Of course.”

She seemed relieved at the thought. As if she had forgotten she now had an army to draw upon.

“Hey, guys. Is everyone alright?”

Erin looked anxiously at the Horns and the people standing around as she put her books down on a table. Everyone turned, and Zevara gave Erin an incredulous look.

“You had nothing to do with this, Miss Solstice? You weren’t even here?”

“Not everything’s my fault, Zevara. Did Facestealer really attack?”

“You missed the fight of a month, Erin. That thing—I might have nightmares.”

Ceria Springwalker grinned from a table. Erin turned red as she realized Ceria was disrobed! She had put on pants, but her top was being covered—by bandages.

Ksmvr was holding up a modesty-towel as Yvlon secured Ceria’s ribs with some bandages. The half-Elf winced.

“I cracked some ribs. Don’t worry, it’s mostly healing. Turns out Facestealer can throw dirt.”

Dirt did that to you?”

“About a few hundred pounds, yeah. Broke my barriers.”

“That kind of strength—can I hear what happened, Captain Ceria? Is there a recording?”

Grimalkin was all alert as he listened to the Horns’ recounting of the event. Erin’s blood chilled to hear how even Saliss and Colth had barely damaged it.

“Tough—but not exactly the fastest foe about. It relied on its aura, but we never got hit.”

“One hit would have been your last. Yvlon nearly got killed, and it was missing her.”

Yvlon’s arm had a chunk torn out of it. The [Armsmistress] was gulping down food, and she shook her head.

“I’ve never seen anything so tough. Even the Adult Creler was weaker. It killed the Frostmarrow Behemoth—”

“Always nice to know there’s something worse out there, eh, Pisces? No wonder we’re not ready for a <Mythical Quest>.”

Ceria grinned sardonically as she put on a shirt and looked over, but Pisces was bending over a shaken young woman sitting with streaked white face paint. Erin blinked—who was this?

“Is that a [Necromancer]?”

She blurted it out, and Grimalkin looked at her sharply—as did Zevara and Tekshia. But Pisces was comforting Ama, who had lost Rodden. He turned as Erin approached.

“Erin, this is Ama. She’s a—friend of mine from the past. I hope she’s welcome here?”

“Hello.”

Ama looked up warily, but Erin bent down kindly and offered her a hand. Ama took it and realized she was a mess of snot and tears and face paint. She searched for her mask, but Erin just took her hand and squeezed.

“Of course she is. Any friend of Pisces—well, friends—are welcome here. Ama, right? You’ve been through a lot. I’m…sorry. Just sit there, and anything you need, we’ll get, okay?”

“Thank you.”

She seemed gratified by the welcome. Erin just looked bleakly at Pisces. Someone had died, and she wasn’t here.

Really, in this moment, Erin wasn’t the principal actor of the moment. Colth, the adventurers—even Lyonette was as the [Princess] helped serve tables and restore order. Erin nodded to Rags, who was watching, and then looked around.

“Did anyone else get hurt? I thought I heard Saliss and Tessa fought?”

“I didn’t. It never got to the inn. Saliss lived.”

Tessa appeared, and Erin saw the Drake pointing. She looked over, and the [Innkeeper] sighed.

“Well, at least he’s alive. Saliss, you good?”

The Drake was lying face-first on the floorboards, much where she’d last seen him. He raised a thumb-claw, and Erin turned.

“Well. Now, will someone explain Albez to me?”

She felt like she was playing catch-up. And that was before the Titan’s students hurried in.

 

——

 

Saliss of Lights was getting tired of having to remember so many people. First the Titan’s students, now all the adventurers—at least they weren’t staying.

“We could stay and help deal with Facestealer—I mean, we will. But the Titan’s called us back to the academy.”

“You’re going back to class? What about Calruz?”

“I’m rendering my judgment—but frankly, I’m inclined to let Liscor adjudicate the matter. His behavior in the dungeon and out of it and his class are all at odds with Captain Ceria’s testimony. It is not the answer he wants, but I am not prepared to execute him.”

Venaz was speaking to her as he put a hand on his diamond greatsword. Now there was a fine weapon.

Saliss wondered if it would have harmed Facestealer. Then again—the Blade of Mershi hadn’t. He lay on the floor and appeared dead.

It was a sign the inn was getting to know him that no one paid much attention to Saliss. Ishkr put down a drink on the floor, and the Drake grunted thanks.

Amateurs.

Ishkr paused, and Saliss’ head rose.

“Not you. Them. Bunch of sprouts not ready to be corn or some farming analogy. You get it.”

Ishkr hesitated—then nodded. He walked off, and Saliss put his head down after taking a nice long sip of the blue juice. Nothing like possible poison to make a drink taste sweet.

That went for the Goblin Chieftain who kept eying him. She was intelligent—but she fit right into the mold with the Titan’s students. Saliss hoped they left rather than join whatever Colth had planned.

Colth was corn. Baby corn, but pretty tough corn. So were Viecel, Eldertuin, and Deniusth’s team, for all they had…ticks. Did corn have ticks?

The point was made in Saliss’ mind, but someone always needed clarification. In this case, it was the timid [Alchemist] who came over and poked him a few times.

“Master Saliss, Master Saliss, I’m halfway done with your latest batch. But I need you to, um, check my work? Please?”

“Drag me.”

He lifted a claw, and Octavia hesitated—until Numbtongue grunted, got up, and dragged Saliss into her workshop.

 

——

 

Octavia Cotton had been apprenticing under Saliss of Lights for a while now, albeit with a long hiatus for Erin’s death and her adventure.

She still hadn’t gotten used to the honor. Or Saliss’ ways. He lay on the floor, making her place bottles and items down and raising his head to grunt at them.

“Good. Good. That looks iffy…it’s nice having an apprentice do boring work. You ready to kill me yet?”

He meant because Octavia had been pulling up to seventeen-hour shifts to get through his massive backlog of alchemical items. The younger [Alchemist] tried to smile.

“It’s—intensive, Master Saliss. But I am learning and levelling!”

“Good. I don’t have time for this. I’m very busy, as you can see.”

Saliss put his head down, and Numbtongue stared at him. The Hob wanted to listen to the preparations for Facestealer, so he motioned to Octavia and mouthed, ‘you okay’?

She nodded, and he retreated with a look at Saliss. Even the [Bard] was fooled, but Octavia was not.

Saliss did joke and pull pranks, but never when working. He was very careful about teaching her personally how not to injure herself, and if she was working on something dangerous, he’d make her use his personal lab, which she had access to.

Frankly, she felt like between him and Xif, she had actually lucked out. She knew Saliss was very thoughtful—so Octavia squatted next to the Drake, who was just lying flat on the floor.

“Master Saliss, may I ask a question?”

“That’s one. You get two more. Call me a Djinni. Don’t forget the collar.”

That was probably a joke. Even so, Octavia chose her words carefully.

“Master Saliss…why are you lying on the floor if you’re so busy?”

“I’m thinking.”

Alright, Octavia supposed she deserved that.

“…What are you thinking about, Master Saliss?”

Then he didn’t answer, and Octavia feared he’d not respond—but Saliss’ head rose, and his eyes were sharp as he gave Octavia a look.

“[Battle Simulations].”

The Stitch-Girl blinked at him, and Saliss put his head down.

“Remember how I told you I used to be Chaldion’s student? You can get rid of anything you want—but some of what I got was useful. It’s nothing strong like…this annoying metal kid I once met. But it works.”

“What are you simulating, Master Saliss?”

The Drake grunted.

“After today? Facestealer. But I’ve been figuring something out. First that [Witch]. Xrn. No, damn it. Seamwalkers and that war—Sserys is a great benchmark. The Shark Captain’s still a rookie. More like almost-corn. Lots of almost-corn. Even you.”

“Me, Master Saliss? What’s the corn about?”

Saliss was making no sense, but Octavia tried to follow his analogy as the Drake spoke.

“Eldertuin has a [Farmer] friend. Never met him. He probably knows more about it, but I’m just looking around. Corn and not corn. I’m corn. I’m weird corn, but I’m definitely corn by now. Grimalkin’s corn, if weak corn. Erin wasn’t corn—now she is. Not battle corn, but she’s like Larracel. But the rest? You could argue Relc was retired corn. But those students of the Titan aren’t full-corn yet. Nor is that Goblin, Rags. Maybe one or two of her lieutenants are—but the real corn isn’t developed.”

He was talking about levels. Or…Named-rank adventurers? And he thought she was on her way? Octavia was excited until she realized what Saliss was saying.

“Numbtongue?”

“Haunted not-quite-corn. How’s your relationship?”

Octavia blushed.

“It’s fine. He takes me food and makes sure I wake up. Puts a blanket on me and tells me to stop.”

“Now that’s a great relationship. Good.”

“Master Saliss?”

“Hm?”

“Why are we corn? What does that make monsters?”

The Drake was silent a moment.

“…I don’t know. I didn’t think the metaphor through. But the point is, I’m realizing the inn’s got some good plants. And I’m corn. And corn doesn’t beat Seamwalkers.”

Then Octavia felt a lurch in her stomach. Saliss glanced up, and he spoke.

“My battle potions are weak. My acid’s weak. It barely did any damage to Facestealer. I can kill an army—but I can’t kill Belavierr. I need to upgrade them.”

Saliss of Lights, considered the adventurer with the highest firepower on the continent—if not the world—was saying that? The [Alchemist] put his head down.

“Here’s the thing, apprentice. Crafter-fighters have a different problem than [Warriors]. All they need is a Relic-class blade. Find one. Me? If my best potion can’t scratch this new caliber of foe—I need to invent one better. Or discover it. That’s clear.”

“Does that mean you’re headed to the new lands, master?”

That seemed like the best place to find anything new or old. Saliss just laughed.

“What am I, good at camping? No. It’s a waste of time. I’m getting back into the laboratory, apprentice. And you and I will have to work harder. I need…more powerful reagents. Damn it. I hope those Albez thieves got something. Maybe I should rob them, but—that’s it.”

He pushed himself up suddenly.

Albez. That damned [Chronomancer] had to be a multifaceted polymath, didn’t he? They’re all pretentious—all I need is to compare his inventory with mine. Reagents, Octavia.”

She knew what he meant. That was the fuel for most alchemy, like Sage’s Grass. Saliss glanced up.

“Old-era alchemy might not have had easy-access healing potions, but they had stronger stuff. Potions of Regeneration, Ryoka’s damned Haste Potion—we’re missing the booster. Probably Unicorn testicles or something. Of course, finding that’s one half the puzzle. The other half is formulas, but I need to do it. Otherwise, I’ll be throwing water at [Witches], and contrary to popular belief, that doesn’t melt them.”

Octavia understood. Saliss sat there, and Octavia saw him exhale hard.

“The new lands aren’t for me. I’ll be here, so you’d better prepare for more lessons, apprentice. Because I need your help. And…”

He looked up seriously.

“…we will both be needed. You, me, Xif, and every [Alchemist] in Pallass.”

“For creating new potions?”

He shook his head.

“The Eir Gel Reef is gone. I don’t know what happened, still—but the world’s out of our supply of healing gel. We have to find a solution.”

The two [Alchemists] looked at each other, and Octavia gulped. If there were no more healing potions…Saliss of Lights looked ahead, past Facestealer, at a battle only his class was ready for.

“It’s gonna be an ugly winter and next year.”

He sat there—expression grim and unusually tense. Until Erin Solstice came to ask him for a favor.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice had listened to the reports about Albez. She knew the adventurers were coming.

Maybe they hoped to beat news of their thefts at Albez. Some of them were certainly attempting to bribe her. No less than eight [Message] spells were promising her gold if she let them through and didn’t let Deniusth or the others after.

They were in hot pursuit, but the thieves had a good march on them. Even so, Erin guessed it might be a half-hour’s difference between the two groups at most.

“The easiest thing is to not open the door. Let them sort it out. We’ll hunker down—Viceria’s putting barriers up, and we’ll let them run for it. I’d think about offering some space, but not with Named-ranks out for blood.”

Wailant had moved his door off his property due to the increased traffic, but he had liked the proximity to the inn, and so he’d put it at a local crossroads five minutes from his farm. Now, he’d moved it further so the adventurers wouldn’t endanger his farm.

“I’ll let you know what I decide, Wailant. What do you think about the thefts?

The [Pirate] gave her a sardonic look.

“You mean, what do I think, was it right or wrong? I know I’d probably try to swipe a little something, even if I didn’t do a big theft. That many artifacts? I bet you a Silver-rank team’d get gold and spit rather than a single wand. But hey, I don’t moralize when I stab someone in the ass, either.”

“Good point.”

Erin walked back through her door and stopped for a moment. Travel was out due to the Facestealer attack, so only a single Gnoll was sitting there, chewing on a hamburger. Erin glanced at her.

“Liska? How are you doing?”

The Gnoll jumped.

“Er—fine, Erin. I mean, Miss Solstice. Doing my job!”

“You’re not nervous from the attack?”

Liska tried to grin, but her eyes flickered, and Erin knew she was rattled.

“Me? No. Someone’s got to stay and keep Ishkr safe. Besides—it never got the inn. You want me to go somewhere else?”

“Not just yet. I’m just thinking. I’ll be back. Just—thanks for helping.”

“No problem. Do we get a hazard bonus?”

Erin didn’t answer that last one. She headed into the inn and asked where Saliss had gone. She thought about Grimalkin, but she didn’t want to jeopardize their relationship after they’d just started talking. Ceria was groaning.

“Guys, let me know when Deniusth and the others are here. Want to meet in the Haven? I hear they’ve got crystal healing beds.”

“I can ask Larra to give you a room. And she does have healing. Let’s meet there, alright? Pisces, how’s your friend?”

Colth nodded at the others. Erin heard Pisces murmur a reply.

“Ama will be heading back. She’s upset—we can pay and thank her later. I don’t think she’s up for an attack on Facestealer.”

“No, and her undead won’t do much. We’ll talk. You lot take some time off. If you want to chat—I’ll be in the Haven.”

Colth smiled at Pisces, and the [Necromancer]…Erin eyed Pisces and wondered why he was looking at Colth like that. There was a lot she didn’t know about. Sometimes it was fine. Ceria rubbed at her ribs.

“Well, I’m going to see you later. I’ll be going on a little date.”

“Oh, again? Have fun, Captain Ceria.”

Yvlon and Pisces nodded along—then the two of them turned back from Colth and stared. The bug-eyed expressions on the two non-Antinium members of the Horns made Ceria grin.

“What?”

“Yes, what?”

Ksmvr looked at Yvlon and Pisces, and the [Armsmistress] pointed.

“You—you—wh—”

“I’m not allowed to have private time? Can you believe these two, Ksmvr? I don’t bother you two on the dates you definitely have.”

Ceria’s impish look grew, and Yvlon and Pisces made a garbled noise until she headed off, past Erin. The [Innkeeper] gave Ceria very much the same look.

“Huh?”

 

——

 

There was a lot she didn’t know about. Case in point—Erin walked into Octavia’s shop and stared at the Drake lying on the ground.

“Um. Saliss? Do you have a moment?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

The Drake kicked his feet until he shuffled around so his face was pointing at Erin. Still staring at the floorboards.

Erin squatted down as Octavia glanced up.

“You okay? Thanks for protecting the inn.”

“Hey, don’t worry. I’ll bill you at market price for all the potions I used, how about that?”

Erin hesitated, and Saliss grinned.

“I should. But I won’t. Don’t worry about it. What’s the word on Albez? Asking me what to do?”

He was perceptive. Erin Solstice sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor.

“Octavia, can I ask a favor? Saliss, you want food?”

He cracked an eye open, and the [Alchemist] nodded.

“Oh, of course! Can I get you…?”

“Give me one of those hot sandwiches with the things in it you had for breakfast.”

“A grilled pastrami on rye, Octavia. Can I get, um…fries? Calescent’s spicy fries.”

“Sure thing.”

Octavia hurried out, and Saliss glanced up.

“Not exactly subtle. So what do you want?”

Erin bit her lip.

“I…what do you think about the Albez thing?”

“Silver-ranks and Gold-ranks stealing from competitors to the north? I wouldn’t have been that stupid. Deni’s been retired for a while. First, he underestimated the most dangerous Goblin tribe in the north. Next, he forgot that adventurers are hungry and poor, and he’s an ass. Eldertuin’s solid, and Viecel’s crazy like me and Tessa—but a different kind. That answer your question?”

It did, a bit. Erin glanced over her shoulder.

“And Colth?”

Saliss’ eyes sharpened.

“Colth’s a real Named-rank in his prime. Not too old. Grew up with legends. You want to know why Mihaela Godfrey’s here? Because she’s retired. She’s still dangerous, grouchy, and competent—but if she was in her prime, she’d be running deliveries as a Courier and kicking [Generals] in the face. Colth’s not as good as she was—but he’s the best. Notice how his first instinct was to kill Facestealer?”

“Yours wasn’t?”

Saliss shrugged. He put his head back down.

“My potions are too weak. But he’s got a better handle on it. I’ll listen if he needs a favor. Next question?”

Erin sat there.

“…If I asked you for a favor, Saliss, a sorta big one that might get you in trouble. And me—how can I pay it off?”

“Been speaking to [Witches] lately? Or the old man?”

Saliss’ head rose, and his eyes glinted. He looked at Erin, and she showed him the wicker bird on her finger.

“Been cursed? Nevermind. Erin—we don’t do favors. Not us. Just give me something. Anything from your gardens—because I need it. But say it.”

That was why she liked him. And of all of the others, she trusted Saliss. More than Grimalkin. Frankly, more than almost anyone. She didn’t know why, only that she thought, despite his secrets—she knew Saliss.

“Okay. I’ll have as much help as I can get—what do you need?”

“Whatever those bastards stole from Albez. I can’t let them have it or Deni sell it.”

“Oh? Well—that actually works. Because I need you to go into Pallass and move my portal stone. Without being stopped by Sergeant Kel or Chaldion. Right now. And do it within about forty minutes.”

That was how much time she thought they had. Saliss’ head rose slowly, and his neck spines seemed to rise.

“And where would you like me to move it, Erin?”

She knew the spot.

“There’s a place a good ways outside Pallass. Where Pallass Hunting does its work. It’s in this nice glen—there would be pretty private. And you can hit the road not far from there. If…Pallass didn’t know it was there, anyone popping out’d be pretty far away. Then I need you to move it back to Pallass.”

Saliss stared at her. His lips moved soundlessly for a second.

“Right back on the 8th Floor?”

“Yep.”

“In the checkpoint with Desk Sergeant Kel, the most friendly and relaxed of Drakes, and the Old Man’s lenient policies towards anyone who comes through on a whim?”

“Uh huh.”

“After placing it far outside Pallass’ walls?”

“Do I keep saying yes?”

Saliss just looked at Erin. Her stomach was twisting, but…she met his gaze. The Named-rank adventurer whistled.

“…How badly do you want them to level? What’s in those new lands?”

Erin bit her tongue. She didn’t answer, but Saliss swung himself up into a cross-legged position. He thought for a while.

“Deniusth might try to kill you. But let’s say we send those thieves straight into the new lands. How do you explain why you did what you did?”

Erin held out her hands and shrugged.

“Leave that to me. I’ll take all the responsibility, Saliss.”

“Humor me.”

Erin Solstice met Saliss’ eyes, and he saw her worried look turn into a colder look of—anger.

“Deniusth’s team—or he and the other Gold-ranks—killed six adventurers in cold blood. Even if they were thieves, I don’t trust him, and I don’t think that was the right call. And the rest? We need levels, Saliss. We need levels.”

It was the worst thing she’d ever done consciously. Far, far worse than plotting to destroy a Raskghar camp or…Saliss gave Erin a longer look, then nodded.

“Corn against Seamwalkers. Give me twenty minutes.”

 

——

 

Liska Coresh Silverfang had always thought Erin was sort of…boring. She knew Erin was the ‘crazy innkeeper’ who spat blood and caused trouble, but Erin hadn’t ever really impressed her in person.

She was fun-ish, and she was certainly nice and had powerful Skills, but she had always seemed to be, in Liska’s estimation of the world, sort of a law-abiding, boring person.

Much like Ishkr, her brother. This?

This was crazy. When Erin told Liska what she wanted to do and had Liska move to a series of rooms inside the inn, which Liska hadn’t known even existed, the Gnoll was alarmed.

“Wh—we’re really doing this, Miss Solstice?”

Erin was dumping items onto a table. She had a list of Lyonette’s prices, and she turned.

“Yep. Wailant! Where’s the rest of the food?”

Coming. This is crazy, Erin. I love it. It’s crazy—but that Violinist is going to kill you.”

“He could try.”

“Larra the Haven will kill you, then.”

Wailant grunted as he placed a pack full of, ironically, dried cornmeal on the table. Erin gave him a slight smile.

“No, she won’t. I think she might take my side, actually. Especially if I pay her.”

“Oh. Maybe Viceria’s right. Maybe I am a bad influence.”

Even Wailant looked askance, but Erin just nudged him.

“Nah. Seborn is worse.”

You little—we’re having a drink tonight, Miss Innkeeper. Alright, that’s the last pack I’ve got.”

The room was crowded, and Liska was about to pee. She had to run to the restroom, and she felt the door was fully-charged.

Her new Skills as a [Door Gnoll] let her sense its ambient mana levels like Erin. Liska had all kinds of cool powers.

Like knowing which entrance of the door had people waiting. The ability to calm down a crowd. And the power to…

“[Conjure Stool].”

Liska sat down as she hurried back into the private rooms. Erin glanced at the plain wooden stool.

“Uh. Is that your new power, Liska?”

“I’m a Level 6 [Door Gnoll], Miss Solstice.”

“…Cool. Can you do two?”

“No.”

The [Innkeeper] smiled. Then they went back to waiting. Erin seemed far, far more composed than Liska. Her leg jiggled as she sat at the edge of the table, but Liska was about to be incontinent with nerves.

When the adventurers did arrive, they came in a storm.

The door! The door! We’ll pay for—there!”

They came riding horses hell-for-leather, some in battered wagons showing damage from spells and arrows. More than one was looking over their shoulder even as they slowed, but they charged for the door while carrying—

Treasure. Some was in bags or even chests of holding, but Liska saw one of the Distinguished Staves holding a beautiful staff—and the area around the orb seemed so still, so calm—

The leaves were falling from trees outside the route near Wailant’s farm. One flew into the proximity of the stave as the [Mage] holding it ran—and the leaf fixed in place.

Time magic. Erin looked at the staff as the adventurers came to a halt.

“Miss Solstice! Let us through to Liscor, please! Or—Invrisil?”

“Anywhere, we’ll pay!”

“I have one place I’ll send you. And if you want—come on through. But before that, we’ll negotiate.”

Erin Solstice called through the door. Wailant was standing to the side, a hand on his own blade, but the Gold and Silver-ranks started. Erin glanced at Liska, then walked through the door. She shut it, and Liska gulped.

This was part of the plan—but it was still incredible that Erin did it. Liska waited, standing up from her stool, and paced around the room. The laden tables were filled up—she passed by jars of green acid, Erin’s travel foods, mana candies, Scaleguard Sandwiches, and bags of animal feed and provisions. Even camping supplies that Erin had asked Liska to buy as many of as possible.

When she finally felt Erin tug on her [Portal Door], Liska swung it open. She was almost certain Erin could do it herself, but the [Innkeeper] walked through with the first teams.

“Put anything you got that’s alchemical or enchanting-related on the tables.”

“Miss Solstice—”

“No buts. That’s the fee. Not all of you are even paying it.”

Erin pointed at a rough-looking man, one of the Waterborn Raiders, drenched in sweat. His eyes flickered to the door, and Erin raised a finger.

“Harm Liska or me, and that door will never open. Colth is still in this inn and the Horns and Grimalkin of Pallass. He’s big. Plus, Shriekblade is standing right behind you.”

The Waterborn Raider went white, and he whirled. Tessa tapped him on the shoulder, and he whirled again and backed up.

Liska’s nerves actually decreased as she recalled that Erin had a Named-rank as a bodyguard. The Gold-rank adventurers traded looks as more filed in.

“All of it?”

“All of it. It’s not useful where you’re going, is it? How many artifacts did you get? How many books? I’ll take any books you want to offload, too. For a price. Anything you want here—well, you’re all one buyer, so decide what you want.”

Erin indicated the supplies. The adventurers stared at her and then the supplies. Bird’s arrows, gear—one of the raiders whistled as he picked up the jar of acid. He almost opened the lid, but Erin snapped at him.

“Don’t do that. And don’t get it on your skin unless you want it melted. Hurry. I thought they were right behind you?”

The teams glanced over their shoulders, and Liska backed up as someone led a horse through the door. Erin called out.

“Pick what you want—come on through now if you’re coming! If you’re going to surrender, Wailant will give you a drink.”

“All the way past Pallass? And then to the new lands?”

It seemed to hit some of the Silver-ranks only now. Erin Solstice saw one of them turn to her.

“Can’t you send us somewhere else? Just around Liscor or…”

“The [Portal Door] doesn’t go anywhere else, sorry. And what would you do if I did? I’ll be letting Deniusth and the others through, and they’ll follow you. Like I said—if you want to give up everything you stole, stay at Wailant’s farm. I’ll transport you to my inn, and then Larra’s Haven, and the Named-ranks and Gold-ranks won’t touch you, you have my word. I can’t promise you’ll be adventurers after that, but they won’t kill you.”

And the rest? They looked at Erin’s overpriced stocks and then her map that showed a path across the trade routes to the New Lands.

“We’re going. This staff…I’ll find the half-Elves or another continent. Damn Deniusth. He didn’t even promise us a spellbook.”

The leader of the Distinguished Staves was in his fifties, but he calmly walked over to the table, began selecting gear, and tossed down some of the loot he’d stolen from Albez. Leaving his life behind.

“Captain Geith—my family.”

“Should have thought of that before you pissed off Orchestra.”

Wailant was sympathetic, but only a bit. He nodded at the other wavering adventurers.

“I can take a letter, but you’d better write quick. Free of charge, even.”

He said that as if Erin wasn’t collecting a good portion of the gear. It was the largest door tax that Liska had ever seen. She’d heard Erin complaining about Magnolia’s mandatory tax to Invrisil.

After today…Liska didn’t think Erin got to complain again.

For all of their talk, it was fast. The adventurers grabbed almost everything, and the only delay was taking through some of the animals—turning them around and sending them to the spot where Saliss was waiting outside Pallass. Liska heard him speaking to them.

“I’ve got free advice and people to talk to. Don’t be stupid, and don’t go to a Walled City. Hey, Geith. Nice staff. Good luck.”

To Liska’s surprise, she saw Erin Solstice shaking hands with the Waterborn Raiders and every adventurer who went through. Thieves or not—she took the hands of the Captain of the Waterborn Raiders.

“Don’t die out there. And if you ever do manage to make it back to Liscor, without bounty or someone after you—come here and tell me what happened.”

“You’re…alright, Innkeeper Solstice. Funny. I thought you were different.”

Erin Solstice looked the Captain of the Waterborn Raiders in the eye.

“I don’t approve of stealing, Captain. But it’s your choice. The new lands…Deniusth isn’t that charming. No matter what, it’s going to be dangerous. Good luck.

Then they were heading out, and Liska saw only seven adventurers remain, a tiny fraction of the ones going through the door. Erin could send roughly two hundred people to Pallass. By the time she closed the door, it had just enough juice to send Wailant back and deliver the seven adventurers to his farm for that promised drink.

“Pretend they’re not there, Wailant. I bet you Deni’s going to be coming for my door. He probably won’t even think they’re at your farm. Liska, is there power to let him through?”

She could check, but Liska, amusingly, seemed to be better at estimating relative to distance and place, thanks to her class. Erin just knew her door was ‘low’ and she was busy, so the Gnoll focused and answered for her.

“Just—just six more, Erin.”

“Well, let him through, but not his team. And Halrac and any captains. If Deni wants to kick up a fuss—Tessa, don’t kill anyone.”

“Yes, boss. Can I kick him?”

“Anywhere you want as long as it’s not permanent. But we’re going to be reasonable. How much did we get?”

Erin turned, and Wailant winked at her. He cast one last admiring look at the books, bottled alchemical reagents, magical crystals, and trinkets the adventurers didn’t think were the most valuable—or immediately valuable—piled on the table. Erin Solstice exhaled as the real haul—and largest share of Albez—sat in her inn. She turned to Liska, and the Gnoll stared at her.

“This room doesn’t exist, Liska. And since Wailant’s being so quiet—”

“Lips sealed, Miss Solstice. Maybe one book and a gift for Viceria?”

Erin gave him a patient look.

“Come by later. Yes, since Wailant’s being so quiet—this room doesn’t exist. Larra will maybe want to be here, but no one’s coming here without my permission. You have access to the garden—only let Saliss in here unsupervised. He’ll probably want to look stuff over.”

“Yes, Miss Solstice.”

Liska stood there, knees trembling, and then followed Erin into the garden and back towards the regular hallway of the inn. Erin made the [Portal Door] reappear, and then she turned.

“Lyonette? I have something I’d like to let you know about. Um. Colth too. Liska, just let through Deni. And if Larra wants to find me—I think her Haven’s past Invrisil, but I set up a portal stone there for now. Let her through.”

Liska sat down on the ground since her stool Skill was on cooldown. She stared at Erin’s back and listened to the sounds of the [Innkeeper] walking off. There was silence…then the sound of a [Princess] screaming.

Ishkr opened the door to the portal room as Deniusth pounded on Erin’s door in Celum, screaming for answers. Before Liska opened the door to Celum, she looked at her brother.

“Well?”

He raised his brows, and Liska pointed after Erin.

“She’s crazy. You said this job was fine! She’s crazy and cool.

“Obviously.”

Ishkr smiled at his younger sister, and Liska stared at him. Then she really, really began to wonder just what his class was. And his level.

 

——

 

“What level is Ishkr, do you think? I heard a birdie tell me that Chaldion tried to hire him—or buy his loyalty. And by that, I mean Bird told me.”

“What makes you think Ishkr’s high-level?”

“What makes you think he’s not?

“…Fair point.”

Today was a day of missing things. In an interesting way, in Invrisil, people hadn’t heard of the Facestealer attack. Larracel the Haven, the connected [Innkeeper], had heard about the Albez debacle—

But not about Colth’s plan to take down the monster. Similarly, Larra didn’t know what Erin had just done with the adventurers.

And neither did Ceria Springwalker, who was on her aforementioned date. She’d shaken off Yvlon and Pisces, who had a mountain of questions. She wondered if this counted as a prank, but really, Ceria felt like this was the most normal thing of the Horns.

Ksmvr didn’t really date. He was a kid and had a very limited understanding of how or why you did these things. That wasn’t her being mean either.

Children could occupy themselves all day with certain things. For instance, Ceria had seen Ksmvr sitting in front of a scrying orb for about seven hours. True, one could vegetate to that level—but he had been engrossed.

She didn’t think he was on the dating part of his life, was the point. Pawn now…

Pawn was interesting. Anyways, the point was that Ksmvr was out—and so were Yvlon and Pisces. Yvlon’s dates…well, Ceria wondered how well they’d gone when Yvlon was in the Silver Spears. As awkwardly as dating Ylawes, Ceria just bet.

As for Pisces—she might have expected it from him before. Not after Chandrar.

These were troublesome topics, and this was really to relax and have fun. Which Ceria was allowed to do. She was not being serious and long-term like Jelaqua with Maughin—or any relationship the Selphid engaged in, really. Ceria was glad most people got that.

The Ice Squirrel made one mistake. Silly squirrel, really. She had thought that was the only crazy thing that could happen in the inn, so she’d left and was blissfully unaware of the heist Erin had just pulled off.

She’d learn.

However, in the interim, Ceria Springwalker felt at her cracked ribs and winced. They’d heal fast due to the potion she’d been given, but she dreaded to imagine how long it would be if it had been infected. Pisces had fused the bones together to help the potion stick, but it still hurt, damn it.

[Necromancers]. Very handy for a number of reasons. Anyways, this was not the first date with this individual, nor was it serious like going to…well, Wishdrinks would be casual and fun. The Tailless Thief would be a nightmare and too expensive.

Work did follow you about, too. Her partner on the date glanced up.

“Are you really going after Facestealer? Is this the right moment for, uh—dating?”

“Let’s not talk about it. I adventure, and that’s that. If I don’t think about it, you don’t need to. Deal? Let’s try to have fun—although, let’s not break my ribs.”

“That’s…pretty good compartmentalizing. I’m just about done…”

The [Prankster]’s eyes twinkled as she watched. She’d arrived on-time, but she was being stood up for time. So she adjusted the light shirt she wore and pulled it up to expose her bandaged ribs, among other things.

“Sounds good. I’ll just count my fractures. Do you think I’m bleeding?”

Kevin looked up, did a double-take, and stared for a bit. Ceria cackled—then wondered if the circlet made her more likely to do that.

The [Engineer] closed his books and laughed. He looked at the closed door to his office.

“You are so lucky my helper wasn’t staring.”

“Why? It’s not like you can put out bad rumors about me. ‘Ceria has breasts’. Fire her from Gold-rank immediately!”

“No, it’s inappropriate in a work-environment.”

“Oh. Earth-stuff. Sounds interesting. Tell me more about it. Or do I get more poetry?”

Oh Captain, my Captain…

Kevin and Ceria chuckled. She quite liked her latest dance partner—and he was willing to try to dance. It was very informal, but she thought it was a good match. For one thing—he knew about Earth, and she was still curious about that.

You’d have to ask Kevin if he thought he got an equal benefit from the dates. They departed Kevin’s office in Solar Cycles, the little Esthelm office close to Pelt’s forge.

“So, are we going to Esthelm or…”

“I saw a cool pub in the city. They’re expanding fast. I booked a table, even.”

“Fancy. A place that books tables. So, is life working for your company actually that rewarding? And what is this about inappropriate work environments?”

“Well—aren’t there rules about not sleeping with the staff if you’re the boss?”

“Hm. Nope. It’s definitely bad form, but your world has rules and regulations for everything, doesn’t it? That’s another big difference I’ve noticed in your stories. Most [Lords] and [Ladies] wouldn’t stand for it. Actually—they probably harass the staff a lot.”

“I bet. Well—I’m not doing it. Plus, Solar Cycles is fun. I get to test our bikes, and we finally shipped out a bunch to all our waiting clients. Say, do you want to try our new dirt-bike?”

“Sure. But if I break those ribs…”

Well, Ceria did suspect that at least a few of her adventuring peers had social lives outside of work. Not poor Moore, although you never knew, but Jelaqua? Definitely. Seborn? Probably, but who knew.

Halrac, Revi? Uncertain.

Typhenous? She’d bet her circlet on it. She just wondered if he’d finally managed to woo his targets—which were apparently Witch Eloise and/or Witch Mavika.

You had to admire his balls, if he had any left.

The point was, Ceria enjoyed this for however long it would last. She glanced at Kevin slyly.

“Let me know if you get competing offers for your time.”

“Business-wise? Oh—no. I mean, I’ve been asked by a few people in Esthelm, and Bezale, but this is cool.”

Kevin seemed to regret mentioning the Minotauress, but Ceria passed a finger over her lips.

“Mouth sealed. But I’m telling you—there’s an open market for Kevins. And there are only…four.”

She meant the Antinium, and he laughed about that. Although it appeared to weigh on Kevin the fact that there were Soldiers and Workers who bore his name—and died. He was not all ‘chill’ and relaxed, but you did have to get to know someone to hear about that.

“Uh…who’s in the market for a Kevin? Not that I’m not really having fun here.”

The [Cryomancer] teased Kevin as he turned red. Ceria put her hands behind her head and whistled.

“Oh, believe me. I’d say at least a few interested parties might ask—but it’s tougher for them. How do you feel about pointed ears?”

Kevin hesitated.

“I, uh—like Falene? And would never date her.”

“Okay. Green skin?”

Oh.

Ceria watched his expression. Kevin thought about it, and Ceria laughed to herself. And wouldn’t that be interesting? She wondered what Erin would think about that. Of course, that was the last thing on Erin’s mind right now.

And frankly—if Larracel the Haven thought she’d caught up with Erin’s madness by dealing with the [Emperor]—tonight would prove they were only getting started. Ceria nudged Kevin after a while.

“No guessing. I’m just here to watch and eat popcorn if it turns out to be funny. But it’s not Ulvama.”

“Aw. I mean. Oh.”

 

——

 

The night was quiet, like the calm before storms. Like the silence in which you could forget your troubles…or brood. Some chose the former. Some—like the being that stalked below the ground of the Floodplains, did not forget. Did not forgive.

SNATCHER WAS ANGRY.

But it was also in the dungeon, nursing its light wounds. Aware that above there was at least one…adventurer and unable to strike. For now.

There were a lot of people who were angry that night, though. Like Deniusth. Or Deniusth. And Deniusth.

Other angry people included Troydel. Who knew exactly whom Ceria was dating, and he was seriously considering buying a curse from Oliyaya in Riverfarm to hex Kevin.

Kevin, living out the dream of Earth’s young men who read fantasy or played such games! Damn you, Kevin!

His fury was about a fifth of Deniusth’s. Which meant Facestealer was about 8 Troydels of wrath incarnate.

Lyonette was 1.5 Troydels, and Larracel actually reached about 3 Troydels, which was far into the realms where physical or magical violence became a possibility.

However, both calmed down a bit when Erin talked them down. Not because they appreciated Erin’s arguments about how the adventurers deserved a chance with their loot, how this would fuel the landrush, and the benefits of having lower-level teams with artifacts level.

No. They calmed down when Erin bribed them.

“I have—well, I don’t know how much, but I’d pretty much bet it’s more than even Deniusth’s Orchestra team could demand in shares. Wanna book, Larracel? You help me calm Deni down and I’ll let you pick. But Saliss is going to investigate the alchemy items.”

“You…you’re stealing from Orchestra? Are you mad?”

Despite herself, Larra the Haven was impressed. Impressed because she wasn’t sure Erin knew how dangerous Deni was—or Viecel when crossed. But Erin just folded her arms.

“Not stealing. I just refused to let Deni murder those adventurers. And he failed the truth spell when he told me he was going to let them live. I’ll give him and the other adventurers a bit of what I convinced the teams to part with.”

“And the rest?”

“They can get it if they catch up. Call it a game of tag or hide-and-seek. And then tell Deni that he might get nothing or very little now…but he might get everything later.”

Lyonette wondered if she were listening to her mother or father instead of Erin. Was she suggesting…? Larra blinked.

It was true Deni had lost all the artifacts he wanted. But he would have had to share most of the precious relics with the many teams in the dig. And with the Guild, Remendia, Laken…

But if he reclaimed all that lost treasure, he could gain…a lot of it.

In blood. Or perhaps just by convincing the teams to hand it over “peacefully” when he was in front of them with a sword.

Cold. Cold and ruthless and—Larracel glanced over and saw Deniusth pacing around outside as Colth and Eldertuin talked to him. He was so angry his voice was audible even through the stout windows.

“I’ll have a word. A pick of spellbooks?”

“Sure.”

Erin Solstice held out a hand, and Larra took it. The two [Innkeepers] locked eyes, and neither one quite smiled this time. Larra looked warier of Erin, and Erin…

…Glanced at Larra’s friends. Deni had killed two Gold-rank adventurers that morning, and she didn’t sense more than fury from him. She didn’t regret her decision.

“Much.”

There was more at stake here. There always was. When Deni came back into the inn, he refused to look at Erin—but he did listen to Colth as the Supporter spoke.

“Deni, we’re hunting a boss monster. And I’ll cut you in on whatever you want up front—Stalker’s corpse especially.”

His eyes twinkled at Erin, but the Named-rank was deadly serious as he looked at Eldertuin.

“I want it dead. Liscor wants it dead. So I’m going to pay you what you ask, but I’m calling in the favors. You, Mihaela, even Valley if she’s still around.”

“She’s treating my inn like a research lab. She’s around. Are you certain, Colth?”

The Supporter smiled as Deni’s head rose, and the leader of Orchestra looked at him. Colth turned to the Horns and nodded.

“Oh yes. Killing a monster like that—I’d say that’s the reward in itself, but we all know the levels and parts and its lair will be too. But it has to die. Are you in or not?”

Deniusth exhaled. He glanced at Erin, away—and then ground out.

“I’m in. You have a plan of attack, Colth?”

“I have eight. And we’ll take all the top-level help we can get. Saliss—I don’t know if I can get Tessa, but Saliss, the best Gold-rank teams—it’s time for a hunt.

The Ultimate Supporter looked around, eyes gleaming. The other teams looked at him. Erin had seen dungeon crawls. She’d seen raids and adventurers and monster extermination—but never a hunt.

This was going to be the hour of adventurers. And of course, it began in an inn.

It so often did.

 

——

 

The other teams returned from Albez mad, betrayed, and tired. They mostly took lodgings in the Haven, not Erin’s inn.

Their fury over Erin letting the adventurers go was slightly mitigated by the thought they all had that they could get a majority of the pilfered artifacts without having to share—and Erin doling out portions of the treasure she’d reclaimed.

Erin had, in fact, taken virtually nothing of the ‘door tax’, and a lot of the items, alchemical especially, were in Saliss’ claws or elsewhere. So she could argue she’d done very little of this in self-interest, just someone else’s interest.

In fact, Chaldion of Pallass was there in the morning, and it seemed he had decided Pallass could help recompense the losses.

“And it just so happens Pallass is doing this because Saliss of Lights has all the alchemical items he needs?”

Even Halrac had sour grapes with Erin, but the Grand Strategist was upfront as he handed a bag of gold over.

“In a sense, I’m indebted to Miss Solstice. She has done the more good in the name of alchemy—”

“—And Pallass—”

Revi muttered. Chaldion ignored her.

“—Than there would be if everything were auctioned off like the Village of the Dead raid. This is less…profitable, but I will consider this a favor for all the teams inconvenienced. In fact, Miss Solstice, would you care to have a cup of coffee and discuss the issue this morning?”

Erin stuck a tongue out at him. She had been drinking with Wailant last night after talking to most of the Gold-ranks, and she had a full day of activities. Not least going to Invrisil with Grimalkin and Nanette and Mrsha on the hunt for her curse!

“I’d love to, Chaldion, but Halrac’s right. You coulda been here earlier, but you only seem to turn up when it benefits Pallass. Or the Drakes. Not much love for the northern teams?”

The [Strategist] faltered.

“They are historically employed by the Five Families in times of war and occasionally as hostile combatants, Miss Solstice—”

“Yeah, but that cuts both ways, don’t it? Don’t expect me to always get Pallass’ back! Or tail. Being biased isn’t good. Why ask me for coffee? What about my friends? Even poor Keldrass?”

The Drake jumped as Erin pointed him out and tried to shake his head, but Chaldion protested.

“I believe I’m a regular of this inn.”

“Oh yeah? What’s Yvlon’s middle name? What’s Bird’s favorite food?”

“Bird?”

What kind of Bird? See? You only talk to me. You’ve never even said ‘hi’ to Mrsha. Pssh. Fake friends.”

Erin’s bullying of Chaldion left the Grand Strategist speechless. Mrsha held up a frowny-face notecard, but she was slightly delighted by Erin’s new attitude. Chaldion looked around, floundering.

“I think I’m quite sociable, Miss Solstice. I am pressed for time, but I know a number of guests.”

“Not me.”

Saliss raised a claw, and Chaldion glared at his grandson.

“—I would have a drink or conversation with anyone here. Even—Pisces.”

Pisces’ head turned in his seat as Chaldion pointed around, and the [Necromancer] pointed at himself.

“Me?”

“Sure. Suuure.”

Erin snorted, but her ribbing of Chaldion was light. Mainly because he was passing out gold and the adventurers were getting ready for their hunt. Colth had the lead, and Erin had decided not to linger in the inn. She would trust him to succeed—plus, Nerrhavia was getting on her nerves.

 

——

 

So Erin left the inn to the adventurers and business as usual. Similarly, there was one other duo of adventurers who had an appointment with trouble, though. An implacable force, perhaps. A guardian of old ways. An executioner, a judge and arbiter.

Klbkchhezeim the Slayer.

He sat in an office in the Free Hive. Once, it had been the only place with a desk in it, where only he was allowed. It held his work-gear, what records the Antinium needed to write down, and it was a kind of sanctuary.

A…unique place, for he was one of two True Antinium in the entire Free Hive. A sad, lonely journey.

These days, lots of Antinium had seats. There was a reading room, a room of paints, the Painted Antinium’s barracks, and he was no longer alone.

Somehow, Klbkch felt more alone. Despite having met Wrymvr, the Grand Queen again, despite the new Individuals, he felt less connected, less sure, and more tired and old than he ever had been.

Naturally, he blamed the new Antinium for this. They just weren’t as good as the old ones.

When he had been first created at the advent of the Antinium species by the First Queen, there had been a lot of improvements needed. Mistakes, costly ones, entire revolutions in their design.

But they’d been amazing Antinium. Shaped by the First Queen, not carbon-copies of Galuc. As good as Galuc was—the Antinium in Klbkch’s day could have swept Izril, and those weren’t even modern Antinium.

He had, privately, expressed these feelings to the one person besides the Free Queen worthy of his commentary. Well, besides Relc. And maybe Anand, if he were here. And Xrn, obviously, but—

He had talked to Erin. And do you know what she’d done? She’d laughed, patted him on the hand, and told him he was old.

Him. Klbkch! Yes, he was…but the implication was…she had said it like it was a failing.

You’re old, Klbkch! Be nicer to the new Antinium or I’ll get mad. You don’t remember what it was like to be young.

And he had assured her he did and remembered all his forms and his inadequacies and that even with all of them, he was simply holding the Painted Antinium to real standards. And she had called him old. Again.

Right now, Klbkch was mad. He was already irked by the Free Antinium’s new direction, but he had been changing bodies, among the Hivelands, and gone since his control had effectively been revoked. The Free Queen had assured him she had everything in hand.

Now they had a 7th Hive, even if it was more theoretical than practical. They had [Crusaders]. They had lots of Painted Antinium and a new group that had come from Liscor’s ‘Fellowship of the Inn’ as they kept calling themselves.

And guess who had to clean up the entire mess? Not Xrn. Oh, no. Klbkch sat in his office in this new Hive, as he had since the [Crusaders] had started coming back.

He had a cup of water in front of him for hydration and a piece of half-eaten bread since he could digest it. Bread. No butter on top. It was perfectly nutritious…although Klbkch had, for some reason, decided to buy bread instead of the nutritional paste the Antinium ate. The stale crust was there if he was hungry. Which he was not.

Klbkch also had sheets of paper, and he selected another and began to fill it out as the Antinium in front of him fidgeted.

“Designation.”

“Fuck you.”

Designation.

One of the other Antinium nudged the Worker.

“Lord Commander of the Centenium, Greatest Ant alive.”

Klbkch wrote down ‘Crusader 57-8’ on the piece of paper as one of the Workers whispered to him.

“Class.”

“[Crusader]. You blind?”

“Level?”

“Higher than your mother.”

Klbkch paused.

“I do not have a mother.”

“That’s what she said. Last night.”

Crusader 57 paused, and it occurred to him that the insults he’d been learning in Liscor’s army didn’t really work here. The Revalantor sighed.

Level.

“Level 21 [Spitfire Crusader].”

“Any unique Skills or abilities to report? I am going to note ‘verbal insults’ here preemptively.”

Squad 5 nervously waited for Crusader 57 to come up with a new insult. Klbkch listened and did not rise to the numerous personal attacks on his character, body, and non-existent family.

He would have dealt with this situation far differently a few months ago. But instead, Xrn had told him he had to be…gentle with these Workers and Soldiers. While unhelpfully not writing down any details about them whatsoever.

“Squad 5 is in service to the new 7th Hive of the Antinium under Prognugator…Centenium…Queen Xrn. As this is the case, I will not discuss your future within the Free Hive, and you are exempted from any further reports. You are dismissed.”

“Your face is dismissed. And ugly. Too afraid to fight me, Klbkch?”

The Revalantor’s head rose, and Squad 5 pulled Crusader 57 back. Klbkch spoke quietly.

“That would not be a concern if I were inclined to waste the Free Antinium’s resources.”

Crusader 57 just laughed at Klbkch.

“That’s supposed to be scary? You’re weak, Klbkch! Weak! Come over and fight me! You won’t! You’re useless! Let go of me, Crusader 53. I’m going to crap on his desk…

Crusader 57, despite the unpleasant dialogue, was one of the more expeditious such meetings. Klbkch suspected the Worker had seen him execute an Aberration before. If Crusader 57 turned out to become one himself…and the signs were there…well, it wasn’t his problem.

“Next.”

He’d forgotten the last part. But since Squad 5 had run, Klbkch let it slide. The next—duo—to come in made Klbkch’s hands twitch towards his side.

“Goblins are not permitted in the Hive.”

“We are sorry, Revalantor Klbkch. But he is my brother.”

“That Goblin is not your brother.”

“He is. I am here.”

Klbkch stared at Infinitypear and Rasktooth and twitched. Then he decided that since he had 259 more Antinium to go—he was going to let this slide.

“Designation.”

“Infinitypear and Rasktooth.”

Klbkch slowly, and deliberately, wrote only the first name down on the new sheet.

“Class.”

“[Adventurer].”

This time, the quill slowed a bit. This was not the typical [Crusader] group. Adventurer? Klbkch realized Infinitypear was going to mandate a second page of notes and sighed as he dipped his quill in the ink pot—but he had to admit, it was a rare class.

This was more the kind of thing the Free Queen and he had wanted from the start. Well, the [Crusaders] too, but unique classes? He nodded.

“Level?”

“I am Level 13. Rasktooth is Level 4.”

“Hmm. Low-level. I thought you participated in the Meeting of Tribes war. Most of the other Antinium, especially Battalions 1 and 6, leveled far more.”

“That was not an adventure.”

“Unique Skills?”

That meant all of them. Klbkch wrote them down, asking for details, and then glanced at Infinitypear.

“Unique gear?”

“I have a spear Guardsman Relc gave me.”

“Adamantium spear…owned by Spearmaster Lulv.”

Klbkch underlined that a few times and noted Infinitypear’s name down on a separate ledger. Perhaps they should take it from him. Yes, he’d order Infinitypear to turn it over after this interview.

He’d been tempted to make Crusader 53 do the same, but he was a fighting soldier in Xrn’s army. Klbkch drummed his fingers on the table.

“As you are not part of the 7th Hive, and you are technically Painted Antinium, you fall under Pawn’s authority. However, you are a resident of The Wandering Inn—so you are to be classified independently of these two authorities unless you place yourself under the command of any body. The Free Queen or other Hives also being acceptable. Is this clear?”

“Must I do this, Revalantor Klbkch?”

“No.”

“Oh, good. Why am I here, please?”

At least this Worker was polite. Klbkch spoke the same words again, waiting for the blank look or questions.

“Every new Individual must prove its usefulness to the Hive and submit a plan of improvement or jobs. I will cite you Silveran, who has not only leveled in a class at commendable speed, but operates a business which provides other Antinium with jobs and earns a profit, which he remits part of to the Hive. His use to the Hive is commendable and an example—you must submit a proposal now or later to justify your activities. Or else you will be assigned to another group.”

Pawn had lobbied against this, as if this were a democracy—and his Painted Antinium had a lot of leisure, but he was allowed to do that given his command. However—Infinitypear was not Pawn’s. The Worker sat there, and it was Rasktooth who raised a hand.

“Infinitypear must get a job?”

“Yes.”

Oh.

Both Antinium and Goblin looked at each other and nodded. Klbkch wondered if he should just say it like that and then wondered how much time he had wasted with his other explanations. Unfortunately, it was clear Infinitypear might be one of the hard cases.

“I do not know what I can do, Revalantor Klbkch.”

“Then I can assign you to an appropriate role as a fighter or…”

“I do not want to do that, Revalantor Klbkch. Respectfully.”

Klbkch paused in tugging out a list of names. He looked up, and if he could have glared—his mandibles came together.

“You must provide some worth to the Hive. That is my role here. Assigning you a task that will either produce something of value or let you level. Or both.”

“Oh. Can he level instead of work?”

“That…is acceptable. Do you have a proposal?”

Klbkch waited patiently as Rasktooth and Infinitypear whispered. Then they turned to him.

“I want to adventure, Revalantor Klbkch. With Rasktooth. We will go explore many places.”

“Where?”

“Izril? Baleros? Everywhere. The sea and High Passes and…”

The two grew excited at the thought. Klbkch just shook his head. He stabbed the paper in front of him with a quill, hard enough to embed the tip into the wooden desk.

“I am looking for actionable proposals. Not…fantasies. You are combat assets for the Hive, if lower-level than some of your peers.”

“But we are [Adventurers]. We want to adventure.”

Infinitypear was getting stubborn. Xrn had so many rules. Klbkch’s hand was messing up the quill.

Don’t snap at them, Klbkch. Don’t shout at them, Klbkch. Don’t throw anything at them or I’ll blast you with lightning, Klbkch.

When he was an Antinium, everything was in service to the Hives. The Queen! There was no need for this because they were united. Klbkch ground out each word as he looked at Infinitypear.

“You must have a plan of action. Something you want to do and a goal that is clearly definable and within reach.”

“But what if I do not know what I want to do or what will happen? I wish to stay with my brother.”

He is not your brother. You are Antinium.

Klbkch slammed his hands on the table and stood. Rasktooth and Infinitypear rocked backwards in their chairs, and the Antinium outside Klbkch’s office stirred as the door trembled a bit. Klbkch stared at Infinitypear—and another Worker would have turned into a trembling ball by now. But Infinitypear protectively held Rasktooth.

“He is my brother. You are wrong. We are [Adventurers]. I think you do not know what that is, Revalantor Klbkch. Respectfully.”

Klbkch stared down at Infinitypear, and for a second, he was so furious he nearly drew his swords right then and there. For a second. Then—he stared at Infinitypear and Rasktooth, who had a clawed hand on his dagger.

And the spear. The spear Relc had given Infinitypear and the Worker was holding across his chest. Klbkch looked at the duo—and something in his brain seemed to—click.

A duo. One with green skin, the other with bug-shell. Not green scales—but close enough. Klbkch calmed down as the new chemistry in his body put him into an ice-cold, reflexive state. The Silent Queen’s adjustments.

But he was still Klbkchhezeim of the Centenium. He always had been, though the body changed. And when Infinitypear said that…

Slowly, Klbkch sat down. He adjusted his papers, filed most of the finished ones, and picked up the glass of water. He sipped, took a bite of the bread, and then spoke as Infinitypear and Rasktooth watched him.

“You are incorrect, Infinitypear. I am quite familiar with the role of an [Adventurer]. Your ignorance is forgiven, because this knowledge could not possibly be rendered to you.”

Rasktooth poked the Worker’s shoulder and whispered to Infinitypear.

“He rude.”

Klbkch ignored that. He turned to the dirt wall behind him, upon which was tacked a map of Izril. He stared at it—and imagined a place far from Izril. A continent more deadly, and a land with no sun where even light sometimes vanished.

He felt as he had when he spoke to Anand and indulged the feeling rather than put it away. After all—he had time.

“…When I was first created by the First Queen of the Antinium, at the dawn of our species from the wild species we had been, she gave me my name. Klbkchhezeim. I was one of the first Centenium created. Eighth. Two had already fallen, and my role was to be independent. She designed my body to go for weeks alone—I stalked through the areas around the Hives, slaying foes. Hence my name. When new areas opened, I was the first Antinium there. I encountered magic and other creatures and learned how to deal with both.”

Rasktooth and Infinitypear—and the Workers and Soldiers outside Klbkch’s door, which was open a crack—looked at each other. Infinitypear raised a hand timidly.

“You were the eighth Centenium ever made, Revalantor Klbkch? Were Centenium Xrn and Wrymvr before you?”

“Them? Ha. Ha. Hahahahahahahaha.

Klbkch laughed like Relc and Erin did and felt like he was getting the hang of it. He looked over his shoulder.

“No. Xrn was created with the greatest achievements of the First Queen, at the end of the hundred Centenium she ever made. Wrymvr is older, but his eternal regeneration and Xrn’s magic were products of the culmination of her knowledge. He is among the oldest—but the first ten Centenium were made slowly, each one taking an age to be created. More Centenium appeared later as the Hives grew.”

“Oh. So you’re a big brother.”

Rasktooth happily replied. Klbkch…stared at him. The Goblin looked uncertain until Klbkch hesitated.

“That is not how Antinium view such things. But functionally—would that confer some degree of authority over those two?”

“Yep.”

Intriguing.

Klbkch turned around again and decided to remember that. He went on, though, indulging himself in old memories.

“There would be years when I did not see another Antinium—before we expanded. With naught but my blades, I cut down threat after threat. I was one of two Antinium to learn the art of swords and teach it to the others. You see, Antinium learned all these things and adapted, grew. The swords I bear are borne of that knowledge, and they, like my body, were refined by True Antinium techniques.”

“You taught Antinium things?”

True Antinium—of course. I would instruct War Queens and the greatest Antinium how to fight in combat. My role changed. As we delved deeper, grew to know what lay above and beyond, the Antinium Hives grew more powerful.”

“How long ago was this?”

Rasktooth waved a hand because he felt like this was pertinent information. Klbkch hesitated.

“We did not count time in the Hives in the same way, having no days or nights to mark it. By your standards, by estimations…the Creler Wars were six thousand years ago. The Hives had already been expanding, powerful by then. But we unearthed them—or rather, they were unleashed upon us. I remember that. So we are older still.”

Rasktooth’s mouth fell open, and he pointed at Infinitypear. You never said! But Infinitypear had not known.

“You’re really old, then?”

The Worker tried. Klbkch turned his head.

“The body has changed. I have not. My blades have changed. I have not. I remember different eras. I taught Mirrex the Bard the art of swordsmanship when he was made. I was old, then. I have seen the death of the First Queen. I was at the dawn of the Antinium.”

The Goblin and Antinium sat there, entranced, as Klbkch continued. He touched the swords at his sides.

“Adventuring is lonely. It is a journey into the unknown, knowing you might not come back. There is a joy to it, such as finding a species that bears no hostility to you. I once delved into the waters surrounding Rhir and nearly drowned. I sank into a nest where…”

Where the deep waters seemed to glow with rays of light that reached down even here. He was drowning, sinking—but it was a beautiful way to die.

It would take him long, for neither the pressure nor the lack of air could kill him so fast. Klbkchhezeim sank past a strand of…some great plant, so huge that it could shelter hundreds of Antinium upon one broad blade. And underneath, trapped in some bubble of air, was a hanging ecosystem of its own.

A kind of land under the plant’s broad aegis. He could not reach it—and the Centenium saw broad bulbs he thought to be infection or eggs upon the plant. Until he realized they were giant…beings with shells. They poked their heads out, and he felt a mind of such complexity only the First Queen could match them.

Then—his fall into the depths slowed, and the rays of light twisted as the curious beings down there sensed his drowning. And they lifted him up—and he encountered the first ally of Antinium.

 

——

 

“They were the ones who taught the Antinium to master their control of minds and form the Unitasis Network.”

Klbkch turned his head and saw the two [Adventurers] staring at him—and a crowd of Workers and Soldiers peeking through the door. They fled when he stared at them.

“What happened to them?”

Rasktooth’s voice was quiet, awed.

“They fled the Crelers when they first emerged. A peaceful people. No doubt as strange to the rest of the world as we are to them. That is what it means to be an adventurer. That was the lesson I learned as well—to walk with blade in hand, but to look into the mysteries I found. Wisdom and blade. Not everything must die. Nor is what is strange a threat.”

He missed those days, he remembered. When it was simpler. When the First Queen was alive, and he…he wondered what the rest of the world looked like.

When he first saw the sky—how long ago was that? When the First Queen herself stood upon the land and met the one who called himself a ‘Demon’ of Rhir.

An age passed, and he had no eyes to blink. So he saw it all. Then Klbkch looked at Infinitypear and Rasktooth.

[Adventurers].

“I want to see that.”

Infinitypear stared at the images that Klbkch had conjured. Rasktooth was nodding. The little Worker patted his knees excitedly as he rocked in his chair.

“We can go in the water. I will learn to hold my breath or swim. But it is far. And we cannot buy a hat. And we have to have a job.”

His antennae drooped, and Klbkch looked at him. Slowly, the Revalantor sat back down.

“Indeed. You have no body made by the First Queen. The magic of Drakes and other people is some small replacement, but only Relics would match the might of Centenium. Nor do you have my levels. I was Level 40 in one class and decently strong in another. And that, despite the inefficiency, places me above Named-ranks of this era with my body of old. For my body was a work of art on its own.”

The Worker and Cave Goblin looked at Klbkch. It sounded like he was telling them how hopeless their dream was…but something was different from his brusqueness of earlier.

“You would have to begin from the first point. Find artifacts, level. Learn the lessons you do not know. You hold that spear without mastery, Infinitypear. And Rasktooth cannot walk.”

“I can carry him.”

Klbkch was writing. His pen gently scritched on the parchment.

“Of course you can try. But even I did not always go alone. In these days, adventuring seldom comes with the class. Yet—they too know some of it. Adventurers often operate in teams of more than two. And only one Antinium and one Goblin have ever become adventurers. Numbtongue’s rank is more of a formality, so I exclude him.”

Rasktooth exchanged a quick glance with Infinitypear. Klkbch kept writing, and now he was doing sums.

“It is not inexpensive to become an adventurer. Their initial startup is compounded by the cost of healing, transport. To the Hive, they are a risky proposal which often loses money. Which ends in death. Knowing that—would you two still pursue that class?”

“Yes.”

“Yah.”

“I changed my answer. Yah. Yah.”

The Goblin and Antinium smiled at each other. Klbkch looked up reprovingly, and they stopped, but then he nodded. He finished writing.

“Very well.”

Hmm? They looked at him blankly. He said it as if something were decided. Klbkch lifted the piece of parchment up.

“I will consider that a plan of action. The complications abound—but if Guildmistress Tekshia accepts your position as Bronze-rank adventurers, the Hive will allocate a budget to your team. Miss Solstice will no doubt have thoughts. If you manage to party with other adventurers or complete requests or clear areas, monetary rewards and assistance from the Hive may be permitted.”

He showed them the piece of paper, and Infinitypear and Rasktooth saw that Klbkch had written in the Goblin’s name and levels below Infinitypear’s. They looked at each other.

“Bronze-rank adventurers?”

Klbkch had no eyebrows, so he raised one antennae instead.

“That is what you are intending, isn’t it?”

The duo sat there, and suddenly, it all made sense. But could they do that? Were they allowed?

Klbkch didn’t know. They might be hunted the moment they left Liscor—but he had been hunted too. If they wanted it…

Rasktooth grinned first, a mouthful of teeth, then Infinitypear lifted his mandibles. Klbkch did not smile, but he nodded.

“It seems all is in order. Next. Ah—wait, one more thing.”

He halted the pair as they rose. The two looked back warily, and Klbkch lifted another piece of paper and read from the notes Pawn and Xrn had given him.

“Before you go, ‘have I offered you a helpful and useful service today? Did I at any time make you feel uncomfortable or afraid?’”

The Goblin and Antinium traded glances. Rasktooth answered for Infinitypear.

“You scary.”

Klbkch filled in the form and noted how most of the answers seemed to congregate on one side of the little chart. He steepled his hands.

“I see. Dismissed. Next!

The data pointed one way, and Klbkch calmly ignored it. It was just data. He felt more content after speaking with the duo, though. And life was not eternally hard.

Relc was waiting for him after this, and the two had agreed to visit an Adventure Room, whatever that was, if Zevara didn’t need them on-duty at all times. Besides…Klbkch saw the door open, and he perked up.

“Ah. You.”

He knew the timid Antinium who froze as he saw Klbkch, but the Revalantor motioned him into a chair, even pulled it out for him.

“Would you like a glass of water? Sustenance?”

He had been waiting for this Individual for the last four days. The nervous figure shivered—but Klbkch just sat back down eagerly.

“I have had eighty-two complaints about you. And I note your position is highly contentious within the Free Hive. I understand your job makes other Workers and Soldiers upset. Let us discuss a budget…Furfur.

He smiled as the Worker perked up a bit. Klbkch had broad discretionary powers that Xrn and Pawn had given him. He intended to use them.

Purely for the betterment of the Hive, of course.

 

——

 

The Wandering Inn rose for a new day with more alacrity than before. It wasn’t that things were happening. Things were always happening.

But there was a sharpness in the air that had Ishkr polishing the bar tops by the time Liska raced in. The Gnoll clutched at her side.

“I…I ran here. You were still putting on your shoes!”

“Too slow.”

Ishkr looked at his younger sister, and her eyes narrowed.

“Oh, are we doing this? You want to do this, Ishkr?”

“I don’t know what ‘this’ is. I’m just doing my job.”

“I’ll do it alright. I’m on to you.”

Ishkr rolled his eyes, but Liska glowered—until Ishkr nodded at the door.

“Get ready for the Haven’s guests.”

“I know, I know.”

She stomped off since she could already sense Colth and the others waiting. However, Ishkr called out to her.

“If you see Barnethei—the other [Innkeeper]? Colorful coat, sometimes a hat? Don’t let him through.”

She turned, surprised by the injunction.

“Why?”

Ishkr grimaced.

“He’s troublesome. Hopefully he just stays away this time.”

That was background, of course. By the time Lyonette came downstairs, the two siblings were already moving around Goblins and Antinium showing up to work. Peggy was dragging Inkpaper out of Erin’s new, and tiny, library.

Gothica was being evicted from her cellar hideout by an Antinium called Rosencrantz. And yes…there was no Guildenstern. No one had volunteered to make it a duo act.

It was a good morning for most—even if everyone seemed to be waiting for Erin Solstice to show up. She had pulled big, big moves off last night, and the Thronebearers looked like they had all been sucker-punched. Even the inn’s family, who felt they should have known better…

Well, Mrsha had gone back to her old ways and put on a huge fake mustache, and she sat at the breakfast table with her paws folded. Mrsha the Godfather…the Godmother? Mrsha the Bad Guy sat there until Bird took her mustache.

“That belongs to Silverstache. Shame on you.”

Yet Erin did not immediately appear. Even as Grimalkin showed up and nodded to Nanette, who was feeding Nerry, the Sariant Lamb namesake glanced up and frowned with her cute little face.

She wondered what Erin was dreaming about when she’d peeked into the [Innkeeper]’s room. It sounded like a bad dream.

 

——

 

A hand patted Erin Solstice on the head. A beaming face smiled at her, and her mask was simply her face, painted with so many delicate layers of color that moved and shifted with affection, like a piece of living art.

“Well done, my little [Innkeeper]. My tyrant-to-be.”

Erin Solstice took a swing, and Nerrhavia glided back. She was a ghost, applauding Erin lightly, swinging forwards to seize her hands in an all-too-real grip.

Stop showing up in my dreams!

“Make me.”

She was taunting Erin. Why? This wasn’t Nerrhavia. At least—well, it was. She annoyed Queen Merindue to no end, and she was petty and spiteful, but why—

Nerrhavia!

 

——

 

Erin punched forwards, out of her bed, and landed in a tangle of flailing limbs and sheets. She rolled around—then realized she was tangled up.

“Uh.”

“Miss Solstice? Everything alright? Can I come in?”

“I’m decent! Just—can you get me out of this?”

Normen the [Knight] opened the door to find Erin being slowly strangled by her sheets. The [Innkeeper] was glaring as the Brother hesitated. But all Erin said was—

“Bad dreams. Hey, can you hand me that little wicker bird on the dresser? Oh, and my knife. Is Grimalkin below?”

“Yes, Miss Solstice.”

“Good! I’m taking him and Tessa. I’ll be back late. Mrsha can come with Nanette if they want.”

Today…was a day of reckoning. Erin stared at the ceiling, like a cloth sausage, as Normen untangled the sheets.

 

——

 

“Deni.”

“Colth, Eld. Morning.”

“Deni.”

He ignored her until Mihaela put him into a headlock. The Violinist broke free and snapped.

This is not the time, Mihaela.

“Well, say hello to me. Are you still mad about that [Innkeeper]’s trick?”

Mihaela had heard everything. Not that she’d seen the fun—she had been auditing Invrisil’s Runner’s Guild—and Celum’s. She’d heard some bad practices had cropped up. Like the Wind Runner getting her legs crushed by hostile runners?

Like Ryoka or not, a Runner’s Guild had to have principles. And Mihaela did actually do her job. Garia Strongheart had been there to see her gently dispense wisdom.

Mihaela dispensing wisdom was kicking a hole through the [Receptionist]’s counter and asking where the old Guildmaster lived. Then she tested all the City Runners who thought they were Couriers.

However, she was sorry to have missed the Albez dig, if for no other reason than she could have halted the thefts. In truth, Mihaela was on Deni’s side.

But what an odd move from Erin Solstice. No one had described her being quite that underhanded. Even Larra seemed taken aback.

Deniusth was not happy. Nor were most of the adventurers, but Deni was the one to watch. He was—impulsive.

“You’re going to take on Facestealer? Let me know when. I’ll warm up—and I need to borrow Larra’s healing beds if I’m going to move about.”

Mihaela coughed. She’d take a double-dose of her tonic. Colth nodded, and Eldertuin looked around.

“I’ll find Valley. Knowing her, she’s forgotten—oh, wait, there she is.”

Valeterisa emerged from her suite, practically being pushed out the door by the young [Mage], Montressa, who bowed, flustered, to the group of friends. Even Deni was astonished by a dressed and somewhat cognizant Valeterisa.

“That girl is good for Valeterisa. Who would have known? I would have thought any of her apprentices would starve to death when Valley locked them in a broom closet and forgot.”

“Bad joke, Deni.”

His glower returned. The Violinist began walking down the hallway, and he answered Mihaela curtly.

“I’m going to kill this ‘Face Stealer’ or whatever it is since Colth is calling in a favor. Why not? If I get a cut of whatever loot we find from this Stalker-corpse—well, I’ll do it for gold because I remember my debts. I’ll even be polite to Erin Solstice. For now.”

Mihaela glanced at Colth. He was looking more serious today than ever, which made her feel like stretching and getting ready. Colth didn’t take things lightly. But Deni’s words were too ominous to let go.

“Deni—she played like a Reinhart, it’s true, but you did murder a few adventurers.”

Thieves. She let them go, and now she’s trying to pay us back with our own treasure!”

“I know. I’m just saying, don’t fight with her. She’s backed by two Named-ranks on her own, and this isn’t the point. The New Lands are.”

The Violinist glared at Mihaela.

“Orchestra won’t forget this. Nor will any of the teams. Larra wanted to make peace? Well, Erin Solstice has earned a grudge, and I—”

His rant was cut short as Colth turned and, unexpectedly, grabbed Deni’s arm. His sword-arm, his playing arm.

“Deni, do me another favor. I have at least two. Erin? The inn? Drop it.”

“Let go of me, Colth.”

Deni jerked away as his team emerged from their rooms. Mihaela saw Colth’s grip tighten, and Deni stiffened in surprise. Colth leaned over, and his usual friendly demeanor and obsequious attitude…

Drop. It. We have a job to do.”

He let go, and a long silence followed as Mihaela eyed Colth. That was—Deni yanked himself away and stared at Colth along with everyone else. Valeterisa looked up and murmured.

“Now Colth is bullying Deni. How the times have changed.”

Strange things. Mihaela excused herself and walked off to prepare as the adventurers began to head to The Wandering Inn. She wondered what was up with Colth. Then again—he was younger, he was at the prime of his adventuring, and he might just like Erin Solstice. Or the Horns.

Or maybe he had a goal that was different from the others. They were all adults. They had their problems. Mihaela sighed as she began to stretch. If there was one thing that united them—it was a purpose.

Monsters died.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice was, perhaps tactfully, not at the inn by the time the adventurers began to muster up. Breakfast was laid out, and the Horns were ready—although they were not the principal actors here.

Ylawes Byres was just grateful for a nice bed and wash after a few days of camping at Albez. Of course, Orchestra had actually had a shower in their magical accommodations, but he had been camping.

Once more, though—Ylawes Byres was not at the center of this adventure. He accepted it this time with better grace. He hadn’t been chosen.

Falene was on a shortlist, and Dawil had been—until Colth learned his axe was broken. Ylawes had not been on any list, anywhere.

The Horns were included, all four of them, even if Ksmvr and Yvlon would be getting supporting roles at best, and Pisces and Ceria were only there to fuel spells. Colth was not apologetic about any of it.

“I want top Gold-rankers only in our specialist slots. Every [Rogue] we can get and some lineholders—but the rest will just clutter our attempts. No Silver-ranks. No gawkers at the pits, no one goes down. This is a Named-rank mission, and if anyone fouls us up, I’ll call the Adventurer’s Guild down on their heads, got it?”

The Ultimate Supporter was in his element, and he had maps and fallbacks. Ylawes listened for a while and then went over to find Vuliel Drae and Nailren’s team.

“Good morning, you all. Are you staying here?”

Insill waved at him, and the Silver-rankers smiled but were subdued.

“Well, no one’s entering the dungeon. We thought we’d rest a bit—not that we did much at Albez. Hunt Shield Spiders, maybe.”

“There’s a job working for Menolit’s adventuring group. Just saving idiots who run into Hollowstone Deceivers.”

Nailren was debating it, and Ylawes looked at them. Now that the chance for treasure was done, they were back to being Silver-ranks. Straining to get to the next level, for their big break.

He…knew how they felt. Ylawes pulled up a chair as Falene walked away from the planning.

“I am not needed, Ylawes. Hello, Anith, Nailren, everyone.”

She looked annoyed as Dawil sat with more equanimity than the others.

“Can’t fault Colth, Falene. I guess we’re staying to see if they pull it off—then to the north?”

“House Byres, Dwarfhalls Rest—then we’ll see about these new lands.”

Nailren glanced up as Ylawes agreed.

“You are going too, Captain Ylawes?”

“After a visit to my home. And the new Dwarven settlement.”

“I forgot Erin’s door makes it so easy…hrr. Buying some good gear there might make the difference. Maybe I should visit.”

“Dwarfsteel? We could use our haul from the Village of the Dead raid and gear us up, Anith.”

Dasha nodded. It was a good compromise, Ylawes knew. If you couldn’t afford enchanted gear, Dwarfsteel or other high-quality weapons were excellent stopgaps. He had been hoping they could reinforce his armor, himself.

“What if we went with you to Dwarfhall’s Rest, Captain Ylawes? If you’re going.”

“If you’d like, I could invite you to House Byres too. We welcome guests.”

The Silver-ranks perked up at this. Ylawes thought it would be a nice break from all the drama he’d been engulfed in. They were tentatively making plans, but all eyes were on Colth and his crew. They wouldn’t be able to see what happened when Colth left, but Ylawes Byres felt a pang.

It’s really not a place for the Silver Swords, is it? He had felt like they were the premier Gold-rank team taking on challenges no one else would, even if that were arrogance. Now? He felt like a Bronze-ranker again. But perhaps that was fine. After what he’d seen at Albez, Ylawes would frankly admit that he had no desire to team up with Deniusth or even most of the northern teams, even if Eldertuin hadn’t been as culpable as the others.

This was their battle.

So where was his?

 

——

 

Erin Solstice walked along Invrisil, humming. She had a knife at her belt, two acid jars in her bag of holding, and she’d taken a backup wand too. Mrsha swaggered along next to her with her kilt—red today—and her own wand in her holster.

Nanette had a wand too, but she refused to brandish it. She was counting her allowance that Lyonette had given her.

Are you sure it’s alright to give me so many coins?

She had been dismayed by the amount of money, but Lyonette had told her to buy as many books as she wanted—for the inn would use them too! The spoiling of Nanette had begun—but Erin had a task before going to the bookshop again.

The three dangerous women of various ages…were not what was clearing some of the pedestrians in front of them. Mrsha’s swagger actually decreased her walking speed, so she kept having Grimalkin nearly walk into her.

“Mrsha, please walk faster.”

The Sinew Magus didn’t look as ‘tough’, but he was surveying the street and Erin’s moving bird-charm. The little Gnoll glanced up and decided he could swagger for both.

Watching Grimalkin walk was an exercise in anatomy. It always was. He made even the biggest people look twice, and the Sinew Magus wasn’t even the most dangerous person in the group.

Tessa, fully visible, had both hands on her daggers. The scarred Drake was so menacing that half the criminals who saw her decided today was a day of rest. A peaceful holiday.

“Tessa, you don’t have to glare and hold your daggers.”

The Named-rank replied out of the corner of her mouth.

“This is my first big job. You told me there might be danger.”

“Yeah, but—I don’t actually know how much. Don’t hold the daggers, please?”

“Mm.”

Shriekblade let go of her daggers, but she stared so hard at a little baby in a stroller the baby stopped crying and played dead. They were on the hunt for Nerrhavia’s curse upon Erin.

…However, once more, Erin felt like they were going in circles. She cursed as they came to a street, and everyone looked at the little wicker bird tugging left.

“Hey. This is like—a nearly complete circle.”

“One more left and it will be. Perhaps we should speed up?”

The swagger-speed intensified, and Erin hurried down the street…only for the frantically-tugging bird to suddenly go still.

Damn.

Mrsha nodded at the bad language. Erin was too annoyed to not curse.

“This is just like last time! Is it someone running away from us?”

“I don’t think so, Miss Solstice. Or else the bird would tell us to keep going. I think something is vanishing. May I see the charm?”

Nanette peered at the little bird as Grimalkin and Tessa looked around. The [Rogue] actually leapt into the crowd, vanishing, and came back to report.

“I didn’t sense anyone. They’re either higher-level than me or it’s something else.”

“I think…we’re falling behind whatever it is. Or we’re being deliberately kept away.”

Erin Solstice growled.

“Sounds about right.”

“Who are we up against, Miss Solstice?”

Grimalkin lifted a claw as she hesitated.

“If it is secret, don’t mind me. But it might be helpful to know what we are trying to accomplish.”

He was being—careful. Polite. Erin sighed.

“Grimalkin, of all the questions I think it’d be bad to answer—this is one of them. Let’s keep going.”

The bird would reactivate soon, if yesterday and today were any indications. Grimalkin nodded, and they walked on. Mrsha pointed at a stall selling roasted chestnuts and tugged Nanette over. Erin stopped so they could buy some.

“Get some for Tessa! So…not going to ask, Grimalkin?”

She looked at him. The Sinew Magus was so loudly not asking anything she could hear it. But the Drake coughed.

“I—am trying to be a good friend of the inn, Erin. Of yours. It occurs to me that pressing you at every opportunity has been unwise and unkind.”

“Sometimes I deserve it. You didn’t even talk about me doing the Albez thing.”

He shrugged fractionally.

“Frankly—that was the kind of thing I would have advocated for. Because you did it…you had to have good reasons.”

He gave Erin a long look, and she appreciated that he got it. Erin scuffed at the ground.

“Yeah. No excuses. I did it because I thought I should. It definitely wasn’t nice.”

She waited, but the Sinew Magus just nodded.

“What else is there to say? I have noted your <Quests>. I imagine everyone has asked you about that. I—I do respect your privacy, Erin. I have theories, of course, but I will not attempt to force you to answer them.”

He seemed awkward, and the [Innkeeper] glanced up at him as Tessa tapped a young woman with a crystal hand on the shoulder. Well, she didn’t look like she had a crystal hand—or that she was right behind Erin until Tessa grabbed her.

“Get lost. Try it again and you bleed out.”

Erin and Grimalkin turned as someone fled. The [Innkeeper] looked up at Grimalkin and smiled faintly.

“Lay it on me.”

The Sinew Magus hesitated. He spoke as he watched Mrsha pointing at the chestnuts she wanted.

“—These are not questions, but my line of thinking. When I heard you posted a <Mythical Quest>, after I ascertained the phenomenon and the legitimacy, of course, I had a few thoughts. I won’t ask how you know how to post it. Or why it mirrors established <Contract> Skills and rare Skills of that nature. However—I considered the psychology.”

Tessa was already lost, so she decided to ignore Grimalkin, but Erin listened as the Magus lifted a few claws.

“You, Erin Solstice, do not act without foresight. Some might think that was simply a way to show off or—thoughtless. I do not. Why post a <Quest> to find the City of Stars? And why post a secondary quest to find the Crossroads of Izril? The two are certainly related. But it must be that this will be a net boon to all.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

The Sinew Magus watched her out of the corner of his eyes.

“Yes. But my theory was this. If we must find these two places for whatever they bring—why did Chaldion not bring this up to me? Or, to my knowledge, the Assembly of Crafts? They are disturbed about the Meeting of Tribes, the new lands, Khelt—but I do not hear of any Walled City cooperative actions aside from securing the new lands.”

“Huh. Are you sure you can tell me that?”

Grimalkin shrugged and grunted.

“This is not a secret. And you yourself, Erin, are pushing adventurers and people to the new lands. As if much of what we need to find is there. However, I do not hear of Grand Strategist Chaldion pressing Fissival for access to their Grand Librarium. I do not hear Luciva convening me or any other Drakes to form an inquiry group.”

“What’d they inquire about?”

Mrsha and Nanette came back and shared the hot food around. Grimalkin accepted a chestnut but didn’t eat. He glanced at Erin’s blank expression.

“Why, the legitimacy of these crossroads ever existing, of course. The City of Stars does have them agitated—but Wall Lord Dragial has been looking into that for decades, and whatever he found is likely collated. But the Crossroads of Izril? Erin. I know you. I believe in the <Quests>. But if I did not, I would first verify it even existed. That Chaldion, the leaders of the Walled Cities have not? That implies they know it exists. That the Wall Lords and Ladies are entirely aware of where or what it was—and how it was lost. Perhaps, that the access to this place was deliberately lost—or at least that records exist of why they are no longer used.”

This was the theory he had come up with. An exercise in logical reasoning. Grimalkin could not press Chaldion on it, but he saw Erin Solstice’s blank expression change.

She…smiled. A huge, beaming smile, and he knew she let him read her expression. But Erin Solstice’s eyes twinkled as she shrugged.

“I dunno about all that. But what does that mean?”

Grimalkin surprised her with a smile of his own.

“In that case—the question is not whether these Crossroads exist—it is how they are accessed. And if the Walled Cities are focusing on the new lands, it may be that they are hoping to find a route in. That answers some of my questions, Miss Solstice.”

“I heard it’s easier than that—there are ways even now. But it’ll be dangerous. What would you do then?”

Grimalkin pondered the question as Erin checked her bird, and they resumed walking.

“Form an appropriate group.”

“With Pallass?”

“No.”

This time, Erin did turn her head, and Grimalkin exhaled.

“No…I can fund a group and source—allies. Like-minded individuals. But I do not think Pallass is—appropriate. I’ll have to see how much I can afford to spend. If Chaldion requests my aid, that is one thing. But if this were a Drake matter, why would you post this as an open quest and not the personal quests I know you can give? What will we find? Will it break the Walled Cities or…is it the search that matters?”

He looked at her, and Erin spoke ahead of his thoughts.

“Are you leaving Pallass?”

The Sinew Magus turned his head. Ask a question, get a question—he took a deep breath and looked around Invrisil, a good city, a fine city—but a foreign one to him. Yet he thought of Pallass, and the words came deep from within his chest.

“…I have been a loyal citizen of Pallass all my days. Fought for it and supported it as best I could. Until now—I began to have questions. It was not until I saw him there, General Sserys, when I realized I was no son of the walls. Yet it is my city. And yet—even if I thought it best to take a remove, my fortunes and influence are bound up in Pallass. I am a magus alone without it, and I did not realize that until recently. Besides, where would I go? Fissival?

They both laughed at that. Yet Grimalkin felt raw—and he also felt relieved. His conclusion was not the same as Valeterisa’s. There was a chance—but not under the Cyclops alone.

He was not Pallass. But did he remember that? Did the city? Erin glanced at Grimalkin, then sighed as she stared ahead and came to a stop.

“Maybe what you need, Grimalkin, isn’t to leave. Maybe you just need a different kind of ally.”

“Such as?”

He looked at her until he realized Erin wasn’t staring at Grimalkin at all. The [Innkeeper] rolled her eyes. Then, and only then, Grimalkin felt a pressure in the air. A weight on his shoulders. His head rose, and Mrsha dropped her bag of chestnuts.

Oh. Oh! It’s you?

She made fists with her paws and glared down the street. The crowds of citizens had thinned out—as if they couldn’t stand in this particular area. Grimalkin’s head turned—and one person flanked by her own escort stood there.

Chest puffed out, looking down at Mrsha and her friends. All the arrogance in the world in those glittering eyes.

Oh? Oho. Are you approaching me? Mrsha spread her paws and slapped her chest. She stared down the other figure walking their way—and the air began to get really heavy. Mrsha felt her arms and legs grow heavy.

Are you approaching—wait a second, she’s sort of scary.

Mrsha backed up, and Nanette was already behind Erin. The two girls stared as the blonde woman stalked forwards, wearing a bright tracksuit. And showing off a lot of muscle.

Erin, Tessa, and Grimalkin held their ground. Erin felt the other aura press at her—overpowering, inflated.

Pure ego. She pushed it back, but the weight of it made Grimalkin shift. It was vanity, it was self-confidence and assurance—

It was Pryde.

She walked like she was the center of the world—and she was certainly the center of attention on the street. House Ulva’s guard stood behind her, showing off some impressive biceps. Pryde herself was just like Erin remembered.

Bobcut hair, blonde, and imperious as could be. Unlike Bethal or Wuvren or Magnolia herself, Pryde did not act like a [Lady]. But she was one, a different kind.

“There you are.”

ゴゴゴゴ. It was like a ‘dun-dun-dun’ sound in the air, the beating of blood in your ears.

The [Lady] approached as Grimalkin blinked at her. Pryde came to a halt as she glanced at Tessa, then stared down at Erin.

“The [Innkeeper] and Magus Grimalkin. I’ve been searching for you two. My. What trouble you cause. Erin Solstice.”

“Hey, Lady Pryde. What’s up with the aura? You’re scaring Nanette and Mrsha.”

Erin was forcing the [Lady]’s aura back around her, and Pryde raised her brows.

“This? My apologies. I barely notice it. Magus—I see you’ve failed to improve since the last time we met. I, on the other hand, have taken your lessons to heart. You have my thanks.”

She indicated her physique, and Erin had to admit—Pryde had gained a lot of muscle since the last time she’d come to the inn. It wasn’t as pronounced as Grimalkin’s, but it was definitely there.

Mrsha stared up at the Lady of House Ulva. This was the woman who kept competing with Grimalkin? This was what happened if you lifted those smelly weights all day?

No wonder Normen and Alcaz and Numbtongue liked that place so much. She should go there with Visma more often.

Pryde stepped forwards, and Mrsha waited for Grimalkin to attack back. Flex on her! Throw her into a building! Use your muscle power!

But the Sinew Magus seemed—taken aback. He blinked at Lady Pryde.

“Lady Pryde. You look—what an incredible display of physical conditioning. Over a few months? You must have added a third to your weight, and are your muscles adding to your aura? It feels sharper. Your training records—I have to thank you. My initiatives would have had no ground without your help.”

He held out a claw, and Pryde’s superior expression—changed to one of dismay. But she rallied and accepted his claw. She squeezed, and the Sinew Magus grunted.

“What grip strength.”

“Impressed?”

“Yes, very! What do you do to work out your hands? Squeezing balls of clay or sand was what I suggested, but this is commendable.

Again, Erin saw Pryde flounder. The [Lady]’s face went slack for a second, and she stared at Grimalkin. Nanette covered a giggle and hid behind Erin as the Sinew Magus admired Pryde’s…sinews.

“Well. It seems I have yet to overtake the strongest [Mage] in Pallass. I do—use a magicore ball to squeeze. I managed to actually tear the leather ones.”

Magicore. Genius. You know, the Yoldenites infuse their helmets with magicore, giving it that amazing durability to blows—”

The [Lady] saw the Drake’s eyes light up, and he fished out a notepad at once. She looked over, and her escort approached, seeming more wary of Tessa and Grimalkin than anyone else. Erin Solstice beamed as Pryde turned her haughty glare on her.

“Erin Solstice. You’ve been causing trouble. I commend you on the style of it, though. Your chess tournament…done well.”

She nodded, and Erin realized that Pryde had doubtless watched it. The [Lady] was not someone Erin historically liked—for her attitude or her actions—but the [Innkeeper] was warming to her faster than a kettle on the stove.

Especially because Pryde kept glancing at Grimalkin as he wrote.

“Your House Ulva statistics are exceptional, Lady Pryde.”

“Yes! We passed your Pallassian elites more often than not.”

“Of course. The competition was fierce—and rewarding.”

“It—was. A battle House Ulva won.

“Absolutely, and it has provoked the Walled Cities to continue matching your own prowess. Are these your finest…? Of course, I recognize that amazing pectoral display. Is this the record-holder for the bench-press? I would be honored, Lady Pryde, if you would come to Pallass and give a lecture to my students and [Soldiers].”

“Lecture…?”

She had clearly been expecting this encounter to go another way. Erin looked at Grimalkin with delight—then Pryde with actual sympathy. She coughed, and Grimalkin blinked at her.

“Maybe later, Grimalkin? But it’s great you know each other.”

Grimalkin started. He looked at Pryde, then seemed to recall she was not just a weight-lifter, but a [Lady] of the North. He stiffened—then blushed.

“Of course. I—was simply so used to our correspondence and the ongoing competition that I—Lady Pryde of House Ulva. My thanks as Sinew Magus of Pallass.”

He coughed, and Pryde rallied so fast that Erin Solstice was impressed despite herself. Her chin came up, and she folded her arms.

“Thanks, Sinew Magus? Odd words for someone who pioneered your theory of physical fitness. I would imagine shame at failing to improve would be more appropriate.”

Then, and only then, Grimalkin seemed to realize what she was implying. He drew himself up slowly and glanced at her—and her impressive guards. But they were eying him askance because for all Erin now felt like she was in a room with a bunch of bodybuilders, the Drake had them all beat.

“Shame…? I have yet to see my own efforts passed, Lady Pryde. Your actions and efforts are commendable. Give it a year or two, and we’ll see if you can continue your regimens.”

“My growth is extraordinary and won’t cease. You, on the other hand, Magus, have barely recovered from your admittedly exemplary battle with the Wyverns.”

“I thank you for noticing, Lady Pryde. And your notes to that effect were well taken. I note my recovery was extraordinarily fast—and as I have stated, more muscle would not be advantageous. Your escort looks incredibly fit. Can they use all their muscles in battle? Perhaps that would be wise before attempting to reach my stature.”

Mrsha stared between Pryde and Grimalkin as the two finally began to square off. She tried to flex her own chest and arms and pulled her back. Erin? Erin looked at Pryde, Grimalkin, and thought she sensed a teensy, tiny bit of regret as Pryde sneered at him. So the [Innkeeper] reached out—and grabbed their arms.

“Great! You two know each other. Lady Pryde, Grimalkin, this is Nanette, Mrsha, and Tessa. We’re going shopping and hunting for something. Want to come with?”

Lady Pryde Ulva recoiled as Grimalkin looked at her. The [Lady]’s offended look grew.

Me?

“Well, if you want to talk to Grimalkin—why not? I’m sure you have lots to discuss. And you probably know Invrisil.”

“I do—I suppose I have time. I was intending to visit Pallass anyways. Very well. Who is…ah, the white Gnoll child. And this young woman?”

Pryde noticed Nanette, Tessa, and Mrsha, and somehow, in between accepting a card from Mrsha and letting Nanette shake her hand—she looked around.

“Wait. Where are we going?”

“Uh—hunting for a curse. You do know where we are, right?”

“Oh, of course. I know where all the shops are. We—what was that?”

Lady Pryde blinked at Erin and the bird on her finger. Then she was motioning her escort to fan out, and Magus Grimalkin, prompted by Nanette, held up the bag of chestnuts.

“A healthy snack, Lady Pryde? Do you have a dietary regime your group uses?”

He offered her a chestnut. The [Lady] stared at it, then accepted it and coughed.

“I actually do. A kind of blended drink. Wuvren, Lady Wuvren, enjoys them, so I concocted my own of healthy, plant-based foods and some other ingredients—it is a huge hit in House Ulva. Many different recipes, and I am discussing selling it in restaurants or some other method. You, bring out one of the Ulva Shakes for Magus Grimalkin and company.”

One of her escort dashed back to her carriage and a cooling box, and Erin Solstice turned her head in horror.

No. Not the health smoothies! I didn’t do it! I deliberately never even mentioned them! I didn’t—

She flung up her arms, but it was too late. Ryoka was right! Ryoka was—

 

——

 

It was a search for a moving target. In Invrisil and also below.

Snatcher was roaming the dungeon, angry, angry, angry. It was thinking of how to kill them.

The building with sanctuary in it.

The adventurer. The [Necromancers]. They all had to die. But when? How?

By night, through the earth? With armies in tow? Snatcher—it had been a long time since it had to think like this. It was all one task now.

Guard Mother. Guard Mother…and it had not seen her for a long time. That was what everyone here did.

But they…they would die. It would not wait here any longer, a guardian to Mother.

How to get them, though? They were dangerous—they had Mershi’s Blade on their side.

Yet they hurt it little. Only hide. They were quick—adventurers were always quick.

If Skinner were here, or Stalker, it would be easier. The irony that Snatcher had killed Stalker…did not really occur to it.

Skinner could have led an army of armies. That was his role. But he had shrunk with age, with no more bodies but the dead. Hidden in the crypt after Stalker died.

Some other way, then. Snatcher just had to be clever. Lure them into a trap? Drag something into a trap, yes. But how? Maybe…maybe…

Maybe a tool. Yes, there were tools here, hidden behind all the traps. A lovely tool.

While it thought, it roamed. With the heads on sticks, poking around corners.

Seeing for it. Monsters never saw it. Even the other beings only saw those staring heads—and they fled.

Insects, terrified spiders, Children—all ran if they noticed the staring, rotted heads. Snatcher only took a few, if it was bored.

It had all of them in its collection. Hundreds of one species, sometimes. It craved more.

The blue one. The woman of thread. Another half-Elf, a Dwarf…the white Gnoll…

It was creeping through corridors where the Raskghar had been, looking for that Minotaur again. Another good head it had so few of—and the ones of old had begun to turn to dust, despite its best of efforts, despite the magic that should have preserved them. Well…even the magic had begun to die.

Only when Snatcher was prowling around the empty Raskghar camp, turning over ruined cots, looking to see if they had hidden in one of the hidden trap doors, did it sense something odd.

He lifted a slab of stone up and stared down into the tunnel—then Snatcher sensed them.

Auras. Flickering, so faint—it turned around.

Were they there or not? Slowly, Snatcher shuffled around. Then, it heard a voice.

—now—

Snatcher had no head to raise—but it saw the dark, almost pitch-black camp of the Raskghar suddenly bloom with light. A dozen [Light] spells rose.

[Illumination]. Snatcher didn’t raise its claws to shield its face. It turned—and then it sensed them. A dozen plus presences.

Snatcher turned—and the first spell hit it full-on.

 

——

 

[Support Casting: Intensified Magic]. [Spellbreaker’s Magic].

Link. Pump mana in—Typhenous, now, now!

[Burning Spells]! [Accelerated Spellsling]!

[Valmira’s Comet]!

The first spell hit Facestealer as the adventurers dropped their camouflage Skills. It had noticed them too soon. But they were mostly in position. Colth stood with Typhenous, Ceria, and three other [Mages], all Gold-rank. Two were part of Orchestra and Variable Fortress.

Top-level [Mages], who cast through Typhenous. Or rather, let him have the first swing. Colth called it ‘benchmarking’.

So the first spell was a known Tier 4 spell boosted by as much mana as they could pump into it without overloading the spell matrix and with Skills giving it enough firepower that Ceria wondered if it could have blown one of the giant Shield Spider mothers to bits.

It had a commendable speed to it as well. The normally-slow comet hit Facestealer like one of Typhenous’ fastballs when he played baseball. Ceria saw the glowing, red center of the comet turning to blue trailing fire strike the monster as it turned—then the world flashed.

Eat shit!

That was her additional comment. Ceria waited as Colth turned and chatter broke through her speaking stone.

Did we hit it?

Sealing off the other corridors—[Stone Wall].

Some monsters lurking down our end. We’ll take them out.

That was Halrac’s voice. It was followed by a dim explosion until his speaking stone went dead. The other teams were cordoning off this area.

A perfect spot to ambush Facestealer. They’d been dogging it for a while, and Colth had observed that few monsters liked to stay in its vicinity. Only the Crypt Worms and suits of armor ignored it—possibly because it had no interest in things without heads.

This was almost perfect. Valeterisa was speaking without much fear in her voice.

“I am still preparing. Where is the Chest of Holding? Oh, here it is. Yes, yes, Montressa, casting. Hold up your barrier. Have we killed the monster yet?”

Wait.

Colth cut all the voices short, and everyone paused. In the brief moment where the spell engulfed the room in dust and light—Ceria squinted into the cloud. A [Mage] blew the dust back as Ceria aimed her wand at—

Facestealer.

He stood there, swiveling right and left, his hide scorched by the comet. That was all. Ceria didn’t even see the scars from Colth’s blades and Saliss and Lehra’s attacks from yesterday.

“[Valmira’s Comet] has failed. Benchmarking higher. Tier 4 magic is almost completely useless. Not nullified.”

Colth spoke calmly, and Facestealer slowly turned. He focused on the five adventurers, and Colth locked ‘eyes’ with the monster.

“He’s coming. Phase 2.”

When Facestealer charged, he was so fast it took even Ceria off-guard, and she had seen him fight.

Fast. Just like how fast he could swing. The lumbering monster ran at the adventurers—but Ceria was already raising walls upon walls of ice.

It would barely slow Facestealer down, but that wasn’t the point—

The monster seemed to sense something, and it slowed as it raised a huge claw. This time, it was too slow to move.

[Piercing Shot]!

Halrac and a dozen adventurers volleyed behind Facestealer. Enchanted arrows and bolts struck it in a volley, the air flashed, and some of Ceria’s walls cracked, but Typhenous had a [Forcewall] behind them.

“Stumble, stumble, damn you—

Colth was muttering, but Facestealer just held up a claw—then turned back. It raised a claw, punched through six feet of ice—and Colth smiled at it.

That same demonic smile that Ceria thought was the most honest one he had.

I’m going to kill you.

All the kinetic force of both the comet and arrows—against all logic—didn’t make Facestealer move. He should have. It would make their lives so much easier, but either he was so heavy he should be sinking into the earth and cracking the flagstones of the dungeon or something was letting him resist pure physics.

It didn’t matter. As Facestealer turned, Halrac lifted his bow. He’d been entrusted with something. He launched one single arrow, and Facestealer whirled—lifted a claw—

Vortex arrow! Run! Run!

The [Mages] ran, and Typhenous beat everyone but Colth. Ceria felt her ice walls disappearing as the vortex tore chunks out of the magic. It sucked away magic, and it was the first Relic-class item used so far.

The first. Dead gods.

Halrac, tell me you hit it! Tell me it’s dead or hurt! We’re heading to Phase 3!”

Colth was running, leaping over a painted trap. Ceria slowed, but nothing was coming behind them—so far. Yet she heard Halrac’s terse reply.

It’s not dead. But it didn’t like that.”

“How not dead is—”

Whumph. The sound of Facestealer slamming into a wall was followed by the dust—and the blur of it moving. Ceria had never seen anyone of that size move that fast.

It slammed into the corridor the [Mages] were running down, and the half-Elf saw that Facestealer was…

Torn. No, its hide was. Colth’s brand upon it that was letting them track it was twisted slightly, as was its brown-black, matted hide. Actually, it was fairly pristine now—even the dirt had been sucked away.

It looked like someone had taken Facestealer’s skin and twisted it across its body. That—Ceria wondered what that would feel like if you did it to skin.

She bet it hurt. But that was not what you wanted to see after a vortex arrow from Rhir hit a monster.

Dead gods damn it. An Adult Creler would flinch at that!”

Orchestra’s [Mage] screamed. She stumbled, and Facestealer ran. This time—he wasn’t just charging like Yvlon running at full tilt. He had a blur, he was moving so fast. A horse’s speed? Faster?

Oh shit!

Ceria bent down. She grabbed the woman, and Facestealer was on top of them. He ran through a series of magical spikes that shot up and shattered on his body. He swung a fist as Colth turned.

Ceria!

 

——

 

Facestealer punched through Ceria and the [Mages] and actually stumbled. It swung wildly, at Colth, Typhenous—and they vanished. A few objects clattered to the ground.

Speaking stones. Snatcher stared at them and heard a voice speaking.

“It can’t tell the difference between illusions backed by aura-faking spells. Interesting.

A trick? Facestealer rotated left and right as Ceria exhaled. She hadn’t thought you could use illusions on it! But Colth had speculated that if they used fake auras…

Now the monster seemed confused. It held still—then began to lumber back the way it had come. Warily. As if it knew it was now in trouble. Just how much trouble?

Phase 3. Can’t harm it with a vortex arrow, can’t blast it with a Tier 4 spell…before we bust out our best tricks, let’s see if it has any conventional weaknesses. Valley? Now.”

A wall of stone rose on the far end of the hallway. Facestealer whirled as Ceria watched via the scrying stone they’d stuck to a wall. It began to stride towards the wall—then Valeterisa, the Archmage of Izril, cast her magic.

“[Tidal Wave]. [Floods of Gaarh Marsh]. And [Mithril Wall], thank you, Montressa.”

Facestealer saw the first wave of water coming from the wall. It held up a hand—began to approach—and then seemed to sense how many protective layers were behind it. It began to run back the way it had come. But now—

The Raskghar camp was ideal for this. It was a huge, domed room, and if you blocked in all the entrances, it was enclosed. The dungeon itself was just a box. And so Colth had asked Valeterisa to flood the box.

Even now, the monster didn’t fall as thousands of pounds of water poured around it. It ran into the center of the Raskghar camp and saw no exits. No hallways. They’d all been sealed off.

“It’s slowing. Anchor it down!

More spells hit Facestealer as one of the walls slid up. It whirled towards Typhenous and a band of [Mages] including Pisces. They had tripvine bags, [Sticky Web] spells—one even cast [Slow].

They’re not really working—

“Other side! [Archers]!”

Halrac and his group shot [Rope Arrows] and more delaying tricks. Facestealer took a step—and a strand of mithril rope from one of the top Gold-rank adventurers jerked it back, snagging it. It halted, began to tug, reached down—

And the tidal wave engulfed it.

The entire room became a blur and chaos as it filled. Ceria saw a flailing shape in the dark—and Colth whispered.

“It’s not…floating. It sinks? Can we use that? Is it going to—?”

Facestealer was anchored to the floor. But even as it tore the mithril rope away—it didn’t float. It was probably far too heavy. It flailed around in the water, then stood there.

“Oh come on. It has to breathe.

Someone, Deni, Ceria thought, said that. Yet she saw no bubbles of air as Facestealer stood there. It turned…and began striding towards where one of the magical walls was. It was slightly slower underwater, but it—it—

It’s not in distress. Valley.

Colth wasn’t giving up. Valeterisa was already on the case. Facestealer turned back as the Archmage of Izril pressed one hand through a magical barrier on the far wall. It looked at her, and she stared innocently back.

“I was told even Xrn couldn’t kill you. Fascinating. You are so terrifying I feel like running away. [Grand Lightning].”

The jolt that ran through the flooded room was more a feeling than a sight. Ceria actually saw Facestealer twitch. Valeterisa paused as it began striding towards her—fast.

“Uh oh. Ah, ah…[Blue Lightning]? [Transmutation: Water to Acid—]”

Valeterisa, run!

The Archmage of Izril stopped casting magic and hurried away as Colth cursed. The magical water and spells didn’t seem to be hurting Facestealer. But wow—it was getting pissed.

It punched through the protective walls and then turned as the water vanished. This time, Facestealer just turned and waited. It paced back into the center of the room and picked something up.

Just a lump of stone from the walls. But like before, Ceria knew how fast and hard it could throw it.

“It’s waiting. Phase 4, Colth?”

“…Wait.”

The Ultimate Supporter was crouched, masterminding the phases of attacks. His first three plans hadn’t been ones he’d sold the adventurers on as being the ultimate stopgaps—but they had assumed they would have borne a bit more fruit than this.

Even so, the Named-rank just waited as Facestealer turned. The other adventurers were getting antsy, but Colth was not.

“How does it think? Does it get mad? What does it do when—ah.”

Facestealer turned. It had apparently lost patience, and it charged after Valeterisa. Colth nodded.

“It’s time. Orchestra? Give it hell.”

Earplugs!

Typhenous grabbed Ceria’s arm, and she was already stuffing wax into her ears. Facestealer didn’t see the Archmage—she’d already teleported to safety with Montressa. What it did see was a group of performers. They sat at one end of the hallway as it halted—then ran at them.

But they were already playing. They had been playing for a while, and all one of the [Mages] had to do was cast what few buff-spells you could add to a musical attack.

[Loudness]. [Doubled Echo]. There wasn’t that much auditory magic most adventurers knew, but the acoustics of the narrow dungeon? Orchestra’s leader, Deni, looked up.

He’d been having a bad day. His teeth bared as he aimed his violin, and a trumpet swung up, drumsticks fell, and Orchestra struck their note.

[Combined Skill — Onslaught Performance: Louder Than the Sea’s Roar].

Even with their protective Skills. Even far from the center of the Skill—Ceria still went deaf. She felt the vibration go through the dungeon. Constrained by the magic. Shaking down corridors, killing the closest monsters from the sound alone.

Sound and force and—

A Skill. A Skill so powerful that even Snatcher felt it. A Skill from adventurers. It passed through the tunnels, and the warden of the steeled ones raised its head. It even reached the city within, and the thousands looked up.

It…reached Mother.

And she listened. Listened, but did not move. For Facestealer? Snatcher?

It bled.

It was upon its knees.

 

——

 

It bled red. Oozing blood through the ‘eyes’, the jagged holes in its body.

Snatcher was bleeding? It ‘looked’ down and felt itself bleed. So loud. Louder than anything it had heard since Mershi was lost.

Like the sound of the City of Shields dying.

It—it hurt. Adventurers. Real adventurers.

Pain.

Mother had heard it. But Mother…she was not like Snatcher. It was the last of the guardians.

In its way, it was stronger than her. She hid down there, hid because even she could die. It?

It had forgotten, until the blue insect, until this—that it could die too.

PAIN.

They were fleeing, the ones with sound. Fleeing backwards—but they sounded triumphant. Snatcher could have gone after them. But it got up—and turned. Then—it began to run. Run backwards, towards the other protectors. Towards the nests. But there were more of them—and now Snatcher felt it. Amidst rage, amidst the sudden warning, the intelligence that told it that this was a trap and it had to escape—

It was being hunted.

 

——

 

“You didn’t want to watch the adventurers at work? Named-ranks?

Lady Pryde was odd. Odd, despite being a [Lady] with a literal ego-aura and who thought working your quads was a valuable use of time.

She was odd because she was sort of…normal. In that she said normal-ish things.

Like, why wouldn’t you want to go see Named-ranks? When Erin had asked why Pryde had gone with the Haven, the woman had given her a strange look.

Why would I not accompany the north’s most famous inn?

If anything, it was strange how she was treating Mrsha and Erin and even Tessa—and by proxy, Nanette. As if they were important, because to Pryde, they were.

“You sure we’re not wasting your valuable time, Pryde?”

“You are the Titan’s chess partner. This child was at the Meeting of Tribes. Named-rank Adventurer Tessa—this is fitting company for me. Despite your lack of my given title. Mrsha, girl, come here.”

Pryde beckoned—then lifted Mrsha up so someone could stare at them. Mrsha gave Pryde a blank look. The [Lady] posed cooly, and the [Artist] bowed.

“I have an image, Lady Ulta.”

“Very good. Miss Solstice? We could find a chess board to sit across.”

She was an attention seeker! Mrsha was horrified—then impressed. If anything, the reason Erin wasn’t mad was because Pryde was blatant about it.

“Fame is a resource to be cultivated. I am not Wuvren, who has a dozen suitors dancing upon a finger. Nor am I Bethal, who can somehow muddle her way to success. A [Lady] should mind any number of qualities about herself. Paying for fame is simple. Aren’t you Calanfer’s Sixth Princess’ daughter?”

Mrsha stared at Pryde, and heads turned. The [Lady] saw Erin, Grimalkin, and Nanette staring at her.

“Isn’t she?”

“Wh—you can’t just say things like that!”

Erin looked around, but Pryde exhaled. Loudly.

“It’s hardly a secret. That was at the top of the dossier I paid for when I looked into your inn.”

“Who’s selling info about—well, maybe Lyonette is a bad liar!”

She’s my mom. You’re right.

Mrsha handed Pryde a note, and the [Lady] nodded. The Gnoll girl smiled a bit. Pryde gave her another look and then Magus Grimalkin a nod.

“Interesting company you keep, Magus.”

“They will never cease to amaze, Lady Ulta. Do you have other motives for being in Invrisil at the moment?”

“Besides visiting Pallass and watching the Haven go? House Ulta is considering the new lands of Izril—but I want to make sure my people aren’t attacked by Pallass or the Walled Cities. I came to negotiate. It’s difficult—Pallass has me on a waiting list to go through, and they are slow to respond. Appropriately. I wouldn’t give them passage through the north.”

Her eyes glinted with vexation despite the reasonable words coming out of her mouth.

“I could introduce you to Strategist Chaldion or an appropriate diplomat.”

Pryde tilted her head.

“I’ll take you up on that, Sinew Magus.”

Oooh. Mrsha saw Nanette brighten up. She followed the little witch’s gaze. Then Mrsha beamed.

Ooooooh. Pryde glanced at both of them, and they looked away innocently. Grimalkin didn’t quite notice. Erin…well, she was glancing at her little bird.

“Darn it. Dead again.”

“What are we doing, exactly?”

Pryde was getting impatient now that she had more things to do. She listened as Erin explained the gist of it. The [Lady] frowned.

“A curse. Was it Belavierr?”

“No…how do you know her?”

“We kicked her out of the north.”

Nanette’s head swiveled around with Mrsha and Erin’s, and they stared at Pryde. The [Lady] had to explain, briefly and entirely unsatisfactorily.

“Magnolia led the [Ladies] to deal with her. Maviola El was there—the last time I saw her in person. It happens.”

It does not just happen.

“To you, perhaps. I am a [Lady] of Izril, and that comes with requirements that most people are privileged not to know of. If it is a [Witch]…Magnolia should know.”

“It isn’t. At least, I’m pretty sure it’s not. But the curse is in a bunch of cities. Including Invrisil, Oliyaya said. And we keep wandering the streets and nearly getting to it, but it never shows up.”

“Odd. Multiple cities…and it vanishes. It almost sounds like a diffused spell, but who would go to this much work? Either that or the curse is somehow all these places simultaneously.”

Grimalkin pondered. Pryde, though, looked sharply at Erin when she heard that.

“Just which places is this…thing you’re searching for? All cities? Not towns?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re looking for something here that keeps moving? A location?”

“Maybe? Why? Do you know what it is?”

Pryde folded her arms. She stared ahead.

“…It’s unlikely it’s the exact same one. But Magnolia once took me there, and Bethal can’t stay away, the addict. I know what it might be. No wonder you can’t find it. You need an invitation.”

“An invitation? To what?”

Pryde didn’t answer. She looked around and then found one of the magical street lamps that provided illumination at night. Some places used actual lanterns—this one was graffitied by people like Grev’s gang, and they often had fliers put up.

Seldom for adventuring work, but things analogous to Erin’s home. Lost animals, job offers…Pryde began yanking pieces of paper off as she hunted for something.

“It changes if it moves from cities, but if it is here—last time we had to look at fliers in [Butcher] shops. You, children, Sinew Magus, look for an odd piece of parchment.”

Her personal escort, Erin, Nanette, Mrsha, and Grimalkin glanced at each other, and all began searching other fliers and pieces of paper in Invrisil. Erin had just pushed aside a flier asking if anyone had a 1st-edition autograph of Jasi and would they consider selling it when she saw something odd.

A brighter, more colorful piece of parchment was half-rolled up behind the mundane paper. It was expensive—and out of place because someone might well steal it just to re-use it. Unlike the tattered notes, this was an advertisement.

 

Come See Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop!

Buys and Sells Items of All Value*.

(*No refunds, no violence, no trickster or thief classes allowed.)

Served over 120 different cities across Izril and Terandria!

Come While Open!

 

The letters, accompanied by little dazzling brooches and magical wands, were splashed across the garish page. Erin was pretty sure this was what Pryde wanted.

“Hey, is it this?”

The [Lady] dropped a piece of parchment and walked over. The instant she saw it, her face turned to one of disgust.

“That’s it.”

“What is it?”

Even Grimalkin hadn’t ever seen something like this before, but Lady Pryde assured him that he might have walked past it.

“It has visited Pallass and the Walled Cities before—not that you can use it like Erin’s inn. It’s hardly that powerful. It’s more…”

She snapped her fingers, trying to explain, and Nanette clapped her hands in delight.

“It’s a magical travelling store! Like Shellbazaar, the emporium at sea! Mother told me such places still exist!”

“What? A magic store?

Erin grew excited instantly. Now it all made sense! And no wonder they hadn’t found it! Pryde nodded.

“You have to find a flyer, and then you’ll happen across it. Finding it deliberately is, according to Magnolia, more trouble than it’s worth. Only Bethal’s been able to do it. And I think it was because the owner gave up.”

“What kind of person owns it? A Djinni? Should we be prepared for trouble?”

Grimalkin was wary of this store. Tessa gripped her blades, but Pryde gave him a strange face. She looked at Erin’s wicker bird.

“I don’t know about a curse, but the owner? Well—I think he has a knife.”

Erin waited.

“An enchanted knife?”

“No.”

“Is he…high-level? To own a store like this?”

Pryde considered the question.

“Nope. It’s a hereditary store.”

“Do we need more money? Preparations if we only get one shot?”

The [Innkeeper] pressed. Pryde checked her coin pouch as Mrsha nervously held up her own money and Nanette searched her allowance. The [Lady] glanced at Erin.

“I doubt it. It should be right down the street when we turn the block.”

Sure enough, when they turned the street, wedged in one of the alleyways was an odd shop, built into the brickwork. It had a big metal door and a sign saying ‘Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop’.

It even had a little pig with a wand coming out of its mouth for a logo. Erin liked it—until she noticed the worn brickwork. And the slightly-rusty sign. Then she frowned.

This didn’t look like a Skill. Her [Garden of Sanctuary] might have had an ordinary door, but as Pryde walked up the steps and opened the door, Erin heard a mundane, jangling bell. She peered at a very old dustmat that might add more dirt than it lost, and someone called out.

“Hello. We’re open until six tonight. Please bring anything you want to the counter.”

Erin turned, and a bored man at the counter with a balding pate and a mustache that should have probably been waxed stared at her. She stared back.

“Are you Cormeng?”

He grimaced—he had an actual pinstripe suit, white and red. But it was old and worn, and any charm from the unique garment looked sad. The Human answered with a very, very tired voice as Mrsha sniffed the air and began sneezing for the dust.

“No. That’s my great-grandfather nine times over. Welcome to the store. And before you ask—no, I don’t know where anything is. If you have something to sell, I’ll appraise it, but it’s coppers and silvers, not gold unless you can prove it’s valuable.”

He had a dusty scrying orb with a crack he was watching, and Erin realized he was listening to Drassi’s broadcast. The man added as Erin looked around and realized what this place was.

“And if it’s valuable, why would you take it here?”

Then Erin looked past him and into the aisles into that Mrsha and Nanette stared with delight, Grimalkin and Pryde, with a kind of apprehension and awe of their own. But not the awe of a magical shop of wonders.

Erin stared at racks of old, very worn clothing. At gemstones on display and more jewelry than she could imagine that appeared fancy and rich—until you realized it was all cut glass. At old farming tools, rusted with age, dolls of every shape and size across hundreds of years, signs, actual signs for the buildings they belonged to were long since gone, a thousand useless maps and illustrations crammed into a bin, decidedly non-magical books like the 4th book in a series with half a torn cover, a shoe with dirt on it, fake decorative items like one of those snowglobes—without the water inside and the snow—

Erin realized what she was inside, and she stared around the largest pawn shop in the entire world. A thrift store without end, which served a few customers wandering around with the cheap jewelry in hand, willing to fork over some silver for a curiosity they’d lose interest in within the week.

“I hate this place.”

Pryde shuddered and didn’t bother to lower her voice. Mrsha and Nanette? They were delighted by the spread and bouncing to look around. The man at the counter, who tended to this store like eight generations before him, glanced up. Erin winced, but the dour shopkeeper nodded.

“Imagine working here for forty years.”

 

——

 

The shopkeeper’s name was Doren. And he was actually more fascinating than a lot of the goods inside his store.

For instance, the current owner of Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop was not actually Doren.

“It’s a family business. Cormeng made this place—with magic. He enchanted it to teleport to all the places he’d been, and he was a world traveller. That’s why it exists after he died.”

“Clever. I can sense some subtle magic here. So the actual shop is probably somewhere else. A pocket dimension, maybe. And can you go anywhere you want?”

“Nope. Just where the store actually is.”

“So you can’t portal around?”

“Nope. I can’t leave the store. I’d just end up outside where I came in. Cormeng didn’t want trouble. The store doesn’t let in [Thieves] and whatnot…no violence, no tricksters. Hence the flier.”

“Do you have security?”

He gave her a blank look. The man was worn down by his job. Apparently, he’d been twelve when he first started doing this, which made him fifty-two years old.

“No. It’s just me.”

“What if people try to hide things and steal them?”

He gave her a bleak look.

“I guess they get free stuff. What a fortune. We actually buy the fake jewelry even if no one sells us enough. Anyways, we make a profit. A large one, in fact.”

“H-how?”

Erin gazed at the trash. And it was trash. Some of it was appealing trash like the fake geodes or sparkly stuff. Mrsha already had an armful of junk she wanted. She had five bracelets with gaudy gemstones Visma would love, and Nanette was trying on clothes for size, measuring them. Erin groaned.

“Nanette! Don’t buy clothes. Someone else wore them.”

“So? They look nice! There’s fashions from all ages and all over, Miss Erin! I could get a hat and dress. If you think Miss Lyonette’d be okay with it.”

Erin thought it was fine—but the truth was, she knew thrift stores. She’d visited a big one—and while Cormeng’s Emporium was far larger, she did see a number of Invrisil customers walking around. And Drakes and Gnolls.

They didn’t seem to realize the significance. Erin turned to Doren excitedly.

“Wait, if you’re in multiple cities at once, you have guests who’d meet and mingle from different cities, different continents, even! What kind of things do they do?”

He gave her another blank look.

“Buy things? We’re not an inn. Your inn.”

He knew who she was! Erin protested.

“But what if you had a meet-and-greet—”

“That’s not the point. Cormeng’s shop is meant to be low-key. Important people don’t even come here—unless someone gives away the secret.”

He half-glared at Pryde, and she waved at him.

“Bethal’s the one obsessed with cheap junk. How much has she spent here?”

“Probably a hundred gold pieces. Cormeng is actually very popular, you know. It might only sell cheap glass—”

“—But it’s way overpriced, yeah.”

Erin suspected that Numbtongue or Earlia could get you an actual ruby gemstone that cost less than the fake ones on display. Grimalkin picked up a vase as ugly as sin and nearly dropped it. He caught it just in time, and Doren nodded.

“Between the day-sales and breakages, we make a lot. So my family doesn’t have to work. Each generation, one of us takes over the business. Guess who’s been working here every day?”

“D-do you get breaks?”

“Weekends. I used to work the entire week. Oh, and there’s another fun requirement which means only the family can do this job.”

His eyes—his eyes had once been bright, faintly red, and Erin imagined they bloomed like excited flowers in a younger boy’s gaze. They had the deadness of working customer service for four decades in a business you didn’t own for your family.

There was a depth of despair and emptiness there that even Belavierr would fear. Especially because it turned out that Doren was the most mundane person in this shop.

“I don’t have a class.”

Even Pryde and Grimalkin turned at that. Erin’s jaw dropped.

“But—why?”

Doren leaned over the counter.

“Cormeng didn’t have one. So the shop only lets someone like me open it. Get it? From the day I was a kid—well, I make good money. I can open at eight, close at six, and get weekends off. I am so happy.”

His eyes made Erin’s gaze slide sideways, and she had stared down Xarkouth. There was something off here. Even in the stores in her city—she hadn’t seen this kind of despondency. It was a job, so why…?

“You said you used to not get weekends off. What happened?”

“I collapsed.”

She stared at him, and he avoided her gaze.

“Why…why work like this if it’s not something you want to do? You don’t enjoy this. I can tell.”

“Someone’s got to. The store will be unused, and my family depends on me.”

“So let it—”

“It’ll go to someone else. Appear in front of them. We can’t let it leave the family or someone else without levels will get it. This. Is. Important. I’ll retire and someone else gets to take over the business. I’ll have plenty of time to enjoy it all.”

When? She looked at him as he struck the counter for emphasis, and Erin held back that word. She tried to ask something else. Tried to—

“But if Cormeng made this shop—he cast magic! Without levels!”

“Yep.”

“Can you cast—”

No.

“S-so, how’s the job? I mean, how’s your personal life? Got any hobbies? Got a…kid?”

Doren gave Erin a bleak smile. And now he seemed to be regretting talking to her at all because he was looking in a mirror he didn’t want to stare at.

“I sit in this shop for eight hours, five days a week. What do you think? All the attractive women are throwing themselves at…”

He gestured at his form, and to his credit, it was mostly his sedentary job. And maybe he was losing hair in the center of his head and it was spreading out in an unfortunate way, but you could do something with that. It was probably the, uh…

Despair. In fact, he gave Pryde such a long look that Erin really did feel bad for him. She bit her lip.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Doren.”

He looked at her, surprised, and shrugged.

“Thanks. But there’s worse jobs. I’ve never had to worry about being stabbed by an angry customer. Just—how would you make this better?”

He showed her the store. Gestured around at it and Erin saw his family perching on one shoulder and that promised day waiting for him. Doren confessed softly.

“It’s fun at first. It really is, and you put a lot of work into it. My aunt told me it was fun for her too. Then it becomes a job—but you can’t run away from it. Day-by-day is fine. The scrying orbs? My aunt read thousands of books. This is fine. How would you make it—”

A sound interrupted his voice.

Crash. Mrsha and Grimalkin stared at the pot, and Doren sighed.

“…That. Let me get the price.”

Erin would have loved to have a longer conversation with the man, and she hoped she would. But the crash had reminded her she was on a mission. She turned back to Doren.

“You…didn’t happen to have any weird guests about a week or so back, did you? Some—odd people? A woman, maybe?”

He did stop, then. The Sinew Magus was offering him some silver coins, and Doren glanced up sharply.

“This shop is neutral. We don’t tell tales about our customers. We don’t get high-level people inside if we can help it. You shouldn’t have found this place unless you knew about it. Magnolia Reinhart somehow found out, and we’ve had the [Ladies], but we keep to ourselves. We don’t want trouble, Miss Solstice.”

“I get that, but—did you? Because I think she left something in here that’s been bothering me.”

Slowly, Doren went back to the counter with the dustpan and tossed the shards into a bin. He looked around and lowered his voice.

“We closed shop permanently in that city. If she did something—take it out. Cormeng’s store can’t keep out…high-level folk. I don’t want to know who that was, and I’m not asking questions. Please.”

He gave her a pleading look, and Erin wondered who…or what he’d seen. She nodded.

“Can I poke around? I won’t be long.”

“We have three floors. And there’s no back rooms—it’s just more rooms. If you need to squeeze past the shoe racks, go ahead. You can walk for about five thousand feet that way.”

“Ancestors.”

Grimalkin muttered. He had trouble navigating some of the displays—this place was cramped to the point of being claustrophobic.

“Miss Erin? Do you need us to come with you?”

Nanette looked up, but Erin pointed to Tessa.

“I’m fine. I’ll go ahead and look—Mrsha, don’t buy all the cheap jewels. They’re fake.”

But they look so cool! Mrsha decided to follow Erin as the [Innkeeper] walked into the antique store.

Here was what Erin knew of such places. They had things people didn’t want to buy.

Oh, you could find tons of stuff you might theoretically buy. Like look at all these sofas! Actual sofas, some in good condition, some worn—chairs on end, tables, furniture, even dressers!

Now, before you thought about finding a high-quality Terandrian dresser that a [Lady] had once used, remember where you were. These were not the kind of items you could just refurbish a bit and have thousands of gold pieces of quality on-hand.

The dream was finding such a chair or some antique you’d take to an [Appraiser] on a network and earn tons of money for, right? That was what Erin recalled of thrift stores in her world.

Here was the thing. If it were here? Someone had already found it. Erin had remembered tons of collectible cards in the big thrift store she knew in her city. Plausibly worth a lot to collectors? Big signs from old company shops, and, oh—yes, clothing galore.

Something else that both that shop and this one had?

Dolls.

Too many of them. All in the old style of those creepy, staring faces shaped a bit too realistically—and yet not quite the real thing.

The worst ones smiled at you. Erin shuddered at one in the semi-permanent light.

“I bet you’re super creepy at night.”

“I don’t go in here at night.”

Doren called out from the desk. Even Tessa seemed weirded out. She hunched, trying to avoid a row of old toys that Mrsha was theoretically interested in. Theoretically as in—the moment she looked at them, like an old push-wagon, she was not interested in them. Tessa bumped into a doll and stared into a smiling Drake doll’s face.

She punched it.

The costs of this visit were adding up, and Erin was still following the wicker bird. It was pulling her in two spots now, and she eventually stomped past a row of urns before swerving.

“Wh—no way! I think I found it!”

Mrsha was staring blankly at a piece of paper on one of the walls. It was of different kinds of gemstones, one of those encyclopedia-something things. She wondered…who would ever buy such a thing. Did you frame that and hang it on your wall like some loser?

Maybe Numbtongue would want it. Oh, and here was one on plants, for Octavia. Like everything, it was semi-valuable, but you weren’t going to buy it.

In the same way, Erin was hunting along rows of pots and vases that looked good.

Sort of.

Not really.

They were the kind of craftsmanship you could admire and never want to put in your home. Not gregariously ugly and not good. Erin came to a stop in front of one that looked almost like the others. She frowned at the creamy vase. It had some nice coloration ruined entirely by the motif it was going for—fish scales. The potter had been good enough to do the effect in the vase—big enough for some rather large flowers?

So you had a cream-color, carp-style vase that weighed…Erin oofed.

“Ten pounds? It’s solid. And hey…there’s something in here.

She nearly dropped the vase and yanked something out. Erin almost threw it at once, and Tessa, who had drawn her blades, ready to attack a scorpion, stared.

“A finger.”

Mrsha’s head snapped around, but it wasn’t a finger. It was wax. And it looked uncannily like Erin’s finger. The [Innkeeper] stared at it.

“What the—”

“It’s a curse focus!”

Nanette had a dress in her arms. She pushed forwards excitedly and somewhat alarmed. Erin prodded the finger, but it didn’t hurt.

“It’s like voodoo magic. Does it—is it harming me?”

“It’s probably how you’re being cursed, Miss Erin. You should destroy it at once.”

“Any particular way?”

“Crush it?”

Erin clenched her fist. The wax was delicate and weak. As soon as she began deforming the wax, the charm stopped moving towards it. And Erin felt her finger, which had been the source of Nerrhavia’s unwanted curse—stop tingling.

Her middle finger kept going. Erin looked around.

“Wow. That was simple. There must be another one here.”

She put the vase back and followed the charm. But now, Erin was thinking. What…what was going on?

Nerrhavia had been haunting her dreams for a week. Annoyingly—after the first few dreams, she’d just appeared and harassed Erin. That was really annoying, and so was the feeling of her fingers from the curse. The occasional lick was bad enough, but now that she was here, Erin had just destroyed the charm.

This was a lot of work for no payoff. Erin’s paranoia mounted, but she hadn’t sensed any duplicity from Doren. If this were a trap, it was a stupid one.

So what’s going on here? Nerrhavia was supposed to be really smart.

As she hunted, Erin saw Nanette, Mrsha, and even Tessa finding things they might buy. The Named-rank adventurer had found a fake sword.

“You like fake swords, Tessa?”

“No.”

She tried to hide it behind her back. But the purely ornamental sword…the Named-rank showed it to Erin.

“It looks nice.”

“Yeah, sort of. Why do you want it?”

“To hang it somewhere? That’s what you do.”

Erin opened her mouth. She supposed Tessa had a point.

“Well, I don’t like thrift stores. So there’s not much for me to buy. I used to play card games, y’know. I had that phase. I would go to this store and buy them, but there’s never anything valuable here.”

Mrsha and Nanette looked at her, and even Tessa listened. Erin strolled through memory lane.

“My city had one big store, you see. And when I went there, I’d hunt for ages for a good card or something rare like a real gem. But you never find it. Because it’s a thrift store.”

What about my treasure?

Mrsha held up a fake pink diamond. Erin sighed.

“Yeah, I did that too, Mrsha. And bought stuff like Nanette. But…oh, I think we’re here.”

She came to a stand of dresses and rifled through them. Erin stared at the dresses and saw one that was dirty-pink and had a bright green thread lining the pockets. That was the only beautiful thing in the entire dress—the brown buttons did no favors. Erin shuddered as she reached into a pocket and pulled out another finger.

“I just don’t get this. There! Curse done!”

She threw the finger down and stomped on it. The curse vanished, and the bird went still. Erin wondered if Nerrhavia might appear in her dreams tonight. She doubted it.

But this was too easy. Think, Erin, think!

“At least buy something, Erin. The dress is, um…there are some dresses that look nice.”

Nanette urged her, but Erin shook her head. She was turning away from the dress. This store was depressing. It was like the opposite of her inn. The depressing store, and Doren—she wished he had a bit of magic.

“Doren, I’m done.”

When she made her way to the counter, the man looked relieved.

“Thanks. Was it anything—dangerous?”

“Nah. Just a prank. Say, you should come to my inn sometime.”

“I can’t—”

“Oh, right. Location. Well—come to Liscor. Do you serve Liscor?”

He checked a list.

“…No. It’s not impossible, but it wasn’t good business, I heard. I could.”

She gave him a big smile.

“Think about it. I’ll bring you some food, special delivery.”

He looked at her, and the man shrugged.

“That sounds nice. Maybe I will. But don’t make a fuss. My job’s fine. In fact—now that you cleared up that woman’s trouble, I think we’ll go back to normal.”

His eyes slid sideways, and Erin looked at him. She wondered if he’d ever go to Liscor. She suspected he was lying to her face. Erin gazed at Grimalkin and Pryde, and the two were discussing going to Pallass.

“…have my estates. Your company could stay there.”

“Intriguing. I will find an inn.”

“I see.”

“However, I may visit.”

Doren followed Erin’s glance. And even without her Skills, she sensed a wave of jealousy and despondency off him. Yet Erin looked at Pryde and Grimalkin, and she wanted to smile. As much as Mrsha and Nanette were doing as Pryde glared at them.

It was a good thing. Erin looked around the store and called out to a Drake gazing blankly at all the fake jewels.

“Excuse me, where are you from?”

“Huh? Oh—I’m just—down the street. Tyss Street.”

“Tyss Street where?”

The Drake gave Erin a long, long look.

“The city? Dessieth District?”

“What city’s that, exactly? You know, you’re in a magical shop.”

“I’m what?

“Miss, please.

Doren looked aggravated as the Drake freaked out. He glared at the [Innkeeper] as Erin explained, and she was definitely banned along with everyone here. But Erin concluded by introducing herself, and the Drake gobbled.

“You’re—you’re the Human on the scrying orb? I’m in Liscor? But I’m all the way down on the coast—”

“No way. Are you east or west?”

“I—we were the northern-most city on the west coast. The Hivelands are north of us. Cabbenest.”

No way! I’ll look you up later! This is so cool!”

Erin and the Drake turned to look at Doren. He glowered hugely and raised his voice as the other customers looked around.

“It doesn’t matter. No one can leave except via the spot they came through. And before you try it, you can’t do anything funny like trade items. This is not that kind of shop.

Erin Solstice looked at him, and the man gave her an actual glare with fire in it. As if—daring her to bring something special into his shop. The Drake looked just as disappointed, and so Erin stuck out her hand.

“Well, even if that’s true, I met someone cool. Who’re you, Miss?”

“Arensspe?”

“Oh! I’m Erin. See—we met each other, Doren.”

“I’m sure the world will remember it.”

He sneered at her. Erin’s eyes narrowed. She looked around, and Magus Grimalkin was writing down an inn for Pryde. Erin snatched his journal.

“Grimalkin, lend me that quill and a page. Doren, how much for…that sign?”

He glanced at a large sign with the name Gorbel’s Sailing Salts. It was huge, wide, and propped up on the wall.

“Eighteen gold pieces.”

Eighteen gold—it’s—fine. Here.”

Erin slapped the gold on the counter. The man looked frankly shocked and glanced at the sign.

“You want help bringing it out?”

“Nope. Just leave it there.”

“But—”

“I bought it. Just leave it there. Now…how do you, uh, spell Arensspe?”

Erin conferred with the Drake and then stuck the piece of paper to the board. Mrsha and Nanette oohed, and the other clients—including the ones just coming in—noticed the tacked on piece of paper. Doren stared at it then Erin.

 

Erin Solstice of Liscor and Arensspe from Cabbenest. 

“Come visit my inn! I’ll give you a free meal!”

—Erin

“I thought this was a normal store. Are Antinium really living in Liscor?”

—Arensspe

 

“What is this?”

The shopkeeper looked nervous—and confused. But Erin just beamed at him.

“It’s proof I was here. And that you had two really cool, ultra neat guests!”

Arensspe stared at Erin.

“I’m a [Net Weaver].”

Two amazingly cool guests. And I’ve left a message for people. If anyone tells me that they saw it—why, they might come to my inn! Or Cabbenest, wherever that is!”

“We mostly deal in fish. It’s a pretty boring city, honestly.”

The point is that we were here. And that people should know they met interesting folk. Or what was the point of coming in here? Cheap jewels? This stupid stuff?”

Erin gestured at the pile of fake gemstones that Mrsha had in a basket and was going to buy. Arensspe was warming to the theme and nodding, and behind her, a man exclaimed.

“Wait, I’m not in First Landing is what you’re saying? Dead gods, I just saw the Wind Runner and now the [Innkeeper].”

Erin and Mrsha’s heads rotated so fast they nearly cracked. A Drake was rubbing at his eyes.

“I’m in Zeres! Wait—let me write something down!”

People wanted to mark they were here. Erin looked at Doren, and he stared at her. He looked at the signboard.

“What are you doing? Are you trying to give me something? I don’t want it. This is a quiet shop.”

His hands were trembling on the counter. Erin Solstice stopped then and looked at him. She was reminded of the adventurers’ faces, because he had something similar here.

“…If you don’t like it, take it down when I leave. Honest, I’m not going to bully you into keeping it. But I think it’s neat. I think this shop is cool. I just don’t want you to feel like it’s—a prison. Besides, there is something cool here. Behind the junk.”

She looked around Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop, and Doren gazed at her. When he looked up, perhaps it was like he had first come to this place, as a very young boy, and wandered through the shelves. He looked at the signboard and then at Mrsha’s jewels. Slowly, he began sorting them.

“I don’t know why that woman came here. Or what led you here. But there’s nothing valuable here.”

He lifted a fake pearl, and Arensspe pointed to it.

“Except that. That’s a pearl.”

Erin and Doren looked at it. Erin shrugged.

“Yeah, it looks nice. No wonder Visma will like it, Mrsha. But it’s way too big to be the real thing. Unless there are giant clams…okay, but it’s purple.”

“Yeah.”

The [Net Weaver] stared at it. Doren was about to price it at fifteen silver. Slowly, his hand paused over the register, and Erin’s head swiveled back.

“Pearls aren’t purple, right guys?”

Grimalkin and Pryde turned to look at it. Mrsha hurriedly slapped down a gold coin and grabbed the pearl.

Great doing business with you, buddy.

Doren held onto it.

“I, uh—think I’ll hold onto that sale. Give me that—”

Erin Solstice stared at the pearl. Which, but for Arensspe’s comment, would have been a literal gem in the rough. Grimalkin made an offer on it at the same time as Pryde—one for magic, the other because it looked good. They stared at each other as Mrsha, howling, tried to claim she’d already bought it.

Then Erin looked back into the store. Her neck tingled, and her fingers too.

Nerrhavia never does anything without a reason.

“I, uh, think I need to go find something to buy. Two things. I’ll be back soon.”

She returned later, as the shop began an auction over the pearl and people talked and put their names on the board, with a dress stuffed into a vase. Pryde looked over at Erin and grimaced.

“Your taste is about as good as Bethal’s.”

“Hey!”

Erin juggled the two items as Doren checked them, gave her a suspicious look, then sold her them for a gold piece and two silver. He’d already gotten the pearl, so she kept her face straight as she wondered…if she should ask Saliss or someone to take a look at these.

When he got back from adventuring.

 

——

 

Saliss of Lights stood in the dungeon of Liscor. He hated dungeons.

Dungeons were not controlled environments. Dungeons were where his potions and Skills did the least good, sometimes.

Dungeons were selfish places, and the monsters living there didn’t threaten many people. Dungeons were for treasure, and the Named-rank Adventurer had better uses for his life than to risk it in some hole.

“—but you’re an exception, aren’t you? Hello there. I’m Saliss of Lights. Do you remember me?”

The adventurer closest to Erin Solstice—they both thought they resembled each other—glanced up. He was still naked. But then, so was his opponent.

Steam was baking off Facestealer’s brown hide. It was charred—but the mark of Roshal still burned. It wouldn’t come off. It was etched in the skin, and only cutting it loose would stop the tracking.

People had done worse to escape Roshal. Saliss’ lips curled. Colth.

This dungeon, Roshal’s brand staring him in the face, and the lumbering figure wading through lava—even if it was magical? Saliss had been having a bad day for a week.

Maybe this would make him feel better.

“Clear the area! Saliss is heading in!”

Colth the Supporter was a clever kid. Nine different schemes had damaged Facestealer—enough that Saliss could see that pale yellow-white bone underneath the hide. If memory served—even Xrn hadn’t been able to do more than that until the monster damaged her head.

Well, Colth’s plans also revolved around him adding to the Skills of everyone he partied with. Saliss felt more settling on him.

[Support Skill: Enhanced Concoctions]. [Support Skill: Retreat of the Skirmisher].

The Drake tossed up a vial.

“I’m going in.”

He flicked it forwards, and Facestealer charged. It swung its arms wildly, running at Saliss so fast he suspected it could catch someone on horseback.

Faster than it looked, and it had tricks. It was still trying to paralyze him, but Saliss was immune to that. What made his scales prickle with danger was the certainty that the monster was only trying to get away, to lose them in the tunnels. What happened when they backed it up?

—Colth’s plan. Phase #10 was Saliss. And it was just Saliss. The Drake grinned as he threw the first vial.

Facestealer actually caught it, a tiny fastball delicately held between two massive claws. The glass should have shattered at a child’s touch, but the monster grabbed it and began to throw it back.

[Remote Detonation]. The vial exploded. The liquid covered Facestealer, and it halted. It—tried to remove the liquid for a second, then resumed its charge at Saliss. He saw a claw coming for him.

Saliss—

[Flask: Directional Force]. He aimed it at Facestealer and then broke the Alchemist’s Fireball on his chest.

The explosion didn’t hurt. It was just fire. But the kick sent him flying like a ragdoll, away from Facestealer. So fast that even the monster couldn’t keep up. Facestealer swiped, missed Saliss, then noticed the jars glued to the walls, ceiling, and fl—

The spark was its body and the liquid. Or rather, those were the catalysts. The other jars activated, and Saliss looked up as he heard the chatter.

What was—

Ah. Ah, I really don’t like you. Saliss ignored the voices as he watched one of his nastier concoctions engulf Facestealer. But he already felt like it wasn’t going to kill it.

I made this one to kill Wrymvr the Deathless. It’s not going to work on him either. Not yet.

The [Alchemist] had seen that no spells, not water, not Valeterisa’s lightning, no elements had gone through Facestealer’s hide. Pure force like the Vortex Arrow had—and sound had been the real weapon against it.

He suspected that Facestealer’s organs—or whatever it was—was protected by that bone shell and hide. Proof against elements and even death-magic like the stuff Pisces used. Saliss could try to compete with Valeterisa, and he could probably generate a bolt of lightning in excess of her best spells.

…But why bother? He wanted to kill this thing. In theory—even Wrymvr, even a top-tier monster like Facestealer—

Well, he was pretty sure it didn’t enjoy this. Good use of six thousand, two hundred and twenty-nine gold pieces.

The jar contained a soluble dust from the Izrilian city of Port Isle, famous for its odd, twisted dimensional properties. The Fabledust could be used for a lot of things, mostly killing yourself or being lost forever. [Mages] had never managed to make it that useful except in small, small quantities, and it was very useful then.

Saliss had put far too much in that jar, turned it into a liquid you couldn’t remove that clung to you—and then started a warp-reaction on Facestealer. But he’d gotten it wrong. So in theory—

Facestealer was aglow with that changing light of Port Isle, a brown like no color Saliss had ever seen, not turgid nor mundane but a deep color with more depth than any tree’s bark, basking it in color—

Trying to pull it halfway across the continent. Silly Saliss. He really should have made the reaction work. All his experiments showed that this generated enough pulling force to yank mithril chains in half like they were made of string.

Crack. Crack. Crackcrackcrackcrack—at first, Saliss thought it was working. Then he realized the monster was being held against the Dungeon’s wall and that the dungeon itself was breaking.

Not Facestealer. But it was off the ground, and the adventurers were gasping. It was the first time the monster had done more than stumble.

“Come on, break, damn you. What are you made of?”

Saliss began throwing alchemical items. Big boom. Big boom. Big—

Thwoom—

The third explosion kicked him without a potion nearby. Saliss landed, looked up, and saw both his alchemical creations fizzling out. He stared through the smoke of his reactions and saw something stumbling forwards.

…Well, it looks unhappy. Saliss primed a Frost Wyvern flask made of their dead corpses. It had about the same cold as that damn Wyvern Lord. He stared grimly at the lumbering monster as it looked at him and then tried to run the way it came.

Got any more bright ideas, Colth?

 

——

 

Snatcher was beyond fury. It was going to kill them, all of them. All the intruders and—

It ran.

It ran from the naked Drake. It tried to flee towards the city, towards Mother. The other, lesser defenders were attacking, but only when Snatcher was among the many would it be safe.

Right now, it was being hunted.

That last—attack—had hurt. Hurt, but not as badly as the sound.

They hurt Snatcher.

IT COULD DIE.

Yet not easily. Not yet. Snatcher ran because it knew this was their battle. On their terms. Its fury was mixed with fear, but it took more to kill Snatcher.

Falling stars could not. Foes without end could not.

They didn’t even know how it had been made.

If it could just—get away—then it would have the chance to kill them all. Pick them off, one by one. All it had to do was hide

Snatcher ran. It could sense the naked Drake pursuing it, but warily—and they were blocking off more tunnels. It turned left and sensed more chains, more blocking spells.

They had no idea what it could do.

[Reconfigure Aura: Haste].

Dead gods! It’s—

How were they finding it? Four times now, Snatcher had escaped them, using monsters as distractions, slipping away into the darkness. Each time, they came after it, laying a trap.

How…?

That smiling adventurer. Snatcher remembered that sigil it had seen. It felt not the wounds on its hide.

But—

ROSHAL.

It remembered a trick of old. And Snatcher realized it had to be tricky itself. So long it had been that it had forgotten danger. Forgotten—cruelty. How to fight foes as great as it.

How to wage war.

YOU DO NOT KNOW MOTHER. YOU DO NOT KNOW WHERE YOU STAND. YOU—

They couldn’t even catch it, now. Snatcher charged towards the city, gloating. They had some tricks, but they were weak. It was going to get away. Get aw—

Then it heard a cough and slowed. Snatcher had no head to turn, so it swiveled its body about. And it had not sensed her—

Mihaela Godfrey jogged next to the monster. She stared up at it, her white hair blowing with the speed of their travel, and Snatcher swung.

 

——

 

The Courier of Izril was on the ground. Colth ran as Deniusth, Eldertuin, Viecel, and the other top-level adventurers raced past the Horns.

Ksmvr was slicing up Face-Eater Moths as he heard Colth shout.

Phase 13! Skip the rest—support Mihaela! Get into position! We’re using the Flying Fortress formation.”

The Named-rank adventurers surged forwards as Facestealer slowed and attacked Mihaela. She? She dodged.

“You run like crap. [Wall Run]—[Mithril Axe Kick].

The Guildmistress of First Landing leapt back so fast she made Snatcher feel slow, even with the aura. She ran up a wall, kicked off it—and her foot connected with Snatcher’s head.

It—didn’t stumble, and the impact made Mihaela grimace. She pushed off it and felt like she was trying to push off a mountain. It swiped again at her, and she landed.

“Nothing?”

She was no adventurer, but she had adventured—run into Chalence, fought monsters, Antinium, everything. This thing was raising all the warning signs in the back of her head.

Chalence’s final boss monster flinched at that.

Facestealer did not. What was it made of? She saw the hide was torn further from Saliss’ attacks. If it were skin, it would be in danger of bleeding out from the sheer volume of damage. She saw red—leaking around the cuts that the other adventurers had left.

“Lehra, pin it down. Mihaela, the Flying Fortress!”

“I hear you. It’s—”

Facestealer lunged, and Mihaela bit back her comment about it being slow. She dodged backwards again and realized it was trying to back her into a wall.

[I Took Eight Steps Like Thunder]—

The sound of it made the dungeon echo, but she dodged under the claw and saw the other positioned, swinging into—

Close. She really was too old for this. Mihaela’s lungs burned. Don’t cough. Don’t cough—

Don’t slow down. Facestealer whirled, and the Guildmistress gripped her trump card, the Wand of Lightning Bolts. But she had to save it—

A figure in armor charged past her and slammed into Facestealer. Lehra Ruinstrider shouted as the Blade of Mershi actually scored Facestealer’s hide, and it backed up. It raised a claw—and struck her.

“Lehra!”

The Gnoll went crashing past Mihaela, but she survived the blow thanks to the spells Suxhel and the others had added to her. She got up shakily—but Facestealer didn’t go after her.

It feared her relic. It was trying to run again. It was getting far too close to that inner city for comfort. Mihaela, breathing hard, looked past Facestealer. It was watching her, but she sensed something oddly…

Maybe it was just her. She had too much experience with it from First Landing, from being a Guildmistress and a Runner.

Was it contempt Mihaela sensed? Contempt, for her Skills, her own speed, and even Lehra? She got a distinct wariness—but this thing seemed to be gauging them. As if it thought it was going to escape and come back.

As if even Orchestra hadn’t hurt it that badly.

She coughed into her hand. Blood, and it hadn’t even struck her. Mihaela’s lungs were burning as they always did when she worked too hard. She sensed Facestealer’s blank face and those two gaping holes—staring at her.

“You’re not going to keep on smiling. Back up, kid.”

Lehra got to her feet shakily. She kept a glowing buckler raised as Facestealer turned. Then…saw the group blocking its way towards those giant stone gates that led to the inner city.

Orchestra. Viecel the Gambler was hanging back, but Eldertuin was standing in the way of Facestealer. He had his famous shield planted, and behind him stood Colth. And at the back—Valeterisa.

Just like old times. There was only one person missing—and she appeared as she blew past Facestealer. Mihaela Godfrey.

A Courier, Named-rank adventurers, and an Archmage of Wistram. Their ranks had changed since Chalence. Their ages. There wasn’t Dorreg or Caulette to foul things up.

Facestealer halted and began to look around. Behind it, Lehra Ruinstrider held her ground as Saliss of Lights appeared, juggling vials.

Boxed in. Facestealer stepped towards the Gnoll and Drake—then faced the Haven’s Named-ranks. As if it were reluctant to flee like this.

That—was its mistake. Mihaela inhaled and prayed for a breath of fresh air down here.

“Ready? Valley—Deni, give us a tune and some magic. Brat?”

Colth the Supporter held up a thumb. He turned and smiled at Facestealer—and then it did begin to charge. Down the long hallway, but it was too slow.

It had been too slow the moment they got into formation. Now, Mihaela’s blood roared. And she heard Valeterisa chanting.

“[Speed Spell]. [Dual Cast: Grand Lightning]. [Haste]—oh wait, you can’t haste Mihaela anymore—”

As she cast, Orchestra struck up a tune. They played a Terandrian waltz—then kicked it into their impromptu covers of the song.

Fast—faster—Deniusth’s bow began to sing across the violin he held. The Gold-bell Violinist played so fast he’d once made an ordinary violin smoke from the speed. Orchestra was playing—

A song for speed.

“[Ballad of the Courier of Izril]!”

Once, it had just been [Speed Melody]. Mihaela turned as she felt her blood accelerate in her veins. Eldertuin braced as Facestealer came at him.

The Fortress of Terlands was staring down the monster, for all he was only half its size even with his armor and shield. His eyes locked on Facestealer’s exposed eye-pits like a wall, and the monster hesitated.

Did it see—? Too late.

Colth looked at Mihaela, and his own face was lit up by Orchestra’s Skill. She saw him whisper and knew the words even if they were moving so fast that sound was slowing.

[Copy Skill: Transfer Momentum].

Mihaela began running. She sprinted forwards with Colth, but they were like Street Runners pacing ahead of the real Courier. Waiting—waiting—

Valeterisa raised her staff, and her eyes glowed. She spoke as she aimed straight down the corridor.

[Grand Lightning]!

Two bolts exploded from her, and Colth and Mihaela activated their Skills. The bolts of lightning slowed, and Valeterisa admired the bolts of electricity that had suddenly, somehow—

Come to a stop. All their speed drained away by—

[Transfer Momentum]. Colth and Mihaela sped up. They became twin blurs so fast that the world vanished except for them. So fast that Facestealer was just registering what was happening as Viecel shouted.

[All or Nothing Charge]—

Then Mihaela sprinted. Next to Colth, who kept up with her, impossibly, almost as fast, straining his Skills as they ran with lightning in their blood. Not at Facestealer, oh no.

At the most immovable force in their team. He was waiting, his back entrusted to them. And like she had so many times—Mihaela leapt. Colth came behind Eldertuin, lower, like a football player from another world, and his shoulder struck Eldertuin as Mihaela timed her kick to his back. Colth activated his next trump card.

[Encore Skill]. [Transfer Momentum]!

Eldertuin and Mihaela and Colth shared one moment in the pure world that only she belonged to. The place where [The Courier’s Last Road] lay.

Speed. Then Mihaela dropped, and Colth stumbled against nothing. Because all their energy had transferred, again—

Straight into their friend. 

Facestealer didn’t even react. Mihaela barely saw it happen. Eldertuin, flying—launched by the impact of his friends, braced behind his shield. Activating all his Skills, his skin turning to Adamantium—

He hit Facestealer shield-first, and Saliss and Lehra took cover. Mihaela saw it all. She saw the shockwave first as the two struck. It rippled through the dungeon and cracked the walls in half, a line sending spiderwebs of broken masonry through the enchanted stone.

The air moved. Dust and debris blew across the hallways, so fast that it was like shrapnel and cut Lehra’s fur and silenced Orchestra’s song. The sound it made echoed for miles in the earth, and the Gold-adventurers clapped their hands to their ears.

Facestealer. Facestealer—

Reeled backwards. It stumbled eight steps and came to a halt as Eldertuin fell, shaking.

“Eld! On your feet! Back, b—”

Colth’s shout of despair was too fast. Mihaela raised a hand as she saw what Eldertuin did. The Fortress got to his feet and drew his sword. For the sound was loud and filled the dungeon.

Crack.

Facestealer’s head, above the eyes, was bowed in. Mihaela saw, past the hide blown away—the yellow-white bone was cracked. It bled from the wound and, incredulously, the monster raised its claws to it.

Then she felt it.

Fear. It turned to run, stumbling, and Eldertuin’s sword dug into its back. Facestealer whirled, and Deniusth stabbed his rapier-bow into its side. He couldn’t cut through the hide, but the monster slashed at him with a claw. Mihaela yanked Deniusth back as Colth howled.

“Charge! [Bane Blades]!”

He leapt on its back, digging his swords in, and Eldertuin took a blow that sent him reeling backwards, but his shield refused to break. He set himself and charged forwards again as Lehra struck Facestealer from the other side with a hammer.

It was shielding its head. One-handed, Facestealer swung a fist into the dungeon wall, and debris shot out like a deadly spray. It had to lower the other hand to block one of Saliss’ flasks, and the explosion cooked Mihaela’s skin.

Take it down!

Facestealer’s arms swung wildly. It caught Colth—and Eldertuin appeared, taking the blow for his friend. The Fortress went flying this time, and another adventurer took his place.

The Gambler. Viecel lifted a handaxe and spoke as Facestealer turned. Mihaela thought it was making a sound. Like a—scream? So faint—

[Mutual Bet]. [We Both Win, We Both Lose]. I bet my head.”

The monster ripped off Viecel’s head. The Selphid’s body stumbled, and that axe came up. He swung, and Mihaela saw the axe sink into Facestealer’s bone and lodge there. The monster recoiled, and Viecel tore the axe away as he stumbled back.

“Oh dear. Oh dear—Larra, things are going badly—”

Valeterisa was raising and lowering her staff, unable to get a bead on Facestealer—but more Gold-ranks were charging. Now the monster was swinging just to clear them and get away. Away—

A rift opened in front of it as it tossed Colth aside. Lehra was trying to hold it back, but she was being dragged along. She let go as Saliss yanked her back—because the hallway was glowing. Facestealer looked up, and a familiar rift appeared as Mihaela dodged back.

Larracel the Haven.

[Fire Support: Inferno Light Arrows]. They were a foot wide, some of them, and the burning hail struck Facestealer as it flinched—then ran forwards, through the storm, towards Orchestra.

“Don’t let it run!”

Deniusth was behind Facestealer, using it for cover from Larra’s spells. He lifted his blade.

[Sound Sundering Cut].

He slashed at Facestealer’s back as the monster kept going. Eldertuin was on his feet, and Colth leapt again, cutting more strips of hide off Facestealer.

Don’t let it heal! Slow it—hit the broken bone!”

He twisted around Facestealer, swords aiming for that weak spot even as it tried to grab him, fearlessly trying to pry out the bones and expose the gap. A gap—into which all the fire and magic that Facestealer had resisted thus far would—

Colth’s sword swung towards a chunk of misaligned bone like a chisel. Then Mihaela saw his sword twist out of his hands. Viecel’s arm swerved, and the Violinist had to grab the hilt of his blade. Eldertuin swore, and Mihaela saw Lehra jerk and Saliss drop his potions and kick one away.

“What the—”

[Aura of Disarming]. Mihaela looked left and right and then saw Orchestra losing control of their blades. Only Lehra and Viecel managed to hold onto theirs; Valeterisa dropped her staff and bent over it.

“Oh dear. Oh—”

Facestealer brought down a fist, and Mihaela tackled Valeterisa out of the way.

Larra! Teleport Valeterisa out! Now! Colth—

He wasn’t listening. The adventurers were in disarray, and Facestealer was running towards those damn doors. Only a handful of adventurers were trying to stop it as they reached for their dropped weapons.

One of them was a woman who needed no sword. Yvlon Byres screamed and charged Facestealer, heedless of the danger. She punched at it, striking towards the face as Colth leapt on the monster’s back, pounding, his arms plated with metal—

Copying Yvlon? He hammered at Facestealer’s back, then caught himself as his pupils dilated and he practically spat frothing saliva. Colth let go.

“No—that’s a bad copy—”

He looked down as Facestealer grabbed one of Yvlon’s arms as it extended, trying to rip at the misaligned, cracked face. It tore off her hand, and the berserk [Armsmistress] punched it with her other hand. Facestealer recoiled. It tried to escape, and Yvlon ran after it—

Stop! Byres—”

Colth grabbed her, and her arms nearly stabbed him, turning into barbs. But he stopped her.

“[Fall Back]! You’re exposing yourself—fall back and regroup! Now!

He turned, and the adventurers backed up. Ceria was firing spells at Facestealer’s back with the other [Mages], and Halrac tried to ricochet an arrow at its head, but the monster fled past those doors.

Into the city.

Colth picked up his swords, looking at Yvlon’s arms. She—wasn’t bleeding. She stared at the stump and grunted as Ksmvr grabbed her, holding a healing potion.

“It’s just my arm, Ksmvr. It’ll grow back.”

“You’ve got a blood Skill. You’re a liability.”

Yvlon’s head snapped up as Colth pointed at her. She opened her mouth—but the Ultimate Supporter whirled.

“It’s heading into the city. We need to go after it. We broke its bones—Orchestra, I need you to get ready. Can you use your big Skill again? Because we’ll be fighting off those hordes. We’re moving now!

“Stalker’s body is in there too.”

Pisces observed, panting, as he re-sheathed his rapier. Colth glanced at him, then Ceria.

“And an army. I want summoning spells, your behemoth—form up fast. If it runs, it might try to hide or find support. If it hides, we’re safe. Not if it decides the safest place is with a horde of monsters to give it cover. Damn it. I should have slowed it—”

“We cracked it. Our best trick—cracked its head.”

“More than anything else. What the hell is it made of? I felt like I nearly broke my arms and the shield…”

Eldertuin was checking the relic. Viecel waved a hand.

“I need another body. My Skill definitely worked—but I wasn’t going to risk more.”

“Raskghar body coming up. What’s the plan? Yank those bones out with our bare hands? How many auras does it have? We should have brought an aura-specialist with us.”

Jelaqua Ivirith was shaking with adrenaline. Everyone stared at the city. And Ceria had a thought.

“Guys. There’s something else in there. If it goes to the…Mother of Graves I’ve heard about—we should not follow.”

Everyone turned to her, and Colth glanced up. He met Ceria’s eyes as Deniusth swore.

“Let’s get it before it comes to that. Move.

 

——

 

They had broken its bones.

THEY HAD BROKEN ITS BONES.

Nothing had done that since—

NOTHING HAD DONE THAT SINCE—

Snatcher was bleeding. It was wounded.

It could die.

They were in the city. The many were coming after them, but they would not stop. Not relent. It knew that, and it hated them.

They would suffer. All of them. The adventurers were creeping through the alleyways and streets as some of them caused a distraction. Stalker’s body. They were surrounding it, waging a war with fire and blade.

Stealing Stalker’s body? They could not. They could not! The many were furious.

Stalker…

The body did not matter. It had taken the trophy that mattered. Mother did not matter, even if she was in more danger than she had ever been. All that mattered was vengeance.

It was running. Moving as fast as it could as the adventurers slowly tracked it down. How long would it take them to close in?

Forty minutes? They took some time to regroup. Then more, to enter the city and cause a diversion and break the many off. An hour and a half, then? Its bones would not re-knit that soon.

But it would have its vengeance. Now…Snatcher ran as fast as it could. It would have—

SUFFERING.

 

——

 

They were tracking him through the streets. Across the city. Colth the Supporter lifted a finger as the roar of battle in the distance made Deniusth turn back. Eldertuin hefted his shield as the [Supporter] pointed, and Mihaela took up a position. The Gold-rank teams were staying behind to secure the corpse and draw off the horrific beings in this place.

It was close. Hiding down one of the streets with a small group of the red, fleshy things. They…they seemed to wander in packs. Or eat something. Mihaela’s stomach was lurching.

She felt like something had gone wrong. They should have boxed in Facestealer after the last ambush. They had wounded it, possibly given it a fatal weakness, but they were in this city, and she could tell Colth had not wanted this.

He’d still planned for it, even enough to secure Stalker’s corpse, but they had only Orchestra, Variable Fortress, himself, and Mihaela.

Valeterisa had been ordered to stay at the Haven. Larra was helping rain spells down with the Gold-ranks, but this was a gamble. And Colth did not gamble like Viecel.

“We move in now. Eldertuin grabs with Saliss.”

Saliss nodded. He had his transformative tonic ready, and Lehra Ruinstrider was shaking with nerves. She, Mihaela, and Colth had a more dangerous job than that.

Rip out one of those bone chunks, and Deniusth and Orchestra finished the job. Saliss had lent Colth a bunch of acid and poisons to hopefully filter through that gap in the armor. If he had to, Viecel would make his biggest bet. If Facestealer reached this ‘Mother’ or if it had another trick—they fell back.

“See it?”

Halrac was taking overwatch on a building, but he didn’t have an angle on Facestealer. It might know they were there. The [Bowman of Loss] loaded the second and only other Vortex Arrow the teams had into his bow.

“Ready?”

There was no point to asking that. Mihaela looked at Colth, and he rose with an expression she hadn’t seen before in his eyes.

A Named-rank adventurer. He leapt out of cover as Eldertuin raised his shield. Deniusth played a note on his violin as Orchestra rose—but they were all slower than Mihaela. She raced around the street corner and stopped.

“Death or glory!”

Viecel howled. He lunged as Colth lifted his blades. Then slowed. The fleshy, monstrous people of the street looked up. Halrac’s arrow never landed amongst them—but one of Orchestra’s [Mages] unloaded a [Fireball] into their group.

The fire and their screams were followed by several more spells. Mihaela saw three dozen forms recoiling, being cut down by more arrows. She didn’t so much as raise a fist or foot. She—and the other adventurers—were looking for Facestealer.

And they saw him. Saw…

Part of him. Colth’s face had gone still. That smile of a man courting death was on his lips—but it had frozen there. Deni, Viecel, Eldertuin—the adventurers and Mihaela Godfrey stared at Facestealer. Or rather—

His hide.

It looked like a cloak of rags. Bloody, filthy—charred with damage and covered in red. It was draped like a gruesome mask over one of the red, naked monsters inhabiting this place. The brand of Roshal was glowing upon the hide.

“It ripped off its skin?”

Someone whispered in horror. Colth spun on his heels. He looked around—then seized his speaking stone.

“Horns! Fall back!”

“We have Stalker’s body—”

“Facestealer’s removed its skin! It could be right on top of you! Fall back! Everyone, back!”

Suddenly, the voices were filled with panic. Colth looked around, and Mihaela saw Deni trying to activate a teleportation scroll.

“Colth—teleportation’s not working this deep.”

Where is he? Where is—

Halrac loosed mundane arrows as the Named-ranks fell back, shouting at the Gold-ranks to regroup. Mihaela was tensed, ready to run as soon as she heard screams.

But they never came. The adventurers surged back around Stalker’s corpse. Mihaela barely glanced at the massive beast. They had gotten it untangled from the pillar, and it was so large they would have to drag it back or cut it up somehow; the largest bag of holding they had wouldn’t have fit it!

That was secondary. Their entire goal in this dungeon—the Horns were looking around, and Ceria’s ice-fortress was glittering as the half-Elf held back the lesser monsters.

“Where is it? It should have jumped us by now.”

Yvlon said what was on everyone’s mind. If this was an ambush—was it going to unleash something?

“No monster hordes—if it uses the Shield Spider nest or—”

Seborn was glancing about, left and right. Moore stared at the red-bodied citizens of this place throwing themselves into a killing zone fearlessly. But there weren’t more than usual—if anything, they seemed to have been cleared out by the distraction.

Ceria’s pale eyes gazed at the monsters, the lack of an ambush—and then at Colth. He had retrieved Snatcher’s hide. He stared at it, and Ceria wondered how pissed off you had to be to remove your own skin.

How…mad…her eyes kept flickering. What would she do if she were intelligent enough to figure out how to escape the tracking spell? Hide, bide her time to strike back?

But what if she was crazy enough to attack Liscor on her own anyways? And all—all the most dangerous people were right here—

Ceria’s head snapped up. She whirled.

“It’s not here. We have to go back. Now! Warn them! Warn the inn! Get Larra to Liscor now—it’s going after Liscor and the inn!

All the adventurers looked up. Then Mihaela began running, but they were buried in the dungeon. And Facestealer?

Facestealer had been running for a long time. Now it was climbing. Climbing and climbing as its bloody body rose once more.

My skin. Take my skin. Take my skin. Crack my bones.

I will have your little ones. I will creep into your homes.

A claw of bone rose over the edge of the pit, and it heard the horns begin to blare. Snatcher rose—and part of it rejoiced at that sound.

I WIN.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice was in Invrisil when the alarm sounded. She was far from her inn. And it was quick.

Oh, it was fast. Everyone in the inn was still listening to the scattered reports from the adventurers. The last Lyonette du Marquin had heard, Facestealer was wounded and they were pursuing it into the inner city.

She was keeping herself distracted, waiting tables and reading a proposal sent to parents asking them to volunteer their children for a new initiative in Liscor.

When she heard the horns from the walls and the ringing of gongs, she felt her stomach lurch. Then she felt it.

As a claw touched the grass—the [Dangersenses] of every single person in Liscor began to scream. Scream—but it was too late.

Facestealer is coming! It’s coming—

Ylawes Byres looked up from a plate of fries. He slowly reached for his shield and sword. Everyone else was frozen.

“What? What’s that? Colth is below with the others. They can’t all have—”

The Captain of the Solar Strikes laughed. A number of Gold-rank teams were in the inn, as well as Silver-ranks. They got up and looked outside.

What they saw was a repeat of a nightmare the inn had had. Only this time—a bad dream grew into a far more horrific reality.

Facestealer was standing, facing Liscor. Ylawes saw the cracked bone of its head, but it stood there, yellow-white bone drenched in crimson. It was smooth, unnaturally smooth—as if the bone had no joints.

As if that were just another protective layer. Two staring pits were its ‘eyes’, and it stood there, arms spread, as spells and arrows rained down around it.

As if mocking Liscor. For a minute, it stood—then it turned towards the gates. To the inn. As if choosing which one to go after first.

“Falene. Dawil…”

Ylawes’ voice had caught in his chest. The Gold-rank adventurers had frozen up—but they moved first. They stared at this monster, which had eluded the Named-ranks. What did you do when it taunted them so?

Of course they went. Ylawes Byres drew his sword. He put his helmet on with one hand—and the Silver Swords charged onto the grass with the other teams. He charged the monster—

And he thought he heard it laughing.

 

——

 

It knew it. It knew it.

IT TRICKED THEM.

These were not like the smiling adventurer. All the dangerous ones, the woman made of speed, the man holding the shield of the trespassers—the Gnoll wielding the memory of stars—

THESE WERE EASY.

Snatcher, Snatcher! The song rang through its head. How they sang and wept of it. For these?

It saw the first warrior slow. His chest was emblazoned like the sun, and he held a glowing mace. He charged…and fell over. Like a toy.

That was so simple. This Human couldn’t even ignore…paralysis.

Snatcher bent down and plucked a head like a grape. It heard the voices then, screams. Arrows lashed it. Spells struck it as if to pierce its shattered bone.

Oh, they had shattered it.

BUT THEY KNEW IT NOT.

Its bones. It saw a [Knight] wearing armor stumble, then raise a shield. He shouted, and Snatcher struck his shield with a fist. The man crumpled—until a Dwarf struck It from the side, shouting.

These ignored its paralysis. Thanks to the half-Elf bombarding it with weak spells.

It could not even feel them. Snatcher ignored both man and Dwarf. It bent down and pulled the head off another. A Dullahan screamed at it, screamed in horror, and Snatcher put him in the bag. Dullahans were the best. They still lived, sometimes for a long, long time.

It ignored the [Knight]. It ignored the Dwarf. They struck it and knew it not.

They knew not Snatcher’s purpose.

They knew not the Mother.

They knew not its city.

They knew not its sins.

THEY DID NOT EVEN KNOW HOW IT WAS MADE.

Snatcher was ebullient. It stood there and let the man with the sword strike it, shielding his face. Yes. Strike me again and again. Strike me.

THEY MADE MY BONES OUT OF THEIR ANCESTORS.

It stood there until the sword tried to touch the crack in its head. Then Snatcher lost patience. It raised a hand and brought it down, and the [Knight]’s shield bent despite his Skills. But he tried to rise, sword flailing.

Snatcher seized him up and saw just a man. Just a man behind the helmet, a boring little man without magic, one of many. So Snatcher threw him. It turned and threw him over the walls of the city and then looked to the building on the hill.

The little people were fleeing. Snatcher hit the Dwarf too hard and watched him bounce over a hill. The half-Elf fled, and the other ‘adventurers’ ran, sobbing, away. Snatcher decided it would be all of them, inside.

SANCTUARY.

It hated that place. This time—it would enter.

 

——

 

…Thought he saw past the crack, and he was afraid to know. Terrified. Ashamed.

The world was spinning. He thought he saw a Drake staring at him below…on a wall. Then the [Knight] realized he was flying and tried to raise his—

He hit something. A roof, and the stone broke as well as his armor and body. He hit it and hit a canopy and hit the ground and lay there.

His helmet was dented. People were screaming, calling for the army, the Watch.

Ylawes! Ylawes!

Someone found him. The man had forgotten his name, forgotten his class—he looked up at a stranger and remembered she was his sister.

He forgot why he was supposed to be at odds with her. She grabbed him as a golden Gnoll appeared.

“Something threw him. Something threw—

“It’s a monster. The monster. It’s Facestealer—get inside—”

“The Watch and army is coming. Where—where are the [Crusaders]?”

A babble of voices. Ylawes tried to speak and ended up throwing up. There was too much red there. Someone grabbed a potion and forced it into his mouth. He spat half it up too—and then remembered.

He had been in a fight.

“It’s Facestealer. Where—where’s—”

It’s headed to the inn! Sound the alarms!

Ylawes looked at Ysara and found she was holding him up. He looked around.

“Where’s my sword?”

He knew where his shield was. Bent around his broken arm. His sword? His sister and Qwera looked at him incredulously.

Ylawes, don’t be mad. That thing—we need an army. Where did the Named-ranks go?”

“Tricked.”

She didn’t understand. There was no time to explain. Ylawes tried to stumble towards the gates. He found they were closed and looked around.

“I have to—they’re fighting.”

“Who is?”

Ylawes Byres stared at Ysara. She helped him up the walls, and the [Knight] looked out.

“The adventurers. They’re…”

He looked out and saw Facestealer. It was walking towards The Wandering Inn. What Ylawes didn’t see—were adventurers.

The Solar Strikes were half gone. But there were more Gold and Silver-ranks. They were…

Standing far away. Some were banging on the gates, demanding to be let in. They weren’t fighting. Ylawes looked around and saw Falene running their way. Where was Dawil?

“I have to stop it.”

“You’ll die. You’re not a match for it. Named-ranks aren’t.”

Ylawes looked at her sister.

“I have to stop it.”

The brother and sister looked at each other, and once more, they didn’t understand each other. Ysara Byres tightened her grip on her brother’s shoulder.

“You won’t be able to do a thing, Ylawes.”

He gave her a blank look as vomit dribbled from a corner of his mouth.

“That’s not the point.”

 

——

 

Numbtongue stood. He saw the Thronebearers rising and pulling Lyonette towards the garden’s door.

“The portal—”

“Get to the garden. Now!”

It was coming. So fast that Liska appeared as Ishkr dragged her into the common room. They had seconds. The Hobgoblin stared down at the Dragonblood Crystal blade.

It won’t do any good. Take my hand.

Reiss whispered. Numbtongue didn’t. Not yet. He looked around, and a figure appeared.

“Normen, let go, let—”

“Crossbows won’t work. Bird’s been shooting at it all day.”

A flurry of voices. The Hobgoblin set himself at the door. He had seen the adventurers run. And they were allowed to. It was a very practical thing—but this was his inn.

His home.

He was just glad that Erin wasn’t here. And Mrsha.

Panic. Lyonette was looking at the guests, but she was ushering them into the door. Menolit, the regulars and guests. Into the garden.

Numbtongue hesitated. He saw someone else setting himself. Despite the fact that he had only a practice sword, Normen looked at him.

“Numbtongue! What are you—”

Facestealer knocked on the inn’s door and broke it. He raised a fist, and Numbtongue heard thunder, and the inn shook from the impact. The monster stopped as it saw the long hallway. As if amused.

The inn had seen this before. This day—the Thronebearers were dragging Lyonette towards the garden.

“Princess!”

“We’ll come in a second.”

Numbtongue really wished Saliss were here. He saw Octavia emerge from her shop, holding a shaking acid jar in one hand. But Lyonette was screaming at him.

“Don’t be a fool!”

“Someone’s got to fight it.”

Numbtongue…Numbtongue was afraid of it. He was afraid it could get into the garden. Erin had told him it wasn’t impenetrable.

He felt like he was dreaming, but it wasn’t Hectval’s soldiers this time. The Hobgoblin lifted the blade. Let’s do this properly. He looked at Normen.

“Run. You’re not ready.”

“No.”

Normen was trying to force Alcaz into the door. Bird had come down with bow in hand and—and they saw it all. The [Princess], the Hobgoblin, the brave Antinium and Brothers.

Not this time. Someone shoved another guest into the door and spoke.

“None of you are ready. Not this time. I’ll greet our guest.”

Numbtongue turned, confused. Lyonette’s face whitened.

“What?”

A forgotten figure in the chaos stood there. He shoved his sister into the door, and the Hobgoblin, the [Knight], the Bird all turned. Numbtongue looked at him.

“You can’t stop that.”

“That’s not my job. But you—”

A paw grabbed Numbtongue’s shoulder. The Hobgoblin tensed—but there was just a gentle pull. And then—

Numbtongue!

Lyonette screamed his name. The Hobgoblin felt the world spin—and he landed on his back.

On the grass—with a buzzing bee jetting over his head. He looked around—and nearly stabbed Octavia as she nearly landed on him.

What the—he saw Normen go flying through the doorway, and Alcaz, and heard a voice.

“—ncy Evacuation].”

Then someone slammed the door—and turned. Numbtongue leapt to his feet as he saw a glimpse of that person who had also been there.

 

——

 

Snatcher smashed into the inn and raised its claws. It looked around, for no one had escaped through the windows and doors. As if it had given them time. As if they could r—

The inn was empty. The monster peered around the huge room—and it sensed…maybe one person here. But no more.

Where were they? Ah. Of course.

Sanctuary. It turned and grasped at a wall. Hunted across the blank boards—until it found the door it had never been able to open.

They were all in there. A [Princess], a princess with red hair. Men and women with bright armor. Even a Goblin with a crystal blade. A girl of cloth.

So many. So frightened. The warriors stood in front of the door—and there was even a tiny Goblin who aimed a crossbow at its face. A lot of Goblins, actually. They chanted at it, and Snatcher reached for them.

Its claws scraped at that door. Frustrated, Snatcher seized the doorknob and pulled.

No door had ever resisted its touch. But this one did. It pulled—then pulled hard.

The inn trembled. Somewhere—an [Innkeeper]’s head rose. She had felt it come in. She was running—but she’d never make it.

Let me in. Let me in. LET ME IN.

Snatcher raised a fist and struck the door. Those inside flinched back from it. They could not attack it. And it could not get—

It struck the door, and the inn shook. Again. Snatcher drew back its head of Dragonbone and smashed it into the door and that invisible barrier. Again and again, until it heard the floorboards begin to crack and the beams shift warningly.

And the [Innkeeper] felt it. She cried out, and the inn began to tremble. Snatcher hesitated as it sensed an aura surround it.

Like wrath. Like fury. The aura told it to leave.

Snatcher ignored it. It raised a fist and hit the door so hard the hill shifted. Those inside drew back. Its next blow they felt in the streets of Liscor.

Snatcher raised a fist—

The [Innkeeper] took off her hat. She came to a halt, panting, and her hat glowed with fire. She tipped it up—and what lay beneath it were days of wonder.

It fist rose, and Snatcher put its strength behind it. The wrath of a city—until it saw the light.

It flickered into being, and Snatcher turned. Confused, attracted by the beautiful little glow. It stared left—and a fish made of spectral blue, a long fin, flew into the air around it.

What? A light spell? A silly little spell…Snatcher felt the inn cast it. It nosed around Snatcher, and it vaguely grabbed the spell and broke it to pieces.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t magic, and it didn’t care. It wasn’t like the beautiful heads in its sack, one screaming and sobbing still. Its…

Wait, why was its sack on the table? Snatcher looked at the sack. It felt at its side. Then—more of the strange little fish appeared. A long eel of green floated past it, and a red shark, a small sand shark appeared. Snatcher ignored them—until it felt a sting on its bones. It looked down, and a lamprey was biting it.

Biting…its bones? Snatcher crushed the fish. Then felt a tiny, tiny impact as something lashed its face. The eel. And the shark was biting at it. The glowing fish—

Began to glow ominously and more and more appeared. Dozens. Hundreds.

They began to attack as the fishies became less playful and more enraged. Snatcher swatted at them as they tried to scorch its bones. They hurt it not! But they—they did feel like something.

Old magic. Different magic. Witch magic. It stung like the Gnolls and their tribes. Stung—but it turned back to the garden. Break it. Break it into a thousand thousand pieces and what lay beyond—

The attacking spell-swarm could not distract it. The horns from the city could not. They could not hurt it—but the mug that bounced off its head thonked louder than the other sounds. And the voice…

The voice was thought-provoking.

“You’ll never get into that garden. You are a guest of this inn—and you are not welcome. In the [Innkeeper]’s place—kindly get lost.”

Snatcher paused with its fist raised. It turned. Who dared?

A shaking Gnoll was standing behind the bar. He looked terrified—and he was not beautifully white or unique.

But Snatcher decided to kill him first. Because he was part of this place. And his head…it turned. The Gnoll was still speaking, and Snatcher listened.

“This time. This time—I was here.”

Then he turned, and Snatcher lunged.

 

——

 

Watch Captain Zevara didn’t blame Erin this time. She blamed herself for trusting the Named-ranks. And she thought they’d done their best. But sometimes—

Sometimes.

“Form ranks! Your job is not to die but to hold it off! Understand?”

The [Guards] were shaking in their boots, but Gold-rank adventurers had run and they hadn’t—yet. She was proud of them.

The inn…the inn was silent. Zevara was afraid, but two figures were running towards it ahead of the Watch. and behind her, she heard the sounds of a prayer. The Watch Captain turned to the inn as she waited for another tremor—and saw something.

One of the windows near the side of the inn opened. The Watch slowed as someone bailed out the window.

Ishkr exited the inn with all the speed and athleticism of someone who was in mortal fear of his life. The Watch pointed, and Zevara’s heart lurched.

Isn’t that—the [Head Serv—]

A wall exploded. Snatcher came through it like a thing out of a cartoon—but there was nothing funny, only terrifying about it bursting through the reinforced wood like it was paper. It went after Ishkr, and the Watch howled.

Run! Run—wrong way, idiot!

It wasn’t his fault—Ishkr was racing away from that monster as fast as he could, with no thought for going towards Liscor.

He was a dead Gnoll. Facestealer was so fast that Zevara doubted she could outrace it on horseback. She turned to see where Klbkch and Relc w—

“No way. He’s outrunning it! Or not outrunning—”

Zevara’s head turned. The Watch stared. She stared. Ishkr was moving across the Floodplains. Even Facestealer seemed confounded as it blurred after him.

“What is…how is he doing that? Did we know he could do—”

The chase across the plains took less than thirty seconds. Ishkr disappeared over a hill as Facestealer chased him, catching up—and then reappeared, looking around.

What the—the monster actually hammered the ground with its bone fists, looking so frustrated—then it whirled back to the inn, and Zevara saw—

 

——

 

Lyonette was arguing with Numbtongue not to go and check outside. It was too dangerous! The garden had been shaking.

They were staring at the garden door when it opened—and Numbtongue nearly stabbed Ishkr. The Gnoll flung himself into the inn, crawled around to slam the door, and lay there, panting.

“I’m done. I’m done. I bought all the time I could.”

They all stared at him as the Gnoll clutched at his chest. Numbtongue looked at Lyonette, Liska—even Rags was seriously impressed.

What the hell just happened?

 

——

 

Skills.

Snatcher ran back towards the inn, so enraged by this—this trickery that it didn’t notice the others until they were right on top of it. It ignored the insect and Drake as it charged at the inn. This time, Snatcher would destroy it, piece by piece, and break that d—

“[Triple Thrust]!”

Something hit it in the cracked part of its bones, and Snatcher recoiled. It whirled—and the Drake’s spear struck it again. Hard.

Snatcher’s hand went up to shield its bones. Another one? How many were there? It recognized the spear, the stance.

[Spearmaster]? Annoying. Not a good one—but it planted itself, and the insect had blades this time. Like the other one. Neither fell down with its [Aura of Paralysis].

All of you, die. Snatcher swung, and the Drake dodged back. His spear lashed out again, like a part of his body. Towards the cracked bone.

Snatcher cared not. But for the cracked bone—this Drake would hurt it not. It lunged—and two blades kissed its back and took a sliver out of its bones.

Snatcher froze. A voice spoke behind it, sounding—happy.

“[Recaptured Sublimity]. Ready, partner?”

“Let’s get him.”

The Drake lifted his spear—and Snatcher whirled. It saw a blur of blades—and felt a nick in its bones. What was that sword? What was that sword? This wasn’t like the other one. It was faster. It looked different.

Snatcher wanted its head, but it had a question first.

Who…are you?

It looked at something as old as it, perhaps. And that something laughed.

A spear struck Snatcher in the back—and it deflected a blade. Fast—Snatcher’s claws whirled. It was slow. Slow—it felt those blades kiss it a dozen times in a second.

No more. 

NO MORE.

[Aura of Disarming]. The Drake lost his spear, and the blades twisted in the grips of the insect. They struggled—even if the insect held the blades, they wanted to be free every second. Snatcher raised a fist—

 

——

 

“Relc Punch!”

The Drake hit the monster in the face. It seemed stunned, but it punched back, and the Drake ducked back. His fist ached—but the incredulous monster took a swing at him, and Klbkch tapped it on the shoulder.

It swung around, and his punch made the bones shift in the monster’s face. It recoiled, and Relc kicked it. They were—

It was fast. But so were they. The Antinium and Drake dogpiled the monster. It was twice their height, but it was stupidly built. Every time it swung around to one, the other would begin hitting it in the back. And their fists—

Relc saw the bone shift. He punched it in those cracked bones and was rewarded with a red seepage. Klbkch was even faster. He calmly hammered on Snatcher’s back—and the monster turned.

The Drake was laughing. He could hear the horns blowing, but they were doing it! Didn’t anyone just think about attacking from two sides? He saw the dumb rectangle of bones turning its two hollow sockets at him, those claws of bone swinging fast—but not fast enough for a [Spearmaster]. He even knew the reach. Relc dodged back as Klbkch sped up.

 

——

 

Faster, faster. He had seen foes like this. The Slayer was hitting Facestealer with all the force in his body. He could sense his foe quailing—and Klbkch was reaching for something he had lost.

[Recaptured Sublimity]. He was going back in time, and Relc was shouting, mocking the clumsy foe. A claw shot out, and the Drake leaned back—stumbled—

Huh?

Klkbkch ducked. There was no way that Facestealer should h—

He dodged one claw that came at him fast. Another—a—flash of bone—

Third—?

Then Klbkch leapt back. Someone stumbled. Relc stepped back, eyes wide. He clasped a claw to his neck.

“That’s…not fair.”

The Slayer and the Gecko looked at Facestealer. Klbkch stared at the—arms of bone. The long, clawing arms that weren’t attached to that odd, rectangular body any longer. Something—crawled across Facestealer’s body. Bones re-shaping. Lengthening.

Bone-teeth opened and closed. An alien head, cylindrical and misshapen, uncannily off, turned left and right. Long limbs—a quadrupedal body.

It was changing. But that wasn’t what made Klbkch halt his attack. He turned—and saw how the arms were longer, thinner—and one claw as sharp as anything was covered in…blood…

Facestealer looked at Relc, and the Drake felt at the cut so deep and wide it went straight down across his neck and left a gap. Blood was gushing from it.

“Ow.”

He stumbled. Facestealer raised its claws—and Klbkch rammed a blade into its back. It didn’t go in far—but the monster recoiled. It turned that alien head to bite—and Klbkch caught it. He slammed the jaws shut, forced them back, and punched.

Crack. The spider web across its chest—the damaged spot was its chest now, as the bones shifted place—grew. The monster backed up, and Klbkch advanced.

“Relc. Your potions. Relc?”

He deflected a claw—this time, the earth moved when he hit it. The monster was backing up. And Relc was—

Lying down—

Klbkch saw the Drake collapsing. He hesitated—and the changing Facestealer backed up. It crawled backwards, and Klbkch looked at it. His Skill—

He ran at Relc, yanked him up, and reached for a potion. Facestealer was headed to the inn. Relc was gasping.

“I got nicked—”

“I’ve got you.”

But the inn! Now, Facestealer was crawling, like some insect crossed with an alien, fangs gnashing. It was wearing a shell of bone. Klbkch held Relc’s blood in, pouring the potion. He let the monster go.

After all—

The faithful were in its way.

 

——

 

They were coming, one after another. But none of them beat it. That…that insect…

It disturbed Snatcher, but it was no longer dangerous. The Skill ran out. More bugs in armor blocked Snatcher’s way.

They could not harm it. Death, death, death.

It charged them, claws reaching to pluck their heads. To teach them—

“—[Weapon of Faith].”

A mace rose, glowing, and a [Templar] set himself. Snatcher wavered. And a mace that shone with more than magic struck its claw. The [Crusaders] charged, and Snatcher wavered as the blades of a new kind of warrior hit it.

The [Templar] rained blows on Snatcher’s arms and body as it backed up—then stared at the gleaming Dragonbone. At the sudden—

Snatcher ripped off his head. The [Crusaders] froze, and one raised a shield empowered by f—

A claw tore through it. Snatcher threw the bodies aside as the Antinium broke up. They stared at it, and Snatcher roared, for it had given itself a mouth.

Bones gnashed. It turned, green blood covering it. Now—its fury reached a new zenith.

THIS? THIS? YOU THINK THIS IS ENOUGH?

I KNOW THIS TRICK.

A [Crusader] with a bow launched an arrow made of faith—and it snapped on Snatcher’s contempt. Then they felt it, and their powers quailed.

MOTHER. MOTHER. MOTHER!

Bugs, fleeing in disarray. The two warriors, one dragging the other back. Any more? Snatcher looked around and saw a half-child with flaming breath leading worthless soldiers.

Who else? Who else would dare? Did you not see the dead? The monster’s outrage grew, for they did not see it. They did not know it, and so they did not cower or run or beg. And that was its largest fault, its greatest weakness.

 

——

 

It had—forgotten.

Forgotten they would never stop.

Oh, many of them would. Many already had.

Ylawes Byres stood at the gate that was opened a crack to give Zevara’s Watch a retreat route. Klbkch was standing over Relc as a [Healer] bent, checking on the Drake.

“What are you doing? Standing there?”

Klbkch turned guiltily, but it was not him that Ylawes was addressing. Ysara no longer needed to prop him up. The Gold-ranks and Silver-ranks stared as the [Knight] looked around.

“Where’s Dawil? What are you doing? We have to get out there.”

Falene emerged, supporting Dawil. The Dwarf’s armor was rent down the chest, but he was alive.

“Lad…”

Ylawes turned to him, but the Dwarf just raised his hammer.

“Next time, we’ve gotta duck. What’s our plan?”

The [Knight] turned, and for all Falene shuddered—she was right there. But when he looked around, the other Captains and adventurers stared at him as if he were crazy.

“You want us to take that thing on? Byres, Orchestra couldn’t bring it—”

Are you adventurers? That is our responsibility. Who’s with me?”

Spit flew from the [Knight]’s mouth, and he felt himself shaking. He turned to Ysara.

“Lend me your sword.”

Ylawes!”

He turned and stared at Facestealer. And he—

He was not the only one.

 

——

 

Waters were pouring from the heavens. Waters without end—Zevara was trying to drown the bastard, not knowing it had been tried. Or just delay the monster.

“She’s activated a failsafe. She can’t do that!”

“Shut up.”

“But—”

“[Senators]—out of here.”

Chaldion of Pallass growled. He watched as a small lake formed around the inn—but the monster was just walking underwater.

The Watch Captain hadn’t done that for the Face-Eater Moth attacks. It was one of her few safeguards against an Antinium attack—a Tier 6 spell.

Maybe she didn’t care. Maybe she thought Facestealer was a greater threat.

“Grand Strategist, we are ready to sortie. But the door is down. Do we have permission to engage?”

Chaldion was sitting outside the door on the 8th Floor as General Duln waited. The [Strategist] exhaled as he smoked a cigar. His third one. The door was down—and he suspected they were inside the garden.

“If it opens—do not engage. Give me a window to use [Path to Victory]. Keep Saliss alive. And the [Innkeeper].”

“Yessir.”

He was waiting.

 

——

 

They were waiting for him. And the cost? It weighed in their bones, like Mihaela Godfrey, running for the surface.

Tekshia Shivertail leaned on her spear as she stood at Liscor’s gates. Waiting for the monster to approach as the Watch fell back. She doubted she could do better than Relc—but was she fleeing?

The Dwarf stood at the door in Esthelm, and his voice seemed to rumble like the High Passes above. He smoldered with a weary guilt and flame.

He was no warrior—but Master Pelt of Esthelm called out as Kevin and his apprentice, Emessa, tried to reason with him.

“If it takes a master of steel and stone, I’ll slay that creature of bone. I fear no monster, and I have held living flame. Tell them, my grandfathers, the day I redeemed my name!”

He struck the door, but it was silent.

Open it, [Innkeeper], and set one wrong in this world to right!

No matter what the cost—the Dwarf raged and waited.

 

——

 

Did Snatcher feel it? A thousand foes, gnawing at its shell, its stolen bones? It was turning as the [Crusaders] regrouped in the Hive’s hidden tunnels.

The Silver Swords were exiting the city, and two teams broke from the silent adventurers to join them.

The Pride of Kelia and Vuliel Drae. They were Silver-rankers—but they struck each one of the Beriad like a blow to the heart.

That was honor. That was—

Adventurers. Ylawes Byres carried his sister’s sword, and his shield-arm would not work, but he called to the monster as the Antinium watched.

Turn, monster!

Facestealer stopped at the entrance to the inn, and one sinuous head made of lengths of bone turned back. It looked nothing like the old form. Here was a creature to creep through windows, squeeze into houses at night. A monster of nightmares. It regarded Ylawes with little interest, but the [Knight] screamed, his voice hoarse and breaking.

Turn around! By House Byres and Izril, we will see you dead. Turn around by Liscor. By the Five Families! By—Yderigrisel, I swear I will cut you down.”

A hand froze on the opening to the inn, a flicker of recognition made even Facestealer halt. As if it recalled that name and was…offended.

That [Knight] deserved an army at his back. But the [Crusaders]’ faith broke upon that thing—as if it were armored in more than mere bone. As if—they had felt—it had faith of its own, twisted and dark.

“Queen Xrn, Queen Xrn, please lead us to battle.”

The Beriad and 3rd Battalion were ready—but they were holding back as Artur and the other leaders beseeched the one individual who could harm Facestealer. Who had—and who watched the fighting above.

“No. I forbade Klbkch to enter battle. He disobeyed. You may do battle. I will not.”

Xrn’s voice was touched by the colors swirling in her head and black rage at Facestealer. But she held back.

Why?

Artur was confused, and the Small Queen stared at him. Her eyes shone with beautiful, magical light—and a colder confidence than Olesm had yet reached. She pointed with her staff at the monster.

“Level well.”

 

——

 

Cold ice. A [Knight]’s fury. He charged across the open ground at Facestealer, though the monster’s aura tried to stop his limbs.

He was not alone. Dasha was running behind Dawil, and Anith and Falene’s spells rained down along with Nailren’s arrows, but Facestealer snapped the ropes and nets without even slowing.

Nevermind that reinforcements might be coming. Ylawes did not go for that. He did not go in hopes of inspiring or for the glory or levels.

He went because he had to. And two teams joined him. The [Knight] ran—and the [Innkeeper] saw him.

She stopped, gasping for breath in the street as she tried to get back to her door, and saw him standing at the edge of her inn. Erin Solstice’s magic and hat and inn couldn’t slow that thing down.

It knew her garden. Her aura clashed with Facestealer’s, letting Vuliel Drae and The Pride of Kelia move—but it was like a mountain. An old, buried mountain of sins.

Ylawes. Erin cried out and raised her hand. You idiot. You—brave fool. She did not always like him, but he?

He deserved more. So she threw up her hand and shouted to the sky.

“[Boon of the Guest: Yderigrisel]!”

Mrsha slammed into Erin from behind, and Grimalkin and Pryde turned in confusion. They didn’t know that name, perhaps, but—Erin strained and felt a void where she should have felt the Skill working.

He had never been a guest at her inn. But she had been his guest. 

“No—no—damn it—[Boon of the Guest: The Silver Dragon-Knight]. Come on!

She slammed a fist into her shin. Then Erin’s head rose. Falene was glowing with Lyonette’s boon, so Erin shouted.

“Dawil—[Boon of the Guest: Pelt]!”

A Dwarf gasped as his hammer rose—but it swung and bounced against the monster’s armor without doing a thing. He backed away and reached down to his belt, which hummed—

And he drew a blade remade. For a second, for a battle. The Dwarf stared at the axe—and threw. It cut into that bone and shattered again—and Facestealer went for the Dwarf. It seized him up as Falene shouted and hit Ylawes as the [Knight] charged it.

Down the [Knight] went, tumbling down the hill, helmet dented, and he rose before he came to consciousness. Facestealer was raging at the things chipping what should not be damaged. Dawil’s head jerked under a claw—

“[Oil Spray]!”

He slipped out. Insill ran as Pekona slashed and dodged one of Facestealer’s claws. It was…weaker in this form, although it slashed so fast with another claw it ripped out a strip of her flesh and left it dangling. The monster advanced as she stumbled back, and someone stabbed it in the face.

And again—the metal tip of the conical spear left the tiniest dimple in the bone. But it did mark it.

“Run! Run, brother!”

Infinitypear lowered the spear and ran as Rasktooth shot his hand-crossbow into Facestealer’s armor—then threw an acid jar. Neither did much, but the monster pursued them before it was struck by Ylawes.

The adventurers were relieved by a sudden army of [Crusaders]. They charged up the slope but did not surround the monster. They attacked, raining crossbow bolts, letting the Beriad and 3rd Company hammer it—and fell back as the monster lanced through their armor. Green blood…

“Ylawes, Ylawes, slow down.”

The [Knight] nearly fell over as the adventurers rallied. He was almost aglow with battle fury—but he halted.

“We can’t—we can’t kill it.”

Maybe Pelt could, or a higher-level fighter, but the cracks in the bone armor needed to be expanded. Prying a chunk loose? All but impossible with Facestealer’s every blow rending all but the toughest armor.

“Where are the Named-ranks?”

In the dungeon. Ylawes shook his head. He gazed at the inn and realized Erin’s door must not be working if everyone were in the garden.

“That death-death-death-death head monster! Facestealer. No one kills it! Not Raskghar, not Minotaur, not traps, not everything in the empty nest! It kills everything.

A voice was urgently telling everyone that. Ysara had said the same, and Ylawes ignored it—until he saw Infinitypear and Rasktooth. The Cave Goblin was babbling.

“Dungeon only way. You hide and run, and it go to trap room and gets stuck. Never seen it change. Except when it kill too many. Can’t be killed.

“What? Trap rooms?”

Then Ylawes remembered—Numbtongue had trapped it once with the Redfangs. It had broken free but—

Facestealer was not going to relent. It was forcing back the [Crusaders], who retreated, healing up, and Ylawes—Ylawes’ eyes flickered.

“Wait. Wait…I remember something from the dungeon. I have a—plan.”

Dawil and Falene, panting and wiping blood from their eyes, looked at him. Ylawes had read Colth’s warnings—the Named-ranks were still fighting their way back up in the dungeon. But time? Maybe they could buy time or even—

“You—”

He whirled, and Infinitypear and Rasktooth jumped. What were they doing here? Ylawes stared.

“Who are you?”

“[Adventurers]. We fight. That is bad-bad monster. Killed many of my people. Can’t be killed. It killed Stalker. All that? Just bone. Armor.”

Rasktooth saw the other adventurers look at him, and Ylawes realized that Colth had neglected one thing with his adventurer’s bias. He hadn’t asked the one expert on Facestealer. More than Calruz. More than Numbtongue…

“Does it have a weakspot? Never mind that—you—you came from the dungeon. How well do you know it? What’s your—name?”

Ylawes floundered. Rasktooth gave him a bug-eyed look.

“I am Rasktooth. This is Infinitypear. I know every part of the dungeon where I was.”

That—wasn’t perfect, but Ylawes looked at the monster. He wasn’t as—clever as some Captains, he knew. He had a straightforward approach to things, which people mocked. But he did have more experience fighting monsters than even most of the northern teams.

This was a giant Elemental—well, a Creler-type monster right now. But he had noticed one weak spot just now and from Colth’s testimonials.

“I was in the dungeon too. I remember seeing—do you know where this is?”

He spoke, and Rasktooth nodded instantly as Dawil raised his brows. Anith looked incredulous, but Rasktooth was confident.

“I know where that is. Every Goblin.”

“How far away is it from—”

“Not far. You want to take it there? It never goes.”

“Ylawes, we can’t lure that thing! It’s after Erin’s inn!”

That was true. The [Knight] turned.

“Falene, draw it off. Can you?”

She obligingly shot a shower of fiery bolts into Facestealer’s back, and it ignored the spells. Ylawes banged on his shield, trying to draw it away, insult it.

In Yderigrisel’s name—face me, monster!

This time, the monster just turned—then went back to Erin’s inn. It was pounding on the portal door now, as if sensing that Erin was trying to keep it closed. It punched through one of the walls, exposing the hidden kill-rooms in the hallway, and then lurched back towards the common room.

Towards the garden. Facestealer ignored the Antinium. It ignored the Silver Swords. It wanted to start with the garden—then kill everything attacking it. Then the city.

Then—

Facestealer halted. Its sinuous head turned, and it broke off from the door. It turned—and then began to crawl out of a hole in the inn it had chased Ishkr through. Ylawes followed it.

What? Something had drawn Facestealer off. He looked over—and saw the figure. Ylawes Byres looked at the Silver Swords and then the other adventurers.

“We have to stop it. Or—follow me.”

He began running back towards the crack in the earth, and to his amazement—they followed. Silver-ranks, chasing down a boss monster.

Adventurers.

And who were the duo running towards the chasm, sliding down the ropes? [Adventurers] too. A Goblin and an Antinium, being chased by Facestealer itself as the disbelieving Liscor watched. The monster abandoned the inn. It abandoned the fight.

It just went after the two. Or rather…one of them. There it was. There she was. Plain as day. I found you—and this time—

Facestealer chased the beautiful head. It was whole again, which was even better! That lovely, lovely…blue-painted Antinium head. Rasktooth was blue too, with the paint dyes, and he looked at Ylawes as the [Knight] charged at him.

You sure? The [Knight] raced past Facestealer and shouted as it lunged.

Let go!

The Antinium and Cave Goblin looked down the hundred plus foot drop—and the [Knight] jumped into the pit, face-first.

Oh fuuuuu—

Dasha wasn’t that committed and slowed down, but Insill and Larr ran into her, and she went careening into the pit. Nailren’s team halted, but the Gnoll leapt after Anith and Pekona—and Falene shouted as Dawil plunged after them.

“[Mass Featherfaaaaaaaaaaa—]”

 

——

 

Snatcher landed after the adventurers. And the blue insect. She wasn’t casting magic. She was weak. She looked…different…but it could not resist.

This was all her fault. It blamed her. It wanted her head. Such a beautiful head. Such a beautiful color. And the inn—

The inn bothered Snatcher. It reminded it of great dangers, so it retreated from the above. It felt the grudges and hatred of dangerous things up there.

DAMN THEM.

It would creep up in darkness instead. Use the monsters. Use Mother’s tricks if it had to, and tools. It was not going to relent until it had enough heads to fill every part of its vault, the entire nest it had cleared—and all the other three as well.

Until heads lined every part of this dungeon. Snatcher did not fear the adventurers. They had failed.

They had all failed!

THEY COULD HURT IT NOT.

Already, the Dragonbone of its shell was knitting. Already—and they had used their best against it. Snatcher was annoyed as it crawled after the adventurers. They were racing through the dungeon, its home, as if to escape it.

It knew every corner and aspect and trap. The only problem was—Snatcher was slower in this form, meant to creep and bite and claw.

It shifted back to the one it liked so much, which could run amazingly fast. That took time—and to Snatcher’s displeasure, these adventurers did not run into traps.

They navigated this dungeon almost as if they knew it. Leaping around dangerous, hidden sigils, avoiding ambush sites and dead-ends. Even taking shortcuts—

That little green thing. The Goblin. It clung to the blue one’s head, pointing and screeching as Snatcher ran. A strange group.

A beautiful dog-person with black fur. A wonderful head such as Snatcher had never had once.

A woman with one hand and a blade from far-off lands older than even its city.

A boring Drake with black scales, and a Gnoll with a bow, a woman with a beard.

A second Gnoll, a [Chieftain], loosing arrows at monsters to keep them back.

A Dwarf with a broken blade that had cut even its armor.

A half-Elf from the Isle of Mages, a child in magic, but a child of magic, everfair.

And that [Knight]. That [Knight], racing behind the two, the Cave Goblin and the blue one with the spear, shouting the name of a traitor, bearing the shield—like that fortress of a man—of the trespassers, the ones upon the shores to the north. Newcomers claiming this land as their own.

They came to a halt as Snatcher slowed, in a room with many exits but no way out. It had caught up, and its [Aura of Haste] was beyond them.

It was beyond them. Snatcher advanced around a circular room it remembered…though it had changed. A dais of stone stood in the center, and beyond it, the [Knight] stood. He looked around. As such fools did, he spoke.

“…We fight. We have done all we can. You are all the finest adventurers…”

His voice trailed off. They turned, then. And Snatcher looked at them. It saw nothing of value.

Nothing brave, as they charged, spreading out. It threw the first Gnoll into a wall hard enough to crack bones, broke a sword in twain with a single swipe. It stood as the half-Elf threw spells into its claws and looked around for the blue one.

Where was she? Where was…

Snatcher saw Infinitypear slowly scrubbing the blue paint they used on the Antinium figurines off his shell. The ordinary, mundane brown-black of the Antinium’s carapace registered in Snatcher’s gaze at last, like the fake layers peeling off a decidedly not 1st-edition unique item in the world’s most debauched collector’s hands.

Then it raged—and Ylawes Byres raised his sword.

Force him back! Force—

They charged. A screaming Cave Goblin and a jabbing spear, knocked flying by one enraged hand. A broken-armed [Knight]—Snatcher swatted the woman with a beard and stepped back. It reached out for the fallen Antinium’s head to squeeze

And tripped.

Crack. The sound was faint, and Snatcher minded it not because it was not its body. Except…it tripped.

It—

Was it a blow from a Giant? No. Was it a great spell from an [Archmage]? No.

Those things harmed it. But no warrior here had that power. So why was it—

Falling? Suddenly, Snatcher’s arms were flailing and Snatcher understood it not.

Something fell around it. Bits of wood. Bits of fake wood, a Skill—dissolving as the fake floor vanished. But what had it f—

Then Snatcher recognized what engulfed it. It touched Snatcher not—but it was sinking. Sinking in…

Water.

And it realized it had been fighting in one of the dungeon’s well rooms, that deep well which it had never paid attention to for it drank not. But it fed Mother’s creatures and Snatcher—

It was sinking in the center of the well.

 

——

 

The vast, deep well had no bottom that Rasktooth could see as he dragged himself on his front over to the lip of it. No one had ever seen the bottom, and it was so wide across it could feed thousands of disgusting monsters.

Even the larvae and other monsters had fled Facestealer’s wrath—but the great monster of the dungeon had not noticed that the well had vanished in its avarice and then rage.

Mostly because…a Drake had covered it up with a fake floor.

Insill.

Insill—the [Rogue]. He stared down at the sinking shape, incredulous.

“That worked? That w—”

Back! We bought time. We have to leave.”

Ylawes Byres had seen better days. Everyone jerked up, and Nailren grabbed Larr.

“On your feet, brat.”

Dasha was unconscious, and Pekona gave up slapping her awake and just hauled her up with Anith.

“How—how long do we have?”

Anith was speaking around a mouth bruised, and he felt like he’d lost at least one tooth. Ylawes looked little better, and his face was puffy, his arm broken and his armor ripped up. They looked at Rasktooth.

“How deep does the well go?”

The Cave Goblin frowned.

“When big horned man—Calruz—came—he made Raskghar dive. Then he tied stone to rope and tossed.”

“And?”

The Cave Goblin shrugged.

“Too deep. More than thousand feet. More than Raskghar or Cave Goblin dives.

Everyone stared down into the well. Ylawes Byres blinked. He peered down—and Falene threw a light spell down, down…

“It can’t swim. It’s sinking like a rock. Do you think it—”

Facestealer was still visible as it sunk, and they saw it flailing. Flailing and flailing and…suddenly, Ylawes realized something.

“Does anyone have [Dangersense]? I do.”

Rasktooth lifted a claw, and so did Larr.

“Is it going off?”

The other two looked at each other, and Rasktooth tapped his head. Ylawes felt some danger from the dungeon—but the sirens blaring every second in the back of his mind? Larr’s jaw dropped. Slowly, Falene stared down.

[Eagle Eyes]. It’s…still sinking. How far down does this well go? Did the Raskghar see anything?”

Rasktooth innocently smiled.

“Minotaur horn man sent four down. One went one hundred. One went two hundred. One went a thousand. With amulet that lets them breathe water like air. The last one never came back. Well goes down, down, down. Like all the water above. Down.”

Everyone looked up, and Ylawes Byres remembered.

“The Floodplains…flood every spring. I always wondered where the water goes.”

“Sometimes, dungeon floods. Goes down here.”

“What, through the wells? But where do the wells go?”

Dawil looked incredulously at Rasktooth, and Infinitypear decided he had better stand back from the well. The Cave Goblin stared down—then spat into the well.

“Looks like—very far for stupid monster.”

The adventurers gazed at each other. Wait—Facestealer wasn’t even visible now, even by Falene’s eyes. Dawil fished around and found a stone.

“Falene. Can you track this with a simple spell?”

“Sure.”

She tossed it down—and they waited. Falene counted. Everyone began bandaging their wounds. Dasha woke up, and Ylawes Byres sat down, despite the danger, and fished around in his bag of holding on a hunch.

“One thousand…two thousand…three thousand…”

Then Falene gasped.

Eight th—it’s gone.”

“What was that?”

Dawil looked up, and Falene Skystrall shook her head.

“It’s out of my range. It was going down slowly and then—something pulled it down. Something fast.

Everyone stared into the well, and Rasktooth whistled.

 

——

 

Snatcher was in the water, but the water hurt it not.

It did not need air. It had been made to protect Mother. To guard this city.

This…

City of Graves.

And they had made it to destroy Dragons. It had done that. It had survived Mershi’s wrath. So it did not fear the water, but it tried to flail over to one side of the stone walls sloping down, down…

They had dug down deep when they made this place, to protect it from siege. Down and down, they said, to find out where the water went.

Snatcher cared not. Even when they had made it listen and obey—their questions were not its. In time, they had all simply listened to Mother.

It was nearly over to one of the well walls. It would take it a long time, days, perhaps, to climb. It had sunk fast, as heavy as it was. Snatcher reached out a claw.

That [Knight] died. They all died. This group especially. It would take their heads and then all the others. It would wake Mother. It would—

The claw missed the stone wall. Snatcher saw it end—and stared as the last enchanted bricks vanished. Then it looked around and saw something so few ever had. And it remembered…

When they saw what it had done, when they hated us all—they buried us. A fitting end for our deeds, in this warm, dark grave. And we waited, and Mother waited.

The Walled City of Graves had sunken into the earth, and it had not cared. But the parts remained, and the builders dug deep, deep, and built a place in readiness for the day they were found. Yet this…

They had dug so deep, these wells, thousands of feet. To answer the question where the water went. And Snatcher saw the answer. It saw…no wall to grab onto. It looked around, and the current began to pull it. Faster. Faster…and then it panicked.

Then it feared.

What is this? What is—

It descended into a place only clever Gnomes and dead gods had ever known. Deeper and deeper.

Down.

Down.

Down.

Downdowndowndowndowndowndowndown—

 

——

 

Ylawes Byres stood at the edge of the well. And he sensed no more danger. Falene had done her experiment again…and whatever this well led to, it was so fathomlessly deep her magic could not explore it.

“I think we won.”

It was Dasha who said it, and no one believed her, even her. But then they sort of felt it.

An incredulous—relief sweeping hold of them. Ylawes looked at Infinitypear, and the shaking Antinium poked the well. Then he tossed another stone down and watched it go.

“You fucking idiot.”

Larr looked at Nailren, but the [Chieftain] just looked down the well.

You idiot. You can’t swim, and that’s how you lost?”

He tossed in more stones and watched them sink. The Dwarf looked down and then snapped his fingers as he realized something.

“Dead gods, it’s like the Earth Elemental. Lad—is that what you thought of?”

“The what?”

Anith looked up, and Ylawes nodded shakily.

“The first monster Dawil and I ever beat was an Earth Elemental. But we had—bad gear. I’d chipped my blades on it, and Dawil’s axe was lodged in its chest, so we ended up tricking it into a pit. Then we threw rocks at it for eight hours. You don’t have to beat a monster. I thought we could just send it down and buy time for the other adventurers by covering the top. Or turning the water to ice or something.”

“We did it? We did it?

Pekona was staring at Ylawes, but Falene exhaled. She looked around—and to everyone’s surprise, whooped. The half-Elf punched the air and fiddled with her broken glasses.

“Take—take that, Ceria! Our team beat the monster Named-ranks couldn’t!”

She put her hands on her hips and looked around. Falene’s face was flushed, and suddenly, Dawil began laughing, but not at her for once.

“We did it! We did it! We’re going to level up!

Insill shouted, and Larr grabbed him.

“We’re? You’re going to level up! You trapped a boss-monster—”

Everyone began shouting—until they realized that this was the dungeon. They lowered their voices, and Ylawes Byres stared into the well. He wobbled—and his bones ached and he was pretty sure someone had to help him back to the entrance or he’d pass out.

But between that moment of victory, incredulity—he hesitated.

For he did not know his path forwards, but he looked at the Silver-rank teams—and Rasktooth and Infinitypear—and felt a kind of certainty dawn on him.

But first—first—he did this for perhaps the last time. The last time until he figured things out. Nevertheless—he felt right.

Slowly, Ylawes Byres took out something he always carried about. A tradition, really. It was a small bag of powder, bright silver dust. Dawil blinked—and Ylawes dumped the entire bag into the well.

“It’s not connected to Liscor.”

He turned to the Dwarf. Dawil glanced at him, and Rasktooth spat again. The adventurers looked at each other, and a few more tossed in rocks. Ylawes slowly raised a middle finger and wondered what Mrsha got out of it.

“That is for you.”

He told Facestealer, wherever it was sinking. Then he looked over. Someone was clambering over the lid of the well.

“Pekona, Insill, make sure I don’t fall in. I’m going to piss in the well. No, wait. I can think of something better.”

Larr was unbuckling his belt. Anith dragged him back.

“You idiot, that’s disgusting. And too far.”

 

——

 

That was how Mihaela Godfrey found them. Larr, squatting over the well, and half of them lapsing into unconsciousness. She stopped, listened—and made them repeat everything five times.

That was how they emerged as well, to the disbelief of the teams, the armies lined up, and even Erin Solstice herself.

There was, of course—more to say. More to do, and explanations and inquiry into the well—and an instant resolution to hire Hexel to put a damn cap on the rift and make sure this wasn’t going to happen again.

Ylawes Byres mostly passed in and out of consciousness for a bit. Until he woke up and Erin Solstice was sitting there.

“Heard anything interesting?”

He nodded, and she handed him a drink. He moistened his lips and then realized it was a Minotaur’s Punch. Glorious fire.

It was reflected in her eyes and hat, and she saw his expression.

“I can get you something else, but it feels—fitting. You’re a real adventurer.”

Coming from her—Ylawes Byres sat there for a bit.

“I’m going home. And then to the new lands—and on a journey to find something. Someone. Maybe you know where to look.”

“Oh? I’ll help. But it doesn’t sound like you know quite where you’re going. I could show you a statue or two, though.”

The [Knight] shook his head, not quite picking up on what Erin was saying. He glanced around—and saw the adventurers, looking embarrassed, askance—and Ceria Springwalker, talking about the giant corpse they’d gotten.

—and Facestealer’s hide, if we trust that. But guess what we found?”

Numbtongue scratched at his head.

“…A monster?”

“No, under the Raskghar camp. Before we ambushed that bastard, he lifted up this huge block of stone, and Eldertuin managed to lift it on the way back. Calruz had no idea he was sleeping on top of—well, I think we’ll give at least one to the Silver Swords.”

One what? Ylawes glanced up, and Ceria pointed to a bunch of blades that Pisces was making everyone stay back from. Hedault was staring at them, and Ama, Pisces, and the [Enchanter] were pretty sure that they were high-quality death magic blades. With odd handles made for claws.

An armory of weapons from whatever…place this had been. Ylawes realized that Erin was staring at him and forgot her question.

“Where we’re going? I never do. But I think…where are Vuliel Drae? Nailren and—Rasktooth and Infinitypear?”

He looked around, and Erin got them for him. The [Knight] saw the two [Adventurers], the Silver-rank teams, and finished his thought. He talked with Falene and Dawil for a moment, but neither one had any objections.

“I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know what our task is—and I can’t promise a lot of treasure. But if we go to the new lands or—wherever adventure takes us—”

He lost focus. This was not the mindset for a speech, and he was pretty sure he had a concussion. They looked at him blankly, and he stared at the Goblin and Antinium especially as Erin’s eyes lit up. Ylawes Byres took a breath.

“What I am trying to say is—if you wish, I would like to invite you to join my team. The Silver Swords. Three is a small number anyways.”

Yvlon’s head swung around, and Insill’s mouth opened.

“Us? Who?”

“All of you.”

Erin answered for Ylawes, and Rasktooth grinned and began to congratulate Anith’s team and Nailren’s—until he saw Ylawes looking at him. And he and Infinitypear exchanged a sudden glance, and Ylawes—

Well. He decided now was a suitable time to pass out. And that night, among the voices that he heard, one said this:

 

[Conditions Met: Knight → Knight-Seeker of the Silver Dragon!]

[Knight-Seeker of the Silver Dragon Level 37!]

[Skill — Name of Dragons: Yderigrisel]

[Skill — Aura of Protection obtained!]

[Skill — Legacy: Find the Dragon’s Grave obtained!]

[Skill — Sword and Shield Art: The Knight Charged With Wings of Steel obtained!]

[Skill — Negate Spell obtained!]

 

[Conditions Met: Adventurer → Horrorbane Adventurer obtained!]

[Horrorbane Adventurer Level 16!]

[Skill — Immunity: Fear obtained!]

[Skill — Tidal Jab obtained!]

[Skill — I Have Seen It Die obtained!]

 

[Conditions Met: Trap Rogue → Pitfall Trapmaster Saboteur obtained!]

[Pitfall Trapmaster Saboteur Level 28!]

[Skill Change — Pitfall Trap → Pit of Many Deaths obtained!]

[Skill — Trap: Masterful Concealment obtained!]

[Skill — Mithril Caltrops obtained!]

[Skill — Incredible Leap obtained!]

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: Join the giveaway in celebration of Book 8, the blood of Liscor coming out! It’s got prizes!

I did little editing this time, could you tell? I fit everything I wanted into the third part because I am on break…

And I probably should have made it four parts. Here are my thoughts.

I am on break. I am death. I played God of War: Ragnarok, and I was so mad I wrote a 6,000 word essay on it while writing this chapter.

Because the story was so bad.

We all make mistakes. I fear I will leave this chapter and post it with a number of things I could do better, but this is a web serial, and I am trying to balance quality with not missing my updates.

It’s…less forgivable in a million-dollar budget game when you have, I presume, an editing team and countless eyes on a story like that. Seriously—it’s bad. But perhaps you can’t see it because all the other parts are good and the ending is where things fall apart. As it normally goes, anyways.

I will spare you my rants, and I hope this was enough word for now. We will see more later—there is always more to see, and process, but I am done. The side story arc was this, and was it worth it? Let me know. Thanks.

 

 

Shellbazaar by Enuryn the [Naturalist]!

 

Gnolls and Erin’s True Power Level by butts!

Twitter: https://twitter.com/buttscord

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/buttsarts

 

Chapter Sketch by Artsynada!

 


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9.25

[The Merch Store is having a Black Friday sale! Buy stuff here!]

[The Blood of Liscor, Book 8 is out on Audible and as an e-book! Find it here!]

 

Thereafter, for a short while, as with every single time, they took a break. It was not that the days got less busy.

If anything, they were packed in with things to do. The first thing Erin Solstice did when she got back to her inn, the day when Facestealer attacked and was defeated, was sigh. She stared at the hole in the wall, which looked like a vaguely humanoid brick had smashed through it—then noticed the stress-fractures on part of her common room walls from where it had tried to break through into the garden.

“I wasn’t even here. And it still sort of exploded.”

Lady Pryde was quite upset as she gazed upon the devastation. Mostly because she hadn’t been there. Grimalkin, in between checking on the survivors, passed a stone over Erin’s head. Then he made a few notes as the white runestone glowed and produced a few flashes of color he noted.

“Hmm. Well, I’ll call it ‘inconclusive’.”

Erin gave him a strange look as Mrsha urgently bent over Ylawes Byres, shaking him. Are you dead? Are you dead?

His blonde head rose, and the most disheveled man in the world looked up. Mrsha gave him a thumbs-up of relief, and he fainted again. The inn was swarming with guests like Klbkch, [Crusaders]…and guilty Named-ranks. In the midst of it all, Erin had an odd vase and a dress she’d bought from the antique store, and somehow, that was the weirdest thing to Selys.

“Erin. You went shopping? You—and that dress looks hideous.”

She pointed to the objectionable style, which would probably have gone well with someone else in a different era on another continent. Erin Solstice wrapped the dress around the vase, put it down on a non-shattered table, and looked at Grimalkin.

“What’s inconclusive?”

He pocketed the stone.

“I was testing whether or not someone hexed you or possibly cast a second curse regarding your inn. You haven’t…gained some kind of Skill related to property destruction, have you?”

Erin gave him a sour look.

“No!”

“Ah. Well. Perhaps it is only a matter of time.”

 

——

 

It wasn’t all funny. In fact, very little of it was. People were dead. An amazingly small number given Facestealer’s danger, but he had still killed a number of Gold-rank adventurers and Antinium [Crusaders].

Anyone not lucky enough to be Ylawes Byres and his team hadn’t survived Facestealer’s attacks. The [Knight] didn’t pin down his survival on luck, either. Dawil had broken six ribs despite his armor, but he was conscious enough to explain it the next day.

“Lad’s got a thick head. House Byres has a long history of taking head-injuries. You think them Yoldenites can survive a blow to the skull? One time, one of Ylawes’ ancestors stopped a cave-in in one of their mines by letting the boulders hit his skull repeatedly.”

Erin’s mouth opened and closed. The Dwarf’s face was perfectly straight—until he snorted. He winked at Ceria, and she cackled.

“Nah. Lad’s got [Avert Mortal Blow]. It’s probably how that thing kept missing him.”

Whoa. Really?”

Dawil was checking the odd blade he’d received from the dungeon of Liscor. He was eying the bright metal, closer to white than silver, a pale sheen. A deathly sheen.

“How do you think he’s survived the battles we’ve been in? Luck? Well, he’s got more than a bit of that—and Skills too. [Luck of the Foolhardy]. Don’t tell him I told you that, though. He’s quite embarrassed about some of the Skills he’s gotten.”

That…made so much sense to Erin. Ylawes Byres did strike her as the kind of guy who’d give all his money to a [Scam Artist] and then find a bag of gold on his next mission.

A fool. Arguably, a traditional one who had, at the very least, a family history of trying to kill off an entire species. Fierre Lischelle-Drakle had a lot to say about House Byres, and so did her entire family. Also, he could be really dense when it came to his sisters. And Mrsha thought he wasn’t that cool.

An extraordinary, courageous fool who’d helped bring down a monster that entire Named-rank teams couldn’t. He had possibly helped save dozens of lives, and Vuliel Drae, Nailren, and Infinitypear and Rasktooth had stepped up when Gold-ranks fled. And that wasn’t even thinking about what would have happened if Facestealer had entered Liscor…

So of course, Erin let him rest, and while Hexel slithered around her inn, the next day and the days thereafter, she made sure he wanted for nothing. Every day he came down, looking less dazed and less dead, the guests would applaud.

“You really needn’t have them do that, Erin.”

On the sixth day, he took her aside and told her it wasn’t necessary. The [Innkeeper]’s response was to giggle.

“I never said a word, and I’m not using a Skill or an aura, Ylawes. They just like you.”

And Erin had the pleasure of seeing him turn red to his ears. But then, he quite deserved it.

They all did.

 

——

 

Infinitypear and Rasktooth had been prepared for their eviction or possibly just to pay rent after a month of staying at The Wandering Inn. After all, Lyonette had been quite clear about that. But when they came with all the coins they’d saved up, the [Princess] refused to take the money.

“But you said—”

“I know what I said, but you saved the entire inn! Don’t be silly—we should be paying you.

“Okay. How much?”

Rasktooth perked up, and the [Princess] hesitated because she hadn’t expected that. She looked around, fussed into the kitchen, and came out with a bunch of mini-cakes. Calescent followed her.

“They’re not ready! I’m practicing—”

For such a big Hobgoblin, he was very picky and nervous about the quality of the food that he served to Erin’s guests. This was his big shot, and he only relented when the two adventurers were quite clear they’d eat anything cake-related.

In the end, the two were given six mini-cakes frosted up, and they were promised access to the inn’s full menu for a while. So it was then they went down into Liscor and finally bought that hat.

A big, red one sat on Rasktooth’s head, and he put a feather that Bird had given him in it. The tricorne had very lovely black stitching and edgework, and it was a royal red.

The [Merchant] who sold the hat gave Rasktooth a discount—for one of the mini-cakes and also saving Liscor. Qwera also sold Infinitypear a shortbow since they had coins left over, and the two went hunting with Bird that very same day.

It was quite fun, although the range of all three varied. Bird had a solwood recurve he’d bought from the Hawkarrow tribe after his last few bows were damaged, with a functional draw weight of about 70 pounds before his Skills.

The actual draw weight was far more reasonable at 45 lbs. Magical wood and the [Bowyer]’s Skills made for a powerful, powerful bow, and Bird could tune that up higher.

By contrast, Infinitypear had a shortbow with a draw weight of merely 25 pounds but commendable strength given the materials and Skills.

Rasktooth had two hand-crossbows. Thus, you had Bird shooting long-range while Infinitypear and Rasktooth would run around, shooting as they got closer like two desperados. And what were they hunting?

Well, Bird kept looking for the invisible bird he claimed was around every corner or the elusive waterbird. Or a penguin that Kevin had told him about. But their real, tangible quarry which they bagged two of was the Garbichug Revolter.

And by ‘bagged’, they shot the gigantic, trash-eating pests, tossed their bodies at a Rock Crab, then into Shield Spider nests. The three and watched as the Rock Crab refused to eat the first Garbichug—and the Shield Spiders actually carried out the other Garbichug and tossed it onto the grass. It didn’t seem to decompose, even eight days later. And only then did Bird spot the mini-Garbichugs eating the corpses of the ones they’d shot and learn he had to burn them.

He announced this to Watch Captain Zevara when she came to The Wandering Inn. The Watch Captain was an erratic guest, but she had plenty of reasons to be there after the Facestealer attacks—coordinating with Invrisil, Pallass, and Riverfarm came to mind—and Erin also had very friendly rates for the Watch.

It was Lyonette’s initiative in conjunction with Imani. The [Chef] was still a friend to the inn, and upon request, she’d done some big thinking with Lyonette. The [Princess] had used her connections to the City of Growth to facilitate a new concept at the inn: cheap, filling dishes.

Oh, they had hamburgers and pizza, but those were still actually fairly intensive to make. You could do a line-assembly job, but for Calescent? Even he would get sick of flipping a hundred burgers.

So why not make something even better? Something…you could sell for cheap (but profitable) prices at a lunch or rush-hour that could feed hungry Workers or even the Watch? Lyonette wanted the [Guardsman] market. She had observed how much Relc could eat—but noted he was not always that picky about what so much as it was plentiful and good.

Therefore, Imani had done some testing and come up with the new lunch menu. One of the hits Zevara herself was chewing on was rice with curry.

…Yep. Rice. Curry. The trick was how you prepared it. A big cauldron could make rice with minimal effort, especially if you had a Skill like Calescent’s.

[Don’t Burn It]. And—[I Stirred That]. His two Skills effectively replaced a lot of the effort that went into manually making soup or rice. So his real limit was how much of the ingredients he had, the prep time, and how many cauldrons he could run simultaneously.

The end result was that he was petitioning for a kitchen upgrade, and so was Lyonette—and the inn had huge bowls of soup, curry, and other foods for cheap.

The Antinium loved the rice-based dishes, and some had their own, personal spoons to eat portions big enough for their different mouths. Long-handled, with their names on it. They loved it, and an [Engraver]-[Carpenter] in Liscor was making fantastic money selling them custom spoons. Custom spoons…and all the business to her because she was kind enough to make spoons for Antinium. There was a lesson there, but most people needed it spelled out.

Bird appeared before Zevara as she was savoring the spicy dish. Calescent had his Skill that prevented people from being too spiced-out, but he would happily turn it off for you.

His spice-levels ran from ‘Mrsha likes this’ to ‘Redfang spicy’ to ‘Void Eater Goat’ levels. That last one actually required you to eat it outside, and you had to pay for a healing potion for your tongue up front. Erin hadn’t actually seen anyone manage to down it entirely. Saliss had done a bite. Pryde had taken a mouthful and then decided she had to sit in her rooms for the next two hours. Commendably, she never made a sound, but she declined another bite.

Klbkch had made the mistake of thinking that, as an Antinium, he did not have the same issues with spice. He did.

The point was that Zevara was enjoying a really hot bite when Bird spoke. He just sat down in front of her.

“Liscor has a pest problem.”

“We have a what?”

She looked up. Of all the things to talk about—outside, the Watch was lining up for lunch. They were occupying the Floodplains in large numbers, not only because they had expanded their ranks, but because the villages and farmsteads needed more patrols.

But the real reason they were out there was because Hexel was marshaling a huge team to secure the dungeon’s openings. He was reinforcing the hole in the ground and building a ‘cap’ over it that could stop hordes of monsters from ever coming out again. Even if Facestealer tried—well, it would buy them time.

It was costing a lot, but they had Antinium and, crucially, Liscor’s support and the Council’s as well. The Shield Spider populations were down—even the Rock Crabs were learning not to try and attack the new villages. Most people had learned Erin’s blue fruit trick, but even the ones that hadn’t?

Zevara had just been over to the Lischelle-Drakle farm where they’d apparently chased one of the Rock Crabs off. Brave [Farmers]—that man Himilt had claimed they’d hit it until it ran and had not gotten hurt. She had advised him on the seed cores and possibly building some walls.

So, Zevara had thought her new focus would be crime in the expanding Liscor. Or diplomacy with other cities. Or hostile cities like Hectval…already enough on her plate.

So what was this about?

“Pests? What are you talking about?”

“Garbichug Revolters. You have them. I have killed sixteen this month. Five this last week. There will be more. They are coming. You are not prepared.”

She just stared at him as he gave her the most serious look she had ever received from him in her life. Bird had threatened war on Pallass with less intensity than this.

It was so disturbing that even when he went off to beg Erin to conjure more magical birdies for him to shoot, guilt-free, that she actually put it on top of her list.

None of the people in the Adventurer’s Guild could help her. Selys, who still worked part-time, helped Zevara pull records on the Revolters, but they were considered a Bronze-rank threat. It was, in fact, the new [Druid], Shassa, and the Ornithologist’s Association—a group of [Bird Watchers] and other people with the class—who understood Bird’s alarm. They told Zevara to issue an alert to all farmsteads and buildings to mind their trash and waste—and to lock down the sewers of Liscor. But, of course—it was too late.

 

——

 

Garbichug Revolters looked like giant, mutated ducks. They had duck-beaks and that kind of form—but they had teeth. Their skin looked either moldy or slightly putrid thanks to the excrement they loved to eat and use as a self-defense weapon. They smelled worse than that.

Oh, and they had the aggressive temperament of geese. They would attack anything they thought was weaker than them and eat anything they could.

They were not Crelers. They were cowardly and ran from almost all threats. They had the offensive power of a giant duck—which was dangerous—but a Bronze-rank team could take them out with little issue most times. A healing potion’s worth of damage at most.

The problem was, Garbichugs dodged arrows, and they were good at escaping. The other problem? They loved big sewers.

They had come to Liscor en-masse as the Shield Spiders were reduced, and their presence quickly earned them a bounty from the Adventurer’s Guild. They found their way into the sewers and began to compete with the other pests—giant rats, sewer slimes, and the larger insects.

Also, they were quite, quite immune to most deterrents. More than one [Farmer] reported trying to chase them away with the seed-core trick only to see them eat the seed core and survive.

The amount of poison in—well, it explained why their bodies were so immune to decay and why almost nothing would eat them aside from their own kind. Calescent himself had a very nasty encounter with them one day when one stuck its head through a kitchen window and began to eat off a stove top.

He promptly blew his famed death-spice into its face, and the creature just spat at him without seeming to mind the attack. Calescent punched it instead.

The sounds of a Hobgoblin charging out of his kitchen to match a Garbichug in hand-to-hand combat was a weird way to start your day. The inn shot out of their beds, and half the guests were armed—the other half retreating into the garden—when they realized it wasn’t a monster attack on the same level as Facestealer.

Ylawes Byres found Calescent covered in shallow bites, slapping another Garbichug as they tried to get at the outhouse. He drew his sword—and felt a chill run down his arm.

You needed gloves to wield the Gravesword without feeling the effects. Or—to be a [Necromancer]. Still, it was light, true, and Pelt had re-contoured the handle to fit a Human’s hands.

The first Garbichug had been ignoring Bird’s two arrows in its sides, but the instant the [Knight]’s blade kissed it, it backed up warily. It actually deflected his sword with one clawed foot and tried to spray him with more spit and dirt it kicked up, but he cut it shallowly six more times.

The sixth time, the Garbichug fell over backwards and was getting up weakly when a spear of metal went through its head. Ylawes backed up as Yvlon’s arm telescoped back into a normal hand. She flexed her arm—which had been torn in half by Facestealer nine days ago. It was almost completely recovered, and she grimaced as she eyed the gore.

Ylawes’ new sword sapped the energy of anything it cut. He aimed the blade like a wand at the second Garbichug and spoke.

“[Firebolt]!”

The conversion from death magic to other types of magic wasn’t the best, but it still produced a nasty bolt of flames the size of his hands. It sped at the Garbichug—and the monstrous bird dodged. It turned, flipped its feathered butt up at Ylawes, and then began sprinting away.

You—

Calescent was roaring in outrage. Someone raced out of her inn and threw a jar of acid. Erin Solstice nailed the fleeing bird in the back with the green acid, and Ylawes winced. He watched the bird shriek, writhe around on the ground as steam rose—

Then get back up and keep running. The steam stopped rising, and Erin’s jaw dropped.

“Wh—it’s immune to acid?

“I told you. I told you they were coming! You didn’t listen!”

Bird shouted down from above. Erin was still staring when the third Garbichug poked its head out of the restroom. This one had a mouthful of—and it was about to spray at—

Erin held up her hands to shield her face as Ylawes raised his shield, but the Garbichug never attacked. A third group had emerged, and Infinitypear raised his spear overhead. He was too far to hit the Garbichug, but he raised his spear and shouted.

“[I Have Seen It Die]!”

Ylawes saw the Garbichug’s eyes bulge—and the monster swallowed. It stared at something in horror as it saw Infinitypear—and then turned and began waddling off at top-speed.

“Good job, Infinitypear!”

Erin breathed in relief. Ylawes felt a rush counter to the Gravesword’s chill burning through him. A kind of fearless breath in his body as Infinitypear’s Skill activated.

A fitting Skill for someone who had bested Facestealer—if not necessary against the fear of Garbichugs.

Bird was loosing arrows at both Garbichugs, and Falene poked a staff out the window and sprayed the grass with [Firebolts] of her own until someone screamed at her not to set the Floodplains on fire.

Ylawes’ new sword from the dungeon was very fine—but it was out of stored power, and he didn’t feel like chasing after the Garbichug, so he just cleaned the blade. Normen, Numbtongue, and Calescent were giving decent chase, but the damn birds were so fast they gave up. And they were dodging all the ranged attacks—until someone decided to try out her new Skill.

“One side!”

Erin, Yvlon, and Ylawes turned, and the [Knight]’s left foot went icy cold as a path of ice shot down the hill, covering the grass. And then a half-Elf went down the hill.

Ceria had taken the time to put on some slippers, and she was sliding down the slick ice like a shot. Ylawes had seen this trick before—but what he hadn’t expected was to see Ceria actually using it in a combat situation.

Let alone so…his jaw dropped.

“I thought she was poor at skating. Yvlon—”

He’d seen Ceria skating, and Yvlon and Ylawes, as citizens of House Byres, had plenty of skating experience on a local lake. Ceria had, ironically, been worse than the rest of her team.

At least—she had been. But now, the [Prankster] was skating like a professional. She was adopting one of those poses Erin saw in the olympics or from professional skaters, one leg raised along with her arms. She twisted and did a double-axel spin before landing and speeding up.

Even the fleeing Garbichugs looked impressed. Ceria did a backflip, and Yvlon’s eyes narrowed.

“There is no way Ceria’s that athletic. It must be her new Skill.”

“She leveled up?”

Erin and Ylawes were astonished, but Yvlon shook her head.

“Not her main class. She won’t tell me what the new class is—but that skating. It’s annoying me. Anyone getting that feeling?”

Ylawes and Erin turned back to watch the half-Elf showing off and blowing kisses at Pisces and Ksmvr. Yes…there was something slightly obnoxious about Ceria’s new Skill—

[Mischief Skill: Wings Upon Ice].

She got the Garbichug, though. Ceria’s [Ice Spikes] at close range were fatal, and she was skating back when her Skill ran out of power. She promptly face-planted and had a bloody nose by the time she got back to the inn.

“Wbell, dat sucks. Stop labbing, Yvlon. I got the bird.”

“Healing potion, Captain Ceria?”

Ksmvr offered her a bottle, but Ceria waved it off.

“It’s just a bloody nobe, Ksmvr. We’ve gotta be sparing. Darb it.”

She groaned. Any other time, she’d happily have a healing potion, but they only had eleven bottles in the Horns.

A large number, actually. They’d geared up after coming back from Chandrar, and that was great. The only thing was—Octavia wasn’t selling healing potions anymore. You couldn’t find any at regular prices on the market, and all the adventurers had told each other not to waste any.

Thus, Ceria gloomily pinched her nose until the bleeding stopped, feeling like a Bronze-rank again. She did brighten up when breakfast was served by a grateful Calescent.

“Is a big breakfast for heroic adventurers. New food—is a lobster.”

“Calescent, you don’t serve lobsters for breakfast!”

You did for Ceria. She brightened up instantly and consented to trying Calescent’s new attempt at lobster, a dish which he readily admitted he had no experience in preparing. Still, he knew how to cook something properly, and Goblins were masters at not poisoning each other with cooking.

“Where’d we get lobsters from?”

Erin was confused, and Calescent took the Silver Swords’ order.

“You want lobster?”

His ‘heroic adventurers’ clearly still included the Silver Swords, even now, and they all demurred—they would rather have the standard breakfast, thanks.

“I’ll have an omelette today. I’d like green, red, orange, and purple bell peppers diced up, onions, cilantro, a Yellat mash, cheese, and two mushrooms to complement it. Easy on the pepper, and a tasting sauce on the side. Oh—and will you use one of the nut-based oils and duck eggs if you have them?”

Falene Skystrall’s order made Erin’s mouth fall open, but Calescent happily nodded without even bothering to take notes.

“Is good nuts. And you?”

“Pancakes. With syrup. Lad?”

“Er—the same. Falene, you don’t have to order like that.”

The two other adventurers remonstrated with Falene, who gave a Pisces-sniff.

“I rather think Chef Calescent enjoys preparing something elegant.”

“Disgusting is more like. Why not eat a salad with how much you put in that omelette? That’s not an omelette. That’s a narrow egg shell on top of all that green.”

Dawil was grousing, but good-naturedly. Erin Solstice decided she’d sit with the Silver Swords that morning.

“How’s your back doing, Ylawes? How’s them ribs, Dawil?”

“Almost as good as the ones I had last night.”

The Dwarf smacked his lips, and Ylawes rubbed at his back.

“Huh. I didn’t even notice it when I raced outside. I suppose that’s proof it’s healed.”

Great!

They hadn’t spared healing potions on the Silver Swords, but even so, healing a battle like that took a while. Erin was chatting with them as the day started.

Nine days since the Facestealer attacks, and the inn was mostly repaired. Erin had used her Skills along with Hexel, and [Partial Reconstruction] had helped close a lot of cracks on the walls. Even so, he’d warned her the foundations had shifted from Facestealer’s blows, and he’d needed to replace the wall with a hole in it.

Hexel had made the seam-lines almost invisible and used the same wood, but Erin could tell the inn was damaged. It was nothing that’d crop up in a year or two, and Hexel had stated he believed the inn would not last that long—or be rebuilt before he needed to deal with the problems existing.

She had thanked him for his confidence in her. But the truth was that Erin was counting the gold they’d pulled in of late and thinking ahead.

These days, these quieter days, Erin was focused on a few key elements. Now that her inn didn’t have a huge hole in the wall, she decided to speak to a few people as she dined with Ylawes.

“Are you going back to House Byres, Ylawes?”

He looked up from a mouthful of pancake. Ylawes grabbed a napkin and spoke, shooting a glance sideways at the other guests.

“That’s right…and I was wondering if Yvlon and Ysara wished to accompany me. With their friends, of course. It is only a few days’ ride from Riverfarm. With travel Skills, we could cut that in half.”

Erin glanced over, and Yvlon’s head rose sharply—but Ysara only glanced up from where she was eating with Qwera, Vetn, Mrsha, and Gire that morning. Yvlon was conflicted. Ysara…unenthusiastic.

“Are you gonna go with your team?”

“I’ve actually invited Vuliel Drae and Nailren’s team to go with me. And, ah—Infinitypear and Rasktooth.”

Ylawes hesitated as he glanced at his team. Falene bit her lip and didn’t speak, but her silence said as much as Dawil’s actual comment.

“It’d be good to welcome them into House Byres. Especially if we’re journeying together.”

The Silver Swords were expanding. It wasn’t finalized—not yet—but Erin glanced over at Rasktooth and Infinitypear. They looked eager. She? She saw Falene’s unspoken words, and while Erin didn’t share the half-Elf’s likely reservations, she had a few of her own.

“Got it, got it. So you, uh—you’re gonna all adventure together?”

“I’d be proud to.”

Ylawes Byres either didn’t notice or didn’t acknowledge Falene’s reservations. Erin Solstice opened her mouth—but she glanced over and remembered how strong certain species’ hearing was. So what she said, instead, was—

“Let’s hang out later, okay, Ylawes? Just as soon as I check in with the Haven and everywhere else. M’kay?”

“M’kay? Er—of course.”

Then Erin was up—she’d had her morning bisque, and she estimated she had till sometime this evening before it conked out on her and she had to rest. She was experimenting with the flavor and figuring out how to make it last longer. [Lion’s Strength] was another option, but since Bezale used scrolls, it meant that another [Mage] had to learn it. Falene, Pisces, and Ceria had all offered to add it to their lists of spells to learn.

 

——

 

Now, one of the things that had changed since the Albez and Facestealer incidents, as they were being known, was that the Haven was on the move. It had passed Invrisil, and while it still had many notable guests and more flocking to see the famous inn, it was heading south.

To Liscor. They’d be going past Liscor in fact, once the Haven got here, and the adventurers were either already moving through Pallass and heading to the new lands or content to wait for the Haven to keep moving.

Some—like Deniusth and Orchestra—were already gone. Variable Fortress had apparently decided to move out, and they would be passing through The Wandering Inn today when heading to Pallass.

Colth was one of the few adventurers not heading ahead, and a few other teams were considering their routes still. However, they were not staying at The Wandering Inn.

There was a divide since Erin’s actions at Albez. And from the Facestealer incident. Erin thought the reason Colth hadn’t shown up so much was because he was embarrassed to have let Facestealer escape. As for the other teams like Deniusth? Well—she suspected they were holding a big grudge.

Larra was cooler to Erin than their first meeting, but the two were still friendly enough for Erin to install one of her gateways in the Haven. Bribing her with a spellbook had helped, but, as the [Witches] would describe it, Erin was in competition with Larra. They weren’t hostile. They weren’t enemies, but they had different goals.

A friendly rivalry? Erin certainly wasn’t inclined to be that unfriendly, but she wondered if they’d be at odds in a more serious way later. Larra had complimented her on her inn’s defense against Facestealer—and warned her never to pull the same trick on Deniusth and the other teams again.

“The fact that you gave away the treasure from the other adventurers was wise, Erin, and I have put in as many words into the others’ heads as I think will fit. But they are adventurers. They do not take kindly to being stolen from.”

To which Erin had given her a big smile and said…

And I don’t like them murdering lower-rank adventurers, even if they are thieves. I’m sure you would have reined ‘em in.

They’re adventurers, my dear. Ever tried to rein back a flood of wild animals?

So? They’re still our guests.

That was pretty much the difference. Anyways, Erin still had the benefit of meeting the Haven’s guests, and not all of them were jerks. In fact, more adventurers were still heading south. Larra had prevailed upon her closest friends to accompany her, like Mihaela, but some were just—associates.

For instance, Erin always stared at the fellow in Larra’s inn who was sitting this morning at a table with a cup of tea in hand, reading from a newspaper over a refined breakfast. She stared and stared until the Named-rank grew so uncomfortable he put down his newspaper.

“Can I help you, Miss?”

Caleis Berkesson, the Favor of the North, was a man made out of handkerchiefs. His very face, and what ‘skin’ he showed underneath a kind of old-fashioned doublet, was made up of the cloths.

“…How do you drink like that?”

He tilted his cup up, and Erin saw the liquid pass through a ‘mouth’ of cloth. The Named-rank adventurer was made up of questions.

“Handkerchief man.”

“Please stop calling me that. It’s an effect.”

“So all the clothes, Hanky Man—”

“Please call me Handkerchief Man.”

“So all of them are from nobles you’ve helped or who like you?”

Caleis nodded. He pulled a seat out and stood until she sat down. He was—mannered.

In a way that even Deniusth or Colth were not. Some of the Named-ranks had the etiquette they learned to socialize with others in high-brow society—for Caleis, it seemed not only second-nature but intentional.

And yes, he did the pinkie-thing with the cup of tea. He inclined his head as Erin sat.

“Each one is a bit of power. A bit of—well, I suppose you’ve noticed how my class has changed me? It’s not detrimental. Or rather, it saved me. I was scarred badly from an encounter with a monster once, and this is far more preferable to how I looked.”

“What kind of monster? If that’s not private?”

The Named-rank shook his head.

“This is all a matter of history. I ran into—well, it is a bit embarrassing. But topical. I ran into an Acidfly Queen. Something local to Liscor, in fact. My encounter was much further north. It melted—”

Erin blanched, and Caleis nodded.

“Since then, I was lucky enough to gain this particular class and Skill. I was a [Noble’s Friend]—a very odd class, I know. Since then, I’ve become a [Warrior of Etiquette], an [Oathsworn of the Aristocracy], until my current class. Forgive me if I do not divulge the exact nature and level of it.”

“Whoa. That’s so—fascinating. But does that mean your power will get weaker if you head to the new lands?”

Caleis didn’t shrug but lifted a hand and gently waggled the fingers.

“Some authority is direct, but Named-adventurers can’t rely on a specific place and time. Besides—my interests in the new lands aren’t quite the same as Orchestra’s or even Eldertuin’s. I will be escorting the Five Families and other noble interests. Hence my delay—most have not yet reached even Pallass. I believe I am contracted to look out for an Ieka Imarris, House Reinhart, Terland, Wellfar…House Veltras has not yet made any direct moves that I know of, but I will check on each group regardless of a contract.”

“For free?”

The Favor smiled, or at least, his ‘lips’ moved like that.

“Levels, Innkeeper Solstice. I’m bound to my class. Supporting the interests of the North’s nobility rewards me in levels far faster than combat with monsters.”

Aha. That made all the sense to Erin. What else would attract someone at his rank? Well—she shook one gloved hand and stopped bothering him. She’d sort of gotten to know him this last week as he hadn’t been part of the original group.

The other Named-rank adventurers who’d recently appeared were nothing like any Named-rank team or individuals that Erin had ever met. They were scary, terrifying, and Erin had no idea what to make of them.

…Mostly because the Champions of the Coast were a pair of Named-rank adventurers. And they were a married couple.

Rasen and Teithde Verithe were the first two adventurers in a committed relationship that Erin Solstice had ever met. And despite being an item for twenty years apparently—they were in their forties—they had been together even before that as Bronze-rank adventurers.

If they made Erin uncomfortable with their displays of actual affection and Teithde feeding her husband breakfast, then they made the other adventurers really uncomfortable.

“So are you ever going to marry, Halrac? Come on, you can’t sit like that forever. You’re already turning grey.”

“Teithde, leave him alone.”

They were an interesting duo, too. Rasen looked more normal—at least compared to his wife. He had a huge greatsword that reminded Erin of Ulrien, but unlike Ulrien, Rasen’s greatsword accompanied a bow and a host of gear. He was apparently a great all-rounder—

And his wife was a Silver-bell [Spell Duelist]. She had a tattoo on one cheek and down her neck that looked like a flowing tide, and she introduced herself to Erin.

“I’m Teithde Cirullina Verithe Wellfar.”

Her husband looked extremely embarrassed, and Erin blinked at the first four-name person she’d ever met. Teithde had blue hair, flawless skin, and she looked like Mars or another heroine straight out of a story. Her eyes were bright, bright gold.

“Wellfar? Wow, you’re from House Wellfar?”

“Yes.”

“No. I mean—that’s unproven. Teithde—”

Rasen muttered, looking askance. Erin blinked at Teithde—and the woman rolled her eyes.

“House Wellfar denies it, but I have roots. I was the bastard daughter of—”

“Let’s not get into it. Especially with the Favor here. It’s a delight to meet you, Miss Solstice. I suppose it’s rare to see a couple adventuring?”

The two were friendly, approachable, and Erin was privately delighted to hear Teithde gently bullying Halrac. As Larra put it when she came over, the two were a sight.

“The Champions of the Coast are proof that adventurers can hold down permanent relationships. However rarely.”

“It just takes work. As much work as adventurers put into their exploring and slaying monsters. Not everyone wants to do that—and it’s hard for a Level 40 [Warrior] to acknowledge anyone else as being an equal. But you have to.”

Teithde frowned, this clearly being a sore point with her, and Rasen ducked his head. Erin was fascinated by the Champions, but again—they were one group on their way south. She hoped she would meet them again.

Erin was sure they all had the same qualities that Saliss talked about that made them ‘crazy’. But today, she was just here to meet one more person.

“Hi Larra, how’s it going? Oh, you’re pretty close to the High Passes!”

Erin turned and peered out across the slowly-moving landscape—every day they drew closer to Liscor. Larra’s smile was patient.

“The same as ever, Erin. I’m mostly preparing for our trip past the Bloodfields.”

“You’re going around it though, right?”

The older [Innkeeper] brushed at her black skin, and Erin saw a long scar running up one arm—a claw wound.

“You can never be too sure. I heard about the Adult Creler, and the Bloodfields have tricks like any death-zone regardless. I have been hiring [Mercenaries] and more [Guards].”

Now Erin looked around, she thought she did see an uptick in the armed forces here. However, Larra was a stickler for quality.

“I may ask to visit Pallass again—it’s a shame that Drake, Guardsman Relc, won’t consider an offer. Do you think there’s any chance?”

“Relc? Uh…no. I don’t think he wants to have that kind of danger in his life.”

Larra nodded understandingly. She glanced around and summoned a familiar with a crook of a finger. The spectral imp hovered as Erin looked around for Barnethei, but she only saw the busy inn. It was always busy and had some event going on, or promotion. Erin had heard that Lyonette was going to coordinate a night with the Haven—they traded guests or used Erin’s access to Invrisil to funnel guests to the Haven. It was making good money, and Erin was so glad she didn’t have to deal with it.

“Who are you looking for today?”

“Colth. And maybe Valeterisa, but mostly Colth. He’s gotta stop hiding! At the very least, everyone wants to talk about the hide and stuff.”

“I’ll have him directly. He is embarrassed, you know. He took the dead adventurers personally.”

Erin nodded, her smile growing serious, and the other adventurers looked up.

“Yeah. How—how’re the survivors?”

“The Dullahan—Griniev—would like to thank your [Server], Ishkr.”

“Oh! Should I send him over?”

“What if he worked at the Haven for a day? Lightly—and we could send over eight of our staff? As part of our shared guest night?”

Barnethei appeared, and Erin jumped. She gave the energetic, dazzling [Vice Innkeeper] a long look but then nodded slowly.

“I guess that might work—but Lyonette needs lots of help, and Ishkr—”

“Not to worry. Our staff can adapt, and we just want to toast the brave Gnoll. He’ll mostly be fawned over.”

Barnethei winked, and Erin sighed.

“Well, sure. If Ishkr agrees, okay. Can Lyonette visit too?”

She didn’t miss the [Vice Innkeeper]’s wide smile—but Erin just frowned a second as Larra interjected.

“Just so long as that little child—Mrsha—doesn’t get up to too much trouble.”

Larra’s reservations echoed Erin’s in a sense, but where Erin was dubious about Barnethei…well, Larra was right to fear Mrsha the Conveyor of Mischief. Erin smiled politely at the other two [Innkeepers] and felt like this was all what Agnes, Ulva, and Timbor had wanted to do with her back in the day.

Only now, she really was among [Innkeepers] of her level. It was not entirely unpleasant—but neither was it always fun. Yet she could accept the Mrsha part. So Erin gave the two an evil smile.

“Don’t worry about Mrsha. She’s…going to have a fun day too. Heh. Heheheheh.”

She tried Elirr’s evil laugh, but Erin really didn’t have any natural talent.

 

——

 

Mrsha du Marquin didn’t see her friends as much these days. Oh, she had new ones who were just grand.

Nanette was settling into the inn. She was still getting to know people, and she’d follow them around all day to learn how they lived. She was endlessly curious, and she’d already spent a day sitting with Selys at the Adventurer’s Guild, petting Jeckel the Wyvern at Elirr’s shop, and being a credit to her age.

Mrsha, by contrast, had thrown mudballs at passersby on the main road with Gire until they got in trouble. But Gire had a job, and she was being a Chieftain, so Mrsha had to find other great peoples.

Like Vetn, Qwera, and Ysara, who were lots of fun—but Qwera didn’t want Mrsha ‘messing around’ when they were selling goods. Vetn was bored.

“Tesy’s off causing trouble again. I’m just guarding Qwera’s shop, but I’ll head off soon—she’s nearly done her bazaar work. I won’t stay with her. You be good. Have you seen that Wer guy?”

Mrsha shook her head as she and Vetn laced up skeins of thread. He was making a ‘grab pouch’ which would wrap around something if he delicately flicked it out—and like a miniature net, secure it for later.

Mrsha really wanted a few of her own, but the process was intensive and the grab pouches broke fast. She was really just waiting for more cool people.

In other words, Visma and Ekirra.

The context of Mrsha’s development as a child was—interesting. Well, being a Doombearer, the last survivor of a tribe, being raised in Liscor and being adopted by a [Princess]—that was all within the realms of normality.

It was all within the realms of this world. But Mrsha also had, to put a fine point on it, alien tutelage. Which was the cooler way of saying that Earth’s children had also invested in her upbringing with mixed results.

She had older brothers in Numbtongue and Bird. She also had Kevin, who would tell her stories of Earth and play his many, many pirated movies or songs and relay anecdotes of various quality with Joseph and anyone else.

Erin had told Mrsha about things like the nature of gravity as it pertained to mass. She had also described airplanes.

She also told Mrsha about cotton candy, and Kevin had broken down the lore of Lord of the Rings and Halo.

Mixed results.

The point was that this was at odds with Mrsha’s two friends, Visma and Ekirra. And they too were different. Visma had a doll collection that now included Antinium and was expansive enough to have intergenerational blood feuds.

She was normal. She was growing up in Liscor—Ekirra was the Little Crabs’ star player under Joseph, and Pallass was scouting him.

Yet they were kids, and so Mrsha was waiting for a fun day of…something. There was always something to do with cool people. But they had to be cool.

Erin was not always cool. Lyonette was dubiously cool at the best of times. The Thronebearers were uncool. Cool people could always find something to do, like fishing in the koi pond, exploring, trying to get a class—

And today, Lyonette had arranged a big group of people including Mrsha’s best friends. In fact, eleven other children, two Human, the rest Gnolls and Drakes, were lined up at the door as Mrsha saw her friends arrive.

Vetn waved Mrsha off as she raced over, looking curiously at the children whom she didn’t all know. But to her great astonishment—two of the children were from Riverfarm! Prost’s daughters!

“Miss Mrsha! Hello! Are you joining us? What are we doing?”

The girls were confused, and Mrsha realized she could show them the garden and all kinds of stuff! She was delighted—and Lyonette was smiling as she nodded to Ser Dalimont, who was, for some reason, apprehensive.

“Should we fetch the nets, Your Highness?”

“Not yet…”

Mrsha’s ears caught their muttered conversation, but she was shaking paws with Ekirra.

“Mrshamrshamrsha—introduce me to these people! They smell weird. Where are they from? Did you see my game? The coach let me score two goals! What are we playing?”

Ekirra was bouncing around with energy as usual, and he was wearing his jersey—he had four copies, and some of the other Liscorian kids were looking at him with awe and jealousy.

“You played in the game. Can I be on the team?”

A younger Drake tugged on Ekirra’s tail, and he turned.

“Don’t grab my tail! And only if you’re super-good and practice hard. You should come to practice. It’s fun!”

Mrsha listened as Ekirra told the others about the best thing ever—playing soccer. He had levels, and he was very cool to the other kids. Mrsha, herself, wished Ekirra had more time to play with them.

She expected Visma to be just as happy to see them, but the Drake girl was oddly subdued.

Visma? Where have you been?

“Mom was helping the Council do something. So was I.”

The evasive answer didn’t quite register with Mrsha right away. But she was waiting for Lyonette to tell them when they had to be back or ‘stay in the inn’. Still, her instincts let her down.

“I hope you all behave yourselves, especially you, Mrsha. And Ser Dalimont will be helping mind you, so listen to him, alright?”

The [Knight] bowed, and all the children but Mrsha looked up respectfully. Mrsha just wrinkled her nose at Lyonette as they lined up behind Dalimont. Were they playing in the city on the playground? That was cool.

She wasn’t going to steal food after Mister Wailant lectured them. She was a good girl. Mrsha was curious why they all lined up and held hands. She held Ekirra’s and Visma’s as Lyonette smiled.

“Ser Dalimont will take you to your activities. Alright, Mrsha—let me know how much fun you have!”

Only then did a little bell go off in Mrsha’s head. Fun? Lyonette’s idea of ‘fun’ sucked. She twisted around and then scribbled a note.

Hey, where are we going?

They marched through the door to Liscor as Liska let them through, and Ekirra’s nose wrinkled up as he read Mrsha’s note. Some of the children were impressed; Ekirra’s literacy was worse than the other two’s, but he had had to learn to read because Mrsha could only write.

“I thought we were gonna play at your inn, Mrsha. Visma, where are we going?”

“You’ll see. We’re doing what I did yesterday.”

The Drake’s ominous comment made Mrsha’s hair stand up. She poked Visma.

Wait, what are you talking about?

Then she saw Ser Dalimont watching her out of the corner of his eye. Then Mrsha realized…they weren’t going to the playground at all. And when she saw the Drake holding her staff and waving at the children, Mrsha felt a pit open in her stomach.

Shassa Weaverweb was the opposite of cool. Ekirra glanced at Mrsha, then Visma.

“Visma, you said you were helping your mom with Council stuff. What was it?”

The little Drake girl’s head rotated slowly. She gave her two friends and the other children listening in a big, toothy grin.

“The Council made it. They call it school. And we all have to go every single day except weekends. And I had to go yesterday. Now you’re doing it too.”

Ekirra’s face went blank. But Mrsha—Mrsha’s face went pale. She tried to back away, but Visma had a hold on her paw, and Ekirra wasn’t letting go.

School? Skuul? Schuuuuuul?

Then she realized why Dalimont was there and why Lyonette had been smiling. Mrsha tried to yank away, and she howled silently.

You traitor! You sold us out!

Visma was laughing at her. Laughing and laughing as Ekirra began to panic, but the children were linked up, and Shassa was beckoning them to a classroom, a jail cell!

“We’re all going together!”

Visma pulled Mrsha into the hell of education. Mrsha tried to resist. She made a break for it, and Ser Dalimont had to carry her back, kicking and fighting and biting. Her paws latched onto the doorway, and she howled.

No! Noooooo! Noooooooooooo—

Then the door closed. And Mrsha was in school—and the passersby were extremely disturbed and decided to call the Watch just in case.

 

——

 

School. Mrsha sat in the little desks made for this prototype school and class and knew it was the end of good things.

She was going to sit here and do homework. She’d have lessons and have to do math all day. School? They were dead.

“Mrsha, it’s not that bad! Stop scaring me!”

Ekirra whined. Visma looked almost happy, the traitor. But Mrsha just wrote on the card.

We’re dead. You’re dead. You just don’t know it.

She knew school. Lessons and tests and—Mrsha clawed at her face and pulled down her eyelids as she recounted the horror of it. If you didn’t get good grades, you were in trouble! You had to sit here—for hours and—

By the time Shassa finished introducing herself to the other students, Ekirra was in a mortal horror like Mrsha. The two sat there as Shassa clapped her claws.

“I’m Shassa Weaverweb, a [Druid] from Oteslia. I am going to be teaching you all today, like we do in the City of Growth. I hope you’ll all have lots of fun and mind your manners, okay? I know some of us come from very far away, but I want us all to enjoy ourselves. If you have any questions, just raise your paw or claw or hand like this.”

She was laying out classroom etiquette, having them introduce themselves. Mrsha darkly watched Prost’s daughters tell everyone they were from Riverfarm and answer questions.

She knew the [Emperor] was a dithering fool, but this was pure treachery. This was against all that was good and proper. How could Erin allow this?

Mrsha got up and sulkily held up a card explaining who she was when called upon. Ekirra, the vacuous nincompoop, gave his spiel about soccer and how much he liked his team as if he’d forgotten what was coming upon them.

“Alright, now we know each other—let’s begin a lesson, shall we?”

Everyone looked apprehensively at Mrsha as she lay back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling. Death upon them. A death of boredom, the Goblins would call it. The other children had heard—or rather, read—Mrsha’s dire portents. So they gazed upwards in trepidation as Shassa fussed around and then produced her first prop of tedium.

“Alright. I know this is something you’ve never done before, go to class. Or have you? Miss Chimmy?”

“N-no, Miss Weaverweb. We don’t have schools as such in Riverfarm.”

The girl stood, then remembered she could sit, so she raised her arm and blushed as she replied. Shassa corrected her with a big smile.

“Thank you, Chimmy! You don’t have to raise your hand. I’m just explaining what school is. It’s a way to learn instead of apprenticeships. Every child takes lessons until they’re thirteen in Oteslia, by law. There are all kinds of lessons and [Teachers], from mathematics…”

Mrsha slumped in her chair.

“…law…”

Ekirra’s smile faded.

“…and all kinds of exciting classes and lessons. Why, you might even get a class! [Student] is a class that comes from only school. So let’s have a little sample class—if you like this, your parents will hopefully agree to send you to school and Liscor will adopt the practice. That would be wonderful—Oteslia isn’t the only place to use school education. Why, even Wistram and other nations use this method.”

Mrsha’s head rose.

Wait, this wasn’t guaranteed? If this went badly, they might free the rest of Liscor’s children from this fate?

She knew what she had to do in that moment, and Mrsha stared around the bare classroom. It was going to be hard to burn this place down, but as Erin was her witness—she would see it done.

At the very least, she’d make sure this lesson didn’t go the way these scheming [Princesses] and [Teachers] wanted. So she waited as Shassa lifted her prop for the first lesson.

“Alright! Who here knows how to string a bow? Raise your claws!”

Mrsha’s face…screwed up in confusion. She saw Chimmy and one Gnoll boy raise their paws slowly as the nervous children hesitated. Then Mrsha recalled that, yes, she too knew how to—

“How many of you have shot a bow? Has anyone ever hunted before?”

Uh…this time, only the Gnoll boy’s paw stayed up, and Mrsha realized he was a Silverfang from the tribes. Shassa asked him to stand, reintroduce himself as Kolm Silverfang, and explain that he’d once shot some arrows at a Corusdeer herd from the safety of some wagons and he knew how to sling-hunt. Mrsha was impressed. Even she had only hunted game and hares and such did not count to Gnolls.

“Sling-hunting is very convenient. It’s more economical since you just need a stone, but bow and arrows translate better across professions. We may have time to do both, but right now, I’m going to pass the bow around. I have two more—I want you to get a feel for it, and then we’ll show you how to hold them and learn how to be responsible. No one wants to hurt someone else, and you can injure someone very easily with a bow, understand? Kolm, can you tell us what the biggest animal you hunted was? Does anyone have a [Hunter] or an [Archer] in their family? Anyone they know?”

Well—the children looked at each other, and Mrsha of course knew Bird and Halrac and all the great [Archers]. She had to write out a small recount as the children were given the shortbow sized to them and shown how you held it.

“Remember—never nock an arrow when you’re facing something you don’t want to hit. Don’t aim it at anyone. ‘Nock’ is a word we use to describe loading an arrow into a string. This is how you write it.”

Shassa was demonstrating bow handling, writing the word on a chalkboard, and making sure they all got the bow safety tutorial as well. By her own admission, she was not a high-level [Teacher], but she had adopted this lesson plan from…

…wait a second…

It was only after twenty minutes of helping Visma hold the bow correctly and being shown a target they could shoot little cloth bag arrows at that Mrsha remembered they were in schuuul. She looked around apprehensively.

Where was the essay? Where was the—Shassa saw Mrsha’s look of confusion.

“We can’t shoot too much indoors or use slings in here. Don’t worry, Mrsha! We’ll be going to Celum next where we have a nice, safe place to practice shooting.”

“Are we gonna hunt, Miss Shassa?”

The [Druid] lifted a claw.

“People do hunt with bows all the time, Ekirra, but as a [Druid], I don’t wish for us to hunt without necessity. But that’s a lesson for later—we’ll be practicing on targets. Don’t worry, I’ve set them up, and we’ll even have a competition! If you’re lucky, maybe one of you will get an [Archer] class!”

“We get classes like that?”

Chimney’s eyes went round, and Shassa nodded.

“It’s rare, but if you should have a talent—alright, follow Ser Dalimont, please! Remember, bows down, and no one nock an arrow. Does anyone need to go to the restroom at the inn before we go to Celum?”

Mrsha walked with Ekirra and Visma and felt—confused. When they got back to the inn, Lyonette appeared to watch them, but she let Shassa take them to Celum. Where, as promised, there was a little archery area set up just outside of the city with logs, rocks, and other targets. The children were allowed—in groups—to shoot arrows, and Shassa watched.

She only intervened to break up arguments, stop someone from swinging a bow around and aim at another child, and to direct them at various targets. They even had slings—but only two children very far apart were allowed to whirl them.

You could slap yourself in the back of the head with the sling, too. Mrsha did just that the first time she tried over-energetically to whirl one, and she clutched at the back of her head.

“Are you bleeding? Remember, everyone, be careful.

Where’s my healing potion? Mrsha rubbed at her head, and Shassa carefully inspected the wound. She did not give Mrsha a healing potion. But she did hear Mrsha’s thoughts and cheerfully held the sling out.

“I think you’re okay, Mrsha. Pain is a wonderful lesson. I believe that’s something Druid Nalthaliarstrelous would agree on.”

Mrsha hated it when adults got smart. But she learned how to skim a stone through the air with commendable speed, and her arms were just getting tired when Shassa clapped her hands.

“Wonderful, everyone! Who’s tired?

They raised their hands, and the [Druid] laughed.

“Who’s hungry?”

More hands raised. Mrsha’s stomach rumbled, and Shassa pointed.

“Then we’ll go back to the inn and then to Riverfarm! Then—we’ll see if we can find food.”

“Find it? But the inn’s right there.”

The Drake gave Ekirra a mischievous smile.

“Yes…but Riverfarm has a great big forest. We’ll forage for some snacks. I’ve heard there are even natural sweetberries and Sage’s Grass there. Miss Lyonette has promised to give anyone who finds Sage’s Grass a cupcake for lunch.”

Wait. Wait…Mrsha saw the kids look up, and she was more confused. We’re gonna forage for food? Shassa pulled out a little book, and she led them to Riverfarm—where the first thing they did was get a lesson on what to do if you saw a monster or dangerous animal, although the [Emperor] was keeping an eye out. The next thing they looked at was a book of local fauna and how to spot a good mushroom or dubious berry.

Then they were set loose in groups of four, with Shassa, Ser Dalimont, and a volunteer from Riverfarm watching the children from afar. Mrsha picked her first blackberry and got a thorn in her paw, but she was allowed to eat anything she found—so long as it was actually edible.

And only after they’d come back, shared their haul, and Shassa was teaching them how to make a fire and cook some of the food did Mrsha see the little hamper of actual lunch they’d have once they learned how to cook it all. Then—she had to raise a paw.

“Yes, Mrsha?”

When are we going to start the school lessons?

Shassa blinked at the question—then she began laughing, and Mrsha realized—this was it. This was skuul. No, wait.

This was school. And it was entirely unlike what she’d expected. But then—Mrsha had been taught by bona-fide aliens. Foreigners to this world.

The horror-stories that Erin, Kevin, Joseph, and other malcontents of Earth’s various educational systems had related had an entirely different culture, level of industry, and requirement of their school systems. They were expected to learn algebra and progress into physics and biology—which were not inherently boring subjects.

Mrsha herself would have loved to know how this world worked—for instance, how far down the water tables went. What she hadn’t realized because the Earthers were bad teachers themselves was that education wasn’t the problem.

Sometimes you had bad teachers. A good teacher could make anything fun or, at least, easy to learn. A bad one?

In that moment, Mrsha realized one thing that she had taken for granted: Erin and Lyonette were bad teachers. She had never stopped to think of their aptitude, but they taught math like a chore. Shassa played games—she wrote ‘nock’ on the board and taught the children a word in between showing them how to draw a bow rather than Lyonette’s lessons the way she had learned it—reciting a string of words from rote.

It was not Joseph’s fault he might have had a bad science teacher, but it didn’t mean that the science or the education was faulty. And Shassa was teaching lessons of this world, things Oteslia thought every child should know.

By the time they were done with lunch, the Drake was directing them to somewhere else—and it was the inn’s own garden.

“Swimming lessons! Who here can’t swim?”

Mrsha got to cannonball into the pool with Ekirra and Visma and help the nervous children to swim for the first time. Then she learned to float on her back and three different ways to swim. Breaststroke, free crawl—of course, Shassa had different words for it.

“It’s hard to swim with fur, so you Gnolls need to learn how to tread water differently. At sea, there are riptides which pull you through the water, sometimes deep down or far out to sea! If we have the chance, we’ll find a gentle river and show you what that’s like or just a bigger lake. When you’re tired, come out on the grass, and I’ll tell you about Drowned Folk!”

By the time the midmorning turned to early evening, Mrsha was exhausted in the best of ways. When they came back to the classroom, Shassa asked them to name every known species in the world and gave them a little fact about each. Mrsha, of course, knew almost all of them perfectly, but even she hadn’t known there used to be a Halfling people.

Then their parents and family members came to pick them up. Mrsha went with Ser Dalimont as Shassa called out.

“Tomorrow, we’ll be visiting some friendly animals at Councilmember Elirr’s shop and learning how to take care of them. Then we’ll be practicing magic!”

Wh—

Mrsha walked straight into the doorway as she turned her head. All the children looked back, and the Drake winked.

“Make sure you can attend!”

In that way, she was very clever, because Mrsha almost turned right back around and demanded to learn Shassa’s arcane ways. The [Druid] did know how to tailor a lesson to convince even the most dubious families that school might not be a bad idea. As she’d told Lyonette—she’d save the mathematics classes for a bit later and make them only one part of the day.

Mrsha went away, thinking this thing might not be such a bad idea after all. But only because she’d given it her full approval. And besides—

This beat Lyonette’s lessons any day of the week.

 

——

 

While Mrsha the Scholastic was at her first day of lessons, Erin Solstice returned with Colth in tow to The Wandering Inn.

The Ultimate Supporter was subdued, but when he saw the Horns he went over to shake their hands—and the Silver Swords’—and assure them that their hard work and sacrifice had not been for nothing.

“Stalker’s hide has been fully cleansed and processed by the Haven’s own teams. Larra’s an expert at magically ensuring there’s no residual poisons or whatnot in that kind of stuff. She can’t tailor to save her life—but I’d trust her to purify anything but Creler corpses.”

“It’s only been nine days. What, does she need that much soap?”

Yvlon’s attempt at humor provoked a silence until someone realized she was joking. The [Armsmistress] had a deadpan delivery that was too good. Yvlon coughed, flushing, as Erin listened in, and a few other teams gathered around.

Colth had compensated most of his friends and the teams in gold, but the Horns were in this for the hide, and the Silver Swords were due something.

The Graveblades they’d found from Facestealer had been divided up. They were all swords, interestingly, an entire small armory of death-magic that was shaped for Drake claws. What that meant…well, Pisces had an incredible theory that the Horns believed.

In practice, the swords had gone to the other teams who’d helped do the fighting. One to Orchestra, for instance, one to other teams—of note, Griffon Hunt had gotten such a sword, and Briganda was the one happily swinging it around in lieu of her axe. No one in the Halfseekers wanted or used swords.

They were already top-tier artifacts, but the real bounty was the hide. Colth shook his head as he explained.

“Soap would ruin the hide in some cases, and nothing’s strong enough to remove a serious toxin.”

“I know, I was just making a joke—”

Yvlon flushed, and the Ultimate Supporter grinned.

“Just making sure you know I’m not messing up twice. Larra has a process. [Cleanse] is simple—but it can fail. She takes it in a room and bombards the hide from all angles with her [Arcane Familiars]. Purifying crystals, physical scraping—the works. Anything that’s removed that isn’t valuable is incinerated and disposed of. Then she runs purified water across what remains, and if she thinks there’s any contaminants, it goes back. She didn’t like Stalker’s hide or Facestealer’s, so she ran it through multiple cycles.”

“Fancy. That’s a high-level [Mage] for you.”

Ceria wanted to know the exact process and resolved to spy on Larra’s setup if she could later. Pisces frowned.

“That’s surely expensive.”

Colth shrugged.

“It is—and I took care of it. Larra’s a friend, and besides, this is all my fault.”

“It was a good plan. Right until we were all fooled.”

Ksmvr offered Colth a double-edged olive branch, and the [Supporter] grimaced.

“I should have thought of that trick. The deaths are on me—and I thank you for letting me give away the Graveblades to the affected teams. Now, though, let me report. I took the liberty of sharing the hide—or rather, letting experts inspect it because it’s so damn big. I convinced the best [Tailors] and [Leatherworkers] I could find to take a look, and I had Master Hedault pop in.”

He produced a piece of paper and read out their findings.

“Stalker’s hide has faint enchanting marks, as if it used to be a conduit for more spells. Facestealer? None besides magical damage. Both are clearly magical, artifact or relic-grade hides. Stalker’s is in remarkable condition despite the age and destruction of the head—Facestealer’s is a mess. However, testing indicates they surpass Wyvernhide quality in both cases. No one went up in scope, but I can personally guarantee Facestealer’s is rated against Tier 5 spells.”

The adventurers looked at each other. Colth went on, eyes flicking up to gauge their reactions.

“…Stalker’s hide would fit a being about as large as a small house. Even accounting for the need to process it and scrap it—it would make numerous full sets of armor, and it has an active camouflage effect. Of note—we have no bones. Neither Stalker nor Facestealer left any behind.”

“No bones?”

Pisces did move at that. They had used undead to port the corpse in their desperate pursuit of Facestealer, and he had tried to animate the dead monster—but he had chalked his failure up to its power, not the bones. Colth made a face.

“No bones in all the body. Odd, right?”

A shiver ran through the Horns. Odd…Ceria was reminded of Skinner. But Colth went on.

“Regardless—the hide seems to be fit to pass Relic-grading according to the Guild of Tailors. That’s preliminary, but it’s either relic-grade or top-tier artifact level. And we don’t have grades of relics anymore.”

He folded up the paper and looked at the others with a smile, and Pisces rubbed at one ear.

“Did I, ah…are you implying, Colth, that there might be enough of the hide to fashion a set of armor for all of us?”

He meant all five of them, including Colth. The [Supporter] raised his brows.

“Five? Possibly we could give away a set of armor—depending on how economical the hide is processed.”

A suit of Relic-class armor? Ksmvr’s mandibles were open, and Ceria whistled—then her eyes narrowed. Yvlon Byres had realized something as well, and she coughed into one fist.

“I think there’s a catch, isn’t there, Colth?”

The budding excitement waned, and the [Supporter] winked at her. He spread his hands.

“Any guesses?”

It took them a second of looking at each other, and then Dawil, who’d been listening in, grunted.

“Aha. I got it. It’s the Adamantium hammer issue.”

Ylawes opened his mouth. He had been about to ask if Larra or another team wanted the hide, but Colth nodded.

“What’s the Adamantium hammer issue?”

“The Adamantium hammer fallacy is that you can’t hammer Adamantium without an Adamantium hammer. Even Mithril deforms. But how do you make an Adamantium hammer without…”

…The ore itself? Maughin was a perfect example of that too—he had yet to even manage to heat his ingot to forging temperature. Dawil rolled his eyes.

“Which, by the way, is how they did it—they cast a lump of Adamantium and stuck it on a handle. But I assume none of those [Leatherworkers] wanted to try a shot at Stalker’s hide?”

Colth shook his head.

“The woman I asked wouldn’t even consider it, and she’s the best [Tailor] Invrisil’s got. So here’s our issue—we need an expert in working monster hide. It has tons of quirks, and it’s difficult and requires a specialized class and equipment. Either we went to First Landing—and there’s only a high-level [Tailor] there—or we find somewhere else. Anyone have a contact? Because, frankly, I know people who could do Wyverns, but not this.”

Few people had ever hunted a monster on Stalker’s level. The Silver Swords were at a loss, and Ceria, Ksmvr, Pisces, and Yvlon were all helpless. The half-Elf scratched at her head.

“You know—someone from my homeland might be able to do it. The Kingdom of Myth, Erribathe, is known for, uh—fantastic stuff. Worth a shot?”

Colth pulled a face.

“You want to send something that expensive over a continent? Let alone the fact that every [Bandit] and [Pirate] would go after it—”

“Yeah, damn.”

Ylawes Byres wondered if Gralton or House Veltras might be able to help. Famous hunters often had access to good craftspeople, but it was, in fact, a newer prospective member of his team that spoke up.

I know who to contact.”

Everyone turned—and Larr of Vuliel Drae puffed out his chest. Even Anith stared at him blankly until the Gnoll looked around and glared.

“Has everyone forgotten who I’m related to?”

“Aren’t you Hawkarrow? They do bows.”

“No, my uncle, my uncle! I tell you all the time—”

Dasha slapped her forehead.

“Of course! I always put wax in my ears when you say it! But you’re related to some important Honored Gnoll…who?”

Larr was getting angrier and angrier.

“My Uncle! Honored Shedrkh! Of Soliest Yerr! The Gnoll who made Kraken Armor!

Colth’s eyes lit up. Insill, Pekona, and Anith gasped as if this were the first time hearing it, and Larr got so mad only Nailren’s paw on his shoulder kept him from exploding.

“Now there’s a famous leatherworker. And we’re heading south—I’d hate to leave this hide with anyone short of a Gold-rank team for security or Larra’s inn. But Larr—could you contact your uncle? Or get us a way of introduction? It’s far from the new lands, but worth a shot.”

At last, Larr hesitated. He scuffed at the floor.

“I, er—my Uncle does keep up with me, but I will have to wait. Yes, I can tell him—and he will surely be interested!”

“It looks like we have a place to visit. The Gnoll Plains. Huh. I was just there.”

Ceria Springwalker cupped her chin in her hands, and her eyes twinkled. Pisces frowned at her.

“Are you suggesting we go all that way?”

“Someone’s gotta guard the hide. Besides—we might have some credit with the Gnolls. Doubly besides? It’s closer to the new lands, and if you’re set on going…”

Ceria Springwalker looked around, and Colth smiled.

“Well, that makes me feel like we’ve got a path forwards. Let me know if your plans change, but otherwise, I might count on you to make the pilgrimage south.”

Erin Solstice looked over from pretending to play a game of chess against Niers—well, she was playing, but she was listening in. She looked at the Horns, and it hit her.

Her friends were going to leave soon. Again, and once again—Erin Solstice exhaled. She hated change. No matter how good it was.

She hated the fact that they got better and shined so much. If they didn’t, maybe they could have stayed. But Erin’s eyes strayed back to the board—then she looked around for Venaz, Peki, and Merrik. And they too…had to continue onwards. So Erin only waved a hand.

“Guys—if you’re gonna go south, you might as well take the Horned One.”

She pointed, and Venaz looked around. He stared at Erin, aghast.

“…What did you call me?”

She gave him a blank face. Venaz’s superior attitude did provoke some bullying in Erin.

“Don’t like that? How about Venaz the Great and Powerful Whose Wisdom Cannot be Surpassed? The Second Coming of the Titan of Baleros? Mister Green Greatsword? Calruz 0.5? Mister Minotaur?”

The Minotaur’s look of chagrin grew and grew—especially because he had yet to take a single victory in chess off Erin. It only grew worse as he heard his classmates laughing—and then the quiet guffawing coming from the speaking stone attached to Erin’s chessboard.

Lyonette was teaching one of the little Goblins how to properly organize a serving tray so it wasn’t balanced badly. She was patiently trying to show the Goblin balance—and the Goblin was protesting that balance didn’t matter. If they stacked all the drinks on this edge, they could just carry it in the most dangerous-looking way possible.

What was life without the thrill of fear that any second your Goblin [Server] might toss an entire tray of flaming Minotaur Punches into your face? Nothing, that was what.

To be fair as well—that was the charm of The Wandering Inn. Erin’s relentless nicknaming of people, the chaos, the surprise—and let’s be fair, the poor service. You came here for the magic, the possibility of seeing something to make your day that much more unusual.

Lyonette had finally gotten Sticks—the Goblin was nicknamed Sticks—to carry the tray in a semi-logical manner when she heard the front door open and what sounded like a larger crowd blow in. She turned, smiling—and blinked.

“Hello, take any s—oh.

She started as the most colorful crowd strutted into the common room and formed a line. And they did strut.

The Haven’s serving staff had on that bright uniform that Larra had tailored in multiple colors according to the buildings they worked in. Eight of them marched forwards and nodded to Erin.

“Miss Solstice? Innkeeper Barnethei sent us over. Where would you like us?”

Their leader had frosted green tips to her hair, and she either had magic in her blood or the most unusual set of ruby-sparks in her brown eyes. Erin blinked as Lyonette looked around and realized why the inn was lagging a step behind was because Ishkr had left for his appointment at the Haven.

“Oh—er—hi!”

Flustered, Erin swung away from her regular Venaz harassment and hurried over. The staff bowed a bit then, but very shallowly. They were interesting.

Not just because they were clearly a professional staff that were sizing up the inn and guests—and Antinium and Goblins—like seasoned veterans of the service industry, but because they had a number of qualities Lyonette noticed.

Obviously, anyone who could see a Goblin or Antinium without blinking was good. This lot may have seen The Wandering Inn’s guests before, but they had a veneer that gave them a friendly attitude without going into too intimate.

Practiced, in short. Lyonette had seen the same from Calanfer’s staff, and you noticed when it was lacking in other nations or places. This lot could handle unpleasant guests without ever giving away their distaste, Lyonette bet.

However, what struck her were two things. The first was, well, their skin tone to the Terandrian. Only Kaaz and a few nations among Terandria’s kingdoms had a majority of darker skin tones that Lyonette normally associated with other continents. But like Larra, it seemed the staff was more diverse—among humanity, at least.

Second, and tangential to that, these [Servers], [Waitresses], possibly just [Staff Members], were clearly trained to wait on nobility. They had that subtlety about them. The way they drew back a foot when they bowed, how they held themselves—even rudimentary hand-gestures made Lyonette feel vaguely like she was in court.

However—they struck an interesting chord in that their bow to Erin and to Lyonette as Erin introduced her second-in-command was slight. Respectful, but not deferential. They knew who Lyonette was, but the [Princess] got a nod as if they were [Earls] meeting a [Duke]. Not staff members addressing a [Princess]—or even servants in a household.

That had to be either the difference between Izril and Terandria or Larra’s particular spin on things. Either way, it didn’t actually bother Lyonette, but she found it interesting.

Interesting as the way the staff were clearly here to spy on the inn, even if only on a personal level. They followed her around as she took charge, and she noticed their brows rising and the silent looks as they met Calescent and saw how the inn worked.

“Alright, that is the basics of—of how we run. Do you have any questions?”

The Haven’s staff shook their heads, and their leader addressed Lyonette.

“Eight of us should be enough for a crowd, Miss Marquin. Innkeeper Barnethei did say to call in reinforcements if it was needed.”

“Oh. How very generous of him.”

Possibly condescending. Lyonette had an image of that flashy [Vice Innkeeper] smiling superiorly, and she felt a flash of rivalry with the Haven. Yes, The Wandering Inn was far more humble, but it had shot up in prominence. She’d show the Haven’s staff what they had.

“Alright, then, Miss Navien, will you take the bar? Ishkr normally runs that. Three for the floor orders, two for the [Grand Theatre], and if two of you could help clean up…”

The Goblins and Antinium were hard-working, but they hadn’t figured out the flow of the inn yet. A table full of dirty dishes from a large crowd of [Guardsmen] needed washing. Lyonette hurried over to help—and one of the Haven’s staff stepped over.

“[Kitchen Delivery]. I’ll begin washing right away, Miss Marquin.”

The plates, glasses, and utensils vanished. Lyonette blinked—another of the Haven’s staff produced a cleaning cloth emblazoned with the Haven’s sigil and ran it over the table. The pieces of food that were too large to catch ran onto the floor—another had a broom already. Two passes and the table was spotless.

Lyonette gulped as the Haven’s staff spun into action. She looked around for Erin, and the [Innkeeper] was watching.

“Whoa, they’re pretty good. Do they get magical dustrags?”

Erin looked fascinated, not intimidated. The Haven’s staff were watching her as Erin socialized with her guests. Lyonette began to step up her own game, realizing she could take more time off with this crew. She wondered…what Ishkr was seeing.

She hoped Barnethei was just being friendly.

 

——

 

The truth was that the eight members of staff who’d gone to The Wandering Inn were not ordinary employees. Each one was at least Level 20+, which was high-level for service industry jobs at entry-level positions like that. In fact, three were sub-heads of their various buildings and thus over Level 30.

[Staff Manager of Cleaning], for instance. That was Navien. Barnethei had told her to take a visit to The Wandering Inn.

Because of course he wanted to show them off. It was only good manners to be as friendly as possible too, but honestly?

The Haven and The Wandering Inn were in competition. It was friendlier than most other classes, and Larra and Erin themselves weren’t putting on the sparring gloves—at least not openly. Still, two famous inns?

You had to strike a contrast. Barnethei was the [Vice Innkeeper] of the Adventurer’s Haven, but to many, he was the [Innkeeper] they thought ran the place. He was the front, and he made sure the Haven actually ran events, that everyone had a good time.

He was the Lyonette of this place, and he might quit his job within a month. Certainly, after they got past Manus his days were limited.

‘Quit’ might be too dramatic a word. Barnethei was checking his coat—royal purple today and gold-edged. It was always gold or silver filigree and such. He knew he looked like a performer, the leader of a circus or menagerie. That was entirely by design, as was the staff’s flashy dress in bright satin and faux-silk cloths; shiny without being too gaudy.

It was meant to make the Haven feel special. More than your run-of-the-mill pub or tavern. Of course, this sprang from the days when Larra was first getting started and the Haven didn’t float or have an entire complex attached to it. Still, now the Haven had a reputation to maintain.

Same with the bow-tie. Barnethei had a top-hat too that he sometimes used, but that was pretty ostentatious, even for him. When he was done, he exited his private dressing room and strode into the Haven.

Guests, esteemed friends, I’m sorry to keep you waiting! Shall we?”

His eyes twinkled. His voice was a stage-voice, and even the Players of Celum’s famous Kilkran had complimented him on his projection. As if those [Actors] were the first people to learn how to play to a crowd.

Barnethei had learned from [Bards]. In fact, Lyonette’s observation about the staff of the Haven was spot-on. They did get etiquette training, and it was actually very hard to apply for a role here.

Not just because the pay was excellent—you got all the free bread Larra produced and free food as well. But Barnethei had to know you were here for at least a year or two to justify the lessons in how to serve nobles, speech lessons, even tutoring in how you walked.

The staff were spaced around the first area he entered, which was the Haven’s outdoor deck and public areas where most people got their baskets of free bread. They had the largest kitchen here—which often churned out the bread sticks and other cheaper foods for the casuals.

‘Casuals’. The Haven’s staff had a private lexicon for the type of guests they got. The outdoor decks and such were lovely viewing places that even the best guests like Mihaela liked—they had a second floor, and the entire expanse looked out over the circular railings across wherever the Haven went. You could watch the farm building slowly float past the central Haven building, or the library—and walk across the various bridges to anywhere you liked.

The Haven had a library, farm, extended guest suites, and even a bathhouse attached to it. Larra was always adding buildings and removing them—she had a limit to how many she could make fly, and she might decide they really didn’t need a set of rooms and remodel them. But the core amenities were always the same.

Fine beds, fine food, and fine entertainment. The central Haven building had three floors, but each floor was massive. The outer guest area where they stood was the cheapest and largest, and they got progressively more impressive the further in you went.

Outside, the library and farms were always huge draws for casuals. You could pet cows, some of which were magical, and buy feed to give to little chicks or even rent a horse to ride if you hadn’t come with one from the stables. As Erin had noticed, there was an attached Mage’s Guild, Adventurer’s Guild, and even Merchant’s Guild in miniature here so you could conduct business while staying at the Haven.

[Mages] loved it here. Barnethei, surveying the outer deck, spotted a familiar figure he hadn’t been able to get rid of. He strode across the deck as a [Stellar Server] accosted him and spoke. She didn’t whisper—they spoke while walking along. Even if there was an emergency, you played it off.

“Barnethei, there’s a duel brewing in the Moments Bar.”

“Damn. Who?”

“[Lord] and some Drake. They got into it over the Veltras attack on Liscor—”

Barnethei didn’t groan, but his smile turned into a wince. Duels between noble guests were not uncommon. Though sometimes it was a matter for bodyguards. Still, they knew the rules…the Drake and Gnoll populations would cause friction.

“I’ll be there in a second. Buy me time.”

She vanished. Barnethei quickened his pace, slowing only to pat someone on the shoulder.

“Yes, the bread’s free. Hello! I’m Barnethei, the Haven’s [Vice Innkeeper]. I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves. Ask the staff or a familiar for anything.”

A smile was all it took sometimes. He often did linger and chat with someone wanting to talk—but he had to move. So he slowed for only a few steps at the tables before hurrying across a bridge. There, he called up.

“Archmage. Archmage Valeterisa. Innkeeper Larra would like you to return any books you’ve checked out.”

A figure jumped and hid a book behind her back. She was sitting on the roof of the tower-library, impressively tall and one of the larger private collections. A red-haired [Mage] standing below the tower turned around, looking guilty.

Montressa du Valeross had been trying to get her mentor to come down for the last half-hour. Valeterisa peered down at Barnethei and called out cautiously.

“I’m not done reading them. And I’m stealing nothing. I am an Archmage, you know. Montressa, I’m still an Archmage, aren’t I?”

Barnethei knew her of old—she had been a guest here when he had first been employed by Larra. So he let his tone grow slightly acerbic.

“Archmage, you have a habit of teleporting or flying away with all your books. Larra would prefer to get some of her books back before eight years have passed. In fact—you still have several books in your mansion. You may check out one book at a time.”

“I am an Archmage, Barnethei.”

“Larra’s orders. Incidentally, will you be staying here much longer?”

Valeterisa was fiddling with her glasses. She frowned as she checked her books.

“You seem to be keen on getting rid of me, Barnethei.”

He lied with a smile. And he knew she cast [Detect Truth] on everyone—but he was a [Vice Innkeeper]. He had to lie to the nobility of Izril all the time.

“Not at all. I’d just remind you that you do have a habit of turning off any spells you run into that you don’t care for. And your shadow familiars get in the way of our arcane ones, and guests mistake them for the staff. Finally, Archmage, you keep asking our staff to buy you any reagents or materials you need.”

“Aren’t I an honored guest?”

He ignored that. Technically she was, and Larra would suffer Valley’s presence for ages, but Barnethei always tried to expedite Valeterisa’s leaving if only for the staff. He was in charge of their morale, and he was allowed to move the inn.

“Consider leaving in a week? Mage Montressa, I’m sure you have work to do.”

“Archmage, we are going to be at Liscor soon, and you have that project…”

“Oh, very well. I’ll think about it.”

“And the books?”

Valeterisa grudgingly began sorting through the pile of thirty-eight she’d piled up on the roof. Barnethei decided that was a win—he’d also have to send up some familiars to clean the giant picnic she’d made with all the dishes since he was certain she was not going to do it for him.

Small potatoes, really. But here was the thing—Barnethei was passing back when one of the staff who managed the library poked her head out and gave him a relieved nod. He winked with one eye as he passed.

Colousa was a proper [Librarian]; Larra needed a dedicated one, but so far, she’d just recruited a series of lower-level ones who tended to leave after a year or two. Colousa was good, knew every book in the library, and she’d shout at a [Lord] dog-earring a book. You needed that kind of spunk in the job.

—However. Even Colousa had limits. She was terrified of the Archmage of Izril. Not least because for all of Valeterisa’s good qualities, she had levitated Colousa into the ceiling to get a book she wanted. And then left her there.

You needed to be able to dance with Dragons to rise to the top here. Well, you needed the levels too. That was part of Barnethei’s permanent issue, which was going to be compounded when he left the Haven.

He wanted talent. And talent?

The Adventurer’s Haven had all of the north’s youths to recruit from. True, they didn’t want to train up someone with no levels, and not everyone wanted a job here when you could be an adventurer—but they could poach good staff from any inn they wanted. Even so—Barnethei could replace all of his regular staff in about a week. He’d hate doing it—but he could.

He could not replace the heads of each building. The good ones, at least. Navien was one such—losing her would be like losing a foot. A Level 30+ expert in the exact class that was needed—a [Head of Cleaning] as opposed to a [Cleaner]—was a very specific role that he’d be competing with Magnolia Reinhart and every major employer over.

It was like the famous Salii paradox. If you had someone that good—you were almost bound to lose them because they’d outgrow your position. Barnethei was proof of that.

He was going to quit his role in the Haven, and Larra needed a replacement. She had yet to find one—oh, she’d have temps, but he’d be gone, and he suspected she’d have to step in and resume her role for a year or two before she found someone who could run things in his place.

However, Larra had let him go—even encouraged him—rather than double his pay or offer more incentives because she thought it was for the best. Her answer to the Salii Paradox was simple.

If they were going to leave because they were so good, why not give them your job?

Barnethei was going to quit the Haven…and start up a new inn with Larra’s blessing, a quarter of her staff, and all of her support. That was why she was moving the Haven to the new lands. He didn’t know where exactly, but when it opened, the Second Haven—his working name for it—would be one of two inns that Larra controlled.

Possibly one of dozens, in time. Barnethei had a vision. It was one Larra shared, and it was of a series of the best inns across Izril, possibly even other continents, with Larra’s name attached. Inns so good they took over the top spots in whatever region they landed in.

If Larra could expand her class and magic…if they found the right talent, they could do amazing things. It wasn’t far-fetched either.

Larra the Haven had been a Named-rank [Mage], but like Deni, like all her friends, her levelling had slowed to a crawl once she’d passed Level 40. However, she’d passed Level 50 by doing the unthinkable—gaining the [Innkeeper] class and then merging [Wizard] and [Innkeeper] together.

These days, Barnethei thought Larra leveled faster than her adventurer friends, for all they risked their lives, because running an inn was a constant. It was hard to find a challenge as a Named-rank, and you could die, as Deni’s wounds against the Kraken Eater tribe had shown.

But running an inn? Running two inns? Taking one across the continent? That was what might take Larra to Level 60. Same with Barnethei.

Hence the Haven’s decision to go south. The new lands would mean gold and levels and opportunity for Larra and Barnethei. The Haven was well-defended, the staff were excellent, and if Barnethei wanted for anything, it was just more top-tier talent.

And he thought he’d found at least one in Liscor. Even if Larra herself was disappointed. She had come to see if the new [Innkeeper] of The Wandering Inn might be a good replacement for Barnethei. One look at Erin Solstice had told her that The Wandering Inn wouldn’t be joining hers any time soon. She had decided Erin was just a very convenient ally.

However, Barnethei wasn’t inclined to be entirely toothless. He was sure he couldn’t steal an actual [Princess] of Calanfer—and he still wanted to know why one was working at the inn. But he could take one other person.

The Haven was not The Wandering Inn in many ways. It didn’t do ‘amiable chaos’. If you didn’t get your order within a regular, narrow window, something had gone wrong.

However, it was also far more of an attraction than Erin’s inn. The free bread was the lure for the casuals, as were the magical lightshow and the familiars. They did a lot of the dirty work behind the scenes, cleaning, delivering things, doing simple tasks as they were rather stupid.

One floated through the first hallway Barnethei strode into, through the main doors of the Haven that you saw when you came up the main ramp. Most people passed through the foyer to the right where the open-seating area was.

From the foyer, you went left for some of the more interesting rooms, or up where they had private, large-scale dining for nobles or important guests who wanted privacy. The guest-suite also stretched out from here, and Mihaela Godfrey was currently…

Barnethei slowed and saw the Guildmistress of First Landing giving him a warning look as she slowed, sweating, and a few nervous City Runners looked up. She must have taken a few under her wing.

“Keep it up. I thought you wanted to train. You—Fals? Chin up here.

Mihaela Godfrey indicated with her chin, and a pair of City Runners that Barnethei recognized grunted. Garia Strongheart and Fals were both hand-picked by Mihaela, and he memorized their faces because it meant they had a shot at being Couriers.

“Guildmistress, I see you’re teaching some prospectives?”

“Got a problem with it, Barnethei?”

She was daring him to say something, and unlike Valeterisa, Mihaela threw her weight around deliberately. Often with kicks. Barnethei smiled weakly. He noticed a few guests staring at the six Runners and Mihaela.

“Perhaps you could refrain from using the balustrade as a work-out device, Guildmistress?”

“No.”

They were hanging from the railings of the curved staircase that led up, beautiful alabaster marble by the by. Currently doing pullups. Mihaela was sweating onto the floor, and this was why Barnethei was happy about his new inn.

He’d get his own weirdos, but he wouldn’t have to deal with Larra’s old friends.

“I’ll send a cleaner, then. Larra will bill you if you break the marble.”

“It’s enchanted.”

He gave up and walked away. The truth was that Mihaela, Valeterisa, and to some extent, any Named-rank adventurers were a match for Barnethei most of the time. Anyone else?

“Innkeeper Barnethei! I was looking for you! Are we having another gentlemen’s night tonight? Soon? I have Lord Detri here and Lord Alman—Alman, have you been here? House Sanito. We were going to stop by at least once before the inn leaves the north!”

A [Lord] stopped Barnethei on his way to the Pub of Best Moments, the dedicated bar and one of Larra’s most famous rooms in the inn. He stopped, smiled, and took the [Lord]’s hand.

For the [Lord] of Izril, Lord Ilner El—one of the distant members of the famous House of El—was very congenial with Barnethei. In fact Barnethei even clapped him on the shoulders.

“For you, Lord Ilner, I will set up a private room tonight. What time and how many should I expect?”

“Oh, I think we’ll be…six? Six. Alman, you will enjoy it. Don’t worry, we’ll play for small coins at the start.”

“I’ll be skewered if I lose a fortune, Ilner.”

Barnethei knew House Sanito, and he knew that Alman Sanito had to be worried about his finances. Especially when gambling with peers. But he took the man’s hand and smiled in such a disarming way that Alman blinked with gratification as he leaned in.

“Don’t worry, Lord Sanito. The Haven offers fake-currency instead of coins. Little ‘adventure-coins’. The kind of thing adventurers would use on long expeditions. You can bet a favor or a dare instead of gold.”

Another thing from Larra’s past. It also explained why Ilner loved the ‘gentlemen’s night’ where a number of men would gather for drinks, good food, and Barnethei overseeing the event and games. It was a getaway from their wives and duties and—crucially—very cheap compared to some of the entertainments you could buy.

“You will enjoy it, Alman. On my word. Barnethei is the finest [Innkeeper] I’ve met. If you aren’t laughing within the first twenty minutes…feel free to invite any other guests, Innkeeper.”

Barnethei smiled as Ilner gave him permission to fill the room with ‘commoners’. It was going to be a challenge. You had to meet people that Ilner’s—nobility—wouldn’t rub against.

“I will have everything set up at a quarter to ten then.”

Splendid. Don’t let me keep you. Let’s get settled in then.”

They had a waiting member of staff to lead them to their rooms, and Barnethei smiled—and then sped up. He was really hoping there wasn’t any blood in the Pub of Best Moments. It would also take him a good thirty minutes to organize the gentlemen’s night…

All within spec. All within control. Barnethei’s head turned, and he saw a flurry of no less than eighteen familiars carrying the luggage of the nobles after the servants. Another was coming from the kitchens with a complimentary glass of wine for each man.

Barnethei could sense the Haven moving, and it wasn’t even rush hour yet. Above, he thought that a certain [Lady] Tetra El was having a girl’s moment with her friends away from her husband—they were probably laughing over a late lunch.

That was just food. That was just—the basics. What the Haven was known for was spectacle. For magic.

A different kind of magic than The Wandering Inn’s though. When Barnethei pushed open the double-doors to the Pub of Best Moments, he felt the air change.

A pitch of excitement rose through the room that had nothing to do with the standoff between the angry Drakes and the [Lord]. The very air felt alive, and there was a spice in it—

This was one of the rooms that the regulars, the real regulars came to. [Lords] and [Ladies]. [Merchants] and famous folk. Less adventurers than you thought. Those were the serious guests, the ones who arguably got the least from the Haven besides shelter and companionship.

But the regulars loved this place because it came from Larra’s magic—and her Skills.

This was one of the [Innkeeper] class’ greatest Skills that Barnethei had ever seen. He had gotten no room-Skills yet, probably because he was a [Vice Innkeeper] and had no place. It was an enduring grief of his because he might have gotten one already.

This…this [Pub of Best Moments] though. It sparkled. And he thought his coat took on an additional luster. He felt taller, and when he spoke—

Ladies and gentlemen, please! Remember the rules. The bar’s a place to leave our troubles behind. What seems to be the issue?”

A wave of people in dresses and coats turned, like a kind of ballroom. Extraordinarily beautiful women and the most handsome of Izril’s men stepped back, cheering him on, and he nodded to people he thought he remembered despite the masks.

You could take the most attractive people in the world—from Mars the Illusionist, Lady Wuvren, the Lord of the Dance—and they’d fit right into the crowd here.

The Haven’s regulars. Most had masks on, conventional ones that looked like a statue’s face or worked silver or gold. Some had cloth coverings or veils—but they were largely ornamental, covering only the mouth or letting the eyes peek through the masks.

They were sharply dressed too, and Barnethei’s resplendent coat seemed right at home with the finest tailoring in the north. Normally, the room was filled with conversation, laughter, and cheers—right now it was quieter.

Because of the pair of Drakes—well, the two standing with fists clenched were opposite a cluster of men. At least one was a [Lord], and he had a hand on his sword.

“Ah, Innkeeper! These—Drakes were arguing about House Veltras and the Goblin Lord. They were bringing up—”

“You sieging our city? What were you going to say, you puffed up fleshbag?”

Some of the guests gasped—but there was a lot of laughter there too. Barnethei was relieved about that. The Pub of Best Moments wasn’t a place where fights often broke out due to its nature—it was mostly between people showing off.

Indeed, the two Drakes seemed mostly defensive, though both looked ready for a brawl. If anything, the [Lord] brandishing the sword seemed unwilling to put it down and come to fisticuffs, for all neither Drake had reached for a blade.

Then again…Barnethei wouldn’t have tried either Drake with his bare fists without a really good reason. They both had scars, and one was missing half his tail. Former soldiers, Barnethei had no doubt.

Menolit and Relc had refused to back down even with the sword waving in their faces. The only thing that had saved the [Lord] from Relc taking the sword and shoving it somewhere unpleasant was the Gnoll who was interposed between the two.

Barnethei exhaled as he saw the [Bartender] waving apologetically at him and the staff keeping the crowd back. This was another room that he personally oversaw, but it needed a dedicated expert.

Normally, it was Alanna who could handle this thing—but he’d sent her off to The Wandering Inn. Yet, Barnethei’s exchange was already paying off.

For it was no less than the star of the show, Ishkr, who was standing there. The [Head Server] looked vaguely exasperated as he spotted Barnethei, but he was fearlessly blocking both sides with nothing less than a furry arm.

“Lord Coore, please, you know there are no blades allowed in the room. I would not like to ban you—let’s sheathe the blade and sort this out.”

The [Lord] hesitated as Barnethei strode over, equally fearless of the blade.

“But the honor of the north—”

“Rules are rules, Lord Coore. The Haven is very strict about them. It would be unfortunate if Innkeeper Larra were to need to invoke the [Law of the Inn]. That would certainly result in a year’s ban, or longer.”

That was all it took for the sword to hastily go back in the sheath. In fact, Coore’s supporters vanished as soon as Barnethei appeared. No one wanted to be banned from this place.

“What, we’re not fighting? Lame. I would have taken them all, Ishkr.”

Relc was disappointed, and Barnethei heard Ishkr murmuring.

“This isn’t The Wandering Inn, Relc. How did you two get in here anyways?”

“We were invited. Specially. At least, I was. Relc tagged along since I was told I could take a guest.”

Menolit adjusted his jacket haughtily. He looked around and whistled.

“Some place. And here I thought Erin was the only one with a special room.”

It took only a few minutes for Barnethei to send Lord Coore away, calmed down, with a drink on the house. Then he was approaching the Drakes.

“Gentlemen. Is this Menolit from Liscor Hunted and Senior Guardsman—no, pardon me. Spearmaster Relc?”

A few heads turned as Barnethei raised his voice slightly. People loved to listen in, and he saw Lord Coore’s head rise from his table.

“We’re allowed to be here! And yeah, that’s me. Er—you’re not that short [Innkeeper]. This place has two [Innkeepers]?”

The Drakes weren’t as up-to-date on the dynamics of both inns. Relc looked guilty, but Barnethei held out a hand and shook the Drake’s crushing grip with a huge smile.

“If you were admitted at the door, you have every right to be here, sirs. In fact, I just wanted to offer you two a drink at the bar, gratis. Free. I apologize for the commotion.”

“What? I mean—that’s great. It wasn’t our fault anyways. That guy brought up—”

Barnethei interrupted carefully as he took Menolit’s claw.

“It was no one’s fault, sirs. Let’s leave politics at the door, shall we? This is the Pub of Best Moments, and if you’re not smiling when you leave, it’s a shame all around.”

The Drake [Veteran] and owner of the rising company blinked at him. Relc hesitated and then grinned.

“Sure, so, uh—hey. What’s this place about? And why’d Menolit get a fancy invitation?”

“Well, because he’s clearly someone worth meeting. And the Haven welcomes anyone worth meeting—I believe the invitation was to all parts of the inn. The Pub of Best Moments is more informal, you see. A bar and hangout. If you two wanted a different kind of experience, we have private dining above, the balconies are for public dining…”

Barnethei rattled off a few of the areas as the Drakes listened. He gestured around the bar as he signaled to the doorwoman.

“…But this is really one of the Haven’s treasures. I’m not surprised you two found it. But please—let’s start you off right. Try on a mask if you fancy it. It’s not a requirement, but it is part of the fun.”

The two Drakes eyed the set of masks that were offered to them. Relc put on a feathered Garuda-type mask, laughing.

“What are we, putting on costumes like Erin’s Halloween thing?”

That must be some kind of Drake custom. Barnethei shook his head.

“Not at all. It’s for informality. You don’t need to use names, gentlemen. I may have given you away—which is my fault—but you don’t ask, and you don’t need to tell. Of course, the fun is also sharing stories and accomplishments.”

“Hm. I still don’t get it.”

Relc was scratching at his neck-spines, but Ishkr seemed to understand. He was staring at the bar, and he’d already found another Skill of Larra’s. Barnethei beckoned the Drakes over to the bar.

“Clear a space, please! First-timers here…if you don’t quite get it, sir, take a seat here.

He pointed to some slightly worn seats that were coveted at the bar. They were dead-center, and the [Spearmaster] clearly sensed there was something different about them. He eyed the red padding—then sat down gingerly. Relc gazed around blankly, then rolled his shoulders as if he felt a prickle running down his spine.

“What’s going to—whoa. Hey. What the—my voice!

His voice had suddenly changed. Gone up slightly while keeping the deep bass rumble. But it wasn’t just his voice. Relc looked down, and for the first time, realized his casual [Guardsman] outfit, worn leather and chainmail, had vanished.

“Wh—where’s my uniform?

Merry laughter filled the air. The guests—Humans mostly, nobles and guests who knew the Haven and had come with it—weren’t being malicious. Not here, at least. Not even to Drakes.

And not to Relc when he sat in this seat. The Drake turned, and Menolit slowly sat down next to him. The Drake looked at Relc and then at himself. Then he twisted—and exhaled.

“Oh.”

They were sitting in the first Skill that Larra the Haven had ever gained as an [Innkeeper].

[Seat: My Best Angle, My Finest Side]. Menolit looked down, and the casual jacket and clothing he had worn to the Haven was gone. In the [Pub of Best Moments], he was wearing a hand-tailored checkered jacket that showed off his chest. There were no stray threads, and the flaking dead scales along one claw had vanished.

It looked like he had applied scale cream and had worked on his appearance for hours over the last two weeks. His neck-spines were sharpened, and his boots were buffed and shone. But that was just the effect of this room.

Everyone looked good here. Hence the crowd, which looked like a vision of Izril’s finest Humans mingling without showing the imperfections. When they spoke, they didn’t stutter or hesitate. It felt as if someone had given you a silver tongue and a rod in your spine, more courage than even liquor could fortify in your veins.

But the seat…ah, that was different too. Menolit glanced down, and his tail curled around the chair. His entire tail. He looked at it, mystified, and then at Relc.

“What happened to you, Relc?”

The [Spearmaster] looked up, and Barnethei saw a slightly younger Drake, his scales flashing green, leaning on the bar. An enchanted spear rested next to him, and when he touched it—Barnethei thought he could cut down a tree with a single blow when he held it.

The Gecko of Liscor sat there, and it felt as if you had just seen him walk off the battlefield, covered in glory. Relc’s goofy look and genial face that so many took at face-value…

Even Ishkr had rarely seen the Drake that Erin Solstice knew and called friend. He wondered if this was the Relc that Erin had always known.

[Spearmaster]. Veteran of countless battles. But when Relc turned his head, they caught another side of him too.

A grinning, rueful face as he checked himself out in a small mirror placed just for that purpose. A low chuckle—and you were reminded he was older too. A father. If he’d been a Human, he might have had a beard. Relc rubbed at his chin.

“Would you look at that? I cleaned up okay, didn’t I?”

Then you could see it, the longer you stared. The kind of father who did check on his daughter. A Drake telling jokes—

Turn and turn. A [Spearmaster], a [Sergeant], wearing burnished armor where the crest of Liscor sat proudly on his chestplate. 

A Senior Guardsman, a member of the Watch who had stood in front of corruption in a city far from home.

A father doing his best.

A friend and [Guardsman] on patrol you wanted to see.

So sat Relc. On that slightly-worn bar stool, he had no bad angles no matter how you tried to see it. It was doing a lot of work right now, and Menolit looked no less good. From one side, you could see the Drake who’d fought in war until he’d been wounded so badly he had to leave. From another—the man who’d built up a company. A brave, if sometimes bluff figure—

The crowd looked at the Drakes and crowded around as they exclaimed, laughing, teasing—and Lord Coore himself stood up.

“Well, there’s a better look at you two. Another drink for the bar, upon me! And I shall apologize, especially to a [Spearmaster]. I’m something of a duelist myself, friend. What’s your name again?”

Relc glanced up—then laughed and took the man’s hand as Menolit ordered a drink from the [Bartender]. Barnethei exhaled as Ishkr eyed the chair and then stepped back, trying to fade into the crowd. But Barnethei kept an eye on him and the Drakes. They did look extraordinary so long as they sat there, and that was the allure of this room.

The chair didn’t lie.

Not exactly. You see, it was just showing you what people like Erin Solstice or a partner saw. What it took time to see, what could sometimes be hidden or what could not be seen any more. Your best angle. Every good quality you had.

And people wondered why the nobility flocked to this inn when there were rich and private establishments elsewhere. This room was famous.

The chair hadn’t always been that good, by the way. It had just been a fun one that made you look good at the start. The room and Larra’s levels had made it stronger. When Barnethei had first joined the inn, oh, twenty years ago, it had already been famous.

Why, he’d heard that people had copied the mask motif and the informal setting even in Ailendamus of all places. Their Court of Masks was different.

“So what, we don’t use names unless we want to?”

“It’s fun for anonymity’s sake. But we do tell stories. Soldiers always have some good ones when they find their way in here. I imagine you have at least one, Mister Spearmaster?”

A teasing voice replied, and Relc turned just in time to see someone, a Human woman with a mane of brown hair, seat herself across from him at the bar. He stared at her low-cut dress and hesitated. Relc realized that the two seats he and Menolit were in had a thirty-minute time limit. Small wonder; everyone wanted a turn. However, in the interim, the two Drakes were being warmly greeted. Very warmly in the case of the woman leaning over.

“Uh…I, uh—have a few. Hi. I’m R—I mean, nice to meet you.”

She chuckled like velvet rubbing together, and he jerked his eyes up and blushed. And then Relc and Menolit realized the other reason why this room was so popular.

Barnethei was circulating the room and greeting people he could recognize, masks or not. He was smoothing over any small issues people had, taking personal requests—

Entertaining the regulars. He leapt upon a table and shouted as the bar rumbled.

“Ladies, gentlemen, whomever you are, we’ll be having a display of magical lights in two hours come dusk—and we’ll give out wands and targets! Apparently, Larra’s decided to make it a hunting game, and you’ll win prizes if you can score enough points! Then, I have the pleasure to announce a gentlemen’s night as well as a ladies’ retreat—I’ll be heading the gentlemen’s night, so inquire if you would like to come. Finally, we have a set of two new drinks and the latest treats from The Wandering Inn, which we’ll be distributing in moments!”

Cheers greeted his statement. A few of the staff were bringing out bowls of popcorn and other foods that Barnethei had asked for, but pride of place was the bowl of flaming gelato—and the Minotaur’s Punch.

Glory and fire. Barnethei saw one of the staff pouring flammable alcohol onto another dish and lighting a cherry jubilee on fire. He wondered if it would start a trend. The Haven had—and fiery dishes were fun, if hazardous.

He wished he could steal the flames that Erin Solstice produced. But for now, the guests practically fought over the precious shots of glory, and Barnethei lifted the second…canister…gingerly.

“We’ll be saving this one until tonight, I think. After dinner.”

“Come on, Barnethei! What’s the second drink?”

Several people demanded to have a sip now and flashed gold—but the [Innkeeper] held it back teasingly.

“I’ve been assured this is—unfortunately—too strong for all but the best! No, I’m not lying—it’s called Rxlvn, and the Antinium made it. Aha, who wants to have it now? It’s apparently so strong it can knock someone out with a single shot. We might have a contest later.”

He winked, and the crowd cheered. This was the role Barnethei liked. Beautiful women and handsome men enjoying themselves with no thought of tomorrow.

The regulars fed the Haven’s coffers. Oh, the adventurers were the guests Larra truly cared about, and she had free bread for the regulars and entertainments for all—but the nobles of the north came to the Haven because of what Larra gave them.

When Barnethei got down from the table, the [Bartender] on duty, a woman with black skin and white sweat—pale and brighter—spoke to him. She mopped at her brow as the magical sweat showed she’d been working hard. You didn’t have sweat like that from drinking regular water.

Larra liked having a mostly female staff, and she had views on her guests for all they liked her. She was very protective of her people being harassed, and those helpful familiars could get nasty very fast if you broke the Haven’s first rule.

“Barnethei, sorry about the fight. Should we start doing toasts? We’ve got two Gold-rank teams who are willing to recount the Facestealer attack.”

“What about Colth?”

“He refused.”

Barnethei had expected that, and he turned around. He narrowed his eyes at the crowd and spotted a Gnoll trying to hide behind a cluster of people.

“Go ahead and bring Griniev in. I’ll get our guest of honor too. Did he do anything?”

“Besides stop the fight? He asked what he could do, and he’s pretty good at serving drinks. But I didn’t see any wild Skills off him. Is he going to be Alanna’s replacement or did you want to put him somewhere else?”

Everyone in the senior staff knew of Barnethei’s goals. The [Vice Innkeeper] shrugged.

“Skills don’t matter as much as personality, and if he can face down a fight within ten minutes of walking in here—make sure he doesn’t slip out, will you? Not that he will, but he’s tricky.”

Ishkr had been running from Barnethei for the last two weeks. The Gnoll gave the [Vice Innkeeper] an exasperated look, but he hadn’t refused to come here. Barnethei thought that was a good sign—although the Dullahan who strode into the room and took Ishkr’s paws before hugging him—a huge sign of affection from a Dullahan—might have been the reason.

Either way, he wanted Ishkr to hear his pitch. Barnethei looked around and saw Relc sitting at a table with who he thought was possibly one of the [Ladies] of House Merrimorn from Terandria. He laughed and lifted a flaming glass of liquor and called out to get the crowd’s attention again.

The Wandering Inn was interesting—but how could you ever beat the Haven’s magic?

 

——

 

Ishkr Coresh Silverfang hated being the center of attention. In that way, the Gnoll being toasted by the adventurers and thanked by the profusely grateful Dullahan was like Larracel herself.

Larracel Delais had never craved the spotlight, so she had installed Barnethei as the ‘innkeeper’ long ago when she realized he liked and was very good at his job. In fact, the ‘regulars’ didn’t know she was the owner of the inn. Some of them legitimately thought Barnethei was the owner. Others, that he was the real [Innkeeper] and ‘the Haven’ was the owner who rarely visited.

They did not square the humbler, shorter Larra with the imposing Named-rank [Wizard]. She added to the effect with her outfit, which made her look like the cleaning staff. In that way, she could see people unguarded and make decisions without them presenting their best selves to her.

Ironic, in her [Pub of Best Moments]. Then again, it didn’t touch her. It was her Skill, and this was her inn. She had only popped in to see if Barnethei had handled the fight—and to watch Ishkr.

She caught Barnethei as he shared a Minotaur’s Punch with some delighted [Lords] and [Ladies]. They were cheering the Sacrifice of Roses, and their eyes were wet already. The [Innkeeper] stepped away as the drink took hold and the nobles saw the past. Larra nodded at Ishkr, who was refusing a Minotaur’s Punch of his own.

“He makes little of himself. Are you sure you want him?”

“There’s a lion under that Gnoll’s fur. If I met you for the first time, Miss Larra, I might have been fooled.”

That made her smile because it was true. Then Larra eyed the flaming beverage.

“What a terrifying drink. No wonder that Erin made it if she ran into Maviola El.”

“She was a patron here, wasn’t she?”

Larra waved that off.

“Everyone from Tyrion Veltras to Ulva Terland has been here. She was never a regular. She claimed my inn lacked the heat for her. Always a flame-metaphor, that one. She detested this room as well.”

It was not hard to see why, if you knew the secret of this room and the seat. Oh—it did make for pleasant encounters. The two Drakes were melding with the nobility better than they would in any other setting. Yet—the Haven was not run just to make the nobility happy.

“How much have you sold today?”

“Let me check with Roreen.”

Barnethei stepped back and whispered with the [Bartender]. She was an interesting class—you couldn’t just be a [Bartender] in this room. Roreen was actually a former [Accountant] who had run with the Merchant’s Guild for a while. Thanks to that, she never missed an order served.

“…four hundred and eight gold pieces as of today. We’re advertising the Minotaur’s Punches as exclusives.”

“Just so long as they don’t realize Erin Solstice is selling it for a fraction.”

Or that it was cheap liquor with the flames added. A massive killing—but the nobles were misty-eyed, speaking of the Sacrifice of Roses.

Perhaps they’d been there. Perhaps they’d lost family—but Larra had been in First Landing too, and many of the faces here hadn’t been the ones who walked against the Goblin King. House Walchaís, House Valerund—those had been the houses that bled out on that battlefield.

She said none of this. Like Colth…no, his issue was different.

Larracel just let the nobility have their fine moment, their private dining, and the gentlemen’s nights that Barnethei arranged. It was Roreen who made sure all the drinks were counted and the meals, the complimentary glass of wine, the expensive linens all were added up and presented as an unobtrusive bill for her richest clients.

It was best to have an underling pay it—even the [Lords] and [Ladies] sometimes gulped at the prices they racked up. If you could charge it to House El’s [Financier], for instance, you didn’t have a fight. Then the nobility would head off happy, groan about the costs later, and come back when they had more or felt like splurging.

Larracel cared about the gold her inn made. She cared about it so much sometimes it kept her up. It was said that all Named-ranks were crazy—she had retired, so perhaps her madness was just the madness of an [Innkeeper].

The inn was, in a way, Larra’s nightmare. Oh, it generated vast profits, but the irony was that it ate away at her coffers too. For all the thousands of gold it made, she had to pay her staff—and she did pay them well!—pay Barnethei, pay the magical costs of running it.

Animals required feed. Her famous ‘free bread’ benefited from her Skills, but all the liquors, foodstuffs cost a fortune. And even if she made a massive markup—let’s say she had a hundred thousand gold.

She could sit on that hundred thousand—or use it to buy enough magicore, enchanted materials, and such to build a new building like the library. Larracel had been saving up desperately, hoping that someone would find an artifact of cornucopia.

For every valuable item or relic she recovered that added to the value and profits of the Haven, it cost a fortune to acquire—but she’d be earning more money after the purchase. Enough to buy the next great improvement or hope she leveled.

Gold and more gold. Barnethei looked slightly harassed as she pressed him about the gentlemen’s night.

“I have three [Merchants] in Invrisil I’ll reach out to. Perhaps some of the Drakes in Pallass?”

“Good.”

She was satisfied with that. But then Barnethei brought up something that made her scowl.

“I had a word with Valeterisa about—”

“Leave her be. Her young apprentice is keeping her far, far more in check than before.”

“Yes, but the staff are getting tired of her, Larra. I didn’t chase her out! And you know she’s occupying your [Law of the Inn].”

Larra had to admit, it was true. But her serious guests, the adventurers, Valley, and the others? She had told Barnethei again and again to spare no expense on them. They were her children, and Valley was a silly girl who needed someone to make sure she did things as mundane as eat food and wash her clothes.

Someday…someday she’d have enough gold. Barnethei’s new inn would double their profits if it went well—of course, there were all the startup costs, hiring new staff, the risk—

But someday, she’d have enough. Larracel the Haven had not been the hero who went into Chalence and came back as nobility. Deniusth, damn him, had done that. He’d been generous with his friends—but not enough to buy her a landed nobility.

Then again. Four million gold pieces each to the teams who’d gone in there and survived among the hundreds who had not. All that gold—barely bought a landed nobility among Deni’s spending.

Larracel didn’t want to spend that much. All her friends? The nobles who came up to her, delighted by the new drink and asking for little favors? They’d make that day easier.

Of course, she didn’t want to be noble for the sake of it. It was just that the title and class came with many perks, and using that influence, using a fortune in gold…

She was old now. Old—like Mihaela always complained they were, white-haired. But in a decade, Larra might have enough to put the Haven down. To buy enough land and places and staff—to keep the rest of her unruly children occupied.

It cost a fortune, a fortune of fortunes to keep Deniusth from going crazy. To provide for their quirks and madnesses? Larra had done the costs, and she knew it would take ten years yet. Less, if this venture in the new lands worked out. But then…

She had seen her Haven break. Seen monsters flood in, armies go through the walls, and seen too many of the people she had promised would be safe die to ever go back to dungeons. To adventure, like Deniusth. Gold came slower in her inn, but safer. Far, far safer.

She might be seventy or eighty or even ninety by the time she was ready. Then they’d truly be old. Ten years, maybe more if she found a way to buy Saliss’ Potions of Youth. Ten years and possibly, then, there would only be a handful left and their children.

But that was her dream, the Haven’s private little dream. A plot of land and enough to occupy the silly children she had left so they wouldn’t walk off and face another Facestealer. So yes—

The gold kept her up.

“…Valeterisa won’t walk off with any books. I have changed the law. No stealing the inn’s property. Do you need me to change it to violence?”

“For Lord Coore? I think it’s sorted.”

Larra nodded, relieved. Her great Skill, the [Law of the Inn], was a famous one among [Innkeepers]. With it she could compel even Valeterisa—if not to stop hoarding dozens of books.

It did not work on monsters of Facestealer’s ilk. Another thing to fear…but Larra said none of that out loud. She patted Barnethei on the shoulder as she watched Ishkr. He was bowing slightly to her.

“He’s promising, that Gnoll. If you steal him, I’ll handle Erin Solstice.”

She thought she could calm the other [Innkeeper] if she was angry. Barnethei smiled.

“Afraid we’ll lose Alanna and the others to Erin?”

Larra looked at him blankly, then the two chuckled and laughed. Larra’s inn dazzled the nobility, and they tossed gold coins down like water. Erin had fine guests…but she needed a true grist to fuel her inn. And Larra would not—would never charge Colth what she charged her regulars. Erin needed people she did not love. So Larra blew a kiss to this silly room.

May it once again make her lots of coin.

 

——

 

The top staff at the Haven were holding down The Wandering Inn’s regular crowds quite easily. Even with the Players of Liscor putting on a performance, they were easily able to coordinate with the Goblins and Antinium.

If anything, Lyonette was purely just amazed by their levels. Twice now, she’d seen one of them using a Skill to rectify a problem before it began. A raised voice from a squalling infant turned quiet. A dine-and-dasher froze until Alcaz put a hand on his shoulder.

They were unfortunately competent, and Lyonette gave up trying to direct them after it was clear they knew how to adapt to minor issues.

She almost wished Erin had caused some chaos that required her direct intervention. Just so she could show off how the inn really was.

But the [Innkeeper] herself was relaxed. She was sitting, chatting with one of the Haven’s staff.

“Whoa, so Larra’s got an entire bathhouse?”

“It’s not quite the same as Liscor’s, Miss Solstice. It’s private bathing in the larger guest suites. The piping was expensive to lay—the bathhouse proper is no hot springs as it’s too heavy to transfer. The farm is the heaviest due to the soil and animals, and Miss Larracel can barely keep it in rotation. She’d try having it roll across the ground, but there’s no way to transport something that heavy without a huge amount of magic. So she hasn’t paid for that yet.”

“Gotcha. Gotcha…so what’s the bathhouse?”

“More like a steam house, Miss Solstice. Have you ever seen…?”

Erin snapped her fingers as Alanna sat at the table, glancing at the rest of the inn. Mrsha was telling Lyonette all about her satisfactory schooling experience as the [Princess] listened in.

“I should do that. Steam…house…got it. And she’s got a library. And a farm. And she puts on magical lightshows? Did I hear you right when she said she’s copying Wailant? Hey—hey Lyonette, Mrsha! They’re gonna pass out wands and shoot targets! We should go!”

“I—er—that does sound like fun, Erin!”

Lyonette replied as heads rose and people looked around. It did sound like fun, and Mrsha brightened up. It was just—why was Erin saying the competition had something better?

She was too relaxed. She didn’t seem bothered at all! Erin was joking with Alanna.

“Hey, if she’s copying Wailant I hear that’s lots of fun. Just so long as everyone’s not naked. Because I hear that’s also a Strongheart thing.”

In fact, she was so unguarded it seemed to make even the Haven’s staff curious. Alanna glanced up as Navien passed by, and the two shared a look for a second that seemed to last slightly longer than usual. Erin Solstice blinked at them, smiling, and then poked someone passing by.

“Peggy, how’s it going? You want a break?”

“Nah. This job is easy. Not like getting leg eaten.”

The Hobgoblin grinned, and Erin smiled.

“Just so long as you’re not tired! I don’t want Rags to beat me up. Say—is she coming back soon?”

Rags had begun heading back to Goblinhome to manage it, but she had returned fairly regularly. Alanna glanced at the other staff and then smiled at Erin.

“Miss Solstice, are you planning on moving your inn or expanding it?”

“Hm? Me what now? Are you talking to Hexel? I’m thinking about adding more—but it’ll be costly. As for moving it, I can’t just put the inn on wheels. I feel like it’d roll down the hill and crash. We’re not going to the new lands, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“So—are you planning to expand or change anything in the future?”

Alanna pressed her. Erin Solstice frowned and chewed on her lip as she shrugged.

“Hm. I guess so. I mean, there is a huge remodeling job I want to save up for. Aside from that—maybe I’ll see about opening my portal door further. That’d bring in new guests. Why, are we gonna be competing with the Haven?”

The woman smiled, but oddly. She looked at Erin and then gestured around the inn.

“It’s just—you’ve reached such a high-level, Miss Solstice. The staff and I were a tiny bit curious how you got here so fast and whether you had any plans to keep on going. Innkeeper Barnethei will be starting his own inn, you know. Were you planning anything like that?”

He was what? Alarm bells rang in Lyonette’s head, and she felt a sinking feeling as she thought of Ishkr. But Erin just nodded.

“I think Larra told me that. I think I was…lucky I leveled so fast. Plus, I’ve had a lot of monster attacks. My ambitions for the inn, y’know, aren’t like Larra’s. Barnethei seems like an ambitious guy. Do you like him?”

Alanna smiled, and Lyonette sensed her gaze searching Erin up and down, puzzled.

“He is. And we do quite appreciate him—he’s worked for Larra longer than anyone else. We like the Haven, Miss Solstice. It wasn’t easy, getting to where she is. So we were just wondering…”

What is it you do? Erin’s inn had the [Grand Theatre], but it was humbler. More than that? Now Lyonette sensed the real difference between the staff—even the way Erin talked to Peggy.

Ambition. The same thing burning off Barnethei hung about the Haven’s staff, and Erin…Erin had such a polite smile on her face and looked so calm, Lyonette finally realized why the [Innkeeper] was hanging around here rather than wandering off.

“…why my inn’s sucky?”

“I’d never say—”

Alanna looked alarmed and glanced at Navien. Erin laughed.

“No! I know you didn’t mean it, but it really is ‘humble’. We just don’t have that much gold compared to the north. Plus, you’re right about me not having many scheduled entertainments. I should do more. Is your ability to talk with your eyes a Skill you get from a serving class?”

The Haven’s staff froze—until Navien raised a brooch hanging at her neck.

“Innkeeper Larra enchants our gear herself, Miss Solstice.”

“See, that’s useful. I could use a magical dustrag.”

Erin sighed longingly. Then she slapped her hands on her knees and got up. Lyonette saw Erin holding her back and wincing. The plain, brown-haired young woman hobbled about, swearing, and Lyonette suspected Erin had been cutting down on healing potion.

The Haven’s staff watched her out of the corner of their eyes, but Erin had no familiars to help her up—just Gothica, who laughed at Erin as she passed by. Her inn of three floors was mostly devoted to the common room and guest rooms.

For all the food was preserved, it was largely mundane, and there was no farm or library, and the high-level guests…

Well, it did have those. If anything, the one thing that felt familiar to Alanna and Navien and the others were the guests.

Gold-ranks, hanging out around Erin’s inn like this was the most natural thing in the world. Even Named-ranks. Lehra Ruinstrider, offering Mrsha a bit of taffy she’d just bought in Invrisil.

Ylawes Byres, rubbing at a black eye as Yvlon profusely apologized, tromping in with Vuliel Drae and the other teams. Erin Solstice looked about and called out.

“Hey, Ishkr. Didja run away?”

“I had a number of toasts. I said all I needed to to Adventurer Griniev. I wouldn’t expect Relc or Menolit to be back though, Miss Solstice. They seemed quite happy in the [Pub of Best Moments].”

“Oh! I want to visit that!”

Erin Solstice laughed. Every head spun around. And there he was. Alanna actually jerked in her seat—because she hadn’t seen Ishkr come in. Neither had Liska, who was on a short break as Inkpage took over. She stared at Ishkr as the Gnoll placed two mugs of ale on the bar, and Navien nearly leapt over the counter.

The Haven’s staff looked at him, and then they felt prickles on the backs of their necks. Alanna turned—and Erin Solstice was staring at her. The hazel eyes were wide—and then she looked like the Grandmaster of Scales for a second.

“Gotcha.”

The eyes were plain, but they twinkled with mischief. Then, and only then, Erin Solstice tilted something back on her head and you remembered her hat was made of flames.

Blue fire roiled around her fingers. It burned azure, like a Dragon’s eyes, like a nebula deep in space, flickering as Erin took her hat off for a moment and stretched. She put her hat on the table, and it burned there as the Haven’s staff slowed, and a swearing [Vice Innkeeper] looked around his bar for a Gnoll who’d vanished.

The hat burned like sadness and like something else. Because, of course, a color was deeper than one meaning, and so was a memory. Erin held her back a moment, then looked up.

“Since you’re having an employee exchange and since Ishkr’s sorta done, I’d say you all can go off-duty for an hour or two. If you want—why don’t you come with me? It’s a special occasion, but I’d say it’ll give you perspective. Plus, you should all get dinner after.”

The evening was growing later and later, and the Haven’s staff looked at each other as guests began to file towards the door for The Adventurer’s Haven. After all—all the spectacle and fun was over there. Erin Solstice winked, then she looked over.

“Hey, Ylawes. Does your team have a second?”

Dawil raised his brows as Falene stopped ordering a complex salad and sighed, mildly exasperated. But Lyonette felt the hair on the back of her neck begin to rise. And when Erin Solstice slowed down and plucked at someone’s shoulder, Lyonette felt one of those chills she sometimes got.

It ran down her arms and back. A shiver—but not of fear. Of anticipation. Erin Solstice looked down, and Lehra Ruinstrider looked up, and her eyes opened wide. She almost fell out of her seat as Stargazer’s Promise gazed upwards. Erin stuck out a hand.

“Hi there. I realize I actually never introduced myself to you. Emper, right?”

“Of the Monastery of Galam. We have spoken briefly, yes. Has Lehra done something again?”

“Please no.”

Elgrinna, the Dwarf, stood as Emper, the [Monk], took Erin’s hand. She looked at him.

“Galam? Where’s that?”

“Northeastern Chandrar. Along the coast. My monastery is small—it is hardly the same as the…Monks of Sottheim for instance.”

Emper’s hesitation said it all if you knew about Sottheim. Elgrinna chuckled.

“And I am from Dwarfhome as every Dwarf is. Suxhel?”

“Baleros.”

The Gazer didn’t elaborate, but Erin just met one of her many eyes and nodded.

“Of course. May you see with eyes unblinded.”

“Truly, without mind’s clouds. How do you know that saying?”

Erin chuckled as the Gazer [Wizard] hesitated.

“I’ve met a few Gazers in my time. Do you all have a moment? I’d like to show you something.”

The two teams looked confused as they rose. Erin waved at the Horns apologetically and called out.

“Just a small group. I guess the Haven’s staff can come. Just this once. After all—we’re showing off, aren’t we?”

She smiled at them and then tried to shoo Mrsha away, but the Gnoll had suddenly glued herself to her best-buddy Lehra. Erin sighed, but nodded.

Silver Swords. Just the three and the four of Stargazer’s Promise. Plus eight of the Haven’s Staff and a rogue Mrsha…Erin gave the Haven’s staff a second look as if regretting her promise already.

“Should I come, Erin? I can take Mrsha—sweetie, let go—

Mrsha was horizontal as Lyonette pulled, trying to dislodge the furry barnacle from Lehra’s shoulder. Erin looked at her—then Yvlon, Pisces, and around the room.

“Let’s…do this in smaller chunks. I’ll call on you another day, Lyonette. We won’t be long. Possibly. I’m probably lying. Alright, this way everyone.”

She pointed, and a door appeared. Then—and only then, Alanna looked up and shaded her eyes. After all, light was pouring into the inn.

Then she saw the [Garden of Sanctuary].

 

——

 

What the [Knight] and the Stargnoll saw and what it meant to them was—different. Alanna was one of Larra’s staff, and she knew House Byres, of course, as well as the famous Named-rank. She had a lot of context, but all she could speak to was her experience.

Which was—after a disappointing inn, the feeling that Erin Solstice had been holding back. Now, Alanna felt goosebumps as if she were walking into the Haven’s most magical rooms for the first time.

The [Garden of Sanctuary] was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Oh, a magical pocket-garden was something Larra could probably do. That wasn’t what made the Haven’s staff slow. Larracel the Haven could do almost anything with magic a modern [Mage] could, even one of the Archmages of Wistram. She could buy fantastic spells and enchantments.

So what impressed them was something impossible. And what was impossible were the falling stars.

They rained down, showers of light across a black night sky as the two teams entered the garden. Suxhel stared at them in bewilderment, same as Falene.

“Like it? I can do special effects now.”

Erin caught a glowing ray of light, bright orange, that splintered across her hand and faded. Ylawes Byres stared, but Dawil was simply chuckling in delight.

“Do we get to see the other gardens, Erin? I’ve been dying to ask. You know, that little rascal caught a koi fish and put it in a pot? It slapped Numbtongue in the face while he was playing on that device he likes so much.”

“Oh really.

Erin stared at Mrsha, and the Gnoll looked the other way as she held Lehra’s paw. They were all walking up the hill as the [Innkeeper] shook her head.

“No, not the other gardens. Although it’d be sort of fun to see if Suxhel can see through mud.”

“I have no context for that statement. May I receive it?”

The Gazer raised a hand, and Erin fluttered her fingers.

“Later. We’re doing something more important first. Something a long time coming. I know I’ve been tardy…but I didn’t want to do this, really. I guess I hafta, especially if Ylawes is going home.”

The Silver Swords looked at each other, and Lehra’s ears perked up.

“Mershi.”

Everyone looked at her, and Lehra held the Blade of Mershi. Her gauntlet was…vibrating under her paws. She stared at Erin.

“What do you know? Do you know what the blade is? Do you know—”

She was almost gagging with all her questions that she had put off. But to her disappointment, Erin shook her head.

“You know, I don’t actually know where it is, concretely. Or all of what they did. All I have are stories. Second-hand reports and such. No one…who was there told me anything. So I wasn’t lying when I posted that <Quest>.”

“Oh. Wait. How do you have second-hand reports?”

Erin shrugged.

“Dead people like to talk.”

At this point, Alanna was sure the [Innkeeper] was just conjuring illusions and lying well. Because this seemed to be going too far. Barnethei could put on a show, but he knew the difference between unreality and even the Haven’s best illusions. She began to fall out of Erin’s little trick as they passed up a hill.

The mist was just a low-tier spell. And the statues she saw…the huge amount of space was probably an illusion spell. The [Innkeeper] looked back at Lehra.

“The Crossroads are where you start.”

“But where do I find them?”

The frustrated Stargnoll cried out. Erin Solstice sighed patiently as Mrsha nodded rapidly.

“I’m sorry. I don’t actually know. I know there were a lot of ways in. Magically, with Skills even—some people said they’re all overgrown. Dangerous. But that’s where you’ll find it.”

“What, clues?”

The [Witch] turned her head, and a strand of mist floated past her face. She might have even been enjoying this—her smile vanished, and her voice seemed to come from everywhere as Alanna lost track of her.

“No. Mershi. You can’t find what was lost if it was never here to begin with. Izril was always bigger than Izril.”

Lehra ran forwards a step—and Mrsha began tugging on her paw excitedly as she had a sudden, incredible thought. Maybe—maybe—if they were talking about weird places with tons of magic and stuff—hadn’t a certain white Gnoll talked about…?

But the Stargnoll wasn’t listening. She ran forwards through the mist and cried out. Ylawes stumbled after Erin.

“Erin, where are we going—

Then he too vanished.

“Alanna. What’s going on? Is this magic or a Skill?”

“It’s just a trick.”

Alanna reassured one of her coworkers. She was convinced of it. Right until she saw Ylawes Byres had come to a halt. He had fallen—onto his behind—and he sat, holding himself up with his arms. The Stargnoll, Lehra, had frozen, and her team had drawn their swords. She held a glowing blade, coated in the Armor of Stars. Like some kind of tableau—Dawil had his broken axe raised, and Falene was backing up, holding her staff.

The Haven’s staff watched from afar as the mists parted. Mrsha hid behind Erin, but her eyes were round. Erin stood there, amidst the black sky falling with bright stars of color, and looked up at the Dragon.

He was larger than any monster that Alanna had ever seen, the statue grey—but somehow still managing to convey the shining scales and the form of the Silver Dragon.

He was larger than a house, half the size of the Haven’s main building, and he stood there. Not rearing, not with wings spread menacing like some Wyvern caught in battle.

Not like a beast at all. Instead, the Dragon sat on his haunches, like a cat almost, head raised back, snaking upwards. He had a helmet upon his head, like a [Knight]’s, and armor arrayed his body. He even had pauldrons upon his shoulders and an armored tail—graceful metal that evoked his very nature.

Yderigrisel, the last Dragon-Knight, stared down imperiously at the son of the house he had championed for countless millennia. He was haughty and proud, brave and virtuous.

Like the Haven—the statue of this dead soul caught his finest side. He was so real that as much as she tried—Alanna couldn’t claim he was fake. How…how…

Erin stared up at Yderigrisel solemnly. Solemnly, sadly, and with familiarity. She was the one to break the silence.

“Ylawes. That’s the Dragon you’re looking for, isn’t it? The Silver Knight of House Byres. He’s dead.”

The [Knight-Seeker of the Silver Dragon] jerked around. Everyone turned to Erin, and Lehra lowered her blade, but Mershi’s relic was screaming, a call to battle that ran through her. It sounded like—

TRAITOR.

But Ylawes? The [Knight] looked upon the end of his quest—before he had even begun it. His voice shook.

“How—how do you know—?”

“I met him. He’s dead, Ylawes. If you’re searching for his body…I don’t know where it is. But he was brave. If this helps you level or helps you search—he was a brave Dragon. I think he did terrible things, though. As terrible as the foes he helped slay. But I don’t know his story.”

Erin’s eyes glittered as she pointed, and Ylawes’ head turned to the Silver Dragon. Now…now…he thought he could hear a whisper. A whisper in his very marrow, that came from his class.

 

Seek…Dragon of knightly pride….

…where Dragons died…

…stem…Creler’s tide…

 

It was a voice that would grow louder when he slept. The next hint in—he tried to rise, to ask more questions, but he couldn’t. Erin Solstice looked at him and then jerked her head softly.

“Stay here a second. I have something else to show the rest of you.”

“Erin. Who did you meet? I mean, how did you meet…? No. The real question is—why are they gone? Are they ghosts? Or—”

Falene was the one who spoke. And it was to Falene that Erin went next. She stopped Mrsha.

“This one’s just for you, Falene. I don’t have anyone for Dawil. Sorry.”

“Sorry? I’ll just stay here with the lad—and the Dragon. I’ll, uh—settle for that.”

Dawil twisted his neck, trying to formulate a joke. But Erin just drew Falene off into the mists. When Erin came back, she was alone.

“Lehra. You guys, come with me. I don’t have…anyone special to show you, Suxhel, Elgrinna. But Lehra should at least see a few people. I never really met them up close and got to ask—well. Maybe it’ll help you level.”

Help you level? Lehra gripped Mrsha’s paw for emotional support.

“Who—who am I meeting, Erin?”

“Chieftain Seru’nial. Emper—I just want to introduce you to some great rulers and people I met. I don’t know the Monastery of Galam, but perhaps you know—”

This time, Alanna followed Erin through the mists. She kept seeing flashes as she tried to follow the [Innkeeper], and she realized she really was being let to see something she shouldn’t. Erin Solstice had pulled something out of her bag of holding and lit it.

A lantern burning with pink flames illuminated the mists like a will o’ wisp. The Haven’s staff followed Erin through what felt like darkness—and one of them grabbed the others.

“What? It’s safe.

“I—I saw a spider-person. I swear. It looked like a Centaur, but it had a spider’s parts for—”

“Don’t be silly. Don’t—”

Then they heard a howl from Lehra and froze. But the Gnoll had vanished with Elgrinna. And what they saw instead, in the brief swirl of dark clouds, was—

Falene Skystrall. She was kneeling in front of a statue that Alanna thought looked—normal. Normal, until something about the ordinary half-Elf made her heart palpitate too hard. And why was Falene weeping?

Then the mists closed in, and they found themselves standing in front of a sea of statues that had Emper bowing before them. Alanna stopped—as eighteen figures stood in a line behind a sea of faces.

The rulers of Khelt were overshadowed by Serept, the half-giant, but only in size. Erin Solstice stood with Emper, pointing out figures and asking if he knew them.

“That dude’s the King of Destruction’s grandfather. You know him?”

“I—yes. And this is—”

The Stitch-man had been lucky enough, like the rest of Lehra’s team, to see the Pub of Best Moments. Like the Haven’s staff—they had seen the best side of Lehra, not the goofball that got them into trouble and ate—and slept with—everything in sight.

The changing seat of good angles presented a hundred different viewpoints, all flattering. The statues had only one face when you saw them, and they had no color, no context.

Yet…the wind blew, and Emper shivered, though the [Monk] had [Lesser Resistance: Elements]. He shivered, because the stone eyes that stared down at him had a story he only knew in fables. Stories and illustrations and carvings, of which there were thousands.

Yes, the [Sculptors] and [Painters] and even the [Writers] had been good enough to capture aspects, even capture her as she had been. But they were still images. This felt…realer. For all the soul was gone, the body long decayed—

Queen Merindue of Nerrhavia’s Fallen stared down at the Stitch-man with the same eyes that had seen a tyrant die. They were not the same gaze that Erin had first met her with. Intrigued, kind, and pettily annoyed with sharing the land of the dead with her mortal enemy, Nerrhavia.

There were more sides to the [Queen] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, but this was somehow more and less than the Pub of Best Moments. It captured only one side of her, and Erin longed to have known the others. How did Merindue look as she laughed with a child upon her lap, as she had told Erin they did when Nerrhavia lay dead, in relief?

How did she flirt or weep or…play chess? Erin would never know, and in that sense, she envied Larra’s great Skill. But what she held was this.

The statue was a memory of someone who would never return to the lands of the living. And so, if Larra could have been here, she would have traded every Skill she had for this one of Erin’s.

The two [Innkeepers] truly did desire what the other held. But this statue—

Merindue wore no armor. Yet she wore her simple robes like a shield, a slash of something—powder—across the front. Each thread and piece of her cloth-body looked like it had been sewn for war, and her skin resembled metal as much as flesh.

“What…who’s…?”

Some of the others had no context for who this was. Emper did, and he reached out a shaking hand as he leaned upon his staff. Erin gestured to the faint material that the grey stone revealed.

“Chalk. I think. She said they put chalk on their clothing. To mark them apart from the rest of their enemies on that day. There were so many who fought against Merindue’s allies they couldn’t tell who was who. So—like the Gnolls did, they wore chalk, and she said it worked.”

“What day? Who is this?”

Suxhel thought she knew, but only when Emper turned did he confirm her question.

“This is Queen Merindue. One of the—the first rulers of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. She brought down the Immortal Tyrant, Nerrhavia.”

The statement shocked the [Wizard] into silence—she looked at Erin and then another statue in the mists. The Gazer saw one of her own kind and froze—

The Witch of Eyes stared down at her. And Suxhel was petrified. It was Alanna who spoke, feeling a chill continuing to race through her. Yet she was compelled to try and throw doubt. How could Erin know…? She pointed at Merindue and the robes.

“She has no armor. If she was fighting, why didn’t she wear any?”

“It didn’t matter, she said. Not against Nerrhavia. Not that day of days. She said…”

Erin put a hand to her forehead and laughed ruefully. She turned sadly.

“She said it wasn’t necessary for her, but I never got the full story. Like them all.”

Her head turned, and the others caught such a wave of sadness from Erin the [Innkeeper] sagged. Yet it was Emper who spoke.

“No. On the day the Immortal Tyrant died, Cotton and Silk and Hemp walked without steel. Without metal or enchanted cloth. With robes alone and plain cloth they threw themselves forwards. Armored in Skills and defiance against the Tyrant’s guardians.”

Erin’s head came up. Her hazel eyes flashed—with gratitude, with light.

“You know her story?”

Emper turned, and his head shook as he nodded. So Erin…Erin took his arm urgently.

“Then tell me. Tell me them all. Suxhel—do you know who this is?”

She pointed to the Witch of Eyes, and Suxhel looked at her as if she were crazy. But now it was Erin who stumbled forwards, desperately, hungrily. Begging them to speak as she told them what she knew.

Was it grief burning across her hat? Hope? Wonder? Something else?

It illuminated Merindue’s eyes. Those imperious eyes, which had stared down immortality and seen it die. But this place was more than the statue. It was a story.

Emper had looked upon the greatest of his people and knew her name and her greatness. Erin…Erin pointed up at Merindue.

“She has a great smile.”

And that changed—everything. Emper looked up, and Erin tried to tell him what it had looked like. It seemed, then, almost like the [Garden of Sanctuary] was listening too, to what even it lacked.

Still, Erin did not weep. Not as Falene did. The half-Elf knelt in front of her statue and knew not who it was who stared down at her with sword raised overhead. Only that her grief and guilt overflowed, and she felt it upon her—a curse. The wrath of Winter Fae.

Grief without end. And Ylawes looked up at his statue, the Silver Dragon, and wondered who the great protector had been. Who his house had been. Dawil whispered his Grandfathers’ names, and on Erin walked as Lehra howled in front of Seru’nial’s statue. With Mrsha, in front of the [Archmage of the Eternal Grasslands], Kishkeria.

We were there. We knew magic. Sadness, loss—and triumph.

The [Innkeeper]’s eyes were dry as she led Emper forwards. If anything, she looked more like a [Witch] than she had in any moment before this. Mysterious. Sad—but proud as well. Like a character out of a fable with a mysterious book. Only, hers was a garden that made people weep.

 

——

 

Nanette heard Mrsha howling from afar, but she did not go up onto the hilltop. She was playing with Nerry amidst the Sage’s Grass.

Well, ‘playing’. The Sariant Lamb was trying to drag itself up the hill, and Nanette was stopping it and avoiding being bit.

“Is—is she alright?”

Lyonette was wavering, having come into the garden. Nanette looked up at her earnestly. The Thronebearers were staring above, and their time would come. So would Lyonette’s…

Marquin was here, too.

“I think she’s fine, Miss Lyonette. The garden is terribly sad—but Witch Erin knows what she’s doing.”

“Does she? Why did she let Mrsha up there?”

The [Princess] was more dubious. To that, Nanette quoted Califor’s favorite sayings.

“Children should see wonders and magic. Terrible things. They should meet legends so they know how it was done and that it was done.

“But she’s so sad—”

Lyonette put a hand over her heart as Mrsha howled again. Nanette just smiled as she put Nerry in her lap, and the Sariant Lamb, panting, gave up and listened. Apista flew over to greet the lamb and got a tiny hoof in one side for her trouble.

Nanette separated the two and patted Apista on the head. She gave the others a bright smile.

“That’s just Miss Erin for you. Every door in her inn leads to something ridiculously happy and funny or cripplingly sad.”

The Thronebearers and Lyonette turned to the witch in silence. Down the hill, Numbtongue, laying on his back and playing the guitar for Octavia, sat up. He jerked a thumb at the witch.

“She gets it.”

 

——

 

The emotional damage of her statues might be impossible to quantify. Falene reappeared later, shaking and speechless. Lehra was wiping at her eyes, and she and Mrsha had howled in front of the Gnolls.

“Why are you doing this, Erin?”

Dawil helped up Ylawes when the [Knight] saw her reappear with the others and the staff of the Haven, dead silent. Erin looked down at him, and instead of answering right away, she sat down on the grass.

“Ylawes. I know you invited Vuliel Drae and Nailren to join your team. I think that’s great. Would you…consider not inviting Infinitypear and Rasktooth?”

“What? Why? They were incredibly brave.”

He didn’t know where the question was coming from. Not at first. Erin sat next to him.

“Yeah, they were. They’re cute kids. They were so brave—Rasktooth went to the Meeting of Tribes for me. We saw what happened. I see. So—do you think you could leave them be?”

Then he saw it. That desperately sad look in her eyes. Ylawes hesitated and looked at Erin. Then at Dawil. The Dwarf gave him no help for once, and Ylawes Byres sat there a long time, listening to Falene begin hiccuping. For some reason, that helped.

“I—I could, Erin. But I meant what I offered them. It would hurt them greatly if I turned them down. They’ve all but accepted.”

“Can I convince you to go back on your word?”

The [Knight] paused. He looked at Erin.

Of course you can. What he said, instead, came out of him like the words he’d said to Ysara. Sometimes, perhaps often, they were poor. Rarely…

“I could. But those two aren’t even adventurers. They stood up when Gold-ranks quailed. They deserve more. They were meant for more. And I think they’re too brave to sit by idly. Better to have someone watching them…”

“…than not. And time isn’t unlimited. You’re right. I just—no. You’re right.”

Erin Solstice stood up, and her face was shadowed. She looked at Ylawes and then nodded.

“Then I don’t regret showing you those statues. I only wish I had more to show.”

“You monster.”

Falene choked out. She was wiping her face on her robes—they were streaked with her makeup and tears. Erin looked at her.

“Level up, Falene. It’s all I can give you. Then—when you need help, ask me. Ask me, Lehra. If it’s potions, I’ll ask Saliss. I don’t know where—but if I can help, I will. No matter who I have to find.”

She looked at Mrsha, then, and the little Gnoll solemnly nodded. Then, and only then, Erin turned to the Haven’s staff. She addressed them, as the Silver Dragon and the statues faded into the mists, until they stood on a hilltop above the garden and realized bare hours had passed, for all it felt like days.

An [Immortal Moment].

“I’m not planning on making my business a success, Alanna, everyone. The Wandering Inn’s not really good at making money, and I don’t think even Mr. Math will help with that. Maybe. But it’s just not that kind of inn. Levels? We need more of them. All the levels. So yeah. I guess the first renovation for my inn will be a ballista. If I ever figure out how to buy one. Laken only sells trebuchets. We could use a hand—but only if you’ve got the right stuff. Speaking of which…let’s head down to the garden.”

She was glancing at the door leading out of here, and Erin raised her brows. She gestured, and the rest of the guests realized it was late, practically night. The inn was closing, and a figure walked into the common room as the last employee, the greatest employee of the inn, cleaned up.

 

——

 

The inn was closing as the [Vice Innkeeper] walked in. The Haven had more late-night events, but The Wandering Inn did have a closing time. Even if that sometimes came after midnight.

However, Lyonette had carefully funneled the remaining guests to the Haven for their lightshow event. She ran this place like a home, and she thought—correctly—that children would have a hard time sleeping with people up and about downstairs.

Mystifying. Especially from a [Princess] of Calanfer. She was just leaving coin on the tables.

That was the frustration Barnethei had with this inn. The talent. It was not hopeless—if anything, he knew more than anyone else how well this inn was placed to succeed.

It was at the center of a teleportation network as Liscor re-entered the world as a business hub. It had two new species visiting it that even the Haven couldn’t touch. It had produced Drassi, a world-famous [Reporter]!

And it had let her go. True, that might have been inevitable, but Barnethei had checked the prices. They slashed prices, so he doubted the inn was even making a profit on their Goblin and Antinium prices. They didn’t have to gouge their guests, but they could charge them more, offer them exclusive services.

That Gnoll was here as Barnethei knew he’d be. The [Innkeeper] had no idea how he’d gotten out of the Haven, especially since someone had been at the door, but he couldn’t get away.

The inn had to close, and there was a small crew closing up. Two Goblins and one of the Antinium—none of the Haven’s staff.

He wondered where they were. Possibly, Erin had let them go back to the Haven. Either way, it meant that the inn had a lot of work to do, and Ishkr was directing the apprehensive two little Goblins and the Soldier at a room of tables.

Erin’s [Grand Theatre] stretched hundreds of feet. She’d had a good number of guests tonight with the play, and while there had been active cleaning, there were scraps of food on the floor, chairs and tables pushed back—and most that had been used needed cleaning—and the last dinner-guests had left their plates.

Even Calescent was off-work, happily resting after a full day of cooking. Barnethei eyed the room and thought it would take a crew of eighteen or a smaller group of nine. Six, at minimum, with good Skills to do this in a reasonable way.

From the look of things, the Soldier had [Wider Clean] as his Skill. He was polishing about half again as much dirt around his cleaning cloth, and the Goblins were industriously swabbing down tables.

However, Ishkr didn’t seem perturbed. Barnethei heard his low voice.

“Just take the plates to the kitchen and stack them up. I’ll handle them. Then clean the tables and put the chairs up. Then we push the tables to the walls and sweep. It won’t take long.”

“Lotta tables. Lotta plates. Is this clean-death?”

One of the Goblins grumbled as the other nudged him, but Sticks went to work dutifully as Ishkr promised him it wouldn’t be.

“You’ll get to rest in an hour, I promise, Sticks. The others should be back from the Haven by then. I think there is even some of Calescent’s cookie dough you can share.”

That put a pep in their step. The other workers were swinging around the inn with more of a will as Barnethei coughed. Ishkr looked up, sighed, and the Goblins and Antinium hesitated.

“Inn’s closed. You go. Come back later.”

Sticks called out, and Barnethei chuckled.

“I’m not a guest. Looks like a lot of work. The Haven’s staff should have helped clean up, Mister Ishkr. Mind if I lend a hand?”

The Gnoll hesitated. He glanced around, then turned his back rather deliberately on the man.

“If you’d like. The Haven’s staff are with Miss Erin. This won’t take long, anyways.”

“Ah. So she often leaves you to clean up the entire inn? I heard you were working by yourself when she was—dead. An entire inn’s not a sane job for one worker. Even if it was mostly closed. And you really haven’t thought about my offer?”

The Gnoll said nothing, so Barnethei watched him work. He did know this job. Unlike the Soldier carefully putting one plate on top of the others with his clumsy hands, Ishkr piled them up, whisking utensils out of the way and dumping them on top. Then he repeated the process with two more stacks of dishes seven tall. When he was done, he picked up all three bunches in his arms.

It was an impressive sight, and if he tripped, Erin would lose a non-trivial number of her plates. Improbably, Ishkr seemed to have a kind of third arm that let him keep the three stacks of dishes steady.

Barnethei joined Ishkr without a word, rolling up his sleeves. He wasn’t above bussing tables.

“I started in the Haven cleaning tables, you know. Now, I’m about to start my own inn. Larra knows how to reward loyalty.”

“So you keep saying. And Erin doesn’t?”

The two worked side-by-side, although it was clear that Ishkr was trying to work faster so he lost Barnethei. Unfortunately—the man flipped up a plate and skimmed it into the kitchen.

“Hey! No breaking—”

Sticks’ mouth stopped moving as he saw the plate bounce off a wall and flip itself onto a stack of dirty dishes. The porcelain was completely unharmed, and Barnethei tossed six more, as if they were made of steel.

[Dishes of Steel]. A [Busboy]’s favorite Skill.

Ishkr gave Barnethei an exasperated look, so the [Vice Innkeeper] simply made a stack of nine bowls. Ishkr retaliated with twelve—and the two stacks of dishes grew impossibly tall. Sticks and the other Goblin stared as the Gnoll and Human strode to the kitchen. Their burdens were in danger of hitting the ceiling, so they had to bend over to let them clear the door jamb.

Barnethei stepped faster, his polished boots clicking over the inn’s floor like a tap-dancer. He noted that Ishkr wore plain hide sandals. Cheap—and his uniform resembled any generic [Bartender]’s.

“You never said how much she pays you. A silver an hour? Less? You and I both know you could charge by your level.”

“I like my job. It’s relaxing. I don’t need to be paid a fortune.”

Ishkr tossed the dishes into the soapy water, annoyed. He yanked them out, put them in a bucket of clean water, and tossed them onto a rack to dry. Barnethei passed his own hand over a dish, and the dirt and food vanished.

[Bound Spell: Cleanse]. He looked over to ask if Ishkr was going to wash—then he realized that the dish was clean. Ishkr dunked another into the soapy water, pulled them out—and he just had to wash the soap off.

They tore through the dishes so fast they were stepping out of the kitchen as a Goblin carried in their load of utensils. Barnethei pointed a finger at Ishkr. So that was how one Gnoll had done all the dishes! He wanted Ishkr even more, now.

“Ah—but is relaxing going to help you keep levelling?”

Barnethei saw Ishkr pause as he stacked cups high. The [Innkeeper] did the same, whisking all the tumblers down the bar. They slid across the wood and spilled drinks and stopped at the other end. He took a rag and swept it down the bar, leaving nothing behind in its wake.

“I’m looking for a challenge, Ishkr. I need a staff who can handle anything that comes at them. We’ll be in the new lands, serving adventurers and every nation in the world.”

“And you think I’ll be good enough for that?”

“I think anyone who can lure a boss monster away from the inn has what it takes. I think Erin Solstice needs you more than you need her. And I think you can see what I’m offering. You could be great. You could be serving a hundred [Lords] and [Ladies] every night.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need fame. I don’t need wealth. Besides—monsters are bad for my health.”

Ishkr dumped the last plates in the kitchen and turned, visibly annoyed, and the Goblins and Soldier looked around and realized the dishes were gone. They began to clean the tables, then put a chair up on each clean one so they could push it aside and clear the floors.

The [Vice Innkeeper] and [Head Server] strode past them, still talking.

“Monsters are the last thing I want to see. But you—you’re holding yourself back, Ishkr. I can see it. Does she even know what level you are? Come with me, and we’ll find out who you could really be.”

He swept a cloth over his table, and Ishkr did the same. Now, the Gnoll growled, and some of his fur rose as he furiously mopped at a stain.

“Is it that fun being at Larra’s inn? I saw what it was like. It’s all glamor and show.”

“So?”

“It’s about a profit. Your real guests are those nobles. How much do they spend on the inn?”

The [Innkeeper] shrugged.

“As much as they want. It’s worth it to them, and they never run low on coins. Larra’s engineered her inn to attract them.”

Fun. Your staff loves them, I can tell. Especially catering to their every whim.”

The sarcastic comment needled Barnethei. The rotations were tough—but he snapped his fingers and calmed down.

“It pays well. The gold pays for the enchantments on the inn. It pays for the farm. It pays for the magic. And my Skills come from Larra herself. Or do you think your inn’s fine as it is? It could be better.

His cleaning cloth cleaned the entire table in five point six seconds. Barnethei tossed his cloth aside as Ishkr took slightly longer. He pulled out a second cleaning cloth, slapped it on the other table—and Ishkr looked over. He frowned at the first cloth, wondering if Barnethei was offering it to him. But the fancy red cleaning cloth lifted without Barnethei touching it. It whisked over to a second table, and to the watchers’ astonishment—began to clean the mess by itself.

Barnethei winked at Ishkr.

“My [Innkeeper]’s got real magic. Does yours have automated cleaning? Familiars? How much time are you wasting manually hauling water? Don’t you want to do more?

“I’m not a talker. Drassi was a talker. Not everyone wants a job where they have to be the center of attention.”

“Then don’t be! Come with me—and find a challenge worthy of your Skills! Don’t you want to know what it’s like serving a hundred guests in a new inn in a land no one’s claimed?”

Ishkr’s paws slowed—then became a flurry. He cleaned one table and a second as his paws moved like a storm.

[Flurry Scrub]. By now, the Soldier was nudging the little Goblins and pointing in awe. Barnethei wasn’t done. He grabbed a bucket and dipped the cleaning rags into it. It came out sopping wet.

[Free Refill: Scented Soap of Taima]. He applied a light coating, then a brisk one with a cloth that was permanently wet. Ishkr glowered—but the tables were sparkling. He grudgingly did the same.

“So you have a lot of Skills and more levels than me. I don’t like you.”

“You don’t know me.”

Barnethei corrected him, and Ishkr sighed.

“I have a sister here—”

“I’ll hire her too. Or if you like, let her stay and find her own way.”

“She’s not clever enough to do that unless I stay.”

Hey. That would have really hurt Liska’s feelings if she were listening in. Barnethei laughed.

“If you’re worried about supporting her, family—”

“Don’t have any.”

The [Innkeeper] clasped hands with Ishkr’s paws for a second and leaned in.

“Then join mine. I can pay you well enough to let your sister not worry about coins. We have a staff. You met Catheis, Roreen? Do they look like they think this is a temporary job? The Haven takes care of each other. No offense to the new workers, but how many stayed on besides you? No one.”

Ishkr looked past Barnethei.

“We never had permanent staff before. This time—they’ll stay. Besides, there was always Silveran.”

“And he left. This inn pushes them out when they get too big. The [Innkeeper] builds people up and sends them away. She’s not making her inn bigger.”

“She’s got plans.”

Ishkr broke away and pointed at a piece of tobacco someone had stuck to the table in the most unpleasant of ways.

[Remove Stubborn Stain]. It vanished, and Barnethei called out at his back.

“She’s not good at her only job: making the inn better. Taking care of her staff. You were stuck here for months when she was—”

“She was dead. Don’t talk about what you don’t know.”

Ishkr’s paw jabbed warningly at Barnethei, and the man raised his hands. In silence, they cleared eight more tables in minutes and then walked back.

“Chairs?”

“Fine.”

Each chair was hoisted up backwards onto the table so the seat—which had to be cleaned—touched the table’s surface rather than the dirty legs. Ishkr lifted them easily with practice, and Barnethei saw him shove an entire table with chairs included across the inn to a wall.

That was a task the Soldier had to help the two Goblins with. Barnethei was impressed. His attitude was simpler.

He pointed—and the table moved. The chairs lifted, and the [Vice Innkeeper] flicked out a hand. He swished his wand and winked. Ishkr glared at him.

“You have to want some fancy Skills. At least a spell.”

[Magic: Advanced Telekinesis]. The Gnoll just shoved—and a table went flying and bounced off the wall. Sticks oohed.

[Heavy Push]. The [Innkeeper] and Gnoll stared at each other—then the two began moving tables faster. Ishkr with his paws, and Barnethei with magic.

“I don’t see—you doing that much better than me.”

“You haven’t seen all of my tricks.”

“Neither have you. Why would I want to go with you? Give me a reason more than gold and fame and a challenge. I get enough of all that here.”

The [Innkeeper] tossed a table aside.

“I’d give you a percentage of the profits you pulled in. In time—I’d give you an inn. You have a future with me. Or are you going to work this job when you’re sixty? Larra will teach you magic. We won’t take you for granted. Can you say the same about Erin Solstice?”

Ishkr slipped and nearly slammed his head on a table. He took a second to reply.

“She knows me. She trusts me.”

She has to give you more.

“No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t have to buy my loyalty.”

The Gnoll and Barnethei looked for another table—possibly to throw at each other because now they were glaring. Barnethei told himself to calm down—this negotiation wasn’t supposed to be hostile, but at least Ishkr was raising his voice.

It was time to clear the floor. By now, the Goblins and the Soldier were wavering, clearly unsure whether they were needed here. One offered Barnethei a mop, and the Soldier did the same.

Ishkr had one of those long, horizontal mops that you used for cleaning a wide space, and Erin’s [Grand Theatre] was longer than any area but the outdoor section of the Haven—and it was arguably still longer in sheer verticality.

A giant straightaway. You could run down it and clean it—albeit line by line. Something about this pleased Barnethei’s mind, the satisfaction of not having to think about navigating the room. He might have liked it here if he were a boy—but he was determined to show Ishkr what he was missing.

“What level are you, Ishkr? I’m Level 41. Your Skills are good, but you don’t have the spark. You’re a fantastic worker for an amazing [Innkeeper]—but she hasn’t given you what Larra has to me. I have magic and more. What can Erin give you?”

“Something the Haven’s staff can’t dream of. This inn will never be rich like yours. It doesn’t need to be. Leave me alone.”

Ishkr began running down the floor. But Barnethei was right behind him—and when Ishkr turned—he nearly slipped. Barnethei caught him by the arm—and Barnethei caught him by the other arm.

Two [Innkeepers] glanced at each other and grinned. They adjusted their hats as Ishkr got up slowly. And now—the Goblins were goggling. So were the Soldier and Lyonette and Liska and half the people peeking down the stairway, out of the garden, and from the hallway.

“Clones?”

“[I Worked Like Three Men].”

A third Barnethei grabbed a mop—and they were racing along, three-to-one. Each man had thrown off his colorful coat, revealing the white shirt beneath, stained with sweat. Because it was sweat—Barnethei ran down the inn, pushing the mop and sweeping the dirt and detritus ahead of him.

He’d put sweat into every day of the inn. Worked his way up. He glanced at Ishkr, and the Gnoll was keeping up but doing a third of Barnethei’s work.

“Don’t you want to put in the—effort? Ishkr?”

The Gnoll was like him. He’d worked a job without asking for praise, and—Barnethei gritted his teeth and sped up, pushing his legs to run across the ground.

He just wanted to reward him for it.

Ishkr deserved it. They deserved it. How long did they have to do this? Work for an [Innkeeper] in her inn—that wasn’t a dream. Every member of the staff, Barnethei to Alanna to the girls and boys starting work—

They had to have more. Their own inn. Because this was Larra’s dream that Barnethei had given over two decades for. It was time to chase his own. And Ishkr…

“Are you going to shackle yourself to your [Innkeeper] forever, Ishkr?”

He panted in three voices and heard a sigh somewhere behind him. It sounded calmer, unstrained, and as Barnethei turned his head, he heard Ishkr’s reply.

“So that’s why we don’t see eye-to-eye. You think I need to leave. I like it here. And what I get from Miss Erin is something you can’t comprehend. She could never pay me what you want from Larra. Neither can your [Innkeeper]. But I? Look at your Skill, Barnethei. Then look at mine.”

What? What was that supposed to m—

Barnethei looked over—or rather, three men turned their heads. Three clones of the same [Vice Innkeeper]. It was a Skill so rare and so useful that only a few people in all of Izril had ever mastered a version of it. The famous [Assassin] of Magnolia Reinhart, Barnethei…

The product of work and excellence. Ishkr couldn’t keep up with it, it was true. Barnethei was higher-level, and the Skill was superb. Even Larra herself couldn’t duplicate her body like that.

However—as every eye, from Lyonette holding Mrsha to the Haven’s staff peering out with Erin Solstice smiling in the garden—and the inn’s guests staring through the windows or down the stairs—the snoopers finally saw it. Liska’s jaw dropped, and Barnethei?

He slipped, and all three men nearly went crashing down on the cleaned floors before catching themselves. And Ishkr—passed him. He shot across the inn’s floor, holding his wide mop ahead of him, collecting a wave of trash. But that wasn’t the surprising part.

The Gnoll was smiling as he stood there, and his clothing wasn’t covered in sweat like the hard-working [Innkeeper]. In fact…he was standing, not running.

The Gnoll slid over the polished floorboards, balancing on his sandals. He kicked the floor lightly—and sped up. He was gliding across the inn, and he sped up as the three Barnethei’s chased him!

The Gnoll turned as he reached the far wall and deposited the line of dirt there. Then he pirouetted like a [Dancer] and kicked off the far wall. He leaned on the mop, grinning at Barnethei as he began shooting back across the floor.

Gliding. No—sliding. Skating on the floor as if it were Ceria’s ice. He kept going, pushing himself forwards, and Barnethei saw the Gnoll effortlessly spinning across the [Grand Theatre]. Even at a dead run—there was no way the [Vice Innkeeper] could catch up. Not to—

The Skill wasn’t running out. Barnethei had assumed it was a temporary one, but Ishkr kept going as the [Vice Innkeeper] slowly began losing ground in the cleaning war. Ten minutes, fifteen—twenty-three and Ishkr kept going. Then he looked around and saw just sparkling floorboards. The last of the dirt was being swept out the front of the inn by Barnethei. So Ishkr just turned to the [Vice Innkeeper].

“I don’t think you understand, Barnethei. I quite like The Wandering Inn. Its challenges aren’t the Haven’s. You can tempt me with gold and an inn—but don’t tell me your [Innkeeper] gives you more than mine. There’s something here your inn won’t have.”

“And what’s that?”

The [Vice Innkeeper] was sweating. He looked at Ishkr as the Gnoll smiled. The ‘[Head Server]’ put his mop against one wall and turned.

“Your Skills help you work better. Mine? Mine make me happy. I’ve served crazy Archmages and the Titan of Baleros. Your staff’s served a hundred thousand nobles who pay you well. But I quite liked my guests. And even the ones I hated left me something.”

He was striding towards the door. Barnethei ran after him. He reached for Ishkr’s shoulder.

“You’re too talented not to be recognized, Ishkr! Even if you don’t leave—the [Innkeeper] is wasting your potential!”

The Gnoll spun and put his hands on Barnethei’s shoulders.

“My potential? You keep talking like I’m one in a million.”

“You are. I can’t find someone of your level—someone who can stand up to a monster and even the Witch of Webs in any corner.”

Ishkr shook his head. He patted Barnethei on the shoulders and then spun the [Innkeeper] around.

“That’s where you’re wrong. You must think Drassi was born to be a [Reporter]. The truth is that she just talks a lot. If you want a great employee, someone who’ll be famous and as good as you—turn around.

Then Barnethei saw a tiny crack in the wall he’d missed and a bunch of faces peeking through the [Garden of Sanctuary]. He saw the Haven’s staff—and then looked up and saw the Horns peeking down the stairwell. Ishkr looked at them, at Ceria, at the two Goblins and Soldier having a cookie, and yes, even at Erin Solstice. He spoke as she turned redder.

“Erin Solstice’s inn isn’t a place where she finds great workers. It’s not that kind of inn. It may not be famous or rich—but I like it. I like her kindness and when she pushes people off cliffs. It is not easy or pleasant to work here sometimes—but neither is your inn because all you care about is making that profit. Erin’s inn? Erin’s inn is harder. Most employees quit, but the ones who stay? They are normal people, Barnethei. And if they stay, they become something. Anyone can be special. Much like Miss Erin herself.”

He let go of Barnethei, and the man staggered. The [Innkeeper] whirled as Ishkr stepped back to the open door. Then the Gnoll smiled.

“Even my sister might make something of herself. I doubt it, but I’ve been surprised before. And me? I don’t actually like working that hard. But I stay here—because I’ve gotten things I want. Your job is an obsession. I get off work.”

“And do what?

The man stared at him. For answer—the Gnoll touched his chest. And he used a Skill that one of the Goblins, Numbtongue, recognized.

“[Emergency Evacuation].”

A Skill for a waiter in one of the most dangerous inns you could work at. Ishkr grabbed his own vest—and tossed himself through one of the open windows. He bailed out the window so fast that Numbtongue just saw Ishkr roll out through the opening, land on his feet—

Where’s he going? After him!”

Lyonette, the other spies, and Barnethei went charging down the hallway to the front door. Normen himself had gotten Octavia and Numbtongue when they’d heard Ishkr was having a showdown with Barnethei. Obviously, they’d gone.

Everyone wanted to know what Ishkr’s secret was.

 

——

 

Ceria Springwalker was trying to lug a bowl of popcorn after her team. She was one of the last people outside, and she’d been chewing it down the entire—highly-entertaining—confrontation.

As she reached the front door though, the half-Elf stopped with a handful of greasy popcorn kernels coated with yeast in one fist. She stared out—and saw Barnethei running full-tilt after Ishkr.

For a little bit. But the man gave up, panting, as he stormed up the second hill outside of The Wandering Inn and stared after Ishkr. There was no point, after all.

He was never going to catch the Gnoll skating across another hill. Ceria’s eyes bulged as she saw Ishkr sliding, leaving a trail of grass behind him.

He was still sliding! The Gnoll was balanced like Kevin on his skateboard, arms spread—knees slightly bent. But he was moving across the Floodplains, sliding down hills and picking up speed before sliding up hills and occasionally kicking the ground to give himself a boost.

Skating. It was as if the grass, the soil—everything was coated in a layer of wax. In fact, that was exactly what was happening. Ceria realized that Ishkr wasn’t slowing down. Nor was he going to. The Skill wasn’t turning off.

[Self: Slippery Waxed Floor].

The Gnoll could even cannonball off a hill and shoot down on his back. He was—

Ksmvr spoke happily amid the silent crowd—Mrsha was freaking out, and so was Liska.

“Look, Captain Ceria. Ishkr is also better at skating than you are.”

The Ice Squirrel began choking on her popcorn. And Ishkr?

He kept going. Then he turned, because there was distant cheering going on—and embarrassed, he waved at the walls.

The Watch had seen Ishkr doing this late at night before. Like he had escaped from Facestealer—the Gnoll was shooting across the hills and valleys. When he hit the northern road being paved towards Esthelm by Hexel’s crews, the Gnoll slid across the dirt past amazed travellers. A Drake on horseback looked askance as Ishkr caught up.

His fur was blowing in the wind, and Ishkr was smiling so hugely that Liska was sure she’d never seen her older brother having so much fun.

“That rat-tailed bastard. He never said—he never—”

“Ishkr’s a private guy. He’s probably super-embarrassed. See? He’s going north. I bet Drassi knew he could do this, though.”

Liska jumped as Erin Solstice leaned on Dawil’s shoulder. She was laughing, beaming at her best employee.

“He’s got a few more cool Skills too. I think he gets them every time he meets a weird guest.”

“Like what?”

“[Magic Piercing Throw]. Oh, and he’s never late to work. I asked him about it one time, and he told me he got it from my door and just never told anyone. See? He’s tricky.”

Ishkr had vanished behind a hill and hadn’t reappeared as everyone stared after him. But Erin Solstice just straightened and, holding her back, hobbled back into the inn. Liska followed her and realized she should help Erin; the [Innkeeper]’s legs were trembling with exhaustion.

“I just need to sit down a sec. Oh, hey, Ishkr. I think the crowd’s back. And you just cleaned up, too.”

“Perhaps we could sit in the garden instead, Miss Solstice?”

Liska dropped Erin, and Ishkr glared at his sister as Erin yelped and fell over. He walked out from behind the bar, and Liska gobbled, staring back over her shoulder.

“But you—I just s—how did—”

The Gnoll sighed loudly as Mrsha came racing back in and slammed into a table as she spotted him. Erin got up, and she and the [Head Server] chorused.

“[Never Late To Work].”

“Duh.”

Ishkr smugly pointed to the bar. Then he blinked out of the air and reappeared behind it. The older brother watched his sister lose the ability to speak. Her accusatory paw pointed at him.

You—you—you—

Ishkr laughed. He threw back his head and barked a single huge laugh at his sister—then saw the guests coming back in. He looked around for somewhere to hide—but they were staring at him, and Erin Solstice caught Ishkr’s gaze.

“No getting around it anymore, Ishkr. Now the cat’s out of the bag. Mrsha’s going to be bugging you to give her rides everywhere, and Ceria’ll be competing with you all day. Hedault and Kevin too, I bet.”

“Drat.”

He didn’t look that put out, actually. Just embarrassed. The Gnoll turned as Barnethei walked in, and the [Vice Innkeeper] locked eyes with him.

Slowly, Barnethei approached the bar and realized he’d left his top-hat there. He picked it up and leaned against the counter as the Haven’s staff joined him. They looked at Erin, and she winked again. Mischievously.

When Larra heard of this…Barnethei leaned over to Ishkr.

“One question. All things aside—what is your class?”

The Gnoll eyed Barnethei, but he looked at Mrsha, lowered his voice so that most people, even the Gnolls, couldn’t hear, and whispered back.

“[Head Server of Tales and Fables]. And you?

The Human man sighed. And it was a long sigh that came out of him as he stood there.

“[Vice Innkeeper of Spells]. So that’s it.”

Erin Solstice looked between the two. She patted Barnethei on the shoulder, and he looked at her. The two of them had, interestingly, never really spoken. Perhaps because of Barnethei’s polite disdain for Erin’s methods as he saw them. But the [Magical Innkeeper] just smiled.

“Ishkr’s got a cooler class than I do. At least, I think so.”

“So says the [Witch of Second Chances].”

Ishkr muttered. Erin rolled her eyes. She spoke to Barnethei, looking him in the eyes and finding the Silver Swords, and Stargazer’s Promise behind them, watching her. Then the Horns and Colth, who had appeared as if he’d known this was a good time to show up.

“You’ll find your class in the new lands, Barnethei. I just bet you will. We all have a lot to do. And a long way to grow. Ishkr just might be doing it differently than you think.”

She turned, and the Gnoll sighed longer and louder.

“I have been working hard, Erin.”

“It’ll be different. Less keeping everything in the inn running and more…well, it’ll be hard.”

“I knew it.”

He glumly shook his head, but when he looked at Barnethei, the Gnoll raised his brows. This was his challenge. Erin Solstice reached out, and he helped her stand. She was tired, but she turned to the others.

“I’d like to rest too, but time goes on and stuff. And we will be needed for our friends in the new lands too. Barnethei’s inn—and whatever we can do.”

Then she coughed a bit, and Ishkr looked into the crowd.

“Who are you looking for right now, Erin?”

“Uh…the Silver Swords. I’ve gotta think of another way to help Lehra’s team. I knew…I met so few Gnolls. I know less about Izril than—other things. Sorta ironic, that.”

Erin had to sit down at one of the chairs and tables as Ishkr found the Gold-rank team. Then he was being hounded by Liska and several other members of the inn, most of whom wanted to know if he could extend his personal Skill to them.

“Erin? You wanted to see us?”

The Silver Swords approached somewhat hesitantly. Falene hid behind Dawil and Ylawes, glaring at Erin. She was not in the mood for more emotional damage from seeing images of her ancestors. Nor had it been clear why Erin showed her the statues. Just to make her level up? Was that how it worked?

Maybe for Ylawes’ seeking class, but not her. Erin Solstice waved them down.

“I did. Sorry for springing the statues on you, Ylawes. If I could have, I would have prefaced it with, y’know, stories.”

“Stories of the…of him?”

Ylawes shot a glance around the inn. Erin turned, and half the adventurers looked away innocently.

“Yeah. I don’t know enough about that guy. I met him briefly. And all the people who could tell me the real stories…are gone. I’d—I think I’d be able to show Pisces a lot more. Same with Lehra’s team. I only have hints. Hints and secrets, and not all of them make sense.”

She looked miserable then, and Ylawes looked at her and was reminded of a [Witch] from the stories, the hand holding random swords in lakes. And perhaps that was how one of them had looked when all they could offer was an enchanted blade and guidance.

Nothing more.

“What about me? Did you just—show me that to get a rise out of me?”

Falene was less charitable. She had looked upon that statue, and without knowing who the Elf was—felt such a wave of grief and agony that she was still flinching away from the open [Garden of Sanctuary]. As if her very blood remembered something.

In response, Erin Solstice looked up and met Falene’s gaze. She had that same…kind pitilessness that she sometimes used. The very same insistence on getting her way that could make you hate or like her.

It reminded Nanette, peeking at Erin from behind Calescent, of her mother. Of [Witches]. But Erin’s version of it was kind. It probably made the knife sharper.

“No. I showed you her statue because I didn’t really want the Silver Swords to recruit Rasktooth and Infinitypear. It’s…it might be the right thing to do. But it’ll be hard. I have—less to give Ylawes. Just clues. Just a statue and a bit of context.”

“That’s—more than anyone could dream of. Even our tapestries, even back home, I don’t think I’d find anything as real as that statue.”

Ylawes Byres murmured, and Dawil nodded. He looked at Erin.

“And no one for me?”

“If they were there—I didn’t meet them long enough. I’m sorry, Dawil.”

Erin expected the Dwarf to be disappointed, but he just smiled crookedly.

“Then that’s my story to chase down. I know where to begin…but help out Falene first, eh?”

Erin nodded. She took a breath, then looked Falene in the eyes again. The upset [Battlemage] saw Erin Solstice focus on her, and she felt uneasy.

“If you’re going to show me another statue without warning, I will cast a spell on you.”

She vowed, holding her staff at the ready. But Erin Solstice didn’t. She opened her mouth, and her tongue moved. It touched the tip of her teeth, and she closed her lips—as if holding something in. Or building something.

The inn was still buzzing, even if people were watching Erin out of the corners of their eyes. When she did speak, the word was quiet, but it somehow cut through even the loudest laughter and voices.

“Her name was Sprigaena. And they called her the Traitor of Elves.”

Falene’s fingers tightened around the staff. She fired a [Firebolt] past Erin’s left ear—unconsciously—and the [Innkeeper] ducked. But Falene and the Silver Swords were just staring at her. So the [Innkeeper] went on, leaning out of the way of Falene’s staff.

“I didn’t show you her statue to be mean. Find out…I don’t know who she was. I know part of it, but I hope you could—”

“Find out? Me? I’m no [Historian].”

“Then ask your kind. Ask the half-Elves in the colonies. I don’t care who you tell, but I thought I’d leave you in charge. Her name was Sprigaena—and I think she regretted everything she ever did. But I don’t know the history they wrote about her. Her soul is beyond saving. But maybe you can still redeem her past.”

Erin Solstice looked Falene Skystrall in the eyes, and a shiver passed across the half-Elf. A name so old it had been almost lost except…and Falene looked around and wondered who might know.

Archmage Feor? Zedalien of the House of El? The Treespeakers? And she realized why, of the two half-Elves that Erin knew and trusted, Erin had gone to her and not Ceria. The half-Elf of Gaiil-Drome sat there, shoulders hunched, as Erin Solstice exhaled.

“Yderigrisel the Silver Dragon. Sprigaena, the Last Elf. Is that loud enough for you all?”

She turned—and the guests of the inn froze. Erin raised her voice. Then she called out, to the spies that were definitely hiding outside the windows and staring at the guard-adventurer, Tessa. To the chess board that the Titan wouldn’t listen through—and to anyone else.

“I want to know their stories too. And I’ll show their statues to anyone worthy because theirs are tales that should be told. I wish Ishkr had served them. I wish they were here—so find out. I’ll say their names. All the great ones I met. Califor, Serept, Elucina—all of them in time. And each story. I want to know if they were really monsters or heroes. Velzimri…”

She stared around the inn, and some of those names landed. Octavia’s eyes nearly fell out of their sockets, and Erin exhaled.

“Even the Putrid One had a name. I’ll say them and say them again, even if it’s only so we learn from their mistakes. Even if it’s only to steal whatever they left behind. I’ll say every name but six. That’s my vengeance. Everyone deserves a legacy except for those who’ve earned only silence.”

She looked around, and then the names whispered again. And Ishkr? Ishkr stood behind the bar, leaning over it. He smiled—and wondered if ever someone who knew those names, or whose names would echo like that, would enter the inn. Surely, they would. And when they did—

He couldn’t wait to see what happened after that.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: Am tired. Somehow that break didn’t end up curing much. I have 22 chapters of Volume 1 ‘due’ left by the end of the year.

Also, Christmas. Also, work. I think I am winding down on my yearly energy, but I’ll continue on as I can.

Just know that I am looking forwards to the two-week break at the start of the new year. Once again, I have written too much–I’ll do better next chapter.

That’s all we can do. Some days we slip. We go on binges of bad things to have too much of. Food, drugs, alcohol…words…

I’ve written a 33,000 word chapter, and I’ll kick this habit starting tomorrow. Don’t cry for me. I’m already dead. I think a wise man said that.

I’ll see you next chapter with more energy. For now, hope you enjoyed it.

 

 

Ishkr, Liska, and Revi by butts! Give likes and the things on Twitter. Assuming it’s still around when you read this.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/buttscord

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/buttsarts

 

Valley, Clothing Woes, Philisophical Mrsha, and more by Brack!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

‘It’ll Grow Back’ and ‘I’ve Got You’ by pkay!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.26 F

(Gravesong is out now on Yonder! Read the first part of the book here!)

 

 

The names of the dead began to ring across Izril. Such old names, they provoked echoes. In the new colony of the half-Elves, Zedalien, formerly in service to Maviola El, raised his head. The white-haired half-Elf was watching the first great tree being sown into the ground.

Well…‘sown’ implied saplings. Not a giant tree that had been literally carried in one of the colony ships. Half-Elves were clustering around it, doing everything from moisturizing the roots, making sure the soil roughly matched the new home for the tree, to even patting the tree to make sure it didn’t die of stress and the trauma of relocation.

From these first trees…the half-Elf sighed as he saw his people focus more upon the tree than, say, a port. Or houses.

The temporary magical and Skill-based housing was dueling with the berthed ships out at sea for living space. They could have been building more—although the majority of the wood they had was actually the trees they were importing—out of stone, for instance, or the odd local fauna.

But half-Elves had to have trees and a forest. He feared for the success of this colony—if only because the traditionalists and more forward-thinking half-Elf groups were already clashing about purpose.

Yet that name.

“Sprigaena.”

He said it and felt a chill running down his arms as he carried a load of stones over to begin the foundation work. Half-Elves were making a sturdy cement mixture, but a number of the older ones had abandoned their jobs. Not, this time, to protest someone cutting down a tree or harvesting the wild ocean pigs, but to speak.

“Who is Sprigaena? How does a Human claim…”

“Skystrall. Falene Skystrall made the inquiry, and she is of sound character. Who…I feel as though I know the name. I almost certainly do. But if it is who I think it is—nothing else makes sense. A ‘traitor’? Ridiculous. Queen Sprithae ruled across Terandria, the last Elf—we have that on the records. She wed one of the Humans—the Kingdom of Myth, Erribathe, claims to be a direct descendant from her, but we know that is almost certainly a lie…”

A number of the Treespeakers and their associates were in communication with home, no doubt wishing they had their private records and libraries to search through. Half-Elves were doubtless scrubbing through their records at home.

Zedalien cleared his throat to remind them to get back to work, and the half-Elves reluctantly broke up, but he heard that name again and again. Murmured, as if trying to remember…

Something.

Was it a distraction? Was this a pointless waste of time when the new lands awaited? Zedalien wavered between thoughts. After all…Maviola El’s name could be called mere history. The past influenced the present.

The ghosts of great Gnolls had raised these new lands. So—once again—the oldest names began to echo. The dead’s legacy gained weight and a presence in the world.

This was right and proper. For, as one nation knew above all others—the dead mattered. And that nation now occupied Zedalien’s thoughts. It preyed on the minds of rulers far and wide when they considered great powers and names to note. Tread careful, for this was no sleeping Giant, and they were old and knew more names of the deceased than most. What might they do? That kingdom of death and—

Well, it had been one of ghosts.

Now it stood lonely, but it grew in the thoughts of all others with every passing day.

Khelt. Glorious Khelt, Eternal Khelt. Its ruler, Fetohep, heard the name of the last Elf coming from the inn at the end of another long day.

 

——

 

Predictably, the sun set faster upon the eve of winter. It dipped below the horizon not long after most had dined, and in this city, the open shutters let the scents of the day’s fancy waft upon the breeze.

It smelled, then, of dates, sweet and newly-dried, mixed in with a bounty of white rice, changed in color by the host of spices mixed into them. That was the food of the city—there were ten thousand [Chefs] and [Cooks], or those with the passion, if not the class, but any so desiring could approach the great kitchens and receive this dish in plates and bowls without limit.

The portions would be carelessly piled over the worked gold, or bowls sometimes lined with jade or other semi-precious stones, and silverware or hand-carved objects of beautiful soft pewter or hardwoods—some actual ironwood from eras long past—were handed over.

Most so hungry ate without noticing the decor, for it was part and parcel to everything they saw, and only new visitors or immigrants to this land paused and handled the cutlery with the reverence they might accord it in another nation. But—then—if they stopped at the very dishes they ate upon, they would never stop staring.

For this was Khelt, and riches never ended. Food for any visitor was provided such that no one would die of hunger or thirst. Their cities had no true crime—any petty thefts or misdemeanors were dealt with. Murders, mugging, assault of any kind nearly unheard of over the course of decades. One had to but simply raise their voice and call out, and be safe from harm no matter where they were. This was paradise, and the capital city was a representation of that idea.

For instance, each street that led to Khelt’s palace was safe to walk but one. The great main walk of which a hundred thousand citizens might pass every single day stretched out without compromise, an arrow within the capital of Koirezune, creeping up to the two thousand stairs upon the palace’s front.

Each step glowed to eyes of magic with a warning etched tiny upon black marble, death and magic contained in miniature and linked, like an ever-expanding [Fisher]’s net in a sea  black as obsidian, the dark marble quarried from Chandrar’s lightless ore-mines of Zethe. The mines had long-since closed now, buried for fifteen hundred years, deep, with Orebu-Beetles nesting by the thousands in the forsaken tunnels.

The beetles were midnight-hewn and huge enough to drag horses to their graves, and countless [Miners] had died to quarry the stones that had once adorned every monarch’s palaces. The precious marble looked like nothing but waves of midnight, even under the sun, until the magic flared—and the spells of protection and wrath glittered like the watchful eyes of the palace upon the city below, one facade among a hundred that the palace presented to the city and its world.

Past those stairs of Chameth marble lay a jade arch worked into the hallway. No pest nor animal nor even cat dared enter lightly despite the open visage, inviting all to seemingly stroll in. Each part of the carved jade and stone bore a different language of magic, written by Drath’s great [Mages] and shipped twice across a sea filled with storms during the age of Serept.

The first of the jade archways had fallen to storms and been lost to the deeps, then recovered and placed in Nombernaught, crusted still with barnacles and coral. The second now sat here.

Through this most-used corridor lay the palace of Khelt, and this was the walk which had seen [Kings], adventurers, and commonfolk of Khelt, children tripping inwards and monarchs treading lightly surrounded by bodyguards, gazing upwards with their mortal attempts at pride.

The least-used walk twined humbly around the palace’s side-entrances, marked with redwood soaked as if wet, gleaming upwards until wavy ivy overtook floor, always twisting up over walls until they met and descended the tunnel. The vines grew constantly and—if forgotten—they covered the tunnel until they were cleared by enchanted blades.

Even then, they were beautiful acts of nature. Walls of ivy precious enough to gift or sell to those who desired the thickened fiber, sometimes pearlescent, sometimes mottled and studded with dots of color like yellow plague upon green.

The vines were never sick, the walkway out of this entrance blooming in spring and hanging regal in winter like a cloak of nature. From this tunnel, you could walk out the palace and onto the street least-used.

The garden itself was placed along the street, a stone plain upon which strange sculptures dotted the landscape. A misshapen Garuda’s beak hung, ill-shaped compared to another statue, the bird woman upon one of Khelt’s larger parks, a Named-rank Hero, Voielth Hoeneifeathers. His red-gold plumage fogged with umber brown still gleamed eight thousand years later like the feathers might blow at any second in the passing breeze. He carried the stavesword with which he had cut down the last Golem-Dragon in the age of His-Xe.

This Garuda was made of commoner granite and lesser skill, and joined nigh a hundred sculptures placed with the meanest skill. The artwork here had been made with sometimes gifted grace but never surpassing, never exceeding the meanest work elsewhere upon the city. The masterpieces littering the walks and placed at every angle without end were all superior to the pieces here. This street’s paving stones were likewise the worst in the city by far, though swept nightly by undead servants, seldom trod by the living.

Sun-worn bricks, mud-made and each hewn by fingers as tiny as the meekest dirt worms, unskilledly made against inquisitorial sun and burning air, sometimes laced with actual flame. Each brick in its form, shaped by generations of children’s hands, was never meant for actual feet to cross.

Little tyrants had molded that clay with no care to foot nor accessibility nor even basic geometry, the constraints of reality and their strainings at images only seen within their minds. They sat, half-formed and half-thought, joined as best as could be by mortar which sometimes filled the gaps like eddies of concrete in a sea of childish dreams, the creators of which are long dead and whose bones lie buried, aged, beneath this land.

Few walk here. More twisted ankles and broken legs have come from this street than any other. It is not beautiful compared to any other street, even the ones that neighbor it. Those have been made both for beauty’s sake, by masters, and to be lived in. The childish brickwork ends abruptly, and true craft begins, as if setting an example, here. The first feet past this treacherous street glow with glass and the magic of Thurthdei’s Street.

Blown glass placed over burnished coals that burn with subdued impotent heat against the night’s chill. The captive embers stared up from beetle shells of glass—paving stones rounded and joined together to form a comfortable, even surface such that one need not watch how they walked.

Aglow, the street warms the walls of Thurthdei’s Street, the homes of which rise in mimicry of the street—frosted glass it seems, each one painted in such gaudy and vivid dyes that they form walls of soft color. Newcomers often stare upon their first visit for hours on end, mesmerized like the moths and other lesser insects drawn into the hanging light-traps, and the rats and larger pests into similar humane cages which are emptied each morning into the desert.

Yet the houses are not glass like the street below but frosted ice, each one painted and held solid by magic written across the layers of walls, each one placed inwards such that two walls formed a whole that revealed not the inner lining. The words still scribbled themselves across the houses’ walls, a layer of enchantments, magical writing keeping ice from melting and the houses contained, words filling the houses unseen even if the owners themselves never read a word nor kept a single page within.

These words often affected the minds of those within so they dreamed of stories, and a hundred [Writers] had been born here, their stories sometimes written as if to drown out the words filling the houses. Thus—this street was often uncrowded and the houses lay abandoned for decades despite their proximity to the city’s center. Credit was awarded by the local magistrates for occupancy, and each week, the denizens would be checked upon and resettled if needed.

The proximity to the inner city and the street of children’s bricks was another hindrance to health and feet, and the street of ill-made bricks stretched out, a kind of treacherous garden where only a single path of sanely-made stones led a traveller through that garden of statues and a million child’s creations bearing their names.

Each one enchanted. Each one surviving time despite their owner’s best attempts to affront nature and the integrity of the fired bricks. Khelt’s children of the first ten generations under Khelta had made each clay brick.

She and her [Mages] had enchanted each one such that this street would never be torn up and the art remade, never be removed and the houses made by great [Elementalists], and the streets adjacent would be destroyed and the resources reused before the first mud-brick ever torn.

The children had made the street. The hands of Khelt’s rulers the statues. King Dolenm’s rougher hand had created the Garuda hidden away like a shame until his successors uncovered and displayed it with a pride never exhibited by the rulers—like every single creation here placed in pride in the most uncomfortable street to tread.

All of this was perfect. Perfect—and perfectly ignored by Khelt’s populace. Only occasionally would you get a [Poet] or the most bored citizen idly peering down at the stones or admiring the statues. There wasn’t much inspiration to be had here either, in truth. Not compared to the looming Jaw of Zeikhal standing watch at the borders of Khelt, for instance, or one of Khelt’s many oases in the desert, from which gleaming stones bled drops of water, life out of sandy oblivion.

Yet there was something to see here. And that something was the oddest thing yet, especially in Khelt. It was…

Bugs. Bugs and an interloper to this safe city.

A trail of beetle’s wings led a little sand-rat from outside the walls to nests of the insects placed in alcoves of buildings, lees of gutters and out across the city until they stopped upon the bronzed sands which led across Khelt. Dry and waterless until they reached a lake ever-filled from aquifers that drained water into dusty air without end.

They were notable in the city because their existence was not tolerated. Elsewhere in Khelt, the local fauna had some leeway. Even bugs.

Around the lake, for instance, flowering bushes and plants attracted all kinds of wildlife. They had been planted from seeds seven continents called native, feeding local animals, pests, and insects who flocked and fought for the bounties, unless citizens came, wherein they fled or begged for scraps depending upon their loveliness.

Beetles were not beloved now as they had been during Queen Emrist’s age, where swarms of hives—not bees—were kept. Far less lovely creatures like centipede swarms, or beetles and their ilk, had grown up around the city. Their buzzing—reportedly—filled night and dawn with a thrum that got into the head and soul more than the words of the ice-houses.

That was another ruler. And while she might have tolerated these beetles, they were an aberration to the heart of Khelt, one that would have actually attracted a crowd of fascinated citizens just to point out the oddity. Beetles, pests? How delightfully strange!

These small beetles with their sand-beige shells and orange underbellies fed upon scraps of food carelessly left-out by citizens. The beetles had no competition. The city was scoured of even flies by the enchantments. But these beetles cared neither for light nor the particular magical allure and had grown until the rat had tracked them down and devoured them without end.

Imagine it. This burgeoning swarm of the little beetles bested by a predator a hundred times their size. Casually chewing them down, helplessly, nest upon nest. The rat had gorged upon this bounty, leading it to its final place upon this ill-used street where it lay bloated and so corpulent it could not move to flee.

This rat was no pet with intelligence or foresight. It hadn’t understood how dangerous this city was for its kind. Nor did it understand how rare a sight it was that a rat not made a pet should be here in this city so incautious to pests. The sand-rat did not see what had trained generations of its predecessors away—bone-hands and nets and fists, which would hunt the streets and stamp each pest out, from the meanest beetle and numerous rat-swarms, until even mites were hunted down by glowing-eyed corpses worn to only sand-bleached bone without time or rest.

Ten thousand skeletons swept these streets each night from dusk till dawn. Yet somehow, incredibly, they had missed both beetles and this rat.

The humble sand-rat lay there, burping out beetle-viscera onto the children’s bricks. It truly was a fool of fools, an insult even to the rodential kind from which it had been spawned and meaner still in nature and majesty. Even the most pathetic vermin clinging to the sides of ships had more wherewithal and dignity than this craven rodent.

As proof—the sand-rat was oblivious to the true danger of this street. Occasionally, it would look around as one of the citizens of Khelt moved in the distance and peek its head up warily. It feared the living and not the dead.

In Khelt, that was the most idiotic of perspectives to have. The rat eyed the breathing people and never noticed the sandals, which held mummified feet that still flexed and moved.

Then again—[Assassins] had often missed the figure who paused to observe the rat outside of the palace. Even when the feet moved—the body was silent, and the whispering wind was far louder.

Each footstep was traced with purpose honed on a battlefield such that a blow from falling blade might fall next without hesitation or remorse—but the silence thereof was also born of cloth of birchsand color racing like the sandstorms banned from Khelt’s borders.

Each line of the long-sleeved tunic and pants was never-stitched, but the entire piece woven of Kolsand cloth tailored to the form who bore them, such that neither foot nor action would produce any sound louder than that of the natural world unless the bearer so intended.

A gift from the Shield Kingdom of Qualvekkaras. Expensive beyond belief in this modern age when it had been made, six hundred years ago. Yet the rulers of the Kingdom of Winds had considered it worth the expense that had taken ten decades of preparation to harvest enough Kolsand.

It had been, of course, repaid over a dozen times in Khelt’s own generosity, proving the foresight of that particular ruler.

Nor did the figure who wore this cloth gifted to him wear blade or badge of office, not in his city. His eyes were proof enough.

Two flames like the spark of an army’s torches in a midnight cavern, like defiance glowing upon a golden Dragon’s scales, burned amongst withered flesh. In eye-sockets hollowed by time. Water and wear had devoured almost every feature of the man who had been.

Nevertheless—he was Fetohep of Khelt, and he stared upon the sand-rat lying in this street as evening fell over his city, in Khelt, the great paradise of Chandrar. Fetohep, nineteenth ruler of Khelt, gazed upon the trail of beetle wings and a single survivor of the rat’s purge of the streets.

“A rat.”

That was the first thing he said after about thirty-three minutes of standing there in silence. Yes, so silently had he been standing there that the rat had never noticed him.

Nor did he employ the high-language, often florid words of his station. He could, of course, use the royal ‘we’ and speak in gracious refrain with any ruler in the world.

Even in Drathian, he had once been given a standing ovation by the Emperor of Drath’s court for a nine-minute speech welcoming them to his kingdom. But you must remember—this was Fetohep of Khelt.

Not…Fetohep the man. Death had changed Fetohep, and still, he quite remembered that, as a man, he had been less—eloquent. The heat of battle had often led him to a rougher sort of diction, and his manners now were learned, practiced, refined because of necessity.

Like all the rulers of Khelt, he had time to practice. Six hundred years made a fine speaker out of even the meanest discourse. So, his casual tone and language were meant just for him.

And the rat. Fetohep saw its head whirl around and two beady eyes bulge as they saw an undead monster staring him down with burning eyes of gold.

He watched the rat soil itself then try to drag its corpulent belly across the street laid by the founders of Khelt. Khelta herself might have enchanted those bricks.

Fetohep took appropriate action. He strode forwards without bothering to twist a ring on his fingers. He could have called for a scroll from his armory or his guards or retrieved Razzimir’s Arrows and blasted a hole through a thousand rats. He could have called the Jaw of Zeikhal to lay waste to the warren of rat-kind in unceasing war.

Fetohep bent down, scooped the rat up, and held it as it continued to excrete and squeak. He held it—then turned.

He stood in the center of his city. Khelt’s capital of Koirezune was not the most sprawling of cities, but he was probably several miles inside the city’s heart.

So Fetohep aimed up, then threw the rat. It went screaming through the air, a comet, and Fetohep wondered if it would survive.

Small creatures often did. He had once seen a Fraerling attack his company by anchoring himself to an arrow a [Bowman] shot across the battlefield. It had nearly killed the Fraerling from the sheer velocity—but the Fraerling had then wiped out an entire archery battalion before vanishing.

The life of the rat did not trouble Fetohep unduly. He was more outraged about the detritus on the street. In fact, Fetohep’s next action was to bend over and, with his fingers, remove the wings and excrement as best he could. It was mostly dry, and he carried it away.

“Rats. And beetles. Servant.

Fetohep’s eyes glowed as he entered his palace. His voice rose, and one of Khelt’s daily servants, citizens honored to be chosen for a day of work, appeared.

“Your Majesty?”

“There is detritus on the Street of Foundation. Clean it. Summon an expert in pest management. [Mage] or other class. Have them eliminate any rats or beetles. There is a…pest issue.”

The man instantly bowed. He practically sprang away with delight, Fetohep thought, at being able to do something so useful. Fetohep tossed the waste he had picked up onto the floor as he strode into his place.

Not maliciously; the other servants barely glanced at it as they shadowed their ruler. Fetohep knew every part of his palace, and the jade walks that encompassed most of the entrances to the palace…

The beetle wings and rat crap slowly began to vaporize in the bright, bright room that let the purifying magic cleanse it of toxins, dirt, and even disease. Not actual infection, but Fetohep had actually used these rooms to help contain the Yellow Rivers disease when it appeared on his borders. The family he had admitted in had been forced to camp in the hallway, and no more infections had spread.

At any point, a reasonable observer of Fetohep might well have concluded that the King of Khelt was a stickler for minor details. That he was no stranger to getting his hands dirty—and valued the legacy of his kingdom. Also, that he did not have much empathy for rodents.

All this was true. If anything—this was an understatement.

Consider Fetohep of Khelt as the rest of the world knew him. There were two faces. The first was the Fetohep that had been known—to mostly Chandrarian kingdoms and places that were just aware of the rest of the world.

He had been Fetohep, the ruler of isolationist Khelt, a rich paradise that suffered neither war nor much in the way of contact with anyone else. Rich, powerful, haughty—and completely content to let the world pass by.

Not a threat, in short, unless you were to attack him, whereupon so many undead would rise that even the King of Destruction had never gone to war with Khelt. Leave him alone and all would be well. You could sell water or goods to Khelt at great profits and…that was about it.

Fetohep of that time period—around six hundred years—had been a known quantity. Not a good one, either. He was fiercely protective of his people, and it meant he put them over others. Refugees seeking Khelt’s borders were not allowed in on pain of death. Trade was limited. Travel was forbidden to all but trusted [Merchants], and to leave Khelt was to be excommunicated forever.

Of course, that wasn’t always the case. Fetohep cared for his people, so, for instance, when the Yellow Rivers plague had swept across many cities, one family had begged to be returned to Khelt. He had allowed it and even bought a cure for them at great cost, because Khelt’s children were to be praised and cared for, even the ones who made mistakes and strayed from home.

Now, the less-happy part of that tale was that in order to gain the rare and vital cure…Fetohep had paid [Pirates] to raid ships sending the cure out. He had effectively stolen enough medication for tens of thousands to cure one family and held the rest in his vaults in case the disease spread.

He had done this without hesitation, because he was King of Khelt and Khelt must endure. That was how he had operated, and he had been a known quantity, if rarely talked about.

Now—consider the Fetohep that the rest of the world now knew. And the world did know his name. He was arguably one of the most famous monarchs to exist—perhaps more than even the Blighted King or many rulers of Terandria, Fetohep’s visage and deeds had been made known to the world in no uncertain terms.

The Fetohep of the modern day was no isolationist snob. He had marched upon Medain with an army so vast it had set the nations of Chandrar trembling. He had mocked Terandria’s [Knights], Medain’s ruler, and the power of the Claiven Earth, all great powers, and demonstrated Khelt’s war weapons and powers of old.

He had unleashed the Revenants of Khelt, all of them, and the Vizir Hecrelunn, the Half-Giants of Serept, and his will had humbled his foes.

Then he had threatened the Walled Cities of Izril as they advanced upon the Gnolls with fury and the wrath of Khelt if they did not relent. When they, predictably, ignored him, he had marched on Medain, seized a navy, and sailed upon Zeres.

After leaving a gigantic halberd made of gems embedded in their walls, Fetohep had made landfall with the King of Destruction, the King and Queen of Jecrass, the Hero of Zethe, and other famous individuals and attacked every army in sight. He had ported thousands of undead across the sea and then, only after attacking the Walled Cities’ forces, declared victory and a return home.

Oh, and he’d warned the world of a Seamwalker invasion, insulted Wistram in no uncertain terms, and rung the Dragonward bells. And annexed a third of Jecrass.

It was safe to say that Fetohep had demonstrated that Khelt was no nation of sanctimonious utopia-dwellers, and that he was an undead monarch with wisdom, strategic acumen, and enough firepower to drown half the nations around him in slag and ash—if he wanted to. And he was now active, and so it behooved anyone to walk wide of him.

Even the Walled Cities. In fact, of the accomplishments Fetohep had achieved while making war on the Walled Cities, he had actually obtained two vassal nations. The Claiven Earth and Medain had surrendered—unconditionally—and several cities had declared loyalty to Khelt.

Right now it was safe to say that, if he wanted to, Fetohep could have started an empire of his own; he practically owned the north of this region of Chandrar. Jecrass was in his debt, he owned a third of it, and two nations were so badly beaten in war they had pledged their surrender. He was a popular icon as well for being on the right side of a number of issues, at least as most of the world saw it.

Thus.

Fetohep of Khelt.

 

——

 

It turned out that undead could get headaches. It wasn’t quite the same—there were no pain receptors for Fetohep. Only magic could really harm an undead in that way.

The headache was more like a pressing annoyance, and because he wasn’t actually physically processing emotions in a chemical sense, it could build without limit. Mortals tended to have a kind of threshold for this kind of thing. At some point, their noses would bleed, they’d faint, or have a heart-attack.

He did not. Nor was he that weak. Yet, Fetohep had once been tortured by enemy soldiers after being captured in battle. He considered that agony somewhat equivalent to reading a letter from King Perric of Medain.

 

To His Exalted Majesty of Khelt,

Protector of Jecrass,

Conqueror of Medain and the Claiven Earth,

Heir to the Dragonward Bells,

Nemesis of the Walled Cities,

Savior of the Gnollish Tribes,

Esteemed Friend,

Sovereign of the Will of Khelta and Great Ruler of the Nations of Chandrar,

Horselord of the Windswept Lands…

 

There was such a thing as too many titles. Some of them were made up—some were actually able to be reasonably accorded to Fetohep. For instance, ‘Nemesis of the Walled Cities’ was pure fluff. But Perric was being interestingly cunning…or at least something like it with the last one.

‘Horselord’ was a Centaur-themed title. The Windswept Lands was how you’d refer to Chandrar. So Perric was implying that because the Nomads of Zair had pledged allegiance to him, Fetohep was a Centaur power.

The duality of Perric was this. Either he was clever enough to actually imply Fetohep’s authority had dominance over other species in a bid to Fetohep’s ego—

Or he’d told his [Historians] and other [Scribes] to just come up with as many applicable titles as possible in his letter and this was the result.

It was possibly both. Fetohep detested the ‘High King’ of the coastal kingdom of Medain, but he was not contemptuous of the man’s abilities. Not completely. You did not keep power that long without some insight.

“A King of Rats is still a king. In theory.”

Fetohep unfolded another page of the lengthy letter to get to the content, ignoring the titles. Then he folded the page. Then he unfolded another page.

Ah. Here we were. Fetohep sighed louder.

“Your statues have been greeted with multiple-day celebrations…in your honor, if you could care to dictate any holidays or…christening a warship…children named after Khelt’s rulers?”

Then the undead king stopped. He normally ignored the High King, but that last part offended him. All of these bountiful praises were being orchestrated by Perric, he knew. But that last one—

“Pen a missive to High King Perric at once. He is not to name children after Khelta. Nor any of my predecessors. Certainly not as part of some vanity.”

Fetohep tossed the scroll aside and snapped. A nervous [Scribe] bent over and instantly began writing as one of the [Mages] assigned to the palace—also very nervous—began casting an immediate [Message] spell to Medain.

“Yes, Your Majesty. If we delay, we apologize for…”

“Peace.”

Fetohep calmed himself. He forgot, sometimes, that his people were not used to his displeasure. He had been—annoyed—at his Mage’s Guild in the past, and those present were serving him as best they could.

“My displeasure is only upon the High King of Median. You are my citizens. Have peace and work at your pace.”

Relieved, the staff in his throne room bowed with huge smiles. Fetohep stared at the [Mage] with bright green hair.

“You…are Mage Efieth today, are you not? We spoke when you worked first two days ago. Have you rested or dined? And you, Scribe Joehns?”

The two looked astonished that he remembered. They bowed.

“Yes, Your Majesty! We are ready to work the rest of the night.”

“I shall not keep you that long. Your replacements will arrive in two hours. Yet your service is noted.”

They bowed, murmuring thanks, but Fetohep noted—a moment of discontent. Not anger, nor sadness, but the purity of the emotion. Efieth tried to hide it, but Fetohep had seen countless faces. His did not move, but his voice echoed.

“Speak, Efieth. Are you displeased by the service or something else?”

“Absolutely not, Your Majesty! But we could work for you more than three hours! Please, make use of it, especially for matters of state! W-with respect, Your Majesty.”

The young woman—well, she was forty—protested. They were all so young, and Fetohep suspected he had managed to get a level of relaxation out of his servants attending him that they were able to say this.

He sat upon the throne that had held thirteen rulers of Khelt before him and rested his chin upon two fingers, just so. Like diction, he had practiced posture.

Now, why would she object to this system? He had so carefully made sure he would not overwork his servants—and the fact that he needed mortal aides was purely due to how many people desired his attention. Even great relics like the floating Orb of the Diviner had limits to, say, writing out formal address.

Ah. Of course. Fetohep thought but a moment. He had seen this before. She wanted to work harder in service of something she loved. Had he not done the same thing, resented being called back when he had more to give?

“Ah. I see. Your words do not offend me, Mage Efieth. Are you of the same will, Scribe Joehns?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Fetohep lifted a hand.

“Love of your kingdom is a great thing upon you two. If you and others wish it—I may ask more of you. Your experience as you work with me will bear fruit—and I shall reward and acknowledge it.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

That smile told him he had probably done the right thing. You could be made to feel unneeded, a cog within a Golem’s unthinking, unfeeling body even if the system was designed not to burden others.

They must be allowed to push themselves. To strain and strive and try.

That was the lesson he had learned from King Izimire of Khelt. There had been times when Khelt’s protection and fulfilling of their citizen’s needs had turned into more than coddling, and provoked hedonism and a wasting of the spirit. It was very tough to find a balance, after all.

Some nations, some peoples, let people live freely, make their mistakes, and only dealt with great issues like war or famine. Magnolia Reinhart was one such deterministic approach—and he respected the fact that even her coffers were not nearly deep enough to create utopia over large scale like Khelt.

But, having the means, Khelt erred upon fulfilment for its people. Still—Fetohep did sometimes inspire his citizens to competition or rouse their spirits. He had imported games and art and the like to keep them from wasting.

These days, it felt like his citizens were more active than ever. They had seen his battle abroad, and the scrying orbs revealed a world that tantalized them. Many, Fetohep knew, were thinking of leaving the borders, but he had encouraged them to stay and hone their abilities first, promising them that they might go to Jecrass’ new colony first, to test themselves.

I shall need them. I shall need them more than ever, and these gentle pushes shall become a fearsome tug of currents upon a merciless sea. I…shall be known as that by my successors. A king harsher by need than even Khelta.

That thought struck Fetohep as he saw his two servants smiling and getting to work. It filled him with a moroseness he had scarcely encountered before. A dark gloom.

A worry.

Yet he did not show it. Fetohep merely continued sorting through his correspondence.

“Your Majesty. High King Perric apologizes…profusely—for the misunderstanding and error among his people. He wishes to assure you that the issue of naming was in error, and they were tributes to your predecessors, not children named after Khelta…”

“Yes, I have no doubt. Reassure him.”

Fetohep lifted a hand. He began writing on a [Message] scroll, then decided it was better done in person.

“Queen Bennis of Zethe.”

He spoke and waited as a spell was sent requesting communication. One of his many scrying orbs lifted, and Fetohep faced it fully, sitting tall. He only noticed—out of the corner of his vision—one of the arena matches in Nerrhavia’s Fallen concluding.

Ah, the [Gladiator] won. That was six thousand gold coins up.

He should…stop betting on those events. The Pomle matches had halted due to the war, but Nerrhavia and a few other arenas were always open.

Or should he continue if it made a profit? Fetohep knew the extent of most of his coffers. But now he wondered…he had never had to count coins before. Only how much of a yearly profit Khelt was drawing in.

The scrying orb’s connection cleared, and the Queen of Zethe appeared. The formalities took a bit—she was surprised by the King of Khelt’s greeting appropriate to Zethe’s culture. He, for his turn, noted that she referenced Queen Xierca in her address to him.

Zethe was another nation that Flos of Reim would run into should he continue expanding. Not one openly hostile to him for his previous reign or his current rise.

They had other issues. Zethe hadn’t even gone to war with Flos after the one battle in which their greatest champion had quit the field.

However, they had enough power, as a nation who had lived through calamity did. Yet it seemed Zethe’s ancient Golems and their famous spell-artillery might not need to stem Flos of Reim’s mad rampage.

If anything…the Queen of Zethe might well believe that it was Khelt she needed to fear and a Necrocracy of New Khelt.

Fetohep did his utmost to assure her this was not the case. He watched her face carefully, and the Stitch-woman’s painted expressions looked relieved, as he could see behind her facade.

“…it is our intention that Medain and the Claiven Earth not become subsidiaries of Khelt. They shall return to autonomous nations as soon as we have such assurances they shall not trouble Khelt again.”

“Your benevolence we note, King Fetohep. Your words—the integrity of such, unquestionable.”

“Please reassure any who doubt Khelt’s intentions of our neutrality. The city-states who have pledged to Khelt I have returned to their owners. It is a passing craze to seek out authority. Khelt shall not rule nations. Jecrass’ lands are but the one exception. Even Khelt thirsts for endless bounties of water.”

He hoped he was not being unsubtle in hinting that he had purely taken Jecrass’ side in the war out of greed for water. Queen Bennis clearly picked up on it, and she exhaled some colorful smoke—which was not rude in Zethe’s culture.

“We hesitated to bring up such matters indecorously ere we took our deathless cousin’s time.”

“Not at all.”

Zethe had an odd pattern of speech. The Queen was leaning into it, and she took another draft from the long, long pipe before she spoke. Wisps of black smog trailed from her lips.

“Doubte. Do you know where he resides?”

Fetohep had been prepared for this. His only response was for his flaming eyes to brighten slightly—and no matter how hard the Queen and her court tried, there was no breaking through his gambling face. Not a muscle moved as Fetohep replied in the exact same tone of voice.

“The Hero of Zethe’s matters are his own, Queen Bennis. I would not wish to supercede his will had I any inkling to the contrary.”

“Ah. Did he indicate—? No. We heard your answer and accede. Your time, Fetohep of Khelt, we trust was well spent. Per Zethe, onwards to Khelt.”

He inclined his head. Privately, as the connection broke up, Fetohep felt for Zethe.

The Hero of Zethe, Doubte, had come when his nation was in a pure crisis. Neighboring kingdoms declaring war, monster swarms, and a creeping, insidious wave of monsters heralded by the aforementioned Orebu-Beetles from Zethe had spelled doom for the kingdom.

Two monarchs killed in rapid succession—and the land cried out as it seemed it would be torn to pieces by the unrest. Then had come Doubte.

He had plunged into the mines, slain the Orebu’s Queen, won three wars, and put Zethe back on the map as a regional power. With him, a [Hero], Zethe might have become the superpower of Chandrar instead of Reim.

But he had lost his affection for his role and quit his duties, going into hiding. Now, Zethe was still riding on his achievements…but Bennis was a young queen.

Fetohep could practically see one of her [Counselors] holding up the talking points and rehearsed scroll reflected off her decorative face-paint. He wondered if she were in fear for her position—or life.

Yisame was another kind of ruler like that. Although she, at least, had survived the courts of Nerrhavia’s Fallen well enough by remaining aloof. When Fetohep looked at the many world leaders—he saw flaws.

Even in rulers considered canny, like Reclis du Marquin, or powerful figures like Archmage Feor, Tyrion Veltras—they had weaknesses. They might be fine warriors or [Mages] or leaders, but they were not strong rulers, necessarily.

And how would they be? Many were born into their roles like the King of Avel. They might have tutors, but the weight of a crown was difficult, your mistakes were amplified and your judgment clouded by your advisors, well-intentioned though they might be.

Few had Fetohep’s experience. And even he…

Even he had problems.

 

——

 

The King of Khelt spent another two hours on the affairs of state that night. If High King Perric was too noisome in showing his loyalty to the conquering king—for all Fetohep had promised to release him from the surrender with little done—

The Claiven Earth were quiet. Fetohep had not missed how many had left for the new lands, but he had not stopped them.

He was truthful when he claimed he did not want to rule. It was just—

Flos of Reim. Now there was a poor king. A pure warmonger who propelled his nation forwards upon the slicked blood of his foes. His nation was beginning to restore itself as it threw its attention south towards Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Like a predator, it would grow as it ate.

If Flos could have regained his splendor without needing to loot it, Fetohep would have applauded him. That man had no dignity—or if he did, it was all innate, the dignity of a warlord, not a king who ruled himself as well as others.

The Quarass was young; Hellios had been poorly ruled by Calliope, and worse so by her husband dreaming of glory. Fetohep had little expectations of Calliope’s son if he ever took the throne. Belchan? Belchan had fallen due to one man’s idiocy and arrogance playing politics.

Politics before people. Jecrass…Jecrass’ king, Raelt, had been a lion in disguise. But his people had needed a king.

Jecaina was more promising than Raelt. But would she rule now that her father was returned?

Fetohep rose as his two servants changed positions with their replacements. He left them to manage any incoming messages for him and walked the palace. He shouldn’t criticize other nations. It was too easy to do so and not remember they did not take the throne with a fortune of hoarded gold, artifacts, and armies of the dead.

A month had been enough to restore a modicum of order in Khelt after all this upheaval. Fetohep had needed to count expenditures, assure the other nations he was not coming after them, and crucially, settle the three tribes of Gnolls he had admitted into his lands.

And grieve the fallen.

He had done this mostly by being silent, by speaking but not acting. His actions informed Khelt, and they had returned to their utopian dream, watching the world rather than clamoring, and the other rulers had grown less wary of his forces now that they had vanished behind his borders.

In fact, the only monument to his army’s might was the Jaw of Zeikhal, one of which stood sentinel on the border of Khelt. The others were, respectively, either destroyed or stationary elsewhere.

One Jaw was at the Claiven Earth, another at Medain, and two more at Jecrass, parked upon their borders. That was all of the mightiest undead Fetohep had left at his command.

Two Jaws of Zeikhal and the Ash-Giant, Zirconia, had fallen at A’ctelios Salash. Emrist’s Scourgeriders…gone.

A number of Serept’s half-Giants also had died, and of the Revenants remaining, only Sand at Sea, the great warship and its crew, remained under Fetohep’s command.

The mightiest of warriors, His-Xe’s champion, Salui, was dead. Zeres had ended his life as he gave way to grief and rage.

Vizir Hecrelunn had vanished. So had Serept’s half-Giants. Fetohep had feared what Hecrelunn might do, but he had not heard…anything. Not yet.

More problems. And his responsibility. Yet—Fetohep had one great issue on his mind, so he summoned two people to him in the dead of night.

“Bring two, ere dawn rises. I require…Potter Pewerthe. And Farmer Colovt.”

 

——

 

Dawn in Koirezune was delightful to the citizenry. Not just because Khelt wanted for nothing and the city had new sights and entertainments.

But because of the guests.

Well, some were not guests. Some were new citizens like the Gnolls—and they had been at the center of so much!

Obviously it was a tragedy, but the Gnollish tribes were so fascinating, with their odd customs and their tales of lands far less safe than Khelt. Some found so many newcomers to Khelt upsetting, but King Fetohep had ensured the Gnolls had a place.

He had called upon his vaults and given the Chieftains of the Satest Fletching, Decles, and Gembow tribe homes wherever they chose to settle. His first gifts were the gems that pulled water from the air—when they decided upon a spot, they would have an oasis or well such that they would not want for water.

In the interim, their people were being hosted at every town and city, and new buildings had gone up to accommodate them. Naturally, the Gnolls had yurts and such of their own, but Fetohep had still needed to take a long time ensuring they were ready to be citizens of Khelt.

Namely—[Healers] to check for parasites and disease. Potions to tend any wounds, [Thought Healers] for those who had seen so much, and making sure the Gnolls wanted to stay—and that conflict would not resume.

After all. If you remembered the Meeting of Tribes, you might realize that the Decles tribe had fought for the Plain’s Eye tribe. By contrast, Gembow who had fought with the Goblin tribe, had been on the same side as Satest Fletching, led by Chieftain Zicrone, who sided with the Doombearers.

To say there was animosity…was an understatement. In fact, a number of the Decles Tribe also included white-furred Gnolls.

Plain’s Eye. Fetohep had told the survivors of Decles they would be protected and even prevailed on Herdmistress Geraeri to use her Centaurs as intermediaries between the other two tribes.

“Enough Gnolls have died. No more. If there are sins to amend and debts to pay, let it be in deed and time, not blood. I trust the [Shamans] and [Chieftains] of the tribes are wise enough to know how it may be done without more ichor. Not on Khelt’s sands.”

That was Fetohep’s speech to the Chieftains, and so the Gnolls stayed.

There were other guests too. Pewerthe woke up to hear her roommate exclaiming.

“Pewerthe, Pewerthe. Are you going to be here tonight? I have a date with Alked Fellbow’s cousin, and if you are…”

“Isn’t that the fourth date he’s had this week?”

Pewerthe grumpily sat up and yawned. She had elected to have a roommate despite the plentiful housing; their apartment was large enough with even two. But her roommate, a [Painter] named Coyue, just danced around.

“Yes—and he’s far easier to go out with than Alked himself! No one has managed that.

Khelt was an odd place to outsiders. Things like going out with the cousin of the famous Named-rank adventurer who had ridden with Fetohep to Izril was a kind of social standing. Speaking to the King, winning his favor, all mattered more than gold. Same with making something people wanted.

In a city where you could get whatever you wanted, reputation mattered. Coyue had been angling for this all day, and she was certainly pretty enough to make even Fellbow look twice. Especially since she was a Stitch-girl made of silk herself.

Pewerthe was Human. And she was hardly so fine, if only because her flesh was mortal—and she had scars, like the one visible down the back of her neck and on her arm that no potting wheel would have made.

It made her stand out—though most were simply intrigued, for scars, like everything else, were somewhat exciting. Ironically, Pewerthe’s little shop where she taught pottery to people, and made her own vases and pieces that were sometimes used, attracted little acclaim.

She was one of many citizens of Khelt, and if she had a standing, it was average. The irony of course being that if people knew she was Fetohep’s heir apparent, the mortal chosen to stand in for the King should he perish or his time be up—

Well, sometimes Coyue gave Pewerthe strange looks, and she’d asked all the questions under the sun after Fetohep had ordered Pewerthe to go to the palace when he rode for Izril. But Pewerthe had merely claimed she was entrusted to ring the Dragonward Bell.

That alone made her famous enough that when she lined up for a baked good, the Baker saw her and came out.

“Potter Pewerthe. Try this—and then persuade our guests to have a bite of my newest creation! You see?”

He had made a croissant. But the most incredible croissant Pewerthe had ever seen. The pastry was layers of delicate dough folded hundreds of times over and baked to crisp perfection.

Obviously. Everyone knew that. But what if—and hear Baker Tiyhm out—what if you inserted a layer of something between each layer? All three hundred of them? The slightest, most microscopic layer of a fresh raspberry jam, for instance, or, if you wanted very sweet, a frosting?

Then he’d cut little fresh-made pieces of dough in their own frostings and jam and decorated the croissant with a toothpick. The end result was an image of Fetohep of Khelt riding down on fleeing Drakes as stars fell from the night sky—and the raspberry jam oozed out with each bite Pewerthe took.

She loved it. The baker had labored over fifty such croissants before getting bored, and she agreed to convey one over to a group of bewildered people. Bewildered…as most guests were when they saw something so incredibly complex for little reason more than a moment’s breakfast.

“Hello. Guests of Dovive? Will you take Baker Tiyhm’s treats to eat this morning? He would be delighted—and they are quite beautiful.”

Pewerthe was a bit shy as she approached a group of men and women who were tending to some horses. They looked at her—then stared at the croissant.

“This? This is a piece of art! How much does it c—”

Every citizen of Khelt in earshot laughed at that, as they probably had for the last two weeks. The man caught himself and hesitated. Pewerthe saw the reluctant expression and leaned in.

“Please take some. It costs nothing, and it would make him pleased. More than even baking it—for His Majesty’s guests to enjoy themselves.”

“If you are sure—we will be honored.”

The [Mercenary] spoke and seemed, as always, perplexed by being here. He patted his horse and looked around.

This group of riders were twenty-one in number. They were [Mercenaries], apparently, good fighters who had served their home city of Dovive well. Why were they honored guests of Khelt?

Well, because when Fetohep of Khelt had ridden north—they had joined him. They had ridden out of their city, prepared to face horrors, and he had permitted them to join him in battle. They had not known where they were going, and six had perished on Izril’s shores.

Someone else might have overlooked them, a footnote, a single passage in Fetohep’s accomplishments. He had not. Upon returning, Fetohep had given more gold to a certain [Horse Tamer] and offered the boy and all who had rode with him the delights of Khelt.

“Has His Majesty—asked for us?”

“Not today. But eat, eat! This is my little work I hope you will enjoy.”

The baker twinkled at them, and one of the mercenaries exclaimed as he was told how it had been made.

Folded within each layer? How long did it take?”

“Ninety hours, the first time! I made so many errors—I threw away so much bad dough! The pigs I gave it to rejoiced! But then I knew how it was done, so I had a helper prepare each layer.”

“What helper would do that?”

“A skeleton. One with washed bones who has much adeptness…you see how it was easy to make more? Of course, I decorated by hand. That night, and the last week, I have been hearing [Baker class obtained]! And I keep saying, ‘no, not again’!”

Tiyhm laughed, and that was when his guests realized he was no [Baker], but a passionate amateur. And they stared more.

Such was the day of Khelt for Pewerthe, and she only reflected that they were lucky not to be Trey or Teresa Atwood. Those two—if Tiyhm would beg these brave warriors to try his pastries, the two twins would be mobbed by every passing citizen so long as it didn’t offend His Majesty. Companionship, food, entertainment—it was well known how Fetohep liked the two.

Regardless. Pewerthe could tell where a guest was staying sometimes just by the citizens who wanted to hear from them—or gain something.

“Careful, careful…don’t scare Konska. How many of you want to feed him?”

A Dullahan woman, Frieke of Khelt, was standing as children begged to pet or feed the Seahawk, who looked slightly vomitous as he was offered a hundred treats made specially for him. But Frieke seemed rather pleased by all the attention.

“Pewerthe, Pewerthe!”

The [Potter] was just about to open her shop and see if she had any students when someone ran to find her. She saw one of the rarer people in the city—someone who actually did work.

“[Magistrate] Teveti.”

The one thing Khelt needed were people who could keep peace, administer laws, and break up petty arguments. Teveti had two royal guards next to him—Skeleton Champions adorned in fine armor bearing enchanted blades. They never drew them; the halberds were purely ornamental, but it reminded people he had the authority to punish them for being in trouble.

The undead clanked to a halt behind Teveti as he panted to a stop, and Pewerthe frowned. Normally, anyone could outrun Teveti, who was out of shape. The guards seemed slower, and she wondered if he had told them to stop marching ahead of him.

Khelt’s undead could run, bake pies, and do all manner of things lesser undead were incapable of. These two stood to attention as Teveti lifted a finger.

“…sty…farmer…so now…got it?”

“No. What’s going on?”

The [Magistrate] tried again.

“His Majesty wishes you to meet him with a [Farmer] at once! I was looking for you at your apartment—go now!”

He looked at Pewerthe, and she felt a surge of apprehension. But only for a second. The [Magistrates], of everyone in the city, knew Pewerthe’s role. So she gestured at her shop.

“Can you tell anyone looking for me…?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll put up a sign you’re closed. Go now! I have a carriage coming!”

Indeed, he whistled, and a skeletal horse raced around a corner with a small, hooded carriage that citizens could use to get wherever they wanted. Even other cities. Pewerthe could have walked—but apparently Fetohep wanted her now.

It might have just been Teveti being overly-zealous, but of all people, Fetohep did not wait. So Pewerthe climbed in and found she had a guest.

“Hello. Miss…?”

“Pewerthe.”

She took the stranger’s hand and realized he was the [Farmer].

Farmer Colovt looked very nervous to be summoned to the palace, more than she, so Pewerthe sat down.

“Are you being summoned to His Majesty too?”

“Yes! Only the second time I’ve ever been graced…I hope it is because I am needed. And not in trouble.”

He looked pale as citizens with guilty consciences sometimes did. Pewerthe, as Fetohep’s heir, knew that it was often in their heads. So she smiled at him. She noticed his eyes on her scarred arm and spoke.

“[Bandits].”

“Bandits? In Khelt? Did you live near a village?”

He was astonished, and she shook her head.

“No. My family was one that left—I was allowed to return after His Majesty heard. No one survived but I.”

“Dead gods. I’m—sorry to hear that. What possessed them to leave Khelt’s borders?”

She got asked that a lot. Pewerthe’s answer was not snappish as it once was. She had heard a good answer from Fetohep, so she used it along with her own understanding.

“They wanted to see the world. And see who they were. His Majesty once did the same.”

“Oh. Oh…well, I am sorry. They’re lovely scars.”

And that was something you only heard from Khelt’s folk. But Colovt seemed like a good man, and he explained.

“His Majesty once honored me by asking me to grow peppermint as he wished for more. I dedicated eight fields to it—and he has sometimes asked me to grow certain crops. I am, by way of a class, a Level 36 [Farmer]. One of Khelt’s best who is not foreign.”

He was good. And by ‘foreign’ they meant anyone who had been offered citizenship for their Skills. Pewerthe knew there was at least one Level 40 [Farmer] who helped mass-produce crops, but Khelt had an inexhaustible source of labor, so they just needed land.

“So high! You must truly have worked hard.”

“I loved it. I grew with skeletons—then by hand. I don’t know why, but I can stand a day in my fields and come out smiling.”

Colovt was embarrassed, but Pewerthe thought he was delightful. Many of her friends flitted from passion to passion like Baker Tiyhm. They made wonderful things, but they did not level and even eschewed classes.

“I’m Pewerthe. A Level 28 [Potter].”

“So very well done! At your age? What do you make?”

He took her hand, astonished, for she was barely twenty-five years of age. Another reason Fetohep had marked her. Pewerthe smiled modestly.

“I teach, mostly. It is hard to make something that matters in Khelt. I don’t try to make something permanent. But I have baked oddities.”

“Such as?”

“Oh—I made a clay house and shelter for desert mice. I once baked the lightest pot I could so a vulture’s chick could be carried by its mother—their nest had been damaged, you see. But mostly I make water jugs and things the people from over the border need. Gifts that sell well.”

“For gold…? I know some people do that too. Make items and gift them to friends or penpals. How amazing. Do you know…why His Majesty wants me? Or you?”

Colovt was nervous again, and Pewerthe coaxed the reason for his distress out during their walk up the palace’s two thousand steps. Rows of undead stood to attention in the hot sun on the steps, but neither one paid attention.

“You see—I think it was when His Majesty rode north. You recall when the Jaw of Zeikhal rose and his armies followed?”

Farmer Colovt pointed to Khelt’s borders, and even from here, the two could see the giant bone-scorpion, ancient and stationary, half-buried in the sands. Pewerthe nodded, and Colovt leaned over.

“I was riding to the city—and it came up right in front of me. But for me, I think it would have unearthed itself. I was in the way, and His Majesty’s armies…”

Pewerthe laughed, and it was always deeper than people expected. Full—and she laughed because the poor [Farmer] thought Fetohep was angry at him for that?

She was assuring him this was not the case when Fetohep of Khelt found them. Perhaps he had been there all along, for he stepped out from admiring a painting in one of the endless hallways of the palace. This one showed rulers of old in various reposes and their glories—there were eight hundred paintings lining the walls, most done by Khelt’s citizens.

Fetohep would have just as many—and the best would adorn his hallway on that day he was succeeded. The [King] stepped forwards, and Colovt and Pewerthe jumped, for he was silent. He did not need to breathe.

“Farmer Colovt. I greet you and thank you and Pewerthe for joining me. I wished to find you two after you had breakfasted; my servants were overzealous. Do you require food? And to you, Colovt, I owe an apology.”

“M-m-m—Your Majesty?”

The man stuttered as his stomach rumbled loudly. Fetohep turned, and a servant hurried down the hallway.

“A breakfast. Pewerthe?”

“Greetings, Fetohep.”

She spoke, and Colovt goggled at her in outrage—but Fetohep had told her to be informal if she could. Pewerthe sensed this was an appropriate venue, and Fetohep nodded in approval before turning to the man.

“My apology, Colovt, is warranted. I recall the Jaws of Zeikhal endangered you in some small way when they rose. It has preyed upon me until this moment. They were needed in service to Khelt, yet I am relieved you are not harmed. You are Khelt’s greatest [Farmer] born of these lands and the only son who has risen to this level in a hundred and sixty years. Hence why I have need of your wisdom. Pewerthe is my trusted—advisor. I ask you to treat her with the respect you accord me.”

The man was lost for words. And Pewerthe noted how Fetohep spoke. He remembered too!

“I am humbled, sire. What can I do?”

His cheeks were red, and she thought tears stood out in the corners of his eyes. Fetohep turned, as if embarrassed, and gestured.

“Pray, request your breakfast. This will be a longer task. Pewerthe?”

“I have eaten, Your Majesty. A croissant.”

“Hardly fitting for a full day if memory serves. Are those not…flaky and buttery?”

Fetohep’s one quirk was that he didn’t remember food. So he often inquired what foods were and how nourishing they were. Pewerthe was convinced to have a fresh banana and cup of soup.

“And coffee. I am assured this is a ‘caffè latte’ by Teresa Atwood. The quality of it…debatable. Before I serve any important guest, I will hear your judgment. My [Gourmets] have declared it innovative, if lacking in nuance.”

Fetohep’s golden flames actually rolled slightly in their sockets. The gourmet’s tasting habits were exceptionally high, even in Khelt’s society. If anything, Pewerthe and Colovt were better metrics for foods, so they tasted the coffee gingerly.

An abundance of good food gave them a sophisticated palate, and Pewerthe grimaced.

“Too much sugar in mine, Your Majesty.”

“I can see it being a drink for work. Is it a replacement for tea?”

“One assumes. Eighteen wagons shall be distributed amongst the cities. Supply shall be limited, but I have the—berry plants ready for planting, and thirty [Gardeners] have volunteered to attempt to germinate them. Yes…that will be suitably entertaining for about fourteen days. No doubt I shall be having ‘coffee cake’ in the next month. Bean-related activities and foodstuffs.”

Something was off about Fetohep today. He was…musing to himself. Colovt didn’t notice, fascinated as he was by the newest treat, but Pewerthe glanced at Fetohep. He was also pacing a bit.

“What did Your Majesty need of us?”

Now that they had dined, Fetohep clicked his fingers.

“We shall leave for Farmer Colovt’s farm and other areas within Khelt. A carriage awaits.”

No regular horses were waiting for them when they descended the palace, but a personal carriage—and the bones of two magical horses. The dead Nightmares pawed at the ground, and when they got in, the carriage shot out of the city at lightning speed.

It only slowed once as a man raised his hand and stepped out of a crowd with a nervous family who bowed again and again. Fetohep emerged.

“Adventurer Fellbow.”

“Your Majesty.”

Colovt and Pewerthe stared at the famous Named-rank, who carried the bow he had been given by Fetohep on his back. He and his family, new to Khelt, stood in the street as the man looked at the carriage.

“Are you leaving the city? Do you wish me to accompany you, King Fetohep?”

“Not as of yet, Fellbow. As I have said—your deeds entitle you to rest. Have you spoken with Adventurer Frieke? Any others?”

Silently, the man bowed.

“Herdmistress Geraeri seems well. The—Revenants of Sand at Sea are occupied fixing the damage to their ship, but their [Captain] seems bored.”

“No doubt. Then I shall request your presence in my palace at evening. If you have the energy, we shall act through the night. This is all contingent upon your interests, Fellbow. You have earned your citizenship already. I do not require continual pledges of loyalty as Nerrhavia’s Fallen or Medain might.”

Fetohep’s golden gaze studied the Named-rank. In reply, Alked Fellbow simply bowed.

“I will rest up, then. I am merely interested in serving Khelt.”

“Well said.”

Pewerthe saw Fetohep nod to the rest of Alked’s family, greet his citizens, and step into the carriage. He sat back, and Pewerthe frowned.

“Your Majesty. What happened to the other Revenants?”

She knew about Hecrelunn and Serept’s half-Giants. The Scourgeriders…she still felt uneasy because Fetohep had told her how they had perished to quiet A’ctelios Salash.

She did not always like knowing what Khelt had to do—or that there were things even Fetohep feared. The King simply sat there.

“I do not know. The leader of the half-Giants, Thuermenon, came to me, and requested the right to leave. I granted it. Hecrelunn did not ask. Of the two, I trust Hecrelunn will be an issue. But I have little time for him.”

The third oddity. Fetohep did not like stray issues. And since Khelt ran so smoothly, he had all the time in the world to deal with even the slightest of problems.

One time, famously, he had realized that a statue of King His-Xe was not geometrically aligned in the center of a plaza. So he had the entire plaza re-bricked and then decided to move two streets and fifteen houses over two and a half feet.

Today, though—Khelt was busy. Perhaps that was why Fetohep seemed so impatient. But then—he only began speaking when he was outside of the capital. Pewerthe’s ears popped as she noticed him twisting a ring, and a veil of silence enveloped the carriage.

“What I am about to say will not leave the three of us. You, Colovt, are here due to your expertise in the matter. Pewerthe is my trusted advisor who may need to act in my stead on matters of state. She is my heir apparent, you see.”

The [Farmer] gave her a wide-eyed look. Pewerthe nodded, and Fetohep went on.

“It has come to my attention that there is an…issue within Khelt. Due to the worsening shortages of the world, trade lines across the sea—we are critically low on a resource. Steps must be taken to secure a supply. Therefore, you, Colovt, as a loyal son of Khelt, are the first I turn to.”

“Your Majesty? What are we low on?”

Khelt’s ruler leaned over in the carriage, and his voice lowered more.

“…Sweetberries.”

Pewerthe and Colovt exchanged a look. Did he mean…the red, glowing berries that were deliciously sweet, famously loved by even the Quarass, and popular in many expensive dishes?

They were a noble’s fancy, but also—Fetohep looked at Colovt.

“What do you know about them?”

“They’re…a cash crop of Baleros, Your Majesty. A farmer’s great crop. It’s beloved by the rich and poor alike for they’re filling. Tasty, too, but it’s said eight can fill a working man up half a day. Two handfuls could keep you for two days if you ration ‘em. Why, the mercenary companies use them as rations…and we’re low on them?”

“The [Bakers] have used quite a number. I would like you to tell me, candidly, what it would take to produce tens of thousands. Possibly even hundreds of thousands.”

Colovt’s jaw dropped.

“By the end of this year, Your Majesty?”

“No. Monthly. One assumes you would need more space. Fields of it. Perhaps for other crops as well? Khelt has always produced enough for itself to thrive, but we import countless crops. If we do not have the sweetberries within…two months at the minimum…”

Fetohep’s voice trailed off. Pewerthe stared at him and felt like this was the oddest conversation she’d had.

“Then what, Your Majesty?”

“—Then we shall have to do without. The same for peppermint, Colovt, and Nali-sticks. I will require your fields to produce a plethora of all such goods.”

That made the two Kheltians stare. Not because of the tall order—if anything, that fit. But the words.

‘Do without’. Inconceivable, even to Pewerthe, really. In what scenario would they do without…anything? The only thing that would bother Khelt was the lack of Eir Gel, which was a worldwide-concern.

But if it could be bought, or stolen and paid for, Khelt would have it. It did not ‘run low’ on Sweetberries. If every plantation of the bushes burned up tomorrow, Fetohep would buy the remaining supplies at a hundred gold per pound.

“I—can see why you wished to be private, Your Majesty. There will be grief and arguments across the cities if the [Bakers] think there might be a shortage.”

Sweetberries would become the instant fad—which would probably burn through Khelt’s supply. Then everyone would be talking about how it used to be so glorious to have one. They’d probably begin complaining a day after the supply ran out and talk about the ‘famines’ Khelt had endured where all they had was half the foodstuffs of the rest of the world dying in need.

Colovt rose to the challenge with a will.

“It will not be easy, Your Majesty. Even with Khelt’s resources, Sweetberries grow in far different soil and temperature…but perhaps if we irrigated it properly and we had the undead skeletons—I’m speaking out loud, forgive me.”

Fetohep lifted a hand.

“Speak and think and do what you will. I am—ignorant in the ways of farming. I have studied crop rotation, balance of fields, the pests and magical means to accelerate growth, and spoken to [Druids], but I am no expert.”

By that, he probably was an expert compared to anyone but Colovt. The man was thinking instantly.

“The—the only places I know to produce crops in great quantity, Your Majesty? If I might list them to think?”

“Yes. You think of Reim, in a sense, Noelictus, Samal, perhaps?”

Other paradises and famous breadbaskets. Colovt nodded.

“Also, the Paradise of Heiste, the Archmage’s Isle.”

“Troubled, I know now. But yes. Go on.”

The [Farmer] spread his hands.

“There’s two ways about it. Reim was—is—rich in crops so long as the King of Destruction lives. Either it’s a Skill, or like Noelictus, like Samal, it’s the richness of their soil. Noelictus thrives on death magic. Samal? Of all the ways we could copy, Your Majesty, perhaps it’d be Noelictus and Samal and the Paradise of Heiste.”

“…Khelt’s soil is less magical, and despite the buried dead, we do not harvest their power. You must clarify that thought for me.”

Fetohep placed two fingers together, listening. Colovt tried and then pulled out a wand. He must have had one just because it was useful—and probably because of his job. He drew in the air, the magical tip leaving a line he could pluck at and show them what he meant.

“Noelictus is different as far as I know, but the concept is similar. Samal and Heiste, paradises, grow within their own sanctums. Behind the key-doors or within Heiste’s growing houses. Sweetberries and many plants hate the weather of Chandrar. So in order to grow them, if we first made a vast place where they could winter and grow despite any issues…”

“Ah. Greenhouses.

Fetohep murmured a word unfamiliar to even Colovt. He lifted a hand.

“Your idea, Farmer Colovt, is doubly sound. Go on. Though I must now remark that my knowledge of these greenhouses implies a fortune in glass. A slower process, to blow enough to fill…miles of space. Many miles.”

Colovt looked surprised.

“No, Your Majesty—that is—we need not use glass. I have seen it done more simply. Walls of magic will do—you may not even see them. Just so long as the temperature and water in the air is separate from the outside…”

“Ah. Then stone might work? Or some other material?

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Fetohep seemed to brighten.

“Good. Excellent. Then, I require first the blueprints—then seeds. We have a bounty, which I have purchased from overseas. They will arrive in two weeks. I require you, Colovt, to oversee the entire production of these fields.”

Me, Your Majesty? But I don’t know how the greenhouses—these magical houses work.”

Fetohep dismissed the concerns.

“I shall not leave you wanting. You will have [Architects] and the expertise needed for the buildings—focus only upon the conditions that the seeds germinate and grow fast. Will you need to enrich the soil?”

“Yes…if I’m to produce hundreds of thousands of sweetberries per month. I don’t know if the [Bakers] could use that many, even in a frenzy, Your Majesty.”

Colovt hesitated, but Fetohep’s voice sounded like a smile.

“I will not be beholden to petty currents and the woes of a market twice, Farmer Colovt. We shall establish a vast stockpile to rectify the issue for later generations. As for enrichment of the soil…if you can permanently enrich the soil, or do so for the span of decades, I will spend what is needed. I would dislike to waste too much gold on a temporary measure for a few harvests.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive my ignorance. Permanent soil…”

The man lapsed into silence, but the carriage was slowing, and soon they were walking out across Colovt’s farms. Fetohep paused to admire the fields that Colovt already had.

“This, Colovt. I would like to expand this and these greenhouses. I will grant forty square miles to begin with—more in Jecrass, perhaps, if this succeeds.”

Forty miles? Pewerthe and Colovt’s jaws dropped. The man wiped at his brow.

“We may export Sweetberries to the rest of Chandrar, sire! Even with a stockpile. I—I can do that. I may need an army of skeletons, though.”

He laughed, looking delighted by the challenge, and why not? He was going to level. But then Pewerthe saw the final thing. The thing that made her really focus on the oddities of Fetohep’s speech, because the Revenant King stood there and he didn’t look at Colovt, but his voice developed an odd…tone.

“Ah. Yes. Colovt, I shall send to you volunteers and perhaps familiars, if the appropriate spell can be researched. I was reminded of the usage from an inn I saw recently. More crucially—do any of these nations make use of other magical tools or spells that…automate this labor?”

The [Farmer] looked blank.

“I am sure they must, in Samal and Heiste. I could inquire, Your Majesty? The skeletons do a fine job.”

“I would prefer to keep a smaller number in the fields, Colovt. War has threatened Khelt once—every skeleton might be needed, and I would not wish to keep the fields unoccupied.”

“So less skeletons…I shall ask, Your Majesty. Perhaps familiar-farming…? I know they have other techniques—may I beg leave to use a [Mage] to ask a number of [Farmers]?”

“At once, Colovt. But first, let us pick out a suitable location for this first attempt. Do you have a preference? Access to a watershed is important, and I have several maps…”

It turned out so did Colovt, and the man hurried inside his home to tell his family that the King of Khelt was here and to help on this great project. He was beaming.

Fetohep was not. For all the undead wore that rictus—somehow, Pewerthe, who had been growing more and more silent, did not think he was smiling. Nor was she.

“Fetohep. Might I have a word?”

She had noticed the spell that kept them from being overhead hadn’t waned since he put it on in the carriage. Fetohep turned to her, and his golden eyes flashed, but his tone was light.

“Do you have any views on farming I have lacked, Pewerthe? I shall ask Trey Atwood or his sister if they next visit.”

“No, Fetohep. But I did have questions about everything else. That I noticed.”

Then—she thought she did see his eyes flash approvingly. Fetohep gestured, and they walked around one field growing huge stalks of bright pumpkins and, yes, the peppermint.

“What could I have said that wasn’t innocuous?”

“Many things, Your Majesty.”

Pewerthe tried to lay them out as if she were planning a pot in her head. She spoke, counting them off.

“You claim that the currents and markets mean there are not enough sweetberries in Khelt. I have not heard of it—but I can believe it. Yet you just said there would be a shipment of seeds from Baleros. That surely means there is at least one ship who makes the journey.”

“Seeds are not berries, Pewerthe.”

The Revenant walked silently, his robes brushing the sands. His hands clasped behind his back, he looked stoic, a king of dignity. Yet Pewerthe went on.

“But why would you care, Your Majesty? Care enough to plant this many? It is one thing to fix a lack like Colovt did with peppermint. This…this is more berries than I can imagine. That would be fine in and of itself, but you suggested not using skeletons? Why that?”

“There are efficiencies beyond even undead. Much as I dislike to admit it, a Djinni can work a larger area. Or familiars, at the cost of mana, or spells.”

“You say that? In Khelt?

She challenged him, and the King of Khelt faced down the [Potter]. He did not loom or intimidate, but he seemed pleased she did not shrink to face down her ruler.

Pewerthe had seen worse. Yet a different kind of fear twisted her stomach now.

“Fetohep. Will you answer me a question truthfully?”

Then he paused, and the Revenant dipped his head slowly.

“…Yes. Of course.”

Pewerthe took a breath.

“What…what is the real reason you want sweetberries to be grown in such numbers? To not use skeletons? We have always bought whatever we wanted—if we lacked for either, it is only because the world lacks for them. Are the whims of confectioners in Khelt so crucial? Now, as Khelt is famous?”

Fetohep of Khelt stood there as the sand blew across Colovt’s farms, changing to dirt where the precious water irrigated the soil. He looked across his kingdom, back towards his shining city, and then at Pewerthe.

“Later today, Pewerthe, I will convene a few magical experts in my throne room. I will tell them—some cunning beetles have laid nests within the city that even my cleaners cannot deal with. Rats, as well. I discovered one just outside my palace this morning.”

“A…rat?”

Pewerthe couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen one. A pet was different, obviously. Fetohep nodded. His golden gaze focused on her.

“I will tell them to ward the city—perhaps to have a few volunteers hunt down the nests. A small inconvenience. Like Colovt growing his farms. And perhaps I shall hear complaints. Then, Pewerthe, I shall lie as I do not lie to you now. I shall claim they are virulent pests such as to escape even my undead. By the time the greenhouses are producing hopefully countless bushels of crops, I shall ask Colovt to switch some to common Yellats. The volunteers I send him—the children I encourage to take up the [Farmer] class—will be able to tend the fields with familiars, spells, and even Djinni.”

“Djinni?”

They had not had Djinni in Khelt—Fetohep stared past her.

“If the Shield Kingdom of Merreid will sell me any. Perhaps. If I did that, I think…this is all the future, Pewerthe. It is all in flux. But at some point, there will be complaints. There might even be a need for my citizens to eat only sweetberries, for they are filling and one of the best crops, along with Yellats, to eat.”

Something was dawning on Pewerthe. She gave voice to it as Fetohep stood there.

“But Fetohep, Your Majesty…surely something is off. Why not task your skeletons with doing it? Khelt’s protectors could turn every inch of this kingdom into farmland if we had enough water. If there are beetles, double the number of them cleaning the streets each night. Why…why not do that?”

Fetohep of Khelt stood there for a long moment, staring into the horizon. And then Pewerthe saw what he was staring at.

The Jaw of Zeikhal lay in the sand, silently staring out across Chandrar. Fetohep’s head slowly turned from it, and his golden eyes burned with an ominous—pained light.

“Ah, Pewerthe. On that day, not far off—when my citizens complain and come to me, I will first lie. Then, when I have no more left, when our enemies begin to scent blood in the water and I arm my citizens in artifacts and put them at the border and build walls—then I will tell them. I have no more to send.

The hair on the back of the [Potter]’s neck rose. She looked around—then tried to see if there were less skeletons laboring in the fields. She tried to remember, this morning, if she’d seen any but the two accompanying the [Magistrate] and the ones standing guard at the palace. Fetohep of Khelt looked at her, and Pewerthe whispered as a beaming Colovt and his family came out.

“What—what happened to them? Your Majesty?”

He spoke in proud tones, ringing with regret and glory to the fallen. Like he had when he called the end of a world, the ending of times. And—as Khelta had told him—

The ending of the lands of the dead. Fetohep looked across Khelt, and it was quiet. Quiet and empty. The citizens of Khelt’s dead lay buried by the millions. He had taken a vast army to Izril…but only a fraction of the ones who remained.

He didn’t feel them. He felt…pockets, ones animated by Khelta, by [Necromancers]. Bound in spell. But the souls were gone.

Khelt’s souls were all gone. So the King of Khelt, feared by his enemies, surrounded by admirers, stood in his kingdom and stood tall. Eyes burning gold, proudly as could be. He turned to his heir, and only to her he spoke.

“If you should succeed me onto my lonely throne, Pewerthe, and I shall try to keep you from that fate—remember this of me, I beg you. For Khelta, for the honor of the dead, our kingdom rode in glory across Chandrar. We made a difference. I could have sat upon my throne, but I did not, for the ending is the same. In this long struggle—Khelt of all nations did all, sacrificed all. I will never be prouder of the fallen. But those that remain—”

He stared at the Jaw of Zeikhal. Stared and stared and reached for it—and he couldn’t tell if it was there. If it was sentient—or if the spells were just dead. Fetohep stared at the Jaw of Zeikhal.

“—We will undergo a time of strife. Such things happen. Even to eternity.”

“What do we do, Your Majesty?”

The girl was almost fallen, almost sinking, tears in her eyes. She looked up, and her king turned. His rictus face fixed on her, his yellowed teeth, his beautiful eyes, and the King of Khelt’s voice rose. He twisted the ring on his finger and turned to the bowing farmer’s family, to his kingdom.

Smile, Pewerthe. Shine like the illusion of gold. Straight into the heavens above. Watch me, and I shall teach you how to bet a fortune of fortunes with a hand empty of even dust.”

 

——

 

So you knew, then. Why Khelt, kingdom of such greatness, was oddly quiet when any fit ruler, any mete ruler would take this time to consolidate and continue to shine.

Fetohep knew it full well. He knew that glory and fame was a fading star, an ember that would invariably burn out unless you nurtured it. It also meant that his priorities had shifted. Where once he had counted the number of foes to humble Khelt on one hand in every continent—his only danger being a coalition the size of Terandria’s Crusades, and even then, only a protracted war—

Now he craved mundane goods that might soon run out. Khelt had deep stockpiles. Yet food spoiled before gold. And the issue was not feeding his people.

The issue was keeping up the image. As soon as that image cracked…the perceptive would notice. So he could not tell his [Bakers] to stop making layered croissants or to stop Khelt’s appearance now that eyes were on them.

Not without good reason.

He had a few recourses, though. So by the time Fetohep left Farmer Colovt to his job, he had Pewerthe join him in his throne room. She listened, as she sometimes did, to his methods of diplomacy. Statescraft, the running of empire…

She was his heir. And while she might be replaced, even if she was not Khelt’s ruler, her talents would make her valuable to Khelt. Only Fetohep and the dead knew the reasons Pewerthe was a worthy successor.

One of the reasons—one—was that she was a daughter of Khelt who had seen the outside world. She was, then, both foreigner and citizen. She had survived a [Bandit] raid that had slaughtered her family and the next seven months as one of their prisoners. That she had lived—and made her way to Khelt—was not Fetohep’s doing.

He had sent a hundred and fifty riders of Khelt, armed with bow and lance from the era of Dolenm, who had styled entire legions after other cultures. The Knights of Dolenm had cut down her pursuers, the ragged remains of the ‘Sands of Cuzale’, a famous [Bandit] gang that had sprang up in the last fifteen years.

Small things to the ruler of Khelt, but Fetohep had inquired and found that their leader had been a Level 34 [Robber Baron].

Another one of those odd classes. The bandit leader and the gang had not been gentlemen thieves, though. Not at all. Their prisoners, like Pewerthe, were survivors of bloody raids and theft of people as well as gold.

How, then, did a [Potter] escape from the Sands of Cuzale and send a [Message] to Khelt asking for rescue? That was the first time Fetohep had met Pewerthe, and he had summoned her to his palace three months after she was brought to Khelt. There, under truth spell and his gaze, he had asked her the contents of her story.

For he could not believe it until he heard it and looked her in the eyes. Not that she had, by wit, cunning, and deed, brought down this gang of thieves by tricking them to fight one another—until a night came when they drew blades and slaughtered each other.

That was a worthy successor to Khelt. A silver-tongued girl straight out of stories, who had convinced the [Thieves] that she could hide secrets in the clay pots she baked, hide precious gold and loot from each other and bury it in the sands.

The irony was that she could not—had not that Skill until after she began levelling up. And the foolish thieves, in their greed to hide their stolen wealth from each other, had sowed distrust in the gang. The finger-pointing and accusations grew and grew until it spilled over into wanton bloodshed, allowing Pewerthe and some few survivors to flee.

There was cunning even the Quarass had admired when Fetohep relayed the story to her.

For all that, the [Potter] was no great warrior. She had no aptitude or passion for the blade. That was fine. Fetohep had thought she would be a splendid ruler to keep Khelt safe another two thousand years.

Now…he feared this was an age when the basest, most common talents to slaughter would be rewarded. And that should not be.

A ruler should be more than a thug. The King of Destruction inspired, among his few talents, with his martial abilities. With his capability to lead armies. Yes, with some genuine concern for his people, but there was more art to it.

“—Serpentine Matriarch of Zeres. I do not believe our nations have ever formally declared war. A cessation of hostilities is wise.”

“Yes. Wise.

Fetohep saw Pewerthe listening in and made sure to even let her get a glimpse of the angry Drake. He made no obvious gesture except to nod, occasionally, but his foot tapped out-of-sight, annoyed.

He was tired of poor rulers. Poor—this was one of the scions of Zeres? Proof hereditary descent was a mistake, and he would ask Pewerthe if she noticed the subtle signs, later, that he took as opposed to Zethe’s ruler or another monarch.

He used the ‘I’, for instance, as Drakes disliked and stumbled over using the royal ‘we’ in parlance. In addition, Fetohep took a far more direct approach, which Drakes, again, reacted better to. Give them an inch and they tended to take yards.

“Then I shall send a formal declaration between our nations to be witnessed by, ah, Manus. A fitting intermediary. After, of course, reparations are made.”

The Serpentine Matriarch stiffened upon her throne. which bore traces of her own Ancestors. Not Dragons, but close enough.

Wyrm. She even bore traces of her lineage, a different kind of Oldblood. Before she could speak, one of the Drakes muted the scrying orb. He lifted an apologetic claw, and Fetohep sighed.

Ridiculous. Offensive—but it forestalled whatever outburst the Serpentine Matriarch was about to make. She was far too young. Thirty-six years old—and her Admiralty were at least able to hold her back and talk to her quickly.

It would not do for Fetohep to be at war with Zeres, who could make trouble at sea. They, of course, feared an army of undead at their gates or another spear through the walls. When the Serpentine Matriarch returned to the orb, her smile was fake.

Unable to control her temper. Unable to lie or put the mask of friendship on. Unable to overcome her wounded pride that her army and her precious Sharkcaptain were bested. Unable to see the plight of the Gnolls when she first made war against them…

Fetohep ran a litany of her faults down as he listened. Her nation was prosperous due to trade, but he knew full well that crime in Zeres was higher. They could use their nation and create better lives for their citizens—instead of the dock-brawls that sometimes claimed lives.

They were no Savere, but was that the bar of any coastal nation? They should have, with their advantages, a thousand bright-eyed youths with great futures like Admiral Asale. The only Drake that Fetohep appreciated—mostly because he had struck Nerrhavia herself in battle. A deed few could ever boast of.

He was tapping his foot too hard, so Fetohep desisted. The Serpentine Matriarch looked like she was having scales pulled off as she agreed.

“Reparations would be…what, exactly, Your Majesty of Khelt?

Draw her in and like an angry fish—cut the slack when she thrashed. Fetohep let his eyes glow brighter for a moment.

“Why—the dead, of course, Serpentine Matriarch. Per your agreement of a cessation, I shall send suitable remuneration in gold per the soldiers Khelt has slain. My people have completed a rough tally. If Zeres would ratify it—we have estimated generously as to our forces, as Khelt was not the only army upon the field. Thereupon I shall send fifty gold pieces to the families of each soldier and a suitable gift in funereal tribute.”

“Funeral…what?”

Fetohep clarified, pretending to sound puzzled. The Drakes were exchanging quick glances.

“Incense. Often a bounty of food—for slain warriors. In this case, a forged sword or other blade, which is passed to the sons or daughters. A brooch in lieu of weaponry.”

“You’re going to send us all of this?”

The Revenant-King’s smile never wavered.

“We were not at war. The dead must have their due, and I shall see to it that the rites for the fallen arrive within two weeks if Zeres consents to escort whatever ship I send. Via Medain’s harbors, I believe.”

That would be something Perric would be happy to oblige. The Serpentine Matriarch floundered a moment then drew herself up with a slight smile.

“I suppose that would be appropriate.”

It was Asale who was watching Fetohep. The King of Khelt raised a hand. And he saw Pewerthe nod as she got it.

Intention. They might well make ‘peace’ with Zeres without the need for this. Even if he did not do this, it was likely the City of Waves would be wary about raiding supply lines to Khelt. So why go to this effort?

“Then, Matriarch of Zeres, I shall send over the specifications and tributes appropriate for the tomb. Per Zeres’ will, it matters not where it is placed exactly, but in suitable repose.”

“Tomb? A monument to the battle? We have one done. And parades…”

Asale coughed.

“I believe—Matriarch, the King of Khelt is referring to his warrior. Do you then mean Zeres should construct a tomb for your warrior—Salui of His-Xe’s reign?”

He didn’t quite know how to name the Revenant, but Fetohep’s eyes flashed approval.

“Just so.”

A tomb for a Revenant? In Zeres? The Admiralty looked at each other, but now Fetohep was speaking, as if oblivious to the consternation.

“It was the practice in His-Xe’s reign to use stones of Chameth-marble, from Zethe, and his motifs included that of scorpions and his own heraldry. I shall provide both, though Zeres’ [Architects] are no doubt surpassing. Twenty tonnes of marble may suffice? Construction does waste material in my experience.”

“Twenty tons of—”

The same marble that made up Khelt’s palace? The Serpentine Matriarch was thinking hard. And now she did show why she ruled Zeres as she replied.

“Of course, we have your Revenant’s remains laid to rest. Nothing—close to a body, but will interring the ashes do?”

No doubt they’d made sure he could not be resurrected. Fetohep thought of the raging warrior, filled with grief and a longing for battle long after his friend and king’s death. He deserved to rest in Khelt—but the ash was not the spirit.

“That will honor Khelt. As we honor Zeres. Then, we have an accord, Matriarch.”

She smiled, then, thinly. But Fetohep could see her counting the costs of that marble. He wondered how large the monument would be, in the end. And the gold for the fallen?

Largesse, when they expected naught but spit and, from fellow Drakes, ridicule. He would not treat the Dragonspeaker so, but she was not as petty.

“We agree, King Fetohep of Khelt. This has been—far more amiable than I thought. Khelt is wise.”

Fetohep smiled and sat back upon this throne.

“Your wisdom, Serpentine Matriarch, is likewise apparent to me. To your Ancestors. Peace.

 

——

 

Rulers of nations gossiped like any other, you know. If not them, then their royal courts—and even if they did not know each other, they did talk when they had a united enemy or subject of discussion.

Why, Drakes would even chat with Terandrians when it came to the—issue—of Khelt. As in, not making an enemy of the undead superpower.

So word of Khelt’s deal with Zeres would get around. Naturally, it proved what many people knew about Fetohep. A powerful warrior, insightful strategist, and leader of a paradise he might be—

He was also arrogant. Or perhaps it was just that he was so damn wealthy he would send tributes to enemy soldiers because Khelt had such ancient funereal practices on the books. There was something galling about it—the king would defeat you in battle, then pay you a fortune in courtesies.

Then again, wasn’t that to be desired? Better a gracious king than a petty one. Some rulers—like Perric—would not be half so ready to make peace as Fetohep, holding the upper hand. A ruler like Perric might well ask for pressing requirements.

Like hostages. Or brides. Or gifts. And keep asking until something changed.

Naturally, the Claiven Earth were happy to hear that Fetohep was inclined to peace, not a continued rampage. Their Treespeaker and wisest members among them had discussed the issue of their surrender to Khelt for a long time.

They were…well, let’s say they were nervous.

It was fair to say that Fetohep and Khelt in general were not the Claiven Earth’s fondest neighbors at the moment. It might be fair to say that they would welcome Flos of Reim with hugs and kisses before Fetohep if they had a choice.

But they didn’t. They’d lost and surrendered to Khelt—and in the nick of time, too. That mad [Vizir] could have thrown meteors into their forest-home.

The Herald of the Forests, their greatest [Mage]—humbled in battle. Fetohep didn’t have one Jaw of Zeikhal, he had six he could have sent into the half-Elf’s domain, and their forces, as experienced and powerful as they were…

Terrifying. But they were at peace, and Fetohep had not yet punished Medain or the Claiven Earth, and he was known to be a rich and, it seemed, still moderately peaceful ruler.

So all was well, right? Well—no.

Consider the issue. What could you give the undead who had everything? Let’s say you needed to impress upon Khelt friendship. Or Khelt was in a position to ask. What did Fetohep want?

Well…artifacts? No. He had a vault full of them. Gold? He had more gold than possibly any nation on Chandrar. Roshal might beat him and a few nations like Nerrhavia’s Fallen—maybe.

Fetohep was no [Slaver]. In fact, his nation forbade the owning of slaves. Good! The Claiven Earth were the same.

…The issue was, that meant he didn’t care for the living in servitude. Now—dead bodies? He did make use of them. Powerful dead bodies?

The Herald of the Forest, Ierwyn, tried not to think about it. Treespeaker Lastimeth had assured her that the Mage of Rivers, Joreldyn, and she had done Khelt enough of a service to mitigate some of his wrath.

She had gone to battle with Fetohep, and the warrior-king was known to appreciate acts of valor. It was just…

The Claiven Earth would have treated Fetohep warily if everything were all fine between them. Yes, they might dislike undead fiercely, but Khelt’s apparent power would have them fishing out gifts and making suitable pacts. That would be fine, not an issue.

But if you had just waged war on Khelt specifically to kill the King? If you maybe, possibly, had joined with even Medain to bring him down and had refused to make peace until the last moment and signed a contract of unconditional surrender?

Maybe you were sweating a bit. And hoping Khelt was truly as munificent as they seemed.

When Fetohep of Khelt finally prevailed on Treespeaker Lastimeth, Ierwyn thought she might have the first heart attack of her hundreds of years of life. Certainly, every important member of the Claiven Earth was flocking around the Treespeaker’s arboreal house like they were children playing with spinner toys.

They lined the bridges along the vast tree branches, some standing far below amongst the roots, shooing away the animals who tended to the forest of half-Elves with them. Annoyed monkeys poked at the older half-Elves then fled. Butterflies spiraled away, sensing the distress of their friends, and the magical sloths hung there. As they did.

The white-haired half-Elves listened as one of the young ones ferried out responses from Khelt’s ruler. The contents of his discussion were brief—and Ierwyn felt a lurch.

“Herald, he wishes to speak to you as well.”

She strode into the little building where the Treespeaker conducted affairs of state. The King of Khelt was unchanged—if anything, he seemed more surrounded by wealth than ever. He was waving aside a sample of Chameth-marble from Zethe’s mines as he glanced up.

“Herald Ierwyn. Ah, welcome. I trust your wounds have healed?”

“They were very slight, Your Majesty. I am pleased to note you are unharmed despite the furious battle. It will go down in history.”

“Such battles do.”

The King mused, not looking pleased by the compliment. He rested a hand in a bowl of what might have been something to preserve his withered skin. The Treespeaker and Ierwyn tried not to wince, looking at the undead so long. Yet he was more than a monster…would that they’d ignored Perric from the start.

Fetohep lifted a hand lanced with the glowing liquid, and the vapor left a trail of magic in the air.

“Forgive me, Herald, Treespeaker. I am passingly impolite. I have been speaking to dignitaries nonstop for nigh upon a month. This is merely a dram of magic to preserve this wearisome body. Are any other half-Elves so wounded beyond the Claiven Earth’s mighty healing? For such valiant warriors, my Potions of Regeneration may be unstoppered.”

He really was far too rich. The Herald kept her face straight.

“Our own healing is equivalent to the task, Your Majesty. I thank you…and for your forbearance given our struggles.”

“Indeed. Khelt now calls upon us, and we answer. Have you a…decision regarding our end of the war, Your Majesty?”

The Treespeaker was pale with nerves. Fetohep drummed his fingers upon his throne, looking oddly discontented.

“It has weighed upon my mind, Treespeaker, Herald. No less than eighteen of my subjects have died in this war between the Claiven Earth and Khelt. Many, many of my soldiers…and two of Serept’s own Revenant-kind. A cost as grievous as any war. I am aware the Claiven Earth has bled likewise—yet the war between our nations cannot be settled with mere words. Not now. I take the Herald’s aid in my hour of need well. Yet we were at war.”

His eyes flashed, and Ierwyn was glad she did not sweat in the face of any foe. Eighteen dead? It was ridiculous—and it also squared with Fetohep’s monumental protective attitude towards his people.

That was even commendable, but this…

“We are at your mercy, Your Majesty. What is your will?”

They could only wait. They had debated sending gifts or bribes, but decided it was futile. They had counteroffers to make. Ierwyn’s first one was to agree to serve Khelt a hundred years. She hoped it would not come to that, but depending on what he willed…

Fetohep took a long pause to dip his hand in the bowl once more before he spoke. Now he sounded—weary.

“Before I deliver my demands, I will speak once upon the battle of the Meeting of Tribes. It may well go down in history. Perhaps my name shall find itself upon record—but I trust the Gnolls and their tribes would take such pride of place, so that my name is but a footnote. I, knowing the writing of [Historians], doubt this. The battles were necessary, but the slaughter…I rule over dead and send my legions by the tens of thousands into battle without second thought. Yet the living’s wanton death preys upon me. To such little purpose. Did you have thoughts on that matter, Herald?”

Ierwyn hesitated. She spoke honestly.

“It was a shame to see it, Your Majesty. Gnolls being attacked by the Drakes, at odds with each other—the treachery of that Plain’s Eye tribe was beyond belief. I must say, personally, that regardless of anything else, had I known of what you went to stop, I would have ridden with you at any time. Especially if worse had come. Like the Seamwalkers…”

The Treespeaker glanced up, and every ear seemed to listen, but Fetohep spoke no more of the doom he had warned the world of.

“Not yet, Herald. Not yet…and you remind me once more that we are mutual allies against foes of such heinous deed. The Claiven Earth may abhor my nature as undead and my kingdom—but you have stood against true monsters again and again.”

“We are not entirely without reason as to the undead, Your Majesty…”

The Treespeaker protested lightly, but Fetohep just glanced at him, and the half-Elf fell silent. The ruler lifted a finger.

“Eighteen dead. Eighteen, and a war between us. There must be reparation. Thus, I have concluded upon my most—reasonable demands. As follows.”

He leaned forwards, and the half-Elves waited, hearts thumping. Fetohep spoke after a long moment.

“…How many fruits, nuts, and other varieties of produce come from the Claiven Earth’s own orchards? My records in trade have always imported many fine delicacies from your lands, but I am aware the majority of them are never traded.”

Fruits? The Treespeaker shot a quick glance at Ierwyn, and she felt her heart leap.

“You intend our produce, Your Majesty?”

“My subjects have an endless desire for foodstuffs. A delight I, personally, do not share.”

The Revenant’s voice was so dry it actually made Ierwyn smile. He nodded to one side, addressing a young woman in the corner of the screen.

“Just this morning, I was relayed a story of a croissant apparently enjoyed by my people. This—disruption in the seas may continue, and I have lands upon Jecrass to mind. For now, I shall consider the Claiven Earth’s debts to Khelt appeased by a contract to supply a host of its goods to my people. How else to repay the dead save sustenance which engenders new and continued life? Within the Claiven Earth’s reason, of course. Is this amenable, Treespeaker?”

“It—it will serve, especially to bridge the ruined paths between us, Your Majesty.”

The Treespeaker looked ready to swing from branches like a boy, but he managed to stay calm. Ierwyn exhaled as Fetohep nodded slowly.

“Then—let us formalize this pact with a treaty releasing the Claiven Earth from its terms of surrender. I intend to do the same to Medain—pending generous trade agreements and similar requests. Though their gardens are less…appealing than the seafood they catch.”

So that was what he wanted? Ierwyn exhaled hard. Peace! So easily bought! She wondered if Fetohep would ask for more. He would release them from their obligations as surrendered nations.

But he was still King of Khelt. The Claiven Earth had better weigh their relationship to Khelt heavily in the future. But for now—people were quietly celebrating outside. Relieved the King of Khelt was so rich that he traded oranges for laurel branches.

Ierwyn just wondered, privately—and just for a second—why Fetohep had not demanded eighteen statues of his people or a delegation to abase themselves in Khelt or a formal apology. She knew the King of Khelt, being as old as he was. He could be pettier and angrier.

Perhaps he truly did fear something larger. Either way—she was grateful.

 

——

 

Like Ierwyn, Fetohep did not sweat either. But the careful, careful diplomacy he conducted for the rest of the day with the Claiven Earth, Medain, Zeres, and the other nations he had been at odds with left even him tired.

Pewerthe was certainly exhausted, and he sent her out before he spoke to Perric, a far longer and more unctuous meeting than the Treespeaker and Herald. That man…

Well, Fetohep had what he wanted. ‘Simple foodstuffs’ in exchange for peace.

He hoped he could prevail on his people to enjoy the seafood and fruits and vegetables over their regular diets. Both nations expected Fetohep to demand more.

Well, he might. It had occurred to Fetohep that the Claiven Earth had blademasters and experts in archery—and Medain their great adventurers.

But for peace, he only wanted these tokens. Play your hand carefully. And any visitors to Khelt…

Any visitors to Khelt would see too much.

“Jecrass, perhaps. Yes, Jecrass. A suitable place to put any visitors and to…it would seem Jecaina did me a surpassing boon.”

Fetohep was musing upon the new lands he’d annexed that night. When Alked Fellbow arrived, the King of Khelt welcomed him into his palace.

“Let us sit and eat, Fellbow. Have you yet dined?”

“I could work for the rest of the night without, Your Majesty.”

The Hemp-man was not some lumbering ox of a warrior as the Stitch-folk often painted the Hemp-caste. Oh, his features were rougher due to the thick cloth made from the manes of the animals he had hunted, but he was closer to lithe than not.

Not thin—not as agile, but a nimble stalker, like how a tiger could disappear among the brush while hunting. A gifted archer. A fine warrior.

A Named-rank adventurer. Yet Fetohep bade him come to the dining room. He spoke as a servant brought out dishes and asked Fellbow’s fancy.

“Though I am dead, Fellbow, I often invite mortals to dine. It is…customary. It relaxes, it enables difficult conversation. Allow me to prevail upon your needs.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

So, Fellbow dined lightly upon bloody meats and the freshest of leaves, almost like he was a noble predator straight off the plains, pure carnivore and herbivore desires mixed. He did not seem inclined to waste time, and neither did Fetohep.

“I suspect your request to meet with me is more than mere desire to impress, Fellbow. Tell me. How did your prescience come about?”

One quick look confirmed everything. Fellbow stopped eating, reached for a cup of water—then let it rest.

“I observed your guards, Your Majesty. The ones that follow your [Magistrates] around—and the ones on the palace.”

“They have not changed unduly, surely?”

Fellbow grimaced.

“They’re slower. If I hadn’t been here before, I would never have noticed. Ever since the Meeting of Tribes, I realized they seem to react at half the speed they used to. Almost as if they’re confused. I was not sure, so I tested their reactions a few times.”

He looked up, and all his suspicions lay behind those grey eyes, like splinters of color. Fetohep? His only response was to sigh.

“You are an adventurer among pretenders to the title, Fellbow. Another reason why your services I desired so highly. Though I did not foresee this day when I reached out to you.”

“No?”

That seemed to surprise Alked. He was—Fetohep realized—slightly tense in his chair. Mostly relaxed, but as he took a long draft of water, he spoke.

“I don’t intend on revealing Khelt’s weakness. I just—wished to know the truth. I could swear upon truth stones, Your Majesty. I would not wish to be silenced if I can prove my sincerity. Nor would I betray Khelt’s trust. I am well aware of your capabilities.”

He said this all very straight-faced, watching Fetohep. Though, like everyone else, Alked Fellbow realized it was hard to tell what Fetohep was thinking. The King of Khelt’s reply was swift, though. He arched one ancient brow.

“Your worries are needless, Fellbow. I am not so poor a ruler as to even intimate the suggestion I would attempt to kill you for fear of my weakness being leaked.”

He lifted a finger as Fellbow opened his mouth to respond.

“That is no mere vanity. You are a man of action. If you planned treachery, it would be before you offered to meet me. Few scoundrels would bring up the notion of treachery themselves; their prevarication is often to cast it upon others. You do not do that.”

“I am a Named-rank adventurer and new to your kingdom, sire. I thought it was worth addressing.”

The man appeared slightly gratified. Fetohep’s eyes flashed brighter in the dim dining hall.

“Oh? For many adventurers, perhaps. Not you. You are mercenary in your jobs, but you are upfront when you cancel your contracts. Never once have you lied, cheated, or betrayed your employers. Actions speak a far louder tale, Fellbow, and your history is known to me. I looked into it before I contacted you. I know people. It is one of my few gifts.”

The Named-rank sat there and, again, was slightly stunned by the fact that an undead ruler of a nation not his own knew him better than the entire Court of Silks had. But then—that was why he had come.

That was why his suspicions being confirmed was such a terrible blow. Alked looked up, and his throat was so hoarse he had to take another drink before he could be heard.

“What…what exactly is the problem, Your Majesty?”

“The souls are gone.”

That was the root, heart, and unfixable issue in Khelt’s soul. Fetohep stood up, and silently, the two left the dining hall so they might speak more privately. Fetohep led Fellbow elsewhere—to the hall of statues.

Eighteen stood there, and it was here he had been able to hear his predecessors most clearly. Each one Fetohep gazed upon.

The eye was drawn to Serept, for they were all made to their likenesses, but he stopped at his beloved Queen Xierca’s and regarded the imperious angle of her nose. Dolenm’s had been broken once. His-Xe’s smile was quirked to one side—he had a scorpion on one shoulder, forever captured in marble.

“Even theirs?”

Fellbow stood there as Fetohep walked before each ruler. The King turned—and his eyes were dim now.

“Even theirs. But the ghosts of each citizen of Khelt—that was the loss. You see, Fellbow—they were what animated the bodies of the skeletons that lie in Khelt. I cannot call upon them. The ones you see were animated by spells of [Necromancers]. The ritual, the pact that Khelta laid down that empowers all of Khelt’s dead?”

Gone. Fellbow hesitated. He said what Pewerthe had, what any clever person would.

“But the bodies are there, Your Majesty. Is there a danger they’ll reanimate? Or—couldn’t a [Necromancer] restore your armies?”

That was the fallacy of thinking to anyone who didn’t study death-magic. Fetohep shook his head.

“I can reanimate a hundred skeletons with a click of my fingers, empowered by my status as Khelt’s king as I am, Fellbow. It is not the same. The dead will not rise unwanted—Khelta ensured that. Only the ones above-ground would be…erratic. I cannot control any of the Jaws of Zeikhal. I hope they are inactive. But one task must be to—control them. Or dismantle them, somehow, without the world watching.”

Fellbow’s pit in his stomach grew.

“And the armies won’t be the same, even if animated?”

Fetohep shook his head. He stood before Khelta, eying the coal-rimmed eyes, her staff. The great [Necromancer Queen].

“The undead a lesser [Necromancer] might raise and bind will be more erratic. But crucially, Fellbow—lesser. You have seen how the undead of Khelt can till a field, clean gutters, and even cook? The souls of Khelt’s citizens allowed that. It gave the warriors a grace upon the battlefield. It gave them loyalty and, yes, even strength to endure without end that lesser undead lacked.”

“Truly?”

Alked had never heard of that, but it made sense. For answer, Fetohep turned and bowed before Khelta.

“She, Khelta who founded all of this, knew that the soul of each body informed the mortal remains. She did not create armies of unwilling beings she slaughtered. She asked for service after death, and generations gave it. The dead are used well, for they loved this land well. She was…a great [Necromancer]. Few of her kind understood death so. But now we see a fault not even Khelta could have foreseen. For the souls are gone. And Khelt is empty. Defenseless.”

The day Fetohep summoned Alked Fellbow and made him the generous offer to become an adventurer of Khelt, the Named-rank had wondered if there was a catch.

He had expected it. He had waited for it, and it had never shown up. After a while, he had begun to realize that Fetohep meant what he had promised. That sometimes—

That there was someone who recognized worth and tried to pay it without shorting or gaining more in return. Yet now, Alked was almost relieved.

So this was the catch. He now served a nation held up by nothing inside. And for some reason, Alked felt more of a burning desire not to see Khelt fall than he had Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

“What can I do, Your Majesty? I can’t speak for Frieke, but I think she admires you. Your people do. Herdmistress Geraeri does too. Perhaps some would waver if the truth came out, but it will not come from me. What can be done?”

“Build armies. Replace our workforce with actual laborers and magic—but crucially, keep this illusion up. I shall lean upon you, Fellbow, and Pewerthe and those I can trust as never before.”

Fetohep seemed gratified by the man’s confidence. But that begged a new question from Fellbow, who now felt like some [General] preparing for a war. Did Fetohep have [Generals]? Now he needed ones.

“Your Majesty—who would be Khelt’s enemies? So I know who to watch for.”

The King of Khelt laughed. It was not a pleased laugh, just amused. He turned, and all eighteen statues seemed to have a hint of mirth about them. They got the joke.

“Fellbow. Who would be our enemies? Who not? If you are asking which nations hold a grudge—I would say the dangerous ones are Roshal, the Claiven Earth, Medain. Nations we have wronged—the Walled Cities, nations who hate undead—all of Terandria save Noelictus.”

Not a fun list. But Fetohep just shook his head.

“I do not name names. Yes, some nations spite us like Roshal, which Khelta once made mighty strife against, and would see us fall. But Khelt is…too rich. Let us say our secret leaks tomorrow. The first foe to come against us? It would be Flos of Reim.”

“…I thought he swore in blood never to take up arms against Khelt.”

Fetohep shrugged lightly.

“Even blood can be forsworn. If I were him, I would find a way or risk it. Because, Fellbow—he would have to. He would have to strike at Khelt and sack my cities or else be faced with destruction. Any nation that plunders our relics would be able to turn the tide against him.”

Alked was conscious of the bow on his back. Fetohep had gifted it to him…and he surely had more. More gold, more treasures than almost any nation. Yes, of course. Any nation would come screaming to take Khelt’s wealth.

Damn. No wonder the King of Khelt looked so worn. But then…

“You could arm your citizens with relics, Your Majesty. If it came to it.”

Fetohep shook his head.

“An army of children with relics will have them taken away. The conceit of Khelt was always its champions without end. My predecessors left other contingencies. Khelt’s palace itself could destroy an army. Razzimir’s Arrows still remain, and we have great weapons in the vaults. These are backup plans, however. Could I make mighty war on Flos of Reim if he were to attack tomorrow? The haughty Terandrians upon their steeds, wearing shells of armor like craven beetles crawling upon my sands?”

His eyes flashed as he considered his enemies descending upon Khelt.

“Yes. And I might throw their armies back four times, eight, a dozen! For they are, by and large, forces made up of this era and lesser than Khelt’s safeguards. But the armies that would have risen without end, millions upon millions of undead—are gone. No object, even the Reinhart’s famous Crown of Flowers, could match Khelt’s endless undead. From the wall of might that surrounded and enveloped every inch of Khelt—”

He lifted a clenched fist, and then it opened. The ruler of Khelt laced his hands together and then let them drift apart. Like a solid foundation becoming a net. Porous.

He himself was a warrior that Alked would have refused to try and kill in an unfair fight. But he could not be everywhere. Perhaps another king, a lesser king would claim that a hammer was all that was needed to instill fear.

But other kings did not hold the life of even a single child of Khelt above their own. Now—when they called for help. None might come.

That knowledge weighed on Fetohep, like Farmer Colovt might stare over a precious field of grain now vulnerable to swarms of pests. Rodents, nibbling, sneaking in. Raiding insects…how was he to protect it all, now? And when the great sandstorm came—he had no army to hold it back and build a wall out of bodies. No legions to pave a road over sea or drag the sky down that it might kneel.

“Then—what of the Revenants? Why did Serept’s half-Giants and the Vizir leave?

Now Fellbow was outraged both parties had gone. Right until Fetohep chuckled again.

“I doubt they knew how Khelt’s armies functioned. They knew their rulers had passed—but even the Vizir is no actual death-mage. Nor can he comprehend a world in which Khelta could ever have a flaw. I would have persuaded both to stay. Had I the time or ability to say it without ears. If possible, I will find them and ask them to return. Sand at Sea remains, and their crew will be invaluable.”

That covered most of Fellbow’s questions. They had undead…but they’d be generic undead, and Khelt had few actual [Necromancers] of talent. Fetohep had riches…and it made him a target. Khelt was famous, powerful—and fragile.

“So what now, Your Majesty? You’ve taken the time to confide in me. What can I do?”

Fetohep looked at the Named-rank adventurer, who had now become one of the pillars upon which Khelt needed to stand. He turned to face the statues, and his voice sunk low to a whisper.

“You know Pewerthe, Alked?”

“Your successor.”

The man saw Fetohep nod almost imperceptibly. The gloom in this hallway of statues could be alleviated with a thousand lights, but the two stood in darkness. The statues seemed emptier now, emptier of whatever they had been meant to hold. Fetohep reached out—and his fingers nearly brushed Xierca’s stone face.

“If I should ever perish, she must lead. The functions that raise her as a Revenant—well, I should like her to live before serving in death. But I must not fall. I must not die. I will leave her catastrophe, and this is mine to bear. Yet look upon these eighteen, Alked.”

He walked down, reciting names.

“Xierca, Izimire, Akhta, Razzimir. Zushe-Greso, Tkayl…”

He knew all eighteen. And when he reached Khelta, he walked back. And each one seemed taller than him, for all many had been shorter.

“I regret it, Alked Fellbow. I regret I am the one. Not because I am not willing, but because I am incompetent. Lesser. 3/10.”

Fellbow didn’t get that reference, nor could Fetohep truly smile. He looked at the statues.

“I am not Khelta, who could replenish our armies again and again. I do not have His-Xe’s ambitions, which led his armies to wage war like thunder—he could have rebuilt our mortal forces. Dolenm was a visionary who had the techniques of countless nations in mind—Serept forged mighty arms, and he was a warrior surpassing ten of me. Emrist’s scourges would have humbled even Roshal’s dark confidence, Xierca had thrice my age and wisdom; her pacts would have called a fourth of the world to our aid at need. Razzimir threw back Crelers…”

Each one of the rulers seemed to rise before the shrinking Revenant. Fetohep slowed.

“…I am lesser than all my predecessors and their various greatnesses. Mistake me not, Alked. I am a ruler wise enough to know his own worth. I was chosen by Xierca for this age. She did not wish another Izimire. I know…people.”

He touched his chest, as if still remembering how the heart beat.

“I know the hearts of folk and how to rule. I have studied rulership where the other of Khelt’s leaders sometimes did not. Would that I had any one of their talents instead, for this time. I would have made a fine king of peace. Not now. Not this.”

Alked listened to Fetohep talk. And he realized…the undead was having a bad dream. A terrible nightmare, the nightmare of nightmares.

This was what Fetohep had feared. What he had thought would not come to pass, but the thing every ruler since Khelta had feared.

I shall be my kingdom’s end. It shall be my fault because I was incompetent.

“It is not, Your Majesty. You—this was unavoidable. You could not have foreseen this.”

“Does it matter?”

Fetohep looked up. He turned to Alked.

“I will not stop striving until the last grain of dust in Khelt remains, the last soul. But Fellbow. I have no safety to offer you nor your family any longer. No confidence in the future. Knowing this—will you still serve Khelt? None could hold it against you if you changed your mind. My offer to you was false, though neither of us knew it at the time.”

He gazed at Alked, and the Named-rank took a deep breath. Fetohep did know people. So he should have known…the man who had slain monsters and people every day of his life since he was fourteen replied slowly.

“Your Majesty, I grew up in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. It was not kind to a Hemp-boy. But I prospered through work and blood and sweat and tears. When I came to Khelt, I thought I had won a kind of luck I never had before. But that is not why I’m here.”

He pointed down and looked at Fetohep.

“I have thrown myself behind Khelt. When you called, I went, and I rode with a [Hero] and the King of Destruction to save lives a continent away. I saw the end of an age and the kind of magic that even [Archmages] quailed at. I am not going to leave. I have one demand of you, sire. Tell me, truly and honestly. Beyond the threats to Khelt. What are we facing?

Like the hunter he was, he was straining to see the real quarry, the real monster sneaking up on them. He had not forgotten why Fetohep first raised the alarm. The King of Khelt’s eyes brightened. His reply was simple.

“Soul-devouring monsters, Fellbow. Consumers of spirit who devour even the spawn from beyond the world’s edge. Even legends. They have haunted the lands of the dead for aeons. Now—they have eaten the souls of all who ever died. Khelta told me they will come for us next. They cannot be slain with Skill nor even relics of the kind you possess. Yet they will be fought and brought down. That is our foe.”

Fellbow’s skin crawled as he tried to imagine it. He pressed Fetohep, but the King lifted a hand.

“I know—names. Names I shall never utter. I know a word that cannot be spoken. Nor can I think of it—I will show it to you, but it may injure you just to comprehend it.”

Even now, his mind was trying to blank out the way Khelta had told him to write it. Fetohep shook himself and went on as Fellbow listened.

“There are six—perhaps five, or even four or two, by now. The dead may have exacted their vengeance. But the remaining will still be threats that require our all, everyone’s all to battle.”

“Why not shout the alarm across the entire world? Unify them!”

It was only logical. In response, Fetohep shook his head.

“I have been assured that would be dangerous. The more who know, the stronger they become. And I was told…some will join them. As traitors and cowards do. But some—some will worship them.”

What that meant was beyond Alked’s ken, but the Named-rank felt the weight of Fetohep’s warning upon him. In silence, the two men stood and passed through that dark night.

Dawn would always come.

“So, Your Majesty. What is the first step? What allies…can you call upon if Khelt’s weakness is revealed? Perhaps the King of Destruction might agree to an alliance?”

Fetohep’s chin rose.

“I will not beg nor show weakness, Fellbow. We will begin with what we have. For now—Khelt changes.”

 

——

 

At dawn, Fetohep of Khelt let Alked go, weary from a night of talk. He made a proclamation, as he greeted the dawn, to his people, and it spread through Khelt.

“My people. I shall have you level.”

A crowd of crowds gathered in the place he had chosen. Not the greatest of places, but that treacherous footpath of clay bricks. There were no rats and beetles, and the ground, he knew, was uncomfortable. People shifted as they listened to him, despite their adoration.

It was fitting. Humble, yet Fetohep stood grandly as he spoke. He knew that there were probably people who would report this to the Mage’s Guild—in pride, for there were still few [Spies] in his lands. If he wanted it, he could find himself on television.

What an irony, that. Fetohep had been told he had an unsurpassing number of [Messages] and even physical letters in the night. Apparently, boatloads of letters had come across the sea, and the [Mages] had finally sorted through his royal correspondence…and he had literally thousands of letters from mundane individuals next.

He would attend to it after this. Fetohep’s speech was short and to the point.

“It is my will that the undead who have labored so long in service of us all—rest. I ask you to go and level. As [Bakers], as [Cleaners], even as common laborers in the field. Chafe your hands upon soil. Work—and sweat—and even bleed for the class you find most worthy. There is no class without merit. You have seen how Khelt impresses the rest of the world with its splendor. Now—I will make you the jewels upon Khelt’s crown to lay on Chandrar and the world’s head.”

It was not a bad speech, and they cheered him, but they would have cheered him passing wind. Nor did he lie—not exactly, not as a truth stone picked it up. Any class had merit.

…But they needed them. His subjects took his speech with a will, and his [Magistrates] and other officials gave them ideas to test—from learning the art of swords to all the things that would be needed.

At least they loved it. At least, Fetohep vowed, it would not be them working until their fingers were blistered and bloody. Not here.

He felt like this was good enough. Fellbow had offered to train the most promising of Fetohep’s subjects, organize the best trainers—and Khelt did have many high-level folk—even find worthy people to recruit from elsewhere.

So Fetohep had anticipated the worst was over, for now. He had set every ball rolling…safeguarded Khelt’s interests and hidden their weakness. Now, he could rest.

—He believed that right up until he went back to his throne room, sat down, and the most painful event thus far struck him. Struck him as he had never been wounded, even his death-wounds in battle.

Fetohep got fan-mail.

 

——

 

The letter, well, the first letter that made him realize what was happening was not poorly written.

Alright, it was. The handwriting was decent…and that was all you could say about it. Unlike the [Merchants] begging to do business, the invitations from nobility to come to some ball a continent across and maybe invite them in return or offer them citizenship, a note from Chieftain Feshi—

Fetohep had been smiling until he read this one. It began poorly.

 

Dear Your Majesty,

 

The…Fetohep knew people didn’t know how to address rulers most of the time. The endless protocols of how to write from monarch to monarch, duke to lesser lord, and so on were complex. But this? He was intrigued as he saw it was parchment, barely foolscap, not paper.

 

My name is Luresh Greenpaw. I am a Gnoll in the Greepaw Greenpaw tribe and my Chieftain is Orelighn. We have not met but I know you from the scrying orbs. You were at the Meeting of Tribes and helped the Doombearers. My tribe helped too. I wasn’t there because I’m only 11 but we were on the Doombearer’s side with Tribe Weatherfur.

You are a good person. My [Shaman] says that even if you are an undead, you are better than a lot of the Drakes and Humans. My father thinks so too. My mother says you look a bit rotten but you saved my people. Thank you.

So can you send your armies back and please protect my tribe? Chieftain Orelighn is worried we’ll be attacked by the Drakes. All the cities still hate us, and our warriors are patrolling all the time. Someone shot arrows at one of our wagons yesterday. And Khelt has lots of gold, my [Shaman] says. 

Can Greenpaw have some? Chieftain Orelighn helps us farm, and we have a crashed metal thing, but none of that made us gold. I saw how rich Khelt was and I would like to try some of the cooking you have.

Even if you can’t send food and gold, if you could stop the Drakes from attacking us, I’d sleep a lot better. 

Thank you, 

—Luresh Greenpaw

 

The King of Khelt stared at that letter for so long one of his servants asked, timidly, if all was well. Fetohep looked up after sixteen minutes.

“I…are there more letters from civilians, not [Merchants] or ‘important’ individuals? Sort them for me.”

The team of his people did. Fetohep found another letter and opened it.

 

To King Fetohep of Khelt,

Sire, I’m writing you from Taimaguros. My name I have to withhold because I fear this letter will be found. You may not know Taimaguros, but I believe a king of your wisdom can inquire. 

If you are aware—at all—of the strife between Taima and Guros, I implore you to ignore that. That…that is not what is killing our citizens.

Taima and Guros are rich. We are part of a massive empire and yet there are people, good people who work as hard as can be, nevermind what is said about us, who cannot feed ourselves. The classes of [Serfs] and [Peasants] are rife within Terandria.

When I saw Khelt’s paradise, I didn’t believe it with my own eyes. Then I looked up and saw how much gold flows into the coffers and how the laws hold down anyone of our classes. I was lucky enough to be taught how to read and write—and still, I watch my fellow people starving.

We’ve protested. We’ve begged, and soldiers of the Taimaguros Dominion have put down our requests with bloody death. I have asked for anyone to hear us—and good people do, who I will not disclose here for fear of retaliation. 

You, surely, are one such. Even the Taimaguros Dominion might listen to the King of Khelt speaking on our matters. Even a word on a scrying orb or the Queen of Arbiters weighing our case—if she asks, there are thousands for her to look into.

I know I may never set foot on Chandrar, but I hope for just a moment of the wisdom and goodness that led you to fight for another people on Izril. Thank you,

—Anonymous

 

It was probably a trap. Or fake. That was Fetohep’s first instinct as a canny ruler. But let’s assume it was fake. This one was fake.

The fourteenth letter had him calling for a rare cup of liquor fit for undead.

 

—[Mercenaries] will kill everyone in our village without us paying. Can we move to Khelt? We don’t have to live in your kingdom, but we’ll work hard. Our entire village of Lizardfolk have no one to turn to. The Great Companies don’t listen—

—a single squad of undead. Just ten of them would scare away anyone—

—[Lord] has assaulted my daughters. He denies everything, and his men have threatened my life. No one can bring him to justice, but the King of Khelt can—

—-please let us come to Khelt. If not, I can pay for my little brother to go to—

 

I saw you on the scrying orb. I think you’re a good man. 

I need your help.

They were—there were hundreds of them, and Fetohep wondered how many ships had delayed sending mail. It was still cheaper, far cheaper, to send a slow letter than a single [Message] spell. And there were [Messages] too. People with names, identities he could reasonably verify and look into.

He selected twenty for a [Spymaster] to verify and report back on. Fifty-eight letters in and Fetohep was assured that seventeen were real, the last three either false or harder to verify.

He had never considered this. In Jecaina’s scrying orb broadcast, even as prescient as he’d been—Fetohep had not realized that to invite the world’s eyes upon him was to also receive the world’s pleas.

Perhaps the other rulers had received the like. But they were mortals, with limited time and people who filtered their correspondence. Fetohep?

He read and read—and he saw the naked pleas, sometimes gagging with desperation. You could help.

He could. He could speak the name of that [Lord] who had attacked a girl, and an investigation would be launched. It would offend another sovereign nation’s dignity, but Khelt could do it.

The Greenpaw Tribe was not some vast group—a single group of a hundred undead might well scare away most forces.

He did not have a hundred undead to spare. He could not take in even a fraction of the people begging for citizenship.

Of course, Fetohep knew that. He had always been isolationist and placed Khelt’s people above all others.

It was just that he did not always see—no, he had never seen so many reaching out for aid. Nor had they ever spoken to him like this. Him, a Revenant, being begged above their sovereign lords and rulers for mercy, for a scrap of justice.

These rulers. So many letters had people who should have turned to local superiors of some kind for justice, aid, and relief. And so many impugned the character of these [Lords] and [Queens] and…

Too many were Terandrian. Terandria, that continent called so safe? Why were so many people starving or wanting for justice?

The King of Khelt stared at the pile of letters. He’d begun sorting them, unconsciously, into actionable and inactionable piles. Some people he could legitimately not help, unless he wanted to send a ship with undead across the world or hire mercenaries.

But some just required a word. A word such as ‘shame’.

Pheislant. He could address House Havrington within the hour on one of the broadcasting television stations. A five-minute address and the claims—without naming any victims—and it would be done.

But what if House Havrington retaliated? It could well become an issue with Pheislant, and they might fear Khelt. Yes, they certainly did.

…But one ship sunk and he would have to make a point. And he had no armies. He could hire mercenaries, make a show of—

The letters sat there and built up. And built up—until Fetohep had to stand away. Stand away, and stare across his city as he heard voices ringing upon his ears. He made his worst mistake, by asking one of his [Spy]-contacts to send him an image of one of the letter-senders.

Then he could think of nothing at all. Until a [Message] arrived from an important source, one directly to him. And never in his life had Fetohep ever been so grateful to be blackmailed.

 

——

 

Fetohep of Khelt looked—charitably—like someone had taken him, hung him up like a scarecrow, and beaten him with a stick for the last nine hours.

Oh, his garb was immaculate. His body unchanged. But something about the way he slumped, the vacant stare—and he was an undead, it was all technically vacant—

Something about all that had his servants fluttering to ask him if he needed something. Fetohep didn’t even have his perfect posture upon his throne.

He just…

Sat there.

Never once before, in Fetohep’s life as a mortal man or as ruler of his nation, had he ever felt so worthless.

Like the beetles the rat had devoured. This emotion, he realized, was shame. Such an odd thing to feel because they were not his people who begged him, who suffered.

Yet he was ashamed because he had the means to help and he did not. Or—had.

No, the King realized. He was ashamed for more than just the people and his inaction.

He was ashamed—outraged—that the men and women who ruled these suffering people dared to call themselves rulers. He was ashamed that their classes and levels didn’t fall from their worthless souls. They were unworthy, and if he could but punish them—

His eyes glowed, trapped lighthouses of glorious intention trapped in the sockets. He ignored his servants until Pewerthe came before him. Then the King stirred—but she just placed something in front of him.

Pewerthe, clever Pewerthe, said no great speeches to her King. The tongue of the [Potter of Secrets] had spoken enough when she saw his suffering.

Now, she placed before him a little stone that spoke, and a voice entered the silence of his throne room as his servants left.

“Hey…is this thing on? Fetohep? How’s it hanging, buddy?”

The King of Khelt’s head rose. He hesitated—and then the banked flames grew, like the fire, like a smile across the world as someone sat in her room and leaned over the speaking stone.

“Erin Solstice. You were not taught to speak to royalty?”

“Yep. But it never took. I heard from Kevin that you needed to talk. I told you—call me any time.”

“I had not thought to. Pewerthe, my heir, contacted you in my place.”

“Well, there you go, then. Smart. I told you I didn’t need to be a [Queen].”

Suddenly, Fetohep was leaning over his throne, speaking in such common parlance, even—chattily—that no one could quite believe it when they first saw it. But then, the King of Khelt had few people he regarded as equals. So no wonder Flos, Orthenon, the Herald of the Forests, the Blighted King, and all the people he had met never heard this side of him.

“I believe I had contacted you before our weekly meeting. Regarding the child.”

What did Mrsha do this time? Is she still begging for money? Mrshaaaaa—don’t run! You know what you did!

The exasperated [Innkeeper] made Fetohep chuckle.

“No. My apologies. The other child. Satar.”

“Wh—oh. Satar. Right. All them books you’re sending her. Er—as you were, Mrsha.”

Erin coughed into the scrying stone, and Fetohep decided to expand his lexicon when referring to people he was acquainted with.

“And your doings of late?”

“Um. Well, I told you the Albez stuff is mostly sorted. I just sorta laid Sprigaena down there the other day. Bam. I hit this half-Elf I know with it. She was pretty mad.”

“I believe the Claiven Earth, among other half-Elven enclaves, are in a frenzy. I did not inquire into the matter. Yet.”

“Yeah. It was a thing.”

She said that as if one said the name of Elves regularly. But despite her cheery, if not impertinent and casual tones, the [Innkeeper] and the Revenant were not silly gossipers. Fetohep did that with Kevin.

“What’s wrong, Fetohep? Your heir made it sound bad.”

He hesitated. Relating the entirety of this—of the letters needed a preface. So he began with the easier topic.

“I have just received my first—request. From someone aware of Khelt’s issues.”

“…Who?”

The voice became sharp and quiet, and Fetohep replied quickly.

“The same. The Quarass of Germina beseeched Khelt, in light of our mutual alliance during the Meeting of Tribes and the munificence of Khelt to its neighbor in the Shield Kingdom of Germina…”

“Yeah?”

“…to provide some small relief in the forms of what I took to be lumber, gold, and Water Gems—Ger’s oasis is strained by the increasing population, I gather.”

“So what did you do?”

Fetohep flicked his fingers.

“I answered her request graciously and immediately. It is a trifling favor that I am sure the Quarass will remember.”

Just like she was going to remember Khelt’s weakness. Erin Solstice huffed.

“She’s gonna keep asking, isn’t she?”

“Naturally. But as it comes to neighbors in aid…”

The Quarass was, ironically, the best and worst person to be blackmailing Khelt. Mostly because she was usually good at it. She would ask for whatever she needed—but not drain Khelt. By the same token, though—it was impossible to get her to stop.

The problem with an immortal ruler was that even if you killed her, the next Quarass would remember all your weak points and be holding a grudge. Nevertheless, as Fetohep related, that was the most pleasant part of his morning.

“I’d beat her up, if I were you. I’d be like, ‘hey! You can’t do that!’ And then she’d probably take revenge. Which is why I would have been a terrible Queen of Khelt. Like, a total Izimire.”

Fetohep actually twitched about that. His reply was thoughtful.

“That is your claim, Erin. I see how you would come to it—but I would have placed you as another Emrist. Or Heris.”

She started laughing at that, and he joined in. Because—obviously—the second and eighth rulers of Khelt had both been hugely influential. Great, glorious—and Emrist’s Scourgeriders had blasted entire nations. Heris, after Khelta had passed, had sent the Vizir Hecrelunn and her armies on a collision course with her neighbors and established Kheltian dominance for good.

It was a joke only the two of them and the Quarass would get—and the Quarass wouldn’t be laughing after what Heris had done to her armies.

Then, as Erin stopped giggling, Fetohep spoke.

“My—indisposition was not due to the situation in Khelt. Alked Fellbow was instrumental in assuaging some of my fears on that matter incidentally.”

“Told you that you could trust him. You can always trust archer-guys. Halrac, Bird, Badarrow—they’re my guys.”

Erin was smug, despite her method of vouching for people being entirely inane. Fetohep rolled the flames in his eyes, but he felt—relieved.

Relieved to talk to someone about this. The speaking stone was encrypted, but the two of them were careful to be somewhat secretive. Nevertheless, it was then that Fetohep decided he needed to tell her.

“I received letters. That was why I felt such a—dismay. May I read the first to you? It would illustrate my chagrin.”

“Sure.”

It was almost as if she knew what he would get before he did. No—it surprised her for the first few lines. He heard her gasp when he read the young Greenpaw’s letter. Then it seemed like she knew every line of why so many letters had poured in.

“It sounds like home. Only, there aren’t many Fetoheps. There are a lot of King Poos.”

“Please stop giving the High King nicknames.”

Erin chuckled, but suddenly her voice had the same strain as his. Fetohep regretted that—and more words came spilling out of him, though his lungs and throat were long since decayed.

“I regret it. I am sorry, Erin Solstice.”

“For galloping an army across a sea? For saving Mrsha’s life and everyone else’s? Don’t be silly.”

She sniffed—and Fetohep knew that these were great accomplishments. He still felt as alive as the day he had run across Chandrar, racing time to do what had to be done.

Yet now—he clenched one fist upon his throne, and his voice rose. He could not help it. The palace still echoed with his tones, and his subjects looked up. At their king’s impotent emotions. Those flames…

They were the colors that Erin thought of when she thought of Fetohep. More than glory. Not the same as happiness. Great purpose made manifest. Probably, in time—

She had yet to give that emotion a name. But it was his, in every part of his voice as he confessed.

“If Khelta had been wrong, Erin Solstice. If her prediction had not come true, I would have taken my armies and placed them across Izril rather than returning all I could to Khelt. The first thing I would have done would be to send to Magnolia Reinhart. For her, I would have built that bridge between north and south. Sent a hundred thousand laborers to realize that vision.”

He could see it, pointing his armies to march past the Walled Cities with their standards on high. Facing down the haughty Drakes, placing them around tribes and safeguarding the Gnolls’ lands.

“What else would you have done?”

Erin encouraged the undead king, and Fetohep went on, speaking from that dream that would never be.

“The next deed would be Liscor. An army—led by Salui or Hecrelunn.”

“Whoa, whoa. I don’t want—”

“As you have so pettily done, Erin Solstice, I return your ‘shush’. Silence a moment. I would pass by that inn upon the hill or tarry my forces only long enough to see Hecrelunn’s humiliation anon. Then—Khelt’s legions would pour into that dungeon and root out the last monsters. End that place and march onwards.”

Erin was just breathing, but Fetohep knew she was listening. He stared at that image. And then reality. Now, he hesitated, for even the off-chance of saying this next part was dangerous. So he couched his language and knew she understood.

“I would have used my forces to prepare for a war—that great war. I would have prepared by making Khelt the enemy of mortal foes. By destroying those it would be better never to stand with. No matter the cost—I would hammer out that alliance that even Khelta would admire. I would have done these things, you see. If only.”

His voice was so filled with regrets the [Innkeeper] was silent a moment. As if searching for things to say.

“I have let you down, Erin Solstice. And Khelta. I should have apologized to her.”

That was all he said. His head lowered, and the speaking stone threatened to slip from his fingers as Fetohep’s eyes and will faded—until a voice snapped through the speaking stone.

Don’t be disgraceful.

Fetohep jerked upright. The female voice who snapped at him sounded young—but older. It sounded—

Well it sounded a bit like Xierca, for all it was a tongue, not the tones of graceful undeath. Erin Solstice’s voice rolled around the throne room.

“Let her down? Let us down? When I despaired and the ghosts stood alone and even legends were afraid—Khelt stood with us. Khelt’s king rode across Chandrar. Not the Mages of Wistram. Not the Walled Cities. Not the Blighted Kingdom or any other. One kingdom fought alongside the dead. And you know something, Fetohep? Khelt’s finest hour wasn’t then. Your people are alive.”

“I have nothing to give them. Nor those reaching for help.”

How ridiculous. He should be encouraging her. But—everyone needed this. Erin Solstice’s voice was firm.

“You don’t? You’re Fetohep of Khelt. You are the last part of Khelt still standing—that’s more than they have. They know it. You’re better than their stupid rulers, and that’s why they’re asking.”

Erin Solstice paused, and then her voice grew softer.

“You—of them all, you would have been a fun king. Even for me.”

She didn’t linger on the words, but they touched him. Erin Solstice went on, her voice growing louder, rushing over the greatest compliment any monarch might ever receive.

“You might not have armies—but you have Khelt’s treasures. Don’t stop now. How much money did you say you had?”

“Enough to destabilize the idea of economy. I have treasures, but no arms to hold them.”

“What? Don’t you have guests? Y’know, Fetohep, it’s better to have friends than a treasury. At least, I think so. Again—bad ruler. I’d leave you all broke. You still have a lot. So, uh—buck up, alright? That means don’t give up. If Mrsha can go to school, anything’s possible.”

Fetohep realized he was sitting up again. He leaned back against his throne and, despite himself, chuckled.

“That cannot have been easy. Tell me about it.”

So she did. They spoke lighter then, and Fetohep felt more himself after that. Indeed…he thought the same held true for her. Especially when his eyes flared and he had an idea.

A poor ruler reacted to situations. He had done a lot of criticizing of late without looking in a mirror. But after speaking to her—Fetohep was reminded who he was.

Ruler of Khelt. King of Khelt. Not the egotistical vanity of someone else. A man, just a man, chosen by Khelta’s hand through the ages to be the best. So—he promised the [Innkeeper] he’d try.

 

——

 

The [Mercenaries] of Dovive arrived in the palace later that morning. They’d been beset, again, by people offering the delicate breakfasts, although today a lot of the subjects were trying their hand at new crafts with a will.

Still, the nervous group of men and women checked their stitching and clothing as they lined up. They were accorded all the hospitality of the palace and offered rooms to visit or fine food of their own to dine on while they waited.

Herdmistress Geraeri and the Gnoll Chieftains were visiting Fetohep first.

Unlike his gloom of before, the King of Khelt was sitting on his throne in dynamic fashion. One leg crossed over another, sitting with the crown of rulers upon his head as a [Fashionista] held up a series of clothing sets he sorted through.

The Centaurs of Zair were nervous—but the Herdmistress had been greatly compensated for her deeds—in levels as well as wealth. Even so, she had to wonder what Fetohep wanted this time.

“Herdmistress Geraeri, have you breakfasted as of yet?”

It was a mark of Fetohep that he did ask the people so conscientiously about something he, personally, would never have issue with. The king waited until she said that she had, then, as the Gnolls listened, he pointed at a suitable garb.

“Have it prepared within the hour. Herdmistress, will you indulge me in the way of the People of Zair with a story?”

Of all the things to ask—she recovered and bowed with a smile.

“The exchange of stories is one great custom of ours. What might I offer you?”

Fetohep rested a finger upon his emaciated lips.

“Tell me, Herdmistress—how did the People of Zair come to Chandrar? Yours are not a native people to this land. It is my understanding a rift forced your departure from Baleros.”

Her smile slipped. That was a sore point, still, but she nodded.

“It is a long and mighty tale. To do it justice, I would convene the lesser clan leaders and storytellers and make it a feasting tale of ten days over a festival. Full of anger, grief, nostalgia, and, of course, reenactments. Should I declare such a day or will you settle for a simpler version?”

The King of Khelt smiled, for she was not without her own pride and pushback. He lifted a hand and seemed to reach—part of his hand vanished as the Herdmistress saw the familiar trick, the Skill.

“My inquiry is not meant of vanity’s sake or to offend. Rather, I candidly ask, Herdmistress, for you are a citizen of Khelt. I regard you as such.”

“The People of Zair—”

She was worried because he had promised them such independence. Fetohep nodded.

“—may choose. But you have done me such services that I am compelled to ask. For you are Khelt’s great champion, Herdmistress. So I ask again—what are the People of Zair’s story? What great grievance is left unchecked? It is the same question I shall ask of the Gnolls.”

He glanced at the Chieftains. Then he withdrew what he had found.

He had offered Geraeri and her people blades to fight at the Meeting of Tribes. This time—even Fetohep’s great strength shifted in order to hold the suit of linked armor aloft. Geraeri blinked, and a Gnoll made a sound.

She had never, ever seen Adamantium chain-mail before. Let alone…her eyes widened as they went over the dangling object. Fetohep needed nine servants to hold the huge, complex piece of armor aloft. In two parts.

It was a kind of torso, helmet, and armpieces—all linked chainmail—and a barding of the same. Barding—for a horse.

Armor for a Centaur.

“It was customary for Serept to make armor for every species. This was the Adamantium piece he forged as proof of his mastery. It was gifted to a Centaur of Baleros he held in great esteem and reclaimed in ages since. Herdmistress, I have no other sets so fine, but my vaults hold many bows. Arrows and blades—yet these are the meanest of my tokens. Far better to have cornucopias and potions to heal, rather than harm. Hence my question. Do the People of Zair still have a dream left unanswered?”

He leaned over upon his throne. The golden eyes glittered—then turned to the Chieftains.

“And you, Chieftains of the Tribes—your peoples are scattered. You stand upon new lands. What will you? Gnolls have walked Chandrar’s soil. Your birthright lies scattered across Izril. Tell me a story, and if it is one that can end without death such as I abhor—then I will arm you with the means to reach the ending.”

Reach the ending? The Centaurs were looking at each other. One whispered.

“We left Baleros an age ago. Our grudge—the other clans are probably dead, some of them.”

“Ships can be arranged. But if it is deed—or reconciliation that awaits—then speak it here, and honestly, Centaur Trall. For Khelt will welcome your people if the Herdmistress settles Zair’s long exile.”

Fetohep’s flaming gaze winked as the Herdmistress was, once again, lost for words. She had to beg a moment to collect her thoughts. The Chieftains were also staring. So, Fetohep summoned the [Mercenaries] of Dovive.

“A time has come, brave warriors, for you to return home.”

“You have been beyond generous, Your Majesty. We shall remember your hospitality—and the wonders of Khelt’s paradise until the end of our days.”

Their leader bowed, but Fetohep lifted a hand.

“Hospitality. Your own bled and died on Izril, Captain Randolen. I have offered you bed and food and friendship—but not my thanks. This is Khelt’s gratitude.”

He clicked a finger, and the [Mercenaries] turned as servants strode forwards. They planted blades on the ground, and the warriors gasped.

Mithril-enchanted glaives and a set of the same metal stood on the proud servants of Khelt, who modeled the armor—a full set for each warrior.

“Your Majesty! For us?”

The King of Khelt nodded.

“It is my understanding you have served Dovive in times of strife. That—lesser enemies still dog your city. Hounds. Should I send you back armed with naught but thanks and trinkets and hear that one of the brave mortals who dared to ride with the Hero of Zethe had been laid low in battle? No. No—you shall go with armor and weapons and gold.”

“We cannot repay that, Your Majesty—”

The [Captain] was getting kicks from his company, but even a [Mercenary]’s greed could be tempered by this much magic and expense. Especially because he feared there was a catch.

Fetohep’s reply was to chuckle. He gazed at the Centaurs and Gnolls, and then pitched his voice low, in a stage-whisper.

“That you are sons and daughters of Dovive—I shall not offend you by offering you citizenship in Khelt, for you have families and your city alone you surely love.”

He ignored the looks from some of the [Mercenaries] that said they might think about it—if he offered. The King of Khelt went on.

“Dovive needs you. They need the courage it took to join me. So if I send you back, arrayed—the cities who have pledged to Khelt cannot be made part of Khelt. I shall not expand Khelt’s borders recklessly and snap up colonies here and there. Rather, I would have proud allies. If, in however long or short it takes, I should receive a familiar face leading a delegation of proud folk—I will remember Dovive’s name.”

He gestured, and the first blade he took as he rose from the throne. The King of Khelt strode down and offered the glaive to the men and women. He turned and looked at his guests.

“I have a fondness for great tales. I should like to see more told. Indulge my request, and return to your homes heads held high. Then—when we next meet, I shall listen to what you have done.

His eyes met one of the servants, and Pewerthe smiled. Then, Fetohep of Khelt returned to his throne. This was well. This was something.

—But he had more to do. Something far greater that he had come up with. Erin Solstice had heard out his idea as he worked it out, and while she would have ruled differently than he, he listened to her. She was young, and perhaps not as old as he was, and certainly less decorous.

But he trusted it when she laughed.

 

——

 

So it was that the King of Khelt appeared on the scrying orbs. He stood, having booked a time with Wistram News Network and every other television.

For he was Fetohep, and his deeds were legion. He spoke, and a world listened, for it must. Whether it hated him, whether it feared him or admired him or begged for his ear—

He was Fetohep.

They knew him, if not personally, like the little white Gnoll insisting he was her best friend as she sat in school and everyone laughed at her, or the Gnolls like the [Historian] who gathered around and watched him with great expectations—

They knew Fetohep.

He could not answer them directly, the people starving, starving for a blanket or food or security. And it showed. Perhaps, you saw the pinpoints of flame in his eye sockets, his deep regrets as a [Reporter], Drassi, introduced him.

But then they grew, grew with cunning and the knowledge he had learned as a ruler. He could not lift the world upon his shoulders. So this—is what he did.

His robes looked different today. They were golden, to match his eyes. The kind of ostentatious, flashy gold that meant a ray of light hitting them created a sunburst.

Woven truegold, which was not, actually, the most expensive of cloths he had. Yet it was the most showy that even plebian rulers and tasteless mongrels could ‘appreciate’. The High King of Medain was very impressed, for instance, at the sheer gold-cost.

Fetohep had actually replaced his crown with another one that he kept as a spare—that had a massive black diamond embedded in it. It sat too-heavy upon his head, and the flashing rings upon one hand shone as he lifted them.

It was all a show. Such acts, such deeds, might not impress the Quarass, who knew true power and taste, or even the King of Reim, who had seen it too.

But it probably did speak to a petty [Lord] or a young [King].

 

——

 

“What style.

Duke Rhisveri of Ailendamus stopped dead in his tracks as he saw King Itorin II watching the scrying orb. He had never seen someone glitter like that.

Azemith made a gagging motion in silence behind some of the nobles of Ailendamus’ court. Visophecin glared at her. He watched, wondering what Fetohep of Khelt had decided to say.

There was no reason given for the broadcast—only that he had apparently booked the time. Naturally, if it were worthless, he’d lose credibility. Somehow—the Lucifen thought Fetohep knew exactly what he was doing.

 

——

 

Tone. Posture. Intonation. He did not shout, he boomed. His voice had that sense of being loud without seeming as if he was needing to raise it. Commanding.

Even Lady Zanthia of Izril could not point out a flaw to the [Ladies] she was coaching in such things. Fetohep did not gesture wildly with his hands—he emphasized, every few sentences, using a swift, controlled motion to enhance his words.

Not even Pryde could look more arrogant. And even she stared, reluctantly, at someone who was more famous, more accomplished, than she.

Erin Solstice listened with a twinkle in her eyes. And if you were very clever, like Pisces, you could see her lips moving along with the words Fetohep projected.

 

——

 

I am Fetohep of Eternal Khelt, Nineteenth Ruler of the Necrocracy of Koirezune! Protector of Jecrass, Conqueror of Medain and the Claiven Earth—Horselord of the Windswept Lands! My titles are endless. My armies without number. I am Fetohep, King of [Kings]. Look upon my visage, ye mighty, and despair! No nation can equal mine, not in wisdom or greatness or worth of rule.

He spread his arm, and from the palace, the audience could look upon that city of art and wonders, upon streets of banked embers, past orchards blooming next to houses floating in the air. Across murals of the greatest of figures, past rooftops glittering with silver, and mage-lights like contained stars sitting just to illuminate for fancy and joy.

Fetohep turned, and his raiment flashed again.

“I have heard it said—by peonic fools of little worth or perception—that Khelt’s armies alone dignify my nation. That my paradise is merely ‘equivalent’ to a Terandrian kingdom. That I, Fetohep, am not personally superior in every way. I have reserved this moment to prove otherwise. Accompany me, and I shall demonstrate the proof of my words without question.”

He nodded to Drassi, and the [Reporter] bit back a laugh.

“Your Majesty, that is a claim! Khelt is a beautiful paradise, but how can you say you’re better than any city or nation? I think Pallass—and my home city—and about every other nation is about to call in and dispute that!”

Fetohep lifted a ringed finger.

“The proof is indisputable, Miss Drassi. Nor will I be so quaintly absurd as to compare ‘feeling’ or anything as pathetic as the weight of history. Or edifice. What makes a great ruler?”

“L-levels?”

That threw Drassi for a second. She looked at Fetohep, and he drew himself up.

Arrogance. The king was arrogant. He had always been so—but his true talent was unsurpassing arrogance. And—proving it. That was what he did to visitors of Khelt. Now, Fetohep adopted a tone that was less superior and more lecturing. He produced something from the folds of his robes like a magic trick, but it was not.

Like a [Poet] in repose, he lifted a simple object up. It was a handful of petals, the audience saw, soft and blue. The king poised there.

“Is it levels? Truly, Miss Drassi? Such a simple opinion. Should we look at strutting peacocks of rulers and compare their attire? Their personal qualities? I am a King. No. The weight of monarchs is in the value of their nations.”

“That sounds reasonable. So, do you compare that in landmass, army size, uh, the amount of gold you earn per year?”

Fetohep dismissed this.

“Another misguided notion. The worth of a ruler is reflected, surely, in the quality of his kingdom. To the wagging dogs who claim their steadings are superior to mine—I challenge anyone to do this. Via scrying orb—this is how you tell the worth of a kingdom.”

Then he opened his hand, and the flower petals flew out. They caught along a breeze that may-or-may not have been engineered by a [Mage] in the background, and everyone saw one of the petals was painted gold.

They danced upon the wind, a shower of blue, and that piece of gold flew off towards one of the many streets below. Fetohep pointed.

“There. Chance shall inform our passage. After all—when a ruler tours his nation, he must not follow pre-planned routes. When he goes, it is quietly and in disguise. So—observe.”

He clicked his fingers, and his robes changed to mundane brown. Fetohep covered his face with a scarf, like a veil, and gestured to the camera crew. He descended into the streets, following where the golden petal had landed.

What was he doing? The audience was following along as Fetohep kept up a running monologue, and now the ruler was speaking almost conversationally, but clearly.

“In any city—let alone the capital—walk the streets, unnoticed. For if a [King] is seen to be coming, all he will find is facade and false masks. But here—look at what you see. Do you see elements of crime? Do you see a [Beggar] upon the streets?”

He pointed left and right as they headed down what turned out to be a residential district. Fetohep turned, randomly, and glanced down.

“Trash upon the ground? Do you witness rodents?”

“Is that proof of being a ruler?”

“Is it not? If I searched, I could not, with will, find a starving man or woman. Nor child. Nor am I merely a king who rules from the balcony. Observe—child!”

Fetohep spotted a little boy playing alone. He was probably five, and he seemed unconcerned with danger. When he saw the camera crew—and the undead Revenant staring down at him—the boy froze.

Even knowing his king, the deathly face was probably scary. He put a finger in his mouth—but Fetohep knelt.

“Do you know who I am?”

“The King?”

The boy could speak, and he toddled over with wide eyes. He almost plucked at Fetohep’s robes before perhaps realizing he should not, but the King of Khelt offered him an arm. And the boy, recognizing the gesture, hopped into it.

“Touch what you will. Are you, perchance, bored, child? What is your name?

“Eithr?”

The boy looked uncertain, and Fetohep lifted a hand. He produced a simple object as he lifted it out of his vaults.

“Indeed so. Then take this and tell me if it spins well. Have you ever seen such a toy?”

The little spinner was painted silver, and when the boy whirled it, he watched it zoom into the air with delight. He hesitated, wanting to squirm out of Fetohep’s grip, but the ruler simply placed the boy down—then leapt up, caught the spinner as it flew over a roof, and landed.

He handed it back to the open-mouthed boy and the camera crew. Then he turned to the audience.

“If one could find a child—any child—as they walked the streets of Khelt who told me they were hungry and showed signs of starvation, I would throw myself into the sea. You, who impugn Khelt—if the youngest in your lands want for food, you are worthless maggots not worthy to be trodden under my boots.”

The little boy looked impressed as Fetohep jabbed a finger at the camera. Then the [King] bent.

“Tell me, child. Would you care to accompany me for ten minutes? Your parents…?”

“There.”

The boy pointed at a man and another man about to faint into each other’s arms. Fetohep nodded.

“Then allow me to prove another superior quality of a ruler. That—of one who can entertain even a small child by virtue of deed. Even for such a passingly short time as half an hour. A dulcimer.”

He requested the item and was handed it. Then—to everyone’s astonishment, Fetohep sat cross-legged on the ground and played a song to Eithr’s delight. He could play—and he knew the songs of the day.

Even drinking songs. Fetohep let the boy pluck on the strings, showing him how it was done.

“A ruler, Miss Drassi—should be one that can entertain a child. In his or her lands, one should not be able to find one who is hungry for more than half a day. This is but one test of a great nation such as mine.”

“T-there are more?”

For answer, Fetohep produced a ledger and offered it to the camera for inspection. It noted the neat sales and taxes accrued by a [Merchant]—one of those admitted to Khelt.

“Any document within Khelt’s treasury is immediately accessible to me. When we stand, Eithr, we will speak to this [Merchant]—and when we do, the ledger will be correct. A great ruler knows the intricacies of his own laws. Do you see now my point?”

It took some of them a while to do so. But Fetohep slowed, and to the little boy, who seemed interested, and to Drassi and the audience—and his subjects—he halted by an open well.

“Water puts out fires. It feeds a populace. It is one thing to keep a well filled—another from keeping it fouled. Yet in some cities—and I now name Taimaguros, for instance—the city of Bezbekale, I have observed, has no wells in some districts for miles. A pathetic distribution of water. How much time is wasted fetching it for families unlucky enough to live in the ignorance of the ruler’s folly? If a fire breaks out, those nearby are at the mercy of a spellcaster’s presence. Here, one may find water every four thousand feet at most.

Eithr nodded quickly as Khelt’s king rapidly insulted Taimaguros. Then moved onto another target.

“I have heard it said that some rulers are ignorant to the address of law within their nations as well. They rely on the Watch with the pure cotton-thoughtlessness of a Sariant Lamb. I? I shall demonstrate how to weigh law personally—impartially. For if I do not understand the law, how can I take to task those who induct it? The correctness of governance stems from me.”

Now did you see? Drassi was keeping up, asking questions.

“It sounds like you have an entire—plan set up.”

“I have booked Wistram’s time, Miss Drassi. You need not attend, but I shall demonstrate the qualities of fine rulership. And then—consider the most egregious examples of failure I have witnessed. Let us…speak of Pheislant’s Havrington family. Whom I was recently vouchsafed as having evaded the law on multiple counts. Of course, Terandria is far from the only continent of imperfection. In my visits to Nerrhavia’s Fallen, only my good nature and the grace of my dignity have prevented me from commenting on how they have neglected the dues of their Hemp-caste. Things as mundane as the quality of their housing.”

“Some would say, uh—not me—that it’s a free market. That you’ve gotta rely on a good [Landlord].”

And who punishes the landlords for ineptitude? I have, in fact, secured several informants who will perform a spot-tour of one of Nerrhavia Fallen’s districts in…eighteen minutes. Where we will see if we can spot a hungry individual. Or perhaps signs of decay in the foundations of a building. Not that I would expect it of a nation equivalent in stature to Khelt.

The King turned his gaze, and his golden eyes flashed.

“In fact, I have a number of cities we might ask someone with a scrying orb to tour. I have a list of nations claiming superiority over mine. Let me pick a name—unless you have a preference, Miss Drassi? Perhaps Sir Relz’s own Pallass?”

Now you got it. Nerrhavia Fallen’s courts were in a panic—but how could they know which of their countless settlements would have Fetohep’s agents in them?

Yes, he was insulting the nations he was picking out. But it wasn’t an accusation. It was…well.

Quintessential Kheltian ego. So massive it was blotting out the sun. And if you didn’t like it? He had a point. Why wasn’t that person fed? Were the cases of law he indicated correct?

But there was something else. Fetohep was speaking, slowing, and more than one puffed up shroom of outrage listened. They looked at his robes as they shifted back to purest gold, the rings and flash of magic and style, his displays of grandeur, and listened.

“A ruler prioritizes children above sheer monetary gain. One must…one must take the child firmly in hand and feed them a cookie. For how will they learn if they are not fed? Beating, neglect are the acts of barbarous brutes. These children become the foundational soldiers and crafters and adventurers of your nation. Neglect them, and you place weakness into your very kingdom. Want of food is failure. Yet fools who bring corruption into your governance are, I have heard it said, inevitable.” 

His tone mocked the very idea.

I know a hundred ways to identify a worthless bureaucrat or petty noble. The first—is promptness of thought! If they cannot tell you, on the spot, how they have spent a gold budget, they do not know. If they must rely on a servant or subordinate to tell you how a grand project will be executed or the status of it, they are ignorant to the very task they have been entrusted with.

This was it. The King had a selection of regal clothing he never wore. He had—ironically—all the time in the world, even with ruling a nation.

He did not have armies. They thought he did, but the King had none. But he had a presence. He had Khelt—

So teach them. By example, by haughty superiority if nothing else—but teach them. From arrogant Wyrms to petty [Lords]—

Show them how it should be done. The King of Khelt turned with his arms spread.

“Paradise comes slowly. But it is never impossible. I will see it done a second time. Do as I do—ask me, you who crave Khelt’s splendor. I shall answer and humiliate every flaw. Until every land is as munificent as Khelt.”

He turned and looked out upon them all. An ancient sight, searching out their worth and unveiling it like an archeologist. A million million gazes rested upon him, and the King of Khelt bore them like a cloak to his pride. Fearlessly proud of their judgement, as ever he had been. But no longer aloof.

To the girls and boys, the [Innkeeper], the little [Druid], the countless children of this world over—

He would have been a fun king. Perhaps a better uncle, or grandfather. A meddlesome undead ruler, inquiring into their health and whether they had dined yet. He belonged to that destiny, an age of gracious rule until the first thing that gave out was his flesh, and he left a hundred generations of peace and gratitude behind.

No more. The King’s eyes burned gold like the purest virtue that Erin Solstice knew when she thought of him. The expression of duty, of love and determination and will. Thence, he stood in Koirezune, in the heart of Khelt. Holding onto his shining pride and heart for as long as it still gleamed upon the sands of Chandrar.

Soon, the vermin would crawl in. The nights grow longer, and the foes grow without number, spilling bile onto his sands. The first looked upon Khelt hungrily from afar. But even when that day came—when the mountains crumbled down and the seas heaved, he would be there. Until his end, turning the tide upon itself.

That proud king heard the first ringing of the bells again. His last century, perhaps far less. His end of days. He rose to meet it with his head held high, the world trailing in his wake.

Fetohep of Khelt.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: So. In theory, I’ve still edited 3 chapters of Volume 1 despite going a teensy, a tiny bit over my projectons.

I know I harp on it every single time, but I will have this V1 rewrite done by the end of the year, at least, the first pass because it takes up too much of my writing power.

You can tell by the reduced quality of the chapters…since I began? I feel like some aren’t bad.

The point is, it’s stressful on me! And yes, rewriting probably is improving my writing level. Also, studying other authors.

I hate doing homework. And sometimes trying to improve is homework, but it’s a bad thing for a writer to stay in their specialty too long. You should expand it. Like an undead king learning to play the dulcimer and dance and stuff.

Anyways, hope you enjoy! I am headed for the end of the year and while it might not be the same bang as other volumes—Volume 9 isn’t going too badly. Right? Hmm. Well, I haven’t seen any more rogue rodents in my house. I’m gonna call that a win. pirateaba away!

 

Backseating, Corn, and Young Rags by LeChatDemon!

 

Colth and Erin by Fiore!

 

Death Card by Ravvlet!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.27 RC

(Gravesong is out now on Yonder! Read the first part of the book here!)

 

 

Some days, he still dreamed of it. Though it had not been long ago and though he had never learned to control his dreams—the man thought it came upon him like a blessing, a vision.

He regretted it. Though they told him he had done everything he could be asked, when he stood in that dream, shining like a ray of goodness down through the blood and grit he knew so well and the light, miraculously, did not tarnish and sully itself from touching him—

Wilovan felt proud. And he thought he should have been there. On that battlefield, a club in his paw. He might have died—but what a cause.

What better time for a man like him? When he rose and dressed himself, putting on casual slacks of Wyvernhide, adjusting his undershirt, jacket, and overcoat that stretched slightly across his chest, his top hat, his tie even, gifted to him by the young Rickel—

He almost wished he’d gone with Lyonette. Even if it led him to that early grave. He had not argued because she’d been right that he was no man for the battlefield; Wilovan had never worn armor. But if he could have vouchsafed his own answer, now, he might have said—

Take me. And take us away from our lives. Use us well, even if we’re to meet our ends faster. 

We’re not good men. You can’t find any where we walk. 

So he tasted it, even now. A kind of longing. And saw it in his partner’s eyes, for all his garb was less ornate by far, the thread-count of the plain brown jacket outnumbered, the simple cap outmatched by the lacework across Wilovan’s vestments, showcasing his chest.

But no less dignified, his counterpart, as they tipped their hats to each other. A regret—for all three dozen lads stood outside their home when the two exited. Each one with a cap, a purpose.

Poor boys. Poor men, too. The kinda cutthroats and thugs and brats who only knew how to win arguments with their fists. Killers, some, not worth saving.

—But they could be better. Never o’erfine. Never good, and their caps held all their sins. Yet you could clothe them well, polish them up until they slept just good enough. So Wilovan sighed. And wondered where he might have been if—

He stared up, past the open gardens and lovely rooftops of the City of Growth. Towards that magnificent tree, the natural city filled with so much of its own goodness.

And creeping vines, parasites on even a fine city such as this. Like the two staring eyes of a Drake wearing a mask. Wilovan blinked.

Ratici ducked—and the other Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings took cover. Wilovan was too slow. The crossbow bolt nailed him straight in the heart, and it was as long as a harpoon.

A Skill-enhanced bolt to kill even a monster like him. The [Assassin] was already running as the shouting began. Wilovan lay on his back.

Get him! Get him and bring him here in pieces—hats off!

A voice roared amidst the shouting—screams from people who didn’t know what was going on. Someone bent over Wilovan as he stared at the sky.

“Wilovan? Wilovan?

The Gnoll’s eyes beheld that glorious sky and the light. And he saw it running away from him, leaving for war and back for that curious city and the inn. They’d let her down like this, hadn’t they? Had they paid…

That debt? His mouth opened, and the Gnoll sighed. The rising sun passed behind a cloud. But somehow—a fragment of it stayed behind.

Wilovan sat up, and the gigantic crossbow bolt morphed into a regular-sized one. It fell, the tip blunted by the impact, and he rubbed at his chest. The Gnoll got up as the fleeing [Assassin] turned in disbelief. He brushed at his chest, and it hurt like the dickens.

But he took his partner’s hand.

“Don’t worry, Ratici—”

The Gentleman Caller smiled, and his eyes flashed. He took off his expensive coat and realized his jacket and overcoat were also torn to shreds. Ah, well.

“—[He Scratched Only Thread].”

His eyes burnt with the same glorious purpose. A fragment captured in his hat. That was enough—but even as Wilovan rose. Even then—

He envied Normen. That lucky bastard. In his dreams, Wilovan longed for that great purpose. Never once…never once had he and Ratici thought they could take off that hat and put on a shining helmet. Walk a different path.

Maybe someday. Not today. So as he rose with grit and blood in his mouth, the Gnoll looked at the young men. Even if they could all one day follow Normen—someone needed to be here. Teaching these idiots who reminded Wilovan of a younger him there was dignity, even in the dirt.

But that dream—he wouldn’t mind having it again. Wilovan put his top hat on his head and grinned into the dawn. Then he went back inside for a new suit.

 

——

 

Skills really were cheating. Poruniv of the Earthtenders got word that his expensive hit on the Gentlemen Callers had failed.

How?

He hadn’t realized the significance of Wilovan’s Skills until now. This one left him staring across his own clothing, his outfit, which resembled the last fashion craze from Terandria. All that lace—he’d strangled a man with it, but he had silk cloth, a fine amulet across his neck—

Imagine if that were like a shield, an armor from any mortal blow.

“That’s a Skill beyond what a bastard like that deserves to get. That’s…that’s Royal-type Skills. He’s not Level 50. We’d know. Someone, check him over. Now. Where’s our [Seers]?”

“Out tending the weeds, boss.”

One of the nervous members of Earthtenders spoke up. They were all part of the gang, here, and Poruniv, a large Drake with a few notable scars, but a respectable man to many who didn’t know him, glared. Earthtenders. Oteslia’s largest—and until now, only—criminal gang of note.

“Out tending the—get them!

He had no time for the colloquial sayings. Not right now. He stood up, and three figures were the only ones who didn’t flinch away.

Ecleeif, the nervous coward of a [Sorcerer].

Zanzeil, wearing his Creler-poisoned blades, his Gnollish fur patchy.

Neverwhine, the Drake [Beast Master] and his huge two-headed dog.

Most of the Earthtenders were Drakes, but they had enough Gnolls to resemble Oteslia’s population, which had the highest Gnoll-to-Drake ratio of any Walled City. They were all over Level 40, Poruniv included.

In the parlance of the gangs, that meant four Faces. Most gangs had only one or two, even the big ones. Ancestors and Cire, a Face could be Level 30+.

Yet somehow—somehow two newcomers, from the North for all they were Drake and Gnoll, had strolled into his city and were forming a rival gang that was eating away at the Earthtenders’ territory. They had thirty-two streets and were fighting across three times that. They had businesses, people had gone to back them—

And the two Gentleman Callers couldn’t be beat. Not that the Faces had clashed much.

They didn’t want to die. For all Poruniv owed the duo for their near-assassination of him, he hadn’t gone to the streets and settled this thing in person. Mostly because he was—wary—of the tricks they had.

Gentlemen Callers. Those were Faces of the North alright. He’d inquired and heard they were unto executioners for their huge gang, the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings. Sometimes, they executed huge heists on [Lords] no one else could.

Sometimes, they took other Faces to task. Yet even so! They were outnumbered by a huge gang. They’d begun recruiting into their own Brothers—but they should be dead.

Should be, except for Skills. Except that Poruniv had worthless subordinates like his officers. Ecleeif was a coward, Neverwhine refused to risk his damn dog, and Zanzeil didn’t trust the others enough to go after the two. Lesser thugs wouldn’t work—he’d given it his best shot, and they’d made it out of the Earthtenders’ headquarters.

“No wonder we don’t have any respect.”

Poruniv had been dining—and counting how much gold he didn’t have this month. Two months after the two Gentlemen Callers had arrived and a third of his profits were gone.

Not just because the two had taken that much territory, oh no. The rest just wasn’t being paid. Idiots were claiming they had already paid, trying to lie and cheat—and of course they did.

They were criminals. Their mistake was thinking they’d get away with it.

“Zanzeil. Take a dozen gardeners. Weed out all the people not being fruitful.”

Ecleeif blanched a bit, and the other [Rogues] hesitated.

“All of ‘em?”

“Get me fifteen big roots. Fifteen, and make it a show.”

“Damn, boss—”

Get out and go. Don’t worry about collecting any soil. We’ll deal with it next week. It’ll show up by then. Anything you pick up—keep it.”

That put a pep in the bastard’s step. Poruniv heard him hurry out—as a [Seer] hurried in. The nervous old Drake clasped a few items to his chest.

“You—you wanted to see me, Mister Poruniv?”

“Ah. Sit down, sir.”

The Drake hoped the [Seer] hadn’t heard his last comments. This Drake was just an old man who did work for the Earthtenders now and then. A rare class…but the gangs knew all the rare classes.

All the classes other people thought of as stupid or ineffective—the gangs, the criminal world knew about Blood Skills. They had more of an inkling of how terrible classes germinated. They were intelligent—

Intelligent enough to know not to clash with the law most of the time. Some gangs reveled in it. Some bastards too. Each city, each nation had a different problem.

Ironically, Oteslia’s gangs were most similar to the Blighted Kingdom’s in one major way. More than any other criminal group in all of Izril—

They were loyal. Like Rhir’s own underbelly that was allowed to exist. Loyal, for all they were never acknowledged. All this—turmoil—was drawing the attention Poruniv didn’t want, though.

Anyways.

“I have someone I need you to look into, Seer Toenir, sir. A matter of classes.”

“Oh. [Appraisal] no good?”

“Everyone has their secrets. Can you give me a rough estimate of the fellow’s class?”

The Seer hmmed.

“You know it’s never accurate. I need a description, a picture, a rough count of his levels, and, uh, whatever you know of his class. Then—I could use a fresh fish? I think—haruspicy might work.”

Poruniv signaled one of his underlings to get whatever the old Drake wanted. These things were hit-or-miss, and even the most crazed Wall Ladies didn’t often go to a [Seer]—but they had their uses.

Like [Soothsayers] and the ilk, you just had to know what to do with a vague prophecy or bit of luck. Who…

“What was that bastard’s name again?”

“Boss?”

Ecleeif was listening in—in between watching the old [Seer] at work. A [Sorcerer] like him probably loved picking up magical tricks. Poruniv waved it off irritably.

“I want his class. His class—maybe it’ll help.”

At the very least, it’d tell Poruniv what kind of nasty Skills that Gnoll might be hiding if it matched one on records. The [Seer] took a live fish and dissected it, pulling out the entrails with tools and gaining something from the smelly act.

“Let me see. Let me see. Leeeet meeee seeeeeee—-

His voice grew slower, and his nervousness decreased. Poruniv felt a slight tingle on his scales as the old Drake’s eyes unfocused and his voice slowed down. When the [Seer] was in the true state, you could tell. Then he seemed to be staring over a web of possibilities.

Wilovan. I see him. A Gnoll of great power. Mid-forties.”

“Yes, go on. What’s his class? His class old man?”

The old Drake’s throat worked as he tried to pull something past anti-[Appraisal] spells. Poruniv leaned over.

[Gentleman Thug]. Yes, a [Gentleman Thug].”

The Drake resisted the urge to hit the [Seer]. He wasn’t in the mood to hit old men, but—

Yes, we know that’s his class. It’s damn well changed or—what’s it specifically?”

It had to be a class consolidation. The [Seer] huffed—even in his trance-state, he could sense Poruniv’s impatience.

“It isn’t easy. I’m looking forwards and backwards and at ifs—I’ll pull a reading of four. Silence. Now—silence…”

He wasn’t high-level. Barely mid-twenties, so you got what you paid for, and he’d get a kick on his ass if this were all. Poruniv had met the real deal, and they—they were scary.

“Rastandius.”

He muttered, and Neverwhine perked up.

“Who’s that?”

“No one. Nevermind. A dead man, I heard. Damn it.”

Like everyone—now Poruniv had the opportunity to regret that old Human bastard’s passing. Now—Poruniv wanted answers. And he’d never get them. Ecleeif tilted his head then turned to watch the [Seer] as he caught the glower from his boss.

Poruniv had his own fates he’d once been shown. And he had been told—

Well, the damn [Soothsayer] had known too much. Especially about Cire. It must have been fourteen years ago, now. He’d tried to attach himself to the Earthtenders, but he’d overplayed his hand. After his prophecy, Poruniv had held him off a rooftop by one ankle and told him that if he ever revealed Cire’s secret—he’d drop the old man.

Again.

In hindsight, he should have gotten everything, but he had never known someone with a broken leg and shoulder to be able to run so fast. Especially not in, what, his seventies?

Cire’s secret had never been unveiled that Poruniv knew of, so he’d let it lie rather than risk it. The [Seer] in front of Poruniv now?

A lot slower and a lot less helpful.

I see the Gnoll’s class. Possibly. One of four options. I see…a [Gentleman Thug of Style].

Poruniv’s claw twitched towards his cup of purified water. Although—he had to admit it sounded roughly right. The [Seer] seemed to sense his impatience and hurried on.

“A [Marauder of Cloth]. A class of style and violence. Two comingled. He has the blessing of royalty on him.”

“That damn Skill. Alright, so maybe he’s got one. Classes, classes.

The [Seer] was whispering, trying to piece together a probable class.

Wilovan the Gentleman Caller. A…[Blackguard of the Streets, Gentleman in the Sheets].

Poruniv’s face went completely blank. He stared at the old Drake until he heard a snorting sound from Neverwhine. Poruniv was carefully aiming the cup when the [Seer]’s eyes flashed. His voice echoed—and Poruniv felt it.

True prophecy.

“[Blackguard Gentleman of the Streets]! There!

He fell backwards, gasping, and Poruniv lowered the cup. Well, well, well. What was it, a 1% chance of getting something real like that? He swore the room had trembled a bit when the [Seer] revealed it truly.

“Now that’s an odd class. You got his Skills, too?”

The old Drake nodded weakly. His eyes were re-focusing, and they’d lost the cloudy look. Desperately, he waved a claw.

“I have them. Quill. Quill…I’m forgetting—”

Quill! Then get me a list. Spread it around so we can figure out how to take that bastard down. Good work. Prepare a handsome payment for Seer Toenir.”

Poruniv exhaled. This wasn’t a complete waste of a morning after all. But he had to get rid of those two.

“…Maybe I need to send for help.”

Ecleeif looked up in alarm. That was not a good thing to say out loud, but Poruniv had to admit—as he stared glumly at Wilovan’s best Skills, he wondered if Zanzeil could take him in a straight fight, Creler-poison blades or not.

No, he couldn’t. Ancestors and Cire!

That one Skill made all the difference. How many free mortal blows was it? He’d survived an [Assassin] shooting him with a [Harpoon Bolt].

Damned Calanfer. Damn royalty.

“And damn that little bastard, Rickel! I want him dead! How has no one found him yet?

Poruniv remembered the final splinter in his scales, and his temper flared once more. Yes, those two would have been dead and this would all have been over but for one little Human! He whirled on Ecleeif, and the [Sorcerer] flinched.

“Boss! Don’t throw the cup! I’ve been searching—”

“Do I have to put Neverwhine on it again instead of guard duty? Find him—you have a dog! With two noses! How have both of you failed to track down one Human?”

“It’s a big city, boss!”

The Drake protested, covering his hound defensively. Poruniv rested one claw on his snout. Idiots. They had no vision. No real loyalty to the city, to Cire. They didn’t know what he did. He growled.

“Find them. Ecleeif, you have one week before I get mad. Neverwhine? You’re taking the fight to the Brothers. But first—get me in contact with Oteslia’s Watch Captain or their Watch Commander. I’m doing it. I’m calling in the Gallowsmen.”

The rest of the Earthtenders looked up and blanched. But Poruniv was done. He was meant for bigger things. He’d been prophesied.

He hoped that old man hadn’t lied.

 

——

 

Ecleeif was nervous when he left the Earthtenders. Well, he was a known coward. Lazy, too, but he was still a Face.

He was cunning enough to cast [Invisibility], he could suck the air out of a room, and he was actually a better stalker than Neverwhine.

Not even the Earthtenders could follow him as he slipped out of their headquarters. Nevertheless, Ecleeif still checked his tail a dozen times as he went down the streets, took several wrong turns—

Then sat down, at a café, and hissed at the young man reading a book.

We’re supposed to be meeting in the safe room!

“Relax, my man. This is way less stupid-looking than slipping into some dusty backrooms. Plus, you’re wearing a different face. And so am I.”

Rickel, the young man from Earth, had no nerves. Or at least, not for this. He sat there, a somewhat good-looking Drake—Ecleeif knew how to do Drakes—sipping from one of Oteslia’s newest fads.

Coffee. In fact, he complimented the Drake [Server] as she passed by.

“This is a great mug. Can you do a latte?”

“Of course!”

She beamed—probably because he was a regular and he tipped very generously. In fact, this was the café outside the safe house they’d been using all month, and Ecleeif had spotted him sitting out here.

“You’re crazy. This is crazy.”

“You say that, but I’m paying you.”

Rickel wasn’t too loud, but he wasn’t nervous—mostly because Ecleeif was keeping their conversation private and running an innocuous conversation in the background.

He was an expert, after all. A real Face.

He got no respect from Poruniv. His cut was smaller than Zanzeil’s and Neverwhine’s. True, because Ecleeif was lazy and he had little loyalty—

But that was also why he refused to try and fight two Faces, two monsters from the north. They were criminals! This was the Earthtenders’ gang!

They should be enjoying their wealth, not risking their lives. That was his philosophy, and at least one young man shared it.

Although…why was Ecleeif risking his life and certain death by aiding Poruniv’s enemies?

Oh yeah.

The gold. The [Sorcerer] calmed down. And as always, he tried to see if Rickel had more on him, but the young man just had a bag of a few thousand gold coins—which he passed over the table.

“I need a bag of holding back, you know.”

“I’ll put one in the safe-house.”

The gold made Ecleeif happy. Four thousand gold pieces a week! That was a sum, and he had no idea how Rickel afforded it.

The young man was a mystery, but he was on the Gentleman Caller’s side and, apparently, the side of that [Princess] who had been here. Lyonette du Marquin. He had hired Ecleeif to help foil Poruniv’s efforts.

And now, he closed his history book and grimaced.

“Krsysl Wordsmith. Now there’s a name that’s hard to pronounce. History is fascinating.”

“You think so? It’s boring as shit to me. All the hidden treasure and spells get left out.”

Rickel shrugged.

“Sort of true. I hated history when I was younger—except for the interesting people and events. But I’d read a book on history any day, here.”

“You like Izril that much?”

The [Sorcerer] dourly looked around, but he was rewarded with a huge smile from Rickel.

“This world is great.”

When he smiled like that, you could see why Poruniv had let some random Human into his gambling casino. Rickel still had his scarf from the day he’d met Wilovan and Ratici, but he’d switched his clothes for a cardigan and some casual ‘jeans’. He somehow had achieved a level of style that eclipsed Ecleeif’s own clothing-game—and Rickel was a Human, not a Drake!

He flirted with the café server as the older Drake sulked. He had an infectious laugh, and he was friendly enough to be charming.

He also had no nerves, it seemed, a lot of wealth—and at least a few levels in a class similar to Ecleeif’s. What class, exactly, was unclear—but Rickel had depths. For one thing, he was an investor in the coffee industry, which he had begun by finding the beans and securing garden spots.

Now most of the city was growing the damn stuff, but Rickel was earning a percentage of the profits via the joint-effort that Wall Lord Ilvriss, Lyonette du Marquin, and a number of others were running.

Maybe that was where the gold was coming from? Ecleeif didn’t know, but he reported what Poruniv had done this morning.

Seers. Damn. It’s always something cool. And terrifying. Could that old guy find out where I am?”

“Poruniv didn’t ask. Exact places are harder. You get a lot of worthless scale flakes from [Seers], in my experience. Asking for classes or Skills is safer.”

“Like a hints guide rather than a walkthrough. Got it…got it.”

He made no sense to Ecleeif, some of the comments. But Rickel’s eyes had lit up.

“I wonder if I could ask—no. No, there aren’t any independent [Seers] you know, are there? Ones that Poruniv would never talk to? Having him as an enemy sucks. I was just getting somewhere with my [Gambler] class, too.”

Rickel had a coin, which he flipped up and down—then added it to the tips. Ecleeif shook his head.

“The only one I can remember is some Rastandius guy who was here a decade and a half ago. Poruniv mentioned him—he was just a lieutenant back then.”

“Tell me more. And tell me everything else he said. Don’t hold back.”

Now, Rickel sat forwards, and Ecleeif tried to say everything in order. Rickel did demand that—if very little else. Ecleeif just had to keep him safe, report in, and sabotage some of the Earthtenders’ plans—carefully—and teach Rickel magic and about the underworld.

The young man was insatiable for that. Ecleeif had rather liked showing off his spells, and Rickel wanted to learn magic himself, though he had claimed [Mage] magic sounded more reliable.

“I can buy a spellbook, Ecleeif. Well, I could if I wasn’t being hunted. Maybe I should leave the city.”

“It’d be safer.”

“Yes, but then who’d help Wilovan and Ratici? Those two—I like those two.”

“I’m on their side!”

“Yeah, but you’re not reliable. Even if I kept paying you, you’d just take my money and play both sides by doing nothing.”

The [Sorcerer] opened his mouth with a glower—and decided this was definitely true. He sat back as Rickel mused over the last part.

“Gallowsmen. Gallowsmen. Who are they? Another gang, Ecleeif? Why was it so drastic, Poruniv sending for them?”

The [Sorcerer] blanched at the table.

“The Gallowsmen of Loeri. They are not a gang. The opposite. If Poruniv’s calling them in, he wants to take out the Brothers. But he’ll get the Earthtenders too!”

Rickel listened with a huge frown. The Gallowsmen were, in fact, a kind of law enforcement force from the city of Loeri.

Unlike the north, where huge gangs were multi-city, the Drake cities—even gangs—tended to be independent. So the Earthtenders ruled Oteslia—nowhere else.

In the same way, their powerful forces were sometimes unique to a city, like how you got the Yoldenites with their…colorful personality.

“The Gallowsmen hang anyone who’ve committed serious crimes. My guess is that Poruniv calls them in and sets them on the Brothers.”

“…And any Earthtenders who get caught. Wow, he must be pissed. But doesn’t he fear they’ll get him too?”

“Not Poruniv. He’s going through the Watch Captain. He’s got friends at the top of Oteslia.”

Rickel’s eyes sharpened. He took a long draft of his cup and, for some reason, glanced around.

“I bet he does. Well, that’ll be interesting—let’s talk later, Ecleeif. You sure you can’t get me in touch with one of the [Underground Merchants] here without Poruniv knowing?”

“Not without one telling Poruniv. They’re not trustworthy. Well, some are, but he can lean on them.”

Rickel sighed.

“Damn. Then charge up my illusion spells and let’s meet again. Same place, two days or earlier if something happens.”

He stood up, and Ecleeif looked around warily before leaning in.

“Are you sure Ratici and Wilovan are going to win? They’ve gained ground, but it’s them versus all the Earthtenders, and their lot is getting plucked. They might win on the streets, but not in the prisons. Poruniv has the prisons. He has the Watch! He’s got Oteslia!”

For a reply, the young man gave the [Sorcerer] a huge grin. Here was the last thing about Rickel—he jabbed a thumb at his chest.

“Yeah. But the Gentlemen Callers have me.

The [Sorcerer] stared at Rickel as the young man sauntered away, hands in his pockets. The Drake leaned out of his chair to shout.

That’s not clever! Or impressive! You’re just a kid! What do you actually have that Poruniv doesn’t, huh?”

 

——

 

Well, for one thing, Rickel knew Poruniv’s big secret.

Which was that Cire was Cire. Who, exactly, Cire was didn’t matter. Nor did Rickel actually think he wanted to know, not yet.

He might not be able to spot all the [Actors] and fake actors, but he could certainly tell when a woman in her thirties was playing someone half her age. It fooled Cire—but it was about on the level of a Hollywood set.

Like someone playing a teenage drama. And he didn’t miss how the Watch seemed to always be near Cire’s location.

You didn’t need to know a secret to know it was there—and like hell Rickel was touching the issue at hand. But Cire?

He slapped the Drake’s hands as the Human grinned.

“Cire, my guy. How’s it Archmaging?”

The Drake winced as he fanned his bronze wings.

“Rickel, you keep getting it wrong! Stop it. It’s so…terrible. No, wait, it’s cringe. Am I using that right?”

“Cringe is an artform to be appreciated, Cire. And I am all about it.”

First he slapped his palms down on Cire’s low down, then they went up and did it again, did a one-palmed high-five, and turned it into a hand-clasp and fist bump. The two of them were odd people to be friends…or not so odd.

After all, they had met when Lyonette was here, and Rickel was, if not Cire’s age of seventeen, young enough to actually mingle at twenty-one without being actually embarrassing. And Cire was important.

Maybe it was because he was the First Gardener’s kid. Maybe it was that Rafaema girl everyone also fawned over.

Maybe it didn’t matter, but Rickel just bet it did. Cire’s friends gave him fake grins—a few of the actual kids looked impressed by him, if exasperated by his inability to use slang. Cire rubbed his claws together eagerly.

“Alright, alright, what are we monking around for? Let’s do something Fetohep.

Rickel raised a brow as even some of Cire’s friends groaned at the new slang.

“Is that a new word?”

“Yep. We’re Khelting. I’ve got a bag full of gold, and I’m going to hit the city. Did you see the scrying orb broadcast?”

It was a sign of how important you actually were to get Oteslian slang made up about you. Khelting around was going to become a thing, Rickel could tell. A show of wealth.

I’m gonna Arbiter this, meant you were interfering with a dispute. Interestingly, they didn’t have much slang like—‘I’m gonna pull a Zeres’. Or, ‘that was a real Plain’s Eye thing to do’.

Rickel supposed there just wasn’t much about the Meeting of Tribes that could be encompassed by that kind of language. Not that it didn’t affect Cire and his friends.

“Let’s go, let’s go! And if we find any more of those Zeres-loving bastards, I’m going to kick their tails in this time!”

—That was about the level of Cire’s actual will. But he had been at the Meeting of Tribes. Rickel doubted he’d swung a sword—but still.

It was not a good time to be a Zeresian in Oteslia, even with the siege lifted. A Gnoll? Well—Oteslia hadn’t been the ones marching into the Meeting of Tribes. Gnolls in other Walled Cities?

Not fun.

It was all fascinating to Rickel. He almost—almost—wished he were in Manus or somewhere so he could see the real intercity dynamics up close.

He wondered if it were hardcore racism like he could make an analogy to on Earth. Then again—as a Human, he doubted he’d enjoy it.

Poor Gnolls. Amazing new world. Here he was, in the City of Growth, and the Walled City was somehow not the most interesting thing.

Admittedly, Rickel could have left, but he’d miss out on the opportunities here. Plus, he was no warrior. He was, he had to admit—

A bit frustrated.

Not by Ecleeif, not by the Gentleman Caller’s progress, but by himself. Rickel hopped onto a skateboard with Cire—and promptly fell off. He wasn’t a great skateboarder, and Cire was. Still, he headed down with the group as a Human, fearless of Poruniv’s wrath.

He’d get away if he were trailed—but no one would harm him while he was with Cire. And besides—Rickel suspected if Ecleeif couldn’t help him, then Cire could.

“Rickel, want to hang out later? My mom’s got me having a stuffy dinner with her and…and Mivifa.”

Ancestors. Mivifa of Feathers? That’s so—”

One of the real teenagers got elbowed by the fake ones. Cire didn’t look happy—and Rickel, again, didn’t know exactly why, except, perhaps, that Mivifa had once been Cire’s friend and then not?

But he smiled.

“Sure thing, Cire. Invite me over. Your place is great. Plus, your mother’s great.”

“You think so? She’s totally a monk sometimes, Rickel.”

“Eh. She’s hot.”

Dude.

 

——

 

When he was with Cire, Rickel was casual, shoving the Dragon, making jokes about his mother, getting shoved for it, flashing gold around, and seeing what Oteslia had to offer.

He was nursing a twisted ankle from trying a trick with a skateboard when he resumed his Drake guise and caught up with Ratici and Wilovan.

He was spotted, of course. The Drake [Thief] noticed him instantly, but since they liked Rickel, he was as safe as the two Gentlemen Callers as they took a break for lunch.

“How’s it going, you two?”

“Wilovan got shot this morning.”

“Another suit down.”

“Whoa. What? Can you afford more?”

Rickel had heard of it, of course, but he sat down as Wilovan regaled him with the brief tale. Ratici barely glanced at Rickel’s bag of holding.

“Funding for the suits is a small thing, as it were, Rickel. A fellow does appreciate the offer, but you don’t need to flash anything with us.”

They were rich, so Rickel shrugged.

“Just say the word, guys. How’s it going with the, uh, Brothers?”

Ratici and Wilovan exchanged a look, and Wilovan murmured.

“A few lads should have finally come down from the north. But let’s not discuss business here. This is a lunch.

He emphasized the words, and Rickel sighed. Unlike Cire or Ecleeif, the two Gentlemen Callers held Rickel at a remove. They appreciated his help—but they were separate. And—in this moment—the two were seriously considering the all-vegetarian options at the café.

“Is it…safe here?”

“We’re in a lull. Neither side wants to attract the Watch. Collection day is usually quiet.”

“Huh.”

The Earthtenders and the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings were at war. They both had gangs that clashed in bloody ways, raiding each other’s safehouses, taking over streets—but it was a more civilized war than Rickel thought.

At least, in a Walled City. You rarely hauled off and stabbed someone in the streets. It happened, like their first battles and Wilovan’s assassination, but the worst thing to do would be getting a civilian killed.

For the Gentleman Callers, it was unacceptable. For the Earthtenders—the Watch would not ignore that. So you could have the two dining in the open.

True, there was a danger of poison, but Ratici was good enough to keep that from happening. He inserted a little strip into the first soup he was given.

“I can never do soups, Wilovan. Needles in the salad? Simple.”

“Soup is a weakness of yours, Ratici. But I, as a gentleman, never reproach you your weaknesses.”

Rickel loved their banter. He sat there, listening as the two mixed between complimenting the pumpkin-based soup, the raisins in the delightful salad with a refreshing vinegar dressing—sour and sweet—ribbing each other—

And talking shop. Which was why he was here.

“I heard all those Named-ranks are still fleeing to the new lands. Quite a stir, quite a stir from our delightful [Innkeeper]. Did you hear more, perchance?”

“Only a letter.”

Wilovan looked up in outrage.

“You don’t say. A letter? From Erin herself?”

Rickel really, really wanted to meet Erin. And Lyonette—who was not an Earther. He had felt really silly about it at the time, but that meant Erin Solstice was almost definitely one. The woman who lived! He really wanted to exchange notes with her, but again.

Oteslia. Ratici proffered Wilovan a letter, but snatched it back when the Gnoll reached for it.

“When you read this missive, addressed to the two of us, I might note that it came to me, Wilovan, old chap.”

“You held it back all morning?”

“You had been shot. I thought it would cheer you up.”

Wilovan snatched the letter and began to read. His furrowed brow turned into a smile.

“Ah, now that’s a pleasant missive. She has not forgotten us?”

“What an insult, Wilovan, to assume she would.”

“That is upon me, Ratici—and a poorer man to ever think it of Erin.”

They looked so contented at getting a letter from the mysterious [Innkeeper] that they sat back as if that were half the meal. Then they continued talking.

“Extraordinary that she helped the adventurers escape. I hear no less than Orchestra is upon their backs.”

“Hm. Nasty fellow, that Music Maker. A nasty fellow to cross. Who else is there with links to us?”

The [Thief] counted on his claws.

“Well, the Music Maker makes use of services. The Cheerful Lad helps everyone—”

“Of course—”

Rickel was decoding this. Ratici and Wilovan were giving him amused looks as he wrote down a few names, and Wilovan winked one huge eye in confirmation.

“—And the Luckless has debts. Speed Herself is not a pleasant one to cross, nor does she like us. A mixed bag, I’d say. The Haven doesn’t associate with many on our end.”

“No indeed. No indeed. Well, that’s as good as it may be for Miss Solstice. But now it’s my turn. I heard that Orchestra’s riled up the south. Especially their old rivals.”

The Drake had been adjusting his cap as he broke a cracker into his soup. He paused, spoon raised to his mouth, and nearly dripped some onto his immaculate handkerchief tucked into his shirt.

“You don’t say? Symphony?

Now there was a name Rickel knew. He sat up as Wilovan lowered his voice.

“They’re not after Orchestra—yet. But I did hear they took a contract. Rather unpleasant business. Word is that fellow we heard about who causes ruckuses? Was at Cellidel, Salazsar?”

“Ah, Sellme?”

“Yes. The word is that he caused such an outrage that someone posted a rather high number upon him. So high Symphony’s out and playing.

“Nasty business. Nasty business, and not the sort of thing to bring to a luncheon, Wilovan.”

Ratici patted at his mouth, and Wilovan raised a paw.

“I do apologize. I thought it was germane to the topic. The point is just that we should rather hurry to getting a nice place set up for the lads, Ratici. I can’t imagine our great friends in Poruniv’s lot are going to keep letting us walk all over their carpets.”

“Slow business, Wilovan. And you’re still talking work—”

The two were concerned. It was now that Rickel broke in. He felt filled on their talk, and of all the people in Oteslia—he did quite respect the two.

They were real. They had the style. They had the attitude—but they were also real as shit. Even Poruniv had been more of a caricature than they were.

The right folks to back. If only…Rickel were not so frustrated.

“Wilovan, Ratici. I have a question about—Symphony and that sort of thing. You know I’ve done well in the coffee business, right?”

The Gnoll brightened up at once, and the Drake grinned and nodded.

“A fine thing. A fine thing.”

Wilovan looked proud—and he wasn’t even a fan of coffee. Ratici was, but the Gnoll had staunchly stuck to tea.

It might be the biggest argument between them yet. Rickel looked between the two.

“If I can help with clothing for Wilovan or…any other way. How does one contact Symphony or spend all the kind of—the kind of remunerations one gets in a work such as this?”

He tried their style on, and Ratici chuckled with deep approval. He nodded to a young Gnoll with a cap waiting and got up.

“Be right back.”

He stood up, and Wilovan leaned over.

“It’s not the kind of thing we like to put a young man with prospects such as yourself into, Rickel. Best to stay clear.”

“I’m in it already. Plus—I’d just like to buy something interesting. I’ve been talking with Cire, you know. The nobility have their own access to—things. Auctions and so on. But I’d need to be a [Merchant] in some standing to get noticed. Even with gold, you have to have a name.”

Wilovan looked interested.

“I had heard how that worked. So above, so below. Well—I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you the basics. You see, a fellow who’s successful in our line of work doesn’t know where to go either. There are a few known groups—but you tend to be reached out to.”

“Damn. It’s always the elite reaching out to you, isn’t it?”

Rickel wasn’t surprised. Wilovan gave him a huge wink.

“Can’t be too careful. But if you were really in need—we could give you an introduction. Our names do work. Once we settle this bit of unpleasantness, we’ll do just that. For now, any surreptitious folk won’t take our side.”

Ratici reappeared and sat down as Wilovan sat upright smoothly. The Gnoll shook his head.

“Not yet. Not good to upset Poruniv if you think he’ll hold a grudge. A petty man, that.”

Ratici held up a cautionary finger.

“With decent clothing.”

“Indeed, we must give him that. Poor form, though. Poor form.”

Rickel sat back. He frowned mightily, such that even Ratici noticed it.

“Something wrong, Rickel? Are you that interested in buying something? Well—I can see a young man needing something to protect himself. We could see about it…”

He glanced at Wilovan, and the two had offered Rickel protection, but the Earther just shrugged.

“I just wonder—how do you pay for something—expensive? Are you anonymous or what?”

Ratici coughed discreetly and knowingly.

“If you want to be secret—there’s ways. Moving about the kind of coinage is tough. Again, it requires having a few nice places, a system. If we were in Invrisil, we’d take you around.”

Rickel drummed his fingers on the table.

“Damn. I mean—darn. Excuse me, you two. What a problem to have, eh?”

The two laughed. Wilovan reached out and patted him on the shoulder.

“The best kind in the world, young Rickel! The best kind.”

The young Human man smiled wanly. You said that—but how frustrating it could be!

 

——

 

Let’s assume you had money. Great.

Money was so important. Money made the world go round, and contrary to what people believed, it did correlate with happiness to a certain point.

In this world, money mattered more. In Rickel’s, there was a limit to how far money ran. Money could buy favor and bribes—but the ultra-rich ran out of yachts and houses to buy. Then they built spaceships.

Well, in this world, money was a lot more actionable, and you could even argue that the economy of scale was greater. In this world—money could buy you a Relic.

If the relic was on sale. But more than that, Rickel had realized something else.

You could not bid on the Helm of Fire if you weren’t allowed at the auction table. Similarly—let’s assume you had a lot of money. Some people might ask where it came from. And…if you tried to spend it, they noticed.

Of course, getting said money was also a trick and a half. And after nearly a hundred days of investigations—

The team looking into the Golden Triangle disaster still hadn’t found where all the money went.

 

——

 

Oteslia’s Merchant’s Guild was where several Drakes stood. One of them had a rare class—[Investigator].

It was exceedingly rare, even among Watches and similar classes. The rest were just [Guards], [Scribes], [Tax Collectors], and similar individuals appointed across Izril.

They had a northern counterpart, but they weren’t united. There were other teams that had been formed and failed by private nations, and they’d all gotten in their way.

In hindsight, Investigator Gaills reflected that they should have worked together. They should have compared information—but Humans working with Drakes?

Well, everyone had suffered. Now he stood here, at a dead end.

Oh, it was to Oteslia where his trail had led from the City of Gems. He was a son of Salazsar, and he had worked with no less than the Walled Families on matters of espionage and corporate sabotage.

He was used to this kind of thing and had Skills to convince people to talk, to establish leads. But…he had never run into something like this.

A scam, they called it. People paid for membership in the Golden Triangle, recruited other people, and were given great amounts of wealth in return. The higher you went, the more you got—and it all seemed to be working until someone called the alarm.

Then they realized all the money coming out of this scam was less than what was going in. It was only sustaining itself based on the new people recruited, who were making a loss until they moved up the ladder—by recruiting more people.

It was unsustainable. It was doomed to fail—but crucially here—the ones who had perpetrated this scheme knew it.

The ones? The one? He didn’t know. All he did know was that a hundred days later, here he stood.

“Good morning! How can we help you at Oteslia’s Merchant’s Guild? Are you here to withdraw coin? Purchase something? Speak to a [Merchant]?”

The [Receptionists] and [Greeters] at the front desk watched the small team—warily. After all, they had been questioning the staff here for three weeks, and they were empowered by the Walled Cities to get answers.

However—Merchant Itrems, from Manus, had given up. He sat there, exhaling such that Investigator Gaills wondered where all the new air was coming from.

“Gone. The trail’s gone. We were too slow—I think this is it for me. I cannot waste another month of my life here.”

A hundred days. When he said it, the mostly-Drake group nodded. They were sick of it.

Gaills? He was too. He was annoyed by his superiors asking for answers. Tired of walking and talking in circles—but when he thought of the people who’d stolen all that gold, he did get angry.

How much? Even now, he couldn’t tell because each Merchant’s Guild had been in on it. They had jumped on the scheme and funneled the gold through countless groups that hadn’t talked to each other. Whoever had done this had been—smart.

Yes, smart. They’d covered their tracks, gotten the nobility in on it—and when they sensed the walls closing in, they were nowhere to be found. They had never been here at all.

Oh—the leadership of the Golden Triangle had. Rich Drakes and Gnolls and Humans had woken up to mobs and the Watch and angry leaders demanding answers. They had rushed to ask their superiors for answers, but the ‘top’ of the Golden Triangle had gone silent, and those below had no answers.

There had been a top. Gaills saw that. And the trail did lead to Oteslia.

Once you found the people who hadn’t gone into hiding or disavowed the entire scam—the ones not dead from the retribution of the people who’d been wronged—they told you who they’d reported to.

Go up the list high enough and every ‘original’ adopter of the Golden Triangle had come from here. Oteslia. And it was here so much of the gold had gone, funneled through this very Merchant’s Guild.

So—the answer was easy, right? Find the original culprits, find who’d gone to them—find where the gold had gone.

Problem 1: Gaills’ team had found that the gold had vanished via a lockbox, one of the very ones the [Receptionist] at the counter was giving to a haughty Wall Lady. It was an enchanted key the Wall Lady had—and while she demanded an escort and porters for some huge withdrawal or deposit—

The safes were private. So, damn it, there was no one who could say who’d drawn the money out. More than one person came here cloaked or with spells for anonymity.

The Merchant’s Guild itself had enabled the gold to be withdrawn from the accounts that had had most of the gold. It hadn’t even been all gold.

That much coin? You couldn’t haul it away with a thousand bags of holding! So it had gone out in other forms.

Expensive spell scrolls, truly rare magical gemstones. Trade goods—literal magical contracts that were used as bargaining chips. Even artwork, damn it! They’d all been put in Vault #5, one of the largest—and all had been carried out, piece by piece, before the scheme collapsed.

If they ever saw some of the artwork again, like the Dawning of Zeres, made by one of the greatest [Painters] of an age—they’d have a lead. In a sense, Gaills was happy—the culprit had a lot of gold, a lot of gold, but they would have to exchange some of the gems and items at some point.

That left a trail. However—the person who had originated this Golden Pyramid scheme was still invisible to him.

Problem 2: all the first members of the Golden Triangle didn’t remember who they had dealt with. Skills, memory spells—all had failed.

Someone was being protected by Skills. Skills—and clever ideas, like a [Message] scroll to communicate with the Merchant’s Guild and make orders. Hooded cloaks, illusion spells.

There had been a few, at the start, who might have known who this person was. One Drake—a young man—had been apparently one of the first to spread the idea to three dozen of the original founders. Many had thought he was the founder.

Rellas Biscale. Investigator Gaills really thought he’d had the culprit or the answer when they finally uncovered his name. Only to find—

He was dead. The riots during the Golden Triangle disaster had turned on him. And with him went their final clue.

“We can’t just give up. At least let’s look for signs of any of the goods being sold.”

“Some were just gemstones, Gaills. Anyone can sell that, especially on the black market. They could be in any city—anywhere—if we weren’t just chasing them down here, where they hired a messenger or someone to carry the gold off!”

“No. They have to have been here. You don’t trust that much to any servant. Let alone someone for hire.”

Gaills was adamant, but his team was tired. A Gnoll shook her head.

“Okay, let’s watch for the Dawn of Zeres to appear. But until it does—we can’t grab who it is, Gaills. We’ve tried, but let’s be honest. Some of us are high-level. Merchant Itrems is Level 43!

He had shared that level over the long investigation. Everyone nodded as the Gnoll turned to Gaills.

“What are you, Level 36? I hate to say it, Gaills—but you’re the only one of us who has the right class. And you might be outlevelled. This scam—if someone was levelling from it, it went worldwide. What class, what level are they?”

The Drake felt a twisting in his stomach because he knew it was true. He had levelled twice during this investigation.

Twice—because of the scope of this crime. And he hadn’t even found the culprit! Another time, he would be celebrating a double-level in a single year after Level 30.

But if he was levelling like this from just investigating, who had done this? It was true—Itrems was not the right class to counter this kind of thing, for all his level was high.

“Can I convince you all to stay in touch, at least? I’ll ask the Wall Lords of Salazsar for permission to reach out across the High Passes. Just for this.”

The [Investigator] got murmurs of agreement, but he felt a sinking in his bones. He was so close! So close…but where had the culprit gone after this? He could have gone anywhere in the world. It could have been Roshal or…or an underground gang.

He needed something solid to go on, some motive he lacked. How had they known this would work? Why did he feel this scam, this scheme was so well-done? As if they knew how it should be done and when to run.

His senses were telling him something he could not fully understand…the Drake stood there, and his scales prickled and prickled. He looked around the Merchant’s Guild.

“Good morning, sir! Are you here to add money or take it? Oh, Mister Rickel!

“Hey there. Just adding a bit. How’s things, Beansi?”

 

——

 

The young man loitered at the front desk, watching the investigation team out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t stupid enough to put on Ecleeif’s illusions, not here.

In truth, if he had walked over to Gaills at this very moment and confessed, the [Investigator] might have gotten most of the Golden Triangle fortune back.

Mostly because Gaills’ one big insight was one that most of the world lacked. That Rickel was running into.

How the fuck did you spend all this damn gold without someone noticing? Or rather, he was entirely willing to pull the fifty levels of removal to spend his gold. Proxies, illusions, fake accounts, all the works. But he had nowhere to shop in the first place!

He could buy a million cheap wands at a Mage’s Guild or a shop—but the real stuff? The real stuff just wasn’t available.

Rickel handed over a small pouch of coins with a smile. The Merchant’s Guild was a shitshow.

Oh, it did some things right. It took people’s gold, held it, and lent it out like a bank. But they hadn’t managed to figure out the best way to make more gold was to invest it and lie that it was still in the vaults. They didn’t have stocks…and he liked stocks.

Not because they were that useful for the world, but because he knew how they worked. Inventing that idea took time, influence—and arguably, he didn’t need to do that. He leaned on the counter with a huge sigh.

“You’ve got a little nest egg here. Are you worried, Mister Rickel?”

Beansi, one of the [Receptionists], was a chatty guy. Nice. He also knew how much was in Rickel’s accounts, and the young man gave him a wan smile.

“What’s the point of saving up if I’m just waiting for an emergency, Beansi?”

“Good point, good point—but you’re earning a tidy profit. Ever thought about becoming a [Trader]? You could buy some trade goods, add more coins in if you sell right. I took a lesson from the Golden Gnoll, you know. It’s all about making the money grow.

Rickel tried not to roll his eyes. He smiled at the slim Drake in his neat vest.

“Ah, but Beansi—where do you spend that coin?”

He felt a prickle on the back of his neck. That [Investigator] was staring at him. Beansi raised his brows.

“The Merchant’s Guild has lots of items on sale. If you were to reach a higher amount of investment, I could ask one of the [Merchants] to put you on a list. Then any big [Trader] would contact you and you could access the auction lists.”

Rickel laughed lightly.

“Not in my lifetime, Beansi. Not at this rate.”

“I guess that’s true. It’s an exclusive list—but just so you know it’s there.”

The young man gave Beansi a wan smile.

“Well, now I’ll be thinking of that all day. A special list and auctions? I’d love to be part of that. Any chance you can fit me on right now?”

“Not yet, Mister Rickel. Not yet.”

“Pity.”

Underworld it was, then. Hence Rickel trying to make his way into Poruniv’s good graces way back when. But gambling was a slow road into the big leagues. Ratici and Wilovan didn’t ask many questions of a friend.

Oteslia, Oteslia or bust. He could go to any city in the world, but the door he wanted to open needed a key. And the key was here. Rickel’s eyes twinkled as he strolled past the investigators giving up on his case.

He could hear them asking the [Receptionist] who he was. On a hunch. Good try, Investigator Gaills. But Beansi just told Merchant Itrems the truth.

“Him? Oh, he says he’ll never be on the list, but between you and me, Merchant Itrems? He might get on it this year!”

“You don’t say. Why?”

The Drake stared at Rickel as he sauntered out, and his instincts lit up—until he heard Beansi speaking brightly.

“Why, he’s the inventor of coffee! One of them, at any rate. He’s making a fortune and depositing it each week here.”

“Oh.”

Gaills sagged, but Itrems’ eyes lit up.

“You don’t say. Now that’s a young man to watch. Within a year, you said? Let me see that ledger…he’ll make it in months! We should flag him anyways if he’s so…”

Then the door closed, and Rickel sensed Gaills’ eyes leave his back. He chuckled.

Months was still too long for him, but at least that was paying off. After all—it wasn’t hard to deposit a lot of gold and claim it all came from coffee. Some of it even did.

Schemes within schemes, but he really needed access. He wondered about Erin Solstice, but from what it sounded like, she was a nice young woman. And he didn’t know how his people might react. He was on their side—but some of them could get touchy about the entire scam. Anyways—he walked off, pondering how to help Ratici and Wilovan. Move carefully. And be fifteen steps ahead.

You had to have a plan. If there was one thing that scared him—Rickel had to admit. It might be the upcoming Winter Solstice. Someone else had a game, and he didn’t want to play.

 

——

 

The last leaves were falling thick and heavy from the trees in the capital of Paranfer when Tom heard the name—

Arruif Yal.

It slipped out, unguarded, and the [Clown] let it ring about his head. For once said, the name could not be unsaid, and no matter how hard they tried, he knew it meant something.

But for context.

The name came from no less than one of the two young women who had invited him over for tea.

And yes, inviting the [Clown] who wore his face-paint day and night—who looked nothing like the kind young man who had first come to this world—was considered madness by many. For all he had supporters by the thousands, his troupe of mad, cavorting [Tricksters], [Fools], [Jesters], and, yes, [Clowns]—

Everyone knew he was crazy. The Blighted Kingdom, though, did not draw back from his madness. They reveled in it. They celebrated him, for he was a foe to the Demons.

And any weapon, from the chains of Roshal to the flesh of A’ctelios Salash to the madness of Earth, was welcome here. So long as it served well enough. [Necromancers] were practically the next-door neighbor that came for the holidays with a turkey ready for the table and an undead dog that sat and chewed on its own bones.

There were far worse. So—the two young women had Tom over. They quite liked him, which was a mystery to the giggling [Clown].

But Princess Erille and Princess Isodore, the only two remaining [Princesses] of the Blighted King, owed him their lives. More than that? He probably provided a unique role in their lives.

“Mister Tom, Mister Tom—what do you think of Lord Hayvon?”

“I think he’s a bastard, Princess Erille. Next question.”

The young [Princess] clapped her hands over her mouth, but she looked delightedly aghast. Princess Isodore made a sound and glanced at her guards.

There were eight of them, all over Level 30, and they did not bristle nor stand to attention at all times—but they were here in case of Demons.

Or Tom. The [Clown] sat there in his clashing costume of three colors, yellow, blue, and red, each vying for dominance.

He was—thin. Gaunt. He didn’t eat much, and the tea he drank didn’t do much for his frame. He had once been plump-cheeked, nervous—and kinder, stuttering even, in the brief time they had first met the ‘heroes’ of Rhir before they were sent away.

Even when he’d come back there had been some of him left. But by now—it was as if that kindness had been starved away. He had the look of the court’s finest warriors. Gaunt—and a stare that had seen so many people he’d killed.

No longer did Tom giggle at all times or project that insanity that was half-show. That, too, was refined, and he leaned on his knees, drinking from the cup. The young Erille was only ten. She’d turned ten last month, and the celebrations had engulfed the Blighted Kingdom.

King Othius the Fourth had once had many sons and daughters. None now remained except his latest two, and their lives were safeguarded—that his line might endure. It was no certain thing.

Coretine, the Blighted Queen, was last in a line of [Queens]—not one had ever been divorced. Othius was no philandering king—or to be precise, if he was that wasn’t the issue. Tom wondered if the old man just didn’t have the stamina to produce more heirs. He doubted the Blighted Kingdom would object to more potential heirs.

The Demons came after the royal line. They had been successful—and Rhir itself was a harsh land and had claimed many of the royal line.

This was hell. This was hell, and this was the bastion from which the eternal war had been fought.

Eternal being roughly six thousand years, incidentally. My, how we forgot. But it had resulted in this place. Tom, Tom the [Clown], answered Isodore’s scandalized look with a shrug. She scolded him lightly.

“You mustn’t say that of Lord Hayvon, Tom. He is one of the court and crown’s greatest allies.”

“So? He’s still a bastard. Your father’s best supporters are. He’s good at his job. That wasn’t the question.”

The [Princess] opened her mouth.

“But if word were to reach him—”

“I said it, not you. Does it even matter, Isodore? Does your father really teach you to play politics like that? Maybe it matters—but I bet if you were insane and you killed someone every single night and lay in their blood, they’d still make you [Queen]. So long as you were good at your job. Nothing matters but that. Not here.”

Tom passed a hand over his face, and now, the [Princesses]’ minders shifted. His head snapped up, and he stared with wild eyes at a nursemaid who was a warrior.

Am I wrong? Say I’m wrong.”

“Mister Tom, please. Don’t be upset. I just asked a question, Isodore. I think he’s right. Lord Hayvon is not a nice man.”

Princess Erille’s comment was innocent—but not as innocent as many children. She, like even the toddlers of this land, had a kind of adultness about them.

It came of war. It came of knowing death might come. It was also, probably, why they liked Tom.

“You say things you should not, Mister Tom. Lord Hayvon isn’t touchy, though. So I suppose it doesn’t hurt to impugn him. A Terandrian [King] would be far more touchy. That is a reason to study statecraft.”

“So study it with Terandrians. But call Hayvon a bastard to his face. That’d be hilarious.”

A huge smile spread over Tom’s face at the notion. He looked at Erille. The girl looked scandalized—and privately delighted.

“Could I?”

“Absolutely not, Erille.”

“I dare you to.”

Sir Tom!

Isodore’s raised voice prompted one of her minders to step forwards.

“Sir Tom—”

But it was too late. The [Clown]’s eyes lit up. And he pointed at Erille.

“[I Double Dare You].”

She gasped, and Isodore saw, with her Ring of Greater Appraisal, a mark appear over her head. An activated Skill! Tom had used it on—

Six of the guards jumped him. Eighteen more were at the doors, and he vanished in a swirl of light, fighting them, laughing wildly as the [Princesses] shot to their feet.

He’s used a Skill on the [Princess]! I need a Skill removal, now.

“Don’t hurt him! Stop!”

Erille was shouting—she had seen the first guard punch Tom so hard he dislocated the [Clown]’s jaw, and another had been clubbing him with the hilt of a sword.

Violence. Princess Isodore had seen far worse already, and so had Erille. The Earthers were the ones who froze up when they saw how ready the Blighted Kingdom was to act.

Stop! Do not harm Sir Tom. Stop!”

The words froze the air—and her aura worked. The [Guards] stopped—and Isodore felt them turn to her. With a kind of gratification. She heard the words they never said aloud when they looked at her.

Now there is someone who could rule.

 

——

 

Isodore ignored the pressure of her responsibility when she was with Sir Tom. Even if he did things like this. When he reappeared, his face was bloody and he was grinning. Someone had knocked a tooth out and cracked two more.

“You’ll need the crystal healing beds. No one can waste healing potions. Sir Tom, what possessed you?”

The incident was summoning more of the Blighted Kingdom’s court, the actual people in charge. Tom sat, grinning, as Erille dabbed at his face.

“It’s just a Skill. She can do or not do. But aren’t you making my people level? Fair’s fair. I’m just helping Erille level up.”

He spat blood to the side—and it landed in front of a pointed shoe. Nereshal, the [Chronomancer], came to a halt. He stared down at Tom with the disdain he had for the [Clown]—and it was echoed in spades in Tom’s look.

“Your Highnesses, we can attempt to remove the Skill—but perhaps it would be better to gain the boon. How weighty was it?”

“It—it might be worth doing.”

Isodore confessed. Not just because she wanted to see it done, but because it was from Sir Tom.

A [Clown]. And a [Hero].

He was so high-level that it mattered. A [Mad Clown], Level 35. Which was not the most fantastic level around. The Blighted Kingdom had a lot of individuals over Level 40. Their foes were far, far higher-level.

Lord Hayvon himself was over Level 60, so, alone, that class mattered little—if not for Tom’s other class.

[Hero of Laughter and Grief]. Level 21.

That…that had a weight to it. Isodore hadn’t checked recently, but Sir Richard was approaching Level 40—he might even have reached it as a [Knight]. But to the Blighted King’s courts, Isodore knew, they weighed Tom like a Level 40 warrior on his own plus his [Clown] class. A [Hero] was more than a [Knight]. It was more than perhaps a [Princess].

It stood out to her, the highest-level [Hero] that the Blighted Kingdom held. And she could see, via the ring that so few had, the Ring of Greater Appraisal—his class.

 

Thomas Trautmann. [Hero of Laughter and Grief], Level 21.

 

[Skill – Weapon Proficiency: Knives]

[Skill – Full House Throw]

[Skill – I Double Dare You]

[Skill – Impossible Dodge]

[Skill – Charisma of the Madman]

[Condition: Champion of the Blighted Lands]

[Condition: Bearer of My Vengeance]

[Unit: The Gloomless Troupe]

 

And so on. If she looked carefully, she could see the conditions hovering on Tom. They were not his Skills. Well—the madness was. The madness and luck—but some of the things upon him were not his.

The [Champion of the Blighted Lands] was her father’s Skill. It made Tom heal faster—his bloody mouth was already ceasing to bleed. He was one of the lucky thousand that could be added to Othius’ ranks.

However, that other one—that other one was not as bright, if that made sense. Even her ring couldn’t identify who placed all the Skills on Tom. That was probably the legendary [Appraisal of the World’s Eye] that would give her even more knowledge—a spell lost to time.

However, [Greater Appraisal]—and that was a spell most Archmages doubted existed—could show her what was upon Tom.

Like—for instance—what seemed to be a buff-effect from a citizen of Rhir. A grieving son or daughter or widow. It was empowering him.

He also belonged to the Gloomless Troupe, his own unit. Thus, Isodore knew more about Tom than possibly even he did. She could even see that his Skill—[I Double Dare You]—was activated.

Nereshal was angry—but Erille piped up.

“I shall do it. I don’t like Lord Hayvon, and he shall understand it is a bet.”

“Lady Erille—very well.”

It was a mark of the Blighted Kingdom that the [Chronomancer] weighed the political fallout—as opposed to the benefits of Erille answering Tom’s dare ability. It was a [Hero]’s Skill, and thus…

“I shall escort you to a private setting—”

“No! I shall go to court now and say it. Because…I have to.”

Erille looked positively delighted about her obligation, and Nereshal pursed his lips. But he couldn’t help it.

“Just so long as it does not cause an incident—I shall inform Their Majesties. No other. And it shall be on Sir Tom’s head if it goes ill. Princess Erille, at least wait until the Balerosian—Princess!

Too late, she was gone. Tom chortled as he followed Erille. Nereshal was furious—but Isodore took his arm.

He was old. Seventy years? A hundred and forty? He refused to tell her in their lessons, but only her father benefited from his great magic that could hold back time.

The [Chronomancer] could have been an Archmage of Wistram if he cared to be—but he had served the Blighted Kingdom faithfully. And she trusted him above all others. Of the royal court, she did trust Nereshal, her father’s representative in so many ways, because he was honest with her.

She wished he and Tom would get along. Isodore tried to soothe Nereshal’s quickfire temper. Once, she had been convinced she would wed him and that her father was angling for that. It had been a far more pleasant thought than Hayvon or someone from overseas.

“Nereshal, forgive Sir Tom. He is mad—but he won’t harm us. Or Erille. Or is this your Arruif Yal?

She meant it to tease him and to prove she was listening—but Nereshal’s face froze over—and Isodore realized she had said too much. None of the guards reacted—but Tom’s eyes focused on Nereshal’s look.

Another mistake in her litany of mistakes. You wouldn’t notice that word—unless you saw how Nereshal’s face drained of color slightly. Probably only Tom had seen it.

“—Your Highness jests too much.”

The [Chronomancer] recovered quickly, but as he and she well knew—a second was forever. And then it was said—and Isodore’s stomach lurched.

For it was just a name. And even she did not know the full context. Only that it had come up in the studies only a [Princess] of the Blighted Kingdom should know. In her most private of libraries only the royal family and Nereshal could access.

She had thought it was a joke on the level of some event that Hayvon or older members of the court should recognize. To see Nereshal’s face—

Arruif Yal. Then the word took on special meaning.

 

——

 

They almost missed the moment when Princess Erille marched up to Lord Hayvon. The Balerosian diplomats were no one united core. A hundred mercenary companies each could send their own representatives.

In practice, only the largest ones capable of overseas warfare visited. It still produced a throng, and they were accorded a fair bit of respect even by the Blighted King’s lower stratum of nobility, the Burnished Court.

Warriors who knew combat and blood were often valued higher than [Emissaries], for all the latter had Skills. The Blighted Kingdom was a mix of graciously welcoming and their own form of arrogance—here they waged a war against Demons on hell’s soil.

So even foreign [Diplomats] were not above honor-duels and tests of their mettle. It was customary to sometimes shock a newcomer to Rhir by showing them a Vorepillar infestation or bringing them within range of the front lines.

Naturally, Kaaz was well-loved here. The Gorgon [Pactmaker] was just talking to Lord Hayvon, who was listening attentively to a discussion about the ongoing Balerosian situation.

“—Jungle Tails does not represent us all. Nor have they yet acted as a Great Company should. They did not join the Rhir muster. If it was to keep themselves hidden, frankly, it worked too well. It’s positively Dullahan-like.”

[Long Ear] was a Skill that Isodore had gained as a child. This sniping comment was in reference to the Iron Vanguard and the Dullahans of Baleros’ north.

The rarest sight in Rhir of all the species was a Dullahan. They—were one of two major powers that had never pledged to fight for the Blighted Kingdom.

Why—even Fetohep of Khelt joined the efforts. He sent none of his undead, but a shipment of fine Kheltian arms, each hand-smithed, had noticeably and publicly gone to the [Royal Soldiers] standing at attention here.

A little gesture to show that the Blighted Kingdom was paying attention. Then again—they got little press elsewhere. A separate world that everyone focused on when the Demons gained ground.

Isodore, like her people, had mixed views on the rest of the world living in comfort and safety. No matter how much she longed for it.

At any rate, Hayvon broke off from his discussion to bow to the [Princess].

“Your Highness. What brings you here?”

The Gorgon and other Lizardfolk bowed instantly.

“Your Highness.”

Hayvon smiled at the young [Princess], whom he quite liked.

“I was just discussing matters of Baleros with our brave allies. Have you thoughts on the Dyed Lands, Princess Erille? A disaster such as this—it has been suggested other nations join in the catastrophe.”

“Not that Terandrians or Izrilians move for anyone but Rhir. Or to steal Gnollish land.”

The caustic comment came from a Lizardwoman. It went down just fine amongst the Burnished Court, but several Terandrians turned, outraged. A member of House Wellfar whirled—and the Gnoll emissaries from the Tribes sniffed and chuckled.

“We must all be allies to our neighbors, Pactmaker Troxin. Here, at least, we are united of mind. What say you, Princess?”

Erille took a deep breath, excited, and nearly tripped over her words. But her eager tones were modulated by her [Noble Diction] Skill, so even the adults were impressed by her delivery.

“I think…I think you say such things well, Lord Hayvon. You are a good ally to our neighbors in words. But you are a bastard who only claims he’ll help. You told me the Fraerlings were in danger—but you didn’t go to them. Or the Lizardfolk.”

Hayvon’s face went slack. Erille beamed with delight, and the Lizardfolk and the Burnished Court stared at each other. Then the Lizardfolk began howling with laughter.

“Your Highness. Wh—”

Hayvon began—before he heard that hysterical guffaw. He straightened, and his eyes flashed up.

“I should have known. Sir Tom’s pranks.”

“I did it!”

Erille began to glow. The mark over her head flashed as the Skill’s requirements were met—and then she hopped through the air. One of the Nagas recoiled as she did a four-foot jump.

“Erille! Lord Hayvon, forgive her. She was dared to call you a—well, as you can see.”

The [Princess] landed, pirouetted, and bowed, like a courtier, arms rising like she was dancing. It was so graceful several people began applauding.

“Ah, a challenge Skill. Amazing. It’s powerful.”

A Lamia glanced at the [Clown] pointing at Hayvon and laughing his embroidered ass off. The [Lord]’s lips compressed, but Princess Erille raised her head.

“I meant what I said, Lord Hayvon. Skill or not. The Blighted Kingdom has warriors by the thousands. We could have sent a Level 40 [Warrior] to fight for Paeth. You told me Fraerlings don’t join like the Drowned Folk and Dullahans. Or Drath.”

Hayvon coughed. Some of the visitors looked horrified by Erille’s forthrightness, others impressed. The Burnished Court flashed approval via private means. The Blighted Kingdom’s daughter could not be a shrinking violet.

“We do not weigh in on affairs between nations, Your Highness. Jungle Tails might well yet become one of the Great Companies. The Blighted Kingdom is apolitical.”

“Then we will never have Fraerling allies, Lord Hayvon. Why would we? They’re watching us through scrying orbs, and they saw that we did nothing. The same for the Dyed Lands.”

The earnest [Princess] lectured the [Lord], and he was lost for words. Isodore broke in gently.

“You don’t want to waste your Skill, Erille. How long does she have?”

“About thirty minutes.”

Hayvon answered instead of Tom; of course he knew. Erille gasped.

“I must go. Esteemed guests, forgive my departure! Not my coarse language. You shall have heard worse in the companies, I believe.”

Bemused, the Lizardfolk bowed. The Gorgon gave Erille a toothy smile she returned with all her teeth.

“What an insightful child. The language I’m used to outside of a ballroom—a delight. Your Highness, Isodore. Greetings from the Duscale Company.”

“Oh! Don’t you hold the northern frontier against the Iron Vanguard? It must be freezing, this time of year.”

And again, the Lizardfolk were surprised she knew this. Hayvon was rallying as he glared at Sir Tom.

Of note—few Earthers were allowed in the Burnished Court to talk to the guests. Tom, Richard, Emily—they were the few admitted past the [Guards].

The [Clown] was surrounded by a few interested guests, but most had heard of the madman, ready to stab you or fight. It was quite something, that they assumed he was just a Named-rank equivalent. And they were all crazy.

“Lord Hayvon, I fear I’ve offended you.”

“I had no idea Princess Erille held me in such disdain.”

The man looked actually hurt, wearing his surcoat of armor like a second skin. The ‘fifth-greatest’ [Lord] in the world was a splendid war-leader, and if not the finest duelist of the Blighted Kingdom, he’d taken points off Gold-bell [Duelists] in sparring.

His greatest Skill was the charge of his forces—where they could turn into literal bolts of lightning and race across Rhir. His forces had stormed the Demons’ lands time and time again.

Nevertheless, Erille wounded him. Isodore pursed her lips and spoke lightly, remembering her lessons.

“Say, rather, Erille is dismayed that a man of your abilities doesn’t extend his focus beyond Rhir. I know, you are quite analytical, but she loves Fraerlings.”

“Ah, but they are fine warriors. A child might see doll-sized folk—”

Lord Hayvon. I have never heard you be so uncharitable about Erille before.”

It was then, perhaps, that Hayvon realized Isodore wasn’t as disapproving of Erille’s comments as he thought. He took a deep breath.

“Have I offended your Highnesses in any way of late?”

“Merely observations. I know you are a great supporter of the cause, Lord Hayvon. But you can be—ruthless.”

She gave him a level look, and perhaps then Hayvon realized that the [Princesses] knew what he did that did not include the battlefield. Any deed in the Blighted Kingdom’s name was countenanced—but the royal family knew them all.

He bowed silently. Isodore went on after a moment.

“—Perhaps you can demonstrate your good intent to Erille. Later. For now, why don’t we speak of other things, Hayvon? I fear I’ve quite offended Nereshal, for one.”

“Oh? Your Highness surely shouldn’t take it amiss. Nereshal respects your word more than mine. Will you impress our Balerosian diplomats a moment?”

Tom was leaving. Isodore supposed their chat was over and nodded. Back to work. It was not all dull—but she was careful here, poised. Aware of her surroundings and their chat.

“I shall. But someday, I would like to meet the Dullahans. Tulm the Mithril, for instance, has been invited to the Burnished Court?”

Hayvon grimaced.

“More than once. The Iron Vanguard are as stubbornly ‘neutral’ as the rest of the Dullahans. The Drowned Crews might be more amenable to talk. Now they have a presence in Nombernaught on Izril—it would behoove them. But I fear we’re likelier to see the Drowned Folk than a Dullahan or Drathian this next century.”

She nodded, but it was odd—three species had refused to join the rest of the world’s condemnation of Demons and alliance of arms and soldiers. The Drowned Folk were, one supposed, more disorganized, and many nations viewed them as criminal, but the Dullahans?

“I can never understand it. If only to trade or use Rhir as a port of safe haven when passing north to Terandria—”

“Ah, Your Highness. The Dullahans are mighty, but like Drath, they end up secluded. One might say they’ve enclosed themselves away. The Iron Vanguard has a splendid navy, and Dullahans do not lack behind other nations for wealth or might. But they refuse to join with Rhir on the most common, most decent of issues. Thusly…”

Wait, is that why the Dullahans have so little trade and representation in other continents? Isodore had plucked a glass of water from a tray, and it paused on her lips. Lord Hayvon’s smile was sardonic.

She had known, of course, of the Dullahan isolationism and refusal to join the Blighted Kingdom’s war. Only now, like a girl revisiting an old lesson, did Isodore connect that decision to the lack of ample trade flowing through their ports.

“Fascinating. I hadn’t made that connection before, Lord Hayvon. And the same holds true of mighty Drath?”

He shrugged eloquently.

“Their fleets patrol the edges of the world. They are content to their role—but it is true that the few traders who make regular contact with them are the Dullahans—and the House of Minos, who trades with both groups. But then, the House of Minos is…touchily independent of who they choose to associate with, and they are great allies.”

“Ah. Exceptions to this situation. And the Dullahans and Drathians have never wavered?”

He lifted a glass ironically.

“Dullahans. Stubborn enough to put Drakes to shame. And Drath wants for little, or so they claim. Would that it were otherwise. As for Fraerlings—they have just been hidden, so one supposes there was never any trade to be had. Paeth now…”

Isodore feared they were about to have a riveting, four-hour discussion about the Fraerling potential and quality of their enchantments when someone approached them.

“I say, sir. Did I hear you claim Dullahans were more stubborn than Drakes? I should like to argue that point.”

“Oh, our guests from Pallass. Go on, sir?”

The annoyed Drake with the monocle interrupted the tedium, and Isodore smiled. Smiled and turned to the many people who wanted to support the Blighted Kingdom. But not give all they could to end this war.

With allies of such…dedication…no wonder her father and Nereshal and Hayvon himself placed such hopes in the [Heroes]. Then again, few were of Tom’s quality. And from what Isodore had seen—

Well. The Blighted Kingdom knew how to make warriors out of mice. Some of them had Sir Richard’s gentility or a spark like the others. She wondered how many Toms there were in the lot.

A lot might be, ah—well. Promising, for now. Isodore was slightly dismayed by how Lord Hayvon chose to encourage some of them. But he did know young men.

 

——

 

A thousand Earthers upon Rhir.

A thousand was a large number—and a small one. As armies went, Rhir could squash a thousand [Soldiers] in a second. The Death of Magic could with a single spell.

But a thousand [Heroes] had the potential to change a warfront. If only they lived. If they were not squandered this time—the fact that Richard the [Knight] had reached Level 41 within one year of coming to this world proved that [Heroes] were worth any amount of time invested.

Not only were they levelling at rates unheard of—even in war—they were a cut above regular classes.

[Heroes] gained better Skills. Sir Richard was a [Knight]—but his true class consolidation had changed to one far better than even most Level 40 [Knights] could expect.

[Knight of the Advancing Era].

When he walked around the Blighted Kingdom’s inner palace, private training grounds, and courts in armor, even passing dignitaries asked who he was. For his armor…

His armor was strange enough that even the Dwarves had desired to see it. It kept changing with every new discovery Keith made working the Blighted Kingdom’s forges. Every time the Earther [Inferno Smith] advanced his understanding of metallurgy—Richard’s armor changed.

It was like someone had prevailed upon Earth’s own industrial metallurgists and experts to create a suit of armor. As if a military government had been told to produce armor for Richard.

What they lacked in Mithril or rare metals they made up for in materials that went into his armor that gave it that outlandish look. Right now, it was bulkier and resembled a kind of space-suit crossed with a medieval knight.

Padding and thick layers of inner protection coated the insides of the armor and even covered the traditional weak points of plate mail like the armpits. It was a tough material that Keith thought was a kevlar-rubber composite of some kind.

Richard didn’t know. All he did know was that his helmet definitely had some plastic in it. Tough, military-grade stuff, probably not even sold on the market.

It meant an elephant could kick him into a wall and, even without Skills, he’d do better than with almost any unenchanted plate. It also meant that there was almost always an [Alchemist] or [Engineer] poking at Richard and trying to cut a sample off his armor.

“Sir Richard, lend us your helmet again?”

“It’s going to vanish the instant you try taking it apart.”

“Just let us study the material! We’re looking into the basis of your plastics—”

With a sigh, Richard handed over the futuristic helmet. It was indeed closer to a football helmet he remembered wearing—probably because that cushioned the head from concussions. It was spirited away, and he suspected that the [Alchemists] would try to copy some part of it for their tests.

After all—they desperately wanted plastic. Even if they could do as well with metal and magic, the Blighted Kingdom knew that every technological edge—even the means to make cheap, durable materials without wasting iron—was a boon.

They were amazingly progressive in that respect. In others? Richard didn’t know. Now helmetless, he strode through a land meant only for Earthers and the Blighted Kingdom’s most trusted staff.

It resembled a high-school. There was no getting around it. It really did. There weren’t lockers, but there were personal rooms, classrooms, and Lord Hayvon, in charge of the Earthers’ training, had even organized the feel of the academy to resemble one from Earth.

To make them feel at home? Of course, there were differences. No plastics, impressive marble instead of brick, and they studied swords and magic instead of math and science.

It was the Blighted Kingdom who learned from Earthers, and the ones who knew actual math were standing, doing equations with the most gifted [Scribes] and [Teachers] and whatnot in the Blighted Kingdom.

“No—we’ve done something wrong here. The calculator’s not following our logic. Nor is the computer. Something about our physics equations is off. Take it from the top!”

Here was the thing about having a thousand Earthers. Yes, you got idiots. Yes, you got a variance in abilities. But among the thousand—sometimes you got a Harvard-level student. Which might not be that great, actually.

Or—someone who had written a dissertation on some kind of Stephen Hawking-level math formula and was now trying to bring the Blighted Kingdom up to speed. He had no less than eight glowing laptops, all of which were loaded up with copies of every salient program for understanding math, physics, and the scientific world.

Of the thousand, only 52 laptops were in the Blighted Kingdom, and each one was accounted for. There had been 54—until an accident—and Lord Hayvon had nearly lost his mind when he realized one had been broken beyond fixing in a fight. The other had been destroyed in the chess game.

Again, they’d been clever. There were two ways to move data between computers—a personal USB stick that could hold 8 GB of data and a USB cable for the same purpose. For nearly a month, the Earthers had painstakingly copied over relevant data (and video games and porn) from computer to computer to device.

—That was, until someone realized they could just make a wireless network by converting a laptop into a server. Then it was much faster.

Right now, Thorne, or ‘Hawking 2.0’ as he was being nicknamed, was using simple programs to fact-check his math and demonstrate some concepts to the Blighted Kingdom.

After all—you could model physics using design software. Google Earth had relevant photos and maps—if you had an offline version. A calculator was capable of doing logarithmic checks, and if you combined it all…

You still couldn’t make a jet engine. But they were taking it one step at a time. The model the Blighted Kingdom was trying to work out was Quiteil’s idea.

Bastion-General Quiteil was one of the other members of the Blighted Kingdom who had enough authority to call for projects of his own. The leader of 4th Wall had taken one look at the mathematical formulas and overridden Hayvon’s initiatives to get the math into a level where they could replicate heavy industry from Earth.

He had demanded—and was getting—a computer-based simulation of physics of a trebuchet. The idea was you’d plug in coordinates, the relative draw strength of each catapult, trebuchet, and ballista as well as the ammunition, and with some variance for wind, you’d know where it would land.

If you could chain that kind of mathematical precision into a portable spell, then every siege weapon in the Blighted Kingdom would be able to hit targets they couldn’t see.

The point was, the potential was there. Just like people trying to figure out gunpowder, or Keith slowly figuring out how to find and smelt Titanium with magic creating blast furnaces capable of higher and higher melting points.

But most of the Blighted Kingdom’s efforts were dedicated to improving the industry of their nation. Advancing into the idea of production lines and so on.

In the meantime, the Earthers not so gifted in these areas like Thorne or their genius chess-player, Antal Fekete, who was teaching [Strategists] the game of chess and leveling them up, were training.

Some, like Keith, had an aptitude for smithing. Some wanted to pursue passions, like a rock climber who had climbed countless routes free solo by the time she was nineteen—the Blighted Kingdom had need of that kind of expertise.

But the majority were like Richard. They might not have the most applicable talents—but they would make fine warriors. And frankly, the Blighted Kingdom would have more Level 40 [Warriors] and [Mages] from scratch before they produced a single gas-powered engine.

It was then to them that Richard went, and his fancy high-tech armor, his own ability with the sword—it had been won in combat. Against Demons, with no help from the Blighted Kingdom, in desperation and blood.

He was glad the new Earthers didn’t have to face that. Glad that they would get a chance and not be slaughtered in the first ambush.

But damn it if they didn’t piss him off sometimes. He had attacked Tom the first time the [Clown] had scared the Earthers into taking this seriously by stabbing them. Now—well, Tom was banned from the Earthers’ classrooms, but Richard had half a mind to let him back in for a day.

Here was a sample conversation he heard when he stopped in front of Training Group #4—they were split up by aptitudes and sometimes just personalities. A group of eight were getting post-workout massages by an actual squad of [Masseuses].

Oh—that was the other thing about this place. The staff and people supporting the Earthers were beyond 5-star hotel quality. If an Earther needed something or they were one of the promising ones, they got it. And even if you weren’t at the top, Hayvon had encouraged cooperation, so this was what Richard heard.

“I scored fifteen times this week. Each time, a different girl. I am telling you, go out to the academy. They’re all over you, Milo.”

Miloslav hesitated. He looked over as one of the other guys snorted.

“Fifteen? Weak numbers. I got thirty-eight.”

“You fucker. No way.”

“Truth spell me, bitch. Ever heard of stamina potions? Or is that all you got with them?”

The first speaker rooted around for something to throw and found a pot of oil. Richard heard a shout and the [Masseuses] protesting with their charges—but lightly. They were flirting. It did look like the massage hurt like hell—a proper one did—but there was also a reason most of the group was on their front.

Hero worship. Richard was something of a student of history, so he had recognized what Hayvon was doing. This was like how Roman gladiators were treated—or he supposed—the heroes from another world.

It worked. Richard suspected—he hoped—most of the interested Rhir citizens, often [Soldiers] in training themselves, were not motivated to be interested in the Earthers. Knowing they were [Heroes] seemed to be an allure of its own.

Nevertheless, a few people were too into their celebrity status, so Richard knocked on the door.

“You all done with the massage? Time to go for a run. Then we’re sparring with the Blighted Queen’s own personal unit, the Cleansenborne. Let’s be out there in fifteen.”

“Aw, come on, Coach!”

One of the guys gave him the nickname, and Richard rolled his eyes. Because of his attitude—trying to keep everyone in line, encourage and teach them, they were calling him ‘Coach’. Emily was ‘Waterbender’ because some of the Earthers loved a certain television show, and it pissed her off.

Tom…Tom was just ‘the Clown’. No one laughed about him.

He also, frankly, got the respect Richard wanted. Team 4 were taking their time, joking about, asking when some of the staff got off work, and Richard coughed after eight minutes.

“The Blighted Queen is waiting. We’re not letting her wait.”

“Come on, we’re…”

The eager speaker who had apparently slept around fifteen times, Loreto, was getting a big head. He didn’t finish his thought—because when the staff heard that, they were out of the room and the young men had no one to flirt with.

“Shit. We just finished working out the spear-training with that [Spearmaster], Coach!”

“Suck it up. The Cleansenborne were just on 5th Wall. They fought off two Adult Crelers the Death of Magic dropped on them. You should see how good they are—and if one of you cracks a joke—”

“You’ll put Tom on us?”

One of the Earthers laughed; the others fell silent at the reminder of 5th Wall. It got attacked often by the Demons, and the Death of Magic…

They saw the images and recordings of her fighting, but they didn’t believe. Personally, Richard wondered if they should all get stabbed and, uh—bleed for an hour. Because Tom had not gently kissed any of these guys with steel. For all they bled and trained—

You had Loreto, Milo, Johnson, Jie—they had mixed levels of ability. All of them were fit by now, and Loreto kept showing off the abdominals he had never had on Earth.

That was due to a Skill, and he was going off-the-rails a bit. [Bodybuilder] instead of [Fighter]. Johnson had been a football player, so he was fitting right down a path like [Heavy Warrior].

It was better than some of the [Mage]-trainees. They didn’t have to exercise, so they were only measured on basic fitness—and how many spells they learned. Richard passed by one such group on the way out.

“Running again, guys? Have fun.”

One of the [Pyromancers] waved a bag of chips, and Jie shouted back as they jogged after Richard.

“Fuck you.”

“Send me to the front, Richard! I’m ready! I’ve got [Fireball], [Firebolt], [Flame Spray], [Firefly]—all you need is fire!

That particular cocktail of arrogance was Arden. He was styling himself, he claimed, after his favorite character from some web comic he’d read. He also thought that he had learned to min-max his character’s levels and that this was a game.

—He was Level 18 already, and so he got leeway from Hayvon as long as he proved he could level and fight. They’d see combat someday, Richard knew.

But not against Silvenia. She’d just kill them. He had nightmares from seeing her at 5th Wall. Where would they fight Demons? And how many would die?

It was Hayvon’s dilemma: the Demons did not play around at war. Even if the Earthers had support, gear, and their advanced classes—Loreto would be minced up if he went up against a Demon who actually was ready to kill.

Well—the Cleansenborne coming back and Queen Coretine herself offering to train with Teams 1-7 meant that they’d see what they were up against. Richard grinned as Team 4 joked around.

 

——

 

Richard threw up after the fourth hour. He didn’t feel bad—he was the only Earther who hadn’t thus far.

There was something about sprinting as fast as you could across the rough ground, turning around after a two hundred foot dash—doing it all the way back, doing the infamous ‘burpees’, where you squatted down, jumped up, and repeated the motion fifty times—then doing one full-contact minute against a man seven feet tall who hit you in the stomach with all his might—

That provoked a certain desire to upchuck everything you’d ever eaten and forgotten in your life.

Oh, and that was Coretine’s ‘easy’ training she put trainees through. Half of Team 4 was down, but they were being hit with buckets of water, given shots of stamina potions—or just Skills and shouting.

Up!

“I can’t. I can’t, man—”

Loreto was speaking to one of the Cleansenborne—Richard’s was letting him wipe the vomit from his mouth before continuing the spar. That was how Richard knew they liked and respected him.

The member of Shel’s Cleansenborne, led by Queen Coretine herself, was part of one of the toughest, largest, and most skilled warrior groups on Rhir. Which meant they could punch out Richard without his armor.

Coretine was watching—and she was also as tall as her personal unit. She was the warrior queen that made King Othius look tiny compared to her when they were sitting on their thrones. Then again—she often stood.

She carried a battleaxe, she had scars—even a jagged one down her cheek—and a mane of purple hair. She was also strong enough to send Richard flying even in armor, and a number of Earthers were in awe or love with her.

The Cleansenborne certainly worshiped Coretine, and new recruits and Earthers were replenishing their ranks. Half of them had been killed when Silvenia breached the walls.

The new group would be tougher, stronger—and the veterans were without mercy to the hopefuls. To the Earthers, they were kinder.

For instance—the Cleansenborne soldier did not argue with Loreto more than five sentences. But when he brought up his foot and stomped, he made sure the young man had time to roll away.

Fuck—you crazy—

The soldier kicked Loreto in the stomach and raised his fists.

“Forty seconds.”

“Sir Richard?”

“Ready. I’m ready—”

This was the wake-up call from Coretine. As per requested—even the cockiest [Swordsman] and their [Fencer], who had experience from competitive fencing—France, some kind of Olympian hopeful—were lying on the ground or dying as they ran and exercised until they literally threw up.

They’d be peeing blood tonight, especially because you didn’t heal this. There were salves and massages—no healing potions. Most would level.

Pause! Cleansenborne, rally on me. Show the trainees what it’s like to fight a Demon or an Adult Creler with your bare hands. Give me six.”

Six of the gigantic Humans—and other species—formed up. They got taller, Richard heard, and developed that superhuman physique within a year or less of joining her unit. Coretine herself took them on in a group spar.

The first time she hit someone hard enough to snap his arm around, someone fainted. But the Cleansenborne just stepped back, yanked the bones into place, and accepted a spot-treatment of potion before watching the fight.

Not that Coretine emerged unscathed. She herself had the first layer of flesh removed from one arm by a punch—and the nasty wound only got a spray of powder to keep it from being infected.

Although—by the time the workout was done, an hour later, the wound had scabbed over and begun to turn to flesh. The Blighted Queen—one of Rhir’s monsters.

“I’m never doing that again. Never.”

Loreto was gasping when they were done. Half of the Earthers had to just lie there for another hour before they could drag themselves back to the academy. Richard forbore comment—to him.

“Hapi, good going out there.”

Good?

The bug-eyed look from the Egyptian kid was followed by a stream of vomit. Or rather, water. Richard patted him on the back and nodded.

“You’re working hard. Coretine saw it.”

The Blighted Queen was already marching back to court, but she stopped and gave Richard a nod. She eyed the other Earthers, and he knew she’d be reporting to Hayvon later.

“I couldn’t keep up. I—”

Hapi was still learning English. As were a lot of the thousand Earthers; command of the language varied from where they came from. Richard spoke energetically, adjusting his [Translation] spell.

“No, but you tried. She likes it when you don’t give up. Come on, it’s going to really hurt in half an hour. But we’ll get you a massage and rest and food.”

“My stomach is lying back there. Pick it up for me?”

Richard laughed. He liked Hapi. Some of the Earthers were going to be great. Again—if you could survive this, you’d be ready for any class. Some were even ready for a battle if they had to, like a Demon attack.

Just where would it be? Others—Coretine glanced at Loreto and murmured to one of the people attending her, who was taking notes. She was definitely going to tell Hayvon who wasn’t keeping up.

And the Blighted Kingdom’s motivation was—

Well, it was something.

 

——

 

By the time Richard came back from the palace, Emily had had enough. She found the weary [Knight] and whispered to him.

“Richard, you have to talk to Hayvon. You—you smell like shit.

He was covered in sweat, smelled like puke, and dirty. The [Knight] gave Emily a look as he helped carry Hapi in.

“Emily, I’m dying. Can it wait?”

No! Remember Beclaire? And Cynthia?”

“Our [Goth]? Oh no. Is Cynthia having another panic attack?”

She was one of the old Earthers, the first wave, and she had understandably cracked a bit under the stress of seeing her friends die. Beclaire? Beclaire was a [Goth]. First of her kind, and a bit of a mystery to Hayvon, but once she’d started levelling, he’d encouraged it.

“No! Worse—she’s following Beclaire and some of the girls around like a lost kitten. And they’re getting tattoos. This is like the eighth Beclaire’s gotten this week!”

Richard’s face was totally slack as he stared at Hapi. A servant came forwards with two more to help him away. He gave Emily that blank look she did not like when she needed his support and understanding.

“Okay.”

“Not okay! They’re getting magical tattoos! Beclaire realized the [Tattooist] won’t say no, so she’s changing her ‘look’.”

“Okay. So what?”

“So—it’s terrible! They shouldn’t be tatting up just because they can! They’re—they’re losing control.”

“It’s tattoos, Emily.”

“They’re getting piercings too!”

“Okay.”

He stared at her offended look. Emily grabbed his arm.

“Do you think that’d be okay with their parents back home?”

“I don’t know. We’re not in Texas—or Mississippi, Emily. I get watching over them, but you’re not their mom.”

“We agreed to try and teach the Earthers! You’re managing the melee classes.”

“Yeah. I am. I’m not telling them not to get tattoos.”

Now they were arguing, and Richard’s face showed he was not in the mood for it. He tried to walk off, limping, towards his rooms, and she followed.

“Just have a word with them—”

“I’m not talking to them about good old Christian values like Theodore. That’s stupid.”

Richard—

They’re not even Christian. Drop it, Emily.

“Beclaire’s a Satanist!”

“So maybe she’ll level up! Hayvon would love that!”

He snapped back at her, and she forgot he was Muslim sometimes. And that despite being from America—which not all the Earthers were—he was changing. She let her arm fall, and Richard stared at her.

“Tattoos are not a problem, Emily. Nor are letting the girls drink or have fun or do whatever they need to distract themselves. What’s wrong with the piercings? What’s wrong with—if there’s something wrong, it’s making friends with Rhir’s citizens. Making actual Friendship Bracelets. That’s how Hayvon is tying us to Rhir.”

Emily hid the bracelet she’d made with one of the court [Ladies] behind her back at his pointed look.

“You’ve been talking to Tom again, haven’t you?”

“He’s got a point. Emily, I don’t care about the tattoos. You can remove them, and some of the tattoos are magical. Beclaire can put a [Death Stare] tattoo right on her face for all I care. It’ll probably make Hayvon happy. I’ve got to clean up for dinner.”

He went for his door, and Emily called out after him.

“This isn’t over! Richard—Richard. Someone has to look out for our morals.”

He paused with one crack of the door open, looking exasperated and disbelieving.

“Morals? Here? You mean, ‘morale’, right?”

They stared at each other, and Emily took a deep breath.

“Richard—you have to talk to me. We’re a couple. I don’t want us to fight. Not now.”

He stood there for a long moment, looking her up and down. And it seemed so long since they had come here together—and so different. Now, the [Knight] of the Blighted Kingdom exhaled.

“I think we should break up. We barely do more than kiss and talk about problems.”

Richard? Wh—is this about last night? I’m not ready. You’re not. I said it’s something for marriage—”

The [Knight] gave her a long look. He stared past her, around the Blighted Kingdom, and exhaled.

“Yeah. Well—I’m feeling pretty old. Let’s see other people. Good night. I mean—see you at dinner.”

Then he shut the door in her face.

 

——

 

Princess Isodore heard that Hydromancer Emily was so distraught by her breakup with Richard that she would not be attending the night’s dinner.

Isodore was eighteen now, having celebrated her birthday as well this last year.

She felt…conflicted about Emily’s distress. She had some sympathy and she liked Emily, but as she now understood Earth—and Emily—it seemed a silly thing to grieve over.

You had to remember that Emily was 19 when she came to this world. 20 now that a year had passed. True, one of the observations the Earthers had made was that years were longer here—but Emily had been a girl as Earth reckoned things.

She would have gone through ‘college’ before actually gaining a job, a kind of extended apprenticeship in Isodore’s mind. Yet she had kept her group together, been an adult beyond her years, survived things that people twice her age would have broken against.

Yet she was young. Her relationship with Richard had been the kind of dalliance she was used to in this ‘high school’, both in intimacy and depth.

The Earthers then had, at best, the sort of ‘I might die tomorrow’ romance going on between them, if any. Sincere, yes! Heartfelt, one assumed.

It was just, in the time since, some of them had changed. Richard was no longer at that stage. He had moved past the bravado of young men into something else. When he approached someone to dance or talk, the impetus behind him was different.

‘I have seen death. I like you. Do you want to do something? What can you and I offer each other? What can it become?’

He looked forwards more, or perhaps doubted the present less. That was the attitude of [Soldiers] and Isodore—no wonder he didn’t care about the morality of the Earthers. No wonder he felt it was time to move on.

Isodore herself was more like that than the other Earthers. They thought of her as being around their age.

She felt older. She was meant to rule the Blighted Kingdom, but her mistakes could cost lives. So—that night—she went to see Nereshal before they dined.

“Nereshal. Have I made a grave error in mentioning…Arruif Yal? I thought it was just a reference in one of the royal books.”

He sat there, calmer, at his work station where he was mixing some concoction for her father. Another one of the many treatments to slow age or reverse it. Even for Nereshal—it took countless resources and all his power.

He was old, but he looked young. If you were further away, he might be in his mid-thirties, with his bright hair, his youthful countenance. Only when you drew closer did you see the wrinkles, half there, and the depth of age in his eyes and how he held himself.

As a [Chronomancer], Nereshal was also between his true age and youth mentally. He could, for instance, be youthful enough to converse with Isodore and those of her age—or take measured discourse with the oldest of the Blighted Kingdom’s folk at their pace.

Time mattered. Yet he was also Othius’ servant, and that knowledge was reflected across both their gazes as he exhaled.

“I feared you had—spoken that which you should not. Arruif Yal. Please, do not mention that to me in—such parlance again, Your Highness. By all means, inquire. I thought you had begun to speak something else.”

She hesitated.

“Is it—a secret? Should I not look into it at all?”

“Oh, no, no. It is—a regrettable incident for which we have blame. Remember that if you inquire. Anyone could tell you what was done. The truth behind that incident—you may well understand simply by listening. That truth you must keep secret above all else.”

That meant it was something that the Blighted Kingdom had done that history had written differently. Isodore swallowed—it was likely akin to what Hayvon sometimes did for this nation.

But why did Nereshal speak so lightly of it? Then again, he had mentioned horrors and necessary evils to her before with the same equanimity, teaching the young [Princess] of the weight of her father’s duties.

—Yet when she had first said that word to him, unguarded, she had seen true fear and nervousness in his eyes.

She let it drop. His gaze was begging her to. Nereshal bent over his work as ancient, powdered bone dust from millenia ago swirled around him. Isodore was hurt as she stopped by the door.

“Am I not ready for your truest confidence, Nereshal? Even at my age? Even as a [Princess]?”

The old [Chronomancer]’s gaze flicked up to her, and his eyes were pale blue, so faint they looked like clouds…until you saw time sliding through them, like grains of sand. His faint hair, tinged the deep blue of sapphires from tips to roots, rose in spikes slightly as his robes adorned with the sigils of time and power flashed.

 

——

 

Nereshal saw the [Princess] Isodore standing by his open doorway, looking hurt that he so blatantly kept something from her about Arruif Yal. Even if he had told her the first truth.

—He saw her weeping, calling out incoherently and half-shattered by the news. She got up and ran as he reached for her—-

The [Chronomancer] closed the other vision of time with a blink of his eyes. He nodded to the Isodore in the doorway.

“It is for the best, Your Highness. Believe me.”

He saw too much, sometimes. Too much of if and when. Perhaps that other way was better, but what he saw told him it would be better to err on the side of caution.

She nodded and left, and he exhaled. The bone dust shuddered and lost its power as he drained the time from it.

If only he had caught himself sooner—the [Clown] had seen his face as well as Isodore. But even he could not reverse time once it was upon him. Not yet.

Yet those words. If she had said the phrase in its entirety—she could have commanded him by words only Othius was supposed to know.

Foolish. They should have worked on a better password. Yet this one…

This one meant something. Perhaps Isodore would realize the truth in time. Nereshal bent over his work.

The second reason he had been so disturbed was because when Isodore said it, he’d felt time coalesce around him.

A kind of vortex. Nereshal lifted a hand and found it still shaking, despite the youth he poured into it that made him able to dance and run like a man of thirty. Unlike others—he did not get ‘déjà vu’. But sometimes he sensed moments through his class that had happened or would happen.

“Someday, someone will say those words to me.”

Who? Where? All he knew was the significance—and he felt that shudder upon his bones, as when Fetohep had called the advent of Seamwalkers.

As if someone trod upon his very grave. Nereshal felt as sick as Richard did after training with Coretine. He suppressed the urge to vomit—and had to lean over his workstation, shaking.

What had happened? Was it just The Dyed Lands? He hurried over to a map and scattered fragments of power through the air. They shifted—literal coalesced pieces of mana, which he burned through without pause. They evaporated, but he noted the lines of force, the way the wisps turned.

Where? Where…they were moving…southeast.

That was all he could sense as he produced a compass. Southeast. Nereshal traced the roughest lines across the map and decided it could not be Terandria.

Izril? Izril’s new lands?

“Where is fate taking me? And why?”

He didn’t know, only that it called to him. Something far deeper and greater than his ability to see what might happen if he chose another path. A crossroads, perhaps.

A great divide in time itself. Nereshal shuddered—and then he clutched at his arms until they stopped shaking.

By the sin of…

If those words were said, he feared it. He feared it from Othius, from himself—but even his King would not invoke Arruif Yal that way. Only Nereshal ever taught himself that phrase, decided to remember it forever as the ultimate safeguard, the ultimate password. So if he heard it—

What would it mean?

 

——

 

The [Chronomancer] was late to the night’s banquet. Princess Isodore dined with Lord Hayvon, who seemed to be insistent on remedying the [Princess]’ apparent disdain for him.

Lord Hayvon had an eye for the Earthers, though, or rather, his magical view of them. Obviously, they could not be showcased to the diplomats and even regular Rhirian citizens.

This was not Wistram. They were far more discreet, and so he just observed via a pocket-orb the goings-on. What he saw satisfied himself.

What he saw was Loreto approaching the [Soldiers] in training, the rather attractive members of Rhir’s staff, and even a few citizens of Rhir and attempting to charm them. Well—charm as that young man understood it.

His befuddlement seemed to know no end as he was given an endless cold shoulder, colder than the icy glaciers of Cenidau. By contrast, other Earthers got a far warmer response.

It was not meant to be subtle. Nor did Hayvon particularly care about this young man—save that he was a good, and apparently noisome, example. Loreto stared at the crowd fawning over…Hayvon consulted his notes.

Hapi. Thus, he was practically carried off by a small crowd, and the young Loreto was left fuming.

Examples. Young men were easier for Hayvon to understand. He left the women and—people he didn’t understand—in the care of the Blighted Kingdom’s other experts. Quiteil was good with almost everyone in his particular way, in that sense.

Hayvon could take the simplest steel and make it into Mithril. Simple incentives, straightforward rewards. Leave the delicate touch for those who needed more consideration.

“Lord Hayvon, are you quite done snooping on the Earthers?”

Princess Isodore disapproved. She sat there as Hayvon guiltily turned off the orb.

“Your Highness, I have made error after error. But I assure you, I am always working in the Blighted Kingdom’s best interests. Why, just after we talked—no. I should apologize first. I am always Rhir’s servant.”

He meant it, too. If he quibbled with Tom or did things of his own initiative—it was simply that he thought the [Clown] had no allegiance to Rhir, and some deeds were better done quietly.

Isodore eyed him and relented after a second.

“You may be forgiven, Hayvon, if you explain to me—oh. Arruif Yal. I came across the name earlier.”

Hayvon’s fork hesitated towards his mouth. So that was what Nereshal had been bothered by? He was well aware of the public moment, so he smiled as he responded.

“A terrible incident. I believe it was the impetus for the last great war against the Demons, nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, when the Deaths of the Demon King were slain—or so we hoped.”

His lips twisted, still remembering the Death of Magic’s return. Isodore blinked.

“It was? I know my history—the Archmage of Death and Archmage of Golems themselves fought on Rhir.”

“Ye-es. According to the dramatized retelling of Archmage Eldavin.”

Whomever he really was. Hayvon did not like that Archmage, but he tapped his fingers together.

“Regardless of the true nature of the war, which your father would know of more than I—Arruif Yal was a kind of rallying cry at the time. It was a Terandrian half-Elf village, I believe.”

“What…happened to it?”

He shrugged.

“The Death of Magic. They had—apparently—found a Demon soldier who washed up upon Terandria’s shores. Incredibly, the Demon had survived the sea and predators to end up there. Near-death, I imagine, but they nursed it back to health and claimed the Demon was friendly. In vain, the Blighted Kingdom warned them of the folly of saving a Demon’s life—but Arruif Yal refused to listen. They were suborned by the Demon’s words and began taking its side.”

“Until…”

Isodore murmured quietly. A bit too forwards, but Hayvon didn’t think anyone was listening in.

“The Death of Magic wiped out their village. To the last half-Elven child. She reclaimed her Demon—and Terandria and the world’s outrage led to war. It is well Nereshal remembered it. Such actions make it clear the Deaths are not…benevolent and truly serve only the Demons’ pitiless war.”

“Yes. The Deaths.”

The [Princess]’ face was pale. Hayvon went on, ticking off points on his fingers that the Gorgon diplomat down the table might hear.

“Of late, I am reminded that the Death of Chains is not simply some…enemy of Roshal. After all, we have seen how her war against Roshal has taken many lives. A Lizardfolk village—correct me if I am wrong, but Haxpesprings? It was destroyed by her.”

The Gorgon’s head rose. He hissed loudly.

“Yes. For the crime of harboring Roshal’s own. Just harboring as guests! That Djinni fell upon them and left only a few survivors. I have heard tales of the Death of Wings’ mad strikes upon Izril and Terandria too.”

“No nation can then say they have not suffered the Demon King’s Deaths. Two are awake—let the last lie silent if she is not dead.”

Hayvon provoked a toast, standing, and the distraction let everyone focus on him—not Isodore’s waxy smile. And still—Hayvon wondered why Nereshal had apparently taken that word so seriously.

Was there more to it? He decided not to inquire—for a good while. Some things did not matter. The Blighted Kingdom…he looked around and saw a giggling [Clown] with his Gloomless Troupe. Hayvon’s lips twisted.

They had enough Earthers already. That one caused too much trouble. If the phrase Arruif Yal was enough to have swayed Nereshal’s vote, all the better. Better a Loreto by the hundred than a single Tom.

 

——

 

“You know they’re going to remember Arruif Yal. If you even breathe it, Nereshal will kill you dead.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Richard broke up with Emily. Think he’s going to fall in love with some Rhir girl? Or will our jaded [Knight] be found with a dead body in bed?”

“Richard’s not like that. Shut up.”

How would you know? You’re crazy.

His spoon was laughing at him. Tom resisted the urge to stab it into his eye. That was just what the laughing Tom in the spoon wanted, and he couldn’t get his way. Sometimes he said prescient things, like the Fool.

His people were giggling around him, and Tom nearly bent the silver spoon to end the conversation before the figure whispered to him.

“You know…you’re never going to find answers here. In the Demons’ lands, maybe. Or elsewhere. But not here. What was up with the Seamwalkers? Erin Solstice. The Singer of Terandria. Canada-man himself. Joseph Soccer Player. You’re going to find them, but the Blighted Kingdom knows they’re there too.”

“Then I guess—we race. Richard and all of us are on the same page. We’re heading to the New Lands of Izril.”

That was the plan. That was Hayvon’s plan, of course. It was almost intelligent.

If you couldn’t train the Earthers up on Demons, why not a better conflict? Like, say, exploring new lands? Tons of monsters.

“It’s stupid.”

The Tom in the silver spoon folded his arms. Or was he Thomas? He looked like the Thomas of old, not in bright clothes, fatter—happier. And mad. He paced around, then appeared on a fork instead. Tom picked it up as a [Jester] licked his ear on a dare.

He stabbed her, and the uproar drew the attention of the rest of the banquet hall. Tom ignored that as Fork-Tom spoke.

“It’s stupid because they know you’re wild. See? You can’t go around stabbing people. So why let us go? Let Richard? The Blighted Kingdom is not stupid.”

“What are you saying?”

The other Tom shrugged.

“I’m just saying—watch out. You think you’re clever?”

“Not really.”

Good. You’re stupid compared to Othius. Even Thorne is stupid. You can’t out-snake these snakes. You’re not more cunning than even Hayvon, and there are a hundred of him here. Quiteil and Hayvon and Nereshal—

“What’s your point? I’m trying to eat.”

Tom dug the fork into a pie, and the other Tom laughed at him.

“You have to be better than they are. But all you can do is be crazier. So dive deep. Deeper! Stop being the [Hero]. Pull out your eye and let’s get to the real—”

The [Clown] grabbed his other hand as it jerked for his face. He wrestled with it as his troupe laughed—but some didn’t laugh. Some wept, with face paint or with tears.

Some were beginning to understand the terribly sad truth behind the laughter. Rhir’s citizens took to the clown’s madness well.

Tom felt a piercing pain in one eye—but staggered back as he yanked his hand away. He blinked—and his eye wept tears—but he could see.

“Not this time.”

He heard laughter in his head—but it was compounded this time by the laughter in the room. The Blighted King himself was applauding.

“A performance to entertain the Burnished Court. Sir Tom, our thanks. We have an announcement, honored guests.”

Tom turned, and the Blighted King stared at him. Tom had the urge to throw a pie, even if it meant he’d be shot—but he felt himself slowly sit down.

Damn Skills. The [Clown] fought the presence pressing him into his seat as the Blighted King rose.

The Blighted Kingdom prepares to send its own ships to Izril! We shall join with the others seeking new lands—but not as aggressors. Our kingdom has been friend to all, and ever shall be. We do not meddle in the wars of our allies, no matter who they are.”

Gasps came from those who hadn’t heard—Tom snorted. As if the Blighted Kingdom hadn’t sent two waves of ships out already.

The Earthers would love this, though. Richard was dining with Queen Abdominals herself, and Coretine smiled like the edge of an executioner’s axe as Richard glanced up. Yet…Tom’s skin was prickling.

Because Othius never made big errors. He had addressed Tom—and that crazy bastard in the spoon knew things, sometimes faster than anyone else. The Blighted King nodded down the seats.

“In this hour, we shall send young and old to the new lands.”

Earthers and Rhirian citizens, to level. The Blighted King laid out the plan, briefly, but then coughed. A stage-cough where he nodded and Lord Hayvon stood. He bowed as the Blighted King spoke.

“Yet we are reminded by no less than Lord Hayvon himself, and our own daughters, that the Blighted Kingdom is oft-seen as impartial to the point of contempt. That we are poor allies to our friends abroad.”

Princess Isodore and Princess Erille looked up, surprised. And Tom’s neck tingled as Othius smiled. At Hayvon. At Nereshal, who had appeared to watch. And at his daughters.

Wait for it. Wait for it—Tom could almost see his other self dancing in the Blighted King’s eyes. Richard wanted to meet Erin or anyone else. They had talked about what would happen if they just left. Just…left.

But even Richard respected the Blighted Kingdom. Even Emily was brainwashed. Only Tom, Tom the mad [Clown], was really insane enough to take a stand.

To listen to a [Fool]’s last words. He knew too much. He was friends with Isodore and Erille. So did it really surprise him when the Blighted King smiled? Smiled with bright teeth, as if he was not filled with rot to the core?

“Therefore—we have elected to take on a cause as noble as any can be found. Sir Tom. You and your Gloomless Troupe have found little to laugh about under threat of the Death of Magic.

It was hard to fight someone who hovered a hundred miles up and threw down Crelers for fun. She had turned the 5th Wall into a dangerous battlefield—but one that wasn’t prone to letting anyone level but her side. Tom waited, his skin crawling. The Blighted King even bowed his head to him.

“Then—we shall send you, Sir Tom, our great champion of laughter and blades, and the forces of Rhir to a suitable place for your great talents. As we embark to the new lands of Izril—the Gloomless Troupe and Rhir’s forces go to aid our cousins in Baleros! To stem the Dyed Lands—a pact between continents!”

The Dyed Lands? Tom heard applause from the Balerosians and the Burnished Court first. He saw Isodore look horrified and begin speaking to Lord Hayvon—but Tom threw back his head and began laughing.

So that was it? He laughed in the Blighted King’s face. And he saw Nereshal watching him out of the corner of his eye.

So that was the trick. Richard looked at Tom, and the [Clown] laughed harder. Level or die. His insane counterpart was giving him the thumbs-up from his water glass.

Baleros, huh? He wondered if it were just him or anyone else that was inconvenient—or needed to level. His troupe was celebrating and dancing. But the [Clown] laughed until he wept.

At least he was leaving Rhir. Toss him straight into the Dyed Lands! He would live. He had to live. And the Blighted Kingdom had made one mistake. If Tom made it out of wherever they sent him, whatever tricks he played—

Well, the Earthers had no recourse but the Blighted Kingdom. But Baleros, he’d heard, had Great Companies.

It had—

Titans.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

It’s a shorter chapter and a big week. If you didn’t see it—Gravesong is finally out on Yonder! This is the first publishing group of any kind that’s worked with me, and they have published the first part of the book—and the entire thing will be available on their app.

I’ll post something on Reddit too, discussing the story, but I actually have a request here. In short—we will also have an audiobook coming out via Podium, with Gravesong being voiced by the incredible Andrea Parsneau again, and even with the songs being sung by Cara!

They are not in this version on Yonder because it turns out one year is still a short time to get copyright from the song-holders. But it’s actually in discussion, except for one crucial song.

I would like to use Everything’s Alright by Laura Shigihara, the amazingly talented game developer and composer. However, it’s been hard for the legal team to get ahold of her. I’m posting this publicly not in the hopes people annoy her or spam her, because that’ll annoy her, but just because I’d really love to use the song in Gravesong.

And yes, of course she’d be compensated for it. It’s just that I’m not certain she or her lawyers are aware we’re reaching out. So if anyone knows how to get in touch, please drop her the gentlest of feather-notes. Annoying or brigading her is the last thing I want to do, but that song is amazing, and I’d love for Cara to sing it.

Besides that? This was one of my most skillfully short-yet-compact chapters. I’m not sure if it’s the favorite one I’ve written—Fetohep, Silver Swords, and a lot of chapters are more fun. But this is what a novel tends to do—get to the point. I hope you enjoy and understand the last few chapters have been long. This was good to relax a bit on. Hope you enjoy and remember—Gravesong is out! Now where’s my movie deal?

 

 

The artwork for Gravesong is done by Stephen Sitton, an amazing artist who has a Twitch channel!

Twitch: https://www.twitch.tv/stumpyfongo

ArtStation: https://www.artstation.com/stumpyfongo

Twitter: https://twitter.com/stumpyfongo

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Interlude – Age and Tales

It had been a long time since Nuvityn, King of Men, Elfwed, Leader of the United Peoples of Erribathe, Descendant of the Hundred Families, heir to the Shrouded Crown and the relics of his ancestors, walked the halls of his palace as an observer and not an occupant.

He had other names, other titles accorded to him such that if you wanted to be pedantic, you could use everything from Avel’s honorary Golden Archer title to the actual accolades he’d won in the north among the Taligrit folk. Manoerhog Nuvityn.

The Taligrits had a unique sense of humor. Nor was it a slight. A younger, brash Prince Nuvityn had once joined their festivities and won the title fairly. The most astute diplomats knew that was no…fanciful term like an honorary dukedom.

It was a term of endearment that won you a free drink at every pub you came to and had a lot of local prestige. It came from the great and historied practices of Taligrits, who some called the last [Barbarians] and savages of the north, for all they had a proper kingdom of sorts.

The name, uh—came from the saying. Manoerhog.

As in—‘Man Over Hog’. Which meant you’d beaten a wild boar in a wrestling competition where you endeavored to toss the angry pig into the mud.

Never let it be said that Erribathe’s great [King of Men] did not know how to inspire all kinds of folk. In truth, the Taligrits would have fit right in with some of Erribathe’s wild folks.

He still thought he looked the part. Nuvityn’s hair had finally gone to grey, but only threads amongst dark brown hair. His lines, for all they stood out on his face, still only emphasized a man not yet gone to seed.

He could still stand proudly without clothing or spells to disguise his gut. He still looked like what he was.

[King of Men]. He walked among his people like a reminder of that. He was not touched by immortality like his queen, half-Elven beauty, which was impossible. He was simply what a person could be, in his advancing age. Even when he felt his age in the night, a bearskin cloak hanging around his shoulders, he walked upright.

As if a procession trailed him. Servants did—but perhaps even the mist walked in his shadow, swirling about him. He could look silly. He could be a fool—but sometimes, it sounded like the world was heralding him and the land quieted to watch as he passed.

Then—when he laughed, when he joked, the air was light and free, and youth flowed around him, like when he had emerged with a dizzy hog to be crowned Manoerhog, and given the delighted pig half his drink. For he had been both and learned his manners from half-Elves in their eternal villages. But he had ridden bareback and wrestled with his folk of Kehndroth. Spent years in every part of his land growing up.

The third-largest kingdom of Terandria was vast enough for the nomadic Kehndroth folk with their fine steeds to mix, coming down from the highlands with the metal-loving Osverthians. Half-Elves of three forests—and yes, folk who would happily throw down with a wild pig for fun.

Only, the Forem tribes wrestled bears. Black bears, but they knew how tough the Humans were, and the bears sometimes trained on each other. Not just for the ego of…bears. If they managed to knock down all the challengers in the village, they were fed as much as they could eat.

Erribathe was a varied nation many knew little about. It had the dignity of its years, and the Kingdom of Myth was known as one of the Restful Three. It was a proud nation, proud of the legacy it had not lost.

Yet—betimes, even Nuvityn felt more like the Manoerhog than the King of Myths. It was hard to grow up in the Age of Waning, and he had lived two hundred and forty-one years.

As half-Elves did, really. Though his kingdom was more plentiful, the aspect that had kept him from madness was that Erribathe did keep away from the world.

Two hundred and forty-one years. Long enough to have remembered a time before Zelkyr. To have sent his forces to Izril in outrage—then to Rhir—and then to have fought off the Necromancer when he fell to his madness.

Better to live now rather than to wake up with the mists hanging foul and low and receive a summons. To hear an army by the hundreds of thousands was descending once more, led by that perverted Archmage of Death.

Not that the Necromancer had ever done more than hurl Ghouls into his lands by the thousand. That ‘small’ act was enough—riding in the night, swinging his sword down upon glowing eyes preying upon his border-folk when he was nearing his two hundredth birthday had told him he was old.

For all he shared his lifespan with his consort, Queen Eithelenidrel—it wore on him as much as the reverse—aging faster, living among Humans—wore on her.

Perhaps he would abdicate his throne and give Prince Iradoren his reign. The boy was naught but seventy years of age, for all he looked half-that. He had grown up twenty years among the old villages of half-Elves, so you had to subtract that from his age.

All of this would have left Nuvityn wanting, as he knew Iradoren wanted, to carve out a more fitting legacy for his time. To make Erribathe shine as it had done in days of old.

—But those days were past. And Nuvityn had tried.

What people forgot—even the ‘old’ ones like Feor—was that there was a time before Zelkyr. There was. And in those days, if he recalled his memories of a child correctly, used tonics to drift back to recall clearly, dictated his memoirs—

They had said the same things they said now. The Antinium threat? New, yes, but overshadowed, perhaps, by the threat whispered in his father’s courts.

The Nagatine Empire rising. An age when Lizardfolk had threatened not only Izril—but Chandrar and Baleros. The Blighted Kingdom, battling the Demons, had refused to fight across Baleros.

The Archmage of Baleros, then, the Archmage of Eyes…what was his name?

“Coloquex?”

It sounded vaguely right. Now he had driven fear into the hearts of men. Then died. His forces had persisted thereafter for a long time, even with the Thousand Lances, the aggrieved forces of the Walled Cities, even the might of the Five Families and nations like Nerrhavia’s Fallen coming to arms.

Why—Hellios, that conquered nation, had made itself known in that time. In that age, Nuvityn remembered Khelt had ignored the fighting steadfastly. Its king had not been as—provocative as now.

No one remembered it. Only half-Elves would listen when Nuvityn sat down and talk about it as if it were common knowledge while the Humans looked on blankly. Why, the threat of the Nagatine Empire had persisted since.

Their great temples. Their spells, which some had called profane—Jungle Tails, that silly Great Company, had not been so laughable then.

“Better the Forgotten Wing than them.”

They had risen by dragging down the Lizardfolk in a bloody series of wars—and Nuvityn himself had quietly pulled some strings from Erribathe. Not forces, but donations of gold to the young Titan.

Of course—the fall of the Lizardfolk was more than just the Titan, for all he was the one most people would cite if they thought of it at all. There were other factors at play. Brave heroes of the generation after the fall of Coloquex. They had helped quash the last conspiracies to create empire.

Funny. Back then, the next generation must have thought they were marching and fighting across ancient history. Certainly, the figure who was now as legendary as the causes he had striven against had written it like that.

The Lightning Thief. Once, a dashing young man. Now, a figure of stories. He had stolen the Eye of Baleros, fought his way across a continent—then vanished into the pages of books.

Nuvityn had thought him dead. He could not steal age as easily as lightning—but perhaps not.

All these old things were coming to life again. All these names being spoken—and older names still.

So that was why he padded through his palace in the dead of night, a magical light at his side. His guards held back, and now, the King of Myths rose and beheld something he took for granted.

“Where is it? The Draconium compendia. Not here. Not here…”

He scanned various walls, growing frustrated until a delicate cough and a figure pointed him to the correct hallway. Embarrassed, annoyed, he followed the hints until he found it.

Then Nuvityn gazed upwards. Iradoren was not back—he was raring to go to Izril. They all were. But he had reported in, along with a number of his servants and minders, and the truth was clear.

How many nations now heard that word floating around in more than idle jest? Not just one—but one of the true ones. A name so old it made Nuvityn’s blood chill.

A name so old that the other nations were probably frantically sorting through books, hoping one had survived ten thousand years. Bothering old half-Elves who had lifespans of a thousand years at best.

While the truth…the truth was upon his very walls. That was the age of the Kingdom of Myths. And so, Nuvityn shone up a light upon the walls.

It should have been a torch or some fickle lantern with a flame, wavering—this light was too pure, too constant. He should have felt a great breeze blow through his palace across marble shaped, so some claimed, by Elven hands.

—But then, that was a lie, and he knew it had merely been half-Elves. Perhaps close enough in lineage to claim the Last Queen of Elves, Sprithae, had been within ten generations of them—but no more. And the palace had been rebuilt many times, anyways.

Even those ages were too old for Erribathe to record. Yet this—Nuvityn looked up and sighed. For now he saw it.

Lists of enemies and allies. Some had been removed—this wall obsessively updated, until the last [Kings] realized—there was less point. Now, it was simply art, and he remembered sitting here as a boy and begging his half-Elven tutor, Nenre, to tell him all the stories.

He wondered if she were still in her village. Perhaps he should summon her. But—Nuvityn looked up. And he heard what the other rulers heard, though the wording changed:

 

Have you heard it? Do you believe? 

I have seen him in Calanfer’s Eternal Throne. I have glimpsed the truth writ upon the wall, in wings that beat silently. I have listened to his voice.

Wake from your dreams of mortality. We are at the beginning of a new era. Once more, even now—

There are still yet Dragons.

 

There they stood upon carved thrones that blazed with the elements. Like a kind of family tree—sitting above brave members of their species who had won their way onto mortal paint. Names of the most famous or infamous of their kind.

The Tyrant of Gems, Muzarre. The Silver Knight, Yderigrisel. The Wings of Life, Sasitoret.

Lesser Dragons. Lesser Dragons—you understand? He could almost hear Nenre trying to explain it to him. Each one might be terrible and cunning, brilliant and heroic as you pleased.

—But they were still lesser. They knelt to no [Kings]—some gave their might to causes and nations, but they only listened to one another’s authority.

And that was them. The beings who sat upon those thrones—none dared call themselves King or Queen. Nevertheless, there they were. Or the last of them.

Their likenesses had changed, and Nuvityn thought it a crime that he did not see all the ones that had come before. But only the last Dragonlords remained. He had to remember this had once been a list, an actual resource of dread enemies that his Kingdom of Myth had fought against.

Armies garbed in relics to deny them a goal. Alliances between nations to bring one down. An individual, a single being capable of such devastation that they were nations unto themselves. So capricious and forceful that they required—perhaps created—[Heroes] and legends of old to match them among mortals.

He had long since memorized their names as a boy. So of course he knew one of them. Slowly, Nuvityn let the light shine across each one—and there had been countless Dragonlords. One for each weyr—until entire species of Dragons vanished.

They were all gone. Yet the last…he knew names they said had still appeared in the last great calamity of this world.

The Creler Wars. Three Dragonlords had still flown then. Or rather, flown out of that hell. They had seen Dragons die, emerging to battle a common foe.

The Last Dragonlord of the Wind had fallen, they said. Aeitendeske. His light played over a Dragon with wings spread, eyes shining copper and viridian.

The ‘Dragonlord of War’ was listed below the Dragonlords, apart. But Khetieve, the Dragonlord of Waves, still sat upon his throne, a trident gripped in one claw.

Did he live? Now, Nuvityn had questions. Were they enemies?

Were they…enemies? Iradoren had asked, because it was no longer clear. They were gone. Gone—and even if there were a few, one, he had been in hiding. Was he still some great foe to vanquish or a bastion of knowledge that should be sheltered? Like a Unicorn—guarded such that such things should not vanish from the earth?

Nuvityn felt—strongly—that it was the latter. But he had not lived those times.

“Summon Nenre, my tutor of old. I must hear her tales of Dragons again.”

They had done terrible things. And he—like all the others—stared down at Nuvityn, and the king shivered like the boy who had gazed up at those eyes. Heliotrope and cerulean, gemstones set in the mural. Next to the last Dragonlord of the Void, Xarkouth, head turned as if to address the Dragonlord of Sanctums, the Silver Dragonlord—

Teriarch. Dragonlord of Flame.

So old. So old, even by their standards. Dragonward of the Iltantian Empire. Wyrmbane—a title to one who had slain or aided in the death of a Greater Wyrm. ‘Traitor’ of the Dragonfall Wars, when Walled Cities revolted and their hold in Chandrar was broken.

He had stolen into Calanfer’s throne, bested the Winter’s Watcher and a member of the Thousand Lances, revealed the Lightning Thief might live—and made a challenge to the kingdoms of Terandria.

What might such a creature want? Some great war that even he feared? So he hinted—hinted that it might be Rhir that needed to be scourged ere another Creler War began.

All of it made Nuvityn wish he had come two hundred years back! Then a younger man would have had the will to ride out to Izril hell-for-leather. Now…now, Nuvityn’s heart beat as he imagined it.

The Dragon had come to Calanfer and set kingdoms scrambling in a day. What might he be doing now? A being of his might, roaming the world? What deeds, what goals had he?

The Dragon stared down at Nuvityn as the [King of Men], King of Myths, Manoerhog, felt his kingdom’s long silence and inaction had come to an end. It was painful. And glorious.

 

——

 

Now you knew the weight upon him, the legacy that remained in places like Erribathe, and his legacy—there were things so old that even Teriarch, Terrium Archelis Dorishe, called old. Things he had heard in legends—and now knew to set himself against.

Older than most magics. Capable of casting spells thought dead, in languages that truly were dead, keeper of relics that predated the Walled Cities.

Dragonlord of Flame. Feared by his name. Enemy to old powers, laden with a duty that had called him from beyond death.

—Forgive him as he slept. Curled upon his hoard, eyes tightly shut.

Sleeping. Sleeping, three months after he’d woken. And it had been about nineteen days of pure slumber. Or perhaps forty-nine.

He kept turning off the spell that was meant to wake him up. He couldn’t remember how many times he reset it.

How could you relate to a Dragon? Perhaps in this—he lay there, not quite asleep. Not quite awake. Waking up, hearing the persistent shrill of magic telling him to rise—and turning it off.

Again and again.

It was not restful oblivion. It was more a denial of waking. Because his conscious and unconscious minds both knew that he had a monumental task before him. He knew every passing second he wasted he would have to struggle more.

Yet he slept. He slept, putting off his efforts a moment longer. Because he was tired. Bone-weary, with something more than mere exhaustion. Though there was that too.

His wings still hurt. His body ached and though much of that was age, more came from his wounds of old. Not just recent events.

They weighed him down, and he would rather he slept. Because when he tried to rise, he felt a kind of mortal horror stealing over him. And it echoed days as he slept. Echoed and echoed—

What have I done?

 

——

 

Three months. Three months since Erin Solstice woke, and the Brass Dragon had no idea what had happened in the world. He knew what he had done.

Oh yes.

It haunted him, for all he had found the moment itself nostalgic. For all he had burned with passion as he dared the petty rulers of Terandria to think beyond their shores, to come to Izril, to rise—

He had conceived a horror after that. And it had driven him to this cave after he had done the rest of what he could in the world.

For Teriarch now dreamed of memories. He imagined—he saw—armies scorching their way across another nation’s lands. Slaughter—war—

He had sworn not to. Sworn to…

Who? To Sheta? No. Too far back. For the last Queen of Harpies, he had waged strife against his own kind.

To someone else. Many someone elses. He recalled…sitting in this very cave, perhaps. Telling someone he would not. He—

Didn’t remember. The memories had been taken from him. Severed by his own mistakes. It didn’t matter. The content was the same.

“I shall not begin it again. I shall not take a side and burn the other to ash. I shall not see their blood dripping from my wings and fangs.”

Not again. He had promised. And then broken that promise.

And done it once more. He had just invited a continent to battle for a new land. What had he done?

What he had to do. What he had to do, to arm them in levels. To reclaim older eras. He knew it, but there was such bile in his stomach at the thought he could have breathed that instead of fire.

Dreaming, the Dragon shuddered. And he backed away from waking up, as if he were holding himself asleep.

For he feared what he’d do when he rose.

They should have picked someone else.

The Dragon was not really asleep. He was in that stage where you drifted off…woke up…found yourself sitting and staring at a wall before falling back into your pillow. Or in his case, a shower of coins.

For a Brass Dragon, metals were just a kind of resting place. They could actually lounge on a sea of coins—other Dragons tried it and got them jammed in crevices and back-aches.

Get up. He knew he’d do it eventually. The Dragon snorted a bit of flame, and the gold melted. He’d…

“Rise. Rise and fulfill your duties as you swore! Rise and—”

—His voice jolted him awake. Teriarch turned off the alarm. Another day? He groaned. Then his head lolled b—

“Rise. Rise and f—”

They should have chosen someone else. They should have chosen his daughter. No. Not her. Not them. Not this burden, but not him either. Take Yderigrisel—no, not him. Take Muz—no. Take…

Take someone else. The First Dragonlord of Gems, Saracandre, had the wisdom to do this. The will and might, imperious as she had been when she lectured a little hatchling about manners. He’d just been climbing on a giant emerald. Anyone would do it.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Make a note—tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.”

But the Dragon drifted off—and when his two alarms blared, he turned both off and reset both. He did not want to do this. His wings hurt. His heart hurt. He could dimly feel that it was changing seasons. Fall was running out, and he wondered if it would snow. Then remembered why it should not and groaned under the weight of fear and trepidation.

He had to fight them! But choose which sides? Arm which forces? Do…too much. He knew he’d get up eventually. So couldn’t he rest another day? Another week? Another month? He knew he’d get up and…

He had done too much already.

 

——

 

Then.

 

That haughty Wyrm. Rhisveri Zessoprical. Teriarch flew from Ailendamus after a week of negotiations.

A week of camping out like a savage in a forest, wiping mud off his scales and trying to present himself in full dignity with the pettiest Wyrm in the entire world—and thus merely average when it came to his damn species.

The last Wyrm. Teriarch tried to remember that—but it was hard. The boy was haughty.

“Take the Dragonthrone.”

“No.”

The entire week-long argument could be best summarized in those two sentences. Oh, there was more nuance to it.

Delicately prying into the Lucifen and Agelum’s new, strange alliance. Finding out to his disbelief that the Infernal Court was no more—that a Goblin King had done what the Demons could not—treating with the other immortals, all of that had been fine.

He had persuaded almost all of them that the Dragonthrone would be a suitable gift—a peace-offering for Ailendamus’ ambitions. But Rhisveri, the Wyrm, refused to take it.

Most of Teriarch’s discussions had truly been assuring them he had not come to rule, nor join, nor threaten the immortal cabal of Ailendamus. Some had taken him at his word.

…Maybe one group had taken him at his word, and that was the Merfolk who remembered their own Dragonlord protector. Even the Agelum had been suspicious.

Fair. Fair. He, for himself, had been glad to meet them. Even Lady Paterghost.

 

——

 

I fear you not, Dragonlord. For I am Lady Paterghost of Taimaguros undivided, inhabited by my sworn protector and companion, Nube!

The Mimic hiding inside the suit of armor shook so hard Paterghost had to hold still as she tried to face and sneer Teriarch down. Which took some doing, because the Brass Dragon was a hill compared to her. And she had no face.

The enchanted suit of armor recoiled slightly as Teriarch lifted a wing, but he merely saluted her with it.

“The will of Taima and Guros unite behind you, Lady Paterghost. May I inquire as to your exact station?”

Then she hesitated.

I—am a Lady by right of my extended service to the crown! For a thousand years, I have served the halls of the palace, and my own lineage can hardly be doubted, nor service to the crown.

“Ah. Then you are royally appointed to the title?”

N—not as such.

Then he realized she might not be as noble as she claimed. Or that Taimaguros wouldn’t have been exactly keen to have an animated suit of armor clanking around greeting [Princesses] like some maternal protector.

But then—spontaneous life like hers was extraordinary. Anyone could make a suit of enchanted armor. Teriarch could probably animate some chainmail in a [Blacksmith]’s shop in a second.

—That wasn’t the same as a being with will. Drathians believed in the power of statues, items, to come to life with affection and time. But it was exceedingly rare for someone like Paterghost to exist.

She must have been in the presence of something highly, highly magical, and her armor might have belonged to someone beloved. That she was immortal was fairly unquestionable. If she maintained her armor, she’d live for as long as metallurgy endured.

Nube was the more interesting one. It must have been some greater form of Mimic, and Teriarch was reminded of the unpleasant thing that sometimes bothered him in his cave—but this one was more traditional, an inhabitant of items.

It was also, he suspected, more than half the reason why Paterghost was dangerous. She might be fairly adept by herself—with her unique frame and Nube’s power, they were probably skilled enough to down all but a Named-rank adventurer in this age with ease.

How to deal with someone like her? Ah, of course. Soothe the ego. The Dragon spoke quickly and eloquently, flicking his wings as if they were a-court and gossiping in parlance.

“Ah, then you must be claiming peerage under the aegis of the Rigor du Servis, an old form of establishment under the Hundred Family’s Havingtel reign. I recall that they merely required three hundred years of citizenship in a knightly capacity for de facto entry into the noble halls.”

Bastards. Three hundred years of combined military service as a [Knight]? A lot of deaths to be called the barest low-level nobility.

She was completely ineligible, but Paterghost instantly brightened up.

“Yes. Exactly. Did you say ‘Rigor du Servis’?”

“I believe the texts may be extant. I salute you, then, Lady Paterghost of Taimaguros. May we converse as equals?”

She puffed up so much he feared her chestplate would explode. But then, Teriarch had always been good at statecraft and the art of diplo ento umbris.

Bullshit diplomacy. All you had to do was know enough old customs, and one inevitably fit a situation.

 

——

 

That had been pleasant. Meeting young immortals? Almost painful. The fierce little Royal Griffon, an actual Titan and hearing how he had been found—pinned by a boulder his mother had placed on him, probably to save him until he was large enough to survive—

The things they had done and lived through to get here in this era. And Rhisveri sheltered them.

It was hard to reconcile with that strutting Sariant Lamb peacock of a Wyrm, all arrogance and hints that Ailendamus could wipe out any forces Teriarch could bring to bear. Perhaps he was better than Teriarch thought—

“Rather paunchier than your illustrations, I must say. I took a look at Sophridel’s references, and my oh my, you must have spent a fortune on bribing [Artists] of your time.”

—Nevermind. Teriarch had resisted the urge to flame the insolent Greater Wyrm multiple times in their discussions.

They weren’t even good insults. But then—the Wyrm was furious. A Scroll of Resurrection that Teriarch would have fought for had been plundered.

An actual relic. An actual legendary object. How did one survive this long? Why did no one—well, if Wyrms had it, it made sense.

He had every right to be wrathful, especially since that young woman—Ryoka Someone—had killed the last Dryad.

The last Dryad. Oh! Teriarch wept silently. But he had more to do, and if he could not make allies with Ailendamus, stemming the hatred of Rhisveri somewhat would do.

 

——

 

Thereafter, he had flown to Calanfer and skulked around, collecting news, setting up his grand entrance. It had even been fun—if exasperating—

—Until it was done. Until he was perched outside of the palace, listening in and hearing all the excited talk and he realized he might have begun a war.

Then he heard his name being whispered to the leaders of other nations, and he felt a wave of—of—

Panic run through him. He could not deny it. They knew he lived.

They would come for him. Again and again, until he faked his death and hid. [Heroes] and adventurers and people begging his help. Young women. Girls and—

He did not want this. He did not, but he had to impel them to move. So he had done what he could, moved all the levers. But the truth was that even now, he was ashamed to admit it after his speech to them.

“The Dragonward Bells shall ring. One last time.”

A grand boast but he—

He did not want to die.

He had already died once! Why did he fear it? The Dragon was weary of his fear, weary of it all—so after a few more efforts, he had flown back to Izril.

Okay, he’d teleported. And been so weary from his fighting with Rhisveri, all the magic and travel he’d been up to—he’d spent weeks in the sun and under the stars. He’d been so exhausted he dragged himself into his cave and slept a good damn month.

Then…stayed abed for the next two. In grief. In guilt. In denial of his duties.

Blame him not.

Please.

He wept, even dreaming—tears at the corner of those unique eyes. For what he had done.

For what he was too weak to do.

 

——

 

Two and a half months ago.

 

Archmage Eldavin had great plans for the future. Great plans.

—He was upset about the Earthers being stolen, though. Even with all he knew, even with Wistram’s might, there were things that could not be easily replaced.

Earth’s knowledge was one such thing. He had confronted one of the architects of this disaster. But Aaron Vanwell hadn’t even flinched much before Eldavin’s wrath.

He had been smiling that evening.

Smiling and as light as a feather, as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The young [Mage] had raised his hands as Eldavin interrogated him.

“Archmage Eldavin—everyone in Wistram said we weren’t prisoners. Only that you were keeping Elena and everyone ‘for our own safety’. That’s what the Drakes and the Drowned Folk said. And they insisted. It’s not our fault. We can’t fight Gazi, right?”

Sourly, the Archmage had conceded it was hard to see a moment where refusing Archmage Amerys or the other high-level [Mages] would have been easy. However—

Recovering them would not be an easy task. Even if he wanted to. Doroumata was one thing. He’d hinted to her she should grab some of the incoming Earthers off the ships.

Instead, she’d grabbed all the Earthers she could and helped Trey Atwood escape. That…that young man had hurt most of all.

“The King of Destruction over me. What does he have? Troy—no, Trey’s sister? Then Reim first—Az’kerash—the damned new lands, and—”

He had a headache. A mortal frailty, which he disliked along with his aching shoulders. A backrub from one of his companions had sorted that out—but he was still growing used to…

To not being a Dragon. It felt odd, because Eldavin had never felt like one—but now he knew he was not.

A half-Elf with the knowledge of a Dragon and a handful of levels. He had a long way to go to reclaim his power. Even without knowing who he had been…

I shall be better. I have Terras as a faction, and they are skillful, even the ones who have been sloths all their lives like Telim. Form a base of power and work up. I have allies.

He had duties, too. Which Eldavin did not like. But he had to admit…he felt young. If he had ever been old, really. As a simulacrum, he was technically less than a year old.

But he just had to figure out a spell to reverse age. He’d heard there was some [Chronomancer] in Rhir—the techniques existed. If he had not seen fit to give himself anti-aging spells, Eldavin well knew that there was alchemy and other ways to get to the same goal.

He had more knowledge than Wistram had ever lost in his head. Eldavin could see himself arming Wistram to the point where it could take care of a lot of his tasks without his direct control or more than guidance. Which left him placed to…

To enjoy this world. Food! He didn’t remember eating a lot of it, so it was fresh. Food, youth—activities such as chess.

And yes, companionship. He felt, now, a bit silly. Eldavin’s, uh—indecorousness when it came to female attention had come to haunt him slightly.

In that it seemed like every faction of Wistram had at least one female [Mage] who wanted to take personal lessons from him. No, wait. ‘Personal lessons’.

He disliked that. He wanted a genuine connection based on more than physical attraction. But those things took time…didn’t they?

The half-Elf put a hand to his head as he moodily walked around his grand suite of rooms allotted to him. He hated that feeling of half-knowing a lesson or something. How did one—date at this age and authority?

“Perhaps that app on Ryoka’s phone. No. No, I am not going to invent that. Television, radio, yes. Not something for personal gain.”

He folded his arms and faced one of the walls where Feor had donated an image of a picturesque half-Elven village. Eldavin stared at the wonderful landscape and amended his thoughts.

“…Besides, it would be easier to attend a ball or two. Meet people in real settings. I wonder. Terandria, Izril, Baleros, Chandrar, all have social functions. Isn’t there an invitation from that Empire of Sands?”

A rising power or so he was informed. And he had better start meeting and charming all the other nations, not just Terandria. Eldavin was hunting around for a pile of letters when he heard the knock on his window.

His windows were enchanted, so it was probably a hell of a knock. But it sounded faint—and Eldavin turned and sighed.

“Oh, for the love of aphrodisiacs. This has gone too far. Excuse me—no. No.”

He crossed his arms, then realized the person throwing stones couldn’t hear him and tugged in his beard in vexation. But she kept beckoning, and he went to the doors leading to his balcony.

The aforementioned attempts to get on Eldavin’s good side through his lower side? They resulted in some odd meetings. A young lady deciding to swim with him. A student after one of his lectures asking him to clarify an issue.

A Stitch-Woman leaving a hand on his doorknob. That was original. Stitch-Folk flirted in interesting ways. Eldavin should have made it clear—he should have mastered his baser desires.

Otherwise, you got things like the very charming, very attractive—and very naked Drake woman floating outside his balcony.

She was ‘clothed’ in a rather transparent film of what was either a robe, bedding, or shower curtain—which could not fulfill all three roles in any meaningful way. She had some rather magnificent—

Er—

Scales. Lovely turquoise. And her wings were flexing in such a magnificent way as she hovered there—was she flying with her wings or using [Levitation]?

Maybe the spell he’d taught Telim had already gone around? Or she was one of the talented [Mages] who kept their heads down instead of being Archmages, like Galei.

Wait, was this Galei? If it was, Eldavin couldn’t see through the illusion, and he’d have something to say to the Ullsinoi faction. Eldavin opened the windows.

“Young woman, someone is going to look up, and I shall not be the one to explain this to the Council.”

She laughed and flew back a pace.

“Archmage, can I have but a moment of your time?”

“Please, this is hardly the method.”

“But it is working. Come, please. You can surely meet me for a moment.”

Eldavin looked around to make sure no one had opened a window—but he saw illusion magic blocking most views of this area of Wistram.

Plus, it was past midnight. The half-Elf huffed, but decided there was no help for it. He hurriedly cast a spell and strode out across a bridge of light. The Drake woman flew backwards.

Young woman. Please.”

She wanted to fly out across the beautiful bubble of calm surrounding Wistram. Eldavin strode after her, conjuring a breeze to blow her back—and she lost the robes. He closed his eyes—and created a robe of cotton to hand her.

“Let’s speak civilly.”

“Oh, fine.”

She stopped, puffing her cheeks out, and drifted back to Eldavin. He approached her and then noticed something odd. The moon was clear, and she was very—vividly—naked. He could see a lot he probably shouldn’t be seeing. His clear view did not uh, lead to clear judgment. But what he saw on the rocks surrounding Wistram was that she had no shad—

 

——

 

Whumph.

The sound of the invisible Dragon exhaling Dragonfire wasn’t the actual roar of flames, but the sound the air made as it was displaced.

He’d forgotten to muffle it. Damn. Teriarch had also forgotten the shadow of the naked Drake. It worked, though.

In his experience, even the canniest Archmage sometimes fell for the old ‘naked, amorous illusion’ trick. Dragons, Selphids, Dwarves…it got them all.

Men and women, thank you. Though he had to own, female Archmages sometimes didn’t appreciate a naked fellow, no matter how splendidly done, posing behind a decorative cloud. You got them by organizing a group of young, fit [Mages] wrestling on the sand or in the water. Then, while they were peering out from behind their enchantments—

Dragonfire.

It was a concentrated stream, a barrier-shredding flame. It should have killed the simulacrum fast.

—Unfortunately, it caught the half-Elf calling himself ‘Eldavin’, one of Teriarch’s pseudonyms, mid-teleport. He had noticed the shadow.

The scream of agony was still there, though, as Teriarch flew up, cursing. He had hoped for a clean kill.

Wistram had enough magics to do damage, even if they were crippled! He was watching for Golems as he flew up—and the balcony doors were open.

Rookie mistake. The Dragon punched a claw through the open doors and hurled the smoldering figure within out. Then he followed it.

Take the fight outside Wistram’s bubble as fast as you can. They’d detect grand spells. Teriarch flew past the bubble and then unleashed.

“Activate!”

Bolts of lightning criss-crossed the air. They hit the sea, creating geysers of water, struck away from desperate barriers—but when they found Archmage Eldavin, they anchored his position.

Disintegration. Eight beams shot at the simulacrum—curving as he tried to fly.

Was that—[Wings of the Phoenix]? He dove, corkscrewing, then did a minor teleport when he saw the beams twisting. Teriarch’s mind was flashing as he chanted more spells, and he realized something. Several things.

He flies like me.

Of course—he was him. But it was disconcerting. Teriarch had never fought—

The second thing was that the simulacrum wasn’t dying. Of course not. He’d made it to regenerate wounds, to endure terrible damage. It was regenerating off its mana supply.

Make something too well and it turns on you. Golems. You fool!

“—ncy Teleport]!”

He’d just tried to use [Emergency Teleport]. Probably to safety. But the teleportation spells were locked down even if you could teleport to Wistram. Teriarch whispered as he saw the figure burning the beams of tracking disintegration out of the way.

He knew how to do it—you had to throw matter in front of disintegration spells until they ran out of power, so Eldavin just conjured walls of falling stone and rocks to eat the spell—then dove into the waters.

It wouldn’t stop this.

Gaze of the Medusa.

Teriarch’s eyes burned—then the water, the fleeing half-Elf—even the sleeting rain turned to stone.

Stone droplets shattered as a wedge of the ocean began to petrify. The half-Elf might not die of it—but he slowed. And Teriarch exhaled again.

This time, it was a ball of flames—like a [Fireball] but accelerated. He gasped for air as it burned a hole through stone—the water—and hopefully the Archmage himself.

He flies like me. He knows my tactics. Of course he did. Teriarch had given his other self all the memories of combat and magic he thought it needed—even vital memories for the short-term.

He had never thought this would happen. Now, he was correcting his mistake. Archmage or not. Part of him or not—it had to die.

Eldavin had to go. He had done far too much damage unknowingly. Did he scream something as he saw the ball of fire coming at him? Teriarch watched—

And the ball of fire winked out. The Dragonlord of Flame’s eyes widened. He hadn’t seen—something that eats Dragonfire? Even the Necromancer couldn’t do—

Stop!

The Archmage of Memory rose. He was burnt beyond belief, but to Teriarch’s incredulity, he was healing. Then the Dragon realized his mistake.

The simulacrum could use potions! It had used a healing potion, and despite the Dragonfire—no, the first blast had charred him to his bones.

But what had stopped the second one? Eldavin rose as Teriarch began casting subvocally. Then Teriarch observed the final thing.

“[Pentagram of the Five Alchemies]…”

He was using magic like a [Mage]. Magic of boxes. Magic unlike a Dragon. Teriarch spoke at the same time as Eldavin and got a nasty shock.

World’s End Permafrost.

A wave of cold that froze the sea deeper than even the Medusa’s Gaze spell blasted out. But it met a glowing five-sided pentagram, and Teriarch watched the spell being sucked into one of the five quadrants.

His alchemy magic! The Brass Dragon’s eyes widened. But how had the spell come out that fast? He knew how complicated it was. It was almost as if…

Then he saw it, and his heart skipped a beat. In pure disbelief. He saw the half-Elf chanting, lips moving soundlessly—and something burned over his head. An active Skill.

[Rapid Casting].

He had Skills?

“Impos—”

The Dragon almost said the word, then caught himself. He shot forwards, flying upon jet-flames, and bit.

The move caught Eldavin off-guard. He tried to shield himself—grabbing the teeth as they descended in a flash. The Dragon felt the incredible strength and realized Eldavin must have cast [Diamond Body] on himself and strength spells.

Exactly what he’d do. The two fired at the same time.

“[Wave of Seething Acid]!”

Teriarch exhaled. Then gagged, dove, exhaling the burning spell. Damn! It was only Tier 6 and weak, but it was in his mouth. Idiot—

When he emerged from the sea, he expected to see the Archmage in agony if he were alive. But he saw the final thing that made the Dragon freeze and his heart pound in fear.

He had expected to kill himself—hoped to do it first. He had wondered if ‘Eldavin’ would see him coming. That he had not—that he had survived this and the first Dragonbreath attack was just chance.

But the other two?

Violet flames were trying to burn away the Archmage of Memory. They had the same intensity that could make magma look like lukewarm bathwater. They could burn in the vacuum of space.

A Dragonlord’s fire. Yet the half-Elf held it an inch from his skin, and not via a spell. His hands…what was he doing?

They were pressed together. Clasped, and Eldavin was whispering. The words made Teriarch’s head hurt. It sounded like something impossible.

A prayer. Then Teriarch tried to read the class—the Skill—and he saw nothing. Then he feared.

 

——

 

The Miracle had saved him twice. Eldavin’s skin was burning, but he whispered. His second class had saved him where magic could not.

He was trying to kill himself! Teriarch—of course, he didn’t realize. Eldavin? Teriarch? It was confusing, but the half-Elf knew he had to survive this. To retreat to Wistram. But the only thing that could stop the Dragon’s advanced magic, mana pool, and innate abilities was this.

[Divine Protection]. The [Believer of the Old Faith] held out his hands and shoved the fire away. Then he lowered his arms, panting.

Something was drained out of him. Not mana but…belief. Yet he had a reservoir of it. After all—he knew who he was believing in.

He knew they were real.

Did the Dragon say ‘impossible’? Or did he just think it? Eldavin thought he could read the thoughts behind those two brilliant eyes.

Teriarch was in the sea now, staring up through the waters like some great fish. Graceful—poised to strike or move.

And worn out. Heavier than he should be. Slower, too. No one would realize it on first sight, but the Dragon was old. Eldavin, though—he knew.

The [Pentagram of the Five Alchemies] was burning behind him, empowered by one of the Dragon’s spells. Eldavin held it back a second, though, and spoke. The first words he’d been able to get out in the lightning-fast skirmish.

“Wait. Teriarch. Myself. We’re not enemies.”

The Dragon flinched at that word. He looked up—as if pondering what to say—and then stuck his mouth out of the water.

“I hoped to make this quick. Eldavin. You are me. A part of me that should not be. You know, if you are me—that we should not walk this world. I know what you must feel—lower your arms. I will take your memories after destroying you. I can promise no more than a swift death. But you know it must be done.”

Eldavin stared down. Incredulously. His first instinct—no, that was why the Dragon had ambushed him. But he called back down, rasping between healing lips.

“I want to live. Just—just fly back. Or let us converse. Civilly! Are you so willing to destroy new life? Part of yourself?”

Some things should not be done. Of all beings, I can judge myself most harshly. You—look what you have done so far. Made war? Gathered power to yourself like a petty dictator? This is not what I—we would do in control of our faculties.”

That stung. Eldavin spread his arms. He conjured two balls of light and hurled them down—to illuminate the two.

“And hiding in that cave was better? Ryoka Griffin impelled us to action by reason, fool. Or have you forgotten her? Did you forget Magnolia? Our oaths? Haven’t you seen how the world is in need?”

“Not of this. Nor for you to make war on Ailendamus so and give children weapons of war. Other me—Eldavin. What power did you invoke to save yourself just now?”

Teriarch’s eyes were focused on him like beams of power—but trepidation lurked there too. So he didn’t know?

“Shall we speak of it? If you swear, I shall tell you what I can. We are not enemies.”

“—By whom shall I swear?”

The first name that came to mind was one he thought of too much. Eldavin whispered.

“Sheta’s honor. No—swear by Nirayicel.”

Teriarch flinched at that. How had he come back to life? Eldavin swore he had felt himself die. No—Ryoka must have done something. But had he…?

Eldavin was shaking. He longed to reach out and talk—frankly—but he was guarded. Until Teriarch dipped his head.

“By Nirayicel and Sheta’s honor, then. I swear.”

Those were the only two that Eldavin knew—but he knew how much they mattered. So Eldavin slowly descended, and the Dragon rose.

They hovered in the air and spoke briefly. One would speak as the other wasn’t even done finishing their sentence—for they were close enough to know what they would say when hearing most of it. Eldavin began.

“If you had but reached out to—”

“Let you inform others?”

“I have not—”

“Then my wrath will be necess—”

We are not enemies, fool! Did it ever occur to you that we might ally against common enemies?”

The Dragon recoiled. He looked at Eldavin, and he was so haughty when he replied that Eldavin understood, in a flash, every complaint Magnolia, Ressa, Ryoka, and all his acquaintances had ever leveled at him.

“I do not make it a habit to consult with magical accidents before I correct them.”

Eldavin was left speechless. I should really be humbler. He drew himself up and looked his counterpart in the eyes. Slowly, the half-Elf touched his chest.

“I am myself. Teriarch, I am Eldavin the mortal. I have my own dignity and desires, and yes—it was done by accident. Or rather, sabotage. An enemy we did not know of struck at me. But I am now here, and I am worthy of dignity. Or would you spit upon the first Golem to cry out for mercy, the first Stitch-folk to smile?”

That wounded the Dragon, and neither had to dredge up arguments—they had lived through those times. Teriarch growled.

“We are not the same. You are not the same. Simulacra have existed before—say I could have let you live. Your actions are indicative—”

“Forging Wistram anew?”

Sleeping with half of Wistram, more like. Those are mere children compared to your perceived age. Have you no shame?”

The Dragon snorted smoke, and Eldavin colored.

“I am young to love and had no perception. That is an unworthy comment.”

Teriarch lifted an eyebrow of flowing copper.

“It strikes home nonetheless. So you claim this ‘Terras’ faction is also innocent of ambition? Tell me, when will you usurp the other Archmages’ power?”

“So you don’t deny it would be something you’d do!”

Eldavin blustered. The Dragon replied steadily.

“If I were to paint a nightmare of how I would do my worst—yes. You are compromised. Admit it.”

“I can learn and change. You are the one rendered impotent by your fears. Incomplete. Do you remember Magnolia? Ryoka? Say you do. Say you haven’t forgotten what that young woman did for us—what they have all done. How can you hide now?”

The Dragon retreated a few steps, on his platform of light, and then held firm. His wings hunched, but when his head rose, his eyes burned.

I am here now. Am I not?

That was true, and the two stopped. Panting, Eldavin felt the last of his prepared spells fill his mind. But he was determined it not come to blows.

“Just—just come inside. I shall swear upon the same honor of those we knew. Let us speak. We can prepare. For Seamwalkers, for what is coming.”

The Dragon gave him an uncertain look, and Eldavin tried to guess what paranoia, what traps he might be expecting.

“—Or name your place! Safe ground. Valeterisa’s mansion, a café anywhere in the world. Name it, and let us not do what baser instincts would have us start with. We can be the only allies the other trusts.”

Teriarch closed his eyes, and that was a sign of trust—or at least hesitation—that Eldavin clung to. He waited, and the Dragon whispered.

“A single question before I agree. Which one did you pray to?”

Eldavin blinked. So he did know. It made it easier. He nodded.

“Kasigna—”

He saw Teriarch’s head snap back, and the Dragon reeled. His eyes rolled up in his head. Eldavin reached out.

“No, the name shouldn’t—”

He stepped forwards, then stumbled. Stepped back—and looked down at the glowing sword of the Empire of Drath.

Edge of Heart’s Fire. The blade was embedded in his stomach where the Dragon had planted it, concealed in his claw. He ripped it up as Eldavin fell back.

Yet the Archmage didn’t die. His pentagram activated, flashing around the Brass Dragon. Five elements—

Teriarch burst through it as Eldavin rose from the sea. His body was knitting—but even as he hurled spells up and the Dragonfire lanced down, he shouted.

“You dare? YOU DARE? You swore upon her honor! Your daughter’s—

“That name must die. And you with it. We are enemies, Eldavin. Burn.”

Then the Dragon flew up. Up and up—and the flames that seared the sea itself until all of Wistram awoke to the roar of the seas—a world of steam—

That was his wrath.

—But the Archmage of Memories emerged to claim it was a spell gone wrong. He emerged, and the Dragon fled the mortals. Fled Eldavin’s threat to reveal him and set the world on edge if he returned.

Dragonfire had met faith. For the first time in such an age that even Teriarch had forgotten there were things to humble even his kind.

 

——

 

That was then. He had tried. He truly had. Had he hesitated?

The Brass Dragon slept. And he feared weakening, for he knew among his foes—some of whom eclipsed him for age, made his might look paltry—

He was also fighting himself.

Teriarch feared Eldavin like no other. For—the half-Elf had sworn to him, in the breaths between the fighting attracted Wistram’s attention and Teriarch had to flee—

“Stay away from me, Teriarch. Or I will do everything to hurt you in my power.”

It was a terrible thing to face someone who truly knew all your weaknesses. Even if you could hold few swords to the necks of children and those Teriarch had loved—for so many were gone—

There were ways. How far might his other self stoop in service to her? The Three-in-one! Of all of them to worship…

Teriarch made a sound like a whimper as he dozed. For, of all of them—it would have been her he would have followed, too.

Now you understood the Dragon. In part. For no being save his kind—and even most of his kind, even Wyrms—could not understand his burdens. No one could be as the Dragonlord of Flame; even in misery, even in his utmost wretchedness, he was incomparable to any other.

This was the truth. But if there was one thing that Terrium Archelis Dorishe had truly forgotten, it was this:

In this grand world where his tale had been written upon ancient stone and his name yet echoed amongst the living and the dead, even for the being who had once been the contemptuous, wise, noble, and even silly Dragonlord of Flame—

Sometimes, it wasn’t all about Dragons.

 

——

 

Two weeks ago.

 

“I’m old, now. I’m old. I guess this is it. This is my time. When I go—I want you to remember me as I was. Okay? Not like this.”

A weak claw grasped at the arm as a voice rasped. The faded look of the man he had been was but nostalgia in the man’s eyes.

“Weak. Gone to seed. Listen, kid—I think it’s time you have my spear.”

“Shut up, Dad. You’re injured, not old.”

“No, I’m old.”

The Drake determinedly stared up at the ceiling as he lay there on his back. He didn’t even notice the second visitor to his room in The Wandering Inn at first. He sighed, long and loud, and the bandages on his mostly-healed neck showed the closed wound that would have killed someone else.

Deniusth hadn’t needed to lend Relc his scarf, but even with potions and a [Healer], he’d been told to take it easy. Still, the Drake had been able to move about yesterday.

What was wrong with him now? Klbkch, who some called Klbkch the Slayer, one of the first Centenium ever to be created, eighth of his nature, who remembered the First Queen and predated the Creler Wars—leaned against the doorway, arms folded, as Relc weakly groaned.

“I’m old. Klbkch. It’s time for me to retire.”

Wing Commander Embria was so exasperated she barely glared at Klbkch—which showed how much on the same page daughter and partner were. Klbkch addressed Relc bluntly.

“You are not old, Relc.”

“I’m dying.”

“What happened to him? He was mobile yesterday, despite the [Healer]’s orders.”

The last thing that Klbkch had seen of Relc was the Drake bothering everyone in the Watch House. Embria sighed. Loudly.

“He went to the Adventurer’s Haven.”

“…And this convinced him of his age?”

“No.”

We don’t need to bring it up!

Relc spoke loudly at the ceiling. Embria went on, ignoring him.

“Apparently, he had found interesting company, and he was having a grand night in some room they had. Dancing, drinks, food—and then he slipped, bent his tail, and couldn’t get up. And his partner abandoned him.”

“I’ve grown weak! Klbkch—it’s like that monster, Facestealer. If I was young, I’d be dodging him with my eyes closed. This is it. I can feel the Ancestors calling me. Or something. Do they do that?”

Relc cracked open an eye and stared at Klbkch. The Antinium gave him a long look, as he sometimes did when he was on-duty with his partner.

“How would I know?”

The Drake decided to keep staring at the ceiling.

“I hear them calling me. I’m old, Klbkch.”

“No, you are not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you are not.

“Yes, I am—”

You’re not old.

Klbkch snapped, and Embria closed her mouth. Relc’s head rose, and he stared at Klbkch. The Antinium caught himself—and snapped his mandibles together sharply.

“Jeeze, Klbkch. Stop being such an old man.”

Senior Guardsman Klbkch looked at Relc. He resisted the urge to dump Relc out the window.

 

——

 

“Aw, come on, Klb, buddy. Embria, say something that’ll make me look better.”

“Me?”

A few minutes later, Klbkch was still mad. He sat on one side of Relc’s bed; Embria had a chair. Despite his faulty claims he was old, Relc did seem to need more sleep and rest. Especially if dancing could actually make him too weak to rise for a bit.

He had come back. Menolit had not. That said it all, really. Relc’s distant stare of deep regret was only diminished by the awareness that Embria was right there and deeply unimpressed by everything.

Normally, Klbkch would have some sympathy for Relc’s woes. But not in this instance.

“You are not old.”

“Fine, fine. I’m not old. Sheesh.”

“And I’m not old either.”

“Absolutely.”

“Age is an arbitrary number that applies to different species differently. My capabilities have not been reduced. If anything, I have reclaimed my former functions, and the Queens should be aware of this.”

Relc and Embria exchanged a quick glance. Relc coughed and reached for a cup of water.

“You, uh—you not enjoying your work as a [Guardsman], buddy?”

“I am. It is immensely relaxing. I am just—undervalued.”

“Me too. Me too. Undervalued by the Queens—that’s our Klb. You’ve got a new body, a new Skill—heck, you can outpunch me. You’re not old. I’m not old. We’re young!”

“Absolutely.”

Klbkch sat there, arms folded, and Relc coughed. He looked at Embria for support, but she was a member of Liscor’s army. Klbkch was the enemy. She was just sitting here.

“So, uh—what’s gotten you upset, Klbkch?”

“That blue-shelled clam with half an antennae.”

Relc hesitated.

Xrn?

Klbkch nodded. Now, Embria was drinking long from Relc’s morning cup of orange juice in fascination. Both Drakes began picking at the breakfast-in-bed that one of the Goblins had brought to Relc. A service the Drake greatly appreciated, no matter who gave it.

The inn was doing inn things below, but Klbkch began speaking as Mrsha tumbled past the door with her show-and-tell items.

“Xrn intimated to my face that I was still at risk of being a casualty with any delicate task. That I could not fulfill a role close to hers or Wrymvr’s despite her injuries. Which, I note, are quite debilitating.”

“Uh—nasty wound that. Head wound. Same as me. I really feel for her—”

She is the crippled one. Practically incapable of controlling her magic. Erratic. I am not.”

“Yeah, but she’s wounded. A bit of solidarity?”

I taught her how to use a sword. Even if I erred in Antinium familial protocol—”

Now Embria blinked, and Klbkch hesitated—

“That I do not have superiority over her as an ‘older brother’ unit. That I may be behind her in pure combat potential does not warrant laughter. Much less for thirty minutes.”

“She laughed for thirty minutes?”

“Intermittently.”

The fuming Revalantor of the Free Antinium was in rare form. As in, Relc had never seen this of Klbkch. The Drake only noticed now that Klbkch had a bit of a pong about him—but not sweat.

More like burnt ozone or the more ethereal scent of raw mana. And—Relc noticed one of Klbkch’s scabbards had melted at the tip, showing the silvery blade. Klbkch glared ahead.

“Then we fought.”

“You did what now?”

“I merely attempted to prove my point. And I was hampered by the tunnels. I was also careful of her wounds. We also trespassed into an area with Soldiers and Workers, and I was mindful of them as well. One loss given the conditions proves nothing.”

Mrsha poked her head back into the room. Lyonette was about to grab her until she heard that last bit. Relc and Embria sat there.

“So you lost. Buddy, it happens. Someday, Embria’ll kick my tail. Not yet, of course, and I’ve never had siblings, but everyone loses a round.”

“I could return to my old role in a heartbeat. She had the gall to call my organization of the Free Hive ‘outmoded’. I thought of the Free Hive from its inception. With the Free Queen. She claims I cannot ‘keep up with the new Antinium’. That I am hidebound. I do not even have hide. Factually. Incorrect.”

“Dead gods. I’ve never seen someone take Klbkch down like this.”

Relc whispered to Embria as she chewed on some bacon. She was fascinated. Klbkch sat there, staring at the ground.

“…Relc. Do you think Antinium can retire?”

His partner’s jaw dropped, and then it was a reversal. Relc sat up and patted Klbkch on the shoulder.

“Klb, buddy, you’re the most dangerous [Guard] in Liscor.”

“No. I am the fourth best.”

“That’s just what we say to make Jeiss feel better. Right now? You’re the top. You’re a killing machine!”

“I’ve lost all my old levels.”

“You’re still a [Swordslayer]. Name me someone who can slay like the Slayer, huh?”

“Ksmvr took my sword school. He is three years old. I have fallen behind a three year old.”

Relc gave Klbkch a punch in the shoulder. Klbkch fell over and lay there on the bed. Now, he was drained of power.

“Buddy—buddy—losing to Xrn isn’t a bad thing. Everyone does that. Even—even Grimalkin! Is that you? Hey, guy.

Grimalkin froze as he and Lady Pryde walked past the door. Erin had elected to put a place to shower on the second floor, and the two were covered in sweat. He turned.

“Me?”

“You lost to Xrn too, right? See, Klbkch? Everyone loses to Xrn.”

“I have never lost to Xrn. My new body is terrible.”

“It looks great.”

“It is inferior. I am inferior.”

Klbkch lay there for a while as the inn’s guests crowded around him. They began to break up as Relc tried to shoo them away from his partner’s moment of greatest weakness. But the truth was—Klbkch had seen it.

He really wasn’t good for more than paperwork in his Hive. He had no authority over Pawn—who didn’t listen to him. Bird had rebelled from the Hive. Xrn had the [Crusaders]. Even weakened, she and Wrymvr exceeded him.

What was he? Even with his new Skill—he didn’t do anything for the Hive. Klbkch lay there for how long he couldn’t say. Until someone poked him in the back.

“Revalantor Klbkch. Revalantor Klbkch, is now a bad time?”

“Er—the worst time, maybe, buddy. You guys need something?”

Klbkch tried to pick out the person from the voice. He could tell most people by sound alone—this was clearly a Worker, but not one he knew.

“We would like to speak to Revalantor Klbkch. It is not a matter of urgency. Perhaps.”

“Oh?”

Klbkch began to rise as he saw a group of Workers clustered at the doorway. One was next to Relc’s bed. Pryde, Grimalkin, Lyonette, and Mrsha had all made way for them. Klbkch turned.

“Ah. As Revalantor of the Free Antinium, there is something only I can fulfill? A task for me, I take it?”

His head rose, and he sat tall. He was standing when the Workers conferred and one raised a hand.

He was one of the new Workers, Rosencrantz, who had been assigned to the inn. The Worker, who wore the inn’s uniform-apron even when he was off-work and had a tudor flat cap with a feather sticking out of it—and his favorite line from Hamlet written on his back-shell—politely shook his head.

“No, Revalantor Klbkch. We do not have need of your authority. Pawn and Belgrade and Revalantor Xrn do these things.”

Klbkch lay back down on the bed. Another Worker piped up from the back.

“Look at him. Embarrassing. We definitely got the worst Prognugator of all the Hives.”

“Hey! Who said that?”

Relc raised a fist and shook it—Workers ducked and flinched out of the way, covering their heads, but one of them refused to move.

“Crusader 57. Want to start something, old man?”

The two partners decided to lie in the bed while Embria reached for the empty orange juice cup. Relc needed a drink too—and a clawed hand reached out and produced a second cup.

“Here. For handsome Drake.”

Peggy winked at Embria, who gave the Hobgoblin a long look. But the Hob was passing around food to everyone.

The slain Gecko and Slayer lay there as Rosencrantz poked Klbkch again.

“Revalantor Klbkch. Revalantor Klbkch. Do you have time?”

“For what? What would you need me for if not as a Revalantor? To apprehend Mrsha for a crime? To sign your budget? Here. Signed.”

Klbkch pretended to sign something. But Rosencrantz bounced on his feet. He had been chosen by the other Workers—many of whom were not Painted or [Crusaders]—Crusader 57 was here, but he was…him—because everyone had thought he was least likely to die as Erin’s employee.

If Klbkch got mad. The Worker hesitated, then spoke timidly.

“We can only come to you, Revalantor Klbkch.”

“Why?”

“Because Infinitypear and Rasktooth say you tell stories. We would like to hear this story. And we are told there is a story time custom.”

Relc’s head rose, and his eyes fluttered open. Klbkch’s own head slowly rose, and his antennae twitched.

“You what now?”

Before he knew it, nearly two dozen Workers were trying to crowd into Relc’s room. They sat down on the floor in front of the bed. Rosencrantz sat too.

“We would like a story. I have seen this custom in Liscor with children and adults. As a member of the Watch, we believe you will honor this custom. Miss Solstice told us to tell you to do it when I asked.”

“You…want me to tell you a story? What story? What is Infinitypear—”

Klbkch was getting annoyed until he recalled his impromptu recollections with the Goblin and Antinium. Word, it seemed, had gotten around.

And like Workers…like these new Workers, suddenly he had a dozen faces staring up at him. Earnestly. Again, mostly non-Painted, non-[Crusaders].

“We would like a story. We are told it is free.”

These Workers, with the exception of Rosencrantz and Crusader 57, had no money to spend on fine things like books or paint. They were not filled with faith or able to buy delicious bowls of acid flies.

Relc’s head turned from the Workers to Klbkch in confusion. Embria was giving Klbkch the oddest of stares—and Grimalkin was exchanging the longest look of confusion with Pryde. Mrsha cupped a paw to her ear as Klbkch spoke within the room.

“I do not have stories to give. I am no [Storyteller]. I merely related factual events that occurred to me to Infinitypear.”

“Okay. May we have factual recollections of events as they occurred?”

“Of what?”

Klbkch looked so blank that Relc had to agree.

“Listen, Workers. Uh—kids. Klbkch is a good guy, good partner. Not old—but he’s not exactly a great storyteller. I’ve been his partner for ten years, and believe me, he tells stories about as well as Erin makes hamburgers. You think she’s good when she invents them until you see what a real street vendor can do.”

Erin had decided to join the fuss. She had walked up to the room—now, she put a hand over her heart, sagged down the wall, and lay there on the ground. Klbkch was nodding—and the Antinium’s heads bowed.

“Oh. We understand.”

Relc tried to be encouraging.

“Maybe go to Bird, huh? He can probably tell whoppers. Klb—well, what would you even ask him about?”

The sad Workers were rising as Rosencrantz turned.

“We would ask about the time before the Creler Wars when the Antinium were under Rhir. But we will ask Bird. We heard Revalantor Klbkch had done many adventurous things, but that is all.”

They were filing out, and Relc didn’t stop them—probably because his jaw had detached and was bouncing off the floor. Then, and only then, Klbkch spoke.

“Wait. Bird was not there. But I was. In fact…Xrn was not there for a large amount of time. I was. And Wrymvr is not here and a poor speaker.”

The Workers froze at the door. They turned back hopefully, and Klbkch sat up. He stared at them—then in one motion, turned his back to them and stood up. Rather like he had when he had talked to Infinitypear and Rasktooth, he walked over to a window and stared out of it.

A jet-powered bee zoomed past the window. Klbkch ignored Apista. He spoke as a Sariant Lamb slowly climbed up the window’s ledge, listening.

“I suppose—if you had a few questions, I could relate the factual, actual accounts as someone who was certainly there. Did you have a particular topic?”

The Workers mumbled to each other, and Grimalkin lifted a claw. About to speak—then he caught himself as Pryde held a finger to his lips. Don’t ruin this! Embria, dead-Erin, Mrsha, everyone listened as Rosencrantz turned innocently.

“We do not have good topics. What is a good topic?”

“Something. Anything.”

“Um. Shiny gems such as the one Numbtongue gave me?”

Rosencrantz had tied it under his hat so he could look at the beautiful bit of quartz. He waved it at Klbkch, and the Slayer eyed it.

“Ah. That will do. Gems. As I recall, the Hives wanted gems at one point. There were any number of projects, but the minerals became more and less valuable as time went on. At first—useless. Later, Xrn wanted them for magic, and we discovered their properties for the creation of Antinium. I was sent deep to search out pockets of them and guide Antinium to dig them out. Galuc and I would excavate huge amounts and often unearth nests.”

“Galuc?”

“Galuc the Builder, who stands in your image. No…”

Klbkch went back to staring out the window, then turned. And he realized they didn’t know. So he tried to show them. But the room was too small, and now, half the Goblins had stopped on the way to breakfast. So…

 

——

 

“…he stood this tall. And wide. Imagine a Worker this vast and you have him.

Klbkch jumped up and touched the top of the common room’s ceiling in the [Grand Theatre] section. Everyone looked up, up—and Grimalkin muttered.

“Sixteen feet?”

“Approximately.”

Klbkch landed and then drew his swords. Some of the Workers ducked—but he just showed them the blade.

“This was back during the era when we were first battling the other species for dominance, after the Antinium had been established. My own body had been damaged after we discovered beings of flame and rock. Flame or perhaps Magma Elementals, you might call them. As was the custom, the First Queen inspected my body and decided to change it. She used the latest techniques—to adjust my form to accommodate for the techniques of blades, rather than the ones built into my body.”

“Question. Question…”

One of the Workers raised a hand. Klbkch stared at it.

“…You had different bodies?”

Klbkch gave Rosencrantz a blank look.

“Of course. Centenium went through multiple iterations. Wrymvr is ever-changing, but even the best of us were made multiple times. My last form…I think my blades were hidden and would extend outwards via gas sacs, but if I was injured even slightly, I lost that ability. As I was saying, my next form—which became one of my last versions with minor upgrades—made use of blades. These blades.”

He put down both blades on the table, and Relc made a sound.

“Wait. Those blades? I thought they were just some enchanted, cheap blades. How long ago was this? You were joking about the ‘before the Creler Wars’ thing, right?”

“Relc, I am relaying history. Please don’t interrupt. We’re not on duty. I have never had them enchanted. But these blades…”

Klbkch lifted one. It had no breaks or dulling of the edge, and it was perfectly balanced. Perfectly light. Ksmvr and the Custodium bore imitations of this—

—these were made in the Antinium’s first forges. Ah—forges is a strange word. We often did not use fire. It was this that made the War Queens demand I go searching for all kinds of gems. Of course, we were making Antinium bodies out of the gemstone. Blades and arms—until we learned how to grow crystals. But that took a long time before a clever Shaper Queen saw it done, so the first places I went looking for the crystals were the old libraries and buildings.”

He stopped. Klbkch stared at a wall and then chuckled, a laugh he’d learned in Liscor. His audience, Workers, dozens now, were spellbound. Everyone else stared at each other and tried to place this.

This was still under Rhir? Before the Creler…

“What libraries? There are libraries? Why are you laughing?”

Valeterisa raised a hand and stood on her toes. She waved it, and Klbkch replied absently.

“Oh—my amusement was that in hindsight, we did not realize they were libraries at first. It may seem silly, but Antinium had no need for written history given our telepathy. When the First Queen realized what they were, she spent ages down there. But Xrn could tell you more of that. Yes, they were vast—often caved in and infested with monsters. Magical artifacts, in hindsight. Mostly, the Antinium stayed away because some of the unleashed magic could destroy entire Hives. I went down there alone to harvest enough safe magic to be digested in Growing Vats or—in this case—for the crystals.”

“You—ate the magic?”

“To create some Antinium. Again, this was before we learned to produce a lot of what we required—each new type of Antinium was akin to an experimental prototype. A thousand would be made, their efficiency and deficiencies noted, and the Shaper Queens under the First Queen would create the next generation. But where was I?”

Klbkch really was a bad storyteller in some respects. He said some things like they were obvious that had people practically gagging—Embria on a bite of eggs—to write this down. But he also got distracted by a single hand.

“Yes. You?”

“You killed them. diDn’T you? You bastard.

Crusader 57 had just been getting quiet, unusually so, when he sat up. He meant the ‘prototype’ Antinium. He stirred—and Klbkch’s response was calm and even amused.

“Of course not. We added their ranks to new generations—or used the Antinium in auxiliary roles. They were never ill-made. The most promising would even have their deficiencies corrected. They were not like the Queens, you know. The First Queen could do anything. And she made True Antinium. We would kill them for what? They were us.”

“Then why us? Why us Workers and Soldiers by the thousand?”

The Worker exploded, and the other Workers swayed back. Some urgently patted him, because they didn’t want to think of that. Crusader 57, though—never forgot. And to that, Klbkch looked at the Worker, and his response was unapologetic. If you had come to Klbkch for that…in that sense, he was a bastard.

“If you had been created in the Hives of Rhir, you would not look like a pale imitation of Galuc, Crusader 57. You were never meant to be constrained to a single body. I could look around and see not one Antinium similar to another. We failed to keep even a shred of that…that dignity.”

He stared up at the ceiling and then down, and it seemed, then, that Klbkch’s habit of facing a window, looking elsewhere when he spoke, might not just be stage fright. But almost as if he were trying to see something so alien to the world around him…

Even Crusader 57’s rage quieted. For Klbkch’s voice was filled with longing. And guilt. His audience, growing as Workers quietly opened the door to the basement and came up, scaring the hell out of Gothica—sat there next to Relc munching on popcorn.

“The tunnels and libraries. Yes. We called it dorixiidwrf.

His audience winced as Klbkch spoke in a tongue that was only meant for insects. It had a hint of the ultrasonic to it. But Klbkch was already moving on.

“I recall the tunnels as being very apt for me to move about in. Wide—spacious, even. Some reached forty feet tall and had a vast clearance to either side. Perfect for mobile battles. Jumping from wall to wall—evading monsters. Far better than close-combat in tighter spaces. The floor, if I recall correctly, was made of wood, a substance we encountered infrequently. The walls of enchanted stone, again in hindsight. The primary enemy stood about eight feet tall, cast spells, and sometimes talked. They had about a hundred limbs, each long and spiny, and they would come in packs of eight to eighty.”

He described some kind of insectile monster, thin and whiplike, mimicking how it would strike, scurry back—and his shivering Worker audience could imagine how sharp their protrusions might be.

“What kind of creature was it? It talked? Another species?”

Klbkch hmmed.

“I believe I’ve seen them on Izril. You could call them a species. I called them pests.”

“Wait. Wait—were you meeting other species? That many limbs—Selphids? No—

Everyone was suddenly trying to reconcile that idea with a species they knew. But Klbkch had to think. He put his chin in his hands.

“I’ve seen them here. I’ve killed a number—though they’re far different in scope. What are they called? Uh…ah…oh! Of course. Silverfish.”

“Silverf…”

This time, only Valeterisa, Montressa, Pisces, and the other [Mages] got it. Klbkch went back to talking as if they’d solved all this.

“These ones were larger. I didn’t understand the magic they worked, of course, but most of it was just lightning or fire or acid. Mundane spells, one assumes. And they had no Skills, so dispatching swarms was just a troublesome thing. Plus, they kept their library-tunnels clean of the nastier monsters you could run into. I think the Creler Wars wiped them all out. I distinctly recall setting most of that tunnel section ablaze and melting the rest with Devrkr. Excuse me, Devrkr the Glowing. No Silverfish to be seen—just Crelers at that point.”

You did whaaaaaaat?

Valeterisa nearly had a heart-attack, but Klbkch shushed her.

“That came later. Another story. At the time, the First Queen wanted me to collect the ‘books’. I was heading down one of the tunnels, eating sapstuff from one of the moss-creatures that scuttled about. They were about two feet tall, and most beings, including me, let them live because they produced an edible gel. After a quick stop in one of the libraries to collect eighteen such books, I determined that my lingbegh would fit no more if I were to acquire the crystal samples for the Queens. So, down I headed through one of the vast holes in the floor. You see, they led past the fiery lava chutes.”

Grimalkin of Pallass had been born for this moment. He had trained. The [Sinew Magus] had Pryde holding pieces of paper, which he was scribing with his notes as his journal was filled with a dictation spell. Klbkch’s tale was as yet uninterrupted, though multiple people wanted to raise their hands.

“I had noticed the Silverfish had stemmed most of the molten rock, so it was merely warm—perfect breeding ground for them and other monsters. But I had to head down past that to find the crystal caverns that lay adjacent to the libraries. Perhaps they had even been excavated by the original owners? It was there I ran into my first Crystal Golem. Or perhaps you’d call it an advanced Earth Golem. It was almost as tough as my swords, although slow and unintelligent.”

A what? Bevussa mouthed as she flapped in. Bird turned his head to stare at her feathers, and he patted a seat next to him. Klbkch was shaking his head ruefully.

“After eighteen minutes of striking it at increasing levels of force, I’d cracked its body. Excuse me—it was merely ten feet tall, but the sounds of our battle woke up everything in what might have been a mile radius. I was told by the War Queens they could hear the impacts from the Hives. In hindsight, I killed lesser automata far more easily. Mithril Golems—again, we didn’t know they were Mithril—were far less durable. They could be cut—these Crystal Golems, which would plague our excavation attempts, required intense force to crack. Galuc himself became one of the best Centenium at destroying them, which led the War Queens to assume they were easy to defeat. A young Wrymvr—this was before he developed his enhanced exoskeleton and levelled—once fought six for three days and nights before someone rescued him.”

Klbkch chuckled at this. He scratched at his chin.

“—Half the monsters who came to attack us fled when they saw us. One of those obnoxious Armored Crawlers appeared—twenty feet by twenty feet—and I used it battling the Crystal Golem to locate the core and finally break the body and destroy it. The Crawler was mostly battered to death, and the rest of the monsters set about eating it when I cut it apart. Then, I put the pieces of the Golem in the lingbegh before heading deeper into the tunnels. Now, I recall most of the crystals turned oddly purple near some dead bodies and undead, and it didn’t occur to us at the time that these were undead and death-magic. So I had never run into anything like the Wailing Pit before. I attempted to communicate for six minutes while it attacked me, as per my orders, then decided to kill it.”

“Question!”

Someone had to interrupt. If only because the story—for all it was compelling—needed context. It was, in fact, no less than Erin Solstice who was consulting with several people whispering in her ears at once. She poked Rags, got a poke back, pushed Grimalkin’s notepad out of her face, and decided on one.

“Okay. Uh—what’s a lingbegh?

Klbkch looked blankly at her.

“Oh. A bag of holding. Again—we had two. In the entire Antinium population. We had no idea how to make more, and so many Antinium had their own storage capabilities, but I, as the mobile explorer, was issued one of the two we acquired from the surface. So as I loaded it up, I noted it probably had capacity for about fifty-two more pounds of rough matt—”

“Question!”

“…Yes, Erin? I am trying to tell a story here.”

“Where’d you get the lingbegh if you couldn’t make them? And is this, uh, still circa pre-dating the Creler Wars?”

Klbkch hesitated.

“No Crelers in the tunnels…yes, yes it was. So it was before we delved into crystals if we have to segue. This is making the story convoluted, Erin. Let us all put aside my expeditions into the crystal-acquisition. Sometime just before Wrymvr was created, we were branching out in tunnels to see what threats were out there. About, oh, seventeen Centenium had been created. The best metric for our history as we had not begun to keep time, then. It was at that time when I was leading a group of what we’d translate as Borer Workers on my explorations. Then—as we tunneled, we elected to go high, rather than low. That was the first instance when we breached topsoil. As it so happened, it was just past morning, I believe, and I looked up and saw the sun and sky over Rhir.”

Klbkch stared ahead, and the Workers in the room susurrated. The Antinium nodded to himself.

“A stunning sight. We had no concept of the surface—only the waters which we assumed filled most of the world. You see, we had found that if we moved too far in some directions, we ran into the sea. We did not know it was the sea—but it was informing our expansion. There was a lot of land if we expanded laterally—as you understand directions. And even more if you went down, but there was more water if you went too far down.”

He paused and muttered darkly.

“…There’s always more damn water. At any rate, we reached the surface, and I actually appeared when we met the first being upon Rhir. In hindsight—again—it was a half-Elf. I was more concerned for the Borer Workers and subdued what I now take to be an [Explorer] of some kind. But we were so close to their camp, I ended up engaging a small force of magic and blade-users. I imagine it shocked them as my form was not as…humanoid. But when I realized they were speaking language, I did not immediately kill them and retain their bodies for dissection.”

“This was before the Creler Wars? Where, exactly, did you tunnel up?”

Klbkch was getting clearly annoyed by Grimalkin.

“Somewhere on Rhir. Anywhere. It was near the coastline, I believe.”

The Demon’s coastline?

“No. Anywhere. As I just mentioned, we had tunnels expanding across the continent.”

You had tunnels under the Blighted Kingdom?

“We might still have them. But we collapsed our exterior tunnels once we began finding large cities above our heads and after…no. That is a sadder tale. Come to think of it, the library tunnels might have been on the eastern coast. I recall having to run for two days to get there at max speed without sleep. As I was saying—it was a group of half-Elves. Mostly. And two shorter folk. Once we established I was not going to kill them, one offered me the lingbegh of such value. Perhaps as a peaceful gift?”

“Dwarves?”

“No. They were different. I’ve never seen their kind since.”

Erin sat bolt upright.

“Did they have goggles? Were they—funny?”

“No. Well, moderately amusing. I recall they were a half-folk like half-Elves. Halflings? I am done taking questions, thank you. So, that was how I obtained the first lingbegh. I think another was found on a corpse, and so that was the item of little significance other than its ability to carry objects that I was using as I explored the fascinating crystal caverns. I see you waving your hand, Erin. I am ignoring it. The death-crystals seemed to be able to reanimate the Wailing Pit endlessly no matter how much I cut it up. Naturally, I noticed the connection and disabled the death-crystals instead, breaking them up into shards. I collected samples of the pit and crystal and continued downwards. Whereupon I saw the most fascinating prismatic shards, multi-colored. Of course, some colors were not visible in the stratums we see today. If I had to describe them…”

Klbkch never really got through his story, despite his best efforts. He kept having to go back, explain details he clearly thought were irrelevant—mostly to non-Antinium.

The Workers were hanging on his every word. And it was to them that Klbkch spoke—eventually concluding, annoyed, that he’d need to tell these stories in the privacy of the Hive. But he seemed pleased.

For the others, what was the point of his tales? From Chaldion—panting as he clutched at a stitch in his side—from Grimalkin to Pryde to Erin herself—perhaps it was the secrets, the value they placed in knowing worthless things like magical, burned libraries under the Blighted Kingdom.

But for the Workers and Soldiers? Maybe for them the worth was just…hearing a story. From Klbkch. Seeing who he had been, not just the cold Prognugator they had known.

Someday, they might remember him by these tales, not the deaths of Aberrations or the harshness. Maybe it added something to him. Perhaps…it also informed Klbkch. For he realized they didn’t know any of this.

They had never had sapgel. They didn’t know these things. Absently, he accepted a little bag from Mrsha the Occasionally Clever—and began handing out cookies to the Workers.

Feed a child a cookie. He put one into Rosencrantz’s hands and munched on one himself. Then, Klbkch realized something.

He had a legacy. He had stories. And—Relc said the other thing.

“Klb, buddy.”

“Yes, Relc?”

“You’re old.

 

——

 

The present day.

 

Age really just was a number, you know. It was an attitude—and it was relative by species. ‘Old’ meant that Klbkch was old.

It meant the last Dragonlord of Flame was old.

It did not necessarily mean Silvenia, the Death of Magic, was old. For all her hair was silver—she had a spark of youth that refused to burn out. Easier to call Czautha old—and even the Djinni was different.

Old was a perspective. In that sense, the Demons lacked oldness. Oldness sometimes came with peace. It came with knowing your war was done—it came of seeing triumphs and regrets in equal measure, not a constant fight for survival.

Well, that could wear you down. But some creatures like Silvenia thrived in strife. So she was not old.

Neither was Rhisveri, incidentally. Compared to that arrogant Brass Dragon, he was youthful. Not young…no, no. Just—in his prime.

That was how he was going to think about it. The Wyrm paused his morning ablutions, his exercise routine twisting around his pillar-gymnasium, and combat training. He’d upped the intensity.

Obviously, he was in fine shape. He needed to improve. This was…a young man working hard. That was definitely it.

It was not analogous to someone in his middle age striving to keep his body in as much shape as he could. He didn’t recall a time when he could have slithered across half of Terandria without noticing it.

By early morning, Rhisveri was lying across his huge palace floor, head on his side. Someone was trying to be respectful—but eventually had to snap.

Duke Rhisveri. Are you paying attention?”

“Absolutely. I’m fully here. I’m just—adjusting my posture.”

The Wyrm groaned. His scales ached. He’d pushed himself too far. He thought he might have pulled a back muscle, and he was all back muscle. He tried to adjust his head and gave up and conjured a sea of pillows so he could stare at Visophecin.

“Yes, I get it. Blighted Kingdom up to their tricks. So they’re going to Baleros. Let them. I thought we were ‘holding our borders’ while these pests advance into our lands.”

“So long as you are aware of the situation.”

The Lucifen were so damn touchy. Visophecin was unto a kind of spymaster, and his understanding of world events eclipsed even Rhisveri’s own. The Wyrm nodded. Then gave up.

He conjured his fake body, and Duke Rhisveri felt the weight of the tired Wyrm’s body vanish from him. He rolled his shoulders, then stepped away with Visophecin.

“I merely exerted myself unduly. I need to hone my reflexes. I will admit, the Dragonlord had some impressive tricks. But I, myself, just need to improve my technique. He was out of shape. Slow. I am in my prime.”

Visophecin eyed the Wyrm. Wasn’t he over eleven thousand years old?

For once, the pointed look was something Rhisveri chose to ignore rather than counter with any stare of his own.

“If you are so exhausted, Rhisveri, perhaps reconsider your…posturing.”

“Me? Posturing? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just proving a point. You’re the one who’s taking Ry—that Thief’s suggestions so literally. Overhauling our judicial courts while Wellfar has fleets harassing ours at sea? While we have war on our border with Pheislant?”

Viscount Visophecin didn’t rise to the bait. Both of them knew that judicial and military matters wouldn’t entangle the other. Plus, the Lucifen moving out of their role as judges freed them up for other tasks. Rhisveri just disliked the person whom the idea had come from.

I am simply—rising to the occasion.”

“Then should I have the event broadcast?”

Here was the thing about a Wyrm and Lucifen. Ryoka might see two comparable beings of great power working together, and Visophecin was often the cold calculus to Rhisveri’s initiative, a good match sometimes.

—But without her to make them show off, they did sometimes snipe at each other. In this case, Visophecin’s face was straight, but he was calling Rhisveri’s bluff.

The Wyrm didn’t sweat. But he did nearly miss a step.

“Why—why not? I doubt we can convene Wistram News Network, but have it on our local ‘television’ broadcast. It will be a demonstration of our abundant talents even if it’s only ‘the Duke’, rather than Itorin himself.”

“I’m sure it shall be a sight even my fair cousins will be inordinately stunned by. I shall have all of House Shoel watching. And recording your moment.”

“No—you needn’t, er—it’s a simple task. Barely worth televising, really.”

Suddenly, Rhisveri felt oddly nervous. Which was stupid. But Visophecin was smiling. He never smiled. The Lucifen gave him a full Avelian salutation, the most ostentatious bow you could give.

“For you, Rhisveri, I shall have it ready in an hour.”

“So soon—was it an hour? Are the ch—I could reschedule.”

“The children will be ready. Perhaps His Majesty, Fetohep himself, may even watch the broadcast. I shall reach out to Wistram News Network as best I can.”

“I—doubt we should trouble them. Where?”

“The Solar Classrooms, I believe. Princess Oesca shall be in attendance along with the commonfolk children and nobility. A group of sixty.”

“Sixty?”

“I believe you said, and I quote, ‘if this Fetohep can entertain one, I can entertain sixty’. We have cleared the classrooms of all props and the usual toys and books. I leave it to you to decorate ahead of your arrival in…fifty-six minutes. Excuse me. I must hurry to get the scrying spells in place.”

Then the Lucifen was striding off. And Rhisveri opened and closed his mouth and wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

Fifty-six…fifty-five minutes. Solar Classrooms. Right. Rhisveri began to walk through the corridors of the palace at a sedate pace. Then—when he was certain Visophecin was gone—he began running. He only stopped when the Lucifen stepped out from behind one of the pillars and asked if anything was wrong.

Visophecin smirked.

 

——

 

What was going on here? Well—well, let’s just think of current trends. Newsworthy broadcasts.

As in, Fetohep of Khelt’s rather pompous showboating to the world. Splendidly done. That magnificent shiny dress, his shows of his richness—and his ‘proof of good rulership’, such as being able to walk through a city without seeing the ailments of poverty, hunger, and so on.

He’d already publicly embarrassed a number of cities and nations with his ‘impromptu checks’. And he was so popular apparently Wistram was discussing having a separate channel dedicated exclusively to him.

None of that bothered Rhisveri, of course. His nation would have passed any of Fetohep’s requirements with flying colors. Which was doubtless why it hadn’t been showcased.

In fact, people didn’t speak about Ailendamus enough. It was practically a paradise, a technological leader, and far, far larger than puny Khelt. Which meant that Rhisveri was that perfect ruler.

He had just the way to prove it, too. A number of rulers, from [Lords] to the King of Avel, had taken up one of Fetohep’s challenges to…hilarious results.

That being—entertain a child or children for eighteen minutes, or an hour, using only your own personal talents. It had attracted record viewers on Drassi’s channel, and she’d even split coverage with Sir Relz and Noass because of how popular the recordings were.

Mostly because…they were live. And they ranged from everything like seeing a [Lord] trying to impress a bunch of frightened children and shouting—to the King of Avel shooting his famous bow past a group of children and then leaping for cover when one aimed the bow at him.

And the King of Avel had been one of the more successful clips. The funniest ones were when the [Lords] got nervous. There was a now-famous image of one of Chandrar’s [Emirs] hiding behind a curtain after getting stage-fright from an uppity little Stitch-Girl.

Of course, some [Lords] proved they could do it and thus won a great deal of popularity. For instance—the rising star of Izril. The now-famous name of that great [Lord] had been doing the rounds on the broadcasts last night.

 

——

 

The [Lord of Love and Wine], Lord Pellmia, did a forty-five minute broadcast where he demonstrated how wine was made, everything from the picking of grapes with an enthusiastic bunch of children to squishing them in a messy—but laughing group.

A nearly flawless demonstration of natural charm and understanding of children. The grape-treading was horrifically gross to some species who hadn’t realized that was how you made grape juice and wine. Like Dullahans.

But Lord Pellmia, juggling peaches while he danced about with the children in the grape press, had probably doubled House Quellae’s usual sales for the month in a day.

As Fetohep would remark, ‘there stands a [Lord] well aware of both the business of his lands, the nature of his people, and his own talents. A threefold man, where most of these half-wits are equally half-men at best. 8/10.’

 

——

 

It had everything for the modern viewer. Funny antics. Powerful people embarrassing themselves in real situations. And a snarky and critical host in Fetohep.

Naturally, Ailendamus had considered doing the same. But King Itorin wasn’t the most interested, perhaps wisely seeing how other rulers had fared.

It wasn’t even natural charisma you needed—you had to be good with kids. Not necessarily a skill other rulers had. Some, like King Itreimedes of Avel, had the ego to drag everyone around with him to mixed results.

Others, like the Sleeping Queen, Geilouna, were canny enough to invite children for a sleep-over where they could eat snacks on beds, gossip with her, and pet her menagerie of animals.

She still got a 5/10.

Rhisveri, though…Rhisveri had told Visophecin to arrange a trial of his own. Not that he answered to Fetohep!

He had been alive when King His-Xe had been causing trouble! Well, born in that time. Yes, Khelt might be a bit older than he was. But Fetohep was a gnat of a ruler. Rhisveri was just…proving to outside viewers he could do anything the King of Khelt thought was admirable.

The Wyrm was a master of all abilities after all. He could fight in multiple bodies, cast magic, and he was a renaissance man of countless talents.

Entertaining children? H-how hard could it be? Especially with Visophecin broadcasting it, damn him.

He wouldn’t get Wistram News Network here on such short notice. All Rhisveri had to do was get some props. And, uh—sixty?

What kind of an activity involved sixty children? Wait, how old were they? They were Oesca’s age, right?

 

——

 

It occurred to Rhisveri, forty-eight minutes later when he peeked behind the curtains, that maybe Visophecin was holding a grudge for something.

Not telling him about the Scroll of Resurrection? Or refusing the Dragonthrone? Or exiling Ryoka until she found a Dryad?

There could be any number of reasons. It occurred to Rhisveri that, given the extensive scrying orbs ready to record the room—that Visophecin might have manipulated him into allowing the recordings.

They were already in the palace and setting up when he approached me. I’ll melt that devilish bastard. A credit to his entire species.

The last thing Rhisveri hadn’t considered was this: Princess Oesca was here, and she was a bright, capable young woman. Young, yes, but nine years old. Capable of stringing together a sentence without drooling much. Able to wipe her nose.

She was…the oldest child in this room by far. Visophecin had intimated she would be the average age. But in truth, the children were three to seven at best.

You bastard. He was here, in person, with half the Lucifen in the palace watching with their faces perfectly straight in the background. Rhisveri was staring in horror at sixty children, some of whom were already crying—and his props?

 

——

 

The broadcast was being televised via Wistram News Network and on Ailendamus’ local channels. King Itorin II, when he had heard of it, had cleared his schedule for the day.

Something after his talks with Ryoka had told him that it would add years to his lifespan if he watched—and he was not wrong.

It started as gloriously as Itorin could hope. After the introduction, through which some of the children had begun asking ‘where’s the snacks’, Rhisveri appeared behind a royal purple curtain. He had a number of servants helping him—and his own impressive magics, which levitated his props into the room.

I am Duke Rhisveri of Ailendamus. Brother to King Itorin II, who has come to entertain you all. I trust we shall enjoy ourselves so immensely we are without recourse but to laugh with delight.

He entered with his head held high and his voice ringing. Two children instantly tried to hide between Oesca. She was the only one who clapped…and the clapping petered out very quickly.

“I believe I shall have some Quellae wine. And snacks.”

Was he smiling? Itorin II, who had been taking tonics just in case his hairline receded further than it already had—almost felt like the hair follicles were regrowing in real-time. And it got better. When the Duke paused and swallowed, he did rally. The first time.

“I’ve prepared—an object lesson in fine baking. Which we shall all attend. Let’s mix up some of Ailendamus’ fine—fine—cuisines…”

He looked around at the children, which he had definitely assumed to be Oesca’s age. In other words—capable of rudimentary cooking. The servants placing bowls in front of the children watched as the first toddler promptly opened a bag, knocked over all the flour in a poof that caused a dozen more to sneeze—and another stuck an entire dirty hand into the pot of butter.

“I—assumed your collective ages would be older. But fear not! I have also prepared wands for you to—”

One of the [Head Servants], possibly a nursemaid, actually grabbed Rhisveri in the bravest act of any of the staff and told him—in whispers that Itorin could practically hear—that you did not give pointy wands capable of casting dangerous magic to children. Especially children who put things into their mouths.

Rhisveri’s face mottled—then went white. The room was dead silent now as the guests not aware of what this would be coughed or tried not to look at him.

“I—I have musical instruments next. A dulcimer.”

He was copying Fetohep! Itorin II’s ribs hurt. His wife was giving him a look of deep concern, but he wiped tears out of his eyes. He had to see. He had to—

All ten of the Lucifen began applauding wildly as Rhisveri was handed the dulcimer. The rest of the room, [Mages] and camera-people included, applauded, and the children did too. Ahead of the music. Rhisveri gave Visophecin a look of pure hatred.

House Shoel were pure evil. When Rhisveri began playing—oh, it was glorious. Itorin II began hiccuping.

He was playing classical high-brow music. The kind that required quiet seating, the right company and mood—and probably more wine—to appreciate.

The children listened for about twenty seconds before one began speaking.

“Is—is this—why is the scary man here? Where’s Teacher Minni? Where’s the toys?”

“Where’s the toys?”

They were getting upset, and several began crying—assuming that Rhisveri had taken away the plentiful toys and objects that adorned the Solar Classrooms. Oesca made it worse by trying to help.

“It’s just Duke Rhisveri. Don’t be scared! He’s going to entertain us.”

“I don’t want him! I want Minni!

Then half of them were pointing at one of the beloved palace teachers, who was waving with a pained smile from the side. Rhisveri kept playing, trying to smile.

If you tuned into Wistram News Network’s broadcast, you could get live commentary from little images of other rulers in the sidebar. Fetohep was just staring, mouth open slightly, while Drassi shook her head in complete disbelief. Queen Geilouna was drinking her entire cup of wine.

Several servants looked at Rhisveri and the man’s increasingly reddening face, and then Teacher Minni rushed forwards and clapped her hands.

“Alright, everyone. Big smile for me! [Who Can Smile]? Let’s have a snack and a short break!”

She made a smile with her fingers. The faltering dulcimer cut off—and the children obliged her with a smile. That they could smile was good—a [Teacher]’s Skill to make sure all was well.

They cheered up, and the crying stopped as a snack was quickly procured and divided up. The snack, incidentally, had been meant for the half-hour break in this hour-long performance of Rhisveri’s abilities.

How long had it been?

Seven minutes. Itorin called for more snacks and to make sure this was recorded and shown across his great lands. In honor of his brother.

 

——

 

“Seven minutes?”

Rhisveri’s face was grey behind the curtain as he wiped sweat pouring off his brow. He—he felt like the Dragonfire of Teriarch hadn’t been as hot as this.

He had feared fighting his actual brother less than going out behind that curtain.

“We could cut the broadcast, Your Grace? Perhaps magical interference?”

One of the servants seemed ready to do it just to save Rhisveri. But the Wyrm just knew his face was going to be all over the television if he didn’t—didn’t—

Okay. First step. [Grand Fireball]. Throw it out the window. Then, if they aren’t impressed, another one for the entire room. Aim at Visophecin.

No, he couldn’t do that. C-could he?

Whatever you do, don’t cry. Don’t shout. Don’t beg. Hold onto a scrap of dignity.

“Wh-what’s next on the schedule? What else do we have?”

“Er…you were going to teach them the art of Drathian folding? Little paper cranes and such?”

Rhisveri stared at the colorful pieces of paper and the sample. He stared at the children.

“Those wretches will blow their noses on them and eat the rest. What else?”

“A lesson on Ailendamus’ history and General Dionamella’s sacrifice? We, uh—have a painting of her?”

The servants were staring at him with such intensity he didn’t need telepathy to read their thoughts. Please not a history lesson. Please not—

“Perhaps not. What next?”

The servants looked down at their list. They looked up and gave him waxy smiles.

“It, ah—just says ‘applause break’ and concluding speech, Your Grace.”

It was then that the Wyrm began hyperventilating. He sat behind the curtain, hearing the precious seconds winding down as Minni asked everyone to be good and to listen to the nice Duke and got a chorus of ‘yes’ from the kids.

What a hero. What an unsung champion. She had to go out there with that horde of rabid vermin each and every day and hold their scattered attention?

Rhisveri could run. He could run—and he’d be laughed at forever. His reputation? Visophecin was out there. He was chuckling, that horned devil. That demon!

“W-w-what should I do?”

Was his voice trembling? The servants looked at each other, and one whispered.

“If a child were to run into the cameras, Your Grace?”

The Wyrm stared at the servant. That was so obvious. Fetohep would call it out in an instant, and Rhisveri would be the Duke who had to fake the cameras going down to save face.

Wait. Dead gods. Teriarch was going to see this. The Dragonlord, the immortals—they’d seen all of this.

Rhisveri had been hot, despite his cold-blooded nature. Now, he went ice-cold. He was spinning. He was stumbling around behind the curtains, and the servants were telling him to breathe, to calm down, to go out there and just begin the history lesson and—

And then Duke Rhisveri, overwhelmed, went quite mad. So entirely mad. And he did the only thing he could think of doing.

 

——

 

“Perhaps we should bail him out now?”

The Lucifen were having the most fun they’d had all year. But they were aware of how petty Rhisveri could be, so they’d come with a backup plan.

Azemith glanced into the hallway where their ace in the deck was waiting. Uzine was ready to take over for Rhisveri and help the Wyrm save face. There was—probably—no way that even Rhisveri could mess with the Agelum’s way with kids.

Visophecin was nodding reluctantly when the curtains swung back. He looked up, expecting to see Rhisveri at his lowest…and prepared to save that image for his darkest hours when he lay dying, just so he could laugh.

But he stopped. The Lucifen’s eyes opened wide—and the other Lucifen turned—and stared. Azemith and her partner, Igolze, stared, and Paxere whispered.

“Oh no. We’ve gone too far. He’s lost it.”

The guests, the audience, even the commentators on the broadcast—all stopped. It took them a moment to understand what they were seeing.

Rhisveri had set something up in the brief minutes he had. It was…well, it was about stomach-height. Low enough that the children could see the edge, if not over it from where they sat.

It was just some bits of wood forming a rough window into which an empty square of space sat.

And…very conspicuously—Rhisveri, ducking down behind it. He was a tiny bit too large for his contraption, so you could see him peeking out from the sides and over the top if you were tall enough.

“What the flying f—

Paxere’s whisper was silenced by her parents. But Visophecin had felt a sudden pit open in his stomach. Wait a second. This looked familiar. Was this…?

The children were staring at the box, and some were wondering where Rhisveri had gone and how much longer this would take when the first unholy being rose from behind the wooden square.

It…opened its ‘mouth’ and began to speak in an exaggerated way. It was a light blue color, and it had two tiny stubs for arms. It was somewhat crudely made, or at least, you felt—you could see the stitching on parts of it.

Oh, and it made the entire room stare. Children included. What came out of the little being’s mouth was a bright, chirrupy voice, slightly off—as if it weren’t coming from the being itself.

It was—in fact—

A sock puppet. And only Visophecin and one other had ever seen its like before.

Hey, little boys and girls! I hear you’re bored of boring old Duke Rhisveri! Well, I’m the Mini-Duke! Rhissy! And I’m going to entertain you because he’s not here!

Statues. Waxworks. People engraved in time in complete frozen silence. The children looked at each other as the little puppet cast about.

“Oh wait, darn! I forgot my clothes! One sec!”

He ducked down—and then came up with a bright red coat that he was shrugging on. ‘Rhissy’ wiped at his brow.

“Whew! Alright. Don’t tell anyone I was naked. Wait. My pants!

He ducked down again, and then someone made a sound. Oesca. It sounded like—a snort. The kind of humor you got at a gallows, perhaps. Or the ludicrousness had just overwhelmed all other emotions. But the children—especially the three-year olds and youngest ones—were showing the first signs of attention they had so far.

Especially when the second puppet slowly rose up over the edge. This one was better-made, and she—she was definitely she—had darker skin, black hair, and looked very familiar to some.

“Psst. Rhisveri’s silly. And he smells.”

“Hey! You! You’re not supposed to come back till later! Get out of here!”

Rhissy rose with ‘pants’ visible on his underside and a club with nails. He began whacking the other puppet, and Puppet-Ryoka fled. Now, the children were looking at each other but pointing to the play.

What is going on? Is he mad, Visophecin?

“I dearly hope so.”

The Lucifen pointed—then ducked as the bat went spinning past his head. It bounced off Igolze’s head, and the Lucifen staggered.

What the giggling children didn’t realize was how damn hard the puppet had thrown an actual piece of wood. But the puppet just pointed one stubby arm.

“Hey, you! Shush! I’m talking here! Alright, kids. Do you like…stories? Can I hear a ‘yes’? Come on now, don’t you know words?”

“Yes!”

A few children picked it up, and now almost all of them were focused on Rhissy. The puppet beamed.

“Great! Then let’s have a little story. A fun story—and a true story, not like all those boring ones. How many of you have heard of ‘the Lightning Thief’?”

He counted hands.

“Oh, not bad! Well, I have a story that happened in Ailendamus. It’s called ‘the Barefoot Thief’. And it’s about a Thief who broke into Ailendamus and stole something. So listen up! It’s about the most amazing Thief in the world. Who managed to not only ruin poor Rhisveri’s life, but makes everyone else miserable! Just by existing! If you want, throw things at her whenever she appears. Alright…here we go!”

He ducked down, and the same puppet from before rose. The children sitting there blinked as little cotton tomatoes and stones appeared in their laps. They stared at the female puppet as it rose.

“Hey, everyone! I’m Ryoka Gr—I mean, Ryoko Griffin! And I’m the best person ever! I’m a famous Courier because I can run barefoot. And I can even fly with the wind! My personal wind! See!”

Then—with an amazing farting sound—the puppet flew up a bit and zoomed around, and the audience saw there was no hand attached. There was even a smell effect and visible green gas. Someone gagged, but the children began laughing.

“And I help people! Like this! See! I have your delivery, sir!”

She landed, and a farmer tipped his cap to her as another puppet rose.

“Why thank you, Miss—”

You’re welcome! Another good deed done!

‘Ryoko’ swung around and slapped the [Farmer] in the face with her hair.

My eyes!

He went ‘stumbling’ around, then slammed into a rake, which smacked him in the head. Ryoko turned.

“What happened? Oh no! Let me help you up! Whoops! I dropped your rake!”

She then tossed it into his face. The screaming [Farmer] writhed around as Ryoko wiped at her brow.

“Whew. Another good deed done. Hey! You know what I love? Stealing from people. This is my rake now. I found it. Hey look! I’ve got a rake!”

She picked up the object and waved it overhead happily as the farmer lay there, crawling after her. And by that point—the first tomato flew at Ryoko. But the children were laughing. And when Rhisveri appeared, stroking his little beard and talking about how happy he was, they were already trying to warn him about the evil Thief coming his way.

It was a silly play. It had fart jokes and slapstick…and you could throw things at Ryoko whenever she appeared. But what kept Visophecin staring, and the immortals—and perhaps even the adults too was because this was a Wyrm’s tale.

A true tale. Perhaps the only one Rhisveri had ever thought to tell. In his desperation, he fell back to it, with some alterations.

But the core was the same. The children giggled and cried out and booed the Thief as she ruined people’s lives in comedic ways, and the Rhisveri-puppet tried to clean up after her and reason with her. That was just artistic license.

—Yet the friendly Dryad and the Great General Dioname were not. Of course, it was just a fantastical element to make the children ooh and admire them. Watching Dioname’s puppet beat down both Eldavin, Tyrion Veltras, and ‘Ser Solstice’ made them laugh. And they cried out when Ryoko lit ‘Fithee’ and her forest on fire.

“Fithee? Fithee? Where are you? Are you alright? Please be alright.”

—But there was silence when the little figure went rooting through the ashes, crying out that name. Such a silence among the Lucifen you could have heard them blinking. They didn’t take a breath.

A little puppet called out, alone, with such emotion that Visophecin realized Rhisveri was mad. Mad—and so raw he had the children crying. Until the Dryad rose.

You cannot defeat the forest. [Regrowth]. Don’t be sad, Rhissy.”

Fithee!

And the forests rose and sent the Windy Thief flying. And Fithee appeared, and the two puppets hugged. Then they went to rescue Great General Dioname, who was fighting off half of Izril by herself.

It was a children’s story, and at the end, when Rhissy, Fithee, and Dioname celebrated and locked the Windy Thief up, the children cheered and clapped. And the Lucifen applauded like a quiet storm, staring.

Staring at the Duke as he appeared, bowing, looking proud of his performance, which had the children begging to beat up the evil Windy Thief or make their own puppets. He didn’t seem to realize the others were there—and even afterwards, not how much they’d truly seen.

“Everyone thank Duke Rhisveri! I’m sure he’ll put on another performance again—and maybe even the little—what did you call them?”

“Sock plays.”

Rhisveri exhaled as the broadcast began winding down. He stepped over to Visophecin and muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“There. Nothing simpler. I may have stumbled thanks to your pranks at the start—oh, don’t look at me that way. I just took some liberties with the tale. What did you think?”

“It was—well done.”

The Duke stroked his chin, not seeing Visophecin’s odd look.

“Well, that’s fiction for you. Pure improvisation, really. Purely…I knew I could do it.”

The tale of the ‘Windy Thief’ was going to become an Ailendamus classic. As was, perhaps, the new artform that the Duke of Ailendamus had just pioneered. Something less artful than a [Puppeteer]’s dolls—but just as adaptive. Perhaps more so.

And he himself had found a talent, if an odd one. The Duke of Ailendamus exhaled, and the Wyrm relaxed. Whether he ignored it or didn’t see the reaction that separated child from adult—or how real his story had been—

He took a bow. And then proceeded to do an encore after much begging—this time about the Windy Thief back at it again with an obnoxious ‘Green King’ who kept opening and slamming doors while Rhisveri was trying to sleep. They were stealing another of his treasures again.

At least there—Fithee and Dioname danced around. Smiling. Smiling and showing the Wyrm’s wounded heart to the world.

The laughing, bouncing children quieted down like magic. But the only magic was in the little puppets, each carefully made. So you could practically see, despite their button eyes, their cloth—something as alive as any Stitch-Folk.

Duke Rhissy?

A little doll like Princess Oesca rose to the girl’s delight and awe. The ‘Duke’ was staring at his palace, half of which had been destroyed. He turned, and his angry voice was quiet, tired.

“Yes? Occi?”

“Are you mad at the Windy Thief for everything she’s done? Are you going to punish her badly?”

The two puppets turned, and the Windy Thief was in a cage being beaten with sticks by several knight-puppets as Dioname and Fithee watched. But they stopped, and Rhissy’s puppet spoke slowly.

“You know, Occi? I think I’ll let her go free. With a very stern warning and orders not to come back to Ailendamus.”

Noo—

The children echoed Occi’s tone of dismay.

“But what if she causes more trouble, Duke Rhissy? She nearly…nearly got Fithee hurt, and Dioname too. Shouldn’t we lock her up for all of time? That’s what mean Viscount Vis would do.”

The stern ‘Viscount’ stared down from a hill, swishing his cloak now and then. But Rhissy just glanced up at him and leaned over to Occi.

“You know what, Occi? I could do that. The Windy Thief is a silly girl. A troublemaker. But you know something—she’s not a bad person. She’s incompetent, smelly, and she makes tons of mistakes. But…”

“That’s very true. But?”

Rhissy stared at the Windy Runner as she stopped cowering. And his voice was soft as the children watched.

“—But you give people a second chance. There’s no second chance if you just—lock them away. That’s what Ailendamus does, you know. All but the worst people, we give another chance. Even mean old Viscount Vis does that. Even if it’s hard—you can be forgiven. So let’s let the Windy Thief fly away.”

Then they went over and unlocked the cage, and the Windy Thief apologized. Then flew away. And the Duke sat down and looked at his castle once more.

“The castle’s all broken, Duke. What happens when King Itorin comes back?”

Occi was worried, but the Duke shrugged.

“Things…don’t matter that much, Occi. People do. So let’s rebuild. We’ll do it together.”

And so they did.

It was a children’s tale that got applause from the audience. It wasn’t real. Everyone knew that. Even most of the kids. But it was something…something that even Duke Rhisveri seemed to realize was more than it had begun as—

“Lessons. Morality plays. That was clearly the intention. I could see someone—myself since I’m such an expert—putting on more in time. For their tiny minds.”

That was all he said to Teacher Minni, afterwards. She looked at him, but the Duke was back to full arrogance, preening and condescending to the children. As if ‘Rhissy’ and Rhisveri were different people entirely. As if one were but a puppet, mortal and silly, who had been taught by a Dryad and befriended a half-Elf. And the other—

The other was a Wyrm, who stood above them all, expecting naught but praise and applause. And the applause did actually continue for a while. The Duke stood imperiously proud…until he bent down and a shy little boy of three asked to see his ‘favorite’ doll, Fithee. Then, the Duke looked around—and produced one and handed it to the delighted boy.

“Keep it. And remember—she’s a superior being. A Dryad, understand? I can always make more. You want one? And you? Fine—give me fifteen seconds. Who wants…”

And he produced little versions of cloth characters, not the sock puppets, for as many who wanted them. The Duke tried to hide behind the curtain and looked around to see if anyone had noticed—but of course, that was why they applauded.

It was, needless to say, a broadcast that topped all of Wistram’s metrics. It had everything from embarrassment to a rallying success to sadness to hilarity and something new.

As Fetohep would say—

The pretentious pomposity of the Duke is, perhaps, rightly said to be without equal in Ailendamus. Few men could sink so low, but underneath a mountain, nay, a cordillera of artifice and incompetence lies something genuine enough to amuse and capture even an infant’s attention. From infant to adult, there lies a deeper reservoir of something that might be mistaken for wisdom in time. 3/10. A blasphemously bad opening saved by an intriguing performance. Without the former, it could have risen to greater heights. 5/10. Or perhaps the former informed the latter’s success. 6/10.

 

——

 

They had more to give than swords and sorcery, you know. And he did know it. Sometimes, the Dragon just forgot.

But perhaps other people were learning to be—if not old—then different than young. Tell them stories.

Show them a path forwards they had not yet seen. But you could not do that in a cave or while sleeping.

They were finding their path, but the Dragon…the Dragon lay there, indulging in self-pity. Which you had to admit, he was good at. Sometimes, you needed help or a reminder. Sometimes—

Klbkch stared into the distance from the top of The Wandering Inn. He stood on Bird’s tower as the Worker shook his fist and told him to get off. Klbkch ignored him.

Rhisveri, Visophecin, and Ailendamus quieted a moment as even the Wyrm’s ego shrank enough for cogent thought.

And onwards the Haven came, bearing aspects of the north with it. Mihaela Godfrey only felt old when people and things reminded her of it. Like mirrors, which were entirely inaccurate to her truth.

Old was just a word. And there was always someone, something to wake them up. Even in their worst moments.

For the Dragon—well, for a Dragon—it was coming.

Three months had passed since the [Innkeeper] came back. Two full months of slumber.

 

——

 

Now.

 

Rafaema of Manus had left her City of War nearly a month already. She was sick of her massive escort and their pace, but she could see Pallass rising in the distance. And then it was only a hop and skip and kicking all her minders into a ditch. She hoped—

He’d still be there. He had told her he’d find Rafaema, but she had realized he hadn’t said when, and she’d waited two months. So she was going to find him, damnit.

“You’re not coming.”

“Luciva will kill me and Ferris and Aldonss if we don’t go with you, Rafaema.”

Spearmaster Lulv was immune to the Lightning Dragon’s glares.

“You are the worst pick to come with me.”

“You need me. Liscor has a Gnollish population.”

“You just want your spear back. Do you think Liscor will like you? You? Of all the—if Makhir wasn’t busy—send anyone but you! If you mess this up for me—

The Dragon clenched her fist. Ferris, Lulv, and Aldonss all exchanged glances as the elite [Soldiers] pretended they could hear nothing.

What, exactly, Rafaema was going to meet—who—er—what—

They didn’t know. She had refused to say, and Luciva herself was…silent. She wanted them to report back. Everything. They definitely didn’t know they were going to see anyone—anything that might change the fates of their city.

Definitely. And they could be unobtrusive, start no issues, and quietly go about their business. Manus. Subterfuge. Tact. These words were sometimes conflated. Often with laughter.

If it had to be done, it would be. Rafaema didn’t care. But she was nearly there—and her wings opened wide, and she had a thousand questions. A thousand expectations.

Those could be harsher than anything else.

 

——

 

Now.

 

Someone else was also coming, but from the opposite direction. She had no escort—at least not upon the breeze. She clung to her glider and steadfastly did not look down.

Ryoka Griffin was flying south as people looked up and waved to her. Her face was still burning red after that damn broadcast.

She knew people wanted to talk to her about it, especially—she reluctantly looked down and groaned.

—The man riding after her with a carriage and an entire convoy behind him. She made a gesture.

“Shoo. Shoo!

This was going to be a disaster. Especially if she went to the place with the old guy—and Tyrion followed her. Absolutely not. She’d figure something out.

She was smart.

She was reasonably smart.

She could think.

Ryoka Griffin groaned, and in truth, she had no idea if she had the right to visit the only place she could call a kind of home. To visit—people she owed so much to. A girl she should not keep running from.

Here she was, taking Liscor’s most-hated man to Liscor. Ryoka could not imagine someone worse to bring.

She wouldn’t have done it, honestly. She would have left the…left the Dragon who didn’t remember her alone. Really, honestly. Even if it had been two months and she feared he might not have remembered her.

Or gone to sleep. But they could not wait. So Ryoka flew onwards, because she missed her friends. She missed that inn. And she had something else.

It had appeared, as such things did, on her pillow, which was not scary at all. But Ryoka supposed, just once, she could overlook it. At least, here, she felt for the sender of the delicate letter written in pink letters.

 

Dear Ryoka Griffin,

I need a favor…

 

——

 

Now.

 

The letter still galled her to send. It was painful—not because you shouldn’t ask for help or be humble.

It was just that Ryoka Griffin was not the person to ask for anything. Not for this.

Magnolia Reinhart had been first, and it was a petty thing to quibble over. But she had. She truly had.

She’d spent thirty years. More than thirty years prying a silly old man out of his shell. Only for someone to swoop in and do much the same thing. And bring him back from the dead.

Sometimes, you could be the removed [Lady] who stood outside of the great hall. No one needed to be covered in glory. It was a sticky thing, and it didn’t ever last. Also, it attracted flies.

—But this?

Magnolia Reinhart was grumpy when she woke. She was so grumpy that even Ressa didn’t needle her and just handed over a doughnut. And coffee. With sugar and cream.

“There is something so entirely unpleasant about sleeping in a moving carriage. Tell me there are some [Bandits].”

“We cannot run over them, Lady Reinhart.”

Ressa glanced out the window meaningfully—the modest, unpink coach was still enchanted…but barely. And sleeping in it for nigh on a week? When she could have done the same trip in two days with long rests at an inn, max?

Magnolia Reinhart’s one advantage was that no one, ever, in the history of time would think she was in anything but her pink carriage. Which was currently destroyed.

Both of them. Her backup had been lost. The first, to [Assassins]. The second, to Belavierr. Magnolia Reinhart took the breakfast and muttered darkly.

“Damn running them over. I’ll grab a crossbow and a wand and see to it myself.”

Her uncharacteristic bad mood was not going to get worse. She was going to come to Liscor…tactfully. Stop by The Wandering Inn, perhaps, and make some amends with Erin Solstice. Or talk to Larra and see what was possessing her.

Bother Valeterisa—Magnolia Reinhart knew she was disliked, and so she would be as graceful as could be. She only hoped she could make a good impression as such a figure of enmity. But she had to go, and if she met Ryoka Griffin—

Well. She was certain even Tyrion wouldn’t stray close to Liscor, which was one problem accounted for. Magnolia Reinhart yawned.

“I forgot the High Passes had so many monsters. Are you sure you need…all this, Ressa?”

She glanced sideways pointedly. One of the reasons why Magnolia could not lie down to sleep in the carriage—which was still fairly generous—was because of Ressa’s packed items.

Too many to fit above the coach or in the trunk. They had, of course, food, supplies, potions, gold on hand, all the mundane necessities. Things you used to free a coach. Rope, crowbar, spare axels, auto-loading House of El crossbows, Storm Titan bolts, Drathian summoning crystals…

Ressa and the [Maid] sitting with a giant shield and morning star stared at Magnolia. The [Head Maid] glanced left at a [Duelist Maid] with a silver bell attached to her flamberge.

“Fairly certain, yes, milady.”

“Oh. Well…hand me that crossbow, would you? I hear Liscor has a Garbichug problem. I used to have decent aim, you know.”

She stared out the window as she waited for a crossbow to be fished out. Her banter was light…but she was waiting. Just waiting. She truly did have to come here.

Or what was all of what she’d been doing—for? Magnolia stared out the window. The High Passes. If she had to empty out every monster in them, Void Eater Goats or Bossels or whatever Ressa was nervous of, she would.

That old man had better not forget her. Or—Magnolia Reinhart looked at the mundane crossbow bolt Ressa was offering her. She thought she spotted a Garbichug already. Disgusting creatures. They came from Rhir. So Magnolia plucked a Fireball Bolt out and put it in the crossbow as everyone leaned back. Magnolia delicately rolled down the window and took aim.

If he forgot her, she would remind him.

 

——

 

Magnolia Reinhart, Ryoka Griffin, and Rafaema of Manus. They had business with the slumbering old man. Each one different.

And so they came again and again—just as the first time he had ever met a little Harpy perched on a branch, singing in the rain.

Just like all the others, from his daughter to the ones who had come seeking his aid, seeking revenge. Seeking—

Something else. Perhaps that was why he slept, that lazy Dragon.

He was waiting—no, hoping someone came to wake him up.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: Here we are again. A relatively short chapter that’s allowing me to push on edits. I think I’m getting a bit better at keeping the word count down and content up. I can always improve, but…sometimes you have less time.

This month will certainly be that for me. I have family coming in, and while I want to work throughout the holidays until my long break—I will make time for them at the cost of longer chapters.

…Plus I heard Dwarf Fortress is finally releasing with a graphical UI like Rimworld today. So, uh, this might be the last chapter you ever hear from me. Then again, games as legendarily complex as that might just make me never touch a game again.

I hope you liked this chapter, is what I’m saying. And there will be more—the people have spoken and the arc has begun. I may break it up, and I do have an idea of other upcoming chapters I must write, but we are set upon our course.

Now, if only I could get good sleep like that Dragon…hope you’re doing well. I need to buy a new mattress. A bed of coins does not sound comfortable, either. Thanks for reading and remember…have you done your Christmas shopping? I hear there are train strikes that may or may not be happening.

 

 

Stream art by butts! Magic sucking Antinium, Rhissy, and the Windy Thief!

Twitter: https://twitter.com/buttscord

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/buttsarts

 

Ceria by ravvlet!

 

The Silver Dragon, Nerrhavia, Ama, and more by Lanrae!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Interlude – The First and Last of Us

It was one thing to be old.

Another, to be the last of something. The Last Dragonlord of Flame was still sleeping day after day when a visitor came to his cave.

They passed through the High Passes warily, but with some wisdom, having seen it before. The trick was to not attract attention. Once you had one thing after you—or fleeing from you—something else noticed it.

And like a game of eternal one-upmanship, every monster in creation would invariably join the fight. But if you never got to that first point? You might well be safe.

A bit of luck. And not running into the nastiest elements of the High Passes. There were some…unique monsters lurking about.

The Void Eater Goat, for one. The…shapeshifter, another.

It was wandering about, blabbering as the visitor passed behind a cluster of rocks, heading towards the cave with the yellow scarf still tied to the rocks, fluttering in the wind.

“I’m not saying anything. I know my rights. Fuck you, pig—it was an accident, Mom. Buy another car. No, I’m not sorry. Hello. Hello? Hello. I’m R—Ry—Ryooookaaaaa—

Completely undisturbing. It looked like it was feeding off some poor soul’s memories. The visitor decided not to disturb the young woman wandering around in circles.

Mind you—that wasn’t the disturbing thing. The disturbing thing was…the shapeshifter was practicing. Now, who had given it that damn idea? The creature had ceased lurching around in a way that said it had never understood the pain of falling over as an infant. It was no longer naked, and the voice—despite the modulation—was sounding passably normal.

Practice. Did you understand why that was scary? Natural talent abounded, but it was only when talent was refined through effort that things became scary. Gargoyle Bossels, despite their intelligence, strength, and ability to use weapons, were not largely scary because they were just bigger versions of their kin.

Few of them had the diligence to practice or train their underlings. Thugen—their word for lesser Gargoyles—were as lazy as their leaders.

Same for Eater Goats. They were suicidally mad—not diligent. Void Eater Goats, though…they were scary. Because once, that little, innocent goat with its black fur and insatiable appetite—once it had been an Eater Goat, a nasty one. An Eater Goat that practiced the art of eating.

The visitor was one such being who had learned practice would put them above other people. And yes, it sounded obvious—but who truly did practice with such diligence? Few people. Work was not always practice. Survival was not always practice. Training, deliberate—was difficult and unintuitive at times.

Like, for instance, being able to walk without a sound such that even the keen-eyed Gargoyles never stirred from their perches, the Eater Goats never looked up from foraging for food. And even the sleeping Dragon and all his spells did not wake at all as the visitor tip-toed into his cave.

He was waiting for a young woman. He was always waiting for one. The visitor rolled their eyes. Not that they were one to talk or lecture normally.

But this was a special occasion.

Even slumbering, Teriarch was too canny to have forgotten all his tricks. Despite the intruder bypassing his wards, a feat few could ever boast of—and only because they were one of the few welcome visitors—he was already stirring.

Smell? Or detecting aura? Or…instinct? He cracked open one huge, heliotrope eye, and his claw reached for a floating alarm-spell. Then he spotted the visitor and surged upright.

Many tonnes of Dragon flesh rising made the light in the cave shine brightly and wildly as his brass scales flashed—a river of metal. He boomed as he inhaled—reflexively.

Wretch!

The visitor side-stepped just in time, and the fireball blew a hole straight through the cave’s entrance and into the rock beyond. The shapeshifter was probably two hundred paces away—and it began screaming as it caught on fire. The actual impact cratered a hole in the stone cliffs that cracked the stone and gouged out a molten center of lava.

Every monster in the area looked up, smelled or felt or saw the burning attack—and decided they had other places to be.

It was a killing attack—and it probably would have eliminated, beyond the Dragon’s means to bring back, any number of young women who could have come calling for help.

The visitor, though, just stared sideways at the trailing smoke and flames, unimpressed. Teriarch spotted his guest and closed his mouth. And the first thing the visitor did was paw at the ground and speak in a higher voice than you might think, precise, even pedantic. He tossed his head back, and a shimmering mane of hair fluttered around him like gossamer spider webs.

Or some such. He’d gone silver this year, and he was thinking he’d go back to blonde. Or pink. But everyone noticed pink. The visitor eyed Teriarch as he threw back his head.

“Weak. And slow. I’d have run you through an eye if I were going to kill you.”

The Brass Dragon’s mouth opened slightly. He blinked—and it seemed like they hadn’t seen each other for centuries.

It had probably only been…four hundred and twelve years? Give or take. Time passed fast and slow, sometimes.

“Taletevirion. What are you doing here?”

Once again, the visitor pawed at the ground, a sign of restlessness. He dipped his head, and his horn—and it was a long horn, straight and tipped at the end—gleamed with a kind of magic few had ever seen. He normally kept it hidden, but Dragon eyes saw most things.

The last Unicorn of the Vale Forest, Taletevirion, trotted left and right, eying the hoard and cave with distaste.

“Asking if you’ve lost your mind. Here I thought I’d be seeing war-camps, the Dragonthrone open, and armies of Golems or something. But no—you’re sleeping like usual. So it was someone else, then. Waterboy himself. The sheer pomposity was you, though. Lady War would never bother with that.”

“…Huh? What are you doing in my cave?”

The Dragon blinked at the Unicorn, looking sleepy and not quite alert yet. Nor could he memory-wipe his guest and present his best side. The Unicorn kicked a crown next to his hooves.

“Calanfer, Calanfer, Teriarch. Was that you? If it was—what possessed you? I also heard of a ruckus in Ailendamus. The last Dryad’s dead…but you wouldn’t have done that. Yet she died of flames. So the spirits of nature whisper—or something like that. They’re antsy, all these forest memories. The Green King, Winter Sprites here in number—something’s up. So are you awake or still sleeping?”

Here was the thing. As Teriarch’s eyes widened and he began to regain full control of his mind, he looked at his visitor and saw a number of Unicorns. The one in front of him looked much like the others, mind you.

He had never quite lost his fighting trim—which, if you knew horses, meant he was in quite good shape. Although he didn’t look like a racing horse, all running muscle to no other point. Possibly few horses outside of the ancient wilds had ever looked like he did. Not bulky, but rather like a [Duelist]—compacted against his form.

He was quick. But the Taletevirion of the modern day struck a contrast to those who had come before. And the Dragon remembered them all.

This Unicorn was more like a charmer, for all he was in shape. You’d find him mysteriously in one of your stables or in a field with some mares or stallions—often in compromising situations.

He had no shame. And he was probably why a good portion of Izril’s horses were so famously capable. Teriarch had heard when an impulsive [Lady] had bought some of the finest horses from overseas, Taletevirion had stayed on Walchaís lands for two decades. And nearly died of dehydration.

Knowing that definitely put a damper on the awe of meeting Taletevirion for the first time. But then—Teriarch could not blame him like he held Eldavin, himself, to account.

The last Unicorn of the Vale Forest…was the last. And whatever you blamed him for, you had not seen him, clad in armor, marshaling [Soldiers] to battle. Weltered in gore until his horn shone red, his hooves leaving footprints in his forest as it burned.

He was done with it all and had said as much. It was one of the reasons, actually, that the two had kept in very sporadic contact. They were both done—only, Taletevirion meant it.

Now, he had come to see what had woken the Dragonlord of Flame from his long isolation. As Taletevirion looked around, he could see no clues—but he sensed them.

Death hung in the air. Death…and another Dragon? The unicorn didn’t sniff—his horn glowed faintly as he twisted his head left and right, like someone using a dowsing rod. But delicately. He had taught [Duelists] how to fence, and he had added to the magic of his kind with the horn that so many would try to cut from his skull.

The idiots never seemed to realize it would regrow. Not that it was wise to hold a Unicorn captive, but still. No foresight.

Someone died here. Someone powerful—Taletevirion glanced at Teriarch. Which made no sense. Or rather, it did and he would have expected it for any number of reasons, but why was the Dragonlord here?

Actually, two people had died here recently. But one was definitely mortal, and the other was definitely immortal or highly magical. Plus the other Dragon…Taletevirion’s face wrinkled up, and he stuck out his tongue as he sensed a final presence.

“Eugh. You’ve been having the intruders over. A lot of them. Have you been rhyming or throwing swords into lakes? Please tell me we’re not doing that again.”

“I…stop dowsing my caves!”

“Why? You haven’t been doing anything inappropriate. Haven’t been doing it for the last twenty thousand years, by the feel of it.”

“Taletevirion.”

And now he was getting angry. The Unicorn rolled his eyes.

“Poly. Morph. I know you can do it. But that answers another question—so it’s not you, but someone else calling himself ‘Eldavin’? It was certainly the old you in style, but not in caution. Is it someone who’s out to ruin your reputation? You and our Dragonlord of Waters having a spat? If you’re going to mess up his reputation undersea, take me with you. I haven’t seen any Kelpies in a while. Mm.”

It was too early to deal with this. The Dragonlord stared at his guest, then looked around.

“I will have tea. Will you?”

“Sure, give me a bucket. Make it the good stuff. Something Drathian. I had a plot of some good herbs that the [Druids] knew not to touch until recently, but some damn [Witch] got into it. Harvested the entire thing, plants and all. Damn [Witches].”

Without a word, Teriarch levitated the largest bowl and whisk in the world down, and tea leaves and water flew about him. There was an art to it, and even sleepy, he paused to let Taletevirion purify the water.

The whisk was made of old heartswood, gifted by Dryads themselves. The tea leaves seemed to brighten and return to their fresh state as he mixed water and tea, heating it with his breath. Although—even here, the Unicorn was annoying.

“Poor flame control. You’re boiling it too fast.”

“Shut. Up.”

The whisking was pleasant, though. And though it took a while as the tea leaves were ground and a powder added to the hot water and mixed—the two did take a repose.

With unique drinking vessels. A ‘bucket’ for Taletevirion that was made to stand such that he didn’t have to dip his head far, a stand of old jade. Teriarch had a more cup-like vessel, which he levitated up and down, blowing and sipping.

“—How did a [Witch] get into your private herbal supply? Was it the…Spider? Or was one so eminently talented as to bypass your wards?”

Now, the Unicorn looked uncomfortable. He coughed to one side as he took a draft of tea.

“The Spider appreciates tea like you appreciate pun-poetry. No, this was someone new. Decades back. Maybe she talked her way into my gardens. She was quite attractive, you know.”

“Ah.”

The flat response and look in his eyes said it all. Taletevirion snorted.

“You are the last person I will take a lecture from about being swayed by pretty eyes and a sob story. It’s just tea. I go harass her when I need some more.”

The Dragonlord looked at the Unicorn, then coughed to one side.

“I don’t keep plants unless it’s in preservation—I can’t stand to water the things, even with spells. And they still die after centuries, even with the finest care. But if you’re truly hurting for beverages, I could lend you a packet or two. And I might be flying by Drath in the future. If you want, I could bring back a hibiscus or whatnot.”

The Unicorn’s head rose, along with his eyebrows. It was the rarest thing in the world for a Dragon to give anything away from their hoard, unprompted. And it was the rudest thing to ignore.

“I could take—do you have any Halfling’s leaf?”

“Not the smoking kind?”

“Obviously not.”

Teriarch flicked open a huge set of enchanted drawers. He lifted a few huge pouches out—then judiciously measured enough for three months straight of tea drinking into a smaller bag of holding. He presented it to the Unicorn.

“How are your hooves? I know a fine [Handler]…”

“I’m the one who tends forests, not you. Thank you. But every hostler eventually tries to put horseshoes on me. Cold iron, sometimes. I get depressed if I have to kick them. I scrape them pretty well.”

He showed Teriarch his hooves, which were in good condition. The Dragon smiled at that. The Unicorn didn’t look poor after all this time. Reminded, now, Teriarch’s head turned, and a rack of bottles stacked a thousand high and racing along the walls of his cavern glinted at him. Slightly dusty.

“Can I offer you something stronger? I think I have something preserved to eat.”

He was beginning to enjoy himself, and Taletevirion regretted having to break Teriarch’s growing enthusiasm. But he did, coughing to one side.

“I don’t think it’s the moment to enjoy ourselves. I’m pleased you won’t ever starve—if you needed to eat in the first place. Thank you for the tea, again. Speaking of which—why is there an Archmage Eldavin on these scrying orbs, and what’s up with Calanfer?”

This was no social call, after all. So Teriarch put the cup down and exhaled slowly. He looked—

Well, he looked awful. Not much worse since the last time Taletevirion had seen him, but that wasn’t saying much. And from the way he flexed his wings and winced, he was having some kind of muscle pain.

Taletevirion should have come centuries ago. The Unicorn felt that guilt—and accepted it. He should have raced the Dragon, coaxed him out of his cave. But the Dragonlord was so stubborn—he had half feared he’d spend another three months arguing with him to keep his eyes open and listen.

Yet—the Unicorn should have come. With grasses and tonics from the [Druids], with honey from vast beehives, and with more than caution and worry. The Dragonlord slept overlong, and it showed.

He even had poor control of his flames at the moment. Suggesting…he’d been using them liberally.

Was that Wyrm the Unicorn smelled? Great. Another pest. He’d heard one was causing trouble in Ailendamus. And Lucifen. Wonderful. You never forgot infernal stench. And a Titan? And…

A cough made the Unicorn stop dowsing magically again. Teriarch spoke quietly.

“In short—and I will thank you to mind your tongue until after I have conveyed my information—the situation has changed, Taletevirion. Dramatically. I—we are called to war.”

“I’ve heard that before. Who’s calling? A Treant? Some random Human, Drake, or Gnoll girl? Magnolia Reinhart? No—she’s trying to build wall-bridges because she’s bought into your ideas.”

The Unicorn snorted, and the Dragonlord lifted his head imperiously and tilted it away.

“Oh, alright, I’ll be quiet.”

Teriarch paused a good minute, pointedly, before he spoke.

“We are called by the dead, Taletevirion. You did not see…ghosts? When Fetohep warned us of Seamwalkers, did not a single ghost come to you and warn you?”

Then the Unicorn fell silent—and his head rose slowly.

“The Unicorns of the Vale Forest are gone. Their last ghosts told me something was haunting them—last year. All of Izril’s been emptying—I can’t find a single one. What do you know about—ghosts?”

Then he listened. And the Dragonlord spoke.

“Eldavin is my simulacrum—an accident left him with some of my memories and independent will. He cannot be reasoned with, nor do I trust him. Nor was I able to best him and remove his presence. I went to Calanfer to inspire and dare the Terandrian kingdoms to come to the new lands. To level and forge connections. I did reveal myself—just as I met the Wyrm of Ailendamus and the immortal cabal therein to try and make peace and a lasting alliance. That failed, but we have some accord. All this is in service to fighting a power older than your forest, Taletevirion. Something is back—and the lands of the dead have become the first casualty in this conflict.”

He did not say it precisely like that—but if you wanted to summarize the longer explanation with occasional questions, it was essentially that.

When he was done, the Unicorn looked at the Brass Dragon for a long, long time. Not as if he were crazy, but just taking in the magnitude of it all. And here was one who could believe and understand because he had lived through times as dramatic and crazy. What Taletevirion said, after all that, was simple.

“Right. Thanks for telling me. I’m off. See you.”

The Dragonlord saw the Unicorn turn around and trot back the way he’d come. Teriarch coughed.

“You aren’t going to do anything?”

Taletevirion came to a stop. He turned his head back.

“I’m going to raid someone’s wine cellar, get so drunk I wake up next month, and then I’ll see how many charming mares I can meet. Or stallions. Heck, maybe I’ll polymorph myself. I’ll come back, probably, if you’re here in a month or two. To say goodbye. I don’t think I’ll see you in the next millennium. If you’re right—I might not be there myself, so we’ll make it a real thing. Break out all the good liquors. I’ll bring something nice as well.”

Teriarch unfolded his wings.

“Taletevirion. Didn’t you hear what I said?”

The Unicorn exhaled.

“I heard you. I’m done. It sounds like you were called, not me.”

“Only because Izril was already lost before the final conflict began. Even if one had wanted to talk to you—”

“—They wouldn’t, because I would have told them to sod off before I banished them into Baleros. Don’t give me the ‘one last time’ speech. I gave you that when the Treants left. I’m gone. There’s no side left. Soul-eaters? Ghosts? The mortals of this world?”

He threw his head back and laughed, a braying laugh, like a donkey’s, derisive and crude.

They killed my forest and hunted us all down. I’d have thought you’d abstain as well. But if it was ghosts…”

Taletevirion’s head dipped as he looked at Teriarch.

“…that would do it. Maybe do some laps around the High Passes before you head off to war though, hm?”

He headed towards the cave’s entrance. The Dragonlord looked at one of his few acquaintances, who wasn’t as old as Teriarch—but they were of a kind. They were all like that.

“Taletevirion. What would it take for you to take up arms? You cannot ignore what is happening or hide from this calling.”

He was glancing back across his hoard, and the Unicorn, despite himself, slowed at the entrance. Taletevirion’s hooves came to a clattering halt—and it was unusual because he was normally so quiet.

Gladeswalker. Champion of the Canopied Path. When you were so old and had done so much, you had these endless names. But the silly Unicorn with his libidinous pursuits—

He turned his head back, and one eye flashed brightly, and Teriarch knew he’d gone too far.

“Hide? That is the most hypocritical thing I have ever heard you say, Dragonlord of Flame. Who walks the forests and lands of Izril while you sit in your cave and sleep away the centuries?”

“I only meant—”

The Unicorn came striding back, horn glowing dangerously. He stopped, stomping his hooves and snorting with ill-concealed ire.

“Hiding? Do you know I had pledged to your precious Magnolia Reinhart to lift my horn for war if it came to Izril? If the Antinium of Rhir ventured north, I, foolishly witnessing their destruction of the ‘Hivelands’, swore to defend this land. You accuse me of hiding? Shirking my duties? I will own that I am lazy, indiscreet, and that I will take no sides even if my kin’s ghosts were to beg me. But my ruined forest has regrown.”

He meant the Vale Forest. And yes, it was still one of the world’s largest forests, the largest by far on Izril. But the great trees were gone.

“The Dryads are dead. The Unicorns are gone. All the other species who sheltered under the branches—lost. No more communities of bear and wolf, no more Beastkin. The Corusdeer herds run wild and without purpose. The tribes of ape and monkey are dead; their kin on Baleros still mourn.”

The Unicorn’s voice was heavy and deep. Like a dirge. Teriarch tried to speak. His scales were hot. With embarrassment.

“I only meant—”

The Unicorn looked up at him, and his gaze was empty. Then—he shook his head and looked dismissively around Teriarch’s cave.

“Yet I am still here. My wards have changed, from that folk, from the great aspens and oaks and the will of Treants to little Humans playing under the branches. [Druids] who still remember how to live without cutting down everything in their path. I am here, Teriarch. And I tend to my wards and friends. What few who still remain on Izril.”

Then he looked at the Dragon, and Teriarch realized that was why the Unicorn had chosen to visit. He—even in waking—had not first thought to visit Taletevirion. The Dragon hung his head, and the Unicorn went on gently.

“If it comes, you shall see me at the last. But I am done with making empires. I thought you were. You warned me that the half-Elves would create no more great forests, but I did not listen. We have always remembered the folly of the past, us two. More than your cousins. Why would I make war and call the last of the last forwards again?”

“Perhaps the cause matters enough. Perhaps the foe is horrific enough.”

The Dragonlord’s throat was dry, but he growled the words. Taletevirion looked at him bleakly.

“Spawn from the edge of the world? Worse? Old Ones buried deep?”

Worse.

The Unicorn considered that. Then he turned his head.

“—And when will we hold a blade to those unwilling to help us and declare our ultimatums? Destroy an enemy’s camp so thoroughly we slaughter their livestock and salt the earth with flame? I am weary of it. Take my invitation, Teriarch. And know the Vale Forest will have one protector.”

Then he turned around once more and began to walk away. And Teriarch’s eyes burned, for the Unicorn truly had walked every century the Dragon lay sleeping. He was younger—but how many monsters, Crelers and the like, had died to that silent protector?

Perhaps the Vale Forest was the safest of its kind yet left in the world. He would be a mighty ally, though. Teriarch had a vision of the Unicorn of old, challenging a [King] to a duel as three champions lay at his feet, each one disarmed. So he called out.

“A gift, then, Taletevirion. Anything within my power to grant you—is there nothing left you desire?”

His wings took in relics, gold enough to buy the forest the Unicorn called home, even if it was from the nobles who ‘owned’ it. The Unicorn looked over his shoulder. He knew what Teriarch possessed. He thought for a long time, and his eyes sharpened.

“Still got your Dragonthrone?”

“…Yes.”

Teriarch’s voice was instantly defensive, possessive, but the fact that he even acknowledged it…the Unicorn exhaled. It really was serious, then. Even if he looked like he’d been napping. Teriarch was already yawning, but the light of hope was in his eyes.

If he had Taletevirion, a peer to stir him…the last Unicorn looked Teriarch in the eyes and considered the Brass Dragon’s treasures.

“—Then we’ll have the party there.”

He didn’t turn around this time, because he knew Teriarch was going to make him an offer. The Dragonlord tried.

“Taletevirion. If there is any object or favor or debt I can call upon—”

And the Unicorn interrupted him with an almost ironic, sing-song rhyme in his voice—but a deadly serious look in his eyes and a voice like old brambles in the forest, like dead earth under fallow trees.

 

Dragon. No treasure of yours shall compel me.

Nor favor nor threat impel me spill my blood.

My days are done. No friends to aid nor kin to free.

My worth as warrior and guide I would rather be to stud.

I am no friend of Drake nor Gnoll nor Human nor any other kind.

Only for something new even to Dragons will I ever, ever change my mind.

 

The Dragonlord looked down, dismayed, and Taletevirion bent a knee, giving the Dragon a too-formal salute with his horn.

“There. A true Geas of the Vale Forest upon myself. Oathsworn upon my horn. Do you have anything to add?”

Though he knew how stubborn Taletevirion was, how weary of this he must be—the Dragonlord did try one last trick. He slowly, slowly, lifted up something odd, flat, and rectangular that glowed with something other than magic.

“Will you not look at this, Taletevirion? It is new.”

The Unicorn’s eyes widened as he saw the odd device—and he trotted forwards as Teriarch lowered it.

“What is…this?”

“It is called—a laptop. A Dell. It has a number of interesting features, including…images…that you may be fascinated by.”

Teriarch sighed as he brought that up, but it was certainly new. The Unicorn’s Geas—his keen intellect focused on the laptop—and he exhaled.

“My, that is new. And this…”

He lowered his horn slightly, staring at the screen—and Teriarch sensed the near-instantaneous spellcasting only after Taletevirion’s horn extended.

A sword of light slashed the laptop in half. As the Dragon jerked it away—the horn flashed twice, and Taletevirion blew both sides of the laptop into fragments that exploded around the cave. He raised his horn as Teriarch’s mouth opened wide. The Unicorn stared the Dragonlord in the eyes.

“Don’t try to play me like an Agelum, Teriarch. Objects have always been worthless to everyone but Dragons and Drakes. A million of Veltras’ children play under the leaves of my forest. They may burn it one day or cut it to the roots. But they are innocent of their deeds of the past and when they age.”

He looked around as the stunned Dragon stared at his broken treasure, and the Unicorn spat.

“—A treasure beyond any you have ever accumulated. I have never forgotten what wealth looks like.”

Then he was trotting out of the cave, fast—so fast he left a trail of wind in his wake—before the Dragonlord could vent his incredible pique. The roar echoed around the High Passes…and then Teriarch lay down. Sulking, he reconstructed the laptop from a fragment.

Wearied, once more, the Dragon slept. The last Unicorn? He went off somewhere to find a drink. He knew an ending was coming, but so what?

It was always coming. He had seen the Creler Wars come and go. He’d seen Dryads die, seen his forest burn. Not for laptops. Not for Dragons or young folk. Teriarch was that noble soul, nobler than even the Silver Dragon Knight. He would fly and die for someone else’s future.

But Taletevirion? There was no future for Dragons. Nor for Unicorns. Not for Humanity or even the memory of the dead. The Unicorn trotted off.

He needed a drink.

 

——

 

Fights were never fun, emotionally-uplifting affairs. Especially when they were between two people who liked each other.

The last Redfang of The Wandering Inn was Numbtongue. Oh, Badarrow was back and Rabbiteater was alive.

But they weren’t here. For all he had hugged his brother and they had gone out hunting and talked—they were somehow separate.

It had taken Numbtongue a long time to understand what that sense of disconnect was—until someone had summarized it for him.

“You’re living different lives, Numbtongue. Different jobs. Different—roles. Even if you are brothers, I felt the same way with my sisters. Even when they came back, they were different. Not always better or worse, but separate.”

Lyonette knew the feeling that Numbtongue had experienced—possibly for the second time in his life. He hadn’t realized it before, but the Redfang Tribe meant that a warrior was only separated from the others during scouting missions or after a battle if they were lost or left behind.

When the thirteen Goblins had been sent to kill the [Innkeeper]—they had changed greatly over their journeys. The five who had made it to the inn…they had been strangers when they met Garen Redfang.

Now, in the same way, Numbtongue felt like Badarrow was different. Closer to a Chieftain, a member of Rags’ tribe.

Different.

He envied Badarrow in some ways. In others, he felt like the [Sniper] had left the one good place they knew. And Badarrow—seemed to think Numbtongue had had it hardest.

We are Goblins. We have Goblinhome. You…you’re here. With Erin. With ghosts.”

Truer words had never been spoken. Badarrow liked the inn. He liked Erin—but it had too many painful memories for him. He would not stay. He had asked—tentatively—if Numbtongue wanted to go to Goblinhome. Just to visit.

The answer was no, Numbtongue was almost sure. Erin needed someone to watch out for her. Mrsha needed someone to look out for her. The inn was fun, it had all the things Numbtongue liked.

One of them was Octavia. And Garia came by here. And that had amused his brother almost as much as anything else.

It was an open relationship. Where the relationship was forged of having known people for a while. Like Octavia.

Numbtongue had first defended her from being attacked with Yellow Splatters in Celum. After that, he’d learnt you could sometimes find Octavia starving to death, having not slept for thirty-six hours, and that if you put something in front of her, she would eat it and not die.

It became customary for him to wander into her shop, poke her if she were nodding off into a boiling beaker, or put a blanket on her—or food in front of her as she worked. He’d also sell her gemstones in return for potions, and she later realized she had an unwilling test subject for some of her potions.

That was probably how it started. Numbtongue would come into her shop to practice on the guitar as she worked and then…

Garia Strongheart was different. They had met a bit later and gotten to know each other more intimately.

Mostly—by kicking each other in Garia’s barn or practicing sparring combat. Which was a time-honored way for Redfangs to get to know each other too. Also, Numbtongue would occasionally be found wandering around naked and dead-drunk with Wailant and Viceria in the night.

And people wondered why Garia didn’t visit home that much. Well, she had been stopping by more often.

The point was, Numbtongue made it clear he quite liked both the [Martial Artist] and [Alchemist], and they were aware he wasn’t being serious. Which, to Goblins, meant babies more than a commitment.

Neither one was interested in babies at this point, so it worked out well. At least, Numbtongue thought so.

His ghosts had other opinions, but he ignored them when he could. And he had learned the ghosts could go elsewhere if need be. Which was really—really—really helpful.

There was something about Pyrite, Shorthilt, and Reiss sitting there and running commentary while he was trying to flirt that really threw Numbtongue off his stride. Let alone anything else.

The point was that Numbtongue had quite enjoyed the fall as it began to turn to winter. He enjoyed the cold, fresh air, the changing colors of grass, the new inn, the cities, and…The Wandering Inn being open and Erin not being dead.

He still woke up sometimes and wondered. Then he’d hear her voice and all was well. There were Goblins in the inn, guests and employees, and Numbtongue felt happy.

Which was why his first major fight with Octavia was such a dramatic thing.

 

——

 

“Tada! What do you think, Numbtongue?”

The Hobgoblin had been giving Octavia a gift when she surprised him with one. The thing about Numbtongue was that he quite enjoyed things. He made it his goal to find things to enjoy.

If he found he were cold and there was a nice fire, the [Bard] would obsessively grab some of Erin’s cocoa if he could find it, or hot milk and honey, two blankets, and a shivering Octavia and then sit there in front of the fire for an hour. Just because he could. Plus snacks. And a scrying orb.

If he were mining in the mountains—an actual thing he did and not just an excuse to take Octavia or Garia or someone else out to have fun—he would search for gemstones to give them. Or something fun or useful like a scarf in Invrisil that looked like a river over red soil that Garia used.

Or massages, which he was good at. Enjoyment was something to be cultivated, and Numbtongue was a connoisseur. It was also why Badarrow, Headscratcher, Shorthilt, and Rabbiteater used to make fun of him. For optimizing his good times.

A Numbtongue-gift was thus quite regular. But Octavia had been bundled up in a coat and had a hood up when he came in—and she had been sitting with her back turned until he slyly poked her. Then she turned, threw off her coat—and blanket—and beamed up at him.

That was Octavia, always thinking or chewing on a stirring spoon or a flurry of energy until she collapsed. Her and her light brown eyes, sometimes ringed by soot or lines of exhaustion. And her green skin.

…Huh? Numbtongue looked at Octavia as she threw off her coat, and her skin was definitely green. Not lime green, but a natural green—like a Goblin’s, in fact. Her body was the same—but the skin?

“I’ve been working on it all month! It took ages to get cloth dyed right, but there’s a Stitch-folk [Seamstress] in Invrisil. Who’s ready for a fun evening? I don’t have work and—Numbtongue?”

He stared at her in such a way that her excitement over her surprise faded. When she reached for him, he panicked. Or did something.

Myeh.

His arms went up, and he just—jumped back. Octavia’s face fell.

“Numbtongue? I thought you’d like it.”

When he could speak, the Hobgoblin got angry. And he snapped when Pyrite was poking him before he could think.

“Why would you think I’d like that?”

 

——

 

Hence the argument. It lasted for twelve minutes. And Numbtongue told Octavia not to do the skin, and she was upset and told him it wasn’t her intention to make him mad.

She was a Stitch-folk, and this was one of the few times Numbtongue had realized there really was a cultural difference.

Stitch-folk changed parts of themselves as they pleased. They didn’t value appearance as much, because if you had an unlimited budget, you could look like whatever you wanted.

The cut of cloth mattered less than the quality of it, to quote a Stitch-folk saying. So they had little judgment on skin tone. Green wasn’t something they did, but Octavia had pointed out—in increasingly exasperated tones—that she’d changed her own cloth colors and appearance many times.

“Why can’t I do it? I thought you’d be happy—”

“Well, I’m not.”

Twelve minutes later, Numbtongue was still mad about it. He was stomping around The Wandering Inn’s second floor, his room, and he only had his ghosts for companionship.

Pyrite, Shorthilt, Reiss. All three a different kind of Goblin. One, a Chieftain; another, a younger warrior; the third, the Goblin Lord, a [Necromancer].

Each one had different opinions. Sometimes, he saw them often and they were loud in his head. Other times, he could go days without thinking of them. He had their memories—and opinions. Sometimes if he wanted them or not.

“Mean to nice [Alchemist].”

Shorthilt was poking Numbtongue as they walked. The [Soulbard] swatted at his brother.

“She was wrong.”

Why was she wrong?

That came from the larger Hob, Pyrite, who sat. But he seemed to reappear every few steps, such that Numbtongue kept passing by him. The ghost was chewing on the memory of thistles, grimacing every few seconds.

It was actually a good question and a Pyrite-question because it made Numbtongue think. He didn’t really realize why he had been so upset by Octavia’s skin tone change.

Was it because she should not? Or because it was bad? Or because she didn’t ask?

Reiss was the analytical one, who was a Pisces-esque character of the three. Pyrite was a deep thinker, the Goblin Lord more academic sometimes. Plus, he knew magic and things even Numbtongue and Pyrite and Shorthilt combined couldn’t come up with. Like law and so on. Still, Numbtongue often took Pyrite’s advice over Reiss’. The Goblin Lord’s life had shown where Reiss’ decisions led.

“I…don’t want her pretending to be like a Goblin. Is bad. Not because she wanted to be—be—”

“Mean?”

“Rude?”

“Thoughtless?”

Numbtongue nodded as the ghosts suggested words.

“—That. She wouldn’t. But I looked at her, and I thought—no. Not because she’d be a bad Goblin. Maybe. I don’t know! But because I…”

He searched for words.

“I thought—‘she shouldn’t have this fate’. To have green skin. To be…”

He touched his chest, and he realized that was a lot of it. Some of it was being offended that she thought looking like a Goblin would make him happy. That she didn’t know what being a Goblin was. But he’d also been afraid.

His ghosts looked at each other. Then, Shorthilt nodded at the others and reached out.

“Brother. Give me a minute.”

He meant—[A Minute, Reborn]. Numbtongue’s greatest Skill. And it was so rare for a ghost to ask for that time that Numbtongue instantly agreed.

He reached out—

And Shorthilt took over. Numbtongue’s posture changed. He checked himself, felt at his cheeks, and the true Hob was like a dreamer watching himself from up high. He would remember, when the minute ended—and it was closer to two minutes, anyways.

But he felt Shorthilt’s vague intentions, if not understood all the ghost’s thoughts. Shorthilt took a second to wave at a curious Apista crawling out of Lyonette and Mrsha’s room and grin. He felt pleasure at that. Then he walked towards the stairs heading down to the first floor.

There was a bannister rail that helped people climb up. Nothing that needed to ever be mentioned in the history of Erin’s inn and the stairs. Just a salient point at this particular moment. A staring little Sariant Lamb poked her head out of the doorway as, below, Erin Solstice was noisily hmming and going about her day. It was about an hour before lunch, and the inn was quieter than most parts of the day.

Perfect. Shorthilt calculated his trajectory, took a few steps back—and by the time Numbtongue realized what he was going to do, it was too late to stop. Shorthilt aimed at the stairs—or rather, the banister going down, did a flying leap—

 

——

 

The crash made Erin Solstice jump in her seat. She whirled—and saw a Hobgoblin slam into the floor. Well, he came down the stairs. But she had never, ever seen someone do a flying, groin-first leap into the bannister on purpose.

It looked like it really hurt. Especially because the Goblin was clutching at his private parts and rolling around. He was cursing the air—and for some reason, Erin didn’t think it was aimed at her.

“Numbtongue? You okay, buddy?”

He didn’t seem to hear her. Erin looked at him and shook her head.

 

——

 

Shorthilt stood over Numbtongue. He’d given Numbtongue control back right before impact, and he, Reiss, and Pyrite were clustered around the downed Redfang.

“Can’t punch you, so this is easier.”

“You—you—”

Numbtongue had tears in his eyes from the agony. He was trying to ask why Shorthilt would do something like this—but the Redfang kicked at Numbtongue’s chest. His foot passed through.

“Is bad to be a Goblin? You sound like Humans. Or Drakes. Why you think like that? What bad rot in head?”

He crouched down and poked at Numbtongue angrily. He was angry—and Numbtongue saw Reiss nodding. Pyrite…Pyrite was more sympathetic.

“Is a bad thought. Sometimes you have bad thoughts.”

“Not…wrong, though.”

They all knew what it was like to be a Goblin. Hunted and hated—even this inn wasn’t completely safe. The ghosts were proof of that. Pyrite nodded reasonably, but he took a ghost-thistle out of his mouth and tossed it to the side, where it vanished.

“Not wrong. But not good to hate. Also—not Octavia. She likes you. True?”

“True.”

Numbtongue sat up, wincing, and Pyrite went on.

“She doesn’t know Goblins. She likes Numbtongue. Thinks he’ll be happy. So does this. Then he gets mad at Octavia for something she doesn’t think. Here is good question: is Octavia bad?

The [Bard] sat there for a while. He knew the answer, of course. He just hadn’t thought of that when he was angry.

“No. Of course not. I should have explained. I’ll go now.”

He stood up, looking to the far hallway. This time, it was Pyrite who blocked him.

“No.”

“Why not?”

The Hob stared seriously at the [Bard], as if he were being stupid.

“Angry Numbtongue shouts at Octavia. They fight. Then he runs off. Seven…eight minutes later, he comes back to apologize and make up. Expects to. As if they did not fight.”

“But now I know.”

“So wait. Until evening. Come back later. Like soup. When it all nice and cooked, not hot and bubbling. But not wait until lukewarm.”

The Goldstone Chieftain smacked his lips. His food analogies…Numbtongue edged around him.

“Good idea. Or I go now.”

“She still crying? She still upset? You’re not mad because of us. Two hours. One.

The Hob was pointing out a difference in moods, but here, at least, Numbtongue thought he was wrong. He was quite the type to leave someone alone and go off until they were calm and would talk again. It was something Shorthilt agreed with, but then, Redfangs often settled most things as Garen had taught them—with actual combat.

The [Bard] took a huge breath. He strode over to the door, and Pyrite tried to stop him.

“Don’t go. Or I’ll use a minute and eat…Calescent’s death-spice curry. All the plate. And let you poo it tonight.”

The [Bard] hesitated—and then pulled on the doorknob.

“Pyrite, you’re wise. But sometimes you don’t know everything.”

The Goldstone Chieftain frowned and hmmed. He backed up a step.

“Good point. We’ll see.”

 

——

 

When Numbtongue pushed open the door to Octavia’s shop, he called out.

“Octavia? Can we talk?”

He didn’t hear anything inside. But when he stepped through the door, he froze up instantly and decided Pyrite was right.

“Uh oh. She’s super mad. Give me a minute and I’ll cast [Barkskin].”

Reiss observed as Numbtongue’s boots crunched on—glass. He looked down, and three beakers were shattered on the floor. Thankfully, only one of them seemed magical—and it was Sage’s Water. But clearly—Octavia had been more upset than Numbtongue thought.

[Alchemists] might get mad, but they never threw things in their work areas. Let alone reagents and stuff. But several of Octavia’s mixing vials were shattered on the floorboards, and one of her Sage’s Grass water bases.

It looked like she’d tossed more tools to the ground too, and Numbtongue looked around and didn’t see her. One of her windows was slightly open to the cool fall air—he closed it.

“Octavia? You—you mad?”

He looked around the room, but she must have stormed out, because he didn’t see her. The Hobgoblin searched about. Then he bent down.

“Hm. Alchemists don’t break their own stuff.”

Pyrite reappeared, looking warily at the ground. Numbtongue suddenly looked up, and his hand reached for the Dragonblood crystal sword…which he did not always carry around with him inside the inn.

Shorthilt cursed, and instead, Numbtongue reached for his bag of holding and a jar of acid. Then he sidled over to one of the work tables, reached under it, and pulled a knife out of a sheath he’d glued to the underside. The long dagger came out as Numbtongue turned.

Let me.

Reiss reached out, and Numbtongue hesitated—before shifting control to the most powerful Goblin present. His eyes—turned darker, and when he rose, the Hobgoblin turned and whispered.

“[Detect Life]. [See Invisibility].”

His fingers glowed with a [Deathbolt] spell as he placed the jar of acid in front of him—and held the knife at the ready. The Hobgoblin slowly rotated around the lab—and his eyes narrowed.

What—

 

——

 

Octavia Cotton had a total of about three close friends in Izril. Well, more after going south with them to rescue Mrsha.

But she hadn’t spoken to Gna for a while, or Salkis, and she missed that. The camaraderie of the road.

Really, it was Numbtongue. Saliss was her mentor, but she spent as much company in his time as not. But in lieu of finding Saliss when she was so distraught, she went to the only other friend she had.

Yellow Splatters sat there as Octavia related their fight. Her skin was still green, because it would take an age to replace all the cloth. She’d even done her face!

“And he told me I was, ‘stupid for thinking he’d ever like it’!”

“I shall hit him.”

The Antinium Soldier concluded. He stood with a nod, and Octavia grabbed his arm.

“No, don’t!”

“Then what am I doing?”

The [Sergeant] obediently sat back down, and Octavia sniffed.

“Just listen. Don’t hit him. Like you two do when you gamble.”

“That is a game.”

“It’s a game?”

The Antinium Soldier nodded reasonably.

“Yes. We play cards. Then, whoever wins gets to throw a coin at the other. Like our game where we toss one of Mrsha’s balls at the other and must not flinch.”

Oh, Redfang games. Boy games.

Octavia rolled her eyes. Yellow Splatters smiled, raising his mandibles.

“It is a funny game. But Numbtongue refuses to play because I have no ‘jewels’. So I do not fear the ball like he does.”

The [Alchemist] snorted about that and actually stopped crying a bit. Yellow Splatters patted her on the back.

They were not in the Free Hive. Rather, they were in a new part of Liscor—Antinium-based dormitories. It was a kind of super-reward that let Painted Antinium and members of the Hives like Silveran, Yellow Splatters, and so on have actual rooms and possessions and access to the city without having to navigate the Hive every day.

Yellow Splatters’ room was filled with paintings. He painted the Soldiers and Workers he remembered and put them on the walls. He also had a lot of the little figurines, and he had bought some tiny brushes he was learning to paint with when Octavia came in. He was, in fact, a [Painter].

“So I am not hitting Numbtongue. What is my role here?”

“Listen. Make me feel better. Take my side!”

Yellow Splatters instantly turned to face the way Octavia was facing. But he also, gingerly, patted her on the shoulders.

“Numbtongue is a bad person today. I will speak to him. He should not make his friend cry.”

“Thanks, Yellow Splatters. I just—don’t know what to do. I didn’t realize it’d make him upset.”

The Antinium stared at Octavia’s green skin blankly.

“I do not know why either. The Crimson Soldier is red. Xrn is blue. If you wore my shell, I would not be angry. But perhaps I would be if you wore Whitepaw’s paint. But I know you like me.”

“Do you think that was why it was? He could have said that! He knows I change my cloth. What if I decide I want long hair and he doesn’t like that?”

Octavia was getting mad now and throwing out examples that Numbtongue probably wouldn’t be upset about. But she was angry. Yellow Splatters nodded thoughtfully.

“If Antinium could change their cloth, they would.”

“Yeah! This isn’t home—we’re not in a Stitch-folk city. I can do what I want! I could—I could put on Revi’s cat ears if I wanted!”

“…Her what?”

Now, Octavia had to explain about how some Stitch-folk altered their bodies in ways even their own people thought were radical and extreme. Yellow Splatters hesitated.

“Yes. These cat ears are…not problems. I think.”

“I’m trying to show Numbtongue I care. I was going to keep the skin tone all week! At least! What if I started a trend? Wouldn’t that help Goblins?”

“Maybe. Maybe we should find Numbtongue.”

The Soldier felt like his unconditional support of Octavia’s position—especially vis-à-vis the cat ears—was weakening. He just felt—

“Why not dog ears? They are the superior pet.”

“What?”

Octavia gave him a blank stare as the Soldier folded his arms. Then she realized that the new Antinium dorms really were different from the Hive. For nothing would do but for Yellow Splatters to have Octavia rise—and come over to another room.

“Silveran. Silveran. Are you in here?”

Yellow Splatters knocked on a door two doors down, and a voice came from inside.

“Silveran is not here.”

Octavia hesitated—and Yellow Splatters sighed. Loudly.

Silverstache?

The door sprang open, and an Antinium with a huge, silvery mustache opened the door. He had something in his hands. It was blonde and looked like an old man due to the mop of hair around its face.

It was a puppy.

“This is The Spotted One, Octavia. He is a good puppy. Silveran and I share him.”

“And me, Silverstache.”

The Antinium smiled as Yellow Splatters sighed and ignored that. The little puppy was madly squirming to lick Octavia and to run about. It barked excitedly, and Octavia feared the loud sound would wake up the apartments.

Which it did.

Doors swung open, and Octavia winced as angry…neighboring Antinium delightedly came out.

“It is The Spotted One. And green Octavia. Hello!”

“The Spotted One. May I pet? Who is this green Goblin? I am Super Cleaner. I work for Silveran. Hello, Silverstache.”

“The Spotted One! Say hello to Longboy!”

A long, thin dog raced up to join the first, and the two ran about as the Workers and Soldiers bent over to pet the dogs. One offered them a treat, but Silveran stopped the Worker.

“They have already eaten. We must not feed them. Or…Furfur will not let them stay.”

“Furfur.”

The Workers and Soldiers muttered darkly. Octavia had heard of the dreaded Furfur. Silverstache confided in Octavia.

“He has let us have three doggies between us. But if we give them too many snacks or do not take care of them, we will have our permissions revoked.”

“I hate Furfur.”

One of the Workers glowered into the distance. Octavia, meanwhile, was getting her hands licked by the dogs.

“Sorry, they love [Alchemists]. We smell of all kinds of things. See?”

The Spotted One began sneezing, and all the Workers clustered around to observe in delight. They were having so much fun that Octavia forgot her argument with Numbtongue. Right up until someone came walking along.

“Oh, Yellow Splatters. And Octavia. Hello. This is a rare surprise. Is your skin now green, Octavia? It is very good-looking.”

Pawn of the Free Antinium was walking with his censer-stick and the dread Furfur himself. All the Workers guiltily hid the puppies behind them.

“We are just playing! We are not overexercising them or letting them stay up or overfeeding them—there is no reason for you to be here! Go bother the kitty-folk.”

The Antinium pointed across the complex to the other side, which was presumably where the cat-loving Antinium were. It seemed there were actual differences of opinion between the Antinium living above the Hive.

Pawn, though, just quieted the group with a wave.

“Furfur is just checking in on the pets. They like him. See?”

Indeed, all the puppies ran around him, barking in delight, and Furfur bent over. But the Workers knew that he had the power to take away the puppies. One turned to Pawn.

“He cannot take The Spotted One or Longboy away. Or I will die. They are the only reason living is worth it.”

Several Workers and Soldiers nodded with him. The Worker thought about it.

“That. And food. And music. But I cannot not have the puppies. I thought my life was fine without them, but it was only because I did not know they existed. I will never sleep without a fluffy thing in my lap.”

He bent down, and the weiner-dog lapped at his fingers. The Worker, Excessive Combs, produced his specialty object—a comb—and began to comb the delighted, wiggling dog’s fur. But when the dog lapped at his face, the Worker smiled. He swung around with the dog in his arms.

“It was worth fighting Flesh Worms and three years in the darkness for this.”

Combs had been gloomy about being a Worker—even a Painted Antinium—after all he’d seen. That was, until he realized he could take a little puppy and give it everything it wanted. And that it loved him.

Excessive Combs had never been loved like that. His only fault was feeding the dogs too many snacks, and he glared at Furfur with deep distrust.

Nor was Furfur about to confiscate the dogs, unless it really was for their own good. He was doing a checkup of their health, making sure their fur wasn’t matted, and so on. People needed a Furfur—and as for Pawn?

Octavia hadn’t seen him around of late. He clearly recognized her, green skin or not.

“Have you been crying?”

“She has had a fight with Numbtongue. Who I should not hit, but speak to civilly. It is very confusing. Perhaps you should pray with Pawn?”

“I—don’t know if that’ll help, Yellow Splatters.”

Even Octavia was unclear over what Pawn did exactly. She got his class—but Pawn winced and waved it away.

“I am not the best person to speak to for…this, Yellow Splatters. Why don’t we go back to the inn and find Numbtongue? Octavia can have a talk with Numbtongue. As long as they are not breaking up. Are you? Because I will go away and not witness that, thank you.”

He was quite relieved when Octavia told him she hoped it was a temporary fight. So, back to the inn they went.

“Where have you been, Pawn?”

“Avoiding Lyonette. Suffering. And writing and speaking with Hexel.”

The Worker muttered. Octavia had heard…about the breakup. Erin probably didn’t even know about the relationship. She looked sympathetically at him, but Pawn just stared ahead.

“I have things to occupy me. But it would be good to go to the inn now and then. Especially because I am told our spiritual guide is returning.”

“E-Erin?”

That was an odd way of saying her name. But Pawn just smiled as Yellow Splatters looked intrigued.

“No. I am told Ryoka Griffin is coming.”

“Oh. Oh. Wait—she’s a spiritual guide?”

Pawn nodded sanguinely.

“As much as we have in anyone. I have spoken to many people from Earth. Rose, Erin, Joseph, Kevin, but Ryoka least of all. And she was the first who put us upon our path.”

No wonder they were so lost. But really—Pawn smiled, and so did Octavia, because she wanted to talk to her now-famous friend, or at least, a person she’d known.

She was smiling right until they got back to the inn. Then—she stepped into her shop and saw the broken glass. Yellow Splatters stared in dismay at knocked-over beakers, reagents spilled about, and Octavia saw her entire morning of prep work spilled.

In the center of her store was Numbtongue. He was beaming, their fight completely forgotten. The [Bard] held something squirming up in his hands.

“Octavia! Octavia, look what I found! It was in your shop! Look—”

He held out a young, mangy, striped orange-and-white cat with a ragged ear who kept trying to bite his hands. The Hobgoblin was delighted. Octavia looked at her shop and the beaming idiot. Yellow Splatters raised a tentative fist and glanced at Pawn, who shook his head. Then the [Priest] eyed the shaking [Alchemist] and closed the door.

The second fight revolved mostly around Numbtongue’s delight and Octavia’s ruined shop. And him completely forgetting what the first fight was about.

 

——

 

“You cannot have a cat.”

“Can too.”

“Why do you even like it?”

“It’s hungry. See? And it fights things. I like it.”

“You’re feeding it bits of Erin’s best steak! She’s never going to let you keep it.”

“She said I could have a pet.”

“It ruined my shop!”

“You left the window open. This is a good cat. It doesn’t even want to go, see? It’s hurt.”

“You wasted a healing potion on it.”

Octavia was fuming, but Numbtongue just bent over the singed fur and cuts on the paws. The kitten was digging its claws into his shirt and skin—but it slowly stopped as the wounds healed. And he was whispering to it.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’ve got you. Brave cat. It fought something with fangs and teeth. That’s why it clawed me. See? It’s already calm.”

In fact, once the nervous kitten realized it was not about to be eaten or killed, it fell asleep in Numbtongue’s arms. It wasn’t one of Elirr’s cats, nor was it a pet—it had no collar, and no one in their right mind would have let a cat out onto the Floodplains, away from Liscor.

Octavia had no idea where it had come from. The stray must have wandered away from its mother—or there was no mother anymore. It had clearly gone through some rough times before it had found its way through Octavia’s window.

It looked thin, dirty, and yet it had scratched up Numbtongue’s hands and knocked over all the alchemy supplies in his attempts to corner and grab it. The Hobgoblin already loved it.

“It must have fought off Shield Spiders to get here. And evaded Rock Crabs.”

“Or maybe it fell off a caravan or snuck out the city gates. It’s not even magical.”

“How can you tell? It could be magical.”

The Hobgoblin looked offended, but Octavia just picked up some fur and, glaring, melted it in one of her Sage’s Grass bases. It didn’t produce a reaction.

“No magical fur—not a magical cat. Even the ones that are just smart have a tinge to them. Elirr’s cats are smarter and better than this one.”

“Don’t be mean. This cat is brave. He made it here—he’s the best cat. Like a Goblin.”

Then Octavia figured out why Numbtongue liked the idea of a single cat finding his way to a safe haven. Especially a ‘warrior’. She rolled her eyes. She was so mad about her shop that she was angrier at Numbtongue for not sharing her pain. Her tools! Her stuff! Her reagents—she could replace it all with her earnings working for Saliss, but she wanted to cry. And here this beaming idiot was, sitting and petting the cat.

“Not going to talk about my green skin anymore?”

The [Bard] looked up suddenly, and his face fell.

“Oh. I was going to say I was wrong, Octavia. I shouldn’t have shouted and—”

You’re unbelievable! I hate you!

She shouted, and the Hobgoblin winced as the cat woke up in his arms. It panicked—and he held onto it as it squirmed.

“Good cat. Good cat, no one’s going to harm you. No one’s going to harm you~

He was actually singing to it. Crooning—he didn’t even like singing for her without a special occasion! Vengeful, petty—Octavia searched for the lowest blow she could think of.

“Erin won’t let you keep it. She might not want a pet now she’s got a Sariant Lamb and Apista. This thing is dirty and violent.”

Suddenly worried, Numbtongue looked up.

“She’ll let me keep it.”

“Not if it’s a threat to the other animals. Or it causes more chaos.”

“Then I’ll…I’ll train it in secret and show it to her!”

The [Bard] had a brilliant idea. Octavia stared at him as he got up, looking around. Then he opened the [Garden of Sanctuary].

“I’ll take it to Elirr’s tomorrow. Then I’ll show it to her after a week. With a name. It should have a name. What about…Orangefang? Orangestripes?”

Octavia saw the Goblin beaming—and she shouted at him as he hurried into the garden.

We’re still fighting! I’m furious at you! You can’t come up with good names, you stupid—stupid singing [Bard]!

 

——

 

In fairness to Erin Solstice, she might have okayed a cat if one had been presented to her, even the new one that had caused so much havoc. But she didn’t think of cats that morning.

She thought of something else. Ideas. Ideas like…time travel, plans, and schemes revolving around this time of year. In fact, she was so lost in thought she’d spent the last two hours here.

She hadn’t even noticed the faint crashing and Numbtongue bumping around Octavia’s shop, far down the hall. Erin was balancing a quill on her nose and sneezing now and then.

“Goblinfriend…something I’d do once I had time…think, Erin. Think like Erin Solstice. No, wait, Erin Solstice in a year or two. Something grand. Something scary. Thiiiinnk—when is Ryoka getting here?

Every few minutes, she’d look up and get distracted. Erin was excited about the news Ryoka had sent ahead of herself. Apparently, she was already halfway to Invrisil, and she’d use the door to come on through.

Where had she been? A continent away, that’s where. But she’d [Messaged] Erin, and they had so much to talk about. Too much. Erin was looking forwards to it, but she was also conscious of the winter.

The winter. Erin knew it was upon them, but the first snowflakes hadn’t actually fallen. She was wondering if the Winter Sprites would be back, actually. Ivolethe was dead. Or something confusing. But would the others come?

Would the dead gods object to that? Erin had no idea about the fair folk’s relationship with the dead gods, but she worried. And if they didn’t come—what about the snow?

“I need snow for my plan. But when do I spring it on them? And is it a good plan?”

“Hello, Erin. What is your plan?”

Pawn sat down in front of Erin, and she glanced up. She smiled, but absently.

“Pawn! Pull up a seat. Wanna play chess while I think? Sorry, but that’s all I’ve got power for. Big ruminating. Big plans. I’ve gotta be…ruthless. No, not just ruthless, pragmatic. Really ‘Rhavia-type moves here. Have you seen Saliss?”

“I have not seen Saliss. May I ask what this plan is about?”

Erin glanced up. She looked at Pawn, and since it was him—Erin lowered her voice and leaned forwards and whispered.

“I’ve got a kinda big plan, Pawn. The kinda thing on the level of my Mythical Quest.”

“Oh. Really?”

It was a sign of Pawn being Pawn that he didn’t so much as flinch when she said that. The [Priest] leaned over.

“What is it going to be? Is anyone in danger?”

“Not—this time! But I think it’ll really move the timeline forwards. A bit. It’ll be safe, huge, and I think you should be part of it. And Numbtongue. And Rags. And heck, Lyonette can probably make a bajillion gold coins off it.”

The [Princess], who had been trying to ignore Pawn while being cordial—turned her head slightly as she caught wind of that. Erin nodded as Pawn clicked his mandibles together.

“That does sound impressive. What is this plan?”

Erin lowered her voice further. She whispered as Pawn’s antennae waved.

Goblin and Antinium-themed…Christmas.”

The [Priest] stared at Erin. The [Innkeeper] put two hands on her head and opened them up to indicate explosions. She beamed at him.

“Huh? Amazing, right?”

“I don’t quite see the appeal. You have done this before.”

He had quite enjoyed the last one. Erin Solstice just leaned back and folded her arms with a smug look.

“Yeah. But only in Liscor. This time—I’m going global.”

Pawn’s mandibles opened. Erin Solstice waggled her eyebrows triumphantly and looked about. Huh? Huh? Imagine it. All she had to do was invent a holiday. Or rather, bring an existing one into fruition.

“I might need to speak to Fetohep and Drassi and stuff—but it’s the first part of my grand plans. And if I could just get a few more things done, I could do, like, another Quest and…Lyonette, let me know if Saliss gets in! Or Ryoka! I’m gonna pop over to Esthelm and borrow Kevin’s stone, okay?”

She got up and then turned to Pawn.

“Do you want to come with me, Pawn? I’ll just be talking to someone I know, but I could introduce you for a bit. And we should hang out. Where have you been all this time?”

The [Priest] sat there, smiling wanly at Erin. He looked older than she was for a moment.

“Thinking. Writing. Talking to Hexel. I may sadly have to attend to my responsibilities today, though.”

“Oh.”

Erin opened her mouth as her feet tried to take her to Esthelm, but she stopped.

“Are those three things connected?”

The [Priest of Wrath and Sky] nodded. Erin’s brow wrinkled up. She came back over and touched Pawn’s arm.

“Well, if you have work, you have work. But just grab me and tell me you want to talk, okay? Don’t be a stranger. Not you. Not here.”

Pawn smiled widely. He nodded, and Erin headed off as Numbtongue edged around the back of the room, holding something behind his back. Mrsha followed him with Gire, both of them sniffing pointedly. But the Goblin tried to shoo the tiny Gnoll and the giant Gnoll away.

Erin didn’t notice, or if she did, she considered this background ambiance in the inn. She was already down the hallway when her voice floated back to the guests.

“Oh! Mihaela! Hi! Are you here for something to eat? Come in!”

Then stomped in the Guildmistress of First Landing. Pawn looked up as she spotted him, and he ducked his head politely.

Her face froze—and she stared past him at Numbtongue. Then decided to stand there, looking around the inn. Taking it in—or rather, the guests—with hostility.

But even she wanted to visit on her own terms and see this inn. It was, she had been told, the place where her son, Valceif Godfrey, had lost his charm before he was murdered. And what she saw was the Goblin with the cat. The Antinium, praying in his seat and occasionally making notes in a journal.

What she failed to recognize was that they were just as unusual. Even amongst their kind. As strange as a certain Unicorn who’d decided to find something to drink and was scouring cities for something nice and unusual.

 

——

 

The common thread that united Numbtongue and Pawn was simple. They were older than their ages—and old by the standards of their species.

Pawn was 3. Numbtongue…well, Goblins didn’t count age as much, but they reckoned anything above ‘six’ was pretty old. The number of Goblins who could remember the Goblin King of a decade past were vanishingly small.

They were also the last. Not the final survivors, but the last of a group. For Numbtongue, it had been the five Redfangs.

For Pawn—a chess club that came to Erin’s inn every day and played.

Oh, there was still Garry, Bird in his tower, Belgrade, Anand, and more Individuals, more than Pawn could even name at this point, but he was the last one from those days whose role mostly echoed how it had begun.

Bird was now a child of the inn. Belgrade, a commander of more than Antinium. Anand was serving the Queens in the Hivelands.

Pawn was the one who was—uncertain. Even Xrn and Klbkch did not give him direct orders.

As always, he was searching for a path. Forging one by faith and experimentation. Leading the Antinium in his own way.

It was confusing. It was scary. It was hard, and—in that sense, it was no different from the first time Erin Solstice had turned around and asked him his name. So, when you wondered what Pawn had been doing, he didn’t lie when he told Erin it was thinking, writing, and talking to Hexel.

But the truth was deeper than that. He glanced over at Numbtongue as the Hobgoblin slyly showed the two Gnolls his wriggling cat.

“I will take him to Elirr. No telling Erin, okay? Okay? Or Lyonette.”

That was a smart move. He instantly had two allies, and the delighted Gnolls pet the wriggling cat, who was clearly worried it would be eaten by Gire and possibly Mrsha. But it settled down as the [Druid] solemnly placed a paw on its forehead.

“Miss Lyonette? We’re going out to Elirr!”

Gire ushered Mrsha and Numbtongue off, and they ran before the [Princess] could shout that Ser Sest was going too. The Thronebearer went charging off anyways, and Pawn nodded to himself.

He felt a kinship with Numbtongue, for all the Hob and he weren’t weekly gamblers like Yellow Splatters was with the [Bard]. After all—Numbtongue knew how it was too.

He had chosen to pursue relationships, practice his guitar—and apparently—learn to smile after his own devastation. He had become as part of the inn as the floorboards.

But Pawn? He passed his time in thought as Mihaela Godfrey stared about the inn. Lyonette hurried up to the woman and asked if she could do anything—she was disappointed to receive a request for a glass of water and some snacks. Mihaela stared at the fries she was given and ate them. Slowly.

Fry by fry. Her eating speed was about one fry per eight minutes. Which meant even her basket lasted her an hour without depleting noticeably. She was watching—

Mostly, she was watching the inn’s guests, looking out the window at Liscor, and listening. Whenever Lyonette came over, Mihaela would ask her a question.

“The Runner’s Guild? We get…Street Runners quite often. They do grocery deliveries.”

“Hm. And Hawk?”

“He’s…a rare guest. But very welcome here! Uh—he had a relationship with one of our regulars, so—”

“Selys.”

“You know about that?”

Mihaela took a drink of water, and it was refilled from a pitcher with ice cubes. She grunted in satisfaction.

“He cried about it in every Guild in the north. Fine. Tell me about Celum. I hear there was some business with Runners attacking other Runners.”

“Runners attacking—oh. You mean Ryoka Griffin.”

Mihaela’s face soured further.

“Yes. Her. I have the official story from the guild. Do you, personally, know anything about it?”

Lyonette hesitated, fussing with her apron.

“That was before my time. Erin might know, but she wasn’t there, either. Ryoka got one of her legs smashed by some Runners—”

“Persua, Toriska, Claudeil…well, Persua is the Runner who remains. Along with a number of younger ones who weren’t punished. Who else was there? Who else can corroborate their stories? The old Guildmaster resigned. Courtesy of Lady Reinhart, who decided the Runner’s Guild needed outside arbitration.”

If looks could shoot laser beams…the inn would have scorch marks everywhere and Pawn would have three dozen holes in his back.

“Someone who knows…Fals or Garia?”

“Huh. Strongheart did mention that. So they were there, and you know—concretely—that Ryoka Griffin had her leg broken. Anything else?”

Pawn watched Lyonette with the same sadness at seeing her. She was clearly intimidated by Mihaela and stuttered a bit. He wanted to go over and take her hand, but now they were separate.

Sadness.

“Uh…uh…she went running in the High Passes later. But then I heard Persua might have started a barfight? Which Garia was part of.”

After breaking her leg? And where was the Runner’s Guild in all this? Senior Runners and staff were…?”

“Trying to stop Persua? Ryoka went south after that, and the Horns went to Liscor—she went to the Bloodfields, and the feud might have ended there.”

“No more witnesses. Right. That’s all I need.”

Mihaela sat back. She put her feet up on a chair she’d propped up—and Lyonette decided not to mention it. The Guildmistress stared ahead—then glanced up.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, not at all…”

The [Princess] trailed away as Mihaela raised something to her lips. It turned out to be a speaking stone.

“This is Mihaela Godfrey. Send me Fals and Garia Strongheart. Now. I’m at The Wandering Inn, Liscor. Which one’s closest? Nevermind. Both are to report to me at their top speeds.”

Mihaela sat back and continued eating her fries at the same pace. In the meantime, Pawn finally got to meet with who he was waiting for.

“Architect Hexel! Are you here to talk to Erin? I’m sorry, she’s out.”

“Erin? I don’t think so. My appointment is for—ah, there he is. No, not Erin. Do you have two hundred thousand gold pieces yet? Anything from the chess tourney?”

Lyonette stared at Pawn as the Lamia slithered into the inn. Mihaela raised her brows and sat up a bit as Lyonette bit her lip.

“Actually—not much. A lot of places took in a considerable amount of coin for the tourney—each participant paid a small fee of silver. But few have…remitted the coins to us.”

“Ah. How troublesome. Well, just drop me a [Message] or Street Runner when you need to. How are the wall repairs? Good, good. Mister Pawn, I’m sorry I was delayed. Sealing up the dungeon. We had Children climbing up.”

“Oh. Monsters or actual children?”

“Monsters. I hate the damned things. Now…you’ve bought three hours of my time and we’re on the hourglass, so let’s not waste time in the undergrowth. I’ve used up two hours and fifteen minutes already…”

The two sat down at a table, and Lyonette, perplexed, stared at Hexel as he began placing items down. Pawn put his hands together.

“I hope we can settle this matter within this latest round of revisions, Architect. You are an expensive person to hire.”

“My price goes up with how busy I am. But I love a challenge. And I level from challenging customers. Which you are.”

The Lamia, one of Erin’s rarer guests, was not someone most people talked to. He had survived Drake hostility to get to Liscor, and he was one of Baleros’ talented [Architects]. But how much did you know about him?

Mrsha, arguably, knew more than most people about one aspect of Hexel. But the Lamia was an [Architect]. Not a [Builder], not just a [Supervisor].

He made things. And the fact he and Pawn were working together? What was Pawn up to? Lyonette edged over until he looked politely her way. Then she hurried off.

And this was the truth. Pawn closed his journal and sat forwards. He was doing what he always did.

Believe. Pray. And—

Define the Antinium’s faith. Hexel spread out the blueprints and gave Pawn a narked look.

“So, to summarize your requests. You wanted a specialty design. Something replicable by Antinium techniques—underground and over it—for your, ah, ‘faith’ activities.”

“For prayer. For gatherings.”

Lyonette’s head turned back as she swabbed at a table. Mihaela wasn’t even pretending to hide her interest. As Fals ran in, panting, she pointed at a table.

“Sit there. Where’s Strongheart…?”

“I thought you had one in this inn. Some kind of room here? I saw it—briefly.”

Hexel was referring to the prayer room, which Erin had given the Antinium. And it was nice, designed after the model of her world, churches…but Pawn shook his head.

“That is something Erin gave to us—but it is not ours. This must be ours. Unique to the Antinium. We will make them everywhere we go.”

“And my design will be the basis.”

The Lamia’s eyes glinted. No wonder he’d taken the commission cheaply. But he was working at cross-angles, trying to understand something that Pawn hadn’t fully been able to explain. Nevertheless—Hexel went on.

“You had a few requirements. One—that the building evoke a sense of wonder and reverence, like a memorial or site of reverence. I took from palaces, natural wonders there—second, the place had to be made of mundane materials. Even if it was underground as well—you wanted the motifs to be ‘sky’, ‘gardens’, and colorful. Finally, it had to be defensible. We spoke about your fellowship’s last stand.”

“Chess club. They were a chess club.”

Hexel looked around The Wandering Inn. He fixed on Pawn and nodded. His serious look turned to one of slight kindness.

“I’m sure they were. Well, let’s go over my ideas now.”

Thus, he began to unroll blueprint after blueprint, ‘fast’ sketches that nevertheless looked quite beautiful to Pawn, interpretations of what the Antinium’s faith could be. The [Priest] stared at the images and felt it.

This is what we need.

When had he realized it? Sometime last year, probably. Then, throughout this one, he’d been working in private. He’d had to teach the Painted Antinium how to be, organize in Klbkch’s absence, and do so much.

But faith was what Pawn was good at. He had understood there was a flaw in even his prayers to the Painted Antinium in their barracks. It was good—it was true, and it meant a lot.

But the Antinium’s faith was fledgling compared to the depth that Ryoka Griffin had once told him about.

Cathedrals, entire organizations of faith—services and traditions—a culture unto itself. Pawn wanted it. He wanted more than just faith. It might move mountains—but it would not be so bad to have walls and books, would it?

It would not be a bad thing to have something of their own. Now, he could, of course, do it himself, but it occurred to Pawn that a [Carpenter] under Level 10 was nowhere near as good as an [Architect].

The book—he was writing the book himself because no [Scribe] could comprehend what he wanted of them. And Krsysl Wordsmith had ignored his letter.

Pawn sorted through the pages. He spoke before Hexel even had a chance to lay some out.

“These three will not do. I am sorry.”

“If you’re sure—that’s often a sign the client knows what they want. May I ask why?”

The Lamia didn’t react poorly, but he tugged the pages out of the way. Pawn nodded.

“They are closer to throne rooms. This one is too regal. This one too grand. This one—it is not a happy place.”

The three designs he indicated were all reminiscent of traditional Terandrian architecture. Spacious, designed to emphasize the grandeur. Hexel had left spaces for plinths or altars where someone might stand—but it wasn’t right.

“Hm. I thought we wanted to evoke open spaces. Alright…how about this one?”

Hexel submitted a kind of amphitheater that drew inwards. It incorporated a labyrinth design on the floor, drawn in bright colors, and it looked like an odd gathering spot. Sort of like how Pallass was designed—an inverted pyramid. Only, this was circular.

“It looks like a basin.”

“Everyone flowing together—you enter, descend…I have a Selphid-inspired one, but I think you’ll hate it. It made half the cats in Elirr’s shop puke up their disgusting hairballs.”

Hexel held up another design of the same room—only instead of a graceful basin and labyrinth walk—it was a spiral. A spiral that turned dizzyingly into the center, down and down—Pawn felt vaguely sick just looking at it.

“No, thank you.”

“Thought not. I’m keeping this one for Selphids and Gazers. They love this kind of architecture. What’s wrong with this one?”

“It’s…communal. But not inviting enough. You should be able to walk in and out.”

“Too much ceremony? Hm. Okay—how about a Lizardfolk style building?”

This time, Hexel presented the image Pawn liked the most. It was a rounded design with holes to let in light. And on the ground, Hexel had drawn a bunch of grass, flowers.

“A little sunshine dome. It’s reminiscent of my people’s mud-based houses. Druidic, too.”

“I like it. But it will not do. Sunshine does not filter that far down in the Hive. And this one is too humble if I am making sense. I am sorry, Architect Hexel.”

The Lamia waved a claw. Pawn glanced over—Mihaela Godfrey was speaking to Garia and Fals at a table, interrogating them. She looked over—scowled as they locked gazes. Pawn fixed his attention back on Hexel.

“Don’t apologize. This is part of the process. We’re getting somewhere, though. Okay…Drathians have this lovely motif with these gates leading up to a very temple-esque building.”

“I am familiar. I will not copy them.”

“But take inspiration? The Blighted Kingdom loves pure metals, so they might clash with your natural feeling. As for Chandrar…here are three more.”

They took thirty minutes out of the forty in the time it took for Numbtongue to come back. He had left Mrsha and Gire behind—they were still petting Jeckel, the Wyvern in Elirr’s care. But the angry, frightened cat had turned into one mostly curious by virtue of Elirr’s abilities. He had reassured it that Numbtongue was not a threat and skipped what sometimes took weeks of adjustment by being able to communicate with the animal.

They were, after all, intelligent, even if Elirr had told Numbtongue his newfound stray was nowhere near as ‘evil’ as Elirr’s intelligent animals. If he gained a pet-based class and Skills, that might change.

Hexel was gulping down some blue fruit juice as he rapidly sketched. He and Pawn had gone over twenty-three designs, and none quite worked.

“These will be adaptable—”

“—yes—”

“—but you’re asking for something I’m not seeing, yet. I wish I had [Eye of the Client] or something similar, but it sounds like you don’t quite know what you want yourself. I’ve got a [Quick Sketch] left—let’s summarize. This should be a room that can connect to multiple others. Open. Free. Natural—druidic inspiration was what you liked. Evoking the sky…underground.”

The Lamia was having trouble with that one. He was no subterranean dweller, and even his wide-ranging experience couldn’t encapsulate the claustrophobia of the tunnels Antinium had made. Pawn had described it and the limited amount of things an Antinium could quarry by hand.

“Stone. Not metal. Not glass—which would be very nice. Paint?”

“We can procure paint. But the rest is…”

“Not a lot of options. I might have to insist you produce some carved stone. Alright. Alright…we’ve got ten minutes left.”

“I will pay for another two hours if we need to meet again.”

Pawn checked his money pouch and knew he’d have to apply for the funds from Xrn or the Free Queen. Hexel sketched furiously.

“You’ll need that anyways if I’m laying out the actual specifications and tweaking a prototype, but I’d hate to do more than one or two more design passes…alright. I’m going to need you to work with me here. A circular room, I think. Broad, dome center. What we’ll do is paint the sky you want, or night sky, on the roof.”

He was outlining a dome-like room, and he gave it…six entrances. Pawn was nodding. He could imagine that. A place Antinium could pass through, even briefly. The Hive loved rooms that were so useful. He could place them at intersections.

“Grass might be impossible without light. But you decorate the rooms. Now, for each tunnel…an arch reminiscent of Drathian gates, perhaps. What about a pillar of stone? No—”

“No pillars.”

“Yes, yes. Too austere. Then—how about something simple?”

Hexel outlined a rough-hewn piece of stone, and Pawn sat up a bit. Hexel noticed the look and duplicated it. Only when he placed them around the room did Pawn start to feel something.

He had no idea what the room was evoking—not yet—but the pillars of stone, the room filled with natural elements, the center where you would have a floating [Light] spell or something like Erin’s grass garden and a vision of the sky, even underground?

“You could easily translate this aboveground. Then—you have actual glass or just a view of the sky. Frankly, if we want to cut it down, the Antinium could just build these stone arches. Giant pieces of stone. If you need it defensible, the arches can be collapsed. Entire tunnels, too.”

Hexel was adding defensive security measures, but Pawn was studying the proposed rooms. He could imagine standing there, speaking, or letting Antinium just wander about. A big room, such that they didn’t feel quashed by the walls. Color such as ordinary Workers and Soldiers could never see.

A circle, as when the Workers and Soldiers had stood together outside Erin’s inn. Stone, like the statues.

“Has this ever been done?”

“It’s [Druid]-style architecture. But if you’re asking if I’ve seen it—no. I imagine Antinium could easily build this with access to dirt, stone, and paint.”

Hexel and Pawn stared down at the image. Both seemed pleased by the direction, to start with. Pawn looked around as someone yawned their way into the room.

Joseph had been sleepy—but he had taken a nap, and he was walking around the common room.

“Hey, does this inn have rats? I saw a huge something upstairs.”

He told Lyonette, and the [Princess] groaned.

“Not again!”

She raced upstairs. A Hobgoblin was chasing an excited cat around, and Pawn heard Lyonette’s voice from above.

“Numbtongue, help me find a r—what is that?

She was brought into the cat-conspiracy as well. But Joseph, circulating the tables and saying hi to people, paused by Pawn and Hexel’s table.

“What’re you guys working on?”

“Confidential.”

Hexel covered the designs, but Pawn decided to show Joseph. They revealed the newest iteration of the faith-based building, and Joseph blinked.

“It will be a place for Antinium. Joseph? What do you think? Is it unique?”

The Earther blinked. And then his mouth opened.

“Oh. Stonehenge.

It was amazing how fast someone from Earth could ruin your day. Anything you invented—they stared at and said they’d done it first. Pawn deflated.

It wasn’t exactly that, but the design of the stone monoliths, the chamber—it evoked the famous monument from Joseph’s world. Hexel raised his brows.

“Oh, so it’s been done?”

“Is it…a place of faith?”

“Sort of.”

Joseph saw Pawn lie back in his chair, defeated. The [Football Coach] tried to reassure Pawn.

“It’s super old, though. And no one knows exactly what it was used for. This looks really cool. Are you going to build it?”

Pawn sat up a bit. He hesitated. Well…

“Maybe.”

Hexel was continuing to sketch, adding all of Pawn’s little desires. In the center, he placed a huge basin where you’d burn a flame.

“Fissival’s famous plazas…a burning flame in the garden-design. You may need a smokeless flame. Or an illusion. That, or a light spell.”

“I know where to get magical flames.”

Hexel smiled. Then he added more objects.

“Give it music. Nothing grand. Nothing like Terandrian harps—but something where you can play sounds. And on the pillars, around the room—”

“Paint. The Antinium Soldiers and Workers. Can you put…little bowls or something? To put gifts or things for them. And sound—you must not have much sound here, aside from music and talk. No loud noises of stomping from the other places.”

Hexel quietly did just that. Now, Pawn could see it. In every Hive, wherever they went. Somewhere quiet like this, where Antinium could go.

A garden just for them. Pawn’s hands closed around his journal, and he reached into his bag of holding and gripped something tightly.

“Yes. This will do. This is what we need. Architect Hexel, please continue working on this. Then we will build one. It will be worth more to the Antinium than I can provide.”

Joseph laughed slightly, looking from Pawn to Hexel.

“You, Pawn? No one can replace you.”

But the [Priest] shook his head solemnly. He put his hands together and took something from his bag of holding. This too—was a work in progress, but Hexel eyed the leatherbound cover one of the Workers had made for Pawn, and so did Joseph. Pawn addressed the [Coach].

“It must. Because this place will be there when I am dead and forgotten. We must leave something behind. Something for Antinium in the future. For places where I cannot be.”

His eyes shone with conviction. Pawn lifted the book he had written over this long year, and it was heavy with words.

“Faith doesn’t need a voice, Joseph. Sometimes, it can be a place. Or a book. This will do more than a thousand prayers or swords.”

He lifted his greatest work up and showed it to Joseph. The hair on the young man’s neck rose as he looked at something he was familiar with. But this was no bible, no text from his world.

It was Antinium-made. Pawn brushed over the carefully hand-written title, and the words within were the first copy he’d asked an Antinium Worker to make. The original looked much less fine.

The Wondrous Sky.

A book meant for Antinium. And perhaps—more. Pawn showed it to Joseph, and the Earther exhaled.

“Oh man. That’s going to change things.”

He looked at the faith shining in Pawn’s eyes, and he shivered. Pawn placed the book on the table, and the sound was so soft—yet it ran through Erin’s inn for a moment.

Thump.

 

——

 

Mihaela Godfrey wanted to know what was in that book. The Antinium had it on the table, and he kept showing it around. He was offering it to Joseph, that famous boy who could kick halfway decently.

But Joseph didn’t want to read it, and so, disappointed, the Worker let it be for a second.

Less than half a second to grab it. Even with her legs on the chair. Mihaela thought about it—and wondered if Shriekblade was around.

She relaxed, and the two nervous City Runners looked at her.

“Guildmistress Godfrey?”

“Hm? Right. We’re done here.”

Mihaela looked up. She’d gotten their accounts of what had happened with Persua and Ryoka Griffin. Their Runner’s Guild…

“Your Runner’s Guild in Celum is shit. And it’s the biggest one around? I’m heading over. But first—explain to me why Runners are telling me they’re earning less this year?”

Fals gestured helplessly around the inn. He was more interesting to Mihaela than Garia. The [Martial Artist] was on her way up. She’d found a path—even if it involved something less focused on running.

The City Runner, though…he had no specialty. But he’d run through a battlefield. He’d journeyed across Izril and gone further than most City Runners, north and south. But he had no confidence.

You could practically see his ego, shattered slightly from being passed by three Runners in the region. Yet he knew running—the society of it, the bones of being a Runner—better than Garia or Ryoka.

“It’s the inn. Not its fault, but we’re earning coppers instead of silver for letter deliveries. Bulk deliveries from Invrisil are done via the door sometimes—”

“So? A letter from Celum to Wales is still a letter. Same for one along the northern route. It has to go from Invrisil or Celum. Even if you start from one of those two areas—the distance is the same. Plus, the door charges a damn fee. The silver to go through it isn’t worth anything but a huge delivery.”

Fals shrugged.

“You say that, Guildmistress, but a lot of cities have refused to pay the old prices. The mayor of Celum, Cetris, negotiated down the prices with the local guilds, so it’s pinching our money pouches. Not a lot of Runners want to do this if there’s more profitable work.”

Mihaela’s eyes narrowed slightly. She put her feet down.

“A [Mayor] dictated to the Runner’s Guild what prices we charge?”

“He’s had a tough year rebuilding Celum.”

“He’s going to have a worse one. Your Guild—all these local ones have taken the prices lying down. Invrisil’s Guild hasn’t.”

“They’re the largest one until you get to Pallass, Guildmistress!”

Garia protested. Mihaela grunted.

“So the ‘small’ Runner’s Guilds are eating the price drops? All because of an inn? Ridiculous. And here I thought I only had to deal with you lot.”

By ‘you lot’, she meant the promising City Runners. Fals, Garia—all the local prospects had been given the Courier ‘test’ by Mihaela and training at the Haven. But this was a problem that went to the root of the Runner’s Guild.

It annoyed Mihaela. She felt old when she stood. Old—and annoyed. Like a headache in the back of her mind that wouldn’t go away. The same when she looked at the Goblin brushing the little cat with a comb and the Antinium.

“Guildmistress, can we get you anything to go? I hope you enjoyed your stay?”

Lyonette approached one last time, and Mihaela grunted.

“The inn is fine. Nice place for a Runner, I suppose. I’d rather sit in a hole in the ground than deal with the Antinium.”

Pawn looked around, and Lyonette’s face froze up. But Mihaela Godfrey, the Courier who had run through the Antinium Wars, didn’t mince words. She coughed—and the [Priest] rose slightly and bowed.

“Guildmistress Godfrey. I am sorry if I have offended you.”

“There’s no fighting in the inn! No killing Goblins—and no attacking Antinium!”

Lyonette moved her Thronebearers in front of Pawn like a shield—and Ser Lormel and Dame Ushar looked like they were quite aware how long they’d stand between Mihaela and a target.

“Guildmistress—”

Garia gulped as Mihaela looked at her. The older woman just folded her arms.

“I’m not going to start a fight. You know me, Antinium?”

“Pawn.”

She didn’t react to the name. The [Priest] bowed again.

“You are Mihaela Godfrey, the Courier of Izril. We know you—like we knew Zel Shivertail and Magnolia Reinhart. Even Workers know. You were the one who ran across Izril during the First and Second Antinium Wars. The only Runner who could never be stopped.”

“Your Prognugator, Wrymvr, tried. And you have the Slayer and the Small Queen here. I’ve outrun them both. Remember that, Antinium. And don’t speak to me again.”

Lyonette swallowed again. Now she recalled it—Mihaela’s permanent cough, which happened every fifteen minutes or less—she had run in both wars. She had injuries that hadn’t healed since then.

Of all the people to come here from the Haven, from the north—more than even the Named-ranks, Mihaela had a true grudge against the Antinium.

“I will remember it. But I would appreciate it if we did not fight, Guildmistress. Are you intending to attack me or my people?”

Pawn sounded—wary and curious. Mihaela stared at him blankly, then threw her head back and sighed. Loudly.

“I will say this once. Just so the annoying [Rogue] sneaking around behind me understands. And so the rest of you do. I am not Deniusth. I am not Valeterisa. I am not an impulsive idiot, nor a thoughtless moron. I ran through Izril through both Antinium Wars, it’s true. When the Antinium were everywhere, I delivered to entire Drake cities and villages across the south.”

She stared at Garia and Fals. Hoping they took something from it. Teaching. She hated teaching—but she’d had to do it. There was a time when she was just a City Runner, and she remembered that. These days…

Children. They really were. It wasn’t just that she felt old, sometimes, when she saw mirrors or statues of herself. It was that the people who looked old—twenty, even thirty—were like children to her.

They didn’t understand running. They forgot or no one bothered to teach them. Someone had to. Mihaela went on, staring past Pawn. It was Hexel she looked at, the scar on the Lamia’s face.

“Everyone knows I ran war correspondence and letters when even [Messages] couldn’t be trusted. Potions and weapons. But I ran regular things too. Food for encircled places. Scrolls and relief for Drakes and Gnolls. You know what I ran into? I met places where Drakes confessed they’d eaten Humans. Or where someone took me aside and told me to run on—because I’d have my throat slit if I slept the night.”

It wasn’t just Drakes—but the Human Runner stared back.

“I had stones thrown at me, and I was mocked when I came in, bleeding, or insults hurled at me for being ‘too slow’ when their local runners, Drakes and Gnolls, didn’t dare take the roads. Not just in war. I’ve run to villages where City Runners’ and Couriers’ bones lined the roads, and they mocked the dead because running ‘isn’t hard’. We’ve been pulled into political games, used as pawns, treated as expendable. And you know what? I still ran my deliveries. Because I am the Guildmistress of First Landing. I can be professional.

She stared at Numbtongue and Pawn and then looked away. What kind of idiot started a fight in an inn for no reason? What a stupid way to die.

Her little speech provoked a silence, but Pawn just nodded.

“Thank you, Guildmistress, for your forbearance. I know we have done terrible things. But—may I ask if your coughing is related to your injuries? Could I ask you about it? Perhaps…”

He was coming forwards. And that was the bridge too far. Mihaela raised a hand.

“Touch me and you will regret it.”

Pawn’s hands halted.

“I only wish to help, Guildmistress.”

“I am willing to tolerate you. But we will not be friends, Antinium.”

She ground out the words slowly. A little lamb trotted in through the front door—saw the cat—and scampered behind a table, glaring hugely as the cat blinked at Nerry. Pawn met Mihaela’s gaze.

“Is it possible for you to hear us out, Guildmistress? We wish you would like us. Understand us.”

“No.”

Mihaela’s voice was flat. She took a step back, and Pawn gestured around the inn.

“But we are here. We speak. Here is a Goblin—Numbtongue. Here am I. Can you not see we are not monsters or the Black Tide?”

At this, the Guildmistress had to smile. She gave a Pawn a look as dark as the poison in her lungs and coughed again.

“You…do you really think this is going to last? You…and you, Goblin. You have to know they’re watching. They might not touch you here, in this inn. Or your tribe or this ‘crusade’ and the 7th Hive. But they’re just waiting.”

Numbtongue looked up slowly, and the cat wriggled out of his grasp and went after the lamb. He let it, for a second.

“What do you mean?”

Mihaela spat into a handkerchief. She almost felt bad for bursting his bubble.

“You’re only here as long as you’re useful. So long as it’s fun to watch you fighting monsters. Or so long as the Five Families might need some [Mercenaries]. But they see your tribe. And the new Hive. There’s only so long they’ll let you roam free.”

The Hobgoblin saw her eyes on him. Mihaela went on slowly. Ominously.

“When you’re a threat…the Minds of Baleros forgot what happens.”

“Who?”

The Goblin raised his brows. Mihaela stared at him dismissively.

Find out. There’s a lesson there. There’s war—and there’s annihilation. You’re being allowed to exist because they think you’re not the biggest threat around. But if you unite everyone—every continent—they’ll pull out a spell that’s gathered dust for a hundred thousand years and unleash it on you. If the Antinium had ever begun overrunning the Walled Cities, more forces would have begun entering the war. But the enemy of my enemies…that’s why you exist.”

For now. But once the novelty wore off, once they’d decided on things…Mihaela’s voice dipped low.

“This inn won’t save you. They’ll just turn it to ash. You won’t be here next year. When they come, it won’t matter if it’s day or night.”

She didn’t mean [Assassins]. And the Guildmistress waited for the Antinium to say something, perhaps denial, or for Numbtongue to react. But the Hob and Pawn, who had seen the sky fall and horrors from Liscor’s crypts, just exchanged a long look. They were almost amused.

“We know.”

The Hobgoblin grinned. Mihaela faltered, and Pawn nodded.

“We know. We will be as ready as we can be. But even if we are not, Guildmistress—things are changing.”

She looked at him darkly and wished those words didn’t sound so familiar. The Courier turned on her heel abruptly.

“They’re always changing. What’s new? I’m not telling you this to frighten you. I’m telling you—don’t drag down this place. Don’t bring it down on her.”

Then she was looking at the little Gnoll flashing middle fingers at her from the side. Mrsha hid behind a table, and Lyonette stepped forwards, protectively, in front of Pawn and Numbtongue.

“Guildmistress Mihaela. I know full well you have every right to hold a grudge against both species for—for the past. But they are the guests of the inn. And my family. Please, don’t provoke them. What do you mean, bring it down on Mrsha? On us? The inn is their home.”

Mihaela was breathing badly. She thought her lungs were acting up again—then she realized part of the dizziness—part of the tightness in her chest wasn’t just damage for once.

It was—she looked around the inn and croaked a word.

“Valceif. He was here, wasn’t he?”

Lyonette froze up. Numbtongue looked at Pawn in confusion, but Mihaela leaned over the table. Garia, Fals—their faces turned somber. Mihaela just stared past them. At the Antinium and the Hobgoblin. She didn’t know them. She didn’t want to know them—but there was something she didn’t like.

A kind of understanding. So the Guildmistress spoke, the words coming out like bloody mucus.

“I am the Guildmistress of First Landing. But you’re right. I was the Courier of Izril before that. And I saw war. I suffered for it—and then I kept running. On your long journey, be it Courier or warrior…”

She closed her eyes.

“…You fall in love with people. Sometimes. Those you keep meeting. The ones who are kind to you. Many aren’t. But you meet so many. Sometimes it—clicks. Shelter on a long run.”

Numbtongue felt a jolt, and goosebumps ran up his arms. Now, Mihaela’s gaze was unnerving. She kept speaking, and she was different in countless ways, from species to gender to…but he could picture it. A young woman, coughing and slowing by—an inn? A glowing light in a window lit for her?

“Sometimes you keep coming back. Later, and later—even when I was named Guildmistress. I came back for more than the road, the isolation—and it’s good. It’s grand. It’s also painful—for them. They see you on your longest road, your final road, and ask you to stop. To change. They say—‘you won’t come back someday’. As if I don’t know that. They’re the ones who forgot. They think I’ll change. That I can change.”

She looked at Pawn and Numbtongue and realized she was pouring out too much. But once said—Mihaela exhaled the rest like poison. Grief. She had grieved a year—and it was stronger now.

Let it out. She whispered to the Antinium and Goblin, for they might understand her folly.

“That’s how it ends. The one you love says—they say—‘if you must’. If you have to keep going, go, and come back. But…”

Her voice wobbled, and she was reciting from memory. And the next words were hardest of all to say.

“But…‘but not your son. Don’t kill him too’. Don’t teach him what it’s like to be you, even though he was born with all the talent for it. Even though he understands in his bones.”

Lyonette put her hands over her mouth. The rest of the inn was silent. Mihaela’s head dipped. She looked around—but there was no sign of him here. No chair, no inkling beyond her knowledge that Valceif had ever been here. Had she been hoping for it?

“Then? What happens after that?”

The whisper came from Pawn. The Worker looked at Mihaela, and she jerked, as if forgetting she had been speaking to him at all for a moment. Mihaela’s glittering eyes rose, and the old Runner looked at Pawn. For one moment—not as the nemesis of The Black Tide or the Guildmistress of First Landing.

Just Mihaela Godfrey. She whispered, her voice hoarse.

“We were already split apart when I proved him right. I should have never shown Valceif how to run. But it made him feel alive.”

She looked around blankly, and her eyes focused on Fals, on Garia. They stared at her as if she were a monster, a figure of tragedy, a ghost, a legend…and Mihaela’s head bowed. Her shoulders hunched. She looked at the City Runners and saw the echo of her son everywhere.

Without a word, Mihaela pushed herself back from the table. She walked down the common room, in silence, and rested her hand against the door. She turned her head—and her eyes caught the two Runners there. They had known Valceif, if not well. But briefly.

She saw him everywhere, so the Guildmistress barked.

“Guild, City Runners. Celum. Now.”

She strode out the doors and into the magic portal door so fast that Fals and Garia were a minute catching up. Garia wavered at the door—mostly because Liska had gone out to check something.

Fire! The outhouse is on fire!

Garia hesitated—but Mihaela just grabbed her arm.

“Come on. Time to teach you Runners a lesson.”

 

——

 

It was just a small fire that, for some reason, had sprung up around one of the outhouses. The inn put it out in seconds of Liska noticing it, and the charred wood wasn’t even that badly damaged.

Erin would blame an outraged Zevara, but the culprit would remain a mystery. In the meantime—Guildmistress Mihaela visited the Runner’s Guild in Celum.

When she walked in, everyone backed up. She had been here once before, and like Ryoka Griffin—her presence was already the stuff of stories.

Runner’s Guild, turn out! Guildmistress Izeka, [Receptionists], Street and City Runners, line up!

Mihaela walked into the guild and began shouting. The civilians looked around and then protested as their [Receptionists] abandoned the counter.

“I have a delivery!”

“I have an urgent letter for—”

“Shut up. One side.”

Mihaela ignored them. The nervous runners formed up. The giggling ones and the ones who thought she was all bark nudged each other—until a foot kicked one so hard in the shin they went down. Mihaela barely flickered as she stood there.

She was a legend in this small Guild. But the point wasn’t that. Fals looked nervous as Mihaela eyed the [Receptionists] and the new Guildmistress, who had replaced the old one—and then the one who’d resigned when the guild was avalanched.

This place had seen better times. But Celum’s Runner’s Guild was one of the more active ones in the region. So why did they indeed look like they’d felt the pinch of less coin, less work?

Even the raid of the Bloodfeast Raiders shouldn’t have caused that. When calamity struck and everyone was battening down the hatches and locking their doors—they called for Runners.

“I hear that Celum’s Guild has been going through a rough state of late. Less work for you all. Less coins in your pocket. I’ve been talking—and listening. Not just about how it is to be a Runner now, but why you’re in this mess. And you know what one reason is? Persua. I’m sure most of you know that name.”

Almost every single Runner in the Guild knew her—and even the new ones had heard of her. They shifted, and the [Receptionists]…gulped as Mihaela walked slowly back and forth in front of them.

“She’s still a Runner. She’s up north, and if she causes a hair more trouble, I will personally throw her into the sea. But you know what she did. And you know what? It wasn’t her—it was that someone like her got to get away with bullying other Runners. I’ve heard from City Runner Fals that when some arrogant newcomer, Ryoka Griffin, stormed in, she got her leg broken for ‘taking too many good deliveries’.”

The Guild was silent. Half the older members were sweating. Mihaela looked around.

“You know what? I don’t blame you for Persua breaking her leg. That’s on the staff. If the old Guildmaster were here, I would strip him of his job in a heartbeat—but Lady Reinhart had to do it for me. That’s fine. The incompetent staff who did nothing? Some lost their jobs. But that’s not on you, so I don’t blame you for that.”

She didn’t? The Runners relaxed a bit. Too soon. Garia was nervous, because she knew Mihaela wasn’t all bark. She was all bite, and occasionally she shouted too. The Guildmistress’ eyes narrowed.

“You know, what I blame you Runners for is the fact that the next day, Persua got to brag that she and her friends ran a City Runner into a wagon—and she walked out of the guild in one piece. Not a scratch on her. It doesn’t matter which guild—and you can be sure I’ll be paying a visit to Remendia, Ocre, Wales, and saying the exact same thing. If a guild anywhere in the north heard that? Every single Street Runner and City Runner who participated in that would be sleeping with one eye open for as long as they were within a hundred miles of the guild—and that’s until word spreads.”

Technically, what she was saying was probably illegal by some measure of Watch rules. But Mihaela didn’t care. It was the rule every Runner should know—and the Runners paled a bit, hearing it said. Mihaela stabbed a finger into her palm.

“I don’t care if this Ryoka Griffin is as arrogant as a Terandrian [King]. Runners stick together. You want to know why you aren’t Couriers? Why Invrisil doesn’t have your backs when it comes to the door stealing your work and low pay? It’s because they don’t think you’re a guild of Runners. The reason why Celum’s mayor is getting to set your prices is because they think they can push the Guild around. And you know what? They can and they are. You dug yourself this hole, and now, only when I come by, do you come begging to me to solve this mess.”

She glared around with all the ire of someone who didn’t want this job. But one of the [Receptionists] protested at last.

Miss Stenei, one of the oldest [Receptionists] still remaining—she was thirty-four—had been one of the ones who used to work with the surly Ryoka Griffin. She was still about, and she spoke up.

“But Guildmistress, how are we supposed to deal with the prices?”

“Raise ‘em.”

“But if they don’t like our prices, they’ll go to another Guild—”

“Then tell Liscor, Wales, Ocre—to raise their prices. You don’t even speak to your Drake and Gnoll counterparts, do you? Tell the [Mayor] of this city the prices are up. And if he doesn’t like it, he can hire [Merchants] to do the delivering for him. And believe you me, they’ll refuse him too. Or the [Merchants] will get to do all their deliveries themselves.”

The Runner’s Guild had to take a stand. But—one of the Runners, Fals, was brave enough to raise a hand.

“Not to ask stupid question, Guildmistress Mihaela—”

“I’ll let you know if it’s stupid. Out with it.”

He covered his groin protectively and turned sideways, but he did speak.

“—Er. What if the [Merchants] decide they can do all the deliveries with their caravans and with their own [Messengers]? Or they undercut our prices?”

Mihaela gave him a wide, friendly smile. Her eyes opened wide, and her lips curved up. It was definitely a smile—but all the details were wrong.

“You don’t think they’ve tried before? The Runner’s Guild has a word with them about solidarity. And if they ignore it? That’s fine. Then, I guess we’ll see a lot more burning caravans across Izril.”

The Runner’s Guild was silent. Mihaela Godfrey put one foot on a chair and looked around.

“The Runner’s Guild has teeth. It runs together—nevermind the idiots who’ll risk their lives by themselves. There are always some, but even if they don’t have your back—you have theirs. Couriers stand together. When one calls, the other answers. If nothing else—if you can’t do that, you will never be a Courier in my eyes. That’s the first thing you lack. The second is—attitude.”

She had done this before. You could be sad that the lecture worked the same way or see it as a failing of someone else. The Runners were down—now it was time to throw down the gauntlet. And this time, Mihaela had even more of a spark to set ablaze.

An axe to grind. She stared at Fals until the City Runner began to sweat, but Mihaela spoke crisply.

“I heard that no less than his eminence, the glorious Titan of Baleros came through this way of late. Maybe not Celum, but there are stories about the ‘great Fraerling’ and his march south. Some of you, apparently, even ran with him.”

Every eye swung to Garia and Fals, who blushed and looked shocked that Mihaela was bringing it up. But the Guildmistress wasn’t smiling, nor did she appear impressed.

“There’s one story I heard that’s made the rounds amongst Runners. That the Titan single-handedly managed to run a bunch of Antinium, Goblins, and even a thousand civilians and an army of Drakes nigh on forty miles in an hour. The great [Strategist]—who handed everyone a level and taught them to push their limits.”

That famous tale was true. Fals and Garia had been there. They had lived it. But Mihaela? Mihaela Godfrey just sneered.

“If you’re impressed by that—remember that the Titan didn’t run those forty miles. He used a few Skills, gave a speech—he can’t run a single mile without a potion. He’s shorter than he looks. An hour to run forty miles? I’d be impressed, but Fraerlings have no stamina. [Soldiers] march twenty-five miles a day without Skills. But we’re Runners. Anything they can do, we should be able to exceed. But I don’t see daring Runners here.”

Her eyes swiveled around the room.

“Who here has ever run something like that? Run, not jogged from city to city with naps in between?”

Fals, Garia, and a few daring Runners, City and Street, raised their hands. Receptionist Stenei hesitated—and Mihaela glanced at her. She turned her head and noticed a few civilians watching her, clutching their precious deliveries. Now, Mihaela’s voice was far-off.

“If you listen to the Titan, he’d make it sound like you run that once in a lifetime. As if it’s something to cherish and remember. As if it takes him to make you into [Heroes]. Any single Runner in my Guild, from Street to Courier, could run his [Soldiers] into the ground. Now—come on.”

She strode to the doors of the Guild and kicked them open. The Runners and staff looked at her and at each other.

Who?

Mihaela glanced over her shoulder.

Come on. Are you going to miss this chance? Half of you want to run with a legend? Here’s your shot.”

She had beaten them up, lectured them, and put the terror of Mihaela into them, but seldom run. With the Courier of Izril? Half the City Runners were almost out the door, but one of the Street Runners, nervous, fourteen, called out.

“Can we come too, Guildmistress?”

Mihaela rolled her eyes at the girl.

“Yes, you. And you lot. What are you doing?”

The [Receptionists] and staff turned. Fals looked back. Mihaela gestured at a surprised Stenei and the others.

“Us, Guildmistress?”

“Runner’s Guild staff are usually former Runners. You—Street or City?”

“C-City.”

Stenei replied automatically, and Fals blinked at her. She had a slight limp as she stepped out from behind a counter. Mihaela nodded.

“Anyone who can keep up—come with me. Do you want to level or sit here? Anyone else—go home. I’m going to Liscor. We’ll stop by Wales first. Then Remendia. Then a few other cities.”

The Runners’ mouths opened as they tried to calculate her proposed route. No one wanted to say it, but—did Mihaela know that going from Celum to Wales to Remendia would have her going back the way she’d come? And—

Did she just say Liscor? As in, ‘Liscor, a hundred miles from here’, Liscor? But now the Guildmistress was stretching, and Runners were following suit.

“Who here has never run twenty-four hours straight? …All of you? Well then, we’ll take it slow. But if you have to stop and walk, stop and walk. But keep going. If you throw up, throw up. If you pass out, get up and keep going. Runners don’t quit.

She was forming them into a column, like [Soldiers] of her own, but spaced out. A crowd was gathering, and someone pushed forwards.

“Wait! What about my delivery!”

The angry woman waved a letter. Mihaela glanced at it.

“Since Celum seems to think the Runner’s Guild isn’t worth much—have your [Mayor] take it for you. Celum’s Runner’s Guild is closed for three days.

“You can’t do that!”

Mihaela gave the woman the blankest look in the world. She didn’t even respond. She just turned and raised her hand.

Runner’s Guild—on me!

And she did take it slow. She jogged so slowly that some City Runners flashed past her, but she told them to watch themselves, because this was going to be a run that would have them running the next day, through the night. Street Runners jogged next to [Receptionists]—and they did it together.

Not so fast you felt your lungs bursting with blood, not so fast you’d never forget—but at a pace where they could talk and memorize each other’s faces.

Solidarity. The Guildmistress began critiquing their form, answering questions with more than grunts, and she ran on. She guessed it might be three actual days before they got to Liscor and could teleport back to Celum if she bounced from Guild to Guild—and that would be the fastest City Runners.

It wouldn’t hurt them to learn how to work the guild’s desks. And she had to pay Erin for the teleportation fee—but that was all.

For some, age was that hurdle to overcome. Some found stories or put on entirely stupid plays with sock puppets her little boy would have loved when he was that young. Mihaela stared ahead and ran with a Guild following.

Sometimes—you simply showed them how it was done.

 

——

 

Numbtongue actually managed to keep his cat hidden the first night. And the second.

Erin Solstice was so busy running about she never really noticed the way Numbtongue would sneak up bits of meat to his room—and there was an inn full of guests.

Besides, everyone from Calescent to Mrsha to Lyonette was in on it. But the biggest enabler of Numbtongue’s secret new pet was, ironically, Nanette.

She loved his cat and begged and cajoled the rest of the inn’s family to help him present the animal to Erin so it would be kept. Apparently, the young witch had never been allowed a pet by Califor given how they moved. Or doubly rather—she’d been offered a crow by Mavika and refused it.

“It doesn’t even like you, anyways.”

The one person who didn’t like the cat—mostly because Numbtongue had forgotten their argument and then not really been as concerned about that as feeding his new cat and making sure it wasn’t going to run off—was Octavia. Numbtongue looked wounded—and Nanette shook her head vigorously.

“It does. It surely does, Miss Octavia. Look. The cat knows Numbtongue helped it. Numbtongue. Give him to me? See?”

Nanette took the cat gently—and as it wiggled and yowled, she put it down. The cat stared around Octavia’s lab—then instantly padded over to Numbtongue. It butted him in the side with its head until he picked it up. And he looked twice-delighted.

“It just knows he feeds it.”

Octavia grumbled, but even she had to admit—the little kitten would race around then come back to Numbtongue. Especially if it was scared of something. And Numbtongue would gather it up.

“Brave little warrior.”

He stroked its head, looking so happy that Octavia gave up trying to hurt his feelings. She mashed the pestle in the bowl harder. Stupid little kitten. Stupid adorably cute Goblin. She had another thought and looked up sharply.

“What are you going to name it?”

“Hmm.”

Numbtongue ignored Octavia’s baleful look as they let it jump around her shop. The [Alchemist] had put away everything remotely breakable, but she hated the cat. Bird had put a standing objection up to the cat as a competitor for hunting birds, but when Numbtongue told him the cat probably couldn’t shoot arrows, he’d been fine.

Octavia, though…the cat had ruined her ingredients, tools, and it would try to pull any loose strings coming off her body. She was meaningfully grinding some rubies into powder as she glowered.

“Cat needs a good name. How—how about Claude? As in ‘clawed’?

Numbtongue was proud of that pun. Nanette giggled as Octavia groaned.

“It’s a pest, Numbtongue. No.”

“Orangefur Redfang?”

“It doesn’t get two names.”

The [Alchemist] was only placated when Nanette gave her a pleading look.

“Miss Octavia! He’s so cute, though! Look! He doesn’t mean harm!”

Indeed, when she held up the cat—and it was still very small, barely more than a kitten—it tried to lick at Octavia. Then get into her bowl.

“Keep it away from my reagents! The last thing I need is cat hair in my potions! It’ll probably make something explode.”

“Reagents. Reagen? Catalyst. Cattalin?”

Numbtongue tried the two words on for size. He saw Nanette’s face wrinkle up. He looked at the male kitten and had it.

Reagen Redfang.

He lifted the cat up and got a ‘meow’. Octavia groaned.

More like ‘spare alchemy ingredients’.

She muttered darkly, but when Numbtongue held the cat up, she grudgingly waved a used teabag left and right as the cat tried to snag it.

“He needs a bed! And house training! Miss Erin has to let us keep him, right? She has that Sariant Lamb!”

“Nerry. Where is it, anyways?”

Numbtongue’s only worry was that Reagen would turn out to be an anti-Apista or anti-Lamb cat. That would be a huge problem, and Octavia raised her brows.

“You’re not looking after the Sariant Lamb? It’s fragile. Everyone talks about how Sariant Lambs need love and attention.”

“Huh. Nanette?”

“I feed her, but Nerry only cuddles me a bit. She doesn’t like me because I’m—I was a [Witch]. I thought Miss Lyonette was taking care of her.”

“She probably is. The lamb looks pretty good whenever I see her.”

The witch, Stitch-girl, and Goblin agreed about that. And in the meantime, Numbtongue was realizing he needed a sandbox and some house training—the cat had left a poo before he’d found it. But Erin just thought they had rats.

 

——

 

Pawn came back to the inn on the second day of Mihaela’s run that had shut down five Guilds and counting so far. There were over two hundred Runners clogging the roads—and the Worker appeared back in Erin’s inn with a question.

“Lyonette. Have you seen my book?”

“Your what, Pawn?”

“My book. The Wondrous Sky is its working name. I believe I left it here.”

He wouldn’t misplace something like that, but Pawn didn’t remember picking it up. There had been that outhouse fire, after all. Lyonette agreed to ask the staff and see if someone had picked it up.

“Can I, um—help you at all, Pawn?”

“No, Lyonette. Thank you. I am on my way to Esthelm, actually. I have an appointment. Numbtongue, hello.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

The Hobgoblin jumped and looked around for Erin. But she was out—and he showed Pawn a little pocket Octavia had doubly-grudgingly sewn into his tunic’s front. Reagen poked his head out, and Pawn pet his head.

“It is a very cute cat. Why are you not telling Erin, please?”

“Because she might not let me keep it. But if I keep it for a few days, she’ll have to.”

Pawn didn’t follow the logic.

“Erin would not turn away a pet. She likes you, Numbtongue. And she is fond of taking in people. Like Mrsha. Or you.”

Yeah, yeah, I stole your role. Suck it up.

Mrsha sniffed at Pawn and waved a paw from her table. She was attending to her pet and best friend, Apista. Carefully, Mrsha was attaching a teensy-tiny little leg.

Peg-legs! They secured to the Ashfire Bee’s joints with the most microscopic of threads, and a sweating Mrsha was using a needle to do it—they’d loop around securely, and they were as light as air.

They had arrived, ironically, via Hawk last night. The Titan of Baleros didn’t forget his dues. He’d even attached some experimental wings that apparently a few butterflies had been denuded of, and the Ashfire Bee was squirming to try them out.

The only other reason it was so hard was because Mrsha’s eyes were all watery. She kept sniffing when she saw how Apista’s little legs were damaged. And her wings. She’d cried already, but now that she was putting the replacement wings and legs on—

She’d done so much for Mrsha. And Mrsha was a bad girl, and Apista had gotten so hurt—

But the bee fanned her wings aggressively and butted Mrsha in the paw, as if sensing the [Druid]’s sadness. She saluted Mrsha with a wing. As if to say—

I stung a [Witch] and a [Shaman] in the eye for you. And I’d do it again, little one!

Nothing would do but for Mrsha to hug Apista gently, and the bee fanned her wings happily. Lyonette gently pried Mrsha’s arms away, but she sensed how happy Apista was. And she had to dab at her own eyes. Then she glanced sideways and sighed.

“Careful, Mrsha. And Selys, did you have to take all your pets out for a stroll?”

Lyonette was cautioning Mrsha as Gire worked on another leg of the bee, and she pushed down a curious Fortress Beaver’s nose.

Squeak!

A rat protested nearly being squished, and Selys hurriedly picked up Haldagaz as Rhata began shoving the huge beaver out of the way. The Drake [Heiress] protested weakly.

“They get stir-crazy in my home. Plus, they like Apista and Mrsha. Can I let them run around in your garden?”

“Of course. The Beavers’ den is still there. Just—oh my, Apista, you’re so brave! Mrsha, give her here when you’re done.”

Lyonette wanted to cuddle her bee as she saw Apista fanning her wings excitedly. Selys put Haldagaz on her head. The rat perched there, squeaking as it looked around as if it were used to this.

“I have to admit—the two rats have grown on me too. And the Beavers. This one’s Oakly, that’s Chesta, we have Rum Redwood there—”

“Are you naming them after wood, Selys?”

The Beavers came up to the Drake, and she scratched them on their heads rather like dogs. Selys glanced up.

“Sort of. It’s their favorite kind of wood. Each one had a different one.”

“…Rum Redwood?”

“It was an accident. But apparently they also like drinking.”

Selys eyed the biggest beaver. And he had Rhata on his head. Was the little rat trying to flex? Selys bent down and gently stroked Rhata’s head—then straightened, embarrassed by the unguarded moment. But Mrsha had Apista on her head, and the bee was fanning her new wings proudly.

Lyonette clasped her hands to her heart as everyone applauded the Titan’s prostheses and Apista.

“Can she fly? Oh, she’s trying! We have to write a thank-you to the Titan, Mrsha. And none of your scams or jokes! He even sent a little letter. It must be a joke, right? And these…”

She rolled her eyes at what Niers had sent. The Titan had written to Apista, a little note.

 

Dear Friend,

I have been remiss in sending you anything after your heroism in battle. I was a poor riding companion, but I hope this helps. I prevailed on some friends of mine to build replacement wings and legs—if they don’t work, we’ll try again. Enclosed are some gifts for your bravery, and if you ever come to Baleros, I should like to brevet you to Wing Captain of my Ashfire Air Battalion in a formal ceremony. I’m adding some Garuda and fliers to it.

 

Lyonette had thought that was a joke—until she saw the tiny gemstone medal in the box. And until she’d heard from Dame Ushar that there was a new battalion being reorganized into the Forgotten Wing Company.

The Titan took his jokes too far. That was what the [Princess] thought, even if she agreed that Apista deserved all this and more. But the bee seemed delighted by the tiny medal pinned to her fuzz—

It was just the last part that made Lyonette really think the Titan was having fun. She eyed the box of tiny, individually hand-wrapped cigars and other objects she wanted Mrsha not to see.

“This is the most ridiculous part. I’ll just put it—Apista, stop!

The bee flew at her to stop Lyonette taking the box away. And someone rescued the entire precious crate from falling.

Palt, the [Illusionist] and [Smoker], lifted a tiny cigar and sniffed it. His eyes rolled up.

“Oh, Fraerling-quality. Apista, great friend—lend me a few of these? Please?”

It was ridiculous and silly, but the proud little bee was flying. And Lyonette was laughing with tears in her eyes. That was…well. That was what pets were. A little tongue made Numbtongue look down. Reagen was licking his hand for attention, and he wanted to sit on Numbtongue’s head like the other animals were.

For some reason, the Hobgoblin had never realized why the Redfangs in his tribe who rode Carn Wolves turned into dog-loving weirdos. He had ridden Carn Wolves…but he hadn’t realized how different it felt to have a connection with a creature like this. Now he had Reagen—there was no way Erin could ever make Numbtongue give him up.

Pawn smiled at Numbtongue.

“You see? Even if Erin does not love you romantically, she will accept your cat, Reagen.”

He watched as Numbtongue’s delighted look at his cat slowly faded. The [Bard] looked up—and then slowly sat back in his chair. His cat meowed and tried to climb out of the pocket. It looked up at its master as Numbtongue slowly put Reagen down. The cat stared up at the Fortress Beavers, hissed at Rhata—then backed up as the rat squeaked authoritatively.

Numbtongue lay down on the ground. Lyonette put her hands over her mouth as Pawn stared down.

“I’m sorry, Numbtongue. But I heard you were being mean to Octavia. Take that.”

One should not have two people they loved so much and chase after Erin. He nudged the Hob with a foot and walked off.

 

——

 

Was it odd to see an Antinium walking around a city other than Liscor? Well, yes, but in Esthelm, both Numbtongue and Pawn had more license to move about. Esthelm, ironically, was closer to Liscor than any other city.

And—Pawn was meeting with his second famous craftsman because of the inn as well. Master Pelt might be grumpy, ill-mannered, and…but he did keep a schedule.

Unless he was late working in the forge in some moment of inspiration. Pawn had had to reschedule once before, but this time, the Dwarf grumpily looked up from his anvil.

“Oh, it’s one of you. Want me to make something fancy for a [Crusader]? No discounts. I’m making quality, and no one gets anything for free. Not unless Erin Solstice can give me fifty ingots of Demas Metal to play with or pull a long-lost ore out of her apron.”

“I am sure she can. But my inquiry is personal, Master Pelt. I would like you to forge something for me. Master Hexel has begun work on my rooms. I have written a book. You must help me with the third thing the [Crusaders] and my Painted Antinium need.”

“‘N what’s that?”

Pelt was picking at his teeth as he carved into the hilt of a sword with one hand, looking annoyed by the entire conversation. But he was paying attention—which was more than could be said when someone came over and asked for something for them. Deniusth had tried, and Pelt had laughed about his request to make a violin bow-sword. Not because it was hard, but because he thought it was stupid.

You had to gain his interest. Even now—he’d make wonderful stuff, but he had to be invested in your cause. Also, you had to pay him well.

“I would like you to forge me a…currency. For the faithful.”

The Dwarf’s hand—slipped. He nearly destroyed his work, but caught himself—and then put his tools down. He raised his head.

“Out of mithril? No.”

“Mithril? We cannot afford mithril. I would like you to teach my Workers or Soldiers how to forge tokens. Currency or icons of faith. Both, please.”

Pawn knew of various instruments from rosary beads to crosses to other implements, and the Antinium needed both. Pelt exhaled—his face had gone pale for a second for some reason.

“I—not coins, then?”

“It does not have to be round. But I would like something to give to Workers, yes. It could be a triangle or star or…I am coming to an expert to design it.”

“I see. Nevermind—why would I do something like this? Get Raekea or a lesser [Smith] to do it. I’ll have one of my apprentices make something pretty out of pot metal. Put your paint on it and we’re done.”

The Dwarf turned grumpy again and angrier still, as if Pawn had committed some error. Again, Pawn didn’t know why, but the [Priest] carefully took several objects out of his bag of holding.

“I wish I could, but no [Smith] other than you can help me. None of them can even understand what I am asking. Because…you must make these icons and coins to be beautiful. This is one thing we wish—but also take what is here and put them into what you forge. Do you see, Master Pelt?”

He placed eight objects on the table, and Pelt frowned at them. He touched each one quizzically, and Pawn went on.

“I am sorry not all are metal. But we did not think of that. Do you see?”

“…Cheap iron. Wood. Can’t tell which kind at a touch. A damn brush?”

Pelt looked over all eight items with a blank expression—but as he peered up at Pawn, he stared harder. The first three objects he looked at were all different.

The first was the double colander-contraption fused together. The two sieves formed the crudest censer and still smelled of cinnamon. It was attached to Pawn’s staff. The second was a club.

Made of wood. Pawn also had a worn paintbrush, so used hairs were sticking together and every which-way. And he had another crude bowl…

“This is all worthless crap. Not a hint of artistry in the lot. What’s the sieve-thing for?”

“Incense.”

“The bowl?”

Pelt jabbed a finger at it. His own eating bowls were better-made.

“We serve our bread during our prayers in it.”

“…The club? Do you beat bread with it?”

“No. I hit Belavierr with this one. And she said it hurt.”

The [Smith]’s mouth opened. He touched the club again gingerly, and Pawn recalled that the [Apprentice] who’d made and sold it had come screaming to him about levelling six times. Very good for him.

“It’s not enchanted.”

“No. But it is like the other seven objects. Master Pelt. Do you see what I need you to do? I would like you to put what is in here into an icon of faith. Or objects.”

The [Smith] stared for a long time. He lifted the objects up, sniffed them, weighed them in his hands, and his frown grew deeper.

“…There’s something in them, then, that I can’t see. But it is not magic nor any kind of metal I know. You say there’s aught of value, but I have not a clue.”

“Oh. Then perhaps the smith I need is not you. Alas—I will find one better. Or perhaps we will need one of our own.”

Pelt’s head snapped out. Outraged, the Dwarf slammed a fist on his anvil, and the entire forge jumped at the sound.

“A smith finer than me? You’ll find naught! Not in this world. Not—”

He purpled as he was unable to say ‘not any one is better than me’.

“—One man, perhaps. But you’ll never find him. What’s in here?”

He poked the censer dismissively, and Pawn leaned forwards. He put his hands protectively over the objects.

Faith, Master Pelt, faith. Have you never heard of someone forging it into metal? Or…putting something of one thing into another?”

Each of the eight objects glowed brightly in Pawn’s gaze. Not in light—but in a kind of value only he could understand. Like the glow of some of the [Crusaders]’ personal faith. It shone in Zimrah and in his eyes.

When he said that, Pelt paled. He pushed himself back from the table and stood. Shakily.

“Master Pelt?”

His best apprentice, Emessa, looked up, ready to drag him back if he flew into a rage like when he’d tried to strangle Dawil for breaking the axe. But Pelt just uttered one word. Spat it.

Taxus. It’s always him. Always a step ahead! How dare you come to me and—”

He jabbed a finger at Pawn as the [Priest] warily stood up. The [Priest] backed up a step.

“I just asked if you knew how to take one thing—”

“Aye, take the nature of it and put it into something else? That was his damn art. Mine was to refine metal! Too much of nonsense you can’t see and feel! Now you come to me and—”

Pelt was rapidly purpling with rage. Pawn tilted his head. He kept his voice light, which perhaps angered the Dwarf more.

“Then can you tell me how to find this Taxus? Because this is what I need. And only a true master can help me.”

For a second, it seemed as if Pelt would come at him with his hammer. But the Dwarf glared at Pawn. As the [Priest] reached down, Pelt snatched the censer up.

“There’s crap metal in here. Give it to me. You can make more, can’t you? And tell if it’s got whatever you need in it? I know my lessons. Give me—give me five days. A week! Anything he can do, I can do.”

Pawn smiled as the [Smith] stalked away. Emessa gave Pawn an impressed look. But the [Priest] hoped for both their sakes that Pelt could do it.

For my people, I shall leave behind book and place and items. There was a method to this all. A method that only Pawn saw at first. He hoped Ryoka would see more and advise him, even if he doubted she would join him.

Pawn bowed to the [Smith] and gathered the other objects up. Then he went on his way. He wondered if there was a great [Composer] of music he could find. Barelle the Bard would have been his first pick. Numbtongue?

…Bird?

 

——

 

Erin Solstice finally spotted Reagen when she was walking into the inn mid-morning of the third day. She stopped Klbkch and Relc—they had all been shopping at that antique store, and Relc had bought fifteen items.

“Wh—cat!

“Cat!”

“Cat.”

Relc pointed, and Klbkch nodded. Numbtongue whirled, and Reagen clawed at the bit of grass he was dangling, mid-leap.

“You’ve got a cat, Numbtongue! Where did it come from! Wait—why does it have a collar?

Erin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, mostly because she saw the looks of guilt or panic on the inn’s conspirators. Numbtongue gulped. Reagan hissed at Relc and Klbkch.

Relc hissed back. Reagen instantly ran for it. It raced into a glowing door.

The [Garden of Sanctuary]. Numbtongue twisted—but that was safe. And besides, Erin was glaring.

“I said you could get a pet—but what’s with not telling me? Huh? Wait a second. I knew that was a huge piece of poo. And here I kept telling Gothica that we might have super-rats!”

“I thought you were gonna be mad. I’m keeping it.”

Numbtongue defensively folded his arms. Erin folded her arms harder.

“Well, of course you can! But now I’m mad you thought I’d be dumb and not let you keep it!”

Well, you’re sometimes pretty mean!

Why are we shouting at each other? Also, hey, Selys, how’s it been?”

 

——

 

Reagen the cat was young. And small.

And arguably stupid. At least, the other cats of Elirr’s shop thought so. Not that they were mean, not exactly, but they were aware the orange tabby didn’t really ‘get’ what was going on.

The kitten had a very limited understanding of the world due to its youth. It knew…the grass was dangerous. There had been a flapping of wings.

A great, giant beak. Then it had fled, eating what it could find—but almost everything was faster and cleverer than it was. Grasshoppers flew away, voles dug down—

And the rabbit it had gone after had contemptuously teleported away three times before Reagen gave up. Then it had smelled food and crawled through a window left ajar.

Naturally, the window had been too high up for it to climb through normally, even with a cat’s ability to jump—but it had seen a little lamb hopping out the windows onto little ledges and used that to get inside.

Obviously, it had gone after the lamb, but as small as Nerry was, the young tomcat had been too small to best the lamb. It had received two hooves in the face for its trouble, and then the lamb had begun shooting fire.

When the green thing had caught it—Reagen had thought it was all over. It had taken a while to realize the big green thing was kindly. It gave Reagen hot food until the cat nearly threw it up, and then took it to the one called Elirr.

Elirr was the only name Reagen knew. But the [Beast Trainer] had reached out and told Reagen it was in safety. That the green one was called ‘Numbtongue’—the word only made sense in how the cat heard it, not in language—and that the big white one was ‘Mrsha’ and it should not go outside and it would be safe.

This was now all that Reagen knew, and it had explored the gigantic structure it was deciding might be a home warily.

It did not like the smell or look of the big bugs, and the green things had a lot of teeth. But it liked this place.

It was nervous of the [Innkeeper]—which is why it had run. Not that Reagen understood Erin’s class or even why it felt she was so big. He was sensing her aura.

The cat was young and wild, and so he ran into the garden, then immediately began exploring this place without really wondering how he had gotten here.

It would search for the green Numbtongue when it needed to, and in time, it might understand more, but it was a silly cat.

So silly, in fact, that when the bee crawled out of the grass, Reagen’s first instinct was to leap and attack. The cat opened its mouth, slashed—completely forgetting Mrsha had introduced Apista—

And backed the heck away from that gigantic stinger. But Apista merely aimed her gigantic stinger at Reagen like a crossbow.

Hold it, little one. Let’s not make any moves you’ll regret. Besides—we can’t fight here.

If the bee could have spoken, that’s what she would have said, probably with a southern drawl. She was even munching on a tiny cigar Palt had made for her.

Reagen got none of this. It was just wondering why it couldn’t bite or claw in this place. The cat froze up as some figures loomed behind it.

This cat giving you trouble, Apista?

A tail slapped, and the cat backed away from the gang of Fortress Beavers. Apista waved a feeler, and the beavers stopped looming.

Giant animals! Reagen was nervous—and backed away, hissing, but the other animals were fearless. In fact—one grabbed his paw and dragged him back.

Rhata was still smaller than a kitten, but she was incomparably strong! The overpowered magical rat gathered with Apista, the beavers; a white rat, Haldagaz, chirruped on top of his own Fortress Beaver.

Well, well, well. Here they all were. It was rare that Selys’ pets got to visit, but Apista was flexing her new wings and her prosthetic legs. The Titan might be slow, but he came through! She sat on the Fortress Beaver’s head as a few more animals came into the garden.

The Spotted One raced around, arfing wildly, but one sneer from one of Elirr’s cats and it slowed down and tumbled to a stop. They headed over—no one had invited Elirr’s cat, but it knew to make its own way.

It could read a clock. Elihas, the cat, The Spotted One, and a few more animals all gathered together. Elihas meowed approval for Apista’s leg, and the bee saluted the cat.

The secret lives of pets. All of Reagen’s fur was on end, and he was backing away from the gathering of what he took to be dangerous animals—but the bigger cat just put a paw on Reagen’s head as the silly kitten hid behind him.

They didn’t speak, of course. What each animal understood varied—Elirr’s cats were by far the most intelligent and might even ‘think’ in words. Only Haldagaz, who got a nod, which he returned, had the concept of language.

Even Apista thought more in ideas than words, but thanks to Lyonette, she was quite adept. The pets gathered around, and she motioned Reagen forwards like a little queen.

So, a new warrior is going to join our ranks, eh? Numbtongue’s brought in a cadet? Come forwards, young one. You know, I used to be a warrior like you. Until I took a [Fireball] to the face.

“Meow?”

Reagen mowed blankly as it looked at the interplay of the other pets. It began to eat some grass as Elihas rolled his eyes and smacked the back of Reagen’s head with his tail. But that was pets for you. Apista calmly began passing around bribes as Haldagaz dragged over a note it needed delivered to Elihas. The cat accepted it—in return for three spliffs and dropped a small bag of raisins in return.

How much they really understood varied, and it was still not really at the level of even a small Mrsha. But it was more than most people even dreamed. There was only one ‘new’ member of the inn who wasn’t attending, much to Apista’s displeasure. But then—

She had no idea what Nerry, the Sariant Lamb, really did around here.

 

——

 

Dead gods damn stupid cats.

Damn cats and inns with staircases and windows and [Alchemist] labs with volatile materials that you could knock into.

At least no one had noticed the mess with that kitten around. It almost—almost made up for wasting three charges in the wand.

Thirteen left. At least no one had spotted the outhouse. It sounded like the [Innkeeper] was having another inane conversation with her pet Hobgoblin. Which meant there was a vanishingly-small chance of even the nosiest Goblin or [Princess] paying attention and poking around where they shouldn’t.

The inn was too full of inquisitive souls. The Named-rank [Alchemist], the Named-rank [Rogue], the Thronebearers, Erin Solstice herself…

—Well, Erin was different. But no one else should be seeing this.

A little figure was panting by the time it finally—finally reached the Earther rooms. It knew the designation from listening in, and the term was apt. Few people came here, and fewer still would find the floorboard pried up and the small spot in the corner of one of the rooms.

It was hidden behind an easel against one wall, where Kevin had tried to do sketches of his home-city and given up. Where the smooth-cut floorboards met the walls, someone had pried up the edges. With great work, the copper nails had come loose, exposing the insulation and subfloor between the Earther rooms and the basement.

A narrow area, padded with hay and other materials to keep the heat in. Each section was blocked off by more cut wood, so a rat wouldn’t be able to have the run of the house. Antinium construction—but this small section was a perfect hiding place. Once the floorboard was dragged back in place, someone could hide in this tiny section, unnoticed by even the most inquisitive Gnoll child.

Perhaps the [Innkeeper] would notice—but that was a chance that had to be taken. Besides—the figure had to lie on her side for a good eight minutes.

…She didn’t think she could drag this to Riverfarm, even if she could manipulate the portal door and call for assistance. The damn book was heavy.

There was a difference in how the lamb called ‘Nerry’ thought, even compared to Apista or Elirr’s cats. She didn’t just think of how long Erin might be up to her antics in the inn, but also whether or not the Hobgoblin was likely to play on his laptop.

She thought forwards and backwards and about herself as well. And what she thought was—the others were going to kill her.

All this hard work to get here—and the damn [Innkeeper] decided to open up her portal door anyways, invalidating the hard work. But—she was still the one with the job. The little lamb kicked the floorboard shut. Then she scraped around.

She had been tempted to steal a box of matches, but she was a highly flammable being, so she went for the little glowing stone instead. It’d die in about a month and a half—but in the meantime, it was a fine source to read anything by. Notes, correspondence—or a book.

Turning the pages in this confined space was a nightmare. Let alone with teeth or little hooves.

Yet she did just that. She moved, her limbs shaking with fatigue, unable to lift much of anything. She was exhausted, and even if that little cat, Reagen, had been a kitten—it would have been a match, in theory, for the weakest and cutest animal in the world.

Sariant Lambs. Even with a wand, Nerry would be easy prey to a Shield Spider. Everyone knew this was probably a suicide mission. Raskghar, Face-Eater Moths, Hectval—they’d done their homework.

Erin Solstice’s inn was a glorified deathtrap to something that couldn’t defend itself—or at least, run like Mrsha. Yet here she was. And so desperate she’d set fire to an outhouse.

Her hooves were trembling as the lamb read by the dim light. And unlike the other animals, if you could hear her internal thoughts—or translate the words—

Please. Oh, please. She had not conceived of this answer, but it struck her as ludicrously possible. Her desperation was the impetus for anything. A strand to cling to and…

Of all the beings in this world, she could understand prayer. So the lamb read, squeezed into the hiding spot, and the Antinium’s words glowed on the page.

For here was the thing. Whether or not Pawn had realized the lamb was stealing his book—he would have probably given it to her anyways. After all—

He had made it for her. Not just for his people. Not just the forging of sacred icons for his [Crusade] or the Antinium. This book was the first of many. It was meant for the Hives and Workers he’d never see.

But the [Priest] had looked across the world as Erin did—and he saw Nerry, even if he did not think of her.

This was how the book began. The title was The Wondrous Sky. It had no author. But it did have an introduction. And here was what it said:

 

To all who might one day turn these pages, I was Pawn of the Free Antinium. I was a [Priest]. My identity does not truly matter, for it does not matter if it is Antinium or any other species who reads this.

But a word of caution before you go on: this book may not be for you. You are free to read it, but understand this. If you are reading this and you are loved and wanted…if you have a place in this world, a people, then—kindly—this text is not for you.

You will not understand all of it. You will think you do, but this is a guide for those without hope. It is meant to be a flame in darkness, a glimmer of sky for someone who has never seen it. This is for the people without hope, without salvation. With no higher power or expectations.

We, Antinium, are one such. Perhaps the True Antinium of Rhir have that higher calling and connection, but not the Workers and Soldiers of Izril, who labored in the darkness knowing nothing of why we died. We were once you—the readers this is meant for. But hear what I have learned and struggle.

‘If Heaven does not exist, we shall build it for ourselves.’ This is our tale and how it may be possible to build something from nothing but faith.

 

Chapter 1: The Origin of Faith

 

In the beginning, there was someone else. We were not the first, nor shall we be the last. They were already here, with edifices and culture and Gods of their own. There is great wonder in each religion, but it is not for us. It was never made for us.

The first day I beheld wonder—and it was wonder which founds faith—was when I looked up and saw the sky. I had never beheld the firmament above, nor the colors I had no name for. The second time, someone played a game of chess with me. And I knew a world beyond the tunnels and work that was my entire life…

 

The little lamb’s eyes burned and blurred. Why was she…? She wiped at her face angrily, and the tears soaked into the soft wool. On she read, hungrily. Hers was a young people. And not a single being, from Wyrm to Agelum to [King] or anyone else, had ever looked at them and seen more than a cute face or, sometimes, their true thoughts.

But even that was barely the surface—not one being ever had known them. Yet this Antinium, this Worker spoke to Nerry as if he had known it all. The very depths of their long suffering and despair.

She could not stop weeping. And it was furious—enraging. Anyone else was unworthy of seeing her torment. But the lamb read on about the only task, the greatest task for her people.

Waiting. Waiting—searching for answers.

From Erin Solstice or beyond even her. The little lamb lay there, the cutest of pets. And the first days of winter rolled on gently.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

It caught up. And by ‘it’, I mean, a year’s worth of work and tiredness. It always hits me in the face like a snowball and I, like a surprised Eater Goat, stand there.

I’ve talked about writing cycles and how the end of the month often takes me down in terms of quality, energy, and other stuff like mood. Well, the end of a year is tough, too.

Don’t worry, I’ll be taking my 2-week break for the New Year, and I may even combine it with my December break for a huge, three-week block.

But I may take that break in the middle of this month—if I need it. I’d prefer to have a long, extended rest, but when I was writing this chapter, 9.4k words on the first day, it was a mess.

If you go to the stream archive on Youtube, you can see it was written in a kind of fugue-state. I even had Silverstache like an old-timer Westerner until I came to my senses and deleted that. I think I patched it up, but losing your focus during a chapter that you have only one day to edit can be killer.

…Then again, novels are too slow to come out. So I enjoy this, but these ‘short’ chapters are going to be testing my limits. As long as it’s fun to read, though, let’s continue. December awaits. Have you done your Christmas shopping? Do you even respect the holidays? Hope you’re doing well and bundled up. Unless you’re in Australia. Then maybe go naked.

pirateaba out.

 

 

The Silverstache Fugue-Writing for Context:

“Yes! Yee-haw, partner! Octavia, am I doing this right?”

Silverstache ran after the little puppy, and Octavia realized its named was literally ‘The Spotted One’. And that Silverstache was Silveran with a mustache.

“Doing what right?”

“Joseph told me this was how people like me talked. And Kevin says that is racist to Americans because Joseph is from Spain. Most Drakes and Gnolls enjoy me talking so. Partner. I have a hat, too, and boots. I have bought them with my income.”

Yellow Splatters was still chasing after The Spotted One, and the little puppy really did have a lot of black spots on its blonde fur. It was one of those little dogs, who looked old even when they were young with their mop of hair making them look like an old man.

“Silveran, he is running to the stairs! Stop him!”

The [Cleaner] spotted the puppy’s mad dash, and reacted. He drew four fingers and pointed them.

“I’ve got this one, pardner. Stick ‘em up. [Finger Guns]!”

 

 

Stream Art, Hello, Reiss-Numbtongue, Ishkr, and more by Fiore!

 

Pizza Knight, Mrsha Thumbs Up, and Let it Go Ceria by Brack!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

Battle Erin by kim, commissioned by nap!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.28

This is a story about [Drivers]. At least, in part.

They took many forms. Sometimes, they were just [Wagon Drivers]; other times, they were more magical and didn’t actually need horses. They just teleported cargo like the bored [Dockmaster] who did all the actual loading and unloading in Fissival’s Teleportarium.

Sometimes—they were the kind of wild, on the edge of your seat racers who would gallop some screaming horses past some screaming [Bandits] while the carriage doors flew open and a narked [Lady] and five [Maids] shot crossbows.

They might even be an overworked, under-thanked Death of Magic, who was a glorified [Teleport Mage] sometimes. ‘Put a [Spy] here.’ ‘Just fly over to Baleros and cast [Greater Teleport], would you?’

…But most of the time, they did have wagons or the like, and they were pulled by mundane animals. They were not Runners, who ran with life on the line. Sometimes, they were ambushed and held up—but most of the time, the [Wagon Drivers] would hand the cargo over. Because it wasn’t worth dying over.

One of them, a new cadet serving under a living legend, Termin the Omnipresent, was a young man with black skin. He had a huge coat on because it was cold, edging below freezing on mornings when he awoke with frost covering the ground, and he sat hunched in his seat as he followed a second wagon through the night until dawn.

His name was Rhaldon, and every time he straightened, his shoulder clicked and he felt something shift and a tightness snap across his arm.

He was sure that was a bad sign. And doubly sure—it hadn’t been doing that a few months ago. Then again—if that were the worst he got for having been shot, Rhaldon would take it.

You holding up alright there, lad?

Termin’s voice floated back to him through the fog. The two were running a late-night delivery across known roads. A mix of danger—but Termin had taken the risk because the area they were passing through wasn’t safe stopping ground.

A word on terminology, first. Rhaldon knew the lexicon of each profession varied. He, personally, had a thousand words that no one with a sane mind would ever need to think of. Or words whose context varied dramatically. Absorption—a process in chemistry, not to be confused with adsorption—atomic numbers, an entire list of elements and how they worked with each other—

Not very useful stuff unless he had the tools of another world to make good on it. Although—perhaps invaluable for the same reason.

But wagon drivers, the Driver’s Guilds of Izril, had their own terms and techniques, and so Rhaldon had written down a list. Termin thought it was ‘odd behavior’, but he just remembered it all. Why not write it down? It had never occurred to him.

Late-night delivery. Not a fun thing to do. Most wagon-drivers didn’t like doing them. For one thing, the night was full of danger. Another—your animals needed rest. Even if you could push them with Skills or just encouragement to pull through the night, it would take a toll on them mentally and physically. Throwing a shoe, breaking a horse’s ankle—it was something you only did across known roads.

Known roads—not just ‘mapped’ roads, but trade routes, roads beyond any variance. These were the only places a sane driver would do a late-night drive. No backwoods trail could count as these. It had to have enough traffic—and enough people watching for monsters—that you wouldn’t get yourself killed.

The reason they were doing this moderately risky thing even on known roads was due to the last term. Safe stopping ground. In short—the last two towns and villages that Termin had passed by on their way to Celum weren’t safe.

They were heading back from a northern excursion, far past the local High Passes region. Nowhere near as far as Invrisil—they’d headed from Romswicht, and Celum was their destination. The city was in need of a delivery of Romswicht’s largest product.

Salamander tails. And scales. And other parts.

Oh, if you headed to Romswicht as a normal—the Driver’s terms for people who didn’t understand what Izril looked like—you might think it was just a warmer city than usual with huge-armed [Miners] boasting about finding a lump of gold in their active mines. Or you’d stop by the hot baths or take a chance panning for some gems.

And you might reasonably think ‘this city’s a big mining city like Esthelm or Salazsar’. And you’d say that, and Romswicht’s populace would agree. And every [Trader], [Merchant], and [Wagon Driver] in earshot would laugh at your ignorance.

It was true they sold such things. And it probably even made up a good amount of the city’s trade. But the real value was the salamanders.

They were everywhere. They nested in buildings, in the mines, would appear in your bath—even leap into your morning cup of tea in a suicidal bid to get you to spill it all over your face. But the truth was, the pests were highly, highly valuable. So much so that there was a Catcher’s Guild devoted to dealing with the pests.

[Alchemists] loved them. The same natural magicore and hot springs that made the town of Romswicht so warm led the salamanders—cold-blooded and magical—to infest the area. Their tails, skin, and everything else were valuable low-level reagents.

Celum wanted them. But really—it was what Celum was connected to that made the trip worthwhile.

“Just a bit further, lad. Celum to Invrisil and Pallass. It makes our trip faster—if cheaper—but I’ll be damned if most [Drivers] won’t hate the route. Two no-stop zones.”

Termin grimaced. The last two places he’d passed had been apparently dangerous enough that he hadn’t considered pulling into an inn.

“How bad was it? They didn’t look—nasty.”

Rhaldon called out. Termin grumbled as he patted Erma’s head. Or Fox—Rhaldon couldn’t tell who was who in the mist.

“Maybe not. But two [Drivers] got jumped in their sleep last year. That’s more than enough to take it off our lists.”

The Driver’s Guild was very careful about the places they knew as ‘safe’. They had lists of inns, pubs, and even had established routes you’d follow as a new driver to maximize your safety. And they had a bit of weight; entire villages and overnight hostels had wondered why they had lost a substantial number of customers. Many would never realize that no [Driver] had stepped through their door—they were an overnight guest, but there could be hundreds each month.

Incidentally, the inn that Termin wanted to stay at was not on the safe-list, but as a top-tier [Driver], Termin often explored new routes and reported his findings to the guild. But he was not exactly charitable to The Wandering Inn at the moment.

“The damned door is throwing all our routes off. Good on Miss Solstice for having it, but it’s making our lives harder, eh, Rhaldon? You not nodding off?”

“Mm. I’m doing okay right now.”

Rhaldon assured Termin and sat up a bit. This was an expensive amount of cargo to haul, and messing it up would be disastrous. Reassured—that was probably why he’d slowed—Termin moved on.

“We’ll have a hot drink on me when we get in. Then—I’m thinking maybe another day off before we hit the road. You…you sure you don’t want to have me introduce you to Miss Solstice? We might get rooms this time.”

They had been at the inn no less than three weeks ago. And then—they’d moved straight on, back to work. Rhaldon sat in the driver’s seat and thought about it.

“—She looked busy last time.”

“Being dead does that to you. Can’t believe it myself. And the 7th Hive of the Antinium and the Haven on the move. Damn Haven. Larracel’s probably transported a hundred tonnes of goods on the sly. Job-stealing [Innkeeper]. Miss Solstice has the decency not to undercut us that much, but her…”

Another funny thing was that the [Drivers] hated the Haven. Larracel could and sometimes did transport items or people in her mobile inn. And while her inn was slow—there was no beating a magical fortress like the Haven.

But Termin liked The Wandering Inn. He had hugged Erin—been given all the new favorite foods and been part of that moment. Rhaldon had eaten a meal in the inn—and then left.

He hadn’t spoken to Erin Solstice. Nor to Kevin of Solar Cycles or Joseph the Coach. All of whom Rhaldon suspected he had things to say to.

Termin noticed. Termin noticed a lot, and as Rhaldon now knew—Termin had the ability to meet people who might matter on the road. He could drive his coach—shift it across vast tracts of land, and he was a veteran of his job.

So he was obviously curious as to why his young protégé was not rushing to meet Erin Solstice. The answer? Well, there were a few.

“It’s a dangerous inn.”

Rhaldon broke the silence as their wagons descended a slight incline. The dirt road was wet by the moonlight now cutting through the mists. It appeared in front of them, fifty feet at a time, and Termin’s figure sat a bit too light in the saddle. Rhaldon knew that the older man had a club under his seat.

Their voices were low as a field of what might be wheat passed to one side, like a whispering sea of hands reaching up. It was just…they were speaking to fill the silence. But so quietly, just over the clop-clop of hooves and the creaking of the wagon wheels. In case something was out there.

“That monster that attacked it? Fair enough. It’s never going to be a safe-spot for [Drivers] even if a decade passes with nary another attack. But Miss Solstice is generous. Is it the Goblins? Antinium?”

Rhaldon shook his head. He smiled at the suggestion.

“She seems pretty open-minded to me.”

Termin couldn’t guess why Rhaldon would take that as a good sign. The man grunted.

“Them monsters make my hair stand on end—but they’re decent sorts. One of them even gambles. The fellow with the guitar. Almost like people.”

“Amazing how that happens.”

If he noticed Rhaldon’s sardonic comment, Termin didn’t react. The man rubbed his gloved hands together.

“It it Erin herself?”

“Mm.”

“I admit—seeing her with them flaming eyes and those wings gave me a start. Who knew chess was that dramatic, eh?”

Rhaldon’s heart beat faster just remembering it. He had seen Erin Solstice playing her now-famous match against Pisces. Felt the inn shaking.

Intimidating didn’t cover it. Perhaps if you had known her longer or you were as famous in your own way as Termin, it was ‘normal’. But Rhaldon was like Inkar, though neither had met the other.

They were newcomers, and they saw someone from their world who seemed to now belong to this one.

Myth and legend and—she was intense. Rhaldon couldn’t describe it any other way. He had once met someone who had come off active-duty service. Fresh from a plane-ride home. They had been—well, they’d talked and spoken and reacted normally, but they were also somewhere else. And Rhaldon had felt like they were ready for something he couldn’t even dream of.

If the sky fell down—they’d be the ones who ducked.

What did you have to live through to get like that? He wondered. These were both two good, obvious reasons. She was an established something, and he wasn’t sure he should trust her.

He’d seen the Singer of Terandria’s music video. He’d heard…well, he’d seen the Meeting of Tribes play out on the scrying orb. Roshal existed.

All these things made Rhaldon’s skin crawl, but why not speak to Erin Solstice? Why not? There was one last reason, and it was this:

“I know her, you know, Termin. Or—not know, but I knew her name before we met her.”

The [Driver] twisted around in his seat. His eyes glinted from below his hat.

“You don’t say? Are you from her homeland? I thought so.”

“Exactly her homeland. I know Kevin too. Not Joseph.”

“…How? Is she a famous chess player back there?”

“Funny you mention that. I think they even said something like that. The second chess prodigy gone missing.”

“…Missing?”

The young man hesitated. He schooled his face, but his skin kept crawling. Because she didn’t really look like the picture of her. No, not at all.

Something had aged her. Five years—but she didn’t look five years older. Not physically. She had aged in the way emotions and maturity aged her, but her biological age was closer to the image he’d seen.

Almost every single night on news bulletins. On the dedicated websites. Rhaldon spoke, and he knew it might be risky to tell Termin, but someone had to know. The thing was…

“I didn’t even believe she was real. Even when I saw her. I thought, ‘no way’.”

“Someone’s searching for her?”

“You could say that.”

A tenth of the country was on the streets, knocking on doors, demanding to search their neighbors’ houses. Every single organization from the FBI to local police—and half the countries were pointing fingers at each other. Taking sides.

“You, uh, think she might want to go back?”

“It’s not that simple.”

He was going to be on that list—if they didn’t declare him dead. Rhaldon shivered. He spoke, trying to explain to Termin what had happened.

“Erin is…one of a few people who vanished, Termin. Now, I guess we know what happened, but back home—no one knew. And people didn’t really take notice until later. But now, everyone’s noticing. There are a lot of false positives. Even more conspiracies. The lockdown didn’t help either—”

“Curfew? Now they see Miss Solstice, surely the panic’s over.”

“…It’s an insular nation.”

“Ah. Inland?”

“No. Private. No scrying orbs.”

Termin whistled as Rhaldon invented a different way to explain the issue. The [Driver] glanced sideways.

“So a lot of disappearing folk makes for trouble. Even I don’t have to guess that.”

“Well, we had a bad few years. Sickness, wars—and we’re having people vanish. On camera—”

“I thought you said they didn’t have them television things.”

“No, they’re just within our nation’s boundaries.”

“Ah. Right.”

Rhaldon rolled his eyes. This was stupid. But he wasn’t going to explain the entire thing right now, so he went on.

“The point—is that no one trusts the crown. Add in the curfew, and nothing’s changed. Now people are seeing—visions. And nothing else is getting better. There were protests. Along with people trying to search homes. Arrest people—vigilantes. Extremists. So there were two kinds of protests. And some of them were put down hard.”

He felt at his shoulder. Termin’s keen-eyed stare shifted to that.

“You wouldn’t have happened to be at one of them, would you?”

“Yes.”

Maybe it was just one idiot using live-rounds. But that wasn’t what it had sounded like. That wasn’t—

Rhaldon tried not to think about what might have happened again. It had been a peaceful protest—ish. With almost as many officers to make sure it stayed that way. Right up until the counter-protest got violent.

Disaster back home. And if this were what was really going on, behind the scenes, no wonder no one had any answers. Because this was no conspiracy. Or if it was, it went even above the nations of Earth—unless they were in on this.

He was going too far into Stargate-esque conspiracies. Bring it back, bring it back. The young man closed his eyes and breathed. What he knew was still unbelievable.

He wished he knew a factoid about Erin Solstice beyond the most obvious things. But again—she was one of thousands. And those were only the people from America.

Termin was silent, digesting all of Rhaldon’s half-truths and no doubt forming his own conclusions. He tipped his hat up.

“Well, lad, I can’t blame you for being wary. But Miss Solstice is as real as they come and generous. Think on it, huh? Not that I mind the extra help. You’re a deft [Driver], and you’re levelling a tad too fast for my ego. I wasn’t Level 14 until I was…”

Rhaldon smiled. He’d leveled so fast Termin was jealous. Level 14 might seem low—but he had done it in bare months. Right now, he only had a few minor Skills, but some were nice. And Termin, for all his abilities, liked having someone with Skills in the same area.

“How’re we looking on the track, lad?”

“[Pathfinder].”

Rhaldon obligingly used the Skill. A long arrow that looked suspiciously like something from home snaked out in front of him, illuminating the road. It curved left in the distance.

“Left turn up ahead.”

“Sounds about right.”

The light was rising, but because the High Passes blocked the sun, they’d be traveling through the mists for a while yet. The horses were calmer than the [Drivers]. This pre-dawn hour was when trouble struck.

Rhaldon had a club as well, but Termin had told him to surrender unless the [Bandits] were out for blood. Monsters…if it were monsters, you unhitched the horses and took cover. Hide under the wagons or run.

The [Driver] was scratching at some light stubble on his chin and wondering if he had the courage to try shaving on the bumpy wagon when he heard something.

Scritch. Scritch.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. It was coming from behind him. Slowly, his head swung around. Short, unevenly cropped hair from a Level 5 [Barber]’s haircut covered by a riding hood exposed two careful, amber-brown eyes.

Was something moving in the back of his wagon? Rhaldon stared at the covered bags of salamander skins and tails and jars of goods.

One of the salamanders wasn’t dead? Some were wholesale, dried. He hoped that was the case. But then he heard the sound again.

Scritch. Something made a loud, scratchy noise. And he saw some of the canvas move. Something too big to be a salamander…

“Lad? You heard that?”

Termin glanced around. Rhaldon didn’t make a sound. The horses plodded along, and he saw the other [Driver] turning his head in the darkness. He opened his mouth—and Rhaldon pointed.

Termin’s wagon slowed. Erma and Fox’s eyes went round in the midnight—and the man slowly reached under his seat.

“I’ll, ah…”

His voice trailed low. Rhaldon gripped the hard handle of his club with a suddenly sweaty palm. He turned—it was rustling closer. Termin looked at Rhaldon—then he grabbed the edge of his seat. His wagon slowed—and Rhaldon lifted the bulls-eye lantern shining ahead and swung it back.

Get ‘em! Erma, Fox—[Run Free]!

The two ponies leapt out of their positions as Termin freed them with a Skill. The older [Driver] and Rhaldon whirled on the thing in the back of his wagon. Rhaldon’s wild, dancing light illuminated the creature bent over the first bundle of salamanders, holding on with its mouth. The monster reared up in alarm. The—

—fox—

Freaked out and did a screaming jump, landed on its back, and leapt out of the wagon, shrieking. Rhaldon froze, club comically raised, and Termin nearly slammed into the wagon’s side.

“A fox.”

The two stared at each other, and then Termin let out a breath. Rhaldon began laughing shakily. He put down the club and felt limp with exhaustion. He wiped some sweat away from his face. Termin climbed back on the wagon as Erma and Fox trotted back.

“Dead gods, lad.”

“I thought it was—”

“Me too. Foxes. Too brave by half! Did it jump up? Eating salamanders? Must’ve been hungry for the winter. Little bastard. Let’s go.”

He had to re-hitch Erma and Fox. Rhaldon sat back, then soothed his nervous horses. He heard Termin fussing with the reins and a few loud stomps from the two ponies. And a squarb sound.

“…Termin?”

He’d never heard Erma and Fox say that. Rhaldon looked up and saw three shapes in the mist. Erma, Fox, Termin—no, wait, Termin was standing behind Erma. The tip of his hat stood out. So who was the fourth…

The Garbichug had a mouthful of Termin’s salamander cargo. It opened its toothy beak—then smacked Termin in the face with a wing as he gaped at it. Rhaldon reached for his club and then heard a second sound at his back.

Squarb?

 

——

 

Octavia Cotton was grumpy in the morning as she waited for her delivery. She had a cup of coffee, which made her less-grumpy. The highly caffeinated beverage was a hit among [Alchemists].

But she was grumpy—as she always was when she had to spend gold on things she didn’t need to spend gold on.

In this case—an entire set of alchemy supplies. Someone’s new cat had broken them. And while Reagen was now a proud member of the inn with Erin Solstice’s blessing, guess who had to buy a new set?

“How many vials?”

“Fifteen. Three flasks. Four beakers. Oh, and he fouled up all my alchemy work for the day, so I have cat hair and a mix of thirty-eight grams of associated reagents all swept up on the floor.”

A wince didn’t begin to describe the reaction of the other two people keeping her company. They stood—all of them glaring at the sun as it dared to rise just outside the gates of Celum.

Erin’s door was actually in Celum once more; Wailant was getting tired of the foot-traffic, and besides, a crossroads was not always the safest place to be, even one close to the Strongheart farm. That Octavia was here didn’t endear her to her former home of several years.

She remembered how she’d left. But she had to be here, because she was expecting a delivery.

Salamander tails. They were essential in creating warming tonics and for a lot of low-level potions. They’d be popular this time of year—the winter got cold, and she could also use some parts in her matches, and it was good to buy them cheap, wholesale from Romswicht.

Before some [Trader] got ahold of the delivery and marked everything up by 30%, she was going to buy the goods in person. Which was why she was here, shivering in the pre-dawn light, with two other people.

Saliss of Lights and Xif of Pallass were the two other [Alchemists] who could persuade Liska and Erin to let them through before dawn. Only friends of the inn could prevail on the annoyed [Innkeeper] to make an exception—and so the three of them were sharing cups of coffee.

“At least you’ve got a shop.”

Xif whined. Saliss glared sideways with red-eyes.

“Shut up, Xif.”

Someone burned down my shop!

His entire fortune and home, ruined. The Gnoll seemed close to tears as he recounted it—but Saliss just glared.

“The city helped you build a temporary one—and I gave you some reagents. It’s tragic, horrendous, blah, blah. I let you have the first thousand complaints. This is one thousand two hundred and five.

Was he actually counting or making that up? Xif grumbled into his fur. He didn’t look cold in the dawn chill. Then again, neither did Saliss. Saliss just looked tired.

“I feel like an apprentice starting from scratch. Having to beat the rush on salamander parts. At least it’ll be a huge profit once I put out Warmth Tonics on sale. You don’t do mass-produced items. Why are you here?”

Saliss glared.

“Salamanders go boom.”

“Ah.”

“Mm.”

Octavia and Xif nodded. That checked out. They were three kinds of [Alchemist], standing in a line at the gates. Octavia had yet to find her true specialty—but Xif was a famous producer of more standard potions while Saliss was an exotics and battle-oriented catalyst expert.

That meant his specialty was in explosive reactions or just deadly ones. There were [Alchemists] of completely different breeds, who did work with more classic acids or metallurgy or were even able to harness Skills and put them in a bottle.

Octavia was in awe of the two older [Alchemists].

She sneezed.

Well, mostly in awe. They were more normal than you thought once you got to know them. Even Master Saliss. Xif eyed the naked Drake as Saliss poured some coffee into his mouth and began to gargle.

“Why are you sleep-deprived? I thought you’d reconstructed most of your battle potions.”

“Fifty percent.”

“Dead gods. You’ve been putting Octavia on grinding and mixing for months. How many did you have?

Saliss glared at Xif as he lowered the cup of coffee.

“Enough to create a damn lake and blow up an entire Guild of Assassins. Enough to crater all of the 9th Floor. When you sleep at night, remember that.”

The Gnoll shuddered. He took another sip from his cup of coffee and grimaced.

“But you could at least sleep rather than bite our tails off.”

“Can’t. I’m researching the stuff from the laboratory the adventurers found. And you’re supposed to be helping.”

“I have to sleep, Saliss.”

Bah.

The Drake seemed to be determined to drink his way back to wakefulness. He poured another cup of coffee out of the flask and gave Octavia and Xif a top-up. Octavia took a sip and promptly sprayed Xif with it.

Dead gods! Master Saliss—this is filled with sugar!

“It’s called ‘energy’. More efficient than eating.”

“My fur! Saliss, give me a cleaning tonic. I know you have some—not a fur-remover! You turned me bald two years ago, and I haven’t forgotten it!”

The three [Alchemists] were bickering as Saliss laughed at Xif and the enraged Gnoll demanded a cleaning tonic. Octavia was apologizing when she saw the two wagons finally roll in.

“At last! There they are! Over here! W—oh dear.”

The Watch and the [Alchemists] noticed the two [Drivers] coming in and stopped grousing about their own mortal complaints. Mostly because they were staring at two half-ransacked wagons.

And two dirty, battered, pecked, scratched, vomited-upon, and foul-tempered drivers. The horses too.

“Dead gods, what happened to you?”

One of the [Guards] strode out the gates, worried. All Termin did was grunt.

Garbichugs. Three of ‘em. They’re still out there. Find them and shoot the damn things.”

“Garbichugs? They attacked you?”

“We had to fight them off.”

The younger man made Octavia blink. He looked like someone from home, but he had no stitching. He was lankier than she expected as he stood up, and he had on a cheap waxed riding cloak and some horribly-cut hair a [Barber] had mangled into clumps.

Also, about fifty-two scratches she could see. Most unhealed.

“Don’t you have a potion?”

“Think we’re stupid? A potion costs too much—and those things are foul as can be. Those roads are supposed to be safe! The Driver’s Guild will be lodging a protest, and if there are more Garbichugs, no one’ll be driving or running the roads!”

Termin growled back. Saliss agreed as he strode over. From being annoying, he was all business as he inspected the foul odor. Even Xif and Octavia, veterans of bad smells, were keeping back.

“Don’t put a potion on that. You’ll turn into a ball of infections. Here—douse yourselves with this. It’s a cleaning vial. Get a bucket of water, heat it up, put this in it, and douse. Clothes, everything cut—and then keep it dry.”

“Thank you. Alchemist Saliss, isn’t it?”

“My cleaning fluid!”

Xif whined, but Termin looked grateful. Saliss strode over to the carts next as the young man, wincing, felt at a cut.

“How likely is it we were infected? One threw up on me.

“Self-defense mechanism. They shouldn’t be this widespread. But the damn things love garbage…Garbichugs. You can’t even burn ‘em. Some explode, and others create toxic gas. They aren’t worth anything. Not hides, not any part…”

The guards were groaning at each other. But Saliss was peering at the salamander parts, and his shout drew everyone’s attention.

No! Half the parts are fouled!

Everyone rushed over to the carts. And sure enough—the hungry animals had eaten and broken into dozens of crates and sacks and jars. Termin grabbed at his hair.

“Tell me the remainder can be used.”

“After a Garbichug so much as looks at them? Are you mad?”

The [Alchemists] clustered around, groaning. Octavia’s heart sank as she saw the mess. You could purify some things—like ore—but the salamanders and a Garbichug’s filth introduced far, far too much contamination into most alchemist procedures.

“You can sell the bad parts at rock-bottom rates—but not much else. Dead gods, the Alchemist’s Guild is going to die. Wait—is this the entire Romswicht delivery? All of the last four months?”

Termin and Rhaldon exchanged a long glance as Saliss looked between them. Xif, paling, began counting less than a third of the driver’s goods that could be sold. Octavia reached for a money pouch.

“I’ll buy anything I can afford—right now.”

“Me too. And I’ll double your going rate.”

“I’ll triple it. This is going to be a cold damn winter.”

The [Alchemists] began fighting over what remained. Termin, meanwhile, just grabbed the cleansing fluid and motioned to Rhaldon.

“One side, [Alchemists]. This was a Merchant’s Guild delivery—sort it out with them. But we’re getting cleaned up first. Master Saliss, here.”

He tossed a good bag of dead salamanders at the Drake.

“This is no good. Might as well take it. Thanks for the potion.”

The Drake made the bag of ‘bad’ parts disappear and nodded. Termin, shaking his head, grabbed the reins and headed for the Merchant’s Guild. First thing, he’d get himself, Rhaldon, and the animals cleaned up.

No telling what kind of nasty was on those Garbichugs.

 

——

 

What really annoyed him about the modern era was that it was so pathetic. They had no great weapons of war.

The Emperor of Lightning had once mass-produced spell-weapons like the cheap wands of Tier 2 magic. In his day—

In Tolveilouka’s day, those were standard armaments any force might lug around if they could afford them. An [Alchemist] of the level of that Drake would have been normal in any major hub.

…Then again, there had been a lot fewer cities and towns about. The Humans had infested the north and spread out.

They were weaker, more pathetic, and their warriors were inferior to his age of grand strife. He had fought with Dragons.

Here? Dragons were a myth. The half-Elf, the being of death who had served the Putrid One, stood at a remove, watching the two drivers delivering their destroyed cargo to the city.

Garbichugs. Rihal had bred them. The stupid imperium hadn’t realized how much of a pest they were. Of course, Tolveilouka and his master had laughed at the creatures, and they only spread minor plagues.

But they were fun to germinate. They had come from Rhir—and if you knew a trick and had the mana…

The three Garbichugs that had gone after the wagon drivers were nursing their wounds. Tolveilouka had actually been impressed—the two ponies had fought off the Garbichugs, and the three giant birds were all six feet tall and fairly dangerous.

“A more competent driver. But you have served well enough. So—[Plague Pustule].”

Even he would not kiss a Garbichug. Tolveilouka reached out—touched a Garbichug on the head, and the duck-creature jerked up in alarm. It didn’t see him under [Greater Invisibility]—but it did see the pure amalgam of putrefaction slowly swelling in its chest.

The other two Garbichugs looked up as the first ran around, squawking and screaming. The pustule grew and grew—then exploded.

Tolveilouka held up a parasol from the Empire of Drath as bits of the creature rained down.

“Alas, thou hast met a cruel fate. Sayest anything for thy kin, fellow Garbichugs? What nobler—eugh.”

Mid-eulogy, he wrinkled his nose. Garbichugs really were disgusting. They were trying to eat the pieces of their fallen comrade.

He kicked one, and it went flying over the nearest hill. The other decided this was a dangerous place and ran for it. Wisely.

Now, why had he killed the first one? Tolveilouka bent over the one he’d exploded with the plague spell. And—even after seeing this a thousand times, he was always amused.

The pieces of the destroyed bird were shaking. Coalescing into a ball—then morphing. Of course, he had accelerated the process a hundredfold with his spell. But it was remarkable.

A tiny, tiny Garbichug squawked as it rose from its dead parent. And it was accompanied by sixty more such voices as Tolveilouka saw the infused parent’s remains shifting.

This was, incidentally, why you had to burn the damn things. Garbichugs reproduced when they died. Anything they ate turned into fuel for another generation—and they could do wonderfully in sewers. Or against plague spells.

Rihal had tried to use them as weapons of war against the Putrid One—until he had realized he could just multiply the pests. They, ironically, halted some of the worst plagues, but spread tons of low-level ones. It was why the imperium had declined…though it had stuck around for a long time, apparently.

And they were very helpful in ruining shipments of alchemical items. Tolveilouka was just annoyed about one thing.

This modern era. Inferior. No more great beings—or very few. Such a lack of elegance. Pitiful nations—no more Walled Cities to replace the ones that had fallen.

And yet—he glanced up, annoyed, as he stared at the city in the distance.

Why were they all so damn determined to wash their hands? When he had roamed the world with his master, the idea of constant obsessive cleanliness was more of a thing you did every few days. Half-Elves would famously go for months without bothering. A bit of dirt was natural. If you could see skin, it was good.

It was almost as if something or someone had traumatized generations into learning to heat water and use soap. A weird legacy, but his master might have laughed.

Oh, his master. Tolveilouka clutched at his heart. Time to go back to the city and lay there a while. He tracked down the mostly-dead Garbichug he’d kicked—you didn’t survive that kind of impact anyways—and created fifty more to harass the area. Then he continued on his way north.

It wasn’t really about starting an avalanche of Garbichugs or ruining the entire salamander supply. It was just about resources. As in—valuable heating gels and tonics were already in high demand for the winter.

Izril would make do, even if a dozen suppliers of the reagents had shortages. After all, they had big, lovely cities to cling to. It wasn’t as if there were thousands of people headed to new lands. Was there?

The half-Elf stopped by a field of wheat and admired it. Then he pointed a finger.

“[Flame Swathe].”

In his master’s experience, you could starve a nation, and that hurt them. But it was one thing for everyone to starve with nothing to eat. Far better—if two nations began fighting over a half-supply.

Whistling, the half-Elf began flying north, towards that so-called City of Adventurers, then faster. Every now and then, he stopped and cast a spell. You could deliver a lot of misery if you just put in the effort. He quite respected [Wagon Drivers]. It might be humble—but Tolveilouka was also putting in a hard day’s work.

 

——

 

When Rhaldon felt clean, he met the [Alchemists]. They were busy fighting the [Merchants] for the salamander parts, and the [Merchants] were arguing with Termin.

“We were counting on the entire delivery, Master Termin—”

“Take it up with the Driver’s Guild. Accidents happen. We were attacked on the road!”

“Yes, but—”

The angry [Merchant] blustered. The rest of his sentence was something like, ‘yes, we know there are accidents and we have a standing arrangement with the Driver’s Guild and we know we can’t hold you responsible for monster attacks. But it’s inconvenient, and we want to blame you.

Termin, though, was foul-tempered enough to get into a chest-jabbing match with the [Merchant] and high-level enough that the furious debate had lasted twenty minutes.

Meanwhile, Octavia Cotton, Saliss, and Xif were shoveling as many salamander parts as they could into bags of holding. They were paying four times the going rate—because they all knew that would be cheap compared to the prices soon.

“Damn. Alright, apprentice, I’m going to Pallass. Damn, damn, damn. These alchemy shortages.”

“At least we’re going to make a profit!”

The Gnoll, Xif, looked happy, and Saliss jabbed him in the side hard.

“Sometimes, it’s not about a profit, Xif. Who’s going to afford your warming tonics? Not the lower half of Pallass’ citizens anymore. Eat Garbichug. Apprentice—drop by my shop to do some work later. Oh, and tell Erin I’m really busy, and it had better be something good. Nicely or something.”

He stomped off. Which left Octavia looking around the Merchant’s Guild. She walked over to the counter as Rhaldon—listening in to the conversation about Erin—heard her speaking to one of the workers there.

“Excuse me. Can I lodge an order through the Driver’s Guild? Or do you have a [Merchant] or [Trader] on stock with the following items? Alchemy-related.”

The man at the desk nodded and brought out a catalog. If you were anyone with money, the Merchant’s Guild would order items, hold them, or just provide you with what you wanted from their stocks. The Runner’s Guild was for fast items, letters, and individual-deliveries like groceries.

The Merchant’s Guild, in tandem with the Driver’s Guild, fulfilled orders for shops, restaurants, smithies, and so on—which was why Termin could shout at a [Merchant] without being blacklisted forever. Both sides needed the other.

“I need good beakers, vials, uh—tons of low-level reagents. Can I get someone good on the job? Please?

“Do you have a specific [Driver], Miss?”

“Not Grenim. Or Llerif. Or this Gnoll who likes chewing on a piece of straw. Or a Human—Moodif. Or Rena. Or…”

Octavia rattled out a list of nearly eighteen [Drivers] as the [Clerk] looked a bit harried.

“I meant, do you have someone you’d like to run the delivery, Miss?”

“I’m telling you who I don’t want. Those are all bad [Drivers]. They don’t know how to store alchemical items, they can’t transport glass—and I’d like the delivery to me, not sitting in the Merchant’s Guild where it’s improperly stored too.”

The [Clerk] gave Octavia a long-suffering look as Rhaldon listened in. He’d heard [Drivers] hated working for [Alchemists], and he could see why. If it were even remotely like home—

Well, even the salamander parts had taken Termin, a good driver, to transport them safely, and Rhaldon had made sure they were not going to be rained on or frozen. Termin had grumbled about storing them from the frost, but Rhaldon could only imagine how tough it was to be a chemist. Especially if this world’s version of the USPS dropped or bounced things around on a wagon.

Actually, he felt for the [Drivers]. Imagine transporting something you knew was volatile.

“Miss, I can only lodge an order. And I don’t know when it’ll be fulfilled. We’ll ask our Merchant’s Guild to inquire with traditional suppliers.”

The Stitch-girl looked more and more peeved.

“There’s no dedicated [Merchant] around? What about the Golden Gnoll? The Silver Merchant? They sell alchemy items too!”

“Aren’t they in Liscor? Wouldn’t you have better access to them?”

Octavia pulled at her dreadlocks in frustration.

“I already asked! I meant—there’s no good [Merchant] you can prevail upon?”

“They are two of the larger multi-specialists in Liscor. You wouldn’t happen to know Miss Qwera personally, would you? I’d love to attend one of her seminars…”

Octavia groaned. It was at this point, as she was glumly telling the [Clerk] that Qwera was giving a seminar later that day, that Rhaldon strolled over.

“If you need glassware, doesn’t Invrisil have an entire import of it from one of the coastal cities? I know [Alchemists]. Pallass should have dozens of suppliers, shouldn’t they?”

Surprised, Octavia and the [Clerk] looked around. The man was about to tell Rhaldon this was private when he recognized Rhaldon as a driver. Octavia swiveled around, looking mildly exasperated by the obvious questions. But she relented when she noticed Rhaldon.

“Pallass? They don’t import the reagents cheap. Are you—oh, you’re that poor [Driver]. The problem is—you can’t go to a big city. Everyone in the damn Merchant’s Guild marks everything up at least 20%.”

Octavia gave the [Clerk] the evil-eye. He smiled politely.

“Guild practice, Miss Cotton.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why I want a [Merchant] to haul the goods from another town or get a [Driver] to get it to me direct. Even hiring them, it’s a profit. That damn glassware is too expensive in Invrisil.”

The [Clerk] was nodding with Rhaldon.

“Well, Miss, what if you rode out to one of the towns where the goods pass by and negotiate with someone to buy the goods there? That’s what any basic [Trader] does—and if they can do it, why not an [Alchemist]? You’d have all your glassware for cheap instead of going through the Guild.”

Octavia gave the [Clerk] a long, long look.

“Am I made of time? Do I look like I want to ride four days and nights to get a beaker? I’ll pay your prices, thanks. As for the reagents—give me the entire catalog. If I’m paying in bulk, I might as well…”

She glumly began writing down notes, and Rhaldon eyed the sheet. That was a…lot of gold.

What a racket! No wonder the Merchant’s Guild ruled each city. He hesitated—and glanced at Termin—but then he couldn’t help it. When he saw the prices on what looked like salt, he winced, tapped Octavia on the shoulder, and took a breath.

“Um—excuse me, Miss? I could get you all of that. I know there’s a glassware route from Invrisil. It’s a four-day round trip if you have [Faster Rolling], which I do. And if I ask a few [Drivers] to pick up the other things you want at villages they pass by, I can get you the rest. It’s only a few [Message] spells. If you want to cover that and my prices, it’ll cost you about half of what you’ll pay here.”

Octavia looked up, and the [Clerk] frowned at Rhaldon. Technically, you weren’t supposed to ask other [Drivers] to share the load, but Rhaldon knew that you could do it. Octavia turned, eyes wide.

Really? Wait, what’s your name? I’m Octavia. Stitch-folk [Alchemist].”

“Rhaldon. [Driver]. Er—Human?”

He took her hand and smiled. She looked him up and down and eyed his haircut with a wince. But then she was nodding.

“If you can do a delivery for me—I’m willing to wait. I’d wait longer with this lot.”

“If it is a request through the Merchant’s Guild, there is a fee and I can arrange it now, Miss. It would be a personal delivery request through…Driver Rhaldon. Ah, you’re new, but Master Termin vouches for you. Is that what we are doing today?”

The [Clerk] folded up his catalog and poised, quill in hand, ready to make another order. Rhaldon hesitated—and then a few other people heard.

Termin had finished arguing with the [Merchant]. He was red-faced, but he strode over.

“What’s this now? Rhaldon, are you doing your first personal delivery? Good lad!

Rhaldon had been afraid Termin would be angry, but the [Wagon Driver] looked delighted instead.

“About time we got you doing independent work! Not that I couldn’t roll with you to…oh, glassware, is it? Damn fragile stuff. And alchemy? Are you sure you can handle it? You need to keep it dry and such.”

He knew the job, and Rhaldon felt worried—but then again, he did know how to be cautious in a lab environment.

Transporting the stuff will be rough. But he’d promised, and Octavia looked so hopeful Rhaldon gave her and Termin a smile.

“I think I’m ready to try as long as Miss Octavia’s going to give me a shot.”

“I will! Especially at these prices. Hey. Hey, Xif!

The Gnoll turned from where he was still packaging up his salamander parts. He came over, whining.

“It’s Master Xif, Miss Octavia. Please. I know you’re Saliss’ apprentice, but…”

His eyes focused on Rhaldon as Octavia introduced the young man and his offer. Xif peered down his spectacles at Rhaldon.

“You think you can get all of what we need at those prices? Are you, uh, experienced in delivering alchemical items, young man? Even Saliss would rather get his goods in person. I went to Oteslia because good delivery [Drivers] for alchemical items are so far and few between. We had a wonderful Drake who ran practically all of Pallass deliveries, Norish, two years back.”

He put a paw over his heart and sighed wistfully. Rhaldon and Octavia hesitated as Termin winced.

“What happened to him?”

“Explosion.”

That—said it all, really. Rhaldon gulped, but then he took a deep breath.

“I am actually familiar with keeping to lab protocols, Master Xif. If you could give me a list of dangerous items you’re requesting and how to store them—I think I can do it.”

“Well, well. A list? No driver has ever asked for a list of procedures before. As it happens, I could give you a basic guide for young [Alchemists]. Why not?”

That reply seemed to impress Xif, and soon, he was writing down his order on top of Octavia’s.

“If you do well, I can recommend you to a dozen [Alchemists] outside of Pallass—let alone the ones within. But let’s see how you tackle this, eh?”

Termin was patting Rhaldon on the shoulder, albeit a bit worriedly as he eyed the highly esoteric orders. But Rhaldon was getting excited.

“I can deliver straight to your laboratories.”

“You mean, our shops. Of course! Thank you.”

And I’ll get to know what they’re buying and why. Some of it looked obvious. They wanted salt, flour, mundane things like that—but also salamander parts, roots, and what Rhaldon wondered if he knew from his world.

Tipath ore, for instance. What was that really? Charcoal…his eyes ran down the list, and he smiled as he shook their hands. Termin put a hand on his shoulder as the two [Alchemists] hurried back to their shops.

“Lad, it’ll be a challenge. The first thing we’re going to do is get a Wand of Fire Bolt. Upon me. I think we need it if there are more Garbichugs.”

“You’ve already paid for the wagon and the horses, Termin—”

Rhaldon hesitated, but Termin waved this off.

“I’ll take a cut of what you make—and if you get through this delivery without breaking a thing, you’ll be closer to paying me off even with that wand. Any good master does that for an apprentice. But no—the first thing we’re gonna do is stop by The Wandering Inn, alright? Because if you want to get those deliveries done—time was it’d be a month of travel. With Invrisil and the magic door? You could do this all within four days. The glassware at least!”

Rhaldon gulped as Termin steered him out of the Merchant’s Guild, but he nodded. The [Clerk] made a few notes for the record, and Tolveilouka laughed his way north.

But no one really paid attention to the [Drivers]. They were the hidden grease in Izril’s axles. Not the main players of any story. When someone needed to get somewhere or had something delivered—that was them.

The real heroes rode horses. Or ran barefoot or had fancy hats.

Or wore aprons. Well—Erin Solstice was an exception to that rule.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice was reading a [Message] with some dismay that morning as Ishkr greeted two men at the inn.

She was reading a note from Wilovan and Ratici. Something bad was going down in Oteslia. She barely glanced up and smiled at Termin—but Ishkr was talking with them.

“—very standard to go through the doors. Liska can set it up outside temporarily to get your horses through. The wagon won’t fit.”

“Ah, well, he can use another one in Invrisil. Thank you, sir. Good to see you, Miss Erin!”

“Termin, hi! Get him a burger on the house, Ishkr! If you’re staying, let’s talk…later.”

Erin half-waved at the two men. She was reading the note instead and barely looked up. Erin was far away, in a place she’d never actually been to.

 

——

 

Oteslia, City of Growth. It was, by all accounts, one of the better cities to live in if you were a Gnoll. Maybe not the most military-minded, and certainly the poorest, vying with Manus for rock-bottom—but Manus poured their resources into their army.

Yet Oteslia had some ideas about how to run itself. For instance, it was the only Walled City—one of the only cities in Izril at all—which thought that criminals, [Prisoners], and so on deserved a place to stretch their legs and mill about.

Oteslia’s prison complex had an outdoor component where the imprisoned could, at daily intervals, stretch, exercise, and actually socialize. And while Erin hadn’t realized this—and most people did not have an intimate knowledge of prisons—the thing that she considered standard to Earth was not usual in this world.

Liscor, for instance, had a prison. Prisoners went in, and when they were released, went out. At no point did they have a recess or chance to move about. Calruz had nearly gone insane from his confinement.

Pallass was like that too. In fact, it had low incarceration times and high fines—the idea was you paid for your mistakes in a literal sense. Drake cities liked that model. It was how Pisces had been allowed to roam about despite being a criminal after paying his fines.

But in other cities—you were thrown behind the bars, and you sat there. Sometimes, you died there. Or some Walled Cities had other practices.

In Salazsar, you were given a forced conscription sentence where you labored in the mines. Some companies ‘rented’ prisoners instead of hiring [Miners]. In Zeres, similarly, you were made a rower on some of their ships along with jail terms.

Manus was different. You were given military duty for them or work in the same way as the other two cities—but they also would lash offenders.

Fissival tended to simply exile most criminals or downgrade their citizenship papers after enough infractions. But no city—none of them—let you leave the cell. Once thrown in, you might spend ninety days in a box too small to do more than pace about, using a privy that fed into the sewers.

Some might consider this fair treatment for prisoners. Oteslia was of the view that they could at least walk about for a bit—tend to gardens they let prisoners grow seeds in. Which made it a fine city to be arrested in, especially if you were a new gang of Brothers fighting the Earthtenders, right? You’d be put in there a week at the most for brawling—or more if there were blood—but then come right out.

Rickel stared down at the Gnoll’s body. The young man had his paws clasped together and eyes closed—and the [Gravekeeper] had prepared him for burial. But that didn’t hide the wounds on his chest.

“Stabbed. Eight times with a shiv.”

Wilovan and Ratici stood around the dead young man. He had no hat—the Watch had taken it when he was jailed. So, Wilovan produced a hat and covered the young Gnoll’s face with it.

He looked—grim. So furiously silent that the [Gravetender] didn’t interrupt the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings. The new recruits from Oteslia’s streets and the Humans who’d come to aid the Gentlemen Callers.

“Is he the first?”

“Fourth this week. We didn’t realize they weren’t coming back—the Watch notified their kin, not us.”

Ratici squatted down, face hard and bleak. Rickel wanted to tell a joke—he wanted to laugh—in denial, because this was dark.

“I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence?”

One of the Brothers from the north was a man with a goatee and a scar that closed one blinded eye. He looked down, and Wilovan shook his head.

“It’s not always the same weapon.”

The Brothers murmured to each other. One of the veterans exhaled.

“—Then these Earthtenders have a way in with the Watch. No wonder they’re calling for the law. Their lot might get booked—ours won’t come out. Spread the word. Better to die than go in. It’s the same either way.”

“We will not be shedding blood with the Watch, Torpith.”

“And you’d have us let in young lads who’ll go up against bastards with blades?”

The scarred man and Wilovan squared off—until Ratici lifted his voice.

“Silence. You’re in the company of this brave lad. Show some respect.”

Instantly, both Brothers stood down. But there it was. Rickel saw it.

So this was Poruniv’s plan. Ecleeif had feared these ‘Gallowsmen’ and their swift justice, but the Earthtenders were willing to let the Watch and law enforcement arrest their own and the Brothers.

Because once they were in Oteslia’s lovely, social prisons, the Brothers would be unarmed, in theory able to hold their own if they stuck together against Earthtenders in the jails.

—In practice, the Earthtenders would miraculously somehow smuggle in blades. And without Wilovan or Ratici, the junior members of their gang were sitting ducks.

 

——

 

They buried the young Gnoll, and Rickel stood around the small funeral as dirt was piled in. Oteslians didn’t believe in coffins. They knew what happened to those buried, and the bodies in this graveyard would grow the somber plants and trees from Noelictus. The only thing Oteslia did to make sure the undead wouldn’t rise was remove the head and add salt between the shoulders and head.

Only afterwards did he realize no one had told him the young Gnoll’s name. Wilovan, Ratici, and the veteran Brothers spoke on their quiet walk back.

“What can be done?”

“Keep the Watch back. Run interference. No one goes into the jails. No blood on the Watch—for now. I said, for now, Torpith. We can’t destroy this city in the process of taking it from the Earthtenders’ hands. Put a line in the ear of any [Guard] who’ll listen. Tell them to open their eyes. We don’t want sides—but we want justice. Even for folk such as us.”

“Or else?”

Wilovan’s eyes glittered.

“Or else there is no law to respect. And we do respect them, for all we step over the line. That’s all.”

The Brothers fell silent, and Rickel’s skin crawled. Oh shit. Things were going to get super real soon—unless something was done. He tried not to smile. He knew that would be intense. But—holy shit. What would that look like?

Could he help? He wondered about bribes…but then Ratici spoke up.

“Perhaps there’s a way. I sent a line to Miss Solstice. As we happen to send a monthly letter.”

“You what?”

Wilovan looked annoyed, and Ratici adjusted his cap.

“Perhaps she has some good idea. Perhaps—as I asked—Miss Lyonette had more words with that Cire fellow. Rickel knows him too.”

“I can bring it up.”

Rickel thought that was a good idea. A few eyes on the prison situation might calm the stabbings—but it wasn’t a permanent solution. He was curious, though.

“What do you think the [Innkeeper] can do?”

The [Thief] gave Rickel an expressive shrug.

“A fellow never argues with help, Rickel. Or doubts it might come at times when it’s greatly appreciated. Especially not from a lady who’s flouted death.”

 

——

 

Hence, the letter to Erin Solstice. She sat there, thinking, aware of her debt to the two Gentlemen Callers. But what could she do?

She barely noticed the door opening and closing as Ishkr handled the mundanities of inn-travel and transport. And while Rickel might doubt the young woman, he’d never met—Erin Solstice.

Could she fight dirty and low, as the streets fought, with mud in the blood and teeth cracking on the pavement? Erin Solstice looked up, and her eyes rested on a jar of acid for sale clearly marked ‘DO NOT DRINK’ on the far end of the room.

Oh, yes. She knew how to play dirty indeed. Then Erin twisted her head.

“Watch Captain Venim? Got a second?”

The Watch Captain and his daughter looked up from their table. Kenva, who was Mrsha’s new friend and a huge fan of the inn, glanced up from listening to a tale of school from Mrsha with interest.

“Miss Solstice?”

Venim’s face took on the pained look of a man who knew she was about to inject trouble into his life with a needle the size of a turkey baster. Erin glanced casually to the side.

“Would you, uh, in theory, as a Watch Captain overseeing a prison…Let’s say someone was gonna bring in some green…glowing…juice into the prison. Would you allow that?”

The Watch Captain stared at Erin. Then at the jars of acid. He stared back at Erin.

“…No. We can tell if something’s dangerous, you know.”

“Damn. Well, there goes my idea.”

Erin folded her arms. Venim opened his mouth—then decided he didn’t want to know. He hesitated—then decided to get up and tap Erin on the shoulder as she thought.

“We would test the food as well to make sure it wasn’t dangerous. Jello, for instance.”

Erin gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence. Then she scowled.

Double damn.

 

——

 

Erin was walking into Calescent’s abode—the kitchen—when she spotted someone even better.

“Oh, Imani! What’s up? Not working today?”

“It’s Tirenv, Erin. Palt and I only work five days of the week. I’m helping Calescent learn how to make jello. Palt, stop being a little foal.”

Erin came across the funniest of scenarios. Which was Imani bossing around Palt, a Centaur, and Calescent, a big Hob, as the two of them fiddled with a bunch of powder and a pan. They looked exceptionally reluctant, and ‘ick’ was written across their faces.

“You get three days off a week? What?

“Comes with being a successful bakery-restaurant. Timbor took a page from your book, and I prepare dishes in advance for his preservation runes. Besides, I often do tutoring on my weekends. Come on, you two. Erin, what do you want?”

Calescent made a face as Imani showed them how to mix the gelatin, which you could make into all kinds of dishes. Boba, jellied eels…Hectval had ironically helped import the recipes to Liscor.

But, funnily, both the [Spice Chef] and [Illusionist] didn’t like making jello.

“Is gross. Wobbles like intestines. Like Wyvern-brain jelly. Nasty to make.”

Calescent grumbled. Palt nodded. Imani slapped his hand and glared at him.

“Palt!”

“But it’s made of gelatin! Darling—”

“You were all for it before you knew it had horse in it. Besides—this is apparently slime-stuff from Onononno…”

Imani rolled her eyes. Palt whined.

“That’s worse! I don’t want to eat a slime!”

Imani threw up her hands. As if he didn’t know how you made sausage! She turned to Erin as the [Innkeeper] laughed at the cooking antics.

“How can we help you?”

“Oh—I was gonna ask. Can I borrow your kitchens and some ingredients? Yours are bigger, right?”

Imani’s fond smile vanished like someone turning off a lightbulb. Palt’s cigar fell out of his mouth into the jello. Both looked at each other and chorused.

“No.”

“Absolutely not.”

Erin was hurt.

“Wh—come on! Just for a bit? You can watch!”

“Erin—how can I put this gently? No. Calescent, we’ll teach you in our kitchen. If Erin needs this one—let’s get out of here. We’ll help you clean—no, Erin should have to clean up her own messes.”

The Goblin looked confused—then worried at Imani and Palt’s reactions. Erin put her hands on her hips.

“Guys. I’m a good cook. I’m a decent cook. I don’t start oil fires. Accidentally. Pawn—Pawn, they’re bullying me!

Erin looked around and called out to the first person passing by. Pawn hesitated as he walked with a group of Workers and Soldiers through the inn. He stared at Erin as she pointed at Imani.

“I am sorry to hear this is the case, Erin. Did you deserve it?”

He left Erin with her mouth open. The [Priest] was on a tear of killing people recently. He quite enjoyed it. Everyone expected the Mrsha-card to hurt their feelings. No one expected the [Priest] to put a knife in their back.

Since Hexel and Pelt were working on his requests, Pawn had decided to visit the inn more. And he had just taken his new group of Workers and Soldiers to lunch.

Sashimi. Imani and Calescent really were good for the inn. They had it on that lovely rice and even some weeds from the sea. It wasn’t ‘good’ yet according to Imani, but she’d started another trend in the city.

In fact, Lord Alman Sanito was so engrossed in his meal that only when his wife seized his arm did he look up.

“Alman, the insects! The insects—”

“What? Oh—”

Alman slammed back in his seat when he saw two dozen Antinium filing past him. His wife nearly spat out the ‘sushi’, and his children stared at the Antinium in horror—but Alman croaked.

“They’re under Miss Solstice’s control. In fact, a few saved my life during that Invrisil unpleasantness. Just let them pass. Don’t stare so.”

Lady Edere Sanito looked horrified. But Alman stood up, appetite suddenly gone, and intercepted Erin as she poked around the kitchen.

“Miss Solstice.”

“Hey—you! Wait. Lord Alman Sanito, put her there!”

Erin stuck out a hand, and the man stared at it before shaking it. The [Lord] bowed slightly, uncomfortable, and Erin smiled.

“What are you doing here? Visiting Invrisil? You missed the celebrations.”

“Seeing the Haven before it left, actually. We have rooms there. But, ah—I wished to have a word with you. About matters of trade.”

Erin gave him a blank look.

“What are we trading?”

The [Lord]’s heart sank. She’d forgotten? He looked at Erin and at a [Princess] who had appeared and closed her eyes.

“The…the magical connection to the lands of House Sanito? We had a shipment of our goods to send, but of late, the door has not been opening in our lands. As I was in the area, I was asked by the other [Lords] to check on the issue. Temporary, one hopes?”

Erin’s puzzled face turned increasingly wan—which meant pale—as Sanito kept speaking. And her smile turned increasingly guilty.

“Oh. The door. Uh oh. The door.

She looked around, and Alman began to sweat. He lowered his voice, trying not to sound worried.

“The door is still there. It’s surely a matter of—reconnecting it?”

He had come in through the Haven door and if she could make new connections…but Erin was looking at Lyonette, and the [Princess] was putting her hands over her mouth. And the truth…Erin turned to face Alman slowly.

“I’m afraid—the door’s changed. It’s now a Skill, Lord Alman. It connects to Riverfarm, and it can go further—but only places I’ve been. And since I’ve never been to House Sanito, wherever that is…”

His heart had begun sinking already. But when she said that—Alman thought of the funds coming in that had been making things good enough that he’d elected to visit the costly Haven before his children lost the chance. But wasn’t she wrong?

“You have been there—briefly, Innkeeper Solstice. I recall you petitioning my house for help—”

Erin frowned. Then she snapped her fingers, but regretfully.

“That’s true! Unfortunately—I don’t remember it. Did you have, um…paved streets?”

She gave him a blank look. Alman Sanito hesitated.

“W-where exactly? Outside my manor?”

“Yeah, paved streets? Was there a shrub somewhere around? I don’t remember. I think I needed to spend longer there. I could tell you all about the Players of Celum’s inn—or Emperor Laken’s guest houses and his mean traffic light, Traffy.”

“An [Emperor]? A what light?”

He was getting lost, but it was clear that Erin Solstice needed more than a second in his lands. She gave him a helpless look.

“If I’d spent a day or two there, I’d probably have a way to ‘anchor’ the door. It’s not an improvement, it being a Skill instead of magic. No one can steal it, but it has different requirements. And then you can only move it around a little bit, not grab them and run to a different city. Sorry, Alman. Trade might be out.”

The next words out of his mouth were quick, desperate, and instantaneous. Along with his smile.

“Then—I should invite you to House Sanito’s lands at once, Miss Solstice! It’s only a two-week ride from Invrisil—why, we’d even pay for a faster carriage…”

Erin looked up into his face, and his heart kept sinking through his boots. Erin Solstice—famous traveller, who’d had such great experiences travelling recently?

Alman Sanito stood there as his family anxiously stared at his back. And before he had to put on a good face and turn to them—someone looked up from her table where she was catching up with old friends.

“Bezale, Ceria, sorry. Give me one second. I think this is what we’ve been waiting for. Do I have anything on my face?”

Montressa du Valeross stood up, and Bezale caught her. She dabbed a napkin at some ketchup on Montressa’s cheek, and the [Mage] strode over. As the hour of Erin Solstice waned…

The age of Valeterisa began.

 

——

 

Pawn didn’t hear the slight hubbub from behind him as he walked through the inn’s quieter corridors. There was always a hubbub in the inn. Unless someone screamed—and even then, you waited for the fifth scream—you didn’t pay attention.

“This is the room in which the [Crusaders] were ordained. It is a small room, and we will someday build a better one. But for now—”

The Workers and Soldiers were filing in past Pawn when they all stopped. Yellow Splatters halted, and a Drowned Man who had decided to shadow Pawn came to a stop. Seborn stared into the prayer room of the Antinium—and the notoriously taciturn [Rogue] made a sound.

He laughed.

“Hah! What in the name of shellfish is this? Some kind of joke?”

His voice startled the beings within. Some jerked around—others squeaked—they whirled and froze up. Some began hiding behind the podiums or altar—but there were far too many.

Possibly as many as a hundred—but they didn’t fill up the room, despite their numbers. How had they gotten in? Pawn stared in confusion—for the prayer room was filled with Sariant Lambs.

They had been crowded around the altar where something was lying open. A book—and one of the lambs was resting on a little stool. It—she—had been bleating something in lamb-speak. And the Sariants had been sitting or standing.

At the sight of the inn’s guests, they began to flee, racing past the Antinium’s feet or baahing randomly. Some looked at the Antinium—and ran, crying loudly.

What the—

The Antinium were so surprised they only realized the lambs were making an exodus as they tried to stampede. Of course, the tiny, adorable things couldn’t push past anything. But they cried like little children—and their caretakers came for them.

“So this’ where they are! The little rascals!”

Mister Prost himself had come to find the Sariants. They had apparently all run through the portal door from Riverfarm. A bunch of Riverfarm folk recoiled from the Antinium and Goblins and rescued the lambs, who were crying and running to them.

“Were they hungry? Or curious? His Majesty noticed them going through the door and sent me to investigate. I’m sorry for the trouble, Miss Solstice.”

What? I’m baking!

Erin stuck her head out of the kitchen and looked blank. She frowned at the lambs.

“Wait, that’s a lot of them. Did Nerry do this? Where were they?”

“Just the prayer rooms. It looked like they were starting a cult. Better watch out or you’ll get [Necromancers] and [Cult Leaders].”

Seborn was highly amused, and even the Riverfarm folk laughed when he related the strange scene. But Pawn…Pawn glanced over his shoulder.

“Just copying us, perhaps?”

Yellow Splatters himself seemed confused as a lamb tried to push past Pawn. But the [Priest]…

The priest looked down at the lambs, ignoring him, pretending to run from the scary Antinium. Slowly, he bent down and picked one up.

It wasn’t Nerry—and the little lamb kicked and wailed as Pawn looked at it. The Riverfarm folk were concerned, but Lyonette assured them Pawn was just curious.

“They were not playing.”

Pawn spoke to himself—to the lamb and the Antinium around him. He stared at the lamb as it stared at him for a second then tried to look innocent and cry.

It was a very little one, perhaps even by their standards. Pawn looked in its eyes.

“They were praying. That was my book. Little lamb…what were you praying for?

No one noticed him. Everyone was laughing at the lambs as they cuddled the guests. But the little lamb stared at Pawn—and he looked it in the eyes.

“Is it something we can pray for, little lamb? What do you want?”

The Sariant looked at Pawn—and its face screwed up. It tried—hard—but it was too late. The lamb’s cute little button eyes began to turn wet. Then it began sobbing. Tiny tears rolled down its face—and they looked different from the wailing lambs crying piteously.

It knew it shouldn’t, and was trying to stop, but the little lamb just began hiccuping, then. Uncontrollable tears rolled down its face. And only Pawn truly saw its face. Those eyes staring at him. As incomprehensibly hard to truly read as…an Antinium’s insectile eyes.

Pawn stared at the shaking lamb—until something kicked him. He jerked—and Nerry bit his leg, or tried to.

“Nerry! Pawn, you might be frightening the little lamb. I’ll take it. There, there.”

Lyonette took the lamb, and it kept crying as the other Sariants surrounded it and Lyonette put it down. But the [Priest] kept staring as Prost assured everyone all the lambs were safe—just emotionally vulnerable.

It was a funny little moment, that was all. And the lambs left as Erin stared at Nerry. Then she went back to baking. She only said one thing, as if to the air. Perhaps to Lord Alman, speaking to Montressa? Or…

“You have to ask. I never get things unless someone spells it out.”

She walked back inside the kitchen as the lambs looked at her—then Nerry. A naked Drake went stomping past Lady Edere, and she covered her children’s faces in horror. Lady Pryde just sipped from a post-workout beverage and rolled her eyes. She was still here too, and she seemed to be spending more time in The Wandering Inn than The Adventurer’s Haven. Probably because Larracel had refused to install a workout room. She didn’t want that much sweat percolating about her inn.

Saliss of Lights was scowling and muttering about alchemical shortages, and he and Erin locked eyes. Both gave each other a look. Erin had asked to speak to Saliss. Saliss was busy.

The [Alchemist] and [Innkeeper] had a look that said, ‘no, you come to me while I’m doing my thing’. Erin stepped into her kitchen. Saliss walked backwards, arms spread wide, heading to the portal door.

Erin Solstice reached up—and the air crackled and flared with a dozen colors.

She took off her hat. Then she reached inside, and the kitchen began to glow. Saliss halted in his tracks. He sighed as Nerry narrowed her eyes and the inn turned. Mrsha calmly tugged on Watch Captain Venim and Kenva’s claws. She was taking cover behind a table. Pawn and the other Antinium decided it was time to pray after all, and Riverfarm’s folk disappeared with their lambs fast.

That was what tended to happen when the [Innkeeper] of The Wandering Inn made food.

 

——

 

This time, she didn’t experiment. She used her craft.

It felt like reaching into a well and hauling something precious out of it. She knew how deep the well was—her hat and inn held everything she had gathered, and it had been practically bursting already.

Just like when she made Foliana’s gift—she could feel how she had to take the feelings and put them into something suitable. But unlike last time, there was more to it.

Like an unskilled pair of hands, she had been clumsy, wasteful, packing power in like packing peanuts rather than anything elegant. Well—sometimes you could do that, but of late, Erin Solstice had been seeing art.

[Witches] sometimes making small things, but infusing craft in every stitch of a hat. Dividing their authority between a thousand crows—or putting it in the swing of an ancient axe. If a single sweep of a broom could be so magical as to clear a room, then you had no excuse not to try to put the same into cooking, right?

She was no expert and never had been. Cooking was a means to an end for Erin Solstice, which was why she didn’t like it. You ate what you made, and what fun was that? It was impermanent—which was why she didn’t often do things like spice rubs and complicated, tedious processes.

Even now, she didn’t necessarily do that, but she put effort in this time. That was the difference. Every step of this process, she stopped. Thought about what she was going to do before she did it and tried to put something into it.

For instance—one of the first things she did, before she even poured the flour into a bowl to mix, was heat some butter in a pan. A lot of butter—sugar, a dash of salt—and in theory, she should be tossing yeast and sugar into some water. Or—lacking that, the baking soda.

But this time, she stopped. Erin Solstice stared at the stick of butter she’d grabbed. And the baking powder—and she spoke.

“No baking powder. Not this time. I think—where’re the butters?”

She put away the mundane stick of butter. Erin Solstice looked around and threw open a cupboard. Then she picked something out of it—a gift from one of the new visitors to Liscor.

“Ah.”

The most ominous of happy sighs echoed through the kitchen—for Erin Solstice had just pulled out a pot of dark grey butter. Inedible looking—until you realized it came from a Noelictus-breed cow. A Shadowcalf, raised by the famous Lischelle-Drakle farm. And when she set it to melting, Erin Solstice fetched out something that made Lyonette decide to take a walk rather than watch.

Ashwheat flour. But it wasn’t going to just be dark. Intention…Erin Solstice prepared some of the other ingredients she knew full well. Then she looked around.

“Can someone get me a quick delivery?”

“What do you want?”

Numbtongue poked his head into the kitchen, and Erin hmmed. She stared at the ingredients she was preparing—threw some sugar into the melting butter mixture. Some milk from the same cow—grey—

“I wish we had better salt and sugar. It’s okay. I need…iron. Can you take some ore and wash it so it’s as clean as it’ll get? Just this much.”

She made a tiny amount with her two fingers. Eating metal was probably bad for you.

Iron? Numbtongue hesitated—but then he went running off to Esthelm to bother a Dwarf. Erin stared into the dry mix.

“It needs something else. It’s all about intention. So—if that’s one half—something in the center, I think. Like a coin?”

Her eyes darkened as she thought of a bright flash of metal—then Erin’s gaze brightened.

“Or…hey, is it possible to make alcoholic breads? They have ‘beer battered fries’ and stuff in pubs. I get it now. Anyone know if we have any dyes? Okay, I need two pots, and I guess I’ll use boring butter in this one…regular flour here…where’s my magical ingredient cupboard!? Oh. It’s labeled.”

Erin was banging around the kitchen like a storm, but only to put her ingredients out, check on her milk mixture, and so on. When she began working—mixing the flour—she did it slowly, carefully scraping the bowl as she poured the first mixture in—and did the same with a smaller set of bowls.

She looked…like she was actually thinking about how you were supposed to mix in dough rather than just doing it by rote or sticking a beater in there. The amount of novel cognition might have been taking all of Erin’s concentration.

No [Witch] would mock her, though. Especially not Nanette, who delivered a tiny amount of washed iron dust to Erin herself. She peeked into the kitchen after asking Erin if it were alright to observe. For this was Erin’s craft. And while she might not do it often—

One of her talents as a [Witch] was cooking. Her [Wondrous Fare] Skill, her hat, her [Innkeeper] class…Nanette had never seen Erin Solstice work as hard as she did now. But then—the [Innkeeper] had a reason to work hard.

The inn moved around Erin, but respectful of the kitchen—Ishkr or a worker would pop in to get food, but no one was making anything but her, and the audience in the kitchen was small.

After twenty-two minutes, someone began to boo.

Boo. No explosions. Boo. Hiss. Boring. I want my money back. You’re not the Erin I remember. You’ve changed. You’ve lost your touch. The old Erin was cooler before she died.”

Saliss cupped his claws to his mouth, and the [Innkeeper] turned her head.

“Hey, pal. You try it.”

Then he grinned. And his teeth flashed. Saliss had chosen the part of the process where Erin was carefully mixing up the dough. Two batches, actually. Neither one with baking powder, the most novel and alchemical item in her kitchen.

That was most of Octavia’s local sales. Pallass still hadn’t caught onto the stuff en masse, but some [Merchants] had begun taking it to interested [Bakers], and Saliss knew the recipe was registered and credited to Octavia in the Alchemist’s Guild. Interest was not widespread, though. He wondered if that might soon change.

But Saliss of Lights just stood there. He was weary from his own studies. He spoke as Erin worked.

“I heard you wanted to bother me about something, Erin. If it’s Albez 2.0, you need to bother Xif. Because I’m trying to catalog a bunch of ancient alchemy items and figure out what does what without blowing my laboratory to smithereens.”

“…How likely is that?”

The Drake looked sideways at Nanette and Nerry and lowered his voice.

“More likely than any other time in the last five years, actually. The trick to figure out what you’re working with is identification—that’s a lot of looking in books and figuring out what something looked like before it got ground up or dried out, and so on. But eventually, you do try to figure out what some reagent does.”

“Uh huh. And the boom?”

Saliss didn’t mind giving her a little lesson.

“Well—low-level [Alchemists] use water or something mundane. The idea is to create the smallest reaction possible. I use bases that actually reduce any catalyst’s effect. But if you toss Unicorn horns into the right mix—even a gram—”

He raised his claws and made a pshow sound.

“Did you know that if you move glass fast enough, you can break enchanted metal? The trouble is that I have over a hundred and twenty things to catalog, and some might be the equivalent of old-era simple acids. And some of it is definitely the real stuff.”

And it was the real stuff that he both needed—and needed to identify before he blew his face off. Erin nodded. No wonder Saliss looked stressed.

“Sounds about right. Second question—you were in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, right?”

The Drake frowned at her. He didn’t look pleased by the question and never talked about the place he had apprenticed for ages.

“Yep.”

“It’s a place full of Stitch-folk, isn’t it? Famously where Nerrhavia died after they rebelled and took her kingdom? Lost her fortress, though.”

“…Awfully odd way to describe it. Earth-shatteringly odd, one might say. But yes, I was there. I wasn’t a local, but you pick stuff up.”

Erin carefully spread the dough out and grabbed a rolling pin. Saliss eyed the black mass. Erin turned her head to him.

“You, uh…got fifteen minutes to stare at something for me? It’s in my room. How good are you at dresses? And cloth?”

The [Alchemist] stared at Erin, lips moving as if he were trying to work out if this was a trick. In the end, he managed a grunt.

“You might be surprised.”

 

——

 

Saliss wasn’t the only person that Erin called in for this. In fact, upon request, she sent Numbtongue to ask if Revi were in the area—and they grabbed Octavia, who was back after sending Rhaldon off on a delivery.

“Hey, does anyone else here know anything about thread? Or pots?

Erin shouted into her common room. In theory, she might have gotten Selys, who was at least a decent stitcher.

In practice? Lady Edere Sanito found herself standing with the Drake and two Stitch-women, and at least Saliss had the decency to put on his box. She looked to her husband for help, but Alman was talking with Montressa. And her two children had run off with some Gnoll after a giant bee!

“Oh, Flowers of Izril protect me.”

She was incredibly nervous—you heard things about this inn. And what was worse—she was being actively snubbed!

The [Innkeeper] didn’t even face Lady Edere. She was baking! Doing something with the bread—and she had an entire bottle of rum. Was she drinking on the job? Edere was outraged—until she learned the naked Drake was no less than a Named-rank Adventurer.

And the first thing Saliss of Lights did after he’d brought down two objects from Erin’s rooms and inspected them with Revi, Octavia, and Edere was come to a conclusion.

“Erin. This dress is ugly as a Stelbore’s ass. If you try to wear it, we might have to stab you.”

He stared at the bright green inlays in the dress—which clashed amazingly with the pink. You could run the colors off each other. The green was just the edgework around the pockets and hem and so on—but the rest of the dress was dirty pink.

“It’s got brown buttons. This has got to be Izrilian style. Made by a colorblind [Seamstress]. Only Terandria could export this kind of hideousness.”

“It’s not Izrilian.”

Lady Edere spoke up in defense of her homeland. Octavia, who was the least fashion-forwards, poked at the dress with one of her measuring spoons as if afraid it would bite her. It had two worn straps to hang over the shoulders—she tried to imagine Erin wearing this.

“How do you know it’s not Izrilian?”

“Yeah. Looks stupid enough for the north.”

Saliss and Revi sneered at Lady Edere Sanito. The woman drew herself up.

“Because we would hang the person wearing it.”

“Explains how it got into that antique store. Erin? Erin, you have no taste. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Revi called out, and Erin turned to flip one flour-covered finger up. She glowered back at the [Summoner].

“I’m not wearing it! What about the vase?”

They looked at the giant carp with cream-color, faded paint around the lips, and the vague fish-scales on the side. Lady Edere peered at it.

“The opening is sideways. You couldn’t put anything in it. Is it meant to be some kind of off-kilter flower pot?”

Octavia nudged it.

“Boot holder?”

Saliss kicked it from the other side, and it rocked. It wasn’t even that sturdy.

“Parasol holder? Broom holder?”

Revi put her chin in one hand.

“[Thief] deterrent?”

Everyone stared at her. Lady Edere pursed her lips.

“What would it do against a [Thief]? Do you throw it at them? That’s the only use I could imagine. It’s surely not enchanted or valuable.”

“No, what you do is you put it in the hallway. So when they break in—they look at it and say, ‘this person has no class or taste, there’s nothing worth stealing’. Then they leave.”

Despite herself, Lady Edere laughed, and the roasting of the carp-vase and ugly dress continued. But Erin Solstice didn’t seem hurt by the accusations against either’s style.

“I know they suck. I think they suck. I’d have never bought them from the store I went to—well. I’m not a vase person or a clothes person.”

“Neither am I.”

Saliss put his hands on his bare hips. He had been chuckling along—but he was eying both objects with a kind of keen-eyed stare that made Revi pick up on it. Edere too—she might not be an adventurer, but she had fought with the greatest in another bloody battlefield before.

A [Lady] might not hunt through dungeons, but going through auctions or sales against the top [Bargain Hunters] and [Merchants] and so on? They looked like that. She studied the vase and gown again.

“What, exactly, are we looking for, Miss Solstice?”

Erin turned her head as she poured the rum into a bowl. Then she grabbed a match. Everyone watched as the room lit up for a second. Erin turned to her consultants.

“I don’t know—but I was hoping you could help me. I think there’s something about the dress and vase that matters. Maybe it’s what they’re made of? Or is there something in them?”

All four of her consultants looked at each other. Then—without a word, they bent over the two objects again. This time, Edere did see something to note.

“This came from that famous pawn shop, didn’t it? The antique store?”

“You know about that one?”

Saliss raised his brows—Edere flushed. House Sanito was not well off, so she turned red—until she realized she was not among noble company. Even so, she lowered her voice in case Pryde heard.

“One can find some reasonable deals in a variety of locations. Certain inquiring classes love to hunt about such stores and locales.”

“Huh. I know a few of that kind of place myself.”

Revi looked intrigued. But Edere was eying the dress again.

“It could be hundreds of years old at most. In which case…it’s held up surprisingly well. I don’t believe the entire shop is enchanted in a preservation spell.”

So the cloth could be ancient. It certainly…looked that way. It might have been moths or just the wear and tear of being used until it was donated, but the hem was frayed in several places. Not too badly that you couldn’t see yourself buying it—again, if not for the ugly color, the need to replace all the buttons, the damn stitching—

Okay, this dress was better used as kindling because the effort to make it something worthwhile was better put into sewing a new dress wholesale. Edere, who had hand-made dresses that looked noble enough for her own children at a very reasonable price, vouched as much.

“Eight gold coins—and that can be dear—can still produce an entire matching outfit for a young [Lord]. Dresses are more expensive, but I have sewn one up for thirteen gold coins.”

Octavia had never spent that much for anything but alchemy-resistant clothing and looked scandalized by the price. But Revi raised her brows, impressed.

“That’s cheap! I’d pay for that kind of clothing—is that what your children have on? It looks as good as, if not better, than most clothing on the market.”

Edere was modestly proud about that. Saliss, who was naked, had to rely on Onieva’s expertise. He’d found the inner pockets—but there was nothing interesting in them aside from the owner’s clear desire not to be shackled by the lack of pockets in life. Which was commendable in and of itself.

Yet Edere was peering at the dress.

“Strange. It’s all worn down, and I wouldn’t even try to recycle this. But there is one part that stands out. Do you notice it?”

The Stitch-girls and Saliss stared down, and they all got it. Revi’s eyes sharpened, and Octavia wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. Saliss too—but the dress was so damn ugly.

The Stitch-folk of Chandrar cared more about cloth than most people. Edere might care for fashion and appearance and comfort—but this was Octavia and Revi’s skin. Similarly…what held them together was just as vital.

“The stitching. I thought it was just some bright thread. But that’s not the case, is it? It’s held up perfectly.”

Odd. Stitching is the first thing to loosen or go. See how the cloth tore here? Either someone stitched this up with a Skill like [Unsnappable Thread]…”

“Erin, can we mess with the dress?”

Revi turned to the kitchen as they conferred. Erin waved a hand and got flour everywhere.

Achoo! Sure!

Edere had a pair of sewing scissors on her, and she began to try and cut the dress apart. The old fabric came apart easily, but she began snipping at the pocket—and realized something. Edere cut across the pocket, intending to pull out the thread. Then she pulled the scissors back, stared at them—snip-snipped again—

“My goodness. I think I just blunted my scissors.”

Aghast, she stared at the slight dimples in the good steel. She kept a fine edge on the scissors—and Revi blinked.

“I have a dagger. It’s enchanted. Here.”

Saliss took another part of the dress as Revi tried to saw at the stitches. Only to realize…she couldn’t cut them. She looked over—and Saliss was chewing on part of the dress.

Saliss!

“It’s tough. What?”

His teeth couldn’t break the thread either, and Octavia ended up with a pocket—Saliss the hemline—and Revi and Edere other parts of the bright green stitching.

“Can we…”

“Go ahead! Hey! Anyone know how many eggs we’ve got? I need dinobird eggs! Someone call for Bird!”

While Erin was baking away, Edere, Octavia, and Revi began digging into the mystery of the thread. Saliss, by now, was inspecting the vase. He cracked part of it—it wasn’t that tough, just thick—and bore it and his sample of thread away to Pallass.

Meanwhile, Octavia tried a knife on the thread. It wouldn’t cut. She tried to burn it with a match.

It did not burn. Staring at the green thread, Octavia felt a tingle in her own cloth.

“There’s no way. Is this…the old Adamantium bricks story?”

Revi looked up sharply and Edere blankly. But now, Octavia was watching Revi experimenting with sharper blades. Octavia went the other way. She looked around—and pulled something off one of the walls.

The acid jar needed a safe place to experiment—so she went to her lab, made sure Reagen wasn’t ambling about—then put the thread in a metal tray. Then she poured some acid over the top.

She watched the thread floating about as the rest of the cloth smoked and dissolved in seconds. Octavia stared at the thread.

“…Yep. That’s not normal.”

She looked up when she heard an aha from the common room.

 

——

 

“I cut it! Or rather—Numbtongue did!”

Revi had won the war. Numbtongue was panting—and he’d cut a line straight into the inn’s floorboards. Lyonette was throwing a fit.

Numbtongue!

“It was hard!”

He had his Dragonblood crystal sword out—and two tables had been secured with the string stretched between two heavy rocks. Numbtongue had been swinging his sword down, trying to cut the string.

He’d managed it after Shorthilt had taken over, and the resulting slash had cut through the floor too. Numbtongue stared at the thread suspiciously as Lyonette groaned. Erin just poked her head out of the kitchen.

“Hey, where are the baking trays? Don’t worry about the floor, Lyonette. [Partial Reconstruction]!”

The inn’s floor began to mend as Numbtongue felt at the thread. It was as strong as could be!

“That’s the kind of thread you’d want to use in fishing for sharks. What kind of material is it?”

By now, Seborn had cottoned onto Revi’s experiments, and Octavia came back to report it was odd thread too.

“Acid-proof?”

“More like the acid doesn’t even begin to dissolve it. It might be dissolvable—but not by acid-flies.”

Everyone gathered around the thread, wondering what it could be. It was the most important part of the dress—Lady Edere was sighing.

“The color is so—bright! It would be hard to fit in subtly anywhere. But the strength of it!”

“It’s a strong thread. Not exactly armor, my dear.”

Alman had the blank look of an oblivious husband being dragged along to a shopping outing. But Edere looked outraged.

“Alman! You have some nerve saying that! You know thread goes into your precious suits of armor, don’t you? A piece of leather is only as good as the stitching that binds it! And thread begets cloth! Why, if you had enough of this, you could make a shirt so tough only yon…Goblin…could cut it!”

“And he barely got one thread! Imagine making my stitches with this! I’d never have split ends again!”

Revi was nodding. Numbtongue was red-faced. He stowed his sword.

“It’s tough thread! I’m going to go practice with my sword. With the Horns. I’ll be back when I beat up Pisces, Ksmvr, and Yvlon.”

He stomped off, ignoring his brother’s ghost, who was saying much the same thing as Revi—but in even less kindly terms.

“The real question is—what is the thread? Because I should dearly love some more, wouldn’t you? Miss Solstice! Miss Solstice, do you think that antique store might have more such dresses?”

Everyone looked up eagerly, and Erin screamed.

I’m on fire! I’m on—oh wait, it’s okay.”

She came out, dusting flames off her. Alman stared as Erin tossed some flames onto the floor.

“Force of habit. What was the question? Oh, the dresses? Nah. I think the pot and dress were the only special things. Or I would have found more fingers in other pockets.”

“Everything about what you just said made no sense. From the fire to the fingers. Explain.”

Lady Pryde folded her arms, glaring, and she had been there. Grimalkin gave her a look of deep sympathies. He had just come into the inn.

“Grimalkin! Man, everyone’s coming here today. Kitchen’s busy, but are you here to talk? I’m a bit busy—can you guys reverse-engineer the thread or something?”

“It’s just a simple thread. We need more…”

Edere was peering at the thread and wishing she had some spectacles from home. Grimalkin just grunted.

“I suspected something was up.”

“How’s that?”

The Sinew Magus nodded back the way he’d come, and Erin distantly heard the wail of something in the background. Did she smell smoke?

“Saliss of Lights blew a hole in the top of his laboratory. It’s now on fire. You…wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Everyone stopped as they heard the fire alarms in Pallass going off. Erin stared at Grimalkin. She slowly walked back into the kitchen and pretended she wasn’t there.

 

——

 

By the time Valeterisa, the Archmage of Izril, came to the inn, there was so much fascinating stuff happening that she barely listened to Montressa whispering in her ear.

The first thing she saw was a sooty Drake, Saliss of Lights, pointing at a bit of thread and the vase.

“Both are highly magical. I don’t know what either one is—but it’s the Adamantium bricks story. The thread’s so tough I had to cut it with a Mithril razor. The pot has something in it. Baked into the damn ceramics. And…I think I’ve seen something similar in the ingredients from Albez.”

He was grinning like a madman despite having been caught up in the blast. Valeterisa peered at the pot fragment as everyone drew back.

When you removed the lesser parts of the ceramic, you got some kind of glittering powder. It was white…or translucent?

Oh, and it was apparently so reactive that it had blown a hole through Saliss’ fortified laboratory when he tried to find out what it did.

Erin Solstice’s eyes were glittering—but she was also peering at something in her oven. So that was why Nerrhavia had called her.

“What’s this about Adamantium bricks?”

Lady Edere didn’t get the reference. Valeterisa explained absently as she tried to grab one of the thread pieces. Saliss slapped her hand down.

“Ouch. The Adamantium bricks is a popular—and historically accurate—story about a Chandrarian [Brick Layer] who didn’t realize he had found Adamantium ore in its unprocessed state. A Dwarven [Smith] recognized that entire brick walls had been built out of the raw Adamantium ore. The parable is used to describe something valuable hidden in plain sight. Give me that piece of thread, please. I would like to inspect it. Montressa, secure a sample.”

“Archmage—”

Montressa was thrust forward like some kind of attack-apprentice. She stared at Saliss—but he grabbed Octavia and put her in front of him.

“Apprentice—throw an acid jar! Attack!”

“Apprentice Montressa, use a barrier spell. Counter with [Light Arrows].”

Before the two respective masters could make their apprentices do battle, Lord Alman Sanito jumped.

Archmage Valeterisa?

He knew she was staying at the Haven, but now she was here—and apparently here for him! Valeterisa focused on the [Lord] as she slowly levitated a piece of thread up with one finger. Saliss grabbed it.

“Ah, Lord Alman Sanito. I am told you are my first test subject.”

“T-test subject?”

“What Archmage Valeterisa means is that she would be delighted to help you with your issues regarding trade! Can we discuss the matter somewhere private?”

Montressa hurried forwards and nudged Valeterisa aside. Valeterisa was trying to speak, and she had that uncanny, too-friendly smile on.

“Pitch #1: Hello sir or madam! I have the offer of a lifetime for you. Are you interested in magical transportation similar to Fissival’s Teleportarium grid? Tired of slow [Drivers]? I can send your goods across Izril at a fraction of the cost. No livestock, irreplaceable goods, or people for now. Accidents may occur. I am not liable for any magical accidents, vortexes, or destruction of property that may occur—”

Before the rest of the dreadful spiel could be laid upon House Sanito, Montressa elbowed Valeterisa and spoke.

“[Master, Allow Me].”

Valeterisa blinked—shut up—and then began to silently nod as Montressa took over a more rational explanation of what was going on. Yet—with a deal of magical knowledge that even Montressa couldn’t speak on normally.

“We can do eighty miles, Lord Alman. Eighty miles—and what we’re calculating at six point four filled crates of ten feet by ten per day. Until we work out magical leylines and recharging the spells—think on it. It might not be much, but it will be a daily shipment.”

He was blinking as Montressa spoke. Valeterisa was impressed. Those were her calculations. She hadn’t even told Montressa that. Did the Skill let Montressa use Valeterisa’s magical knowledge?

Imagine how many spells and projects she could make Montressa do. Valeterisa rubbed her hands together. Saliss himself looked envious.

“That’s a good [Apprentice] Skill. Octavia, beat her up and steal her Skill.”

Lady Pryde was listening in sharply, and when she heard what Montressa was offering—Grimalkin was staring at Valeterisa, but in a resigned way.

“Fissival.”

That was his only comment. Meanwhile, everyone was staring at the thread and powdered vase-stuff. Lady Edere coughed.

“How would one find what the thread was spun from? If it is…it may be highly valuable, but what there is—is limited here.”

Just enough to stitch up a dress, really. Five Families knew she wanted more, but even Edere’s own [Seamstress] class couldn’t pick up what the thread was.

“Some people from home could probably figure it out. If Erin wants to send it to Nerrhavia’s Fallen—dead gods, I’ll send it back home myself.”

Octavia looked passionate about the thread, but Saliss just grunted as he brushed soot off his face.

“Don’t do that. You’ll never get it back if it’s valuable. It’ll be confiscated. You need…a kind of [Historian]-[Scholar]-[Tailor]. I guess it’s back to the old Oteslian research teams again. Hey, Erin! Can we send this off to someone to see what it is?

“No!”

For once, the [Innkeeper] refused. Now, the smells of something hot and lovely were coming from her ovens, and she emerged with a smile. She pointed at what Saliss had—alchemy and thread.

“Don’t send it to Nerrhavia’s Fallen or Oteslia. Can you divide the thread and powder into three?”

“There’s more than enough for three samples. Who do we send it to?”

Revi was skeptical that Erin Solstice could think of anyone better to talk to than Stitch-folk—until Erin started speaking.

“Send it to the Longstalker’s Fang tribe and ask for that famous [Magic Spinner] that Inkar knows. Send the powdery stuff to the other Gnoll tribes and ask if anyone remembers what it is. That’s one group. Send the other parts to Wiskeria and the [Witches]. I’ll make Ser Dalimont run it over. And give the last to Kevin.”

“…Why Kevin?”

Erin gave them a blank look.

“He’ll send it to Khelt. Fetohep’s got a good [Potter].”

 

——

 

Somehow, amidst all the chaos of discovery, Valeterisa, and Erin baking with craft and magic—

Nothing had exploded.

Well, in the inn. Saliss didn’t count. It was so odd that Lyonette kept checking on Erin’s kitchen, but all she saw was an [Innkeeper] cursing, experimenting, feeding her ‘failed’ experiments to Mrsha, Rhata, and Ekirra and getting them to attack guests—and working hard.

Most of the day, in fact, Erin just stayed in the kitchen. Working.

Two last things happened that day that made Erin break off cooking, even for a few seconds. She was experimenting with her doughs and realizing she needed a very low heat for the first part of her process—and she had to be exquisitely careful with the second bake.

“I’ll never get it to Oteslia fast. Darn! Even if my door can go to Pallass…anyone know how you get something super-quick to Oteslia? This’ll be too much to fit in most bags of holding.”

Valeterisa appeared, munching on one of Erin’s failed prototypes.

“I am busy flying to House Sanito. I am also not working with the Walled Cities as of yet. Inquire later. I will be approaching Liscor’s Council after my trial runs.”

“Wh…okay?”

Erin stared at the Archmage blankly. Valeterisa gave her the same look.

“I thought we were discussing deliveries.”

“You deliver things?”

“I transport them now. We are in competition.”

“We are?”

Possibly only Valeterisa could beat Erin in the obfuscation of reality game. And that was because Valeterisa genuinely looked as confused as Erin. But as she walked off, someone else popped up.

“Miss Solstice. I think I could take whatever you’re wishful of. Won’t be a hard trip down the trade roads. Give me a few days, and I’ll run it down, quick, just for you. My own apprentice is doing his first solo-delivery.”

And there he was. The forgotten man—Termin, the [Wagon Driver] in the background. He had been quite ignored in all the excitement, but when you needed him—the delivery man appeared.

Erin turned to Termin, delighted.

“Termin! You’re sure? Are you that fast?”

Termin the Omnipresent’s eyes glinted.

“When it comes to it, I can make good time. Not as fast as a Courier or their fancy Pegasi—but if it’ll wait a few days—these important gentlemen you need me to deliver to?”

“The most important. And the most gentlemenish. It’ll wait till then. It’s probably good if no one notices. I think I’m almost done. Can you set off the next morning? If I need to bake through the night doing two more batches, I will.”

Termin’s eyes glinted. He focused on what Erin was making, and she showed him the trick. He grinned.

“I’d be interested in seeing what that does. I can do a tiny cart with Erma and Fox, then. Make brilliant time. The more important the delivery, the faster I go, Miss Solstice.”

“Hey. In that case…let’s talk fees.”

Erin gave him a floury handshake and beamed. Then Mrsha raced in, waving a notecard.

Erin, Erin!

Erin and Termin turned. Mrsha was dancing around—but she had to put a second notecard down and write out what she wanted to say.

Erin, Ryoka is coming! She’s almost at Invrisil!

“What? No way! That’s great news! Roll out the red carpet—Ryoka’s coming back, everyone!”

Erin laughed in delight. Mrsha smiled—until she wondered if she should be mad Ryoka hadn’t come back sooner. But this was good, and she decided to beam.

“Ryoka?”

Relc poked his head into the kitchen. He was coming in, and his scales were a bit wet from the chill outside. He coughed into one gloved hand.

“It’d be nice to see her.”

The [Innkeeper] blinked at Relc as the Drake Guardsman developed a nasty cough. But then he indicated the door.

“That’s better news than what I’ve got. How’s it going, Erin? Hey, weird food. Mind if I try—”

She smacked his hand.

“No! I’m going to need as much as I can. Have a burger.”

“You don’t make them well.”

Relc sulked. Erin raised a fist.

“Pizza?”

“Oh, okay. I deserve a slice! I was at work all day—serious work, you know. There was nearly a fight at the gates. You’ll never guess who just flounced into Liscor, throwing their tails around.”

Erin went back to baking.

“Who?”

Relc grimaced as he decided he needed to check his appearance in a mirror.

“Manus. Some Wall Lady who caused trouble is back, and you’ll never guess who I ran into. Captain Z herself had to keep a fight from breaking out. The balls on them—but they are allies. I guess.”

“Manus? Great. Aren’t those the war-jerks? Wait…Riverfarm. Laken is going to hate that.”

Erin shuddered. Then she shook her head as she reached for another shot of rum.

“Eh, I’m sure we can keep them from heading over. What’s the worst that could happen? Oop! Murphy’s law. Remember when I used to talk about that all the time?”

Chuckling, she rapped her knuckles on the wood counter. Relc gave her a blank look as Erin turned. Mrsha eyed the counter. Maybe it was from the Facestealer attack, but the wooden counter had a huge crack in it.

 

——

 

The last notable incident that occurred came as Erin stared at her final creation. Proudly. She was exhausted, sweaty, her back and shoulders hurt from kneading—but she was proud.

Her hat was half-empty. Which…was actually amazing when you thought about it. But when Erin did a test—by waving it in front of Valeterisa’s face, then Bezale’s, both magic-users were mostly either perplexed and hungry or politely annoyed.

Good enough. 

Venaz, Wil, Peki, and Merrik had come in with some news. Merrik cleared his throat.

“Miss Solstice, I think tomorrow’s our last day here. We’re heading south to pick up Yerra…if she’s coming. And to say goodbye to Feshi. Could we ask if it’s too much trouble to have a little party?”

Erin beamed at him. Sadly, but she wiped sweat from her brow as Qwera, Ysara, and Ylawes’ new, expanded team tromped in with the [Knight] and the Silver Swords themselves.

“You bet. A big party? We can break out the cake and ice cream! Play a few rounds of chess.”

“Can that be for us, too? I’m heading north. Qwera is going back—but I’m visiting my family. With Ylawes—and Yvlon too, if we can manage it.”

Ysara Byres looked as happy as a slug showered in salt. Ylawes kept glancing at her, but he nodded.

“We won’t be as long—but I thought returning to home before we set out wouldn’t hurt.”

“Are you taking…?”

Erin stared at Infinitypear and Rasktooth, and the Cave Goblin and Worker grinned.

“We’re going to House Silver! As adventurers. See?”

They showed her bronze badges, and Erin’s jaw dropped. Nothing would do but for her to give them a big hug.

It was going to be a big day! Erin promised both groups she’d have a huge party for them and told the other guests to get ready too. The only thing that could dampen that good mood was Numbtongue, bleeding from the mouth and nose, being dragged in on his back.

“Numbtongue!”

He was a mess! He had cuts on his face, his chest—and someone had punched both his eyes black! Erin whirled—then her hand went for her knife. The [Strategists] turned as Octavia whirled and looked around for one of her potions.

“What happened? Who did this? Where’s Manus—

Shriekblade appeared, scrutinizing the damage, but to Erin’s astonishment, the two people who’d helped carry Numbtongue in stopped her.

“Hold it, Erin. It’s not Manus or anyone else. The real culprit’s right there.”

Erin turned and saw it was Ceria. The half-Elf had a knot on her head, and she looked grim. The other person was Ksmvr. He was unharmed, but he looked unhappy—and shaken.

A furious argument burst through the doors as Ylawes and Ysara turned. They saw their younger sister, Yvlon Byres, face completely red, as Pisces walked in. He was grimacing and holding his ribs.

But it was the last person, Colth the [Supporter], who was furiously speaking to Yvlon Byres. Yvlon—who, Erin realized—was responsible for most of the injuries.

Including her own. No one had used a healing potion, and Octavia herself was halted by Saliss, who told her not to waste the potion on the injuries. It was so startling everyone had to check themselves.

If Saliss and Octavia couldn’t waste healing potions on bruises, bloody noses, cuts—

Yvlon might have needed it the most, though. Numbtongue had given as good as he got—and the other Horns had put up a fight too. Especially when she came after them.

You are not ready to adventure. You have a Blood Skill, and you are going to get yourself or your team killed. I may not have the authority to stop you, but your team will if they have any sense. Find a way to remove it or control it or you can forget about adventuring again.”

Colth snapped. He didn’t look hurt, just disheveled.

“What happened?”

Mrsha was shaking Numbtongue, who sat up and groaned before lying back down. Yvlon didn’t say a word—she was breathing hard, and she avoided everyone’s gazes. Especially her brother and sister’s.

“[Berserker’s Rage].”

Colth said it—and the inn fell quiet. He looked at Yvlon and spoke flatly.

“You need to find an expert to help you. Ask Emper—[Monks] know this kind of thing.”

“I—”

Yvlon took a huge breath, and someone interrupted. Gireulashia peered at Yvlon and then nodded.

“Talk to Honored Berr. Of the Wild Wastes tribe. You’re heading to the tribes anyways, aren’t you? If you’re after Honored Shedrkh—speak with Berr as well. He knows rage. If you’re lucky, his tribe won’t have left the Meeting of Tribes yet.”

The Horns of Hammerad looked at each other. Yvlon said nothing—but they had two reasons to head south, now. Venaz glanced at Yvlon and, for once, decided to keep his mouth shut. Erin Solstice bit her lip, but Numbtongue was getting up with less hard feelings than most—and Erin exhaled.

“Ryoka had better not bring anything weird this time. It’s gonna be good. Just a few hiccups.”

Lyonette turned to Erin, and the rest of the inn did too. Relc was eying Infinitypear’s spear…Ylawes Byres was staring after his sister while Ysara stared a hole in the wall. Lady Pryde and Grimalkin were both taking notes on Erin’s pot and dress.

Valeterisa was in direct competition with the Driver’s Guild. Qwera was leaving, and soon, Niers’ students, the Horns, the Silver Swords, and possibly even Gire and the other Gnolls might have to move on too.

In the midst of it all, Ishkr looked around. He knew Ryoka. He had heard Manus was coming—and he saw Erin knocking a hand on a wooden beam. Ishkr eyed Nerry and for once wondered if he should take off work tomorrow.

Instead, he grabbed Peggy by the shoulder.

“Peggy—get the Workers and your Goblins. Tell them to put everything breakable in the Garden of Sanctuary. And is Rags coming back soon?”

The Hob turned warily.

“Chieftain Rags? You want her not to come?”

Ishkr paused a pregnant moment.

“…I doubt she can make it worse. But put some bedrolls in the Garden too. Just in case.”

He looked around and thought that Rags plus Manus multiplied by the party…and the Haven…at the start of winter, the most normal time for the inn. Maybe these were mitigating factors. He didn’t know.

The [Head Server of Tales and Fables] made only one mistake, the first huge one in his career. He just thought it—but he did think it in the back of his mind.

I just don’t see what could make this any worse.

 

——

 

It probably wasn’t the power of Murphy’s Law. These things just happened. They were already in motion.

But the power of Termin meant that the next morning, very early, the Wagon Driver set out with a small hamper of carefully covered and packed items fresh from Erin’s kitchen. He rather liked the inn—but Termin the Omnipresent hadn’t gotten to his level lightly.

Erma and Fox made amazing time from Pallass. It took some doing to let them through the [Portal Door] and hitch them to the waiting cart, but the door was bigger and a sleepy Liska obliged.

The normally-lazy ponies actually generated a trail of wind behind them as they clopped down the trade-road towards Oteslia. Like Termin…they could sense trouble.

He was leaving it behind him, thank you. The [Wagon Driver] was doubly certain he’d made the right move when he saw a group of yawning people exiting a carriage just outside of Pallass for an inspection.

Magnolia Reinhart was grumpy from sleeping in a carriage—but she was gracious enough despite the [Maids] and Ressa being used to her more indecorous states of being. As Reynold presented passports to some very surly Drakes, she turned to the two guests of her carriage.

“And here we are! I should hope we put any unpleasantness behind us. At least for you, young man. As for you, Mister Yelroan, isn’t it? Won’t you reconsider my offer?”

Sunlight flashed off a pair of amazingly sharp glasses, and a Gnoll grinned. He blinded a dozen [Guards] as he smiled.

Yelroan ducked his head.

“I made a promise, Lady Reinhart. Thank you for picking me up.”

“That poor horse should be just fine. It was my pleasure. The roads are not safe—and you, young man? You might need more help. Shall we discuss the matter? My estates are linked via the door and well-guarded.”

Magnolia turned some keen eyes to the shivering second passenger who had joined them in the night. In much distress. But the white-scaled Drake, who went by ‘Tesy’, just shook his head and glanced behind him. The road was silent this early in the morning.

“I—I have friends in Liscor. I think they’re there. I’ll be fine.”

“Mm. We’ll see. Happily, I have business in Liscor as well. I may speak to a friend—an acquaintance. Larracel. Shall we go together?”

They entered Pallass as Termin flapped his reins and Erma and Fox trotted faster. Magnolia Reinhart turned her head.

“Is that Termin I see?”

Hello, Lady Reinhart! Goodbye!

Reynold himself turned his head, amazed. He had thought he ran the fastest carriage in all of Izril, but the famous [Driver] was set to beat him. Termin fled like a partridge before a magical hurricane.

And this one was called Hurricane Ryoka-Rafaema-Tyrion-Manus-Erin’s Party-Winter…

It touched down in Liscor later that morning. But as things went, Termin only heard about it later. And he didn’t regret leaving at all.

 

——

 

By the time Termin rolled into Oteslia, everyone had seen the scrying orbs, and the world had changed as it always did. He was unnoticed as he unpacked, asked about the Gentlemen Callers or a ‘Rickel’, and found the latter.

By the time the Driver’s Guild had stopped pestering him about what had gone down and if he’d known—Termin met a young man who hurried up, inspected his cargo, and laughed his butt off before agreeing to find the Gentleman Callers.

It was a little thing, in the grand scheme of what was going on. Termin sat in the Driver’s Guild as a group of hatted men came in.

The [Drivers] were wary of them—but since these folk were actually far better to deal with than Earthtenders or the like, they let a pair of smiling men, a Gnoll with a fantastic suit and a Drake [Thief] assuring the others this would work, inspect the cargo.

Termin watched out of the corner of his eye as they read Erin’s note. He had his own [Message] from Rhaldon; the young man had written that he’d gotten the glassware and was heading back on a very safe route to grab some alchemical ingredients.

The Driver’s Guild was abuzz with the news—as well as concerning talk of competition.

“—just flew down, Termin. Then began chanting magic for six hours, and she said she had a teleport-thing for House Sanito! She’ll run us out of work!”

“Don’t ask me about it. I just got in. Give me a moment with my breakfast!”

Termin snarled at the worried Guildmaster. Then he sat back and realized Valeterisa was going to be a problem. Izril was changing, and he had been there. But sometimes he was glad he wasn’t there. He was glad Rhaldon was a sensible young fellow and had missed the worst of it too.

Dead gods. He’d thought Erin had run out of surprises.

 

——

 

The Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings were still fighting the Earthtenders in the streets. They gained ground—veterans from the north had come, and they were taking apart the Earthtenders, who had gotten complacent in their dominance of Oteslia.

Yet—the Watch still arrested knots of fighting [Thugs] and [Thieves] and [Rogues] and so forth. Neither side wanted to incur the wrath of Oteslia—yet.

And in the prisons, the battle for dominance went one way.

“You’ll get your items back once you enter. No weapons, no tools; if we search you and you’re hiding something, you lose it.”

The Watch Sergeant lecturing the newest prisoners arrested in a scrape was tired—but watchful. The Earthtenders with black eyes and bloody lips were glaring at three of the young Gnolls with hats.

They looked confident, and the Watch Sergeant was worried. Worried—because the First Gardener’s son had put in a request to check on the prisons and a series of murders happening in the ranks.

Someone had blades on the inside. The Earthtenders. But while Cire of Oteslia was…known to the Watch Sergeant, he also had orders not to disrupt things.

The law…was a hard thing to balance against what was best for Oteslia. The Watch Sergeant wondered if he’d lose his class this month or if it would change. The three Gnolls didn’t deserve what was waiting for them inside.

“Let us have our hats!”

One of the Gnolls growled as a [Guardsman] briskly inspected his possessions. The belt-knife, coins, miscellaneous items like a ‘match box’—all went into a lockbox for the Gnoll in question. But the [Guard] stopped and eyed one item.

“What’s this? Charcoal?”

“It’s a snack.”

The Watch Sergeant eyed it and called for a test.

“…Not magical that we can see.”

“It might have a needle inside!”

One of the Earthtenders called out, and the Watch Sergeant glared. He bit his tongue—and broke the item open.

“A needle? Fine—”

The Sergeant inspected the pieces. Nothing. Glowering, he handed it back to the Gnoll, who put the pieces in his hat and pressed them together.

“It’s just bread. Let him eat it—they won’t last in the lockbox. Move them into the cells!

No one paid much attention to the Gnoll’s snack. The three Brothers joined a small group of their own, and the other inmates gave them sympathetic looks.

Dead men, hat men. You may rule the streets, but the Earthtenders have roots inside.

One called out to the trio of Gnolls, who joined some very scared new recruits. But, strangely, the trio of young men looked more confident than the others. Fools, perhaps.

“Here, lads. Take one of these. A little snack.”

Each of the three Brothers had three pieces of bread—which the Watch Captain had assumed were just snacks.

Bad snacks, too. They looked like charcoal briquettes, and when he’d broken them open, he’d seen burnt bread. But sometimes a fellow got hungry, and they’d been in the hats.

In fact—the [Guards] had missed all but one of the little pieces of hard bread. Unleavened and small. They’d fit in the palm of your paw, so they did.

The Brothers—even the new ones—looked at the pieces of bread in dismay, but they had to trust. And recess was coming up—the cells were being opened and groups being led into that courtyard. The Earthtenders, a huge mass of them, strode ahead, some winking at the Brothers.

“If—if you last a few seconds, the [Guards] come. But it just takes a moment. They’ve got shivs. They got Rudinel last week—said they’d get us one by one. Unless we join up and tell them everything we know.”

A terrified younger Gnoll was whispering. Rudinel was the Gnoll who Wilovan and Ratici had buried.

“That’s how it was. But no longer. As it were.”

The new Gnolls were learning the lingo, so they weren’t quite as adept as Wilovan and Ratici. When they strolled out, it was nervously.

Communal gardens—even weight sets to work out at. No blades—the prisoners weren’t even allowed gardening tools for the danger.

Yet the Earthtenders were watching them, clustered up, and the [Guards] looked the other way. Ashamed, perhaps, of their class.

“How’d the rhyme Ratici taught us go? It’s this or nothing.”

One of the younger men muttered. The Gnolls looked at each other as a group began to walk their way, smiling. Hands in their coats holding something. They began to hum—and even the other gangs, criminals, members of Oteslia’s underworld, and people who knew nothing at all of this world—turned.

 

“The night’s been long and the bodies are wet,

But don’t you fret; be quick and ain’t not a guard who’ll be upset

The good folk are rising, and we’re off to our beds,

The smart thieves away with the loot and the slow ones are dead.”

 

They raised something and put it to their mouths. It just looked like a piece of burnt bread. The Earthtenders frowned, and the hair on the back of their necks, their scales prickled.

They stepped faster—as the Brothers took a bite of the bread.

It didn’t crunch like it looked like to the [Guards] and the Watch Sergeant. There was a crust—but it just looked black.

Black as midnight, dark with wheat from Noelictus. The crust was hard indeed, and even they had to chew it down—there was even iron dust baked into the exterior. It had strange ingredients within.

Stonelizard scales. Lemon juice. Lots of mint—but also Wyvern tendons. Corusdeer venison, beets—all these things were appetizingly baked within the flour. Chopped up fine as could be, their taste mitigated by the dough. Dense as a lump of steel, small as a hidden dagger.

If that were all, it would be scary enough. Scary as the look in a [Witch]’s eyes as she made something she knew was illegal. For a friend in low places.

For brave men in hats. But there was a secret in the bread. The Watch Sergeant had not seen it when he tore the biscuit apart. It only appeared after the first hard bite.

Something—inside the bread. It flashed bright under the sunlight shining down on the City of Growth. A second bit of bread inside the first.

Pink dough? Why was it pink? One of the Gnolls stared at it and then nearly dropped his ‘snack’. For it was—

The dough had turned pink with half a bottle of rum. Half a bottle of rum…set on fire. The pink dough within the brick of dark midnight loaf reacted to the light and air.

And then the bit of black bread was on fire. On fire—like a glowing ember. The Gnoll nearly dropped it—then he closed his eyes and took a huge bite. Almost choking as he gulped it down.

The Earthtenders slowed. One drew a knife, not bothering to conceal it. He lunged—and the dagger’s tip buried itself in the first Brother’s chest.

A shout, and the onlookers backed up. The [Guards] turned, knowing that even when they ran, they would be too slow. Too slow for—

A pair of paws gripped the knife’s handle and drew the tip out of his fur. It had gone in about half an inch. No more. And—the Drake [Knifemaster]’s arm jerked back. Or tried to.

Because it was locked in a grip far, far too strong for the Level 13 [Street Tough]. Fur as hard as iron. Arms cording with muscle that locked the Drake’s arm in place. He tried to raise a fist—and a head cracked his skull.

The other Earthtenders froze. A Gnoll with fur as strong as iron, as strong as a certain [Innkeeper]’s bisque—turned. If that were all—

His eyes burned pink a moment. Burning like the flame. Glory.

The Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings exercised their necks and raised their paws as the Earthtenders halted. Then the two sides were striding at each other—and one was backing up. When the [Guards] reached them, it was too late. Half a dozen Earthtenders were down—and when they were dragged away, both sides searched, they only found the knives on the Earthtenders.

No sign of what the Brothers had just done. When a curious [Rogue] picked up one of the remaining pieces of bread and bit into it, intending to prove what had been done—he made a face and spat out a cloud of black dust.

The Brothers grinned as they were led back to their cells. And they tipped their hats to the staring inmates. This wasn’t about the inn, really. Or great deeds.

It was just about drivers. Transport, baking, and secret things. And friends. Two thousand pieces of Emberbread came in from The Wandering Inn, and if they needed more, the [Innkeeper] had their backs.

The Earthtenders kept losing the streets. And it began to be whispered—the Earthtenders might have the Watch on their side. They had roots in the cells and vines across the City of Growth.

But the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings were the thugs on the streets. Gentlemen in the sheets. They had hats on their heads—and fire in bed. The men of fancy dress—

—Were going to put Oteslia’s war to rest.

 

[Witch of Second Chances Level 16!]

[Skill — Hat Trick (Minor Arcana) obtained!]

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

I was gonna have a quiet Christmas. Then I started setting up dominos the size of my house. Well, this is how it is, and I have a few things to say.

Firstly—I have just reached the final few chapters of Volume 1’s editing process. I didn’t share them out after all because it’s still the first re-write and I’ll go through it again. Editing is like that, refining.

But I may take an update off or write a half-chapter so I can re-write a huge chunk of one of V1’s chapters. If I do, I’ll let you know. But we’re getting close to the finish line, and that’ll be good for me not working on two fronts at once!

Second, that was all I really had because my life is boring. I could talk about video games, and again, I have tons of opinions I normally share about games I think are lacking (usually in the storytelling department). Ironically, I sometimes like games with less story than the ones who have a lot of story and cinematics and do it badly.

Good games are hard to find. Much less ones you can continually replay. For instance, I played Stardew Valley Expanded + Ridgeside Village and I’ve already gotten to Level 120 in the Cavern, Level 9-10 in all Skills, 20 Ancient Fruits, 80 Kegs…and it’s Winter, Day 1, Year 1.

See? None of this makes sense unless you know what I’m talking about. I also had a dream that my favorite Battletech Mod, Roguetech, was playable as a text and low-graphic game that simulated all the combat rather than the costly graphics system that currently runs on a faulty Unity engine that can crash a modern desktop semi-regularly.

It would be called ‘PotatoTech’ and simulate all the game’s actions and attacks such that a Chromebook could run it…I’m saying this because I wanted to play games while I’m on vacation and I have a Chromebook. Which runs nothing.

I like those kinds of games. By contrast, I still haven’t touched Dwarf Fortress, a famous other game created mostly with text because apparently, it tracks all 36 teeth each individual Dwarf has, you have to literally make shoes for your Dwarves, and it’s so famously complex I think it might be the most in-depth simulator ever made in the video game world.

I don’t like those kinds of games. Stardew/Roguetech is as far as I can go, and frankly, The Wandering Inn is like that for me. Keeping track of too many details in a game? I’d forget Tyrion’s mole on his second ring-hand finger.

Alright, enough rambling. This was a longer, weirder Author’s Note. Blame tortellini for breakfast, and thanks for reading.

 

‘Try’ and Apista and Sprigaena sketch by ArtsyNada!

 

 

Stream art! Apprentice battle, Tesy and Vetn, and more by butts!

Twitter: https://twitter.com/buttscord

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/buttsarts

 

Stream art! Bald Xif, Termin Escape, and more by Fiore!

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.29

[This chapter is 45,000+ words long. Consider breaking it up into chunks. Unless you’re snowed in some airport or something. It may need to last you a month once I go on my year’s end break.]

 

In the morning, Hethon Veltras was blowing on his fingers as he emerged from a frost-coated tent and decided winter had come too fast. He did feel guilty.

After all, he hadn’t done more than ‘help’ set up the tent with Sammial. House Veltras’ guards and staff, from Ullim to Jericha, had done the real work of setting up camp, brushing down the horses, digging a latrine; even scouting a place to rest. Also, making breakfast and breaking down the tent as Hethon got up.

They were eternal campaigners, Veltras folk. Either you took to the wilds with bow in hand or became Izril’s finest soldiers. The main family, under Tyrion, was so used to spending a night in a tent or bedroll that they did it in their sleep.

Even the youngest ones, fourteen, could have a horse saddled and ready to go in the blink of an eye. It made Hethon, a [Lord] who would lead them, feel—off.

He studied mathematics and took other lessons, and Ullim said it was harder to master a variety of talents than be an expert in one thing.

But what if you weren’t that good at the variety of things either? This was Hethon’s old worry, and it crept on him today—for a bit.

Life was so odd of late, though, that he almost forgot when he saw someone sitting at a fire and briskly folding a seared piece of meat into some travel-bread. Tyrion Veltras looked like a stranger to his son—until Hethon remembered, again, his father had lost decades of his age.

Ironically—Ryoka Griffin looked more familiar, along with Ullim and Jericha, than the younger man who glanced up. He offered the food to a young boy, who didn’t notice until a hand nudged him. Then Sammial took the food and began eating.

Breakfast—in House Veltras’ household—was a quiet, strained thing if Tyrion were there where you watched your manners as he discussed work with Jericha or Ullim. Or it had been. On the road, now, Tyrion had changed with the world, or so it seemed.

For one thing—breakfast was accompanied by a glowing scrying orb, and Hethon looked at it as he glanced at another tent of Corusdeer hide that held Ryoka Griffin. The Wind Runner—who had been up all last night arguing with Tyrion. She didn’t want them to follow her, and Hethon got why more than Tyrion.

Ryoka was headed to Liscor. Tyrion had sieged Liscor. Of such math, even Hethon Veltras got the impression they might not be wanted. But his father refused to stay, and the argument had ended without resolution.

Tyrion had made the incredibly…unique argument that since he was going to Invrisil, he, vis-à-vis, was not going to Liscor, and he had every right to take his children to see the City of Adventurers, which was coincidentally linked to the city that Ryoka was going to by a magic door.

Hethon had never heard his father play word games. Well, he’d see what today would bring.

They were a hop and a skip from Invrisil. So close, in fact, that Ullim had asked if House Veltras wanted to find an inn. But Tyrion liked camping.

An oddity this morning. As someone woke up from her tent, the wind blew, and Hethon wondered if it would snow. There was only frost and a few snowflakes today; but he was used to Winter Sprites. An advent of snow coming across Izril. Ryoka had claimed, for some reason, it wasn’t going to happen.

The Wind Runner herself emerged from her tent, looking sleepy and focusing on Tyrion as he turned to her.

“Good morning, Ryoka.”

“Hmpgh. Hey, Hethon, Sammial.

“Good morning, Miss Ryoka.”

Sammial said nothing as Hethon ducked his head and gave Ryoka a smile; Jericha, who was inspecting the camp, came back with a cooler nod. But even she passed Ryoka a cup of tea with one spoon of sugar, having added Ryoka into her morning rotations.

The Wind Runner might not have been more than a passing heroine to House Veltras before—but her continued presence there and a month in the north had at least made it so Jericha knew how Ryoka liked tea.

It had also changed Hethon and Sammial’s mornings. For instance, while Tyrion gave Sammial, his younger son of ten, an exasperated look, he let the boy be.

Because Sammial was watching the scrying orb, and as Ryoka Griffin pointed out—it made Sammial less likely to try to make any conversation center on himself. Today’s scrying orb broadcast featured Drassi.

It was always Drassi. Tyrion hated her less than Sir Relz and Noass—and she had the best content. There was always something going on in the world of note.

Not just wars—Wistram had really got the television idea down. These days, you couldn’t win people’s attention with a soccer ball and a scrum. This was an example of the morning segment’s entertainment:

 

——

 

It was a bunch of grapes on the vine that a man, Kenjiro Murata, gingerly lowered into a box. He lowered it out of sight—raised it up—and a bunch of Fraerlings were clinging to the grapes.

One was literally hanging on by his mouth, having swallowed the entire grape in a single chomp. Alchimagus Resk and a bunch of Fraerlings, young and old, were munching with delight on the fresh grapes as they had an interview with Wistram.

The sight of a Fraerling grape-vine was so funny that Drassi lost track of what she was saying. Meanwhile, Sentry Leader Ekrn was scowling hugely.

“Make them stop that. They look like [Fools].”

He snapped at Guidance Heish, but she elbowed him aside. Enchanter Ilekrome was giving the interview today.

“It makes them people, Ekrn. If we can’t have fun—”

“And that?

The camera swiveled left as the two Fraerlings leaders argued. Noa bobbed up from behind a little platform of wood. She had on a bright jester’s costume, and she swayed left and right as if she weren’t entirely in control of her body.

“Hey everyone! It’s me! Noa the puppet! Oh no! A villain!”

She produced a little club as she saw a second Fraerling emerge. Then Noa began to chase the other one around—but the entire time, her lower half was out of sight.

The ‘sock puppet’ theatre made a bunch of little Lizardchildren laugh so hard they fell over. The Fraerlings were putting on a show! To the delight of the world, they realized that Fraerlings had a huge sense of humor—and they could be cute.

Which, of course, was Heish’s idea. Ekrn hated it, but Paeth needed to be well-loved, not merely tolerated. Hiding had not kept them safe, but endearment and respect might.

“Is this what you do all the time, Enchanter Ilekrome?”

Drassi was trying not to burst out laughing, and the important Fraerling rubbed at his bearded chin.

“Well, Miss Drassi, we might be relieved from our siege ending. But if you’re our height, there are any number of things to do that are quite fun. Oh, here comes the high-dive.”

“Wait, wait!”

Aiko rushed past in a panic. She put a full cup of water down, and a Fraerling balancing on a rooftop spread his arms to cheers.

“I shall now dive into this body of water and survive! I’ve been practicing for twenty minutes and landed successfully two times out of five!”

He leapt to wild cheers and boos from the crowd below—the Fraerling dove straight down then realized he was going to miss the cup by several inches. He swore.

“Oh shit—

 

——

 

The sight of a Fraerling hitting the ground made Mrsha cover her own eyes—but she raised her paws when she realized there was no splat. Instead, she saw a Fraerling bouncing wildly as his Rubber Body Ring saved him.

“You missed it! You missed it! Mrsha, he bounced!”

The Wandering Inn in the morning was having a sedate day. Well, slightly sedate—it was like they were waiting for something. Or someone to come in.

Gire shook Mrsha excitedly, and the younger Gnoll was saved by Lyonette. She made Gire let go, but the excited bigger Gnoll was agog.

“Their magic is so advanced. Drassi is so lucky!”

Mrsha, dizzy, nodded. She wanted to meet a Fraerling! And by that, she meant a fun Fraerling, not the Titan, who smoked and cursed and was sad about Erin being dead.

Noa was so cool. She was swinging around on those ropes—and she was leading a group of Fraerlings up to one of Paeth’s branches to jump off! Being small looked like fun.

Erin Solstice herself was watching the news, although she wasn’t smiling as big. In fact—she should have really been watching what she was working on.

“Erin, the cake! You’re messing up!”

“Whoops. Oh man. Well, uh—it’s okay looking.”

Erin stared down at the cake. The huge, frosted cake was being set for the party today. It read:

 

Going to miss you! Wil, Merrik, Peki, Venas…

 

The ‘z’ had turned into an ‘s’ that trailed across the cake and onto the table. Erin wiped at the frosting.

“Er—well, it’s close enough. Let’s just pretend I was bullying Venaz on purpose.”

“Maybe let Calescent do the rest?”

Lyonette suggested. Erin moved the cake to one side and fiddled with the frosting bag.

I shall take that off your hands, Miss Solstice!

Mrsha reached for the bag. Absently, Erin handed it to her. Mrsha instantly tried to squeeze frosting onto her cereal. She got one dollop before Lyonette tried to snatch the bag.

Gire got to it first and put half the bag in her cereal bowl, a huge amount into her mouth, and then she handed it to Nanette. The witch put a frosting sample on her cereal and handed it back to the [Princess]. Lyonette sighed…then did the same with her cereal because why not?

Erin never noticed. She was—distracted. She was watching the broadcast with the Fraerlings with some worry.

“Damn entertaining Fraerlings. I can compete with that. I’ve just gotta…get Drassi. Yeah, yeah. She goes on break at lunch, right, Lyonette?”

“Yes…”

Lyonette narrowed her eyes at Erin, but the young woman was nodding.

“Great. Then we’ll just pop over to Pallass unless Ryoka’s here—you know what? I bet she can help me endorse it too! Wind Runner! She’s sorta famous. Where’s my prop?”

“You mean that disfigured rat? Made out of wood and badly painted?”

“Yes. No, wait. It’s a reindeer, Lyonette. A reindeer head. Where’d you put it?”

“Bird took it outside. He’s been shooting arrows at it with Badarrow all morning. To ‘make it look better’.”

Erin uncrossed her arms. She threw up her arms and rushed outside.

My reindeer! Bird! Don’t hide! I see you up there! You too, Badarrow!

A normal, sedate day at the inn. Snapjaw was so sad that the frosting bag was empty she nearly cried—until she began licking the frosting trapped on the inside of the canvas. Which was so disgusting Rags kicked her. But the [Eater] refused to stop.

The Goblins were here. Numbtongue was here, showing Reagen to a delighted—but exhausted—Garia Strongheart, who’d just run in after days on the road. She was watching the cat nibble on some kibble as Apista flew past their table. She landed, flexing her new wings with pride, as she saluted the Fraerlings on the scrying orb. Then she settled down next to a certain [Bowman] having breakfast in the inn.

Halrac Everam had realized he could do that after Revi had visited, and the entire team of Griffon Hunt was here minus Typhenous. Cade was staring at a plate of eggs and bacon in a smiley face with delight as Briganda looked around for water elementals.

“Where’s Typhenous, Revi?”

Seborn was only watching the Fraerlings out of the corner of one eye. The [Summoner] broke away from the scrying orb.

“Wh—having breakfast with one of the [Witches]. Shh! Those Fraerlings have amazing magic! Are you not fascinated?”

“Pass.”

The Drowned Man looked sideways and shrugged. Revi waved her hands at the scrying orb and then at him in outrage.

“Oh, sure. You’re so cool because you’re a [Rogue]. As if you’ll ever meet one yourself.”

“The Titan was sitting in this inn, Revi. And I have met Fraerlings before. Unlike you.”

Seborn lifted a mug of coffee to his lips as Revi stared at him. A fine morning. The doors opened, and the [Strategists] of the Titan himself walked in, accompanied by Palt and Imani.

“The celebrations look to be in order. Good, good. We begin in about four hours. Is that our cake? Excellent. Ex—”

Venaz looked happy, if somewhat maudlin about leaving, and he strode in, smiling until he saw the cake. Erin waved at him and grinned at Merrik, Wil, and Peki, all of whom had that look of regret. The Horns of Hammerad were coming down the stairs with The Silver Swords, Infinitypear, and Rasktooth.

Today was a day of leavings and parties. Venas stood there, woebegone. But it was a fine morning.

 

——

 

“I intend to head straight for the High Passes as soon as Erin Solstice opens her door. I would assume Miss Griffin is on her way—see if she will meet us there, Ressa.”

Reynold stopped chewing on his food when he heard that. The [Maids] looked at each other as Magnolia Reinhart put down her fork. They were staying at The Noble’s Fancy, Pallass’ premier inn.

Although, the [Maids] and Ressa were waiting on Magnolia instead of the inn’s staff trained and dressed to look like actual noble’s staff. Some of them were taking notes as Ressa hesitated in pouring more milk into Magnolia’s morning cup of tea.

Some people refused to switch from tea to coffee. Others had thrown tea behind them, never to return. Magnolia?

She was a heathen, forsaken by all, loved by none. She raised the cup of milk tea with sugar to her lips…and a latte filled with more sugar was waiting for her after the tea.

“The High Passes aren’t safe, Lady Reinhart.”

Ressa muttered, and Magnolia’s eyes glittered.

“Tell me when they were. You couldn’t clear them with an army, Ressa. No waiting, no delays. News of my presence has spread already. I shan’t suffer the Cyclops on one shoulder—to the inn, to Invrisil perhaps, to collect anything else we might need and Bekia, and then to Celum. I imagine speaking to Miss Solstice might take a moment.”

“Lady Reinhart, we don’t have the carriage. Your safety…”

“Ressa, this is not up for debate. The number of magical objects poking me in the side as I slept should give us more of a chance than Miss Griffin had. To. The. High. Passes. Now—ah, good morning, you two. I think we will part ways at last. You slept well?”

Magnolia Reinhart’s blunt tones turned more welcoming as she rose, and Yelroan and Tesy halted. Tesy looked around furtively—and with ill-concealed dislike for this fancy inn. He probably would have drawn on it if it weren’t for current company. And the fact that he was afraid someone was following him.

Yelroan, for his part, was adjusting his sunglasses rather nervously.

“Thank you, Lady Reinhart. I’m heading to the inn, as I imagine you are, whenever it opens. I—hope it’ll go well.”

“Perhaps you should allow us to go first, then. Or maybe we should cede it to you. I don’t believe Miss Solstice will be in a good mood after I speak to her. Then again—you said you knew the inn, Tesy?”

“What? Yes! I know the inn…is the Golden Gnoll in Liscor?”

Magnolia eyed the nervous, white-scaled Drake.

“I believe so. Then we’ll all go together. Ressa—why don’t you check on the carriage? Sweep for dust mites, would you?”

“At once, Lady Reinhart.”

Ressa nodded to two [Maids], and they walked out the front doors. Magnolia sighed. Delays. But she offered Tesy and Yelroan a seat, and Tesy made the mistake of thinking Magnolia’s latte was for him. He took one gulp—sprayed the sugar and coffee out over Yelroan, and looked more nervous still.

To be fair—he’d thought it was poison. Which, also to be fair, it probably counted as. The Drake turned around, looking about as someone hurried over with a wet cloth and soap.

He thought he could hear…music.

 

——

 

Hethon Veltras felt like he was the only one who foresaw complications today. No—wait. Ryoka Griffin’s face said that she had the same premonition. But that was probably just because she was Ryoka.

“Where are we staying in Invrisil, Father?”

Hethon looked at his father as the camp was struck and everything packed up. Sammial glanced up from the scrying orb—only because Ilekrome was speaking to Drassi about what Paeth might trade and what they needed. Ryoka’s head turned as Tyrion Veltras looked up.

They had been eating Corusdeer venison. They’d chanced upon a herd and downed one of the bucks. Or rather, Tyrion had. With a lance. The [Lord] looked at Ryoka, and her glare bounced off his face.

He was clean-shaven, his beard gone. The younger man—and he was, in his late twenties—didn’t have the older, more commanding tone age had given him. He looked…less authoritative, and that was age and maybe just his class.

His levels were gone. Only Hethon knew it; Sammial hadn’t been allowed to know. It was a terrible thing that had hit House Veltras’ leader. A disaster, but everyone was pretending things were normal. If it came out Tyrion had lost the bulk of his levels and his class…

Bad things might occur. However, the [Lord] was still intent on following Ryoka around. He cleared his throat and nodded south, where Invrisil was visible in the distance.

“We’ll find an inn there.”

“If I may, Lord Veltras?”

Ullim broke in gently, his white hair blowing in the chilly breeze. Everyone else shivered—but the [Majordomo] was tough as boot leather, it seemed. Tyrion frowned as Ullim replied.

He didn’t really seem like he’d changed in twenty some years. His mannerisms were the same, although…he seemed more restless than the older man that Hethon knew. And he was more—more agreeable? He let Sammial have the scrying orb, let them have more fun. But maybe that was Ryoka.

“We may well continue onwards. The Haven—for all it has been moving a month—has not gone far. Lord Veltras, the Haven would be an ideal spot to take the lads, at least before it’s gone from the north before they have a chance to visit it.”

Ullim murmured in that way Hethon knew he said things when he wanted Tyrion to agree. The [Majordomo] looked up carefully, and Tyrion grunted.

“I don’t know if that’s necessary.”

“Father! I want to go to the Haven! It’s famous and magic! And it was on the scrying orb!”

Sammial burst in at the worst moment, as if insisting would help. Hethon longed to kick him, but Tyrion just frowned.

Instead of snapping that Sammial was out of line, he folded his arms.

“There is no need. The Haven’s fame is just that. You won’t get a better rest from the inn—or better food for a day or two. Most of the attractions are for large parties. We are simply residing.”

And if you needed to sleep, the hard ground or a tent was as good as some famous inn. But Hethon wanted to see it, so he joined in.

“But wouldn’t it be good to see the inn before it leaves, Father? Just so we can talk about it?”

Tyrion stared past them at Ryoka, but the Wind Runner flapped a hand.

“Why not? You’re not going to Liscor, and you should have fun while you’re not going to Liscor, Tyrion.”

“We could—book you a room as well, Ryoka?”

The Wind Runner froze, and Ullim blinked. Lord Pellmia had done the impossible. Was that slyness? Well—for Tyrion.

Ryoka shook her head instantly.

“I’m staying at The Wandering Inn. And I have business. Private. Runner’s business. You said you got it, that I have a life.”

“Indeed I did. I just decided that you might appreciate company. And my sons should see Invrisil. And you have a habit of landing up in mortal danger. Hence my decision to be in the area.”

Tyrion laid out his reasoning simply. He looked at Ryoka, and she glared at him. He turned back to Ullim and spoke.

“I don’t believe the Haven is necessary, Ullim. Despite the interest—it is a matter of House Veltras’ budget.”

Sammial and Hethon’s faces fell. Oh, the budget. That settled that.

House Veltras was the second-poorest of the Five Families, behind House El. Terland, Wellfar, and Reinhart were far richer.

Actually, it was true that House Veltras was not economically destitute like House El was famously at times. It was just—the main family, under Tyrion, requested enough money to fund their soldiers, and having a standing army of their size cost a fortune.

But the branch families could support them and arguably give more. That Tyrion and the main family did not normally ask was because they let the branch families focus on their holdings. The wealth of Veltras was spread out, like roots, not held at the top.

…It still meant that it sucked sometimes. And it was not always true. For instance—Jericha coughed delicately.

“Lord Tyrion. Pardon me for mentioning it, but it may have slipped your mind that House Veltras was awarded a sizeable prize for our contributions in the Dawn Concordat’s war. It would not…strain our budget for this year to let the boys see the Haven once.”

Tyrion hesitated. Hethon sat up, beaming at Jericha. If she took Ullim’s side—even mountains might move.

“They might as well if they’re coming here. Isn’t the Haven fun to be at?”

Now, Ryoka joined the forces arrayed against Tyrion, and everyone held their breath. The [Lord] stared at the sky—and despite the pressure, didn’t sway.

“I still don’t feel the need.”

Everyone’s faces fell, and Tyrion looked around. He seemed to read their disappointed faces and hesitated. Then he elaborated, another surprising moment. Tyrion lowered his voice and muttered.

“I—perhaps it would be fair for the prestige of it. But I dislike the notion even so. The Haven is…a thoroughly unpleasant place. You may not be aware of that, Ryoka, but it has objectionable qualities.”

Ryoka Griffin blinked at Tyrion, and Hethon and Sammial made puzzled faces. It did? Tyrion Veltras seemed uncertain of how to explain it.

“The Haven is all show, little substance. It is a place for one to enjoy themselves, to be self-congratulatory and indulgent. To be—”

He stared skywards.

“—it plays well upon noble fancies. Let us put it like that.”

 

——

 

The Wandering Inn’s guests were coming through from the Haven today as well. Colth the Supporter, one of the Named-ranks not heading south like Deniusth and Eldertuin after the thieves, was waiting for the doors to open.

“To the Haven—people coming out! Five for The Wandering Inn? Come on through.”

A bored Gnoll was yawning into her cup of coffee that morning. Liska, the [Door Gnoll], sent in one person to the Haven, which was interesting.

Now that the Haven had passed Invrisil, she normally just took visitors from the Haven who wanted to get to Invrisil or somewhere else. But today, someone wanted to experience the Haven’s largesse—yet not the crowd who’d booked a room.

Menolit, one of Erin’s known guests, strode through the door in a rather handsome suit. He also had a flower, and Colth turned his head as the Drake strode by.

“Excuse me—are any of the guests having breakfast this morning? Which was it…”

He heard the Drake asking, and the [Supporter] muttered under his breath.

“Uh oh. Poor fellow.”

Someone should warn him. Was it going to be Colth? He hesitated as Liska waited at the door.

“I’ve got people waiting on both ends. You coming?”

She was still lacking for manners, but she was better at her job. Colth put his hands together.

“Miss Liska, could you open the door in—five minutes?”

“What—oh, fine. Five minutes.”

She closed the door, and Colth hurried back the way he’d come. Most of the diners were having breakfast in the outdoor seating. It was cold, yes, but Larra had cast a heating spell that cut the chill, so you could eat in warmth while admiring the cold winter. It was a big area with two floors. Maybe he’d be in time to—

Nope. By the time Colth had strode after Menolit, the Drake was already at a table where a [Lady] was having breakfast with two of her friends. She had faintly red hair, and she was perhaps forty…three by Colth’s measurements.

Arch nose, perhaps Terandrian bloodlines. Lady Werirose of House Dullvan if he didn’t miss his guess. He didn’t know her class, but he suspected her house had holdings that she mostly was rich off of.

Low-level [Lady]. Call it 18-23 by his understanding. Not specialized; she was from Vaunt, so she might have some economy Skills. They did cheese, after all, but she was a landholder family, not directly involved in management. Decorative enchanted blade dagger on her hip. Contraception spell, earring that kept bugs away…

Typical guest of the Haven. One of Larra’s ‘regulars’. And right now, Menolit was offering her a rose.

“I hope we could have another conversation, Werirose? Perhaps I could take you around Liscor.”

You poor man. The Drake wasn’t much higher-level for all he was a [Veteran]. He’d never cracked Level 30, but Colth could imagine and see he had been a decent [Soldier] in Liscor’s army before taking the tail-wound. And a leg-injury that he mostly hid. That was probably why they’d given him an honorable discharge.

He was more interesting because he was clearly a [Manager] of Liscor Hunted. He might be Level 20+ in that class already. He was new to wealth, but he’d pivoted classes and purpose well of late.

And he had been a guest of the Haven and a guest of the Pub of Best Moments. Someone should have told him one of the rules. Barnethei must have dropped the ball or forgotten that Menolit was a Drake and thus he didn’t know anyone here.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir? You must be mistaken.”

Lady Werirose looked blankly up at Menolit. The Drake hesitated.

“I’m sure we met. I’m Menolit. We—we chatted in the Pub of…?”

“I have no notion, sir. Please.”

She sounded defensive; her breakfast partners were pretending they had no idea what was going on as well. Colth touched Menolit’s shoulder.

“But we did. I wouldn’t forget. We—”

Excuse me, [Ladies]. Menolit, right? Let’s just take a step back. One second—”

Colth pulled—hard—and Menolit took a step back despite himself, looking hurt and confused. Werirose flashed a relieved smile at Colth, which he returned falsely.

“Supporter Colth, a delight as always. Thank you.”

“What’s going on? That’s Werirose. She told me—let go, would you?”

Menolit tried to shrug off Colth, but the [Supporter] just towed him away. Then—he really didn’t want to start his day like this, but he had to.

“My friend, I think no one told you the unwritten rule of the Pub of Best Moments. I’m sorry—I keep telling Barnethei to write it down, because there’s a fellow every month, or a lady, who runs into this. But the Pub of Best Moments…do you know the Court of Masks in Ailendamus?”

It took Menolit a moment to understand. When he did—

Ah, damn it. Colth had shouted at Yvlon yesterday. Furiously, because she’d lost her temper and attacked her team and she was a liability. He felt bad about that—and because he hadn’t stopped her.

He felt bad, sometimes, fighting low-level people like [Bandits] who jumped him, people who might be desperate or stupid or not know who he was.

But stabbing this Drake in the chest repeatedly? Damn it, Barnethei.

The Pub of Best Moments was where you could look your best. Where you could be the part of yourself you hoped was there: eloquent, handsome, your literal best self. It meant people liked you, especially when you sat in that chair.

It was, therefore, also a notorious place for people to meet each other. To—have an intimate moment. But the reason people wore masks and Werirose was pretending she had never known Menolit was the same reason she had probably chatted him up in the pub.

Interest…and the clear understanding that she’d never be able to talk to a Drake in such circumstances normally. In that pub, you could do what you wanted.

Here? Menolit dropped the rose. He didn’t take it as Colth grabbed it before it could fall. The [Supporter] saw the Drake standing there, looking so hurt…he gently put the rose in Menolit’s lapel and patted the Drake on the shoulder.

Then he walked off. Larra’s Haven had edges. Of a different kind than The Wandering Inn.

But people wondered why Tyrion Veltras disliked this place.

 

——

 

♫ Love was gonna lift you up, and drop you. Then break your legs. ♪

It was hard to read the room or see if it was a permanent thing. It was…far harder to find something that would last. Especially if you wanted it and it wasn’t that way at all.

Senior Guardsman Relc hadn’t put on a suit, but he had buffed his boots last night and had to buy some shoe polish. He’d spent some time getting the rust off of his chain mail and checked for dead scales and trimmed his neck-spines. He was in a good mood today. Mostly.

Klbkch kept patting him on the back, which annoyed him. Relc had made the mistake of telling Klbkch about his acquaintanceship with Ryoka—which provoked the motion. Relc knew it had been just a thing. Maybe because he’d been so sad—

But you never knew.

“Klb, buddy, I swear. Pat me on the back one more time and I’ll hit you.”

Relc finally interrupted the incessant patting as he sat at the inn’s bar. Klbkch halted.

“I shall wait until later, then.”

For some reason—that hit Relc harder than the patting. Because he realized Klbkch meant it. Then he saw Menolit come back in.

Relc hadn’t known Menolit well from the army days, but he had a vague memory of a Drake covered in blood, asking if someone had found his tail.

This was the second-worst he’d ever seen Menolit. Then Relc realized—Ryoka Griffin was just coming here to see Mrsha.

“…Didn’t the rumors say she and Tyrion Veltras…?”

He sat back in his stool, and suddenly, all of his good-nature in the morning deserted him. Klbkch came back to pat him on the back a few more times before walking off to say hi to Erin.

In silence, Menolit sat at the bar.

“You got any Rxlvn?”

He addressed the Gnoll behind the bar. It wasn’t Ishkr. Today, for the party, Erin had asked a friend to help out.

Rufelt looked a lot better, and the [Bartender] hesitated because you weren’t supposed to harm your clients. But one look at Menolit and he measured a third of a shot into a glass, mixed it up with an ale, and handed it over. Menolit took it down fast.

“I, uh…I might need one too.”

Relc sat there, drooping. Menolit glanced sideways at him.

“You didn’t go to the pub.”

“Nah. But Ryoka’s coming back. Just—nevermind.”

In silence, Menolit turned back to his cup and waved a claw for another.

“Yeah. Don’t bother hoping.”

The two Drakes sat there a moment, and someone came over to join them. Pawn had reappeared for the party, but he was avoiding Lyonette. After a moment—a fourth person sat down.

Relc, Menolit, and Pawn, now being served what Rufelt was deciding he’d call the Heartbreak Healer, glanced at an unexpected guest. Relc made a claw so as to shove off the young woman sitting there.

“What’s your problem?”

He glowered with Menolit and Pawn at Garia Strongheart. The City Runner just glanced over her shoulder.

“He got a cat. Did she get it for him?”

All three turned and saw Numbtongue, still laughing about his orange tabby. But Garia was focused half on Numbtongue and half on…Octavia. Relc raised his brows at Menolit, and the Drake scowled.

“I hear that [Witch] in Riverfarm sells curses.”

In silence, Relc drew up a stool for Garia. Who was only going to sit here for a moment. She knew Numbtongue was in an open relationship, even if he didn’t call it that. And Octavia was fine with it. So was Garia.

 

——

 

It felt like the only stable thing in this world was that which wouldn’t last. And at least Kevin and Ceria looked like they were vaguely having fun as she held a raw steak over an eye.

“I haven’t done this since I was a poor Bronze-rank. No healing potions—ow!

“Now you know how us Earth-lovers do it.”

“Your lives suck.”

“You’re telling me. So where are you going first? House Byres or…?”

Ceria Springwalker shrugged and glanced over to someone sitting by herself—well, Ksmvr kept checking on her—staring blankly at the table and carving in it with one finger. She lowered her voice conspiratorially.

“Depends. Yvlon’s wavering. Her brother and sister are going north, and it’s apparently only a two-day ride to House Byres from Riverfarm. I’m down to make a stop—but, er—it might not be fun.”

“I thought you said you liked House Byres.”

Ceria took a long swallow of blue juice.

“I did…but look over there.”

Ysara Byres was smiling about as hugely as Yvlon. For different reasons, but her brother, Ylawes, was eying her. He was definitely going home—and so was she.

Rasktooth and Infinitypear and Vuliel Drae were more excited than Ysara. Ylawes, for his part, looked disappointed—but only because he was shaking a Gnoll’s paw.

“You’re sure I can’t ask you to reconsider, Nailren?”

The leader of The Pride of Kelia gave him a regretful smile.

“I’m afraid so. I have my team to at least return to Hawkarrow—and I’ve promised to help take the Titan’s students south. I might be going with the Horns if they head south immediately. Tribes willing, we’ll meet again in the new lands, for I’m bound there.”

It was too bad. But Ylawes had seven new members to his team. Anith, Insill, Pekona, Dasha, Larr, Infinitypear, Rasktooth—

He looked around and realized two were missing.

“Where’s Pekona?”

“Practicing. She’s at the training courts or by herself all the time. Trying to make up for ‘disgracing’ herself at the Village of the Dead. She needs a confidence boost. Dasha’s right over there. I’ll get Pekona and tell her to show up for the party.”

Insill slid out of his seat as Ylawes tried to think. Anith had agreed to give over his leadership role—though he’d still be invaluable, but they were his teammates now. Lower-level, lower-rank…he winced as he saw where Dasha was.

Dawil was sighing into a cup wistfully.

“It’d be a shame not to visit Dwarfhalls Rest before you go, Merrik.”

“Aye. Maybe. But the truth is, I’m sure it’s just a mess of setting up. I’m angling to get my friends to Deríthal-Vel sometime soon. A more peaceful vacation. Meeting Master Pelt was enough for me, even if he just threw coal at my head.”

Dawil, Merrik and Elgrinna were standing together. It was Elgrinna who’d suggested Merrik delay their departure a day or two, and the Dwarf did look regretful. But they were long-lived folk. And he had to get back to class.

He was the youngest of the three Dwarves too. Dawil and Elgrinna were older and didn’t bother with years, but Merrik was noticeably young if they compared sheer lifespans. Well—except for the fourth person, who broke in.

“Ah, home. I’ve been meaning to make a pilgrimage home myself. See where my roots are. I mean, where I’m hewn from.”

Dawil closed his eyes. Elgrinna rolled hers up, and Merrik smiled as politely as he could. Dasha was currently annoying all three Dwarves with references to their ‘culture’. And she kept stroking her beard.

Dawil gave Ylawes a pointed look, but the [Knight] was enjoying this so much he just waved at his friend. The truth was that Dasha had a right to talk with her kin—but her blood was thinner. She was a bit taller, and Insill had told Ylawes that Dasha had used a tonic to grow the full beard, which Elgrinna lacked.

“Anyone seen Drassi? Oh hey, Peki.”

And here was Erin Solstice. Her inn was just filling up, and already, there were all kinds of odd conversations occurring. Like Peki stopping Erin as the young woman wandered around with a folder of papers she’d prepared.

“Innkeeper Erin. I want to have one last match before I go.”

“In chess? I suppose I could do a speed set with you all.”

Erin pointed over as the colorful Garuda with her bright purple-and-green plumage halted her. Peki shook her head and opened her beak as she made two fists with her claw-hands.

“No. I want to face you.”

She lifted her fists, and Erin went cross-eyed.

“Oh. Er—I’m not really a fighter.”

“You have a [Minotaur Punch] Skill. And you’ve fought.”

Peki ignored Wil trying to drag her back.

“Yeah…about that. My back’s been hurting a bit since we shouldn’t waste healing potions. And the bisque—euigh.

She stuck out her tongue. Peki lifted her fists higher and shifted her leg to kick.

“You can fight. I’ll use one hand.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“But—”

“Tell you what, why don’t you beat, uh—Gire! And Fierre. Then you can take me on.”

Erin looked around for a distraction and found one as a huge [Paragon] chased around Mrsha, Visma, and then turned in alarm. Peki eyed Gire. She raised her fists obligingly and looked sideways at a pale young woman with red eyes.

Fierre looked up in alarm from a bowl of rare cuts of meat. She pointed at Garia.

“No, beat up Garia first. I’m, uh—I’m busy.”

Erin ducked away from Peki as the disappointed Garuda tried to talk her into it. Gire ran on as Mrsha came to a halt next to a table filled with food. She poked a paw up to steal.

She’d gotten better about food-theft after getting in trouble, she had. But this was a special exception. Mrsha reached for a piece of brie and got a foot in the face.

 

——

 

Ulvama put her foot in Mrsha’s face, and it was a bare foot. She had a slipper on the ground, two pillows in the chairs she’d leaned back, and her table was filled with food she’d taken from the kitchen.

She had created a kind of hammock bed to watch the scrying orb and the inn from, and she could lay here for hours, eating everything she wanted.

Stinky! Stupid!

Mrsha flung insulting notecards at her until Ulvama shot a spark back that made Mrsha’s fur stand on end. Visma peeked at Ulvama as Gire raised an experimental fist.

“Don’t shock Mrsha.”

“Go away, little girl.”

Ulvama sneered at Gire. The [Paragon] hesitated.

“I’m big. I could hit you.”

The Hobgoblin hadn’t even bothered to stare at Gire as she watched the scrying orb with both arms behind her back. Which was impressive given how tall Gire was. But she raised two bored eyelids.

“I am a [Shaman]. [Great Shaman]. You go. Children stop bothering me.”

There was something in her tone that reminded Gire of her own [Shamans] or Theikha. More importantly—Ulvama had mastered the tone some adults had. And she used it—on Gire and Mrsha. Both girls slunk back to Visma, defeated by an adult who acted like one and ignored Gire’s size.

“That’s Ulvama, right?”

Visma knew most of the guests of the inn. Ulvama was lounging about, ignoring Rags’ Goblins. But she nodded as a Goblin with a parasol strolled over and pointed at a chair. Gothica threw herself into the chair and began to munch.

The two female Goblins were—formative to something in Visma’s head. Maybe it was Ulvama’s paint, pierced ears—which Gothica was adopting—or the smaller Cave Goblin’s all-black style, edged makeup, and attitude.

If Visma’s mother could see her daughter now, she might worry for Visma’s next few years of adolescence. But the Drake was also prescient. While she admired the two Goblins, she whispered to Mrsha.

“She just sits there and eats? All day?”

She watches the scrying orb too. Or lays in her room and steals books. Sometimes she makes up paints.

It was a lifestyle of such sloth that Mrsha herself had to grudgingly admire Ulvama’s commitment to her place in the inn. Visma asked the one real question that no one else had.

“…How is she not fat?”

Gire frowned. She turned her head, and Mrsha and Visma looked over. It was true. Ulvama certainly wasn’t as skinny as Redscar, who was all muscle and sitting and enjoying Minotaur Punches with some of his Redfangs already—but plush was about as far as you could go.

Given how much she ate, though? Gire was doing some quick math. She had seen Ulvama take down an entire pie. For lunch. On top of the regular lunch plate.

Either she was casting a lot of magic or she had a Skill. Or the metabolism that Ekhtouch’s finest would envy. It was a mystery, but then again, Gireulashia had once calculated that Magnolia Reinhart ate so much sugar she should also be heavier.

“Maybe it’s lots of sex. I hear she’s promiscuu—promisco—promiscuous.

Gire stared at Visma and wondered who’d said that. But the [Paragon] just sniffed.

“She’s not that bad. Actually, she’s not active. Not half as bad as Captain Jelaqua. She—ow, owowowowow!

“You kids. And here I was coming in to be nice.”

Jelaqua Ivirith herself had to stand on a chair to pinch Gire’s ear, but she did. The [Paragon] whined as Visma jumped. Everyone was coming into the inn! Erin turned. Drassi?

No. There was some violet-scaled Drake she recognized, Onieva, Maughin, Moore and Ulinde, Jelaqua of course, a white-scaled Drake, a Gnoll with some amazing sunglasses, Magnolia Reinhart, but no Drass—

Magnolia Reinhart stepped into The Wandering Inn like a quiet breeze. It quieted the inn as Erin’s head snapped up. Lyonette turned as she belatedly sensed the aura.

Shriekblade dropped out of the rafters, staring at Ressa as five [Maids] and Reynold walked in behind the [Lady]. Reynold shut the door as he gulped, and the [Head Maid] glanced around the room heaving with high-level people.

The [Lady] had entered so innocuously that Liska had barely noticed her except to think that was a lot of pink. She had kept her aura suppressed, politely walking in with the guests past the trapped hallway.

The door opened, and Normen and Alcaz peeked in warily—Ressa had winked at them through the arrow slits. Yelroan glanced sideways at Normen, fiddling with his bag of holding. His sunglasses flashed.

“My eyes!

Calescent dropped a tray of cupcakes as he came out of the kitchen. The crash was the loudest thing in the silence. Magnolia stood amidst the ringing of metal. As quiet as a mouse—and she provoked the silence that followed.

And the coming storm. Erin Solstice’s face turned hostile as Lady Magnolia folded her hands in front of her. She looked around the inn—and then at Erin Solstice. Nerry hid behind Nanette in alarm as Magnolia’s gaze swept the room.

Rags, Pawn, Niers’ students, adventurers—the [Lady] exhaled as she saw a head of blonde hair. To her credit, Lady Pryde barely moved as she sat next to Grimalkin. But a blink was a flinch from the [Lady] of House Ulta.

“Hello, Miss Erin. If I’m unwelcome, I will of course leave. But I hope I may at least speak to you. This time—may I step into your inn and speak cordially?”

Lady Reinhart did the most surprising thing—which was bow slightly, extending one arm. She looked at Erin Solstice, and the [Innkeeper]’s face was hostile.

“You—you—look who’s here? Who needs my door—wait, how are you—? Did you enter from Pallass? Chaldion let you in?”

She was taken aback, just like last time. But Magnolia Reinhart just waited, and she responded equitably.

“I do have a passport. And while I believe the gate-guards were more strenuous in their search than they had to be—well, perhaps understandably—I am travelling. And your door is the best way to travel, even for me. Again, I should love to chat and meet the—fascinating folk within. But if I am not welcome, I will just ask to use your door…four more times.”

She waited. Erin Solstice was focused on Magnolia like lightning to a lightning rod, and she was angry. She remembered the last time Magnolia had stormed into her inn to endanger her friends.

And sometimes that was fair. But when Erin’s immediate flash of hostility faded—she noticed Mrsha was vibrating where she stood. For Mrsha had noticed Magnolia’s guests. And a gold-furred Gnoll stood up incredulously as a snacking Gnoll [Thief] choked on his snacks.

“Tesy?”

“Yelroan?”

Inkar turned from holding Tkrn’s paw, another successful meeting spitting in Relc, Menolit, and Pawn’s faces. Erin blinked as the Gnoll grinned nervously behind his sunglasses. She eyed Magnolia—and the [Lady] stepped to one side.

“I may have picked up some passengers who claimed to be on their way to your inn along the way. You may wish to take care; they can be rambunctious, these young folk running about.”

She fixed Dame Ushar with a glance. And the Thronebearer jumped, looked at Magnolia, then Tesy, and began whispering to Ser Sest.

Erin didn’t miss that. But she was staring at Reynold’s legs as the [Butler] sketched a bow, and then…the hostility was already draining away by the time someone spoke.

“Lady Reinhart. I don’t know about Erin, but may I say—welcome to The Wandering Inn.”

Lyonette du Marquin answered Magnolia’s bow with a kind of curtsey, though she only had an apron on. She looked at Magnolia, and Erin was confused.

Confused, until she remembered the recordings of the battle she had ‘been’ at. Then Mrsha herself was running forwards to hug Tesy—and look at Reynold and shake his hands.

“I merely sent a carriage. Miss Marquin. Those two lovable rogues in Oteslia could not help but pester me while we were anxiously watching the battle. They asked to be remembered to you.”

Wilovan and Ratici? Erin opened her mouth. Wait a second, she was still mad! But—Magnolia had tried to help Mrsha, hadn’t she?

And Lyonette.

And Reynold was cool, and he’d lost his legs. When Erin saw that, she remembered Magnolia’s war against the Circle of Thorns. She looked up, and Magnolia Reinhart stood there.

A [Lady] in pink. Intimidating, able to do what she wanted and get anything she needed—

A year ago.

It felt like ages. There they had been whisked into her carriage, Ryoka and Erin, and even later, Magnolia had been like the leader of Izril while they ran around their lives.

Now here she was in Erin’s inn, and she didn’t seem smaller…her aura was still there. But Erin’s was larger. It was like she’d gained a foot while Magnolia stayed the same. And now, Erin could make out details on Magnolia’s hither-to unreadable face.

She looked tired. Tired—and wary of Erin, of all things. Or was it the Thronebearers? Rags? Something else?

A [Witch] met a [Lady], and belatedly, Erin Solstice realized how close the two classes were. One was a pariah, a woman with a pointed hat. The other was defined by her bloodline and, often, a dress.

Magnolia Reinhart, the Deadly Flower Blooming in the North, was well-liked by few. Loved, by some, like her servants who had bled and died for her. In her long year in Izril, Erin Solstice had met few people who had Magnolia Reinhart on their side.

But she had noticed that even in Liscor, hers was not the first name they cursed when they talked about the Humans of the north. When she had visited the [Witches] of Riverfarm, they had not invoked her name with a curse, and some, like Mavika and Oliyaya, surely would.

Maviola El had once praised Magnolia Reinhart and called her a failed heir to her flame. Erin Solstice did not like Magnolia Reinhart. She had placed herself against the Antinium, run roughshod over Erin and Ryoka and the Earthers.

She had made mistakes like undervaluing—deliberately—Kevin and the others. Erin tried to measure out her each and every grievance against Magnolia.

Bullying Erin—or trying to. Much like Erin had never done to anyone. Not Jewel, gulping as she measured herself up against Ressa, or Todi or anyone.

Taken someone for granted? Never. Not Toren. Not Lyonette or…

As for her deeds, Erin Solstice had once thought she could do the right thing in every situation. Until the right thing turned out to be, for her, counter-charging a group of rioters to save some objectionable [Lords]. Letting a bunch of thieving adventurers go.

Sending bread to men with hats. Erin Solstice looked at Magnolia Reinhart, and it was not that the [Lady] had aged more than anyone else this year. Had she lost more than Erin?

Possibly not. It was just—simply—that Erin Solstice was different.

A [Witch] looked at a [Lady]. And she thought Magnolia Reinhart saw the flaming hat upon her head. A blazing myriad of emotions. But what made Magnolia’s eyes squint, that painful allure and brilliance, was a single word the [Lady] had for it all.

Youth. Magnolia Reinhart, like Mihaela and so many, looked in that mirror, even if Erin was so different, that led her back years and decades and through dreams she’d had, and it hurt her.

The reverse was almost as true. For however much Erin Solstice wanted to blaze with her own indignation and fiery grudges—she saw something coming off Magnolia.

Not…threads. Not a Spider’s web. But something similar. Perhaps—ribbons would be the right word. Fanciful ribbons, like the kind someone used to tie up a box of presents. Careful, even overdone for some.

Each one spoke of effort. Of care. Of a dignity that the gift-wrapper gave, not just to themselves to show how good they were, but to the recipient. To show they cared.

That kind of ribbon. Pink, of course. A silly color. Back home, Erin knew pink was girlish. And so even lots of women didn’t like it. Magnolia didn’t care. She liked the color.

So, pink ribbons, translucent, twining about her arms. Her hands, her waist and shoulders. She was draped in them. Almost a prisoner of a tangled nest of silk cords, but it wasn’t that she was trapped.

She was holding them in place. Almost desperately, and Erin felt that if this woman were to vanish—perhaps—parts of Izril would break apart. And she had only added to that burden since coming to Oteslia.

She looked tired. But she refused to let go. If Ressa bore Magnolia’s burdens, what did the [Lady] carry?

She had come here, chasing the very first ribbon she’d picked up long ago. A promise to a Dragon.

Erin Solstice did not like it. She did not like the anger in her chest having nowhere to vent. She did not like it, because more than even Larracel, she gazed at Magnolia Reinhart and felt a kinship she had never wanted.

That it was there—Erin Solstice closed her eyes and exhaled. Then, and only then, Magnolia Reinhart smiled, and Erin lost the sense of whatever she’d glimpsed.

The [Lady]’s voice was light and careful, and even now—she spread her hands gracefully, bowed slightly, as if a [Jester] inviting the impending enmity. The performer waiting for the loaded stand of rotten vegetables she herself had bought and placed.

“If you are going to throw something at me, Miss Erin, may I ask that you at least throw something solid? I have had to change my dress once already this morning.”

Erin Solstice exhaled hard as she saw it all. And that—she had to respect. She nodded, slowly, as Lyonette started, and perhaps a few others saw what she saw.

Erin still didn’t like Magnolia Reinhart. She took a step as Mrsha, Lyonette, and the others warily looked at her. Erin raised a hand—and then looked around.

“I guess…I guess you can at least sit down and eat food and stuff. We’ve got lots of cake. It’s gonna be one of those days, and I don’t want a fight or trouble. So yeah. Welcome in, Magnolia.”

She extended a hand as if ushering them in, and Shriekblade looked at Erin—then sheathed the daggers she’d drawn from her belt. Onieva relaxed, and Ressa—who hadn’t moved but had her hands behind her back, ostensibly folded—bowed.

The [Innkeeper] of The Wandering Inn relaxed slightly as Magnolia smiled gratefully. It wasn’t just Erin forgiving and forgetting—but she knew Nalthaliarstrelous was Magnolia’s servant, and the [Lady] was trying for peace with the Drakes and forgiveness and second chances and all that.

Erin still glowered, and her lack of retribution earned her a boo.

“Boo. Boo! You’ve changed! Take her down! Give her a punch! No spine! No balls!”

Everyone turned. A drunk Drake waved a fist at Erin as she looked blankly at him. Rufelt covered his face and decided not to exist as Menolit shouted at Erin. The [Innkeeper] opened her mouth.

“Menolit, why are you drunk?”

He looked at her morosely.

“Love. Never had it. It’s just an illusion.”

Erin went over and patted him on the shoulder. Magnolia Reinhart pursed her lips. Rather than look offended—she gazed at Menolit. And she called out over that inn.

“If it was sweet while you chased it, Sir Drake—then you did taste it. For some, that is all you can ever dream of. And it will escape you time and time again. Savor the taste of it. For it may never come to you as you wish.”

She smiled, and like a woman with a crossbow, shot wide and hit Menolit, Relc, Pawn, Garia—and a number of other targets so hard they leaned over the bar like murder victims and called for a drink.

—Erin Solstice hesitated, but the [Veteran] looked at Magnolia Reinhart and lifted a cup. He seemed to appreciate that more than Erin’s pats.

Then, Magnolia turned. She smiled and offered a hand to the first person.

“Waiter Ishkr, isn’t it? How do you do? I was so splendidly amused by your deeds with the Haven. If you ever quit your employment here—do give me a [Message].”

Erin’s head snapped around, and Magnolia flapped a hand at her.

“Before you object, Miss Solstice, I said, ‘later’. Years later, one would imagine. I am not so foolish as to assume I could pry Mister Ishkr here away for any sum. But a uniform would make this Gnoll dashing. And you, young miss, seem to be in the right place at last.

She smiled at Mrsha and reached down to shake the Gnoll’s paw. Erin Solstice exhaled, but Magnolia was trying. And hey—it was an unexpected, almost unpleasant surprise, but she’d entered the inn, no one was killing anyone else yet—

Why, Murphy’s Law had failed. The big thing had happened, and Ryoka Griffin wasn’t going to come to some kind of death-duel with Magnolia after all. How was that for good?

 

——

 

“I do respect her, you know.”

That quiet comment came from two lips. Lady Pryde to Grimalkin as she gazed at Magnolia Reinhart. But another—

Well, it surprised the heck out of Onieva. The Drake raised her brows as she leaned on a table next to a sitting woman with indigo hair.

“You respect her?

Onieva wasn’t looking at Magnolia—and neither was Ysara Byres. Rather, the two women were staring at an icy [Lady] shaking a reluctant hand with Magnolia.

Lady Ieka Imarris.

She was the second-best [Lady] you could ask for in any room. Famously, the shadow of Magnolia Reinhart. Successful, wealthy, influential—

A poor woman’s copy of Magnolia, if you wanted to really hurt Ieka’s feelings. She didn’t have Pryde’s sheer ego, Bethal’s wild impetuousness—and she was not Magnolia Reinhart of the Five Families, the Deadly Flower.

But Onieva just saw Ysara staring at Ieka. The Silver Merchant shrugged.

“I don’t know if you know Lady Ieka—but she’s cold-blooded at times. Ruthless—most good [Ladies] have to be. She’s…”

“Desperate?”

Onieva suggested, and Ysara laughed into her sleeve. Ieka was offering Ressa a hand to shake, and the [Maid] did it coolly compared to the flushed face. Ysara shook her head.

“She might be. But she’s here. Here. No one changed her. No one in Izril, not her peers or family, ever was able to change her. If there were more of her, perhaps Izril would…”

She hesitated, and Onieva looked at Ysara.

“…Have more [Maids]?”

“Doubtless.”

The two lifted a cup, chinked them together gently, and drank.

 

——

 

The sight of Lady Reinhart cautiously shaking hands and speaking with the inn’s patrons was one thing. She was arguably one of the most legendary guests ever to set foot in the inn—Zel Shivertail was the only approximate. You could argue even Chaldion was a rung down for sheer fame and presence.

And she did try—she shook Numbtongue’s hand, then Bird’s, and then Kevin’s, congratulating him and Joseph on their recent successes.

She got a lot of long looks, but it was something. And meanwhile, the inn had some interesting guests.

Tesy! How did you get here? How did you end up with her? What in the name of the Ancestors did you do? Why is Symphony—

“Hush! Get over here, Tesy.”

Qwera dragged Vetn and Tesy to one side as Mrsha turned. They looked nervous for reasons that Mrsha didn’t know, but she was half focused on Tesy.

Half on—

“Yelroan!”

The name made Lyonette and Erin turn. The Gnoll [Mathematician] stood there awkwardly, not quite knowing if he should introduce himself or what. But as Inkar and Gire recognized him, the Gnoll did the only thing he knew to do.

He—posed. Two fingers moved his sunglasses up, and they gleamed. The Gnoll grinned slightly—and Grimalkin grunted. It was no flex—but you had to appreciate his style.

The nervous Yelroan looked at Mrsha, and she beamed at him and rushed to scribble a greeting as Lyonette approached.

“Are you Mister Yelroan—excuse me, Mathematician Yelroan of the Plain’s Eye…do excuse me.”

She wasn’t sure how to address him, and Yelroan spoke, voice creaking with nerves.

“I’m, ah—that’s correct. Mathematician Yelroan, formerly of Plain’s Eye, at your service. I believe I have an employment offer from your inn? I’m sorry it’s taken a while, but I was travelling by myself.”

“No guards?”

Lyonette was dismayed; it was a long way north, but Yelroan assured her it had been safe.

“I stayed at inns and taverns, mostly. Down the trade roads. I had an escort from the Great Plains, but every warrior was needed for the coming winter. It will be…a harsh one, especially for the remnants of the Plain’s Eye tribe. My friend, Merish, is leading them. I hope—you can accept my past and connections to them.”

He looked guiltily at Mrsha, but Lyonette just hesitated, then took his paw with two of hers and shook it gently.

“From what I understand, you were one of the few people who stood up for Mrsha from the start. We are in your debt—and we have a room prepared for you. Do you have any luggage? Are you hungry? Please, step in! Erin is—that’s her, she’s just—”

She was speaking to Shriekblade, who was giving Ressa a death-stare. A Face recognized a Face—and [Assassins] and their like recognized each other even if both were former members rather than active.

“I don’t want to be a bother, especially with Lady Reinhart. In fact—I could help if, er, you needed me. I just have a handful of correspondence, no luggage. Though, I will admit my bag of holding is almost full up. I have a letter from Chieftain Feshi to Miss Solstice, one from several Gnolls to Miss Mrsha, some correspondence to Inkar asking if she’ll return…”

Yelroan actually had a lot of stuff, and Lyonette blinked as he turned to Gire, Inkar, and handed out missives from the Tribes. He had them all sorted, and he seemed—

Polite. Odd as heck, but she assumed that would be the case from Mrsha, Gire, and Inkar’s descriptions of him. If anything, she’d been expecting Yelroan to be posing on top of Bird’s tower, blinding everyone in a thousand feet while screaming ‘math’ at the top of his lungs from their accounts of him.

The real Gnoll looked shyer—and more like an actual expert in his class than she thought. He was—well—organized.

“Letters accounted for. Here is the last one for you—I believe it’s a personal note of thanks from Chieftain Feshi. And the next thing I must deliver is…”

He fished around in his bag of holding and had to put it on a table and lift with both hands. Mrsha stared at a letter to her as she sorted through her growing list of contacts.

Feshi, Theikha, Satar, Akrisa…Chieftain Mrell.

She stared at the letter, then tore it up and tossed the pieces to the floor. She kicked it away—and turned back to Yelroan, scowling. Unseen, Ser Dalimont quietly picked up the pieces and tucked them away.

Yelroan had actually carried the letters in a waxed bag—because he had no room in his bag of holding. Now, he grunted and, embarrassed, looked up.

“I—uh—think it’s tangled up all together. Can someone help me…?”

Gireulashia reached into the bag of holding and, one-handed, lifted something out. Calescent, grumbling, had been blinded once by Yelroan. This time, his eyes locked on something that glittered and flashed around the room, and he dropped the dustpan he was holding.

Alcaz and Normen had been heading back to their watch. But Normen had slowed, as if on instinct, remembering something that Mrsha and Erin had been organizing. He turned his head just in time to see Gireulashia and Yelroan lift…a suit of plate armor out of the bag of holding.

Demas Metal flashed, and Rags sat up in her chair. The deep blue metal of the armor came out of the bag of holding, a flared helmet that looked almost like some ancient crusader, angular and given the look of some epic [Knight]—appropriate for its intended recipient.

The armor itself was different from Ylawes Byres’ style; a Gnoll had made it, so it was more compact, less bulky than some sets. Mrell might have only had scrying orbs and measurements to go off of—but Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings knew how to measure a man, and so the armor was sleek. It looked like you could run in it, and it was plate armor indeed.

It came with a mace of flanged blue metal, and a shield as well, round and a cross between a buckler and traditional heater shield’s size. A fast-moving set for a man light on his feet.

Mrell had added only one detail to the beautiful Demas-metal, which was all the decoration you needed. He had drawn, in paint, an image of the inn. He must have seen Silveran’s apron, for the image had the frying pan, the jar of acid, the blue fruit, all around the stylized inn with a pawprint in the background.

The set was so beautiful that Mrsha stared…and every warrior, from Yvlon to Ylawes to Numbtongue, stared too at the beautiful metal worth a fortune. All without a single gold piece spent. Mrsha saw Normen’s eyes go wide as Erin turned in delight—and she looked around for…

The letter? Mrsha uncertainly stared at the empty ground—then saw Ser Lormel proffering something to her. Dalimont had given him the pieces—now, Lormel held the letter.

“[Mend Documentation]. Very handy when investigating receipts or missives. Perhaps hold onto it, Miss?”

Mrsha took it and decided she’d keep it with her letters. For a little bit.

Lyonette’s fingers twitched as she stared at the letter, but Yelroan was smiling, and everyone turned as Normen looked at the suit of armor. Erin stepped forwards and called out.

“Well, now we have three reasons to celebrate! Yelroan? I’m Erin Solstice, and you’re welcome in my inn! Everyone—three cheers for Normen! Now, let’s get this party started!”

Everyone began cheering at that, and Yelroan realized his first entry to the inn was going to be a party. He wondered if he should begin asking about ledgers…but Mrsha was excitedly trying on the helmet, everyone wanted to see the mace, and he was sure they’d be asking about the tribes. Lehra included.

Yelroan guessed Erin would be a bit like Xherw and made sure never to make the comparison out loud. But he suspected the inn might not be exactly as organized as he thought. One look at the menu and the variance in prices and he wondered how hard his job might be.

As he stepped back to watch and see how things worked, someone tapped him on the shoulder. Yelroan turned—and a female Drake whom he was sure…almost sure he’d met before on his last visit to Pallass tipped him a nod. Or had it been Oteslia?

“Nice sunglasses.”

Onieva winked at him, and the Gnoll nodded back to her. He’d only been to Pallass four times as the Plain’s Eye’s [Mathematician], but a wonderfully helpful Drake [Alchemist] had made him the sunglasses for a song. Especially when he asked if it could reflect sunlight in an annoying way.

 

——

 

The irony, of course, was that the most significant reason so many people were converging on the inn—wasn’t about the inn.

It was just that Erin had a magic door that made things convenient. How convenient? ‘I skipped a week or two’ convenient.

Arguably less dangerous as well, especially for Rafaema’s group to have to pass through unfriendly land.

It wasn’t as if the north would kill them on sight. But as Magnolia Reinhart knew—it was risky to be on the wrong side of Izril. She had brought security en-masse to protect her; her servants were very good at their jobs.

Manus would take no less chances with Rafaema, but Dragonspeaker Luciva was aware that sending an army or major force north would place her ward in more danger.

…But was Lulv really that much better?

It was true that Makhir and Lulv were the only two Gnolls on the Security Council who could fight and lead at the highest level. But there was Ferris…and other Gnolls knew who Rafaema was, even if it was a miniscule amount compared to Oteslia.

No, Lulv was here because he was one of the highest-level officers Luciva had—and crucially, he was one of the most deadly in a direct fight. Wall Lord Aldonss was Lulv’s counterpart in that sense; a balanced force.

[Lord of the Walls] was an actual class. Aldonss could reliably ‘shield’ Rafaema if it came to danger while Lulv went on the attack. Ferris was there because he was Rafaema’s bodyguard and functioned as their infiltrator-scout.

All of this ignored the fact that Rafaema was a Dragon. Then again—the Lightning Dragon had to admit she was dreading the High Passes.

“The Wyverns might leave me alone.”

The stupid Wyvern Lord might steal all her possessions again, but she thought they had an accord. Rafaema was trying to plan her route. She’d even brought a lot of ‘treasure’ in case the Wyvern Lord tried to tax her. She had an entire cooked ox in a chest of holding she’d made the soldiers bring and two more giant hogs’ worth of food. And lots of gold.

But she’d have to carry the damn thing into the High Passes. Because she couldn’t take her soldiers. She had to lose them, which would be a trick, and make sure they couldn’t follow her.

Damn. On the plus side, Rafaema wondered if she could run through the door to Celum—then vanish after that. Lulv might think to head to the High Passes, but he wouldn’t be certain.

She didn’t—want them to find the Dragon, Teriarch. Even if Luciva and a lot of the High Command knew who he was or had guessed, this was Rafaema’s matter. This was her people.

And she suspected the Dragonlord of Flame didn’t welcome guests. But they would have been nice, because the High Passes had shown Rafaema how dangerous they could be.

Gargoyle Bossels. This time, she’d brought a bunch of Wands of Flare, which she’d blind them and anything looking at her with. An Invisibility Potion would be lovely—but it was impossible to use some alchemy on Dragons.

What worried Rafaema was the shapeshifter. Or the Void Eater Goat. If it came to that…er…

She’d run for it. That was, um, the blunt truth. Rafaema had seen the Wyvern Lord avoiding that thing, and while she knew it had a weakness, she didn’t have the ability to spit lightning for one minute straight.

She just wanted to meet Teriarch. It was him—but he’d shot out of the cave so fast, shouting about having to stop the fighting at the Meeting of Tribes, she had barely been able to keep up. Then he promised to talk to her and nothing.

She was almost there, though. Rafaema clenched one fist as she sat in the annoying inn they’d found.

The Tailless Thief. For some reason, the [Innkeeper] kept trying to serve them traditional Drake food when she was really interested in Liscor’s unique meals. Why would she come here to have traditional food from home? The logic never checked out.

She would have liked The Wandering Inn for obvious reasons, but her group had actually passed through Pallass and up the Blood Fields—with Lulv and Aldonss speeding them, obviously—rather than use the door.

Because Manus had sided with Hectval over their stupid war. Rafaema should have voted against the stupid idea when it was brought up. Now they were paying for it.

“They don’t know I’m from Manus, though. Well, the Watch Captain does, but I just need to get to Celum. So I get to Celum, move as fast as I can so Lulv loses my scent. No—he picks it up, and I’m heading somewhere else. South, along the High Passes somewhere else. What if…I ‘went’ to Esthelm but really went to Celum? Perfect. That’s the plan.

She nodded to herself. The person who didn’t nod—or smile—was Ferris.

“Then he stabs me to death.”

Rafaema looked up. She and her most trusted ally—Ferris—were sitting in her room. He was the only person she could command and really rely upon. He’d earned that.

“What? No, he won’t. You’ll tell him I ordered you to do it.”

Ferris nodded.

“Right. He hears me out. I tell him I tricked him on your orders. Then he stabs me to death.”

“He won’t stab you to death.”

The [Infiltrator] gave Rafaema a long look.

“You don’t know Lulv.”

“I’ve known him since he was a baby. Well—since he was accepted into the Security Council.”

“Yes, but…”

Ferris struggled to find a way to explain this.

“…You don’t know Lulv. Because you’re Rafaema. I know Lulv. He’ll stab me. To death.”

The Lightning Dragon folded her arms.

“Well, it’s a workable plan aside from that part. What if you just hid until I came back?”

“What if I went with you? Because let’s assume you stop Lulv and Aldonss from killing me once you come back. From the High Passes. We get back to Manus. Then Luciva either kills me or strips me of my position for letting you go by yourself. To the High Passes.”

Rafaema glared at Ferris.

“I told you, I’m going alone.”

He gave her a shrug.

“Well, I’m not helping unless I go with you. I’ll wait while you meet your Dragon.”

He looked Rafaema in the eyes, and she panicked.

I never said he’s a Dragon. I never said I’m meeting—what are you talking about?”

The [Infiltrator] slowly, slowly slurped on his jelly tea, and Rafaema resisted the urge to slap it out of his paws.

“Yep. I believe you. Listen—I’ll help you, but you have to take me with you. Deal?”

Rafaema grumbled as she thought about this. Luciva claimed no plan survived first contact—well, everyone said that—but no one had said anything about plans not surviving the planning process.

“…Fine. I bet you he can mind-wipe you like Oteslia, anyways.”

Wonderful. Okay, your plan might work. Lulv knows it’s the High Passes but not where. Even if he comes after you, he’ll probably slow up. And it sounds like the cave is hidden. I agree with all parts, though, and I just need an hour’s prep time.”

The Dragon brightened up.

“Excellent. Then let’s go now—”

Hold on. I said I need an hour’s prep time, but we need you to get through the inn. And that’s the part you haven’t counted on. I bet it was easy last time—the portal door was in Liscor. This time, it’s in the inn.”

For some reason, the Gnoll was shuddering and looking uneasy, and Rafaema gave him a blank look.

“It’s a door. In an inn. We pay the silver, we go through. Four silver? Eight? Doesn’t matter. In what scenario is this difficult? I know I sent you to check on Erin Solstice…why are you shuddering?”

“Because she’s going to be a problem. I know you think it’ll be easy! It never is. You’ll be about to go through the door when something happens.”

“Ferris…don’t be ridiculous. Just—go ahead and lay scent tracks in Esthelm. They’ll keep for a bit. Then I’ll head into Celum and start going towards the High Passes. I’ll need to ride a bit or run until I can transform into a Dragon…”

“And take me.”

Rafaema glowered. He’d slow her down!

“I guess you can ride on my back.”

“Can you—carry me?”

Ferris looked dubious. Rafaema’s foot twitched, and he hurriedly coughed.

“Right. Good plan. It’ll definitely work. And we can always try tomorrow and get Lulv. Just—don’t mention your name. Don’t mention where you come from.”

“Ferris. I’m not an idiot. I’ll give you one hour starting now. Meet me in Celum.”

He rose, and Rafaema forestalled another inane argument about the dangers of an inn by pointedly opening the door. If it were a secret tavern run by Turnscales…but it wasn’t.

Complications. She would soon be headed towards the High Passes. Then—then it would be simpler. She’d get answers to all the questions burning under her scales. Rafaema closed her eyes and lay back in her bed. She had to believe that.

Someone knocked on her door, and the Wall Lady of Manus sat up. She called out.

“Enter.”

Lulv opened the door and sniffed.

“Are you done telling Ferris to leave a fake scent-trail?”

Rafaema’s face didn’t move this time. Lulv just grinned at her.

“You did that when you were forty. Luciva gave me the records to study. We’re going with you. I told Ferris I’d stab him through the legs if he tried to cover for you.”

“Stab him and I’ll crisp you. You’re not coming. You could…escort me to the area I want to go. No more.”

“No.”

The Lightning Dragon’s eyes twitched. Alright, new plan. Let them come with her and then fly away in the middle of the night. If they followed, shoot lightning.

It then occurred to her the reason Lulv had come instead of Makhir was because he could dodge lightning. The Dragon was seriously considering just flying over the High Passes and risking all the danger without her escort when Lulv glanced to the side.

“Rafaema—the Security Council’s sworn to secrecy, but Luciva already knows. If it’s a Dragon, we need to negotiate—if only to keep a secret. I can’t imagine a Dragon in hiding likes knowing you’re affiliated with Manus anyways. Let’s just get through to Celum and then talk. Aldonss wants us to head out before midday at the latest.”

So they had already anticipated her plan. Rafaema exhaled tinged ozone in a way that made the entire room crackle with static…Lulv’s fur stood on end, and he winced.

“Take it out on us later? We should go. Liscor’s—odd right now.”

Something in the way he spoke made Rafaema glance up, and her anger turned to curiosity.

“What’s up? Apprise me.”

Lulv did, which showed he wasn’t treating her like an entire child. He nodded over his shoulder.

“Two of our [Outriders], myself, and Ferris have all picked up something odd in the city. Nevermind the inn…we haven’t gotten close because Shriekblade is guarding it. Plus, the Eyes of Pallass have designated it off-limits. But there’s a force in the city.”

“…The [Crusaders]? The Goblins? The Yoldenites?”

Lulv shook his head.

“No. High-level killers. I swear I saw one walking down the street. It might be connected to a report we got about Reinhart. Though if she actually ran into Sellme—

“The famous [Painter]? Is he in Liscor?”

Rafaema grew excited a bit. She was a fan. Lulv shrugged.

“No one knows who he is—but Symphony is after him. Maybe they’re also after Magnolia? But if I had to guess why there are a lot of Level 30+ [Assassins]—let’s go to the inn, hrm?”

Rafaema was so curious—and she didn’t want Sellme to die, for all he was a troublemaker. But she reluctantly got up. Lulv or not, pestering bodyguards or not—

Let her get to the Dragon. Then it would be alright.

 

——

 

Ryoka Griffin didn’t know what meeting with Teriarch would bring. She only knew it might be terrible—and that she had a bad track record.

For one thing, she still had Tyrion Veltras following her around. Yes, she could have told him point-blank to fuck off. But the truth was it was really hard to do that to someone who had fought in an entire war to rescue you.

And she had gotten a lot of good people hurt or killed. Swey had sacrificed his hand, among other things.

She owed House Veltras. But she was not having Tyrion in Liscor or the High Passes.

“You’ll leave me alone after this?”

“I promise.”

They were at The Adventurer’s Haven. Tyrion and Ryoka had arrived despite its distance from Invrisil by the sheer speed at which they could travel. Flying was actually pretty tiring, but Ryoka knew it would make her entry to the High Passes a lot easier.

Unless there’s more than Razorbeaks up there. And Magnolia wants to come. Well, at least Ressa’s probably scarier than most of the monsters in the High Passes.

Ryoka would be content with that. She nodded to Tyrion as the flashy [Innkeeper], Barnethei, pointed at a shorter black woman coming their way.

So that was Larracel the Haven? Ryoka smiled and sensed the woman’s magic as Tyrion nodded to her.

“Miss Ryoka Griffin, Wind Runner. I am glad to meet another promising Courier. I just wish I had personally met you before you did so much. Welcome to the Haven. Will you be staying?”

“I’m, uh—Tyrion is. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Innkeeper Larracel. I’ll be staying at The Wandering Inn, though. I know the Innkeeper, Erin.”

Larra didn’t seem surprised by the reply, but she did glance at Tyrion when Ryoka used his name. He bowed slightly.

“Innkeeper Larracel. A pleasure.”

He lied so badly. But Larra just smiled at him.

“Lord Veltras, it is an honor to see the head of one of the Five Families—much less have two under my roof.”

“Two?”

Ryoka Griffin’s neck tingled. Then Tyrion Veltras blinked.

“Who is—”

He turned his head, and Magnolia Reinhart paused as she walked across the Haven. Her maids were stowing the last of her luggage.

“My, my, my. And here I thought I was the only one wishing to stay at the Haven one last time. Tyrion. This is a day full of unfortunate meetings.”

Her eyes pierced Ryoka Griffin like a needle. Ryoka hadn’t expected to see her yet! She froze—and gave Magnolia the guiltiest stare in the world.

When she wasn’t trying to be nice, Magnolia Reinhart was refreshingly insulting. Which was, to be fair, probably what she was better at. Tyrion’s face froze up.

“Magnolia. What are you doing here? I thought you were in Oteslia.”

He bowed very slightly, and Magnolia just stared at him. Her lips moved.

“…Of all the people to lose twenty years. It had to be you. My grandfather will throw a tantrum beyond belief. I’m visiting my estates in Invrisil, Tyrion. And you are keeping the renowned Ryoka Griffin company?”

Larracel stepped back as she and Tyrion squared off. The [Lord] nodded to the inn.

“We are staying at the Haven while we visit your demesne. I trust that will be acceptable, Lady Reinhart?”

She pulled a face.

“Only you would use the word ‘demesne’ in casual parlance, Tyrion. Yes, I am no tyrant no matter what you must think of me.”

“I have never said as much.”

Magnolia rolled her eyes and put a hand over her face. Tyrion’s more youthful face peered at her.

“Dead gods, it’s like I’ve gone back in time. And you’re even more stone-headed than before! Only, now, I’m too old for this. All your staff at the Haven? It must cost a fortune with the prices I see dear Larra has increased.”

She smiled at the Haven’s [Innkeeper], and Larra gave Magnolia a look that told Ryoka the two were probably closer to rivals with grudging respect than friends. Tyrion hesitated.

“Sammial and Hethon were insistent.”

Magnolia tapped her lips and looked at him thoughtfully.

“Well then, let me pay for your group. Larra? Charge it to me. House Veltras has spent enough in the war, I have no doubt.”

By now, House Veltras had spotted House Reinhart, and Ressa was stomping across the inn’s deck while Jericha groaned and strode over. Tyrion hesitated.

“There’s no need for that.”

“Don’t be silly. Reinhart did not stand with Veltras when you marched on Ailendamus. Consider it our contribution to the war effort or something—it will probably be proportionate.”

Larra decided she should take a few more steps back to avoid catching stray arrows. She eyed Ryoka—but Ryoka was staying out of range of this one. Tyrion’s frown only intensified, and he looked—annoyed.

“I don’t require charity, Magnolia.”

Flowers of Izril, Tyrion. We know each other. Do I need to quote your finances? Just…accept it for your boys.”

She looked so entirely exasperated that Tyrion eyed Magnolia and dipped his head. Magnolia was clearly in a bad mood—but even in acceptance, Tyrion had some kind of amazing power to throw a wrench in the cogs.

“Then I am in your debt. I will remember it.”

Magnolia actually closed her eyes and pinched her nose. Ryoka wondered if this were what it was like seeing him propose to date her—from the outside. It was glorious. Beautiful. Like a car crash.

“In my—no you are not. Take the favor!”

This time, Tyrion looked offended and drew his arms together.

“A favor is a debt enforced by social obligation instead of contracts and law. We word it differently, but the end result is the same.”

“Then. Call it a free gift. You stubborn man!”

Magnolia hissed at him, turning slightly red. She was staring at Ryoka, but Tyrion tapped his foot unhappily.

“I really shouldn’t accept it. We have earned a fee from our efforts in the war—”

The two were locked at the horns so fast and even intimately for the two of them—no niceties, no titles—that Ryoka could believe they’d done this for forty years straight. She couldn’t help it. She stared at Magnolia and Tyrion, and the comment slipped out.

“This is like watching a mom argue with her son.”

Tyrion Veltras, younger, stared at Magnolia Reinhart as the [Lady]’s face went slack. Larracel the Haven’s cheeks bulged, and she turned her head into a cough of such explosive force she hurt herself. Both [Lord] and [Lady] turned to Ryoka Griffin, and Magnolia Reinhart was the first to speak.

“Miss Ryoka. I know we have not seen eye-to-eye, but I expected to be stabbed by an [Assassin]. Not murdered by a potential ally.”

“The comparison is entirely inaccurate, Ryoka.”

Tyrion glanced at Magnolia, and the two stepped back at once. The other [Lords] and [Ladies] had seen them by now, and they watched as Tyrion and Magnolia’s staff met and the introductions continued.

“Ressa.”

Tyrion nodded at the [Head Maid], who he clearly knew very well. She gave him a look like she was eating a sour plum. Ryoka had heard from Pellmia that Tyrion had once tried to court Ressa. The hilarity continued.

“Tyrion.”

No noble title. No curtsy. Tyrion Veltras didn’t seem to notice the slight—or he was used to it—but Jericha did.

“Lady Reinhart. Miss Ressa.

She stared Ressa in the eyes as Magnolia turned to her.

“Ah, Jericha. A voice of sense. Hello.”

“Jericha.”

Ressa refused to say anything more than that. Jericha’s eyes twitched—and it seemed like House Veltras was losing—right up until an old man stepped forwards.

“Lady Reinhart, on behalf of House Veltras, greetings.”

Ullim bowed to her, and she smiled. Ressa jumped slightly.

“Master Ullim.”

He peered at her and gave her a slight nod.

“Young lady.”

Holy shit. Ryoka was updating her rankings as she watched Ressa actually dip him a curtsy. Then Hethon and Sammial were there, and Tyrion nodded to them.

“My sons.”

My, how they’ve grown! Lord Sammial, Lord Hethon—do you remember me? I am so glad to see you two well.”

Magnolia smiled at the two boys in what seemed like actual goodwill—right until Sammial spoke. Hethon was mid-bow, but Sammial pointed at Magnolia, and the first thing he said was this:

“I hear you’re a backstabbing, treacherous snake-bitch. Is that true?”

Ryoka Griffin nearly leapt off the side of the Haven. Tyrion Veltras froze—and Magnolia Reinhart recoiled slightly as Ressa twitched. Jericha, Hethon, Ullim, all stared at Sammial in horror.

“…My, he takes after his mother.”

Magnolia managed after a second. Sammial scowled as she bent over, eying him with less indulgence.

“Young man, who did you hear that from, pray tell?”

“Some [Ladies]. My mother said it. And Lady Werirose. Lady Thymica…”

Sammial Veltras repeated several names as a [Lady] having brunch suddenly decided she needed to visit somewhere else right now. Magnolia Reinhart’s smile didn’t change.

“How unfortunate. Well, young Lord Veltras, if I may offer you some advice—even if we hate each other, we nobles of Izril tend to keep up appearances. We don’t say these things to each other’s faces. As I’m sure you know.”

He studied her, unimpressed.

“But no one likes you.”

Sammial!

Ullim snapped, and Magnolia Reinhart sighed. She looked at Sammial and shrugged elegantly.

“It may be true for many of my peers, young man. But if that is true of me—what do you think they say about you?

The little boy opened his mouth, and his brows furrowed with sudden, unexpected paranoia.

“People like me.”

“I’m sure they do. Tyrion, I do have to run. Let’s catch up in a year or two? Make it ten.”

Magnolia Reinhart smiled at him as she took a step back. Ryoka Griffin was gasping for air, red-faced, as the [Lady] eyed her. Tyrion glanced at Ryoka, then Magnolia with a kind of sudden intuition.

Dead gods damn the man. He was about as diplomatic as a rock, but sometimes even a half-blind mule with no ears developed the cunning of a fox. Ryoka and Magnolia very deliberately didn’t look at him as they stepped back.

“I’m heading to The Wandering Inn. So I will see you, Tyrion, later.”

“And I need to ensure Nalthaliarstrelous has not overgrown my mansion. Tyrion, perhaps dinner tonight we shall delicately wave at each other and say not a word? I should quite enjoy that.”

Magnolia swanned off as Ryoka marched towards the portal door, took a few breaths, and hesitated. Lady Magnolia and Tyrion saw Ryoka take a few breaths—hesitate—

“The door opens every few minutes, Miss.”

One of the guests informed her. Ryoka nodded.

“That’s true. And—maybe I should fly to Invrisil. Schedule something with Hedault. I need to talk to him, and he hates—yeah. Maybe I’ll fly there, go through the door—gifts. I don’t have any souvenirs. I, uh—”

She panicked in place, which was amazing when you really saw it. Magnolia Reinhart rolled her eyes as Ressa put a hand to her forehead.

“We are never going to survive the High Passes.”

 

——

 

It was difficult, alright?

It was going to be worse, still. Sometimes, you had to do difficult things. Unpleasant things. It did not mean you should run away…

But neither did you have to smile and play nice. Ysara Byres sat in The Wandering Inn, and her scowl hadn’t changed for the last two days. She was not looking forwards to heading out the next morning to House Byres.

In fact, the only thing that had alleviated her bad mood was concern for Tesy. Qwera and Vetn were demanding to know what he’d done.

“I just—did my thing.

“How did you get Symphony on you? Tesy!

“I just did my thing! I may have gone overboard—”

Qwera looked ready to strangle her little brother. They weren’t related by blood, but that was how Ysara saw things. She had been worried about him, and now—

Now, he was in deep trouble.

“What did you do, exactly? Spell it out.”

He had been at another Walled City after helping save Mrsha. How had he gotten in trouble so fast? Well, aside from the fact that Sellme quite literally lambasted the rich and powerful—aside from the fact that he caused riots like the ones Cellidel endured—

“Okay. So it was Commie’s idea. We were going to paint on some walls, but she has a friend who had access to this…you know how Salazsar is rich?”

“Yes…”

Vetn was already closing his eyes. Qwera just stared at Tesy. The [Painter] hesitated.

“Well, we thought they’d be after us, especially since I was just there and that stupid Ilvriss chased me out. So we said—one big display. And Salazsar has their public ‘museum’ with the art galleries showing famous Wall Lords and Ladies. And Commie had a friend who had some keys. So I went in there and, uh—drew alterations on all of the paintings—”

“Tesy. Was the paint removable? What were the drawings of?”

Sellme bit his lip, and the silence said it all, really. Qwera wondered if some of the paintings had been damaged beyond even magical repair. And how outrageous it had been.

Vetn was clawing at his face.

“You don’t ruin their money! I told you time and time again—draw on walls, but don’t mess with their money! Tell me they were salvageable.”

“W-w-we might have tossed paint remover on some of them. And, uh, poked enough holes that you can’t [Repair] or restore them even with Skills—”

Oh dead gods. Ysara wanted to stop listening, but something was off, and Vetn muttered to himself.

“You’re so crazy, I—who’s ‘Commie’? I don’t know her. Is she a stupid idiot from Cellidel?”

“No, actually. She’s cool. She’s a Human. But she’s wild. It was her idea—I just didn’t realize it would lead to assassins! She’s already a Level 24 [Anarchist], you know.”

There was trouble in more ways than one. Salazsar’s museum, defaced? It had protections on the art, but Sellme could probably have painted holes in the glass cases and bypassed a lot of the security.

They might have done hundreds of thousands of gold pieces’ worth of damage. Possibly millions depending on how rare the art on display was.

No wonder a bounty had come down on Tesy. Qwera looked sick, but she only had a few things to say. After she smacked Tesy on the head.

“You’re staying at the inn, you idiot. In Erin’s garden or—in her inn. Shriekblade is here. I’ll tell Erin what’s happening. You are not going to leave this inn. Have they come after you?”

Tesy was so pale under his scales he looked translucent.

“Yes. I nearly didn’t make it. I thought it was a joke but—they’re everywhere. They play music, and—and I burned through every scroll you gave me, Vetn.”

All my emergency escapes?”

“I couldn’t outrun them! I tried fake lakes, escape tunnels—they’re everywhere, and they’re so dangerous! I tried hiring [Mercenaries], and they either didn’t show up or…I—I dunno what happened to the others.”

Tesy was pale, frightened, and understandably so. Vetn cursed.

“Let me see if I can pull the bounty on you. Just—stay here, eat something, and don’t leave the inn, got it? We’ll get you a room.”

“He should sleep in the garden.”

That wasn’t even a joke. Qwera was glancing at Erin, and Vetn barely paused before nodding.

“That’s a lot better, actually. We’ll put Tesy in the garden. Just—stay here.”

“Thanks, guys.”

The Drake looked relieved to be here. Ysara felt for him in the way she felt for someone who deliberately stepped in a beartrap. She saw Vetn hurrying over to Erin, who nodded distractedly.

Erin was still waiting for Drassi, and apparently, she had forgiven Magnolia Reinhart enough to start the party. In fact—she was in the thick of things, showing something off. Ysara Byres watched as Erin roamed about, talking with the people who would leave, like Niers’ students, the Horns, even Ylawes and so on.

 

——

 

“Guys. Guys. Wanna see a magic trick?”

Venaz was playing a final game of chess against Bird. The two turned, and Erin felt at her head. The Minotaur and Antinium exchanged a glance—then she pulled something off her head.

Her hat. She lifted the flaming brim—and then a floating ball of light appeared. Erin lifted it out and tossed it. It floated past Venaz and Bird, who leaned away from it like a landmine.

“What is that?”

“Ooh. Pretty. You can do magic, Erin?”

Tada! Hat trick!

Erin laughed and batted the ball of light around. She beamed in delight.

“I can do magic, guys! It’s only Tier 1-2 magic—but I can do it like every fifteen minutes! Less if it’s a low-power spell. Rags! Rags, wanna see my magic trick?”

“Saw it.”

The Goblin Chieftain called over. Erin spluttered.

“Wh—but no! I can do more! Watch! I’ll pull a rose out of my hat! Palt, I can do illusions too!”

“Yeah. Incredible.”

The Centaur gave her a weak thumbs-up. Erin looked around, put out that no one was gasping.

She was delighted. And the Hatmen looked equally happy—what few looked up at her. Alcaz and a bunch of Brothers were clustered around Normen, who was trying on his armor.

“Miss Solstice, this is too much! I can’t pay it back—”

“Nonsense! You’re my [Knight]! And it’s Yelroan we should pay. Like, a lot of money. But you need armor, and you got armor. It suits you.”

Erin pointed at him, and she beamed so determinedly Normen sat up a bit. The Brothers looked at Erin and nodded.

That made her smile. Erin put the ball of light under her hat, and it vanished. She kept smiling—right up until she thought of Magnolia, who had just come through. Then she frowned.

“Erin, you okay? Did Magnolia make you that upset?”

Lyonette looked worried, knowing Erin by heart. Erin exhaled hard.

“You know, she did. It’s sort of like last time—but she did ask! And she did help, so she gets a pass. Plus, she said she’d invite me to her mansion in the next few days. Then I’ll say what’s on my mind.”

Yeah. Lyonette looked relieved that Erin was taking this stance—and that it would be Magnolia’s mansion, not the inn. Erin thought of it like that, to be honest. She had her grievances with Magnolia. But once she said them, maybe they could move on and work together. Or…if Magnolia was dead-set against the Antinium, perhaps that’s where it ended.

She needed to show Erin there was a chance of that. Sometimes, though—it just wasn’t ever going to work. But Erin wanted Magnolia to be on her side. She turned her head, wondering where Ryoka was—and she noticed Tesy’s panic along with Ysara’s bad mood, like a drain of negativity in that corner of the room.

“Hm. Didn’t Vetn say he needed Tesy to stay in the garden? What’s up with that, Lyonette?”

“I’ll ask Qwera.”

“Maybe do that. Hold on.”

Erin walked around the common room, and Wil Kallinad stood up.

“Miss Erin, I wish we’d talked longer.”

She stopped and smiled at him. Then motioned for him to leave the common room with her and walk down the hall.

“Me too, Wil. Say hi to Niers for me, would you? I mean, I guess I can say it faster than you, but…I hope you do well out there. Take good care of the Diamond Swords of Serept, would you? They were made by a genius…and when you’re worthy of them, they’ll be even better.”

She looked him in the eyes, and the [Lord] stared at Erin. He didn’t blush, as he sometimes did when a young woman looked at him so directly—rather, his gaze was a different kind of longing.

“I wish I could ask you candidly all the questions I have, Miss Erin. But you won’t answer me. Not even now?”

He’d asked her twice—and Erin exhaled.

“You’re not ready. Come back when you graduate—and graduate soon. Then I’ll give you something better than Niers’ holiday adventure. Deal?”

He stared at her and nodded slowly. Erin pushed open the rec room doors.

“So this is where you’re hiding.”

Reagen the cat fled as Numbtongue looked up, pointing at his face as Badarrow and Shorthilt gambled with Redscar. But Erin Solstice just marched over and tapped a Gnoll watching the scrying orb on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Yes, Miss?”

A short, slight young Gnoll looked up at Erin Solstice. She beamed at him.

“Get out. I don’t want trouble today.”

Everyone else in the room twisted around, and the Gnoll protested.

“Miss, have I done something—”

“Aha. Want me to stab this one or just keep throwing them out?”

Shriekblade appeared behind Erin, and everyone but the Gnoll jumped. He looked suddenly very nervous as he rose. Erin turned to Tessa.

“Wow, you’re everywhere. I think I sensed Dalimont upstairs. Hey, you. Out. And if you try it again, Shriekblade’s less nice. Got it? Out.

Without a word this time, the Gnoll rose and shuffled to the door. Erin stared at him, then turned to Wil.

“I tell you, the bad guests you get sometimes…yeesh. Okay, where was I?”

Wil just eyed Erin and reflected that if she could extend her [Innkeeper] abilities to other places besides her inn—some nations might hire her as a [Spymaster] or counter-intelligence. When Erin marched back to her common room, she saw Qwera talking to a moderately alarmed Lyonette, who was nodding at her Thronebearers and motioning to Tessa. And Ylawes had sought out his sister.

 

——

 

“Yvlon, help me speak to Ysara.”

Yvlon Byres looked up, and her reverie ended. For a moment. She was sitting at a table, and even Ksmvr was enjoying himself. Mostly by snacking on Erin’s Emberbread samples.

She? She was guilty.

Colth was right. She had been furious at him in the moment—but he was right. She needed help.

Yesterday, she’d attacked her entire team and Numbtongue, hurt him badly. He had cuts and bruises all over today, and Octavia and Garia had given Yvlon death-stares, but the Redfang was the most equanimous of the lot.

He was used to getting hurt in training—and he had said it was his fault.

But the truth was that it was Yvlon’s.

Yesterday. To cut things short, Numbtongue had found the Horns practicing and challenged them all to a fight. He had told them, to their faces, he’d take them all down by himself, albeit one-by-one at first.

Was that arrogant? Perhaps. Was it insulting? Yes—but it was a warrior’s bravado. The kind of trash-talk you were allowed to say to friends. A Redfang would get mad—and try to beat Numbtongue up.

Pisces and Ksmvr had certainly risen to the bait, but again, they’d fought hard, not angrily. Yvlon?

Yvlon had been angry by the playful talk before she got in a fight. And it had taken a single punch from Numbtongue to her cheek—a cheeky grin—and she snapped.

[Berserker Rage]. It had activated without her trying to use it. When the haze had cleared, Colth had been holding her back, and everyone was hurt.

I’m losing control. The [Gladiators] had warned her, but this?

Had she always been that mad? Yvlon was so morose that she just shuffled after Ylawes, who was still covered in glory from stopping Facestealer. How angry she had been at him—until it felt like the Horns had done more than the Silver Swords of late.

Yvlon passed by a sobbing Mrsha and only looked back to make sure Mrsha was okay. The little Gnoll was clinging to Gire.

Don’t go! Don’t goooooo!

Gire was crying too.

“I don’t wanna go! But I have to! I’ve gotta go to my tribe, Mrsha! But I’ll be back, promise, okay? Nanette, you—you take care of Mrsha!”

The witch was watching the two girls, big and small, sob because Gire had to go too. Instead of mocking her possible-rival for Mrsha’s affection, Nanette just produced a pair of scissors.

“Instead of crying, why don’t you cut each other’s hair off?”

“Wh—what?”

Both Gire and Mrsha hesitated. Nanette elaborated with a smile.

“Make a friendship bracelet. With some hair and some beads. Then you’ll think of each other.”

Mrsha and Gire looked at each other, then Gire patted Nanette on the head.

“You’re so smart.”

That was pleasant. That was like—well, it was like what single children thought brothers and sisters were like. When, in truth, Gire and Mrsha’s great friendship was because they were friends.

Siblings weren’t like that. Well—maybe other siblings were, but Yvlon had always envied her older siblings, felt like she was in their shadows. Had fun and cared for them—

But this wasn’t that. Ysara looked up, and her scowl never changed as Ylawes gestured to a seat for Yvlon. He dragged one over and sat down.

Three of House Byres’ main family. The three descendants of Yitton and Shallel. Two had gone the way of the blade, one the way of the merchant.

Traditional roles for them…but oh, how they had changed. Ylawes Byres looked the part. Blonde-haired—unlike his father who was going grey—tall, a [Knight] and Gold-rank Captain. A brave, honorable man.

Or, if you wanted to go the other way, stubborn, bull-headed, and committed to ‘the right thing’. Incapable of seeing a Goblin’s goodness until an [Innkeeper] hit him with a pan.

That had been Yvlon—of a sort. She had blonde hair, and she had looked the part—but she had scars.

From the undead and Skinner, from losing her team. Forever second-best to her siblings—and then she had lost her arms. Now they were gleaming silver, but Yvlon felt alien to Ylawes. Her best friend and teammate was a [Necromancer], and she would not have it any other way. She felt more like a [Brawler] or…[Armsmistress] than [Knight].

The youngest sibling, always catching up, always…angry. The one trying to live up, the one without talent. The one so filled with rage she had attacked an Adult Creler with her own arm.

These were the two Byres’ that most people knew. Ysara…Ysara was different. Looking at her, you’d never know she had once been the prodigy. She had disarmed a Silver-bell duelist once in an unofficial match. They had said her sword talent came once in a thousand years.

But she hadn’t become the great warrior of House Byres. Instead, she had become a [Merchant]—which is what some of the family did. But she seldom came back, despite being a good [Merchant].

Yvlon got it. She hadn’t understood for a long time, but now she did. Ylawes…maybe did. The three sat together, and they knew each other, as siblings did.

“Ysara, I know you’re not happy about coming home. We’ve—talked, Yvlon.”

“We’ve argued.”

Ysara corrected him, and Ylawes stumbled over his own tongue. She was the older sister, and Yvlon had forgotten how she could pull rank on Ylawes. But they hadn’t argued like this before she left.

“What’s making you so upset, Ysara? You said…you said you’d rather voyage through the Blood Fields than come home. It’s been years.

“I know, and I know I have no excuse, which is why I came. You know, I made it up here last year. I turned back at the last moment—but I was at the Bloodfields when I came on back. I saw that Wind Runner you’re all gossiping about there, actually.”

Yvlon was astounded.

“Wh—Ryoka? She never said.”

“It was just a chance meeting. She looked busy. I’d like to talk to her. More than go home, anyways.”

Moodily, Ysara took a longer drink from her cup. Ylawes’ mouth worked.

“Even if it was last year—that’d be once in eight years. Ysara, I know it’s a pilgrimage north, but what if you worked in northern lands a year? Father and Mother would love to see you.”

The [Armsmistress] could see Ysara’s grip tighten on her cup. Slowly, Ysara looked up.

“Ylawes, you can’t drop things, can you? Will they like to see me?”

He gave her a long look. Not a blank one—but one of someone struggling. Struggling because he cared about his sisters, and sometimes they resented how it came out in him. Ylawes lowered his voice.

“I just—I don’t understand why you hate our family so much.”

Yvlon looked at him, and Ysara exhaled. Hard. They sat in a corner of the inn, and her eyes glinted as she looked up.

“Let’s pretend you’re right. Let’s say Mother and Father love to see me. That’s them. Do you think I want to go home? Am I going to enjoy visiting home, Ylawes?”

She gestured to her face, and then Yvlon looked at Ysara, really looked at her sister. And what she saw was not the famed blue eyes and blonde hair of House Byres.

Ysara’s hair was indigo, dyed. She had long earrings on one ear and a tattoo running down one arm. Unlike Yvlon, who had lost her arms in a fight, Ysara’s tattoo—her appearance was more shocking to House Byres’ traditions.

Ylawes looked at Ysara blankly.

“We’ve seen your hair before. The tattoo is new—but you could always undye your hair if you think Father will be too offended. It’s not our fault you choose to look like that.”

Qwera was checking on Tesy, and a Drake, Onieva, was doing likewise for some reason. Both of them turned, and Ysara stared at Ylawes in much the same way.

“…Thank you for reminding me why I don’t come back, Ylawes.”

He looked uncertain why even Yvlon was glaring at him. But something was dawning in his eyes. Ylawes, the trained warrior, knew he should retreat, but he kept trying to defend himself.

“I—I just meant that of course Father’s conservative when it comes to dyed hair and such. He might have a few words, but Mother will support you.”

Ysara’s death-glare was slowly chipping away at Ylawes’ hitpoints in Colth’s eyes as the [Supporter] eyed the standoff. But she seemed to sense he was being genuine. That only made Ysara madder. She glanced sideways at Yvlon, then hissed.

Mother is nicer? You idiot. Then again, you’ve never done anything ‘wrong’. Mother isn’t nicer, you straight-edged, mallet-brained idiot. She just says what she wants to say where no one else can hear her.”

Yvlon’s head snapped to Ysara. What did that mean? Ysara Byres folded her arms as Ylawes looked as confused as Yvlon.

“I’m not welcome back home, Ylawes. I’ve said it again and again—let me spell it out for you. I am not welcome. At home. Not unless I change everything about me. And it’s not our people, but it’s our family, our parents who disapprove of me. I would take Father over Mother every day of the week.”

Yvlon…truly did understand, then. But it hurt to hear Ysara say that. And there was a part of Yvlon that said, ‘no, that can’t be true’. Even if it made all the sense in the world.

Ylawes…Ylawes just looked at Ysara as if he really didn’t understand, even now, what she meant. And Ysara might have been angry enough to shout it out in even plainer words—until her younger brother put his hand on the table. He didn’t grab her hand, but he rested it there.

“—I’m sorry if that’s how you’ve felt, Ysara. I didn’t realize. I should have just said—I hope you knew, you know that you are always welcome with me. And that I’ve never made you feel any other way.”

His older sister’s hostile expression turned to Ylawes, and he might be obtuse—but her glare softened a bit.

“Thank you, Ylawes. That does mean something. I hope nothing changes that.”

“What could possibly do that?”

He gave her a blank look, and Qwera covered her face with her paws. She gave the Silver Merchant a disbelieving look. Was he being serious? You weren’t lying about…? Ysara exhaled.

“Well, if you don’t know—ask your team.”

Ylawes turned and stared at Dawil and Falene.

 

——

 

You know, listening into their conversation—because no one in the Byres family really bothered with secrecy spells—Fierre Lischelle-Drakle changed her mind.

She hated House Byres for what they’d done to her people. She hated them more than any other group in the world.

But even she felt bad for Ysara. A bit. She got it. It was amazing, really, how much of the rest of the world was blind. But maybe that was because they had no notion, like Ylawes, or they were deliberately stabbing themselves in the eyes.

Anyways, she still stayed as far away from Silver Arms Yvlon as she could. ‘Silver Killer’ was right—Fierre felt like she was breaking out in a rash just being in the same room as the three of them.

“Look at those three murderers.”

Fierre jumped and removed the speaking stone from her ear. For a second, she thought it was the Gnoll that Erin had chased out of the inn—but Rivel, her older brother, meant the Byres family.

“Rivel. What are you doing here?”

“I’m allowed to be here. And there’s free food.”

The Vampire defended himself. He had a huge plate of cake—he’d gotten the drippy ‘s’ of Venas. But he gave Ylawes such a deep glare of hatred that Fierre kicked him.

“Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

“I’m not stupid. He’s got his armor on, and he’s a Gold-rank. Unlike you…what’s done is done.”

He looked so bitter that Fierre felt for her brother. And her family. She closed her eyes, but Rivel shot her a glance.

“Don’t worry, I’m not jealous. I’m glad. I might live to hit a hundred now we’ve moved. Ryoka did us all a favor. But that lot…”

He glared at the Byres family, then shrugged. And for some reason, smiled and relaxed. Fierre eyed Rivel. She had begun her first career as secret-keeper hiding his pranks and the mischief he and the other younger Vampires got up to.

“What’s with the smile?”

“Nothing. Nothing that’ll get me in trouble. But something good will happen soon. Look forward to it.”

“Rivel. If you’re planning something—”

He gave Fierre a big smile.

“I’m just the dumb [Farmer], Fierre. I didn’t do anything. Anyways, I’ve gotta take this cake to Mother. She’s having a quiet meal with Miss Viceria. Our new best friends.”

He rolled his eyes and departed, tugging his hood up. Fierre opened her mouth, then caught herself and shielded her fangs. She looked around—and someone else had noticed Rivel and slid into the seat.

“Hey, Fierre, how’s it going? Did you hear I ran with Mihaela all the way from Celum?”

“Garia, you nearly gave me a heart-attack!”

“You’re tough.”

Garia punched Fierre in the shoulder hard, and the Vampire grinned at her friend. Even she couldn’t follow Ryoka, but Garia?

“What’s with your dumb brother?”

“Something no good. I’ll ask around. What’s with your…”

Fierre could tell Garia was morose. The [Martial Artist] sighed and leaned over.

“Numbtongue’s got a cat.”

“I heard he found it. Octavia didn’t give it to him.”

Garia brightened up a bit.

Really? That’s—”

“You really have to either say something or stop settling. Garia, just go for it.”

The City Runner turned her head away.

“No. It’s fine as it is.”

“Creler blood it is. Go out, get shot with crossbow bolts, or win. And if you get shot, I’ll help you.”

Fierre replied hotly. Garia glowered at her.

“You make it sound easy. What about you?”

“I’m complicated.”

Being a Vampire was really hard to hide, and so it limited Fierre to other Vampires or people she knew. Garia folded her arms.

“And I’m not? I’ll help you if you have anyone you can trust. Alber? Uh…no, wait, that’s about it.”

“I’d try Ryoka, but there’s that Guardsman Relc and Tyrion to hear about it.”

Fierre muttered into her lap. Garia hesitated. Her face made an ‘o’, and Fierre stared blankly at her. Wait—her too? But her father was a [Pirate]—and Garia didn’t seem like she was running away. Plus, her mother was from Wistram.

What was that about my mother? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fierre made the mistake of saying that last part out loud. The Vampire defensively pushed her seat back.

“It means she’s probably more open-minded. I didn’t imply—stop kicking me. Stop kicking me. I’m stronger than you are!

The two were beginning to bicker about things said when someone broke off from Magnolia Reinhart and began to take in the rest of the inn. A [Lady] with a fan in hand, whose dissatisfied look changed to one of…interest. She stopped, and her eyes found Fierre and Garia.

Lady Ieka Imarris snapped a fan across her face as she eyed Fierre and Garia. My.

“Hello.”

And here she thought The Wandering Inn was just a topical place to be. She stared about the inn as Erin peered at the [Lady]—and Valeterisa ducked behind Montressa.

“Apprentice, birthday present. Find one.”

Ieka Imarris spotted her aunt, which was one of the reasons why she’d made the journey, because she knew full well Valeterisa wouldn’t visit for a year without constant reminders. And because a birdie had told her Ryoka Griffin was in the area.

She had hated hearing Magnolia was here—but—

…Ieka forgot what she was thinking about. Was that Yvlon Byres? And…Ysara Byres, the ill-seen member of House Byres? Stunning! She turned, and there was Drassi, coming in for her lunch break as Erin threw up her hands. And was that—the [Princess] of Calanfer?

“Oh my.”

The fan began to move as Ieka wondered how many more—interesting ladies she had failed to run across. Oh dear. She looked around for a seat as one of her own personal servants spoke to Ishkr, asking for a private room.

“I believe I will drink in the ambiance in the common room, thank you. I—”

Ieka turned her head and saw Ulvama, scratching at her bare stomach, reclining there with her bare armpits—hand behind her back.

Oh dear.

“It’s just Goblins, Lady Imarris. Nothing to worry about!”

Ieka swooned into a chair and requested a drink of water. Someone had to appreciate fine details. Someone had to.

Nanette Weishart had been wandering around the inn, introducing herself to all the guests she could. Most were charmed to meet the young witch and answered her questions because Nanette was curious about everyone. The young girl peered at Ieka’s flushed face—and decided to say ‘hello’ to Valeterisa instead.

 

——

 

Things were busy.

And that meant The Wandering Inn, The Adventurer’s Haven where Sammial and Hethon were racing about, exploring everything, and Ryoka Griffin was desperately scrounging for gifts—trying to think of something to say while Magnolia Reinhart developed a headache—

And also Liscor in general. A number of odd things were happening in the city of late. Well, there was still a Yoldenite population running around, and the festivities from the triumphant Crusaders and Wales folk had actually resulted in what felt like a permanent influx of visitors.

Liscor was changing in real-time, and no better example of that could be found than Squad 5, Battalion 1.

Crusader 57 swaggered about with his zweihander on his shoulders as Crusader 53 munched on some sugary nut-snacks he’d bought with his pay. Toni was one of the trio, following the two veterans around.

…Mostly because someone needed to watch Crusader 57, who would fight anything. But Crusader 57 was actually in a good mood today. Probably because of the kids who asked to check out his sword or cheered him. Or just the fact that they’d gotten paid.

He had yet to buy a thing, but he jangled his coin pouch deliberately every few minutes to hear the coins ring. Still, he was fairly alert, and Crusader 57 grumbled despite his good mood.

“Zimrah should be here. Artur is a traitor, but Zimrah should be keeping us company. But no, she’s sleeping all the time.”

“She is tired. Please be nice.”

Toni was a Soldier with the ability to speak like Yellow Splatters. The Free Queen had correlated a Soldier’s ability to speak with a 516% increased chance of becoming Individual, and Crusader 57 sneered at him.

“She’s our tired Ant. She should have fun! Before we go to wherever Xrn or Olesm wants us next.”

By that, he meant that Zimrah was attached to Battalion 1. And Artur was attached to Battalion 4—though the [Banner Leader] was often elsewhere. But their younger [Priest] was the pride of Battalion 1. The other Battalions got their own leaders—Battalion 3 was Tersk’s, for example, and some were defined by their officers like Embraim, who carried the Glory Fire, or the [Templars].

Actually, you could argue Crusader 53 and Crusader 57 were icons of Battalion 3 as well, but neither one seemed to consider that. Crusader 53 did have a Dragonbone mace…but Artur had his banner.

Lots of Watch on the street today.

Crusader 53 used his two free hands to sign that. The Mrsha-adapted sign-language was perfectly understandable by the two Workers. Crusader 57 cast a glance to one side.

“They look jumpy. Wonder if we need to save their tails again like we did with Facestealer.”

“The adventurers did that.”

“Shut up, Toni.”

Whatever the case, no one bothered the three Antinium. Even the casual Drakes and Gnolls took one look at them—and stepped to one side. Each one was carrying an odd case—not weapons. Crusader 53 was interested and saw one of them polishing a flute. He heard a snippet of their conversation.

“Third Horn couldn’t even infiltrate?”

“No. They have a screaming defender and some brass of their own from Calanfer. Don’t worry. The Maestro is here.”

“Oh. Then are all of us here? For one…?”

The Crusaders ambled on as Crusader 53 wished the musicians would put on some music here and now. He quite liked music. But they were heading out the gates on 57’s request.

“Where are we going?”

“Inn. That [Innkeeper] owes us food, remember? I’m not wasting my money on feeding myself. Besides, I heard ‘high and mighty’ Pawn was there. Maybe we’ll see Lyonette dump him twice.”

Crusader 57 laughed at that. He would have been terribly hurt to realize how many good zingers he’d already missed today. But the three Crusaders never made it to The Wandering Inn for the drama that would soon ensue.

They ran into someone…coming through the [Portal Door]. But it was odd.

Liska had stomped out of the inn, and she kept pausing to talk to someone on the other side. As they watched, she had to carry a huge, marked stone out—and the doorway kept reappearing. It was not easy, and Liska kept talking into the doorway.

“Is here good? Further out? Okay—okay—I’ll tell the Watch soon! But I have to open the door! Excuse me!

She waved, and someone on the Walls groaned and shouted down.

Is it war, monsters, magical disaster, news—

Just get down here!

A [Guard] ran out the gates, and the Crusaders tromped over. All three helped Liska carry the portal stone over to the road, and she began speaking to the [Guard]. Even Crusader 57 helped, though he grumbled.

“What the fucking…what the damn…no, the shit-Creler—”

He was trying to express his frustration in the limited lexicon of English swear words. Liska answered for the Crusaders.

“You might want to stand back—although, you’re the ones they want to see. Hey, stop!

She had to stop several wagons on the road as the [Guard] ran towards Liscor. But the group coming through the door only came out when Liska told them everything in a hundred foot radius was clear—and they came through fast, looked around, and headed across the Floodplains towards the grass. They were, in fact—

“Dwarves?”

Crusader 57 started forward, but one called out. He had an odd helmet on with what looked like gauze wrapped all around it.

Don’t come closer! We have sick among us.

They were bearing what looked like one of those carrying-platforms Pallass had used with Chaldion—only, it was enclosed. Eight Dwarves, and four who Squad 5 could hear audibly coughing or making sounds as they were ported to a hill.

“They had to come through the door outside of Celum—we moved the portal stones and everything.”

Liska kept well back. Toni looked at Crusader 53.

Find Zimrah. And Pawn?

The [Crusader] jogged off at once. 57 called out to the Dwarves.

“You all sick? What’s wrong?”

Four of us! Badly—we hoped the Worker who helped last time could be of service once more. They were the warriors who went to battle—when the others fell sick a day before reaching Dwarfhalls Rest, we isolated these four. They haven’t gotten better.”

Squad 5 was perplexed. They looked at each other, and Crusader 57 shrugged.

“That sucks. I heard some of the Humans who came from Wales got sick. But Zimrah cured them. She’ll come and heal you.”

The Dwarf with the helmet nodded slightly.

“That is our hope. Thank you, Antinium [Crusaders].”

Crusader 53 nodded respectfully to the Dwarves. Crusader 57 whispered as they watched and waited for Zimrah to arrive.

“Told you other species didn’t have any good classes. Can’t even heal themselves of a cold.”

 

——

 

In fairness, the Antinium were getting sick. It was just that, like most things Antinium, even Liscorian citizens didn’t know much about it.

Also in fairness—the sickness wasn’t that bad.

KE-kkkkcheee!

The sound of a Worker sneezing was so alarming that a Human man nearly leapt into the path of a wagon. The embarrassed Worker hid behind several fellow Workers, and several Liscorians laughed their tails off.

“I am sick. I must get better.”

The Worker began to retreat to the Hive, and that was fascinating. For a few reasons. Firstly—because it sounded like he had a bad cold. But Antinium weren’t even similar to Humans, Drakes, or other species in that they had no noses to run. Some of what the disease might be trying to do to them was ineffectual because of their different biology.

It had certainly hit the Dwarves hard enough—but the damn metal-lovers knew how to isolate and prevent disease from spreading. The fact that they’d been on the road too long had meant it incubated before they reached a population center.

Of course, even among the best [Healers] in the world, terms like ‘incubation’, ideas like quarantining, and so on were very abstract. They might know all these things, but only less than a dozen [Doctors] and a few other beings knew germ theory to that extent.

Ironically, some of this world’s remaining experts had gotten to their level of understanding not because they healed it, but because they caused it.

So the Worker who was unlucky enough to be coughing and sneezing was a curio, and as he tried to head back to his Hive, someone intercepted him.

“Good sah! Good sah, prithee a moment of your time?

At first, the Worker didn’t notice someone talking to him because of the accent, and all the language didn’t make sense.

But then he turned, and a [Healer] strode up. You could tell he was a [Healer] because of his robes, the pinrose flower attached to his front, and the sigil of healing upon his back. The half-Elf also had a magnificent mustache that reminded the Worker of Brigadier Forount.

“Hello. I am sorry, do you need something?”

“I should say you need something, good sah! I am a [Healer] around these parts, and you seem to be in distress! I say, what seems to be the matter? A spot of illness?”

Some people were staring at a [Healer] addressing a Worker, but the half-Elf was so friendly that the Worker replied—as most Workers did to any questions.

“I am sick. I must get better.”

“Get better, you say? Could you use a tonic or something, perhaps?”

The [Healer] fished around in his robes for a few bottles, but the Worker took a step back.

“I am not able to purchase anything, thank you. I am sorry—I will go to the Hive and get better. Thank you. Zimrah or the Queen can cure me.”

Really?

The half-Elf’s eyes narrowed slightly. He looked the Worker up and down.

“Good healers, are they? Splendid ones, I’d imagine. Have many Antinium been getting sick, young man?”

The Worker had no idea who this half-Elf was or how he could tell the Worker was a young man, but he enjoyed the novel conversation. He dipped his head.

“Zimrah can cure any sick Workers. Not many are sick. Most sneeze. A few are very sick. But the Free Queen treats the ones who are sick with Zimrah.”

“Extra-ordinary. Ex-tra-ordi-nary.”

The half-Elf said it again. He peered at the Worker with a little monocle.

“Then it would appear all the magical plag—er, illnesses are being wiped out. But the mundane ones have more staying power. Good to know. But I’d have expected more spread even from…do you know how this Queen heals your Workers, by chance? A Skill?”

“No. She uses btiqk.”

“…Say what now?”

The very friendly half-Elf fiddled with his mustache and peered harder at the Worker as the Worker—who had no name but a promising career hammering nails into new buildings under Architect Hexel—explained.

“The Queen heard we were becoming sick. She said it was unacceptable. So she gave btiqk. Most Workers do not fall sick if they sleep with it on them.”

Antinium. They had lost almost all their great technology and feats of old, but they’d kept some things on those four ships that had made landfall. Or figured out how to reproduce them.

The half-Elf, whose name was Folveilouka, folded his arms and tapped his foot before asking if anyone who’d recently been cured by the btiqk was around. The Worker actually pointed back to some of his friends, who were standing around and admiring a puddle in the street.

It took Folveilouka one look through his monocle to see what had been done. He shook hands with the Worker who had been cured.

“I can see I’m not needed here overduly, then, sirs. You children have a good day, then. Er—how is this ‘Zimrah’ doing? Are there more of her?”

“There is only one Zimrah, but there are more [Acolytes]. She is tired all day, but levelling.”

“Damn. Er. Damn good. Thank you, young ones. Have a candy.”

He handed them all a half-Elven treat, a bit of tree molasses wrapped around some nuts. The Workers bit into them happily as Folveilouka backed away. He kept smiling until he strode down the streets.

Then Tolveilouka stared at his hands and wiped them a few times on his robes. He hurried off, swearing under his breath—but he felt happy despite that.

Easy information gathering. By the way—the candy was just candy. He had made it himself. You had to play your part well. He wondered if the Antinium weren’t normally talked to—some of the Drakes and Gnolls had been looking odd.

He enjoyed petting cats, walking dogs, and sometimes he let them out of a city while it burned. Principles.

But the Antinium bothered him. So they could kill magical plagues? That was…wonderful to know. And that damned Yellow Rivers mold wiped out too many sicknesses too. Apparently a lot of the Humans getting sick had used some kind of cultured mold on themselves.

“Who figured out to use spores? Who’s bringing this stuff in?

A Dragon? Yderigrisel was dead. And he was never that clever.

If it’s some new Earth Dragon or, worse, one of the swamp ones…

Something was a bit off. Tolveilouka had been delighted to learn that they still played chess—and perplexed by the ‘football’ everyone was kicking around. But then he’d heard chess had been ‘invented’ by some Fraerling.

He felt like he was missing parts of a puzzle, and he didn’t like that. The Antinium might be part of it—or a separate puzzle entirely.

At least he knew why they were so good at holding down his plague that the Eater Goats had spread. Btiqk.

Tolveilouka might not know exactly what the Free Queen had, but he knew what it was. He kept wiping his hands—and then he actually looked down and addressed something on his pristine palms.

“You are the most disgustingly innocent—off, off. Eugh.”

He kept wiping. He hated things like this. They were friendly, innocent mini-beings. His Master used to grow the nastiest strains, let them breed and infect others. But btiqk was a group trained to eliminate other tiny organisms—and it seemed like this lot just wanted to reproduce and excrete oxygen.

He’d have to figure out something that would kill them. So—mundane over magical, and this ‘Zimrah’ was counter-levelling, but she could barely keep up with a small group.

“Maybe parasites. But I was never good at them. Oh, Master…

Tolveilouka clutched at his chest. He leaned against a wall sadly—and looked around this city that had not been here when he was alive.

How small. How quaint. They had no idea what they were built over. And here were the Horns in this area.

But don’t go to that inn. There were a few dangerous ones about—he could sense them. They could—unfortunately—harm him.

He had not survived war upon war by leaping into a fight with blind confidence, and this lot had chased away even the Stitch Witch. It tempted him, though.

Oh, how it tempted him. In fact, two of them were even in the city. Tolveilouka had to stop himself from literally leaping around a corner when he saw the [Necromancer] and Antinium walking past him.

“Of all the odious tasks, Ksmvr. You could imagine she’d put Ishkr upon the job, but us? We’re Gold-rank adventurers.”

“Yes, Comrade Pisces. But it is just a bag of sugar.”

“And eggs. And two cabbages. It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Helping our friend is a bad principle?”

The young man hesitated, and Tolveilouka eyed him.

“N—w—I meant that it’s beneath us.”

“Oh. So we are too good to do mundane chores. I see.”

Don’t write that down! Let me think of how to rephrase that.”

The sweating [Necromancer] and Antinium would be the work of a moment to kill. Tolveilouka stared balefully from behind a barrel as Ekirra stared at him from behind, then went to kick his ball somewhere else.

Had they leveled up of late? The [Necromancer] seemed to have increased his death magic mastery by some modicum. The Antinium, though…he seemed more deadly.

That was the problem with levels. Tolveilouka changed his mind. His hands began to ooze as he changed them too, and he stood up slowly and began to stride after the two. Never let an opportunity slip past.

The problem with being an undercover monster, though—was something Tolveilouka knew full well. And he had only artifacts, not his master’s acumen with magic, so it was even more likely sometimes—as he stepped around a group of figures fiddling with instruments and headed for the [Necromancer], two people moved.

Sometimes—you got noticed.

Tolveilouka saw a tiny little skeleton of a mouse skitter out of a sewer drain. It had bright, green eyes, and no one noticed but him. It said nothing—but he felt the mental warning.

LEAVE NOW.

Oh, him again. Tolveilouka’s eyes narrowed—but he wavered. And then someone tried to cut his head off.

It was so fast that even the half-Elf barely saw it coming. He just noticed one of the people in the group of instrument-carrying Drakes and Gnolls turn, and a little object flicked out.

A…conductor’s wand, but metal. The kind of thing the leader of an orchestra carried. Or a Symphony.

The metal wand wouldn’t hurt. The sword was a bigger threat.

Tolveilouka ducked. The sword took the top of his hair strands off—and the second cut came straight at the back of his head. Whoever had launched the sneak attack hadn’t put all of their eggs in one basket.

He hated swordsmen like that damn [Sword Legend]. Tolveilouka was adept—but not like the masters of old. Still—he raised two fingers and deflected the second strike as he twisted away.

The third blow was a step-in, a pinpoint strike so classic to fencing that Pisces turned as an older Drake with a maestro’s magnificent suit, ruffled and edged with faint lilac, stabbed. And Tolveilouka—twisted.

“Not bad.”

The half-Elf with the gigantic mustache murmured. The Drake’s eyes flicked to him—Tolveilouka had a hand on the rapier, moving it back—but the blow had cut the fake healer’s robes. Pisces and Ksmvr turned as the Drake stepped back fast, and the rest of his group turned, grabbing for weapons.

“Hold. We’re done here.”

The Drake was smart enough not to touch the part of the sword that Tolveilouka had touched. To the half-Elf’s vague disappointment, the entire weapon vanished.

Summoned weapons. Too bad. Tolveilouka kept his back to Pisces and Ksmvr. He and the Drake stared at each other, and each noticed one thing.

The Drake probably noticed Tolveilouka had a fake mustache.

Tolveilouka…noticed the golden bell on the maestro’s wand. It didn’t chime.

“Let’s not have a disturbance here. Gold-ranks dying brings trouble—especially with the Haven about. Agreed?”

“Good sah, we have an accord.”

Tolveilouka strode forwards, and the Drake pivoted—but the half-Elf was heading away from Pisces and Ksmvr as they focused more on the Drake than him.

Thank goodness. The little mouse was still staring at him. Tolveilouka gnashed his teeth. Upstart [Necromancers]. This was why—his master always used to tell him to be more cautious.

Be they so humble—they had killed his master. They could kill Tolveilouka. Drakes had slain their parents. Little children could slay Giants. He walked off, sulking.

 

——

 

Pisces wondered who that other person had been. A half-Elf? He hadn’t seen the other’s face—except maybe a huge mustache. He was tempted to look, but that Drake had a golden bell.

He was the real thing. The three strikes—Pisces had only seen the last one—proved that. It had probably taken less than a second for all three, and the other Drakes and Gnolls were still turning.

“Maestro, what was that?

“Interloper. Focus. I’m thinking adagio, and I will let the First Clarinet lead—but I want range and accuracy. No mistakes. No accidents, am I clear? We do our job professionally and leave. There is too much attention on this city. But I will allow that it was right for me to come.”

“Yes, Maestro.”

Humbled, the Gnoll with a clarinet bowed his head, and the others fell silent like naughty school children. Pisces just kept staring.

“That Drake is an expert with the blade.”

Ksmvr, for once, was not stating the obvious—because ‘expert’ didn’t cover it. Pisces had recently had the honor of facing the King of Duels, Raelt Leysars, in an unofficial match during their journey to Izril.

The King of Jecrass had been carrying a golden bell. He had, despite his long captivity, beaten Pisces, and even with magic, Pisces had doubted he’d fare better. The only other Gold-bell [Duelist] that Pisces had ever met was Deniusth of Orchestra, and that man had been more full of himself—although a gifted musician-duelist.

It had been hard to get a grasp on how good Deniusth was—but it was safe to say that anyone with a golden bell was automatically Gold-rank or better. If you had honestly earned it—it meant you had been acclaimed by other Gold-bell carriers in an exhibition.

Or killed or bested the original owner in a fair match.

This Drake stood with perfect posture. If you had never seen it before, it looked uncanny. He held himself upright, as if in front of an audience of tens of thousands at every moment, chin elevated, surveying everything around him without needing to constantly hold his head.

He looked dignified, especially in the suit. His scales were a bit grey, but they were still deep sapphire, and his eyes were faintly silverine. The plant, not the color. Green irises tinged crimson at the exterior, unfolding in petals of subtle patterns.

The Maestro turned to Pisces and Ksmvr and nodded slightly to them.

“Adventurers. I apologize for the interruption.”

“Er—not at all. Are you a duelist by any chance, sir?”

Pisces hesitated, and the Drake glanced down at the golden bell on the conductor’s wand. He smiled ruefully.

“I’ve forgotten to take it off again.”

He detached it with a single pass of his claws and tucked it into his belt pouch. Then he bowed slightly to Pisces and Ksmvr, hands at his side.

“I have been worthy of the honor for thirty years. But I fear this is not the moment to talk to a promising young duelist, even a Gold-rank Adventurer. Pisces Jealnet of the Horns of Hammerad, isn’t it? And Ksmvr of the Free Antinium.”

He knew Pisces? But then—all of the men and women there seemed to know Pisces and Ksmvr. They all had the same dress and attire on, male and female Drakes and Gnolls, ranging from just over nineteen to what might have been their sixties.

They all looked…sharp. Pisces’ warning bells began to ring, and Ksmvr peered at the Gnoll with the clarinet.

“Comrade Pisces, I think he has weapons in his musical instrument.”

“Ksmvr—why don’t we save observations for later?”

Now, Pisces was sweating because the Drake was eying them. But the unknown Maestro just smiled.

“I would hate to cause a scene, gentlemen. And again—a young Silver-bell fencer should be focused on honing his technique. Padurn Jealnet was a good [Fencer], and his son looks to have surpassed him.”

“You know my father?”

Pisces’ stomach twisted up, and the Maestro shrugged.

“I’ve met him twice. Young man, continue practicing.”

He looked at the rapier as Pisces flushed and felt awkward, as if the Drake somehow knew that Pisces had been resting on his laurels, not training to improve. Even Yvlon had a hard time pressing him with the sword because he had [Flash Step] and magical tricks.

But the bar…the true bar of excellence looked at him. Then the Maestro turned smartly, and he raised his wand.

“Company. Ladies and gentlemen. Let us begin.”

Then they grew somber, the Symphony members. They did not sit, and this was no great auditorium. The street was just one adjoining Market Street, and the players stood in neat ranks in front of the Drake. He lifted his wand and flicked it, measuring a tempo.

But they were a band of musicians—and unlike Orchestra, they played in the streets. A Drake struck the drums lightly, and four violinists played together. But they sounded like thirty-two. Each one had Skills that doubled their sound or let them play like a group. Flautists began to blow gently as the First Clarinet inhaled softly—and began to play.

People stopped and stared in the streets. Yoldenites turned, intrigued by the softer music than their communal songs. Major Voita herself wondered if it were a street performance Liscor’s Council was putting on.

There were horns, but most of them rested their brass instruments rather than play. Two trumpets played so very softly—this was a song for the woodwinds.

But they weren’t the entire song. As the Drake conducted, measuring out the tempo, watching their performance with one eye while he observed Pisces and Ksmvr behind him without looking at them, he swung his head up.

And then—Voita jumped as she saw a group stand up from the rooftops. Eighteen figures stood on the roof of an apartment, and, wearing dark clothing that concealed them, they took the masks of cloth from their faces and began to sing.

It was either one of those made-up languages or words sung so slowly unlike normal conversation that they became more like music. A choir’s voices drifted over the rooftops, haunting, almost longing. Sweet and saccharine—eerie.

The people of Liscor poked their heads out of their apartments—and a swearing Drake who had really been looking forwards to his day off stomped out of Krshia’s apartment and looked up.

“Who the hell is on your rooftop, Krsh—what the?

Lism goggled at the choir of singers above him. They ignored him completely. Lism was only wearing a towel around his waist. He slowly shut the doors as the song grew.

Nevermind the voices. Nevermind the distractions. The Drake with the wand closed his eyes now, listening to the music as his hands moved. He had a purpose in this city that was far baser than the music. 

But the music—still mattered. Pride in your craft. Just like how you honed the blade. The singing choir above him was raising their voices, but still without words, and it sounded—

Eerie. A beautiful wail or perhaps a dirge accompanied by the musicians on the street. The perplexed adventurers, the wary Watch, Antinium Workers who paused and stared, and the admiring Yoldenites saw Symphony begin to play. The magic did not wait long.

It sprang up, drifting from the rooftops, rising from the streets. A fog, a mist that grew and spread from their location. Drifting across Liscor, obfuscating sight. Watch Captain Zevara’s scales prickled as she looked out her window, and she heard the music as she called for all her Senior Guards.

But it didn’t matter. The sound was rising, and it was going far further than it should have, but it was only affecting one person. The performance drifted over the walls—and someone heard it as they paced around the room they had been given. A white-scale Drake shook his head as he heard the music—put his hands over his earholes—and then his claws fell limply, and he stood, swaying, blank-eyed.

Vetn and Qwera had made one mistake:

They should have made Tesy go to the [Garden of Sanctuary] immediately. For the song went through The Wandering Inn, bypassing the [Knights] and Shriekblade, who turned her head warily, listening.

Even if you could not go in yourself—Symphony had ways. Tesy began to stumble out of his room, down the stairs, like a sleepwalker. He went out of the common room, past Erin Solstice as she talked to Drassi excitedly, and slowly began making his way out of the inn. Down the hill, into the city. Drawn by the music.

[Siren’s Song]. The Maestro kept conducting, listening as he waited for the song to end.

 

——

 

Onieva turned her head and cupped one claw to her earhole.

“Does anyone hear that? Sounds like music.”

She frowned, but the inn was busy with the party, and whatever it was—was so faint she could barely pick it up. Especially because Erin Solstice was currently shouting to the left.

So I have this huge idea, Drassi! But I want to broadcast on your channel. Can you get me on tomorrow or tonight?

“What? What? Stop shouting, Erin!”

“Oh, sorry. I thought—”

The [Innkeeper] rubbed at her ears, but whatever it was—was subtle and neither magic nor aura. She looked left as Tesy walked into a wall.

“Tesy? Tesy, that’s a wall. Is he—sleepwalking? The outhouse is that way.”

Erin pointed, and the Drake [Painter] shuffled left towards the door. He leaned against it, and Erin sighed.

“Where’s Vetn and Qwera? Mrsha, can you point this goofball to the bathroom?”

“I’ll do it.”

Kevin volunteered, and Erin shook her head. Poor Tesy. He must have been exhausted. She turned back to Drassi.

“So where was I?”

“You had some kind of plan? Erin, I’m on break. And look—I really appreciate the free food, but I can’t just give you a moment on my broadcast for no reason. You have a good one, right? If it’s another chess tournament or something’s going to explode, I’ll cover it.”

Sorta. See, it’s actually an idea for the holidays. Remember Christmas last year?”

Erin was excitedly showing Drassi a bunch of ideas. She wanted time to present, but the Drake was a bit—dubious.

“You want to tell everyone about a holiday? I mean—that sounds as boring as anything.”

“W-well, I think it’d be fun! Everyone loves Christmas where I come from! And I might have a few special guests…can we do it in my inn?”

“What kind of special guests, Erin?”

“Goblins and Antinium?”

Erin was sweating a bit. Drassi froze mid-gulp of her drink. She put it down slowly and exhaled.

“Okay. That’s a significantly larger ask than you led with. Erin…”

“Give me a chance! I’ll make it cool.”

“Erin—even if you put a Goblin on television, can you beat cute Fraerlings with your holiday? No offense—I know you can with your chess tournament. That was crazy. But you don’t have, uh—anything interesting about a holiday where someone breaks into houses to leave gifts. Well, it’s a funny story, but not better than Paeth. No one will watch.”

That was true. Erin hesitated.

“W-what if I spiced the pot a bit? With a <Quest>?”

Onieva had been about to raid the buffet table and maybe introduce herself to one of the famous [Strategists], but they were too young for her taste. But she had to hear that. And in fact—she elbowed someone in the crowd.

“Hey, you old snake. Can’t ignore Erin for a second, huh?”

A Drake with one eye froze as Onieva grimaced at him. Chaldion of Pallass stared at Onieva. He hesitated—then pointedly looked the other way. Onieva’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, ignoring me, are we? Saliss gets all the attention and pressure, and I get spit. Fine, fine. Hey, Miss Erin! Look who the Wyvern dragged in. Do you remember me?”

“Um—oh, Onieva?”

Chaldion stared at Onieva as she strode over and gestured to him. He looked—disconcerted, but Onieva took Erin’s hand.

“And Miss Drassi, talk of Pallass!”

“Hello! Miss…? I think I know your name, but I’ve met a lot of Pallassians. Onieva?”

Drassi was interested as the violet-scaled Drake grinned. Onieva took her clawed hand.

“Oliwing. I’m the outcast. Chaldion’s grand-niece. Cousin of the famous Saliss of Lights. That’s how I introduce myself. I don’t go to parties much, let alone with the high society I’m technically part of.”

“Smart.”

Selys muttered. She waved at Onieva, and the Drake laughed.

“I should get out more! But I’m so tired most nights—and the days just keep going by, and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I’ve seen you around the inn before, but Saliss never brings you up. I didn’t know you two were related.”

Chaldion slowly stepped over, leaning on his cane. He nodded to Erin, but he looked uncharacteristically distracted. And alarmed.

“Onieva is…a relative. One of the few I have left. Miss Solstice.”

“Hey, Chaldion! You should take better care of your family! Saliss too! Why didn’t he come with you?”

The [Grand Strategist] of Pallass had an amazingly stoic face when he needed to, but his tail twitched slightly. No one noticed—and Onieva, rather than look guarded, just laughed.

“I say that to him all the time. But he’s sleeping in his workshop, I think. We could run over and bother him?”

Erin shrugged.

“If he’s sleeping—let him. Octavia is like that. [Alchemists] and poor sleep. No wonder they make things explode so much.”

The female Drake laughed.

“See, I like you. What’s this about something interesting going on? Let me in on it—and the ‘old man’. He loves prying. Is it going to be something hilarious like the chess game?”

Erin hesitated, but she made room as Drassi sipped from a drink, trying to hide her amusement as Onieva pestered Chaldion.

But he was staring at Onieva in alarm he barely disguised. In fact, a sweating Drake had just come into the inn and stopped when he saw Onieva bullying Chaldion.

“Ancestors!”

Mirn looked around for backup, but Qwera was out, and he didn’t know if he should grab Onieva or let her talk. She wasn’t going to say anything—wrong. Not exactly—

But she thought Saliss really was asleep. And—Onieva never talked to Chaldion normally. That was why he was staring at her. But Onieva, thanks to the faerie potion, didn’t remember why she kept away, so she was needling him as hard as Saliss.

Drawbacks indeed. Mirn sidled away, listening as hard as he could, ready to grab a pitcher and just throw it over everyone. Meanwhile, everyone else was listening to Erin.

“I have this holiday idea. It would be great if Pallass adopted it. Hint, hint. And, okay—maybe it’s got some Goblins in it, but I think it’d be great for the winter. Very festive. There’s not much snow yet, but sometimes, you don’t get a white Christmas. The idea is…”

Erin was outlining her holiday, but Drassi was patently skeptical.

“Erin, even Sir Relz would run your story because you’re…you. But you’re not getting some Balerosian city to adopt it. Actually—scratch that. The Lizardfolk are the most likely to do something like this. But you want a worldwide holiday? You need a hook.”

“Like a <Quest>. Got one up your butt?”

Onieva nudged Erin, and the [Innkeeper] hesitated.

“Up my—you mean, I should draw everyone’s attention? Make the reward Christmas-related?”

“Or just post a big one. Come on, everyone knows you’ve got another. Lay it on us—that’s what Drassi is trying to say nicely. Then, while we’re all goggling and competing, tell us about Christmas.”

Erin folded her arms and bit her lip. It was the most direct request she’d ever gotten, and it made her uncomfortable.

“I don’t just have unlimited quests, you know.”

“So use one if you want this holiday to be big. Don’t you have…something?”

Erin hesitated, and Chaldion and Drassi focused on her. She squirmed.

“Well—some. But most have requirements. I’ve actually been trying to, y’know, prep them. I can sort of tell if I can post a lot of quests, but all but a few are no good.”

Really? I mean, uh—hello, Drassi! I was just standing here.”

Someone coughed, and Erin jumped and saw Jelaqua edge into the conversation. She had a drink and a cupcake on a plate. She innocently stood there…and Erin saw Halrac standing behind her.

“Halrac?”

“Hmm?”

He didn’t even come up with an excuse. He just stood there, arms folded. Erin looked over his shoulder, and Gireulashia tried to hide behind Inkar. She actually managed to hide most of her body, somehow.

“Oh, come on. Who’s listening in?”

Half the people loitering around her coughed or looked away. Venaz wasn’t even bothering, like Halrac. He was pulling a Grimalkin and taking notes. He raised his brows as Erin shook a fist at him.

“Miss Solstice, this is exceptionally valuable information. At least put up a privacy spell if you really want to keep this ‘secret’.”

Erin glared at him. She raised her voice as Rags glowered at everyone taller than her.

“Alright, you want to hear it? <Quests> have requirements. Requirements! Not just rewards—well, they’re tied to rewards. I have this one I can’t post because I’m missing something. Or I don’t know exactly where something is, or I can’t—fulfill the reward.”

“Really? Like what?”

Erin huffed, but she was in too deep now. She scuffed a foot on the ground and turned red.

“…Apparently, I can’t dance good enough. And I can’t sword well enough either.”

“You mean, use a sword?”

“Yeah, to teach people. Which is rude! I can definitely dance. I think. I mean—I don’t dance. But isn’t that rude?”

Dance-based quests? Wil mouthed and decided he needed to send a [Message] to the Lord of the Dance. Onieva just started laughing.

“She can’t dance? Or use a sword?”

“Don’t bully me! Just because you’re Saliss’ cousin—I’ll hit you!”

Erin turned red. She raised her fists, and Onieva ruffled her hair.

“And I’m a bit of a good fighter too. Chaldion teaches all the family how to fight. But if that’s the problem—I think I’ll go kick Saliss after all. Or just raid his lab. Has he never told you about Talent Potions?”

“What now? Oh…

Erin’s eyes widened, and Onieva winked at her. Mirn cursed as she called over her shoulder.

“He might actually have one for sword-fighting. Not that he’s a specialist. Maybe that’ll help? Or you could get someone to give you a boost.”

She headed for the door, and Mirn ran after her, swearing. At least she hadn’t told Erin to come with! In the meantime, Chaldion was murmuring to Erin.

“If you need a boost to fulfill these requirements, we could set up a test with—”

“Gyaah! I just want Christmas! No one make me any offers!”

Erin scowled around and broke up the group by dashing out of it. She put her back to the wall.

“Anyone wants to get a <Quest> out of me—you’d better beat me at chess first!”

“Well, let’s have a game, then.”

Venaz grunted. Erin smirked at him—and Peki cracked her knuckles.

“I have an idea how to win.”

“Punch me and die.”

The Garuda sighed. No one liked her solutions. Erin was just about to sit down and begin deflecting people via her one game when something happened.

The wind had been brisk and chilly this winter day. Enough to make people hurry in and out—while one white-scaled Drake, oblivious, slowly stumbled his way down the hill. Kevin kept directing him back to the outhouse and shaking him, growing more and more concerned. But he needed both hands to drag Tesy back, and no one heard him calling for a hand.

—Because the wind suddenly picked up. It turned from a breeze to a sudden gale.

The shutters on The Wandering Inn’s windows suddenly clattered against the glass. The wind blew, a fierce storm of air, like the jangling of nerves. Like the beating of someone’s heart.

Erin Solstice froze and turned her head. Mrsha’s little head had snapped up when the wind blew, and the thing she had been waiting for…forgotten at last in the excitement…suddenly burst into her mind.

She sniffed, but could smell nothing in the crowded inn. But Erin was getting to her feet, ignoring Venaz. She turned to the common room door, and Lyonette, Ceria, the others filled with a premonition, got to their feet.

“I, uh…I think someone’s come to the inn.”

That was all Erin Solstice said. She turned to the door, and then a hush fell over the common room. The sound that had been echoing from within went quiet so fast that the person in the hallway heard it.

It did nothing to quiet their heart…but sometimes, you had to do something that was scary or unpleasant. That was called being responsible.

Especially if you had been running too long. So—and Erin Solstice could feel her guest, now, from her bare feet slowly walking down the hallway. The long hair, uncut and windswept, the nervous way three fingers of one hand rested on the door. She paused and took a deep breath sharply—and Mrsha, Gire, and the Gnolls heard it.

A second, two…and then a hand pushed the door open. Ryoka Griffin looked into a room filled with more people than she had ever seen. She looked at someone standing there—and her heart faltered.

For Erin Solstice was not frozen. Nor a ghost. She stood there, hands clasped together, squeezed tight, staring at her friend. Ryoka Griffin’s eyes widened.

Was she the only person who saw the flaming hat on Erin’s head? It burned in vivid colors, pink glory, pale grey mercy, blue sadness—each color bright and licking upwards.

Emotion burning over her. The [Innkeeper]’s hat glowed brighter than anything else in the room, and she stood there—staring at Ryoka Griffin.

The Wind Runner looked different. Older, perhaps, dressed differently in richer, well-tailored clothing with a foreign crest on one shoulder that made Lyonette frown. Her bare feet were wrapped now by pale white cloth, and she carried an odd hilt of some weapon on her side that Chaldion stared at.

She carried currency from another land in her bag of holding, and she looked guilty, afraid, and uncertain. But that—that was how you knew it was Ryoka Griffin.

The Courier stopped in the doorway, looking around. Ceria Springwalker, Mrsha, Lyonette, Pawn, Relc—

So many faces she knew. So many, like Chaldion or Lehra or Shriekblade, that she didn’t. Ryoka eyed the veil of shadows as a Drake with countless scars stared out of it, looking disconcerted. She turned—and a little, white Gnoll stared solemnly at Ryoka. An orange cat meowed curiously as a Hobgoblin lifted it up, and that little sound made Ryoka start.

“A cat?

That was the first thing she said, as if it were the strangest thing in the world. She missed the Sariant Lamb staring, staring at her from the stairs leading to the second floor.

A cat? Everyone turned to Reagen—and then Erin Solstice began laughing. She laughed and laughed, then held her stomach and laughed harder as Ryoka Griffin turned beet red. Seborn choked on his drink, and Garia and Fierre, getting up, started giggling too.

Even if you didn’t know her—Erin Solstice stepped forwards as Ryoka hesitated there. And though she had been gone too long, though some people held back like strangers—the first thing Erin did was give Ryoka a big hug.

Just like last time. She grabbed hold of Ryoka and refused to let go.

“There you are. I’ve been waiting, you—you slow Runner! Where have you been?”

Ryoka Griffin looked down at Erin and awkwardly hugged her back. Her speech vanished from her mind, and she said the only thing she could think of. Silly and mundane as it was—

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

Then someone got up and grabbed Ryoka in the hug—and Ceria Springwalker was cackling with her own delight. Ryoka tried to get free—but Erin clung to her, and a little Gnoll had one leg. So Ryoka Griffin stood there, paralyzed. She didn’t even try to run.

Much.

 

——

 

Nerry should have found a way to cause a distraction at once. Or—wait. But she had been waiting for months, and this was her chance. The Wind Runner was notoriously flighty. This was the moment—

The lamb knew that. But even she hesitated. Even she waited. Even she had a heart.

Erin Solstice and Ryoka Griffin stood there, in the [Garden of Sanctuary], and the [Innkeeper] had buried her head in Ryoka’s shirt. She was speaking.

I’m not crying, okay? This—this is so embarrassing. I can’t stop.”

“It’s okay. It’s alright, Erin.”

Ryoka wiped her face on an arm before Erin could notice. The little lamb rolled her eyes and trotted off. But Erin wasn’t fooled.

They’d stepped through the door for one moment. Just because everyone had tried to get at Ryoka at once. From Visma begging for a flying lesson with Bird to Relc to…

Erin had done the one thing she could, the selfish thing. Mrsha was currently howling and banging on the sealed [Garden of Sanctuary], which let no one through. Nerry had already been inside.

The [Innkeeper] and the Courier.

The girl with a hat of flames, and the fae-touched windfriend.

Erin Solstice and Ryoka Griffin.

They stood there a moment, and Erin muttered.

“I’ve stopped. I should—show you around the garden. I should let Mrsha in, and there are statues and—”

“That can keep. Right? It’s good to see you.”

Erin still hadn’t let go. It wasn’t the two-armed hug any more, but she had a hold on Ryoka’s shoulder with one arm. It trembled, and it felt weaker than it should have. For all that, Erin was on her feet.

She was alive. Ryoka’s own eyes were glistening as she looked at her friend.

“Here you are. I don’t believe it. If anyone could do it…I saw you, dead, Erin.”

“I’m sorry. I was a fool.”

Erin hung her head, and Ryoka stared at her, breathless for words.

“You’re saying that to me? Erin. I’m just glad you’re back. Even when you were dead—did I really see you there, at Ailendamus, during the battle?”

“Yes.”

Ryoka Griffin had seen the Faerie King. She had seen Ivolethe come back to life and met immortals and more. But even she took a second to try and believe. Erin just leaned on her friend.

“And you went all the way to Ailendamus to try and cure me? Did I hear you stole a scroll from a Wyrm?

Ryoka jumped and looked around, and Erin was too distracted to notice Nerry—but the lamb knew that already. The Wind Runner just shrugged helplessly.

“I thought it was the fastest way to help you. And it sort of was—or I might have been meant to be there. But I just messed up a lot.”

“Compared to me being dead.”

Ryoka had to turn to Erin. She took a breath—exasperated—and then almost snapped back.

You were dead—but somehow, even being dead, you helped me. You helped save Mrsha, and Fetohep of Khelt helped the Horns of Hammerad. Erin. We were trying to do the impossible for you, and you did it right back.”

The [Innkeeper] just wiped her eyes and chuckled.

“You’re my friends. I just feel—everyone did so much and was in so much danger for me.”

“That’s because you’re you, Erin. I’m sorry I’m late. I’m an idiot, and I’ve brought more trouble and—things to deal with with me. But I wanted to help.”

The shorter young woman looked up. Ryoka Griffin looked nervously down at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] smiled.

“Don’t look so guilty. I know you run around. I’m just happy to see you, my friend.”

She said it like that, because, somehow, she knew that meant more to Ryoka. The Wind Runner ducked her head.

“Yeah, f-friend.”

She stuttered, and Nerry threw up in her mouth as she tried to dig a hole in the dirt to bury her head into. But their laughter didn’t sound that bad. Of any two in this entire world, the two Earthers had a different sort of connection. Erin glanced over her shoulder.

“Mrsha’s threatening to throw all my cakes on the ground. We’d better go back. But—tell me everything. Come on. And stop crying. You’re supposed to be a Courier, huh?”

 

——

 

Despite Erin’s comments, it took about twenty minutes for Ryoka to convince Erin to let her go once they returned to the common room. And Erin only did when Onieva came back.

“Ooh. Am I interrupting something intimate?”

The Drake had a vial of something in one claw. Erin let go, flushing.

“This is Ryoka, Onieva. Onieva—what’s that?”

“Talent Vial. Saliss must have been out. If he complains—tell him Chaldion did it.”

Onieva tossed it to Erin, and the [Innkeeper] dropped the vial. Ryoka didn’t bother trying to reach for it—as it tumbled to the ground, she flicked a finger up—and the vial’s fall halted as the wind blew around it.

“Whoa! Ryoka, you’ve got wind powers!”

“It’s just a trick. I’ve been practicing.”

Erin fumbled with the vial, putting it in her bag of holding to Onieva’s disappointment.

“Sorry, Onieva. I’ll look at it later. But it’s just—Ryoka’s back! She’s a super big friend of the inn and one of my first guests.”

“The Wind Runner herself. I saw you blowing around Izril with Saliss. Good job out there.”

Onieva shook Ryoka’s hand. She looked—interesting. Ryoka frowned at Onieva. It wasn’t that she saw anything different about the Drake—and she was seeing all kinds of weird things around the inn that no one else was pointing out.

Rather, Ryoka had the sense that Onieva could probably kick her ass. Which—as the Ryoka Standard went—most of the people in this inn could do.

“How do you know Erin? Sorry—”

“I’m Saliss’ cousin. I do deliveries for him sometimes, disgrace the family—but don’t let me keep you.”

The Drake waved Ryoka off, and Erin turned to Ryoka.

“Yeah! Everyone wants a piece of you! But you’d better not run off or I’ll put a bounty on your head. Or a <Quest>.”

She—didn’t seem to be joking, despite the smile. Ryoka looked around the inn.

“Where do I start? I—it’s good to see you, Erin.”

“Yeah, you can stop saying that now.”

After eight times, it got old. But Erin was beaming so much she grabbed Ryoka’s arm.

“So, how did you get out of Ailendamus after that? Did that scroll work? How’d the dude take seeing all those, uh, cousins of his?”

Ryoka’s head snapped around with alarm. She stared at Erin as if the young woman were a ghost again.

“So you remember everything? The cousins? Who the fuck were—

She saw Chaldion and the others glancing at Erin and caught herself. The [Innkeeper]’s eyes twinkled, but also warningly.

“Let’s save that for later. In the garden again. Oh—the gardens! Plural! You don’t know—you’re going to love it. But later, later! So you were in Ailendamus for a long time.”

“I was—trying to help. It went badly.”

Ceria shrugged.

“Eh, you go to another continent and it always goes badly. You should have seen what we did when we tried to help Erin.”

Ryoka was still not even processing Erin being on her feet. She had been—afraid, despite having seen Erin on the scrying orb, that this was all some dream. It had occurred to her that the silly sock puppets, leaving Ailendamus—

This could have all been a masterclass in Rhisveri or Visophecin torturing her. But Erin felt too real—and Ceria Springwalker was looking about.

“Of all the times—can’t those two even buy groceries and come back? Pisces and Ksmvr are out, but Yvlon—over here!”

“Ryoka.”

The [Armsmistress] appeared, and Ryoka started.

“Yvlon! It’s so good to see you.”

Yvlon Byres paused, and Ryoka looked at her two beautiful arms because it had been so long she had forgotten. And she meant what she said—but she was instantly embarrassed. Everyone else giggled with humor at Ryoka’s flushed face. She was doing that every two seconds. But Yvlon just smiled.

“You as well.”

Ryoka still remembered their first meeting and fight—but so long had passed since then—she took Yvlon’s grip and felt a terrifying strength made as gentle as could be. Ryoka stared at her and Ceria.

“That’s right. You two were on Chandrar. What the hell happened after the Village of the Dead? I had to get out of the way. Rhisveri was—”

“Long story. I bet that’s going to be said a lot here. But ours really is.”

Ceria looked amused as she realized how much she had to tell Ryoka—including the truth of what had happened when they reached the center. Ryoka exhaled.

“I’m glad you four are all okay. You are, aren’t you?”

The half-Elf thought about it and shrugged as Yvlon bit her lip.

“A few more scars. A few more levels. Ksmvr got his arm back, so that’s a net positive. And we survived. What more can an adventurer ask for?”

Ryoka nodded slowly. It seemed like a real positive on limbs, here. She pointed at Ceria.

“Plus, you’ve got a few new Relics by the look of it. Nice crown. Is it magic?”

Ceria Springwalker’s smile froze on her face. Yvlon turned to Ryoka and then to the half-Elf as Chaldion’s head snapped around. He fumbled with his eye—and Ceria blinked at Ryoka.

“What crown?”

“Uh…”

The half-Elf gave Ryoka a blank look while her eyes flashed at Ryoka as the Wind Runner stood there. Oh shit. She looked about, and Erin stared at Ceria.

“You seeing things, Ryoka?”

“Maybe. Maybe I am. I—uh—okay. Okay, let’s forget about that. Erin, do you have a hat made of fire or am I crazy? And is there a Drake glued to the wall like Spiderman over there?”

Erin began to grin—and everyone turned their heads as Ceria ducked away from Yvlon’s pinching fingers that were going for her ear. Shriekblade appeared and stared at Ryoka. She was indeed glued to the wall, and she’d been stealthing her way around the inn as Ryoka watched.

“I work here. What are you?

“My favorite troublemaker. You keep her safe, alright, Tessa?”

Shriekblade nodded dubiously. Ryoka stared at Erin.

“And the hat?

“Oh, I’m a [Witch] now. Hey! You know Riverfarm! My door now goes there.”

What? Have you met Laken?

Erin nodded as she watched Ceria walk swiftly out the doors with Yvlon in hot pursuit. The half-Elf started running before the door even closed.

“Yup. Not a fan. But let’s keep moving. You, uh, see anything else weird?”

Ryoka stared around the inn. Everyone gave her a look. The problem was—Ryoka was now having trouble switching her vision to ‘normal’ mode.

“…Is that Valeterisa stealing Grimalkin’s notes? Am I seeing a Hobgoblin [Chef]? Is that—Rags?

Everyone turned. The latter two things were just Calescent and Rags—but Grimalkin turned and yanked his notepad out of Valeterisa’s hands. He was extremely glad he didn’t have his notes on Earth on there. Then again…

“Hello, Miss Ryoka. I haven’t killed anyone that I know of since last we met.”

Valeterisa waved idly as she reappeared. Then she hesitated.

“Outside of a war.”

She thought harder.

“Or a personal duel.”

Ryoka stared at her—the Archmage seemed to be trying to think of anyone else she might have inadvertently killed of late.

“Is everyone I know here?”

“Yes! Ryoka!”

Then someone else grabbed her in a bear hug and lifted her up. Garia and Fierre grabbed Ryoka, and she struggled.

“Wh—Garia!

“You’re back! You’re back! And just in time too! Guess who’s here, Ryoka? Mihaela Godfrey! And Salamani! And there’s a Centaur in Riverfarm who claims you’re her best friend!

“Wh—oh shit. Mihaela?”

Ryoka’s stomach began hurting at the very idea. But Erin Solstice was snapping her fingers and whispering to Ishkr, who obligingly went to the Haven. Garia was swinging Ryoka around when someone interrupted them.

“Excuse me. Miss Griffin, I never thanked you properly for your services to me and my aunt. Hello. And who are these charming Runners?”

Fierre, Garia, and Ryoka all turned to Lady Ieka as she pushed her way forwards. Ryoka blinked.

“Lady Ieka Imarris? Oh—thank you for your help! I, uh—”

She was flustered as the [Lady] took her hand.

“I am in your debt, Miss Griffin. But I see so many fine folk—let us just agree that you won’t leave without accepting my invitation at least once! Agreed? Wonderful. Hello, Miss…?”

She turned to Garia, who looked astonished and nervous. Ryoka was relieved by that. She turned and looked for Mrsha.

Mrsha! Lyonette gave Ryoka a cool smile and extended a hand.

“Miss Ryoka.”

“Lyonette. Hello! Are—are those Thronebearers?

Ryoka did a double-take at the sight of Ser Dalimont, Lormel, Sest, and Ushar. All four bowed, and Lyonette coolly nodded. She still didn’t like Ryoka—but like Erin and Magnolia, she was warmer than before.

Mostly because Ryoka had moved down the ‘bad not-parental figure’ list under Mrell and Prha. So Lyonette took her hands.

“I hope you won’t bring more trouble to the inn—but I doubt you can beat our regular craziness.”

“I’ll try not to. I really will.”

“Eh. We beat Facestealer. Hey, you. Look. I have a cat. His name is Reagen.”

Numbtongue. He pushed forwards, and Ryoka blinked at him.

“What was that about Facestealer?”

He was in the midst of telling her, and she was growing increasingly alarmed—but Mrsha was sitting at a table—back facing Ryoka. After her initial big hug, she had looked at Ryoka and turned away. Now, she was having a cup of milk with a giant…giant Gnoll with reddish fur who was giving Ryoka the evil-eye.

“Er—who’s that?”

“Gireulashia. [Paragon].”

That’s a class?

Numbtongue just grinned at her. Ryoka was edging over to Mrsha, apologizing.

“Excuse me—Halrac? Good to see you. Nice bow. Where’d the invisible one go?”

The [Bowman] nodded—checked his bow and raised his eyebrows. But that was all he needed. Even Ryoka had to stare at it for a second. But then she was moving forwards.

“Mrsha, hey, Mrsha. Hi.”

The Gnoll stared up at Ryoka—then turned around. She idly looked back, scratched on a notecard, and handed it over.

Oh, hello, Miss Ryoka. I didn’t see you there.

Ryoka’s face fell. The Courier took a huge breath. She deserved this.

“Mrsha, I’m so sorry I was gone. I was trapped, and I was trying to help Erin.”

I totally get it. Hi.

Mrsha handed a card back. Ryoka hesitated. Then she bent over and tried to hug Mrsha.

“Can I get another hello?”

“Hey. Don’t touch Mrsha without permission.”

Before the Courier could hug Mrsha, a paw the size of her face grabbed Ryoka’s head and moved it back. Gently—but the [Paragon] was nine feet tall, and Ryoka recoiled.

“W—uh, hello? Who are you?”

“Gireulashia, Chieftain of the Ekhtouch Tribe. Mrsha’s best friend. And you? I haven’t seen you around. Mrsha doesn’t seem like she knows you.”

Gire stood, looming over Ryoka. The Wind Runner stared at Gire, then Mrsha.

“When did you meet—hello, Chieftain Gireulashia.”

She tried to bow formally, and for some reason, Joseph, Inkar, Tkrn, and several people in the inn found this hilarious. Ryoka looked helplessly at Mrsha. One second she was hugging Ryoka, the next she hated Ryoka’s guts. The Gnoll turned her head and handed Ryoka a third card.

You don’t know me, fool. You’ve been away too long.

“Yeah.”

Gire smiled archly at Ryoka. Crestfallen, Ryoka stood there—then Mrsha’s paw vibrated as she held her cup of milk. She spilled it over—turned, and leapt at Ryoka. And then she was crying again and punching Ryoka’s arms.

You stupid person! Stop coming back and leaving!

That made Ryoka feel even worse. She held Mrsha tightly.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was in Ailendamus and a prisoner. Honest!”

What about the month you were here and didn’t come visit?

Mrsha glared up at Ryoka, too upset to even write. Ryoka’s stomach twisted as Gire interpreted Mrsha’s pawsigns.

“I—I tried! But Ulva Terland made me visit her for a week—and then Deilan El tried to invite me to his estates—it’s hard to say ‘no’ without offending them so they put a bounty on your head.”

“You were hobnobbing with nobles this entire time?”

Revi looked mildly outraged as she listened into this. Only mildly—and Badarrow gave a thumbs-up.

“Hobgoblining. Nice.”

Numbtongue smacked his brother on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. Badarrow looked disappointed.

“Oh.”

Mrsha punched Ryoka’s arm, glaring, but the Wind Runner looked very sorry.

“I was trying to make connections to help with—it’s all my fault. You should be very angry at me. But I, uh, brought you a little gift. It’s a song crystal from the Singer of Terandria. And, uh—I have a cool sword. I can let you swing it later.”

“Absolutely not.”

Lyonette cheerfully barked, but Mrsha perked up at the mention of Ryoka’s famous sword. Wait a second—did this mean she could fly? Bird was going to love this! Ryoka was holding Mrsha tightly as Gire re-introduced herself with the added context of her age. That was when someone tugged on Ryoka’s arm.

“Miss Ryoka. Do you remember me?”

“Oh, h—”

“I’m Nanette.”

Ryoka stared at Nanette without a word. Then she collapsed into a chair, face white. Nanette smiled politely at Ryoka and dipped her head.

“Nanette? How…?”

The little witch seemed vaguely pleased at the emotional damage she was inflicting on Ryoka. Then Rags was standing there.

“Ryoka.”

“Rags?”

“Chieftain Rags.”

The Goblin corrected Ryoka. The Courier’s lips moved. Rags peered at Ryoka and nodded.

“Stop by our tribe too. With your glider and windsuit thing. And your sword.”

Fightipilota punched a hand in the air, and Ryoka’s open mouth stayed open. She stared around and stuck out a hand.

“Hi there. And are you with Rags’ tribe too?”

Mrsha stared at the blank spot in the air. Ryoka shook someone’s hand—or tried to—then stared. She looked at Mrsha, and the Gnoll hesitated.

“Uh—”

“You are so cool. You’re crazy. I love it. Mrsha, introduce me to your friend! I’m Lehra, Named-rank adventurer.”

A Gnoll grabbed Ryoka—and then Ryoka was standing with Stargazer’s Promise. She was flabbergasted—and Lehra pounded her on the back as Ryoka eyed the Blade of Mershi. Thankfully, she didn’t see that ghost.

“This is insane! This is—is that armor blue? Who’s the [Knight]?”

“Normen.”

“…And? Wait, he’s your new [Knight]? And—Tkrn?

The [Companion] and [Guardsman] looked—good! He had armor, he looked a lot older and better, and he had this young woman with an amazingly good-looking dress, beautifully sewn, who offered Ryoka a shy handshake.

“This is Inkar. From the Longstalker’s Fang Tribe, Miss Ryoka.”

“Hello. I think we come from the same place.”

Then Ryoka’s eyes were bulging. She took Inkar’s hand slowly, and they looked each other up and down. Ryoka wanted nothing more than to sit down somewhere absolutely private and begin asking questions. But everyone wanted to talk to her.

“Miss Ryoka? Ysara Byres. I think we met at the Bloodfields long, long ago.”

“You? I’m so sorry I—ow! Who the f—

Ryoka whirled, and Valeterisa pulled her hand back with several hairs. Ryoka Griffin was inhaling and exhaling hard. But she was happy. She really was. It was just—she knew Magnolia wanted to move now. She had told Ryoka to greet everyone and meet her by dusk in Celum.

That was going to be hard to do, because Erin looked like she would actually have her guests tackle Ryoka if she even tried to use the outhouse. But then—it was a great day. Calescent was beaming as he ran about his kitchen, and Rufelt was calling out.

“I need more of your kegs, Erin!”

“And where are my eggs?”

The [Chef] complained. Erin threw up her hands.

“Pisces and Ksmvr! Sorry, Calescent. I forgot. You send the Horns to do something and they get it done—after a huge adventure and like eighteen months. They’ll come back from Rhir with like fifteen Demon-chickens.”

Everyone laughed at that. Rufelt rolled his eyes as Lasica got up. She looked at Calescent.

“I can get some eggs from my kitchen if they’re so late…”

“Nah, just ask Larra. No, wait, Ishkr might be picking them up too.”

 

——

 

The Wandering Inn was having a blast. People kept on heading over there. Because of their linked doors, it was like the Haven and the inn had a push and pull.

When one had an event, people would stream through to the Haven’s side. When Erin was doing something crazy or the Haven was resting, they’d head to Invrisil or elsewhere.

Again…with a steep fee associated with the transit.

Eight silver cost a lot when you kept using the door. Erin had decided to waive the fee for Haven-to-Liscor transit…until Larra objected. She liked the profits, so they had come up with another arrangement that fulfilled Magnolia’s own requirements.

Eight silver coins per day if you stayed at the Haven or The Wandering Inn. Everyone else? That was the flat fee per door usage.

It incentivized staying at the Haven. And yes, it meant only the nobility were just hopping through the [Portal Door] at random. At any rate, you could tell The Wandering Inn was the place to be.

“Ryoka Griffin is there?”

Mihaela was resting after her long run motivating the local Runners. She looked up as Ishkr held a basket of eggs and the groceries he needed—courtesy of one of the Haven’s staff. She stared at the Gnoll.

“Thanks for telling me. Another reason not to visit.”

She stared at the passing scenery from her seat; her feet were on the table. Meanwhile, someone else was happier about the news, even if his own reaction were also colored.

Salamani the Mage Rider was tugging on the reins of a horse.

“Don’t you want to at least see her, Ci? Ci? Maybe not. I’ll go, though, Mister Ishkr. Will you let Ci stay with you, Mihaela?”

“Fine.”

Mihaela gestured to a spot, and Ci sat there, harrumphing at Salamani. Never let it be said the Haven didn’t have fun things too—but The Wandering Inn was cooler.

For one thing, Sammial and Hethon had seen so few Gnolls they were staring at Ishkr—and the famous Mihaela and the Courier! But they were headed through that door! And the Haven would only get exciting that night.

Oh, it had a farm and floated and a library and famous people—but Ryoka was somewhere else, and in Sammial’s mind, the most interesting things happened with Ryoka.

“It’s fun here, Sammy. Miss Larra is a former Named-rank adventurer.

Hethon tried to reassure his brother. Sammial just stomped one foot.

“So? Ryoka’s cooler. She made half the palace in Ailendamus explode. I bet you she’d blow up the Haven if she was here.”

The [Vice Innkeeper], Barnethei, heard that. He decided to make sure Ryoka Griffin was being watched at all times—but the man had other things on his mind. He checked on Ci to make sure the horse had a bucket of water—because she was a type of honored guest. Then he pulled aside his [Bartender], Roreen.

“What do you mean, ‘we’re running low on drinks’?”

“I can’t find a bunch of kegs and barrels. I checked—we have a [Thief] or something.”

“Which ones?”

It seemed odd that they’d be robbed—Larra and Barnethei had amazing abilities. She could change her [Law of the Inn] to prevent all but the highest-level thieves, but normally, Larracel could sense them.

They were rolling down the High Passes towards Liscor, and Barnethei knew they got deliveries of the local specialties—as well as [Traders] who unloaded things via Invrisil. He went to see the problem.

Sure enough, half the wagon was empty, and a [Driver] was claiming he’d brought everything here—only for it to vanish. The horses he’d hitched up were nervously stamping on the floating ramp; you could literally ride up onto the Haven while it moved, but it scared most animals like crazy.

Two stallions rolling their eyes; a fast wagon and a small fortune in drinks!

“They got the most expensive stuff, Barnethei. I swear, I didn’t take my eyes off the spot.”

And Roreen hadn’t stolen it. The delivery area was in plain sight. Barnethei scrutinized the [Driver], but he was in good standing with the Driver’s Guild. He looked around.

Open road moving past at a decent pace, three horses, a few guests passing by…one of the horses sniggered. Barnethei stared at it vaguely, and the horse stopped.

“Neigh. Neigh.”

…The [Vice Innkeeper] stared at the horse. It was definitely neighing at him. Why did he feel…? He turned away, and Taletevirion edged down the ramp. But he stopped, and his ears flicked up as Barnethei cursed and turned to Roreen.

“Well—we’ll just order a second batch. Keep an eye on it. At least we have that Antinium Rxlvn. No one can handle it undiluted—the nobles love it. And the Minotaur’s Punch.”

Oho? What was this? The disguised Unicorn flicked his ears up again. New drinks? He decided to clop up the ramp after the [Innkeeper] as the [Driver] settled things with the [Bartender]. People noticed him, of course—he was a horse. But somehow, most of them didn’t seem to realize it was odd having two horses just walking about the inn.

In fact, the only people who saw the horse and looked twice were a certain [Lady] and her [Maid]. Even they missed Taletevirion at first. Then Ressa’s head snapped around, and she whispered to Magnolia. The [Lady] put her head in her hands—and pretended to ignore him.

“That’s right. I’m just a horse. Neigh. Neigh, you stupid idiots.”

Lord Tyrion Veltras slowly turned his head as a horse walked past him. It sidled away as he felt…something…bothering him. But the horse was just lining up for the magic door. He only stopped once.

“Hey, kid. Keep your chin up, huh? I know it feels like the end of the world, but the world doesn’t end, sadly. Hold on and keep running.”

Ci looked around and then stared at Taletevirion. He dipped his horn and trotted through the door. Her mouth stayed open as Mihaela slowly sat up in her chair.

“What was that? Did that horse just—?”

 

——

 

Sammial Veltras didn’t notice the other guests. He was just staring at the portal door and sneaking glances at Jericha. Ullim should have been watching the boys, and he was.

The problem was…the [Majordomo] kept trying to stare at Sammial and Hethon…and he kept losing track of Sammial and forgetting the lad needed an eye on him at all times.

It wasn’t his fault. A certain Unicorn was standing right behind him and the [Lord], and his ‘don’t notice me’ spell was so powerful that even the [Majordomo] was forgetting Sammial.

It wouldn’t have mattered…except that the [Lord] was staring at the door. He tried to go through it when it opened, but he bounced off something invisible.

“Eight silver pieces. Sorry, kid. Get your parents to pay for the day if you’re staying at the Haven.”

Liska yawned hugely. Sammial’s features crossed. A Unicorn huffed.

“Says you.”

He walked through the door without more than a second’s pause. Sammial stared at the talking horse, and his face went blank. Then he frowned.

“Why do I have to pay?”

“Magnolia Reinhart.”

Liska shot back as she let her brother through. She was yawning as [Lords] and [Ladies] fished out coins and fumbled them into the pot on this side. Sammial’s features turned hostile.

“I don’t want to pay. Why do I have to pay? She’s not the boss of me.”

“Well, good luck on getting through.”

You literally couldn’t walk through the door unless you were Erin or someone close to her. Liska watched with urbane amusement as the boy pushed at the invisible barrier at the door.

“I…am…Sammial…Veltras! I don’t want to pay! I—don’t—want—

He was pushing against Magnolia Reinhart’s power. By now, Taletevirion had passed through the door, and Ullim remembered Sammial, and his head snapped around.

“Oh no. Lord Veltras, get back here!”

He strode across the deck as Tyrion, Jericha, and Magnolia and Ressa themselves noticed Sammial. Hethon ran over.

“Sammy, you stupid idiot! I told you—”

The [Lord] was throwing his full, untrained aura at the door, and his time in Ailendamus had, sadly, only made it stronger. Meeting Oesca and the other nobles, surviving his time abroad—

He might not have won a clash of wills against Magnolia herself, but she sensed him bypass her tax Skill on the door. The [Lady] saw Hethon grab at Sammial—just as the barrier vanished and they went tumbling through the door.

“Oh my word. Tyrion’s sons are as inescapably bad as he is.”

Magnolia groaned as Sammial and Hethon vanished. Tyrion went striding after them—only for Jericha and Ullim to grab him.

“Lord Veltras, it’s fine. Sammial, come back here!”

“I just want to see Ryoka’s inn! Hey. Is that a—Goblin?

Tyrion froze—and then Magnolia got to her feet.

“Tyrion, don’t you dare—”

Too late.

 

——

 

Sammial and Hethon Veltras had about two minutes’ head start on Tyrion. Mostly because Liska had closed the door after they tumbled through. She was yawning and didn’t realize they hadn’t paid the fee. She switched the door to Pallass.

“Anyone coming through here? Hello. Where to?”

The boys stared at the Hobgoblin. They were alone, unguarded, and in Sammial’s case, a true hazard to everyone around him.

Ulvama peered at the two boys as she came back from the outhouse. She’d been out there a while because she’d been eating all day—and then she’d been laughing at Kevin trying to hold back a silly white Drake as he went tumbling down the hill.

“Oh. Little boys. You lost?”

She looked around for parents and saw none. Sammial fumbled for his belt.

“S-stay back!”

“Sammial, don’t—”

Hethon was trying to guard his brother. Both had a hand on their belt knives. Ulvama peered at the little blades as they drew them. She shrugged.

“Liska. Two lost little boys. Go find their parents.”

“What? Damn—can you tell someone?”

Ulvama glared at Liska, but the Gnoll was busy. The two Humans—and the Drake—stared at Ulvama in horror, but the [Shaman] just sighed. Long. And loud.

“Okay. You two boys. This way.”

“It’s a Goblin!

Sammial looked around for someone to kill Ulvama, but Liska just tapped a sign. There were three of them, one on each side of the portal door. One hung above the entrance.

No Killing Goblins.

Hethon read the words and stared at Ulvama. She just pointed.

“Yeah. No killing. Stupid. You want cake?”

Sammial Veltras’ mouth opened—and stayed open. Hethon was looking at the door, but Ulvama just beckoned.

“We find your parents. Come on, little stupid lost boys.”

“I’m not stupid! You can talk? Why can you talk? Are you a Hobgoblin?

“Am a Hobgoblin. This way.”

Sammy—

Hethon ran after Sammial, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Ulvama for different reasons. She snorted and pushed open a door to the inn down a long hallway. The noise that hit the boys was huge, raucous, and exciting.

The first thing Sammial and Hethon saw was Moore tossing a white Gnoll up in his arms. He was a half-Giant! They goggled up at him—then the equally-tall Gnoll who was chewing with an entire steak hanging out of her mouth.

Gross! Stop having an eating competition, Gire, Snapjaw!

Someone shouted. An [Innkeeper] with the most powerful aura that Sammial had ever sensed from a non-noble was shaking her fist at a Goblin with a huge head—and there was a half-Elf with a bone hand stabbing a woman in the chest. Then a metal hand stabbed her back, harder. Yvlon Byres’ hand morphed, and the boys stared at a real adventurer from the scrying orb.

Don’t play games with me, Ceria! How long have you had it? Did you lie to—

“What is this place?”

It was amazing! The Haven was grand—The Wandering Inn was weird chaos. Sammial looked about, and the white Gnoll girl, dizzy, stumbled around as a little Drake girl shouted.

“Me next! Me next!”

Visma climbed up as Moore gently tossed her up and down, and someone strode past the boys. Hethon recoiled from a Goblin as tall as he was wearing a warlord’s armor in miniature, complete with reddish fur. She had a huge crossbow strapped to her back. She eyed him.

“Excuse me.”

She opened the door, and Hethon stared at Rags. Hethon was still trying to pull Sammial back to the door, but weakly.

He…wanted to look around. He hadn’t said it to Ryoka, but he had felt the urge to ask to come along even if Tyrion couldn’t. Sammial was doing what he shouldn’t, though, and the two boys bickered.

“We should go, Sammy. You’re already getting us in trouble. Ryoka’s fine. Goblins or not.”

“She’s never fine.”

The little [Lord] proclaimed boldly. Hethon nearly decided to put him in a headlock when Sammy looked around earnestly.

“She’s been worried all month. Someone needs to help her, and it’s going to be me! This is just like that stupid Duke. You should come too. She likes you more than me.”

His head ducked, and Hethon opened his mouth to tell him how stupid that was when a bee flew past. The two boys stared at it. Mostly because—they might have seen bees that big in the Vale Forest, but never a bee with a tiny Fraerling-made hat, smoking a cigar and shooting green jet flames as she blitzed past them.

“Wh—was that real?”

Sammial was agog—and twice agog when Ulvama came back with huge slices of cake on two plates.

“Here. Ishkr—look. Little lost boys. You find them parents.”

“I see. Excuse me—where are your parents?”

Sammial had a fork in the cake already, and Hethon bowed.

“My father is—”

He hesitated, realized where they were, kicked Sammial so hard the boy’s eyes filled with tears as he tried to speak with cake in his mouth, and pointed at the door.

In the Haven! We just went through by accident.”

Ishkr nodded.

“In that case, why don’t I wait with you and we’ll bring you to the Haven right now? Keep the plates.”

Sammial kicked back ferociously as the Gnoll did the most sensible thing and escorted Hethon and Sammial back to the portal door. Sammial pointed.

“But thereth Ryoka! Can’t we stay?”

“Sammy, shut up. We’re in huge trouble. Don’t you know where this is?”

Hethon was sweating. A Unicorn was trotting out the front door, muttering about ‘damn doorknobs’, and looking around the Floodplains with interest as Ishkr patiently waited for some people to come through from Celum.

“Liska, open a door to the Haven, would you? These two came through without their parents. Something you shouldn’t have allowed.”

“Father. My father is—”

Sammial yelped as Hethon stepped on one foot. Ishkr glanced at the boys, but Liska was already setting the dial to the Haven, arguing with him. All would be well.

Then—as so often happened around Ryoka Griffin in Sammial’s experience—

Something exploded.

 

——

 

Tesy ran through Liscor. Screaming.

His eyes were no longer clouded, and the [Magical Painter], Sellme, had a cut on one cheek that made his scales turn red with running blood. It was probably poisoned, but he’d drawn a bandage over it with an antidote sign on it.

Behind him came a song. Through the mists, the shouting chaos in the streets of Liscor as the Watch blew alarms calling everyone indoors, past the sounds of fighting—people shouting as he slammed into them and ran past stalls—

He heard the music. It was just one instrument right now. Someone was striding after Tesy and playing music.

A violin’s wailing strings. Just like in Salazsar and everywhere he’d run—he heard a single note.

One of Symphony.

She came after him in leaps, her violin still playing that eerie wail. But she didn’t hold the instrument. Every time she stepped or moved or slashed—he heard the notes, as if she were the violin herself.

A Drake with a fan of dagger-blades. She hurled one, and the [Magical Painter] whirled.

“Stop!”

Time slowed as Tesy drew a page, ripped it out of his artbook, and threw it up. A wall of bricks. The blades thudded through the masonry, lodging halfway.

Tricks. Sellme, the famous painter, was so high-level he could neutralize poisons, create fake walls—or literally put doors down that created temporary boltholes.

His newest creation was simply a trick of perspective. A long tunnel—not a door. He threw it up and charged through an apartment complex and out the other side. The [Assassin] had paused at the entrance of the tunnel. He slashed paint across his creation as she threw another knife—it vanished and fell to the ground as his magical painting ended.

This would have been enough to escape most pursuers. And certainly—Tesy kept running, and he was fast on his feet.

But the problem with Symphony was that they were more than one group—or even a group of associates.

They were—a team. No sooner did the violin’s strains fade behind him than he heard another sound.

A trumpet. It played ahead of him, and Tesy froze. He looked around in the mists. The gates. He had to g—

Aaah!

His scream was loud in the mists. A feathered piece of metal was sticking out of his hand. His—

The dart had gone straight through his right hand! He looked up and dove—and the trumpet player emerged. He was carrying something.

Blowpipe. He’d loaded it into the trumpet, and his cheeks puffed. Six shots before he needed to reload—Tesy stumbled away and realized the darts were poisoned. He felt sick and ripped another emergency bandage from his artbook.

Only one thing was saving him right now. And it was the fighting around him.

In the name of the Watch, halt! Lay down your—

A Watch Captain was actually doing their job for once. Tesy had never been happier to hear the thud of the [Guards]’ boots. In fact—the only thing that had saved him from being murdered the moment he entered Liscor were two factors.

First—Kevin. He’d finally found out how to wake Tesy up—he’d thrown an entire bucket of water over the Drake, and as Tesy froze—booted him between the legs as hard as he could.

Mixed results, but it had stopped Tesy from literally walking into the ambush. The instant Kevin had seen the killers coming for Tesy, he’d run for the inn. Symphony had only gone for Tesy, though.

The real reason Tesy was alive was because Symphony hadn’t expected the complications. Not the two Gold-ranks harassing their members. They could handle that. And the Watch—though they should have gotten Tesy from the jump.

The real complication had been the group led by their Maestro coming under attack. A howling Gnoll had plunged into them with a spear. Tesy could still hear him.

Assassination attempt! Keep her safe!

Who was ‘her’? All he knew was that he knew Manus when he saw it, and the furious [Soldiers] were battling in the streets with Symphony. Spearmaster Lulv had seen the mists, heard the music, and assumed it was an ambush at the gates.

He came barreling through the mists, spear striking in endless attacks—but the Drake cursing him kept dancing back.

Symphony, to arms! Upon me—[Company, In Attendance]!

Spearmaster Lulv cursed—and it was one second of cursing. But then he had stopped attacking, and he was running. The Maestro’s blade slashed at his back and cut across Lulv’s enchanted Wyvernhide armor, but it didn’t cut flesh. The Gnoll gave the Drake that opening—

—Because every single [Assassin] in Liscor appeared around the Maestro. And there were sixty of them, singers, musicians—and the Drake himself. They opened fire with hand crossbows as the Maestro flicked his wand at Lulv. The [Spearmaster] turned and had to parry an exploding bolt, throwing daggers, and more in midair.

No spells. All throwing weapons or actual crossbows. Tesy was running, sprinting towards an alleyway’s corner. But the Maestro—

“End this.”

He flicked his wand left, and his Symphony unleashed a barrage. Tesy saw just a flicker before the throwing knives went for his throat, his chest, the darts from the trumpeter, an arrow—

Vanished.

Symphony halted as the Drake escaped around the corner. He should have been a pincushion. Dead a dozen times over. But he wasn’t.

The Thief of Clouds landed, paws dropping the arrows and blades he’d caught. In a moment! Despite himself, despite the frustration he felt at the botched attempt—the Maestro took that moment to salute Vetn.

Magnificent.

He must have blocked a few shots with his body. But the [Thief] bounded after his friend, and the Maestro sighed.

“Maestro, that was Manus’ [Spearmaster]! Are you injured?”

“No. I am not. But we have multiple Watch officers closing in. Manus is in the fray and—”

The Maestro’s head turned towards the eastern gates, and his eyes narrowed.

“—our famous inn. The plan has gone awry.”

Symphony looked at each other. They hated failing. They were professionals. The First Flute lifted a pair of daggers.

“Say the word and we go, Maestro.”

He surveyed the situation. Two Gold-rank adventurers—Manus was reforming, and he smelled lightning crackling through the air. A powerful Oldblood. The Watch and Antinium were in the streets, and a Face was protecting Sellme. He nodded to himself.

“No one dies but that [Painter]. Symphony’s pride upon it.”

The company nodded. The Maestro lifted his wand as he came to a decision.

“—One attempt. Fall back after our assault. [Concerto: Glass Rain Upon Issrysil’s Plains].

The most logical move. Symphony nodded, and the Maestro counted them off.

One, two, and—

The music swelled, this time a faster performance, sharp notes singing down like death across the City of Liscor. The Watch, Manus—and the other warriors including Pisces and Ksmvr—slowed, because the sound had no fear. No remorse, and when the five-minute piece ended—

Manus was arrayed in a line. Wall Lord Aldonss stood upon an actual wall in the streets. Manus’ [Soldiers] stood behind the temporary fortifications, aiming crossbows down. They had enchanted bolts, the high ground, and three floating magical shield icons were hovering over their heads. Three arrows or bolts which wouldn’t strike home.

Yet—and yet—even with the famous [Spearmaster] and Wall Lord there. Even with Zevara’s Watch forming up a hundred strong and a furious Crusader 57 stomping around with Pisces and Ksmvr—

The streets of Liscor heard a sound. Five dozen instruments sang—and Symphony charged out of the mists. Straight at Aldonss’ wall. They leapt under crossbow bolts, kept going as Lulv stared at their fearless charge.

Take them down—

Aldonss speared one [Assassin] through the chest, but the rest kept going. The Maestro walked through the streets of Liscor.

The painter dies!

His people knew no fear. But one halted. The First Flute touched the Maestro’s sleeve—it was cut slightly by Lulv’s attacks.

“Maestro, the concerto was for us. Fall back.”

He gently untangled her claw.

“I fear not death. This is personal. I will draw the most dangerous fighters off. Go.

He drew his sword, and Symphony ran faster. After the Drake, who was stumbling now, stumbling as Vetn dragged him up.

 

——

 

Tesy’s head was spinning. Vetn was there—but they had both heard that performance. The Gnoll was shouting at him, but the [Magical Painter] had already come to the same conclusion.

“Inn. Have to find…”

He began running as Vetn looked behind him and paled. The music began as an instrument picked up in the distance, and Tesy whimpered. He looked around.

Where was The Wandering Inn? Then he heard the whumph, some sound in the distance, and knew where his destination was. But then he wondered if the inn was safe.

 

——

 

The explosion of sound made Ryoka’s head snap up.

“What was—”

Sammial Veltras!

The sound of Tyrion Veltras shattering Magnolia’s ward broke through everything in the inn. Ryoka Griffin closed her eyes as Erin Solstice’s head snapped around.

“What the—someone just busted my door. Liska!”

“Oh my—Erin, listen. I was going to tell you—or not tell you—but that idiot—”

Ryoka grabbed Erin. The [Innkeeper] turned to her—then to an opening in the side of her wall. Liska and Ishkr appeared—the Gnoll hurried his sister into the common room.

“Erin, some Human just busted through the door on the Haven’s side. He might be looking for his sons—”

“Who the heck—nice work, Ishkr. What was that, Ryoka?”

Lyonette’s head had snapped around, and she was staring, staring at Ryoka’s tunic and the icon on her sleeve. She knew more than Erin about whom Ryoka had been associating with of late.

But there was no way she’d be that stupid. Right? Yvlon and Ceria’s argument halted as the two turned to Ryoka. Relc was fumbling with a speaking stone.

“Say it again, Beilmark? What the heck do you mean—Klbkch, something’s wrong.”

Klbkch turned his head, and Qwera stormed downstairs as Erin listened to Ryoka whispering desperately.

“Tesy? Where’d Tesy go? Has anyone seen…?”

Goblins, Dad! But the sign says—

No. Nononono. Ryoka Griffin was pushing towards the door to literally kick that idiot in the face. But it was too late. Tyrion Veltras yanked the door open, sword drawn, as Jericha, his soldiers, and Ullim brought up the rear. Hethon had him by one leg, and Sammial was pointing.

Tyrion Veltras halted in the inn as Ryoka Griffin saw him. He saw the Goblins, the Antinium—and Erin Solstice.

His face froze up, but he saw Ryoka was safe. Then—he halted.

“Good. What in the name of…”

He stared at the Goblins and Antinium, but then seemed to remember his promise to Ryoka. He backed up a step, and Erin Solstice—

Everyone else was staring at Tyrion, in recognition, horror, or just stupefaction. But Erin wrinkled her forehead.

“Hey, buddy. Who are you? What are you doing barging into my inn?”

She didn’t know. She had no idea. Maybe—Ryoka stared at Erin. Maybe she had never seen him. He had been at a distance the entire siege of Liscor except the end, and she might not have glimpsed his face. She began to stride over to Tyrion.

“Erin, this is someone—you and I need to talk, but he’s leaving now. He just came because his sons must have wandered in here. Now we’re going. Right now.

“Erin, Erin, help. Tesy’s in danger.”

Kevin pushed into the inn, gasping—one of the [Soldiers] held a sword out, but Erin focused on him.

“Where’s Tesy? What’s going on? And who is this, Ryoka? He’s…a [Lord]. So’s that kid.”

She looked at Sammy…and Ryoka hesitated. She stared at Tyrion, and he looked at her and hesitated. Every bone in his stupid body told him to introduce himself, but the younger [Lord] didn’t look like the older one Erin might know.

He closed his mouth and took one step back. Slowly—Ryoka felt like she was holding back an avalanche with her fingertips. She prayed and prayed to the god Murphy of causality himself. But it was too late. It probably had been the moment he burst through that door.

Because it wasn’t Erin who realized it first. Slowly and calmly, someone drew a sword.

Numbtongue drew his Dragonblood crystal blade, and the [Bard] stared at Tyrion Veltras. Redscar unsheathed his swords as Badarrow lifted his bow—and every Goblin in the inn except Ulvama drew their blades.

“That is Tyrion Veltras.”

Goblins never forgot. Let alone the man who had sieged Liscor. The man who had pushed Reiss, the Goblin Lord, to attack the city.

Relc’s head snapped around. Klbkch turned—and suddenly, the room was very quiet. Ylawes Byres stood, and he felt like he was there, looking out across the muddy Floodplains, where his father and Lord Tyrion were sieging the city with trebuchets, innocents by the thousands in hiding.

Tyrion Veltras. He just nodded, eyes flinty and watchful.

“My apologies. I feared my sons were in danger.”

“Erin…”

“Tyrion Veltras.”

The [Innkeeper] said the words. Just said them. Quietly. But when she looked at Ryoka, her eyes lit up. She was not the fastest for politics or intrigue, but she knew people.

She looked at Ryoka and saw how Sammial and Hethon knew her. Erin remembered what Ryoka had said. She then remembered…

Lord Deilan El. Lady Ulva Terland.

“You’re his friend, Ryoka? His friend?

It all came together. Ryoka saw her great friend’s face change. She looked at Tyrion, and he eyed her.

“The [Innkeeper] who posts <Quests>. Good evening.”

“Ryoka—”

The Wind Runner turned to her friend. And there—they stood apart. Ryoka had come back time and time again. Each time, the inn was different.

Sometimes, it was rebuilt. Sometimes, it was Erin who had a bad day. Sometimes, Ryoka brought trouble—sometimes, she left.

But in the times when she was gone—Ryoka Griffin missed the moments that defined the inn. She knew Rags.

—But she did not know Goblins. Nor Antinium, like Erin did. Pawn was hurrying out of the inn, using the [Garden of Sanctuary] to bypass the frozen Veltras family. He ran out the front door—and Magnolia Reinhart had come to stop a disaster.

She felt it. If Erin Solstice’s wrath upon Magnolia had been brief—now the inn was trembling. Ressa yanked Magnolia back, and the [Lady] glared—until she saw the glint of metal in the hallway.

Crossbows. A Brother tipped his hat to Magnolia, but he had a bead on Tyrion’s back. Erin Solstice’s voice came from within.

Arm the hallway. If he so much as lifts his blade—shoot him, Bird.

“Through the face or the legs, Miss Solstice?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Magnolia experienced a thrill of panic. She could not be serious! But then—Tyrion was there, that fool, and Erin Solstice must not have realized the younger man was a shell of who he’d been.

A shell waiting to grow ever larger—but she saw the Lord of House Veltras. But in this moment, he only had Ullim and Jericha and a handful of his soldiers.

Erin?

Magnolia saw Reynold kick the secret passage open, and they hurried past the Brothers. They pivoted—and decided not to tangle with Ressa. Magnolia entered the common room and felt another thrill of worry—and delight.

Bird, Halrac, and Badarrow had their bows raised. Three of The Wandering Inn’s finest archers had Tyrion in their bowsights. And they were just the archers.

Jelaqua Ivirith had her new flail out and was covering Maughin. Moore was shielding Mrsha and Visma, who stared out from behind him, with a staff in hand—and Gireulashia was craning her neck, one paw under a table. Ready to throw it.

Redscar looked right and left, at Snapjaw and Numbtongue, and if Tyrion Veltras, immobile in the doorway, were to sneeze—he narrowed his eyes, because some Gnoll with sunglasses was also blinding him in the corner of his eye.

It was Ryoka Griffin, Ryoka Griffin who stood in front of him and death. She had her hands raised, and Bird kept adjusting his arrow as she moved in front of Tyrion. Her hands were up, and she was speaking slowly, carefully. Pleading with Erin. Magnolia Reinhart hesitated. This was not the time to use a charm Skill—especially not in this inn. But Ryoka Griffin? Tact?

Then she heard what Ryoka said, and it was so extraordinary that Magnolia Reinhart had to listen.

“Listen, Erin. Just hear me out. I know this man has done…terrible things. I know he’s done things to you and Liscor—and he has committed acts of war. You have every right to hate him and hold a grudge.”

Tyrion Veltras was looking at Ryoka as she pointed to him, and Hethon and Sammial were hiding behind the soldiers and their father, looking at the hostile faces. Ryoka…was she defending them? She was gesturing to the young woman with a hat blazing with invisible flames.

The inn was—oppressive. But Ryoka just said this:

“I know what he’s done, and there might be no redemption. But—I have done terrible things too. Erin—you and I know we might need help. Flawed help. Everyone should be held to account for the things they’ve done. But if he can help you—can you hear me out? Talk?”

It was something Magnolia Reinhart had never expected to hear from Ryoka Griffin. She looked at the Wind Runner’s back. And Erin heard Ryoka. The Courier was saying everything that made sense.

So Erin looked at Tyrion—and he had no idea who she was. She saw it, written all over his face. She was—the owner of The Wandering Inn. Questgiver. The young woman who liked Goblins and Antinium.

He didn’t remember a white flag as it rained. He was watching the Goblins, and there was no recollection there. Ryoka was speaking earnestly, logically—and Erin heard her.

But Ryoka had not been there during the siege. Erin Solstice drew a knife from her belt, and Ryoka held up her hands.

“Erin!”

“I understand what you just said, Ryoka. I get it. You raised a lot of good points just now. Forgiveness. Working with—people who have stains. I get it. Sometimes, to stop a monster, you might join forces with tiny monsters. I’ve decided to do things I know will hurt people, lately, and I know exactly—exactly what needs to be done.”

Erin was breathing harder. But the [Innkeeper]’s eyes never wavered from Tyrion Veltras.

“I believe in second chances. I believe in redemption and trying again.”

“So…”

Ryoka saw Erin turn her head. And she recoiled from Erin’s look. The [Innkeeper] reached into her bag of holding and pulled something else out.

A jar of acid. She held it in her other hand as Tyrion’s eyes focused on that.

“Not him. Not him. I’ll take Magnolia Reinhart’s hand. I’ll forgive anyone else. But he—you don’t know what he did, do you, Ryoka? Do you even—you weren’t there. Headscratcher, Shorthilt, Pyrite—that man murdered my friends. He brought war to Liscor and murdered countless innocent people. Not. Him.”

The floor was beginning to shake. Mrsha squeezed Gire’s arm tightly, afraid—but the words were ringing in her heart too. Numbtongue looked at Erin, and he smiled.

Not in happiness or satisfaction—but the same kind of deathly grin as when they had followed a girl waving a white flag into battle. Redscar bared his teeth as he nodded.

Tyrion Veltras stared at Erin Solstice. He looked at the Goblins—and when he spoke, it was softly.

“I do not believe we’ve ever met, Miss Solstice. I have made war on my enemies. But I do not remember slaying innocents.”

He stood there, and Erin’s eyes flickered. Just once. Then she looked at Sammial in his father’s shadow and lowered the jar of acid. Ryoka breathed—and Erin tucked the jar into her bag of holding, drew a smaller copper frying pan, and threw it at Tyrion’s face.

He parried the frying pan. His sword flicked left—and Numbtongue was in front of Erin. Her voice thundered.

Numbtongue! If he takes one more step into this inn—take him out. If any one of them does—they’ll regret it. A [Witch]’s word on it.”

“Erin!”

Ryoka shoved in front of Tyrion, trying to stop the Goblins as they advanced past the tables. But Tyrion was stepping back. He didn’t look confused—rather, he seemed grimly set.

“Leave, Ryoka. And don’t come back with him. Get out of my inn.”

The [Innkeeper]’s eyes were baleful as they stared at Ryoka. And her hat…Ryoka stepped back, sweating. But Erin Solstice’s eyes softened a tiny bit. She turned her head and spoke to Redscar, who looked sidelong at her, a snarl on his face.

“Ryoka…you saved my life. So get out before Redscar loses it.”

He grunted—but Erin widened her eyes at him, and he hesitated. House Veltras was backing up already, and Ryoka was trying to say something to Erin as she pushed Tyrion to the [Portal Door].

Then Ryoka heard the horn calls from outside and turned her head. No, not something else! Not now!

“The door—”

Jericha fumbled with the door, but it wouldn’t open for someone who wasn’t one of Erin’s friends. Tyrion Veltras was moving back, his sons behind him.

“Wait. We’re not done.

Redscar stepped past Erin. She hesitated—but the Goblin’s eyes were locked on Tyrion. Erin raised an arm to block him—and didn’t quite do it.

“Erin Solstice. You do not want the blood of the Five Families shed here. Kindly open your door.”

Magnolia Reinhart warned her. Erin looked at Magnolia.

“As opposed to Goblin blood? Antinium? I’m opening it. Just—”

Erin lifted a finger, looking for Liska, and someone shook her. So hard she twisted and nearly punched the frantic young man in the face. It was—Kevin?

“Erin, Tesy is in danger.”

Kevin was shouting in her ear.

“What?”

She turned—and Relc and Klbkch were already at the doors. They tried to push past House Veltras—and halted as they raised their blades. The corridor was packed—despite being wide enough to let channels of people through, Veltras had formed a wall of steel and Klbkch and Relc were trying to slide by—

The arrowslits and secret hallway were lined with Brothers, who had crossbows in hand. House Veltras saw them and were adjusting their shields. They were in the middle of a killing ground—but Relc actually shoved a spear back as he pushed forwards.

Watch on duty! Move it!

Relc shouted in the face of a guard from House Veltras. Klbkch saw Tyrion pivoting to face him—but then everyone heard the sounds from outside.

Move! To the inn!

“The Watch is sounding the alarm. Klb—

A second of pause—then Ullim raised a hand and the blades went up. Now free, Relc barreled out the door, spear raised, and Klbkch leapt after him.

House Veltras took that moment to head for the door as well. Jericha was covering Hethon and Sammial with her body—this place would be their grave if it came to a fight. Not that anyone had fired—yet.

Erin Solstice was looking around in alarm.

“Tessa—”

“They’re after the [Painter]. They must have gotten him out of the inn.”

Someone protect Tesy!

Qwera knocked over tables and chairs, running for the door. Ceria looked around, swearing.

“Who? What’s going on?”

“[Assassins]!”

The word made Tyrion’s head snap up. But now, Grimalkin was checking himself.

“—Never a dull moment—stay here.”

He strode towards a window, intent on just heading out there instead of past the wary House Veltras. But now, Erin was snapping her fingers, and the [Portal Door] appeared in the middle of the common room.

“Go to Liscor! Tessa—”

“No. You’re in danger. Symphony is no joke.”

“Did she say Symphony? Dead gods—”

Typhenous uttered a word, and Erin hadn’t even seen him come in. Grimalkin just went for the door. He had nearly reached it when he turned his head.

“This will be dangerous.”

And?

Lady Pryde Ulta stared at him. She actually tried to elbow him out of the way as the two headed through the door.

Find Tesy! Get him back here. Ceria—”

“Pisces and Ksmvr are in Liscor. Yvlon, they definitely ran into them. What if Roshal—”

Yvlon kicked a table out of the way and went through the door. Ceria and Ylawes and his team were after them.

Half the inn was streaming through the door, and Tyrion glanced over his shoulder.

“We’re trapped here. Step out of the inn.”

He was watching the Goblins, because Redscar was sizing up the Veltras soldiers and counting his own Redfangs and warriors. Peggy had a crossbow, and Tyrion was staring at the trapped hallway.

“No, Erin, the door—”

Erin wasn’t listening. So Tyrion thrust open a door rather than be trapped in the confined portal chamber. He stepped outside, ushering his sons with Jericha and Ullim guarding them. It was actually a de-escalating move.

It led them outside—and right into Rags. The Goblin looked up, stared at Tyrion, and he swung his sword unconsciously towards her neck. She stepped back, and Erin whirled around.

Stop it!

Ryoka shouted at Tyrion—he’d halted his blade, but Redscar had come snarling out the doors.

To the Chieftain!

Every Goblin flooded out the inn, and House Veltras was moving back faster now. Goblins on one side, Veltras on the other—and Magnolia Reinhart’s staff were forming a line between Tyrion’s left side.

“Enough! Everyone, lower your weapons!

Magnolia Reinhart’s command forced a few arms down, but Rags was just staring at Tyrion. Staring with the same kind of hatred that Erin—

“Ryoka, we could use that door—now.”

Tyrion’s voice was still calm. And Ryoka hated him a little for that, because he knew Erin’s hatred, saw the depths of her anger—and he was cold. But maybe that was just how he fought, in his tranquility of battle.

When some went hot—he calculated, like Halrac. Tyrion Veltras’ sword was pointing at the ground—in the distance, Liscor’s fog was clearing. There was fighting in the city, flashes of light, but a lot of the figures were fleeing. Or rather, headed to the eastern gates. Following someone running for their life.

The Thief of Clouds was stealing arrows out of the sky. Sellme ran for the inn as the Sinew Magus and the Lady of House Ulta went crashing into the streets, adding to the havoc. Symphony took one look at the Gecko, the Slayer of the Antinium, and either surrendered or ran.

But—there were lots of them. And the best, including the Maestro, were hot on Tesy’s heels. He ran past the two sides, screaming.

Let me in! Let me—

He ran into the trapped hallway, nearly ate a crossbow bolt from Alcaz, and collapsed as Erin Solstice looked around.

Garden of Sanctuary! Now!

Lyonette was already inside with Mrsha, and Gire dragged Tesy in as they bent over him. Better. Right up until a second group exited the city of Liscor and came charging up the hill.

They were in good formation. Tyrion Veltras and Rags noticed the tight, overlapping shields of the first group, footfalls practically coming down at the same time. Long Drake tails, bright, fiery armor—and a sigil of war.

To the inn! Get to Celum—now!

A panting Wall Lord was ushering a very upset Drake with bright azure scales, his sword and shield out. Erin Solstice was just calming down inside her inn when Tyrion Veltras moved.

Ryoka had been focused on Tesy, wondering who the heck he was and what ‘Symphony’ was. But Tyrion Veltras looked down the hill, and he recognized the armor. She saw him turn, and Jericha reached for him—but the [Lord] took three steps.

A short one, then a longer stride as he began to head down the hill’s side. Then his legs pushed off the ground, and the third step was more a leap.

Ryoka Griffin caught sight of his face. And then she saw the cold features of the Lord of House Veltras come—alive.

Alive with malice. With the kind of fury that would drive someone to send a Goblin Lord against a city. To plot to break a city of millions to dust and damnation. It came out in a word as Wall Lord Aldonss looked up and his eyes widened.

Tyrion said:

“Manus.”

He brought the sword down as his leap carried him straight into the [Soldiers]. So fast—only Aldonss saw it. He tried to raise his shield, but the angle was off. So he guarded with his sword—

Tyrion’s blade buried the Wall Lord’s own blade into his neck and chest. The Wall Lord hadn’t been wearing armor for their ‘covert’ mission. Blood welled up as Rafaema whirled.

“Aldonss!”

The Drake wrenched his sword free as Tyrion whirled. Manus’ Drakes turned on him. He looked up as Rafaema’s mouth opened.

The bolt of lightning glanced off Tyrion’s shield, and he recoiled. He leapt back as the Drakes shouted.

Officer attack!

House Veltras!

Hold! Hold!

Who was shouting that? Ullim was bellowing at the [Soldiers] under Veltras’ command as Aldonss said the same thing. Rafaema had drawn her sword, and Ferris had a crossbow aimed at Tyrion’s head.

Jericha was aiming a wand down, but she hesitated. Tyrion was stalking left, and he brought his shield up as a howl split the air.

Oh come on.

Ressa muttered. She looked up as Spearmaster Lulv charged at Tyrion. The [Lord]’s sword blurred as a flurry of stabs crashed against the shield.

Lulv, fall back! Hold your ground! Hold your ground!

Aldonss’ voice froze the [Soldiers], and Lulv himself drew back a step.

Lord Veltras, you cannot start a war!

Ullim howled down at him. Tyrion was hesitating, eyes blazing with fury as he looked from Lulv to the Drakes. Rafaema was staring at the inn. It was so close!

Stalemate—and now it was Goblins eying Manus and House Veltras. Meanwhile—the Liscorians present, including Drassi, hadn’t forgotten who had entered the Hectval Alliance’s war.

“Manus? Here? The bastards!”

Selys shouted out from the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Chaldion was shouting as Onieva dragged him towards the garden.

“Let go of me. Get Saliss—we cannot have a war between north and south! Stand down, you fools!

In the middle of this, three sides of soldiers. High-level warriors about to gut each other—the inn literally shaking with an [Innkeeper]’s fury—you would have to be insane to come up that hill.

Or—

Professionals. For Tyrion Veltras turned as Lulv tensed—and he spoke another word.

“[Assassins]. Ullim. Shield the boys.”

Symphony came up the hill, three dozen figures who saw the standoff. Even they hesitated. But they still went for the inn.

Fulfill the contract.

A Drake pointed. One of the [Assassins] went down with an arrow in the leg—another deflected an arrow from Bird before he leapt down the stairs of his tower and into the inn. He locked the door—[Assassins] swung up onto the roofs. Others lost their blades in a moment as Lulv disarmed one—another raised their paws, and he halted the killing stroke.

“Who are they—

Confused, he saw an [Assassin] leap for an open window. The figure actually made it into Joseph’s rooms. But then they saw the golden-plated figure slap a talisman to the door—slam it—

The blast of fire had nowhere to go in the contained room but out. Ser Lormel took his fingers out of his ears as a figure went shooting out of the window and landed, tumbling down the hill. He slammed the window shut.

Second floor secure!

The [Assassins] were trying to get in, but Dame Ushar was slamming the hilt of her sword against her shield.

[Safehouse: Lockdown]. One made it onto the third floor—”

Only one [Assassin] had managed to bust in with a breaching Skill. The rest were frozen as Goblins aimed their bows up at them. A furious Frost Wyvern was in the skies and threatening to blast across Erin’s inn with ice.

But they had a job. Find that damn [Painter]. The figure leapt down the hallways, fan-daggers ready. They saw the Gnoll at the same time as Ishkr ascended the steps.

“[Paralyzing Cuts]—”

The daggers lashed out. Ishkr poked the masked Drake in the head.

“[Emergency—”

 

——

 

“—Evacuation].”

The Drake appeared on the rooftop, rolled to their feet—and froze as a huge crossbow bolt thudded into the wood next to their face. Rags pointed at the Drake, and Numbtongue swung a hand-crossbow up.

“The inn! First Instruments—go!

The Maestro was shouting. He was slashing with a rapier as Tyrion and Lulv pivoted towards him, uncertain who he was. Six figures broke past the Goblins and House Veltras.

Four made it to the inn. Ullim got one, Ressa another with a pair of spinning bolas. But the other four rushed on, one with a stab-wound straight through their shoulder.

Damn. They’re like the Ranks! But they’re professionals!

Ressa snapped. The four were on a suicide attack. The south’s Guild was going to fulfill their contract—or die trying. She had to watch Magnolia—Ressa hesitated until she remembered who was inside the inn.

And—something was wrong. She tried to remember what she knew of Symphony and cursed as she looked down at the struggling [Assassin]. He didn’t even care that she had broken his legs. The Gnoll kept moving until she planted her poisoned Blade of Grasses in his skull.

“Ressa!”

Magnolia shouted at her. That would only make things worse! But Ressa just pointed down, and Reynold cursed.

 

——

 

Lulv realized something was off as well. He had killed eight [Assassins] so far from the famous killing group, Symphony.

Eight of them—and while he knew they were able to replenish their numbers, he had heard they were professionals. One of the south’s top [Assassin]-groups for hire.

He slowed for just a second as House Veltras and his forces took down figure after figure. They were defending themselves—but he didn’t sense many killing blows coming his way.

“Why do they feel—hard?”

Aldonss pointed as he saw Lulv slow.

“[Crossbows: Overwatch].”

Instantly, six [Soldiers] took aim alongside sixty spectral crossbows that appeared in the air, ready to pincushion anyone who so much as sneezed near Lulv. The [Spearmaster] took that moment to examine one of the dead Drakes he’d stabbed through the heart. He turned the body over—and cursed.

Lulv saw a hole in the Drake’s chest, torn open by one of his Skills. But what he didn’t see—was blood. And as he looked into the gaping wound, instead of flesh, he saw—

Glass. The figure lay there, slowly crumbling under their dark clothing. Lulv looked up—and he thought he heard a sound. It was echoing back towards Liscor.

“They’re all proxies! This is a clone Skill!”

Their insane charge made sense now. He whirled. They just had to get one person into that inn! He had another thought as well—

Why didn’t Manus have this? But then—the hair across one arm flew away, cut by the sheer force of the swing as the Maestro descended upon him. The Drake fought with a unit of his [Assassins] shielding him, going for the inn.

The inn…where a Drake was clawing at the [Garden of Sanctuary]’s door until he collapsed. Lyonette was trying to drag him in with Mrsha and the others, but Gireulashia herself couldn’t do it. The Maestro murmured calmly as he watched four of his best enter the inn.

“[No Sanctuary, No Respite. From Dawn Till Dusk, You Were Hunted].”

Tesy couldn’t get inside. Now—he was being dragged upstairs by Qwera and Vetn as the [Assassins] strove to reach him. But they had to get through the inn first.

 

——

 

Shriekblade stood in the trapped hallway. The First Trumpet, First Violin, and First Drums halted. First Flute looked at them.

“Buy me an opening. If I don’t make it—call off the performance. Protect the Maestro instead.”

Agreed.

This was a disaster. But the three [Assassins]—they looked at Shriekblade.

“One step and you die.”

Someone exhaled. Perhaps it was a laugh. Even Shriekblade had seldom met people who took her threats so lightly. Then—all four figures leapt at her.

Life was a song. And they could sing louder, faster than most of Symphony. But Shriekblade was a terrible, beautiful orchestra all on her own. Her blades kissed flesh the moment she moved.

—To their credit, the three of them gave the First Flute an opening. She went stumbling into the common room of the inn, long daggers raised. And what she found was nothing.

Exactly nothing. She looked around the empty inn—and then saw the [Garden of Sanctuary] shutting as Ishkr hurried in. The [Assassin] strode over to the door and tried the handle. Then she tried her lockpicking Skill.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Some kind of saferoom? Had the Drake gone in here or…? If he had escaped into the garden despite the Maestro’s Skill, it was over. She couldn’t remember running into security this tough before. Dozens of Level 30+ fighters, a trapped hallway, a Named Adventurer as an attack dog?

Killing an officer of Manus was like that—but then the final icing on the cake was a sanctuary Skill of legends? She just stood there—until she heard two things.

A scraping sound from above. An indrawn breath—and the [Assassin] looked up. There you are. But before she could head for the stairs, someone spoke at her back.

“You made a mistake coming in here. Leave Tesy alone.”

“Erin—”

The [Assassin] heard a voice, a flurry of voices trying to stop someone—and then she turned. The [Innkeeper] was there. She had a knife in one hand…a glowing jar in the other.

“You’re not our target. Hand him over.”

The First Flute whirled her daggers up. The [Innkeeper] just stared at the [Assassin]. She was—angry. The inn was shaking. The [Assassin] felt like she was underwater. Hostile aura. She fought it off—and the [Innkeeper] whispered.

“Last chance.”

The First Flute wondered how bad this performance had gone. Had anyone been captured or, worse, died? Symphony’s members were allowed to surrender if their real bodies were in danger, but they were fighting an army of foes.

What a disaster. Salazsar might bail them out—but failure would be on the Maestro’s head. She had to reach the [Painter]. But she didn’t want to hurt the [Innkeeper] who was blocking the stairs, so the First Flute tried words first.

“That [Painter] destroyed eight priceless heirlooms of the City of Gems. There is no replacing them. We won’t stop. Symphony is a performance without end.

Erin Solstice just lifted her hands, and the First Flute sighed.

She might fail here, if Shriekblade or another fighter caught up. But really. An [Innkeeper]? The First Flute lifted a dagger. Just get around her and—

Erin threw the jar of acid, and the First Flute dodged. It had gone straight for her head. She was leaping at Erin—and the second object, the knife, made her deflect it in midair. Fast throws! But it was just an [Innkeep—

Erin was stepping back to the wall behind her, but one hand was digging at another knife in her belt. The other was raising something over her head. Was that a hat—

[Hat Trick: Light Flare]. The [Assassin] went blind for a second. She swung her daggers wildly, performing an [Evasive Flip] as she heard a click.

Crossbow bolts buried themselves in the wall. Someone shouted—

Miss Solstice, leave it to us!

“No! Hold Normen back!”

The First Flute’s eyes cleared, and she heard the voice from behind—

Aaah!

She deflected the second knife stabbing at her back as the [Innkeeper] stepped out of a wall. The garden door had moved! Erin’s arm snaked back behind the door, and it closed—

“Ancestors!”

From below! The knife would have cut her off at the ankles—it could come out of any direction! The First Flute was dodging wildly, and Erin leapt into the inn behind the bar.

“Fire the crossbows! Don’t worry about me!”

She was crazy! The hesitation was followed by the crack of multiple bolts criss-crossing the room. The [Assassin] had to use another Skill.

[Notes of Deflection]! Three harsh chords made Erin Solstice wince, but the sound actually snapped the crossbow bolts before they hit the Drake. Erin Solstice wasn’t done, though. She lifted her hat—and the glowing fish sprang to life. The [Assassin] stared at the fish—

 

——

 

“Is she winning?

Lyonette was furious—at Erin! She should have left the fighting to someone else. Shriekblade—or the [Knights]. Gire was in Liscor, and the adventurers had gone with her—any second now, someone would come to subdue the [Assassin].

But Erin was attacking from all angles—and in the flashes of the door opening, Lyonette saw a harried figure slashing furious glowing piranhas in half.

[Whirlwind Slice]!

The [Assassin] said not a word, but her blades cleared everything around her in a flash. It would have hit Erin too, but the [Innkeeper] threw herself through the door—onto the grass—rolled—

 

——

 

And appeared in the inn at the same time as Ser Sest and Ser Lormel leapt out of the kitchen and other hallway. The two Thronebearers attacked in unison as the Brothers exited the hallway. Normen was in the garden—in reserve—and the First Flute looked around.

She struck her blades together, creating her own spray of sparks that made them jump back. Ser Sest just charged into the sparks, sword swinging, but she ducked away. When she rose, she had something in one claw. Not her dagger but a flute—

“Watch out!”

Erin ducked into her [Garden] just in time. Everyone else was too slow. Erin heard the most painful, earsplitting shriek come from the flute. And that was nothing to the way the Brothers and Thronebearers fell over

[Wail of Agony]. The First Flute drew her dagger again and stepped over the fallen Sest. She was heading for the stairs—but this time, she saw Erin coming.

The garden door opened, and the [Assassin] whirled. 

“[Perfect Riposte]!”

Her blades stabbed at two shoulders as she knocked a mace aside. The twin strikes kissed—

—blue metal—

And screeched off as Normen shield-charged her. A feint! She kicked the [Knight]-in-training back through the door and whirled. Too slow. The young woman was right behind her.

The [Assassin] deflected Pelt’s knife with a curse. Erin punched her in the gut.

[Minotaur Punch]!

She was so furious, and her onslaught of attacks gave her the opening to hammer the Drake in the gut. The [Assassin] stumbled back, clutching at her stomach, and Erin Solstice grabbed a chair to throw. She could sense Shriekblade pursuing two of the figures outside—one was down—but then she came bounding towards the common room of the inn.

She had told Erin to hide—but Erin had the [Assassin] on the ropes. Erin charged the [Assassin] with a chair.

“Unbelievable—”

A chair might be a poor weapon against daggers—but it was longer. And the [Assassin] was leaping sideways when something kicked her in the chest. That something was called the [Inn’s Aura]. She stumbled, and a huge Gnoll [Paragon] stepped through the garden door.

Gire’s turn. The Gnoll had a fist raised. The First Flute slashed.

[Phantom Blade: Ritardando Combo]!

She never spoke her Skills aloud. She went darting left, blades slashing as Gire dodged and parried two slashes from the Drake with a sword she’d borrowed from Lyonette. But she didn’t get a chance to attack back. Gire’s eyes went round, and she ducked the third, spectral sword that appeared in the air.

One, two—

The sword was slashing alongside the First Flute! It nearly got Gire, not because she couldn’t fight the First Flute and the sword at the same time—

—But because the spectral blade was slowing with each cut. Like a tempo in music, each cut became slower, which threw off Gire’s instantaneous reactions. She stepped back as the [Assassin] pivoted—

—And Erin brought the chair down on her head.

Her furniture was too tough to break like cheap movie props, but Erin tried to knee the Drake in the face. The Drake backed up as Gire vanished through the garden door. Of all the people, the [Innkeeper] refused to run and was doing the most damage! She splattered the First Flute with a jar of acid, and the Drake felt her fake body burning and dissolving. But she was staring at Erin. How, how, how—?

“Is it—enchantments?”

The Brothers were afraid to fire their crossbows again, and Erin had forbade Alcaz and Normen from fighting to the death. The [Assassin] didn’t seem like she believed what was going on. She waved her good dagger—she’d lost hold of the other as she backed up.

Last chance! Surrender!

Erin Solstice was reaching for another jar of acid. Her blood was boiling with fury. At Ryoka—at the attackers—but she didn’t know if she was ready to kill. She was just so angry. Erin was about to conjure flame as she raised the chair when the First Flute flung up a claw.

“[D-Dispel Enchantments]!”

The [Innkeeper] was charging at the Drake with the chair again. Erin Solstice wavered—began to laugh—

And fell over. Suddenly, abruptly, Erin Solstice collapsed. She hit the floor, and her first thought was—

Huh?

The [Assassin] was so shocked she stared at Erin for an entire second. Erin Solstice tried to move—and suddenly, her back, her legs, her arms were screaming at her. Her—what had happened?

Then she realized she felt weak as a kitten. Erin tried to raise her head, and it was an effort. Her body hurt. The—

She’d just removed Erin’s Bulkup Bisque effect! The [Innkeeper] had lost the strength enhancement she ate every day. And with it—

“What the? It was an enchantment.”

Oh no. Nononono—Erin saw the [Assassin] grab her dagger. Then she kicked Erin over onto her back.

A door to the garden opened under Erin, and she tried to fall to safety—but a hand grabbed her shoulder, and she couldn’t go through!

The [Assassin] had her. She was so fast—

“Almost.”

The First Flute murmured in respect. Then her other claw moved. The blade flashed down.

Shriekblade burst into the inn a second too late. The First Flute looked up, and the Named-rank lifted a dagger. She stopped—because she saw what had happened.

Erin Solstice was lying on her back—and the [Assassin] had a blade at her throat. She dragged Erin up, and Erin tried to pull away, but she could barely move.

“Let go. Let go and I won’t kill you.”

Shriekblade hissed. The First Flute was panting.

“No. Bring Sellme down.”

“I can’t—I can’t—”

Erin was trying to break the grip on her, but she couldn’t! And the blade at her throat—Tessa looked at it. She hesitated—and changed her grip on her daggers. She was still ready to spring, and she could kill the First Flute.

But she couldn’t beat those daggers.

“Let go of her…and I won’t kill all of you.”

Shriekblade’s negotiation had two notes. But she was staring at the blade at Erin’s throat. And the Drake was glancing at the door—at the hallway—

“If anyone moves or tries a Skill—back up!

She looked around as the Named-rank adventurer, frustrated, glanced around for help. Lyonette had her hands over her mouth, and Gire was hesitating, trying to calculate whether she could reach Erin in time. Dalimont and Ushar were cursing, but the panting First Flute looked about.

“Get—get the Maestro.”

 

——

 

Ryoka Griffin was in a four-way standoff now. Her Faeblade was glowing as she looked across a battlefield with no blood.

Symphony was dead. But their bodies had turned to glass powder and vanished. Only their ‘Maestro’ was standing apart, but there were adventurers, the inn’s guests behind him, and he seemed—resigned.

“Time for the curtain call. Ah—has she failed?”

He looked to the inn as the doors opened. Symphony was all dead. All but two. And when someone stepped out, Ryoka’s heart sank.

“We—we need the Maestro. No one attack him! Put down your weapons! They’ve taken Erin hostage.”

Lyonette du Marquin shouted, and Relc lowered his spear, eyes wide, as Klbkch stopped sidling around the Maestro’s left. The Drake blinked—and he seemed almost as outraged as everyone else. But Ryoka took one step towards the inn.

“Erin?”

No one else come in! Just—just the Maestro. Who is…?”

“That would be me. Excuse me.”

The Drake lowered his blade and began striding for the inn. Spearmaster Lulv snarled.

“Hostage situation? Take the Drake hostage and force a—”

He strode towards the Maestro, and the Drake pivoted. But Tyrion Veltras had had the same idea. The two men saw each other move—and a sword rose towards Lulv’s throat at the same time as his spear aimed at Tyrion’s stomach.

“Stop fighting, you idiots!”

Rafaema howled, but House Veltras and Manus were now at each other’s throats again. Jericha took aim at Wall Lord Aldonss as he took cover behind another wall with Rafaema—and Zevara was storming up the hill.

Hold your fire! Everyone stand down on Liscor’s authority!

No one listened to her. The Wall Lord was whispering.

“If Lulv can take out the north’s war leader—can we spin it upon Symphony or the chaos?”

This is not the time for war.

Rafaema’s voice was steely, and Aldonss hesitated. But Tyrion and Lulv seemed ready to gut each other without waiting for anything else. The two groups were frozen as Rags eyed Tyrion and wondered if this was her chance. Her crossbow was slowly rising, and she was thinking, thinking while she remembered seeing Pyrite’s back for the last time.

That was when she heard the sound of bells.

They rang across the city of Liscor. Not as large as church bells, but with the same resonance. Skills informed them, and figures marched up the hill, out the gates, and from behind The Wandering Inn, pouring out of a hidden tunnel by the hundreds.

Tyrion Veltras hesitated, and Lulv’s spear twitching with tension slowly relaxed. Both Tyrion and the Gnoll looked around—and slowly lowered their blades and turned.

For if they hated each other—the sight of hundreds of Antinium bearing steel and faith was enough to make them both hesitate.

The 7th Hive emerged from the gates of Liscor. Crusader 57 was marching with Squad 5 as Battalion 6, the Beriad, slammed blades against their armor.

“The Antinium?”

Jericha looked around, dry-mouthed with horror. She gazed down as a sea of [Crusaders] stormed out of Liscor. Watch Captain Zevara whirled in relief.

“Who called for them? Wh—”

She spotted the Antinium leading them. The one who’d snuck out from the beginning. Not to run or avoid a fight—but to make sure if Tyrion died, he died.

The Maestro’s own scales crawled as he saw the [Priest of Wrath and Sky] leading Painted Antinium and [Crusaders] up the hill. The Antinium said nothing as the first rank knelt, aiming spears and shields up at the inn. The second rank aimed over their heads, and House Veltras and Manus’ forces lowered their weapons.

They might have been the finest in the north and south—but they could see the bows and crossbows trained on them. A thousand Antinium were surrounding the inn, and that number was only growing by the minute.

Pawn’s own eyes were glowing with something—like Xrn’s own gaze—and the armor of the [Crusaders] shone as the air clashed with the sound of steel and then fell silent. Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath as Ryoka paled.

Even the Antinium held, though—because Erin Solstice was being held hostage. And so, the Drake standing there and looking around adjusted his suit. He plucked an orchid out of his bag of holding, fastened it to a lapel, and nodded to the others.

“I believe that is my cue. Excuse me.”

The Maestro stepped into the inn as Pawn nodded to Rags. He stared at Tyrion and sighed. The [Priest] muttered.

“It would be war if we killed him. Or Manus, correct?”

He looked at Watch Captain Zevara, and she gave him a tight nod. The [Priest] stared at Spearmaster Lulv as the Gnoll looked around. Pawn slowly clasped his hands together.

“I’ll pray on it.”

 

——

 

A single Drake slowly walked down the trapped corridor of the inn. He paused to eye the arrow-slits, the place where acid had been poured through a murder hole in the ceiling and splashed on the floorboards.

Three of his best had ‘died’ here. Carefully, the Maestro walked through the open door into the common room of the inn and looked around.

He saw smashed tables and chairs, a few men in hats groaning on the floor as someone checked on them, a door leading to a magical garden—and a young woman on the floor, a knife held to her throat.

The Drake looked around and took in a few people standing against the walls. They were not allowed to come closer.

Gireulashia, the huge [Paragon], was watching Erin while Normen, Yelroan, and the others watched the First Flute holding Erin Solstice. The Maestro saw a struggling little white Gnoll in the grip of a girl.

Nanette was holding Mrsha back from adding to the situation—and Erin was just lying there. She had tried to open the door to the garden again, but the First Flute had stopped her, and now she just lay there. Panting, unable to believe she was being held hostage in her own inn.

The Maestro’s gaze flicked to his subordinate. He actually looked disapproving.

“A hostage?”

“The target…was being guarded by too many warriors, Maestro. I couldn’t reach him, and the [Innkeeper]—”

“I see. So we have a stalemate. Innkeeper Erin Solstice, I apologize for this. But here we are.”

The Maestro looked around—and then took a seat at one of the good tables. He leaned his sword against the table with a sigh, and Erin Solstice spoke.

Who are you people?

He brushed at his grey-sapphire scales, and he looked old. Old, for an [Assassin]. The Drake spoke one word.

“Symphony. I believe you have had the misfortune of meeting Orchestra? We are their…let us say ‘rivals’. If the North has their precious Named-rank team, we are the refrain, the countermelody of the south.”

“You’re assassins.

Erin glared, and the Maestro nodded.

“Yes. And Lord Deniusth’s famous team are mercenaries who sometimes kill monsters. We take contracts on individuals or entire groups. In fact, Liscor may one day make use of our services now it has rejoined southern politics.”

Erin just stared at him. The blade at her throat seemed to remind the Maestro of why he was here. He sat back.

“The [Painter] is above. I don’t suppose there’s a chance of this being settled peacefully? You give him to us—you go free.”

“Never.

Dame Ushar sighed audibly as Erin stared at the Maestro, outraged he would even suggest it. The Drake just exhaled.

“You know why we are after him?”

“He ruined some art? He doesn’t deserve to die! You—you come to Liscor, you hunt him and endanger my friends—if one of them is dead, I’ll find you. All of you.”

The Drake nodded at that. As if Erin weren’t the one being held hostage by the First Flute. The First Flute actually prodded Erin with the tip of her blade to remind her who was issuing threats, but the Maestro glared at her, and she desisted. Instead of getting angry, the Drake folded his claws together and spoke.

“…A year or two ago, when Sellme was gaining notoriety among the Walled Cities, I said once that no sum Salazsar or any Walled City could post would inspire me to go after the famous painter. I confess—I was a fan of his works. Lampooning corruption is not something I believe someone should die for, even if his methods were sometimes—questionable.”

Erin Solstice blinked. Lyonette, who had come in, blinked as well. Chaldion rolled his eyes. The Maestro was pretending he didn’t know the Drake staring at him from the side. The leader of Symphony went on.

“—That was until about two weeks ago. You may know that Sellme and some associates broke into a public museum of Salazsar, don’t you?”

Everyone nodded. Erin nearly slit her throat. The Drake went on quietly.

“He destroyed more than mere ‘art’. His associates burnt—beyond any chance of repair—Requiel ute Minen. Among others—a national treasure of Salazsar is up in smoke.”

“He didn’t.”

Someone groaned. It turned out to be Selys. Even she knew that one. Erin looked at the Drake, and he elaborated.

“It may not look like much. Just—a lifelike picture of some [Miners] in repose outside of the mines. Beautifully done. Oil painted—I shall never remember it in as much detail as I saw it. But if you stare at it, one person or thousands of viewers, it will calm all hearts. Make your burdens ease. It was done by a Level 60 [Painter], and it took the tiredness of Salazsar’s citizens, their aches and pains—each year—for thousands of years. Yes, much of what Sellme destroyed was vanity and overvalued. But that? It was made for the people that Sellme claims to represent. And now it is gone forever.”

Erin just stared at the Drake. That didn’t mean he had to die. But there the Maestro and she clearly differed in opinion. The Drake hesitated, then went on as he sat up and put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I confess, that is only half the reason I took the contract. He…destroyed something very precious to me as well. It was useless, sentimental, but I will never deny I am motivated by vengeance. But Requiel? An [Artist] should not destroy beauty.

He looked up to the ceiling, and Erin Solstice rasped.

“You can’t have him.”

The Maestro glanced down at her and shrugged.

“I can see an army outside your inn. That may be so—but we have you. First Flute. Bring her outside. This inn is her ground. Let’s settle this.”

 

——

 

In the five to ten minutes it took for the Maestro to go inside and come back out, everyone began talking. Weapons were lowered. Lulv, Aldonss, Tyrion—all were catching up on the situation.

Why had Erin been captured? Didn’t she have the garden? Ryoka didn’t know, but when she saw the Drake dragging Erin out, Ryoka almost went for the two [Assassins].

“Hold. We have a prisoner. Miss, we are prepared to negotiate. We will defend ourselves if need be.”

The Maestro addressed Lyonette, and the [Princess] raised her chin.

“I think you’ll find that it will cost you more to attack this inn. And if Erin is hurt or dies—”

She was staring at Erin, trying to come up with a threat powerful enough. But a voice rumbled behind her.

If she dies, the Titan will be after you.”

The Maestro turned—and Venaz pointed his greatsword at the Drake. The Minotaur clasped a fist to his chest as he looked at Erin and then the [Assassins].

“The Forgotten Wing Company will haunt you to your graves. Three-Color Stalker owes Miss Solstice a debt.”

“Oh, Creler eggs.

The First Flute hissed that. The name of the famous killer of [Assassins] made even Symphony hesitate—much less the Titan. Someone else broke in, coughing.

“Pallass too. Your bounty is in jeopardy, Maestro. Contact your employers.”

Chaldion appeared from behind Lyonette, and now the Maestro was—vexed. He looked right and left, and Tyrion Veltras slowly began to raise a hand, but Magnolia Reinhart beat him to it.

“If it helps, the wrath of Reinharts extends to all of Izril. But I am sure you had already considered that. Let her go, Maestro of Symphony, I take it?”

Three world powers were, at this moment, threatening the Drake with the conductor’s wand. He looked around, and Grimalkin, Rags, and Klbkch all considered that being the fourth threatening force sounded less impressive.

They got the message. Symphony’s members looked at each other, and the Maestro’s lips moved. His faded scales moved as he brushed at his neck spines with one claw. Then he gazed about him.

“…Are you all mad? Symphony does not kill bystanders wantonly. That is your precious Guild of Assassins in the north. Or Orchestra. Killing her is a last resort I trust you will not force us to. Why would we kill someone who can post <Quests>? She is far too important for that.”

He looked at Erin Solstice and then around, mystified, and Ryoka’s mouth opened. Erin was…

Even the [Innkeeper] was puzzled. She was too important to die? But come to that—the First Flute was holding her dagger carefully, making sure not to cut Erin with what might be a poisoned edge.

The tension in the air faded—slightly. But the Maestro was eying Erin.

“It is abundantly clear that this is a failed performance for Symphony. We will withdraw—but we require assurances reprisals will not come after us. Not difficult, I think. No one was killed by our people in this attempt.”

“Don’t negotiate with killers.”

Tyrion stared at the Maestro before directing his comments to Zevara and the Watch. Ceria raised a hand.

“On the other hand—do negotiate with someone who will kill Erin if he has to.”

“Sensible. I have an ultimatum. My people go free—unharmed—that is not up for debate. No pursuit, no bounties. Let them go. We are Symphony. We are willing to die—and I think the [Innkeeper] is worth more to you than our lives.”

“Promise to let Erin go if—”

Let my people free.

The conductor’s wand changed to a second blade—a shortsword—and the Drake laid it at Erin’s throat. The Gold-bell on the hilt of the blade never chimed, and Zevara looked around.

“—Agreed. No pursuit, no bounties.”

Erin Solstice watched everything, red with shame. She was so weak, in fact, that the First Flute was holding her upright—she couldn’t even stand. She should have stayed in the inn!

The Maestro was giving orders fearlessly, and everyone was having to obey. The guests, the Watch, all fell back, leaving Lyonette and her Thronebearers, Tyrion, the Manus group, Magnolia…

“Now we negotiate the terms by which she’s set free. We will withdraw and release her once we reach a safe position. You may enforce it with a scroll or truth spell—after swearing to forgo pursuit.”

“Fine. We’ll let you go. But swear on a truth spell first to let Erin as well. Grimalkin?”

Lyonette was breathing hard, and Tyrion just glared, disgusted by the negotiations. But the Maestro glanced down at Erin and flicked up a claw.

“We almost have an agreement. Sellme—we cannot have him. I see that. But if we have a dagger pressed to the throat of Izril’s most famous [Innkeeper]—”

Larra was going to hate that. Erin glared at the Drake, and he looked down at her.

“—Then I think we should insist upon at least one more thing.”

“You have to be kidding me. We’re not paying a ransom. We have a hundred spells and bows on you. You want to extort us? Maybe we’ll take our chances. Not everyone cares about this Human.”

Rafaema barked at the Maestro. Magnolia Reinhart turned her head, then moved her hand. The [Assassins] tensed—but the slap to the back of the head just hit Rafaema so hard she staggered.

“Name your price.”

She called out as Lulv whirled around in outrage. The Maestro just stroked his chin.

“A <Quest>. Make it Heroic or Mythical. Something for us.”

He looked down at Erin Solstice, and the young woman gaped at him like a fish.

“You—you what?

Ryoka Griffin’s mouth opened. The fearless Drake stood there, sword at Erin’s throat, and that was how Drassi’s camera crew found him. That was—

Well, that was the broadcast that changed things. An entire world, breaking news from Wistram. A famous assassin group, a blade at the [Innkeeper]’s throat. Erin got her attention. And everyone else learned something.

You could threaten the [Innkeeper]. Probably not kill her—but why would anyone do that? Yet if the Golden Goose didn’t want to produce an egg for you—

A blade might do it.

“I’m not giving a <Quest> to nobody. Eat a Creler.”

Erin snapped, red-faced. The Maestro pressed the blade to her throat.

“Miss Solstice. I’m told you have powerful friends.”

“Yeah? You’re not going to kill me.”

“No—but they might regret wasting a Potion of Regeneration on you.”

The [Innkeeper] hesitated. The Drake’s eyes never wavered as he stared down at her. Lyonette bit her tongue so hard it nearly bled.

“Erin—just give him something!”

“You—you can’t make me give you a <Quest>. I can’t just give them out! They don’t grow on trees!”

The Maestro was amazingly poised. He’d clearly done this before. In fact…now Lyonette was remembering.

Symphony. Symphony and Orchestra. The famous rivals of the Named-rank team were a Drake assassin group from the south. This…

This is all Deni’s fault. I’ll fucking kill him. He can’t end one damn nemesis? I heard he went to this bastard’s wedding!

Colth was shouting in the background. The Maestro had a mirthless smile on his lips as he replied to Erin.

“Deniusth is a fool with no musical or martial talent to speak of. No, Miss Solstice, I know you may not be able to post anything you want…but I would bet my life that you could give at least one more insanely valuable, life-changing <Quest> out. In fact, I would bet it on a truth spell. And—I think the world would love to know what you’re hiding. In lieu of anyone else, I will play the villain. I am quite the killer. I wouldn’t hesitate to chop off a limb or a finger.”

Chaldion almost started applauding then and there. You had to admire it. Who here hadn’t privately, in the confines of their own head, considered that the best way to get what they wanted out of Erin was to hold her at knife-point?

But you couldn’t do that to people you liked. This Drake though…Erin was getting redder because she seemed to realize she was stuck.

The Drake might cut off a finger, and she didn’t want to go the way of Ryoka or the Horns. But he was forcing her to—to—

“Any <Heroic Quest>, Miss Solstice. To quote a clock—tick-tock, tick-tock.”

I’m thinking! I can’t post most of them. And you can’t have…”

Erin was floundering. What could she do? Not invisibility cloth! Or—would he go for a dungeon?

The Drake was reading her mind.

“Something I personally would appreciate, Miss Solstice. Buried treasure? I am willing to race others within limits. No dungeons. If I don’t like it, I will regretfully make you post another. I’d take a free mansion. Do you have anything to do with music?”

“I can’t post my dancing quest. I can’t dance.”

“How regrettable. You might be a very fine study in footwork. The First Flute told me you nearly brought her down on your own.”

She just glared. Erin Solstice knew she had to do something—but she was being honest when she said most of her <Quests> were either long-term, too valuable, or…

 

<Legendary Quest: Destroy Roshal.>

 

She wanted to say it. She wanted to—and she knew that would just make things suck. Could she post the <Quest> through him and break every bone in his body like Tekshia’s Guild?

No, no, here was the [Innkeeper], unable to move, and even if she could—the [Assassins] were combat classes. The Maestro was a Gold-bell duelist.

Erin Solstice thought—and thought—and for some reason, something felt different. As she ran through the <Quests> she had and had tried, a short list, Erin realized something.

One of them felt—different.

It was like if Erin was on a computer, trying to click on a dead hyperlink or a program that never worked. Only now—she felt it light up in her head. Like an option suddenly reactivating.

Huh?

“There is one…”

It seemed then, to the audience—and Erin had most of the world, including a concerned Fetohep, Niers, and Ilvriss—who was currently demanding to know which idiot had activated Symphony—that Erin was almost speaking to herself, now.

Noa, the Fraerlings of Paeth, all watched as Erin puzzled out—on live television—a mystery of this new phenomenon.

“I—I couldn’t post this before. But now I can. Is that because I have to be able to fulfill the reward? Why can I do it now? Is it…something in my pockets?”

She stared down at her belt, and the Maestro hesitated. He nodded to the First Flute, and she searched Erin’s bag of holding.

“Jar of acid…I’ll just take this. Engagement ring of Salazsar—what? Piece of burnt bread, healing potion.”

“That’s a fake ring. That’s not what it’s used for.”

Erin said it instantly. She glanced up, spotted Drassi, and turned redder.

“Hey. Hey! Is that a scrying orb? Am I on television? This is a hostage situation! Get lost! No—wait. Christmas! There’s a holiday coming up and—”

Ryoka just stared at Erin. The Maestro cleared his throat, and the First Flute pulled something out that made Erin stop screaming.

“That’s it! Give it here!”

“Don’t let her drink it. It won’t help you, Miss. It takes a few minutes to activate, and believe me—I am far more adept than anything that potion will give you.”

The Maestro warned Erin, and she held it limply in one hand. But there it was. Everyone peered at it, and it was Alchimagus Resk of Paeth who identified it first.

“Why—that’s a Talent Potion. If I had to guess from the icon, it’s Mastery of Swordsmanship. Or some lesser variant.”

Saliss’ potion that gave someone temporary Skills or abilities with the blade lay in Erin’s palm. And she—she stared at it and then at something else, puzzled.

“Really? Aw—come on.”

“This is all delightfully fascinating. But if you wouldn’t mind—? It sounds like you have something to offer me. I tell you what—I’ll even forgo killing this [Painter]. Symphony’s word on it.”

The Drake was idly checking a [Message] scroll currently exploding with orders. He sighed, and Erin glared up at him.

“I’m going to remember this.”

“My dear. It’s just good business. But remember away. I will note, though, that my association has taken no lives. We are professionals.”

“You won’t get away with…no, that sounds bad. I’m gonna…I…today was supposed to be a fun day.

The Maestro actually looked sympathetic at the plaintive tone in Erin’s voice. Ryoka lowered her head, and the elderly Drake leaned over and stage-whispered.

“Miss Solstice. If I may be so bold?”

His free claw indicated House Veltras, the forces of Manus, Magnolia, the Goblins—and the Maestro raised his brows.

“…I don’t believe it was going well before I interceded.”

Erin Solstice looked up at him, and in that moment, she decided she didn’t hate him the most. It was probably Tyrion, Manus, Ryoka—a list going down with Erin Solstice’s own stupidity and reliance on her bisque at the top.

All of them hating each other. All of them wanting to attack each other. Tyrion and Lulv staring daggers. The Goblins and Tyrion. Some of them had the best reasons in the world. So—Erin whispered.

“Fine. Fine. You’re right. And you know what? You asked for it. All of you. You want a damn <Quest>? Here’s the one you deserve.

The air…began to shake. Erin Solstice raised her hand, and the Maestro leaned back. But she was grasping at something, writing in the air—and the words began burning in every [Innkeeper]’s mind in a hundred miles. The glowing words were clearly reflected—backwards—onto every scrying orb in the world, and the smart people grabbed a mirror or waited for someone to project the right wording.

Erin Solstice raised her hand with all the energy she had left in her body, and a piece of parchment flared to life as she drew it out of her belt pouch. The ground shook. And the vial of Saliss’ Talent Potion—

Vanished. Then the <Quest> burned in the air, and Erin Solstice fell back limply.

The Maestro grinned, and when he saw what she wrote—he laughed and raised his sword. He saluted her and stepped back as everyone’s heads rose and they read the glowing words tracing themselves across the sky.

 

<Heroic Quest – Zeladona’s Trial of a Thousand Blades!>

Limits: Must use a blade of any kind. No magic. No enchantments save your own, not on your weapons, and no armor of any kind but your skin. No killing.

I have been held hostage, and I’m being forced to post this quest by some ‘Maestro’ of Symphony. It’s a stupid name. The Maestro sucks. Symphony sucks. Orchestra sucks. You know what? Tyrion Veltras sucks too. And Manus. They’re all stupid names, and I hate you all.

You deserve each other. Starting tomorrow, gather outside of Liscor and beat each other up with swords, blades, pieces of glass, I don’t care. 

In honor of Zeladona, [Blademistress of Ancients] of another era, shed blood—but don’t kill each other—and to the victors, you will have the chance to earn her legendary Skill.

You do not know her. In life, she mastered more schools of blade mastery than anyone else. You may not be worthy of her Skills—but you can try.

Posted Reward: You suck, Maestro.

Quest Reward: Potential to gain the Unique Skill of Zeladona. [Walk of the Blademaster, Path of Legends].

 

And when it was done—Erin Solstice lay on the ground. Staring at the sky as people shouted and demanded she extend the window, let [Lords] and [Kings] and famous heroes sail or teleport to Liscor. But Erin just stared at the sky, glaring upwards.

Her body hurt. It was her fault. She stared up and up—until someone hesitantly blocked her view of the glorious sky.

Ryoka Griffin had her hands up. Tyrion, Manus, were standing down. Wall Lady Rafaema, the angry [Lord] of House Veltras—everyone had decided it was time to calm down, step back, and perhaps consider putting off a fight until later.

…Mostly because Pawn and a thousand [Crusaders] were aiming crossbows or surrounding the entire inn. The [Priest] was staring at Tyrion, the fearless Maestro and his Symphony, and Manus—and he was the [Priest of Wrath and Sky].

—But it was too late. Erin glared up, thinking that perhaps Chaldion could have stopped this. Or Magnolia. And maybe they had really wanted to see what she’d do.

She glared up at Ryoka as the Wind Runner stood over her. Ryoka stood there—and gingerly lowered a hand.

“Can I…help you up?”

Erin didn’t move. Ryoka flinched slightly, and Erin spoke after a few seconds.

“I can’t even raise my arms.”

“Oh. Then…”

Ryoka stood there and looked down at Erin. She scuffed her bare feet on the grass.

“I’m back, Erin. I’m sorry. I always seem to cause you problems. Can we still be friends?”

Erin stared up at Ryoka. The [Innkeeper] exhaled slowly.

“We were always friends, Ryoka. But sometimes—I really want to hit you.”

“That’s fair.”

Ryoka bent down and helped Erin get up. The [Innkeeper] put her arm around her friend’s neck and squeezed.

“We all mess up big time, I guess.”

She buried her head in Ryoka’s shoulder, and the Wind Runner patted her on the back.

“Story of my life, Erin. Come on.”

She gently led Erin back to the inn as the Maestro looked back. For he would be back tomorrow, too. Tyrion Veltras rammed his sword into his sheath as Sammial stared at Erin.

“I like her almost as much as Ryoka.”

 

——

 

As it all ended and everything went quiet, an [Emperor] was sampling a new pumpkin soup his [Cooks] had made when Lady Rie ran into the mess hall, followed by Griffon Hunt. He looked up blankly and then nearly spat out his mouthful of food.

She did—what? Just now? Just now? And no one told me?

 

——

 

Well, that was a continuing theme in many places. And—

—the next day—

The tournament began.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

Listen up. I’ve been writing my 20k chapters for months now. I am close to finishing editing Volume 1, but the holidays are coming up. Actually, they are upon us.

I plan to write my last chapter on the 26th—though I may be on the road by then. I will take my week break as well as my 2-week break for the end of the year.

I’d be back on the 17th of January or something. I know that’s a lot of time off, but I think I need it. But I plan on using maybe my final chapter to revise. I may not even post on that day.

Until then—I am not editing anything but the current chapter. I am throwing my final energy into the writing, and this is what I’ve got. Time to take off the breaks. Or the limiter. This is not my final form.

...But I may die of exhaustion. Still. I am having a kind of fun.

Two more chapters. I know what I hope to get through in each one, and I got through almost everything I wanted of this one. I may fail to deliver the entire arc I have planned for the month of December.

But I will try. Like a random [Christmas Burglar] hopping through billions of chimneys or breaking into windows and throwing presents in people, the attempt is here.

This is my chapter. Hope you enjoy it, and hopefully the other ones I can do. I do have family and other things, but I’ll try to keep to my plans. This is the only gift I’ve got. Happy holidays, and wish me luck.

—pirateaba

 

Eater Goats and Void Goat by Enuryn the [Naturalist]!

Portfolio: https://enuryndraws.art/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/enuryn

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Enuryn_Nat

 

Silvenia, Lyonette the Hag Queen and Geasus Mrsha (Warhammer Fantasy references) by Lanrae!

 

Emberbread, and Sariants by Brack! Old vs New Bread commissioned by Vondeklompz!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.30

[The Wandering Inn store is having a Solstice sale! Check it out here!]

 

(Trial of the Alchemist, a mystery-fantasy by Trevor Melanson, is coming out free on Royalroad! Check it out here: https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/61221/trial-of-the-alchemist-mind-bending-mystery-fantasy)

 

On the day of the tournament, the <Heroic Quest> in honor of Zeladona, the [Blademistress of Ancients], everyone agreed on a few things.

Firstly—that inn never ran out of entertainment. Apparently, you could just hit the [Innkeeper] on the head and she’d spit out a new <Quest>.

Secondly—everyone wanted to know who Zeladona was. No one really remembered her, which said a lot about her age. That was—until a bunch of Chandrarian nations and even monasteries began digging up a common name who had codified and sometimes improved entire schools of fighting.

A blademaster of another time. So old that there were bounties on the books in Nerrhavia’s Fallen for a full scroll of her sword-techniques that pre-dated Nerrhavia dying.

Nothing would do but for the Iron Vanguard to show off an entire wall in one of their cities that showed sword-forms for Dullahans. And Drath itself decided to announce in singular text the following, which Drassi read on her broadcast:

 

Blademistress Zeladona had visited the Empire of Drath to learn from the masters here in the Lightness Era. -1176 D.O.M.

 

That meant, of course, if you were Sir Relz, you actually popped the monocle off your face as you fell over on your desk. He and Noass were running the desk while Drassi was in Liscor. When he came round, he told everyone that it didn’t stand for the Demons’ famous war-leader, but the era where magic itself was dead.

As for the negative years—some idiot had retroactively decided to count everything in that era backwards as when magic ‘returned’ was the restoration of all that was good in the world and thus Year 0.

That [Historian] had been murdered in his bed for his crimes.

Anyways, the third thing everyone agreed on was that there was no time for a proper tournament. Someone was currently screaming at Noass about it as the Drake nodded along sympathetically.

A proper tournament takes weeks—possibly months or even a year to organize right! There needs to be crowds, stakes! Who are the competitors? Where’s the mysterious masked individual? The foreign team? We need buildup! Drama! And time for more people to show up! Months of practice lead-time for each combatant! Betting! Love-affairs between rivals! Sabotage before the tournament even begins, and day-long exhibitions for the entire week at least!”

They had—opinions—on how a tournament should go. One day? Noass hesitated as Earl Altestiel and Hundredlord Cortese of Kaaz fought for space on the scrying orb.

Altestiel was the one with opinions about the tournament. Cortese had a simpler objection.

I must be there! Half of Kaaz would go—you tell that [Innkeeper] to delay her quest! I’ll charter a ship this day! I’ll pay Wistram to teleport me! Give me one—two days, and I’ll make the journey!”

In fact, people were coming in via Pallass, Invrisil, Celum—whatever areas the door could reach. Archmage Valeterisa herself was teleporting in with guests—after charging them extensive fees.

People without access to magic? A carriage rolled in this morning alongside a Gnoll practically strapped to a horse. The carriage disgorged what looked like a dead Drake.

“I…I made it? Am I too late?”

The Drake in question had raced out of his city the instant he heard about the <Quest> and rode down four horses in the night before ordering the carriage to drive him to Pallass or crash into the walls. He had slept not one wink for the last eighteen hours.

“The tournament’s starting at midday. Who are you, sir?”

Drassi bent over the Drake. He stared up at her.

“Midday?”

He peered at the sun still rising—and immediately passed out. Drassi looked at the snoring figure. Then at the Gnoll, who looked half-dead.

“And where did you ride in from, sir?”

Comoller.

“Isn’t that…a hundred and sixty miles south of Pallass?”

Yes.

The Gnoll fell out of his saddle, but he had the wherewithal to drag himself into the inn.

These were, of course, exceptionally wealthy individuals who could pay for spot-teleportation or multiple horses and sprint from their locations. And even then—Cortese, Altestiel, and the furious people of multiple continents would never get to Liscor in a week’s time, much less a day.

It said very clearly that the world needed faster transportation, and Archmage Eldavin was among those listening to the complaints.

But the fourth and main thing that everyone agreed upon?

That Maestro was a bastard. Possibly a magnificent one, but he and Symphony were something. In fact, Sir Relz had to cut Cortese and Altestiel off—mostly because his other interviewee, Deniusth, hadn’t stopped cursing his name for the last thirty minutes.

Orchestra…was not going to make it back in time. They had taken off after the thieves from Albez, and because they had rushed so far south at their top speed, they had literally made it impossible to return in time.

Thus, it looked like the tournament would be having mostly local fighters from several regions of Izril with a few drop-in guests who had managed the journey. Outrageous. The Maestro, then, was the target of ire as well as grudging admiration. You could hate him taking something you wanted.

You could, understandably, dislike a trained killer holding someone at dagger’s edge. Then again—Symphony had killed no one and lost no one in their concert-Skill. That was the kind of thing some employers liked to see. But even if you hated the Maestro, there was something to him.

It was like watching a [Baron] deliberately extend a foot to trip up the young [Princess] on her debut in court as she held a glass of Amentus Juice that stained wonderfully, and she was crossing a royal carpet that cost over two hundred thousand gold coins. He was definitely a bastard—but you admired how he made the play.

So everyone did have to ask—who was this Maestro, the famous rival of Deniusth and Orchestra? Where did he come from? How did a Gold-bell duelist come to be leading a famous assassination group with little regard for his own safety—or his face being known to the world as a killer?

 

——

 

The day that defined Linvios Reiscale had happened about thirty years ago. Almost to this day. He had thought of it and not thought of it for thirty years.

It happened in Salazsar’s towers. It was spring, and a thousand guests, mostly Drakes, were already gathering, placing gifts in a veritable heap, dining on the expensive food being served to them.

They had come across the continent for this day. In fact—one notable Human had even come all the way from the north to attend the wedding.

Linvios stared daggers at Deniusth every time the two locked eyes.

“Bastard.”

He would show up to an obligatory wedding invitation just to show Linvios he had class. He wasn’t even the Nemesis of My Hour. Just Linvios’ personal, most hated person in this entire world.

Later, people like Colth and Deniusth’s friends—and Linvios’—would hear of their rivalry, which would span decades, where both endeavored to kill or humiliate the other. At this moment, both carried silver bells. But Colth had gotten one thing wrong.

It wasn’t Linvios’ wedding. The Drake was fiddling with his suit, and Salazsar did love suits. But this was a more formal wedding, so the groom, in the oldest traditions of their kind, had put on something closer to a robe of glittering metal. He looked like an [Emperor] with a triangular hat cut from Truegold-laced cloth, adorned with little charms hand-made by his closest friends and family.

The little red charm around his wrist had come from Linvios. Wall Lord Itreus was staring out one window nervously, but as Linvios looked back, the two exchanged a long look.

“Did he really show up? Your rival?”

“Yes. I heard he was in Chalence, but he came four thousand plus miles. Just to spite me.”

“Huh. Better him than my nemesis. Is Zail out there?”

Wall Lord Zail was waiting, and Itreus saw Linvios look out and spot the Drake. Zail, the scion of House Gemscale, stood tall, elegant, wearing his medals and gemstone coat as his longsword stood out from his jacket. A true military man.

“He’s here.”

“It will be strange, not wanting to throttle him at every passing moment. I wish you and Deniusth could do that.”

That was all Itreus said. He looked—magnificent. His scales had always been closer to pearlescent than most Drakes, faintly pinkish as they turned to amber-red. He had been in fights about it with Linvios, even when they were in their thirties. But at this moment, he seemed like no one could provoke him to violence. He was more thick-set than Linvios, especially his tail and legs—but not as much a warrior as the acclaimed [Duelist] of Salazsar.

But then—he was a Wall Lord, and he and Zail would lead their city as the next generation took command of their companies.

Look at him. Itreus glanced at Zail and sighed. Then Linvios glowered at Deniusth again.

“Him? It would never work. For a man who plays the violin so well, he doesn’t understand what harmony sounds like. He’s a solo act. A selfish one.”

His rivalry with Deniusth was both musical and driven by their personalities, their similar skillsets—and the ways their intersections made them butt heads. No—Deniusth would never be his Nemesis of My Hour.

Linvios wouldn’t ever be married, anyways. But Zail had come, and they had put their bad blood behind them.

There was a tradition, amongst Drakes, of marriage. Just like Humans and other species—but Drake traditions were different. One aspect of their weddings that astounded most other species was this:

They would have a ‘best man’, a groomsman just as the bride would invite her closest friend. Only one. If you were playing by the oldest rules from the time of Dragons, you had only one. No ‘multiple best friends’. You chose, and that was it.

You could say their weddings indicated the species—a gift to the bride and groom should be expensive. This was a display of wealth. The weddings started terrible fights sometimes.

—However, there was one thing Drakes did that was also cultural, and it was this: you invited your worst enemy as well.

Perhaps not one who’d stab you on sight. But if they showed up—your Nemesis of My Hour, as the fanciful title was referred to, would stand with the best man. They would be privy to your finest hour in this wedding, and thereafter—whatever grudge you’d held would be gone.

The leadup to this moment had been months of negotiations, hashing out all their animosity, seeing if Zail and Itreus could actually even stand each other long enough to do this thing. Linvios had thought they might actually stab each other multiple times.

—But this was the highest honor you could give someone. And Zail had accepted in the faith you were meant to and put down his long feud with Itreus for good. Here he was.

“Almost time now. A married man.”

“House Occum and House Torimine. Joined at the hip. I wonder what I’ll do. I can’t just wander into your new home and bother you now. Maybe I’ll create an adventuring company and spite Deniusth. Call it…something musical to annoy him and his precious ‘Orchestra’. Or maybe something else.”

Linvios didn’t know what that future held. Only today. He looked back, and Itreus’ bright yellow eyes held his for a long, long time.

“You’ll always be welcome.”

He was House Torimine. Occum—the family he was marrying into—was the famous house who had created the Occum Swords, one of Salazsar’s Gem Regiments. That said a lot about their fame and wealth, but Itreus might actually become the family head. If not that—he was marrying the daughter of the current Wall Lord Hezzien.

The two Drakes stood there a while. Linvios pushed the curtains back and came to stand next to Itreus. He held out an arm, and Itreus—in his robes that Deniusth had claimed more befit a bride than the groom—leaned on him.

“Almost time.”

How they looked, Linvios didn’t know, and how long they waited, he wasn’t sure—until a laughing voice spoke.

There you two are. Ancestors, I knew it. Honestly, you’d think I was breaking up the greatest friendship the Walled Cities have ever seen. Look at them, Careei.”

A Drake Wall Lady made the two start. Linvios bowed slightly as he saw the bride, Wall Lady Calistoca, coming their way. She had on much the same robes—but he didn’t remember how they looked, in this memory of today.

She was as happy as could be, unfussed with the stress of the wedding, and graceful. And Itreus smiled widely at her as she threw her arms around him.

Careei, her best woman, rolled her eyes as she saw Itreus and Linvios.

“They were like this all last night. I saw them at the groom’s party. In their cups, just talking with each other, not doing anything else practically into dawn.”

“I’m not stealing him, Linvios. You two can run about like always—until Father has him managing the company.”

It was something, to like Calistoca. It was hard not to, but Linvios almost wished he didn’t. She took his claws, and he said something he forgot that made her laugh. Then—

And then, like that dream, Itreus was standing there, and everyone was growing silent. Zail was waiting, and for one last second, Linvios stood there and looked at Itreus.

They never said a word after that. Never said it. Never realized, in words, anything but well-wishes, congratulations, the formalities of this moment.

If he should have said something—Linvios found himself walking out of the curtains before the bride and groom to the applause. He stared at the dazzling chandeliers overhead, and he couldn’t remember if he were breathing or not. He looked back once, and the Drake was walking towards him, in those glittering robes. Then Zail put a hand on his side, and Linvios, that expert with the blade, knew his part.

“Swords.”

He drew a sword with Zail and crossed it in the air high, high overhead. The two bridesmaids did the same with daggers since neither were trained warriors. And underneath that arch of steel, Itreus walked past Linvios.

The two held one last gaze, and it shimmered, those pale eyes. That day, his friend smelled like the sharp fragrance of an orchid—and then Linvios lowered his heavy arm, heavier than any other day he had held a sword.

That day, more than the rest as he drifted away from his old friend, took up professions selling his services as an [Assassin], built up a reputation as Salazsar’s assassin-group for hire—

That day defined him still.

 

——

 

“Maestro? Maestro, are you sure this is wise?”

A greyer Drake blinked, and his lapels blew in the cold breeze. He stood outside of Liscor, in the Floodplains, and his people, Symphony, looked at him nervously. He glanced around—and saw the death-stares of Manus, the Liscorian citizens, and indeed, the Watch Captain and everyone else.

It took some gall to just walk back to Liscor after what he had done yesterday. But he had been promised amnesty—and he did not much care if they came for him.

The Maestro feared nothing—but he nodded at the First Flute.

“Of course it’s not wise. But it is a performance—and we stand here, not Orchestra. If they come for us—retreat. Otherwise, I am told this is not a bloody curtain call for anyone. Mind your blades. The best outcome is levels—or that Skill for any one of us.”

Symphony nodded. The Drake adjusted his suit absently. He’d changed it to another cut of dark fabric, but another orchid was still pinned to the lapel.

His bell rang once, and he checked it as he lifted the conductor’s wand. He wouldn’t be allowed to use the magical instrument, which could summon weapons at will—but he carried it until the tournament began.

He must have been unsettled. It had been a long time since Itreus had contacted him for anything. The [Painter] ruining so much art….

The Maestro agreed with the [Innkeeper], a bit. Sellme had ruined gold…but gold was not the same as people. It was careless, foolish—but Sellme had been a rabble-rouser that still pointed out injustice.

Requiel ute Minen had been a wonderful piece, beloved by all. If it had just been that—the Maestro might still have refused, even for an old…friend.

But one of the paintings had just been a vanity piece, which, yes, ought to be destroyed because it was just overvalued paint done by a Level 30 [Painter] who captured scenes without substance, images without anything behind them.

It had been of two Drakes crossing swords over a pair of Drakes about to be married. A remembrance of a day Linvios knew by heart.

“…It will be bloody.”

That was all the Maestro said. He looked across the fields to where House Veltras was warily set up, and the [Lord] was arguing with his subordinates—and the Wind Runner who had destroyed the Guild of Assassins to the north. He admired that. He looked sideways at Manus, entrenched in their own position, and wondered who would be more hated.

Manus? Veltras? Symphony?

It didn’t matter. What they didn’t see was that it wasn’t about the end of the performance. It was the highs and lows, the mistakes, the grandeur of seeing someone at their finest. If he died today?

The Maestro looked up at the cloudy, grey skies.

Let it be a better piece, a far truer song ever after. He waited for the tournament to begin.

So that was the Maestro.

 

——

 

Strange. Strange, how you could either know someone for a second and know them full well, like Lupp, or know someone for a long time and feel like a stranger.

People were tough. Running was easy. So Ryoka Griffin didn’t run in the morning. She stayed where she was. But she felt—

Terrible. Justifiably terrible. Mrsha threw clods of dirt at Tyrion the moment he walked through the front door. And he did come back.

Oh, yes, he did.

“You are insane. You’re risking your life, your—”

Your lack of levels.

“—to participate in some stupid tournament! These are real blades! Unenchanted, but they can kill on accident! And there’s any number of people who hate your guts!”

“Yeah.”

Lord Veltras, I must insist you stop. This is in the name of House Veltras, and the branch families will back me upon this. Remove me from my post if you must, but Ullim? Soldiers. Pull Lord Veltras back. Now.”

“Yeah.”

Jericha was speaking to Lord Tyrion Veltras as the younger man checked the sword and shield he was going to use in the tournament. She was alive with worry, exasperation, and she pointed at the [Soldiers], who hesitated as they stepped forwards.

The ‘yeah’ was coming from Ryoka. She felt it was lame—but Jericha was going off, and she was right. Lord Tyrion Veltras just glanced to the side.

“I am participating, Jericha. It would be more unseemly if I did not. That Skill…”

He hesitated, and he glanced towards the inn.

“…Is worth the risk. This is a levelling opportunity for me. Soldiers, ignore her.”

They stepped closer, and Tyrion stared at them. So they froze up—and looked at Jericha. The fact that it was a question between whose authority they followed was really funny.

Ullim was the tie-breaker. He looked at Tyrion and Jericha and leaned over to whisper to her.

“Lord Veltras would never refuse this, Jericha. You know that. It would be odder if he didn’t participate. And much as I hate to say it—I believe he’ll put up a fight. His jaw’s set. He once challenged a half-Giant around this age.”

Everyone stared at Tyrion’s jaw. The [Lord] unclenched it and glowered at Ullim, but the [Majordomo] looked so nostalgic that Jericha just grabbed at her hair.

“The moment this begins, that [Spearmaster] will come after us. Manus would love to accidentally maim Lord Tyrion.”

“Then perhaps we should ensure he does not. But Jericha—the honor of House Veltras is on the line.”

Ullim was crazy. He had a sword and a buckler, and the seventy-something man looked like he was ready to get into the fighting. Ryoka Griffin looked around.

“You can’t do this, Tyrion. I’m taking over, Jericha. This is a bad idea.”

“I love tournaments.”

Tyrion Veltras actually made Ryoka speechless for a second. He looked at her and then nodded at Ullim and Jericha.

“This is a well-known fact about me. I have participated in every tournament I have ever been able to attend. If this was a jousting tourney, you could not tear me from it with an Adamantium chain. I have won several tournaments, you know, Ryoka. If this were a matter of pure swordplay, without Skills, my chances might be even better. Don’t you think it would be worth the risk to gain…what sounds like a Level 50 Skill?”

He was actually excited. Ryoka stared at him and realized the [Lord] was smiling tightly. Then she realized she forgot. He was so stoic and unmoving like a rock—that she forgot martial combat and this kind of thing was literally what he did for fun. Jousting at training dummies.

“No, I don’t. And I don’t think you know how many good fighters are on the field. There are Gold-ranks!”

“I’ve beaten Gold-rank adventurers in spars. Their technical ability varies. As long as Deniusth isn’t there…Colth the Supporter is acclaimed. That Maestro and Spearmaster Lulv, likewise. Ullim, mark both.”

The [Majordomo] nodded. Ryoka pointed a shaking finger at the other people.

There were hundreds, and thousands upon thousands more watching. But while a lot of people were debating whether or not they should enter—the most confident and talented were already warming up.

One of them was a huge Drake she really wanted to talk to doing warmups with a group of little Gnolls of varying ages. He was showing a girl how to adjust her spear, and she was dying to speak to Guardsman Relc.

“There’s more than one [Spearmaster]! See him? [Spearmaster]. And there’s Klbkch the Slayer, Lehra Ruinstrider, uh…”

Ryoka’s head swiveled. Her problem wasn’t who to single out—it was who not to single out. Every single adventurer who used a blade from Erin’s inn was here. Every single adventurer in the city who used a blade was here.

The Antinium were here. [Crusaders] were lined up with Painted Antinium, and a group of them were staring daggers at Manus. Dead gods, Wailant was here! He was laughing as he tugged a sword out of the way of Garia and Viceria, who were trying to literally kneecap him and drag him away. Garia was kicking at her father’s shins, but he looked delighted by the moment.

He might have fun—but Ryoka was nervous. Tyrion had a plain steel blade from House Veltras’ armory.

Many of the others had blades they’d found since there was no magic allowed. In fact—she even heard someone, Emessa, shouting.

A masterwork blade from Master Pelt! Place an order now and he can have it done in fifteen minutes or less! Steel or mithril! Pay for the highest quality—payment in advance.”

Master Pelt’s anvil was ringing. The Dwarf was actually set up near the gates, and he’d created an impromptu forge. Ryoka had been surprised that the surly Dwarf she’d heard was a famous drunk was here.

But Pelt knew battlefields and competitions—and the chance to double his profits for the month or make many times more than that?

She’d seen the Wall Lady and Wall Lord from Manus, the Drake with the weird body and Aldonss, go over and order two mithril-alloy blades so they’d have an edge.

Ryoka stared for a long time at Rafaema, who looked—off. Bloated, almost, but she was also thin enough…a fit warrior. Why did Ryoka feel like her scales bulged at times as if…?

A piece of dirt bounced off Tyrion’s shield as he raised it. Mrsha.

“Mrsha, stop! Please—”

Ryoka went to the Gnoll, but she was glaring at Tyrion. She ran off—and Ryoka realized it wasn’t Mrsha who’d thrown the dirt.

You’re a bad man! Go away!

Visma raised another piece of dirt to throw, saw Tyrion staring at her, and ran so fast she tumbled down the hill. Mrsha and Ekirra bent to help her up.

Tyrion Veltras was one of the most hated people here. But—Ryoka Griffin was also up there, and the Maestro and Manus. Especially Spearmaster Lulv.

In fact, the only thing preventing Tyrion from being jumped was the fact that everyone thought he was one of the most dangerous men in the world—and Erin’s tournament. Everyone wanted to know how it would be organized, whether or not they had to have a mass-combat before the finalists dueled—clarification on the rules and so on.

“Could you fortify the ground? Miss Griffin, if we’re allowed to do that—could you check for us? Can we use [Mark Target] on foes, or are we just limited to personal combat Skills? Can we use Skills at all?”

Jericha was glancing around, and she turned to Ryoka. The Wind Runner hesitated, but Tyrion dipped his head.

“It would be good to know. And—are Sammial and Hethon still in the Haven?”

“They had better be. I’ll check. Just—just—”

Ryoka ran off without figuring out anything else to say. Just why does every visit to the inn have to go like this?

 

——

 

You know, you could say that despite Erin being held hostage, her putting on this <Heroic Quest> did satisfy a lot of her goals. It got her attention, was a levelling opportunity, and, as Drassi commentated, the eyes of the world were on this moment.

“I think I can see more contestants coming in. It looks like every adventurer you can name is here, Sir Relz—and Pallass has just sent in Keldrass and his Flamewardens. In fact, I see dozens of Pallassian [Soldiers]. Those wouldn’t happen to be soldiers who are active-duty, are they?”

I believe, Drassi, there may have been an exception granted for today. Completely understandable.

The Drake was counting.

“Yes…but I think there are over a hundred of Pallass’ [Soldiers]. We are next to the City of Inventions! Is that fair? Dead gods, they might be [Generals] and whatnot! Is that General Duln, the First General of Pallass? Sir Relz, is it fair to have a hundred Level 30+ [Soldiers]?”

Noass cut in.

“No rule against it, Miss Drassi, and that seems like you’re forgetting all those Antinium on the field. Plus, it’s Liscor. Unfamiliar terrain.”

“…It’s grass hills and valleys. The tournament is on the flat ground where we play baseball, Noass.”

“Unfamiliar. It just seems to me like you’re singling out Pallass here, Miss Drassi. House Veltras is sticking together.”

“Yeah, all twenty of them. Is Pallass working together? Are you allowed to team up?”

Drassi was looking around and eying the distinct…sides…that were appearing. And come to that, she had a few more questions on her list.

“I just don’t know if this will be bloodless. Especially if someone whips out an area-of-attack Skill. Can they do that? Are there safeguards against someone accidentally being cut in half? I think we need to check the rules. So—I’m going to try.”

She turned as Noass began to defend the legitimate use of numbers and tactics and grouping up on one’s enemies in a tournament setting. Drassi, pointedly, just aimed a claw left.

“Have the cameras focus on what looks like someone trying to bribe the adventurers to join Pallass’ side. I’ll be live in five…”

She hurried into the inn. Drassi looked around, and the place was bustling. People were asking for food, coming in via the door—and like her—

“Where’s the [Innkeeper]? Where’s the [Innkeeper]? I am here representing Kaaz, and I would like to make her an offer she cannot refuse—”

A Human was talking to Lyonette—or trying to—because Ser Sest was in the way. And the Thronebearer calmly held up a hand.

“Sir, sir—[Silence, Please].

Thronebearers. They sucked at fighting, but they had all the Skills you wanted for jobs like this. The people trying to get to Lyonette would have had better luck getting through a brick wall. Drassi hesitated, but the guard at the stairs let her through.

To prevent people going up through the inn, a defender had been posted and given a chair and a stick to poke everyone out of the way. That person was Gothica, and the [Goth] would tell anyone, anyone in this world, to fuck right off.

She was enjoying her job, but she let Drassi through. She was impressively doing a good job, too. Any number of people might not fear the stick—but her aura was actually like a dark barrier of shade that was making several people bounce off or slow as they ran into it and back out, cursing.

Of course, if you got past Gothica and went up the stairs, the second room on the right held Erin’s room. You could get to it. If you were a friend.

Otherwise, Shriekblade would kill you. Drassi slowed as the Named-rank looked up from her perch on another chair. She wasn’t getting ready for the tournament; she had no interest among all the adventurers.

“Er…hello. Can I speak to Erin?”

“Let me check. Move and I’ll stab you in the foot.”

Drassi—decided not to move. She saw Shriekblade open the door, and it let out a very irate voice. The Drake said something—and then opened the door wider.

“Go in. She wanted to see you anyways.”

Drassi gingerly passed by the Named-rank and into Erin Solstice’s room. There—she saw the [Innkeeper].

Erin Solstice, during this great day of days, was not downstairs in the inn’s common room or causing havoc or attacking Tyrion with a pan.

She was, in fact…lying in bed. Glaring so hard that Drassi expected to see scorch-marks on the walls and ceiling.

“I need bisque. Just for today. Someone help me get up. I get it. I’ve been using it as a crutch—but I need to get up.

“Or—you could use the wheelchair.”

Someone was arguing with Erin. The [Innkeeper] stared with wrath at the person talking.

“Why?”

“Because the wheelchair makes you remember you need to exercise. It doesn’t strain you so badly you use healing potions. Which you did not tell me about. That is my fault. But your enchanted food is a crutch, and you lean on it.”

“Well, maybe I’ll use it just for today.”

Erin Solstice was arguing with the only person brave enough to have it out with her. Not Lyonette, not Mrsha, not even Numbtongue.

Sinew Magus Grimalkin stood there, arms folded.

“Erin. I have been aware of how—pushy I can be. But I am telling you again—you have made no progress in your recovery. If anything, I feel as though you’ve lost your recovery. Healing potions. Your ‘Bulkup Bisque’. This is the result. Anyone who can dispel those enchantments or if it runs out—”

“I get it. I get it. Alright?”

Erin stared at the ceiling, and the Drake fell silent. She looked so frustrated and angry—at herself—Drassi didn’t want to say anything. Grimalkin opened his mouth, and you could tell he really was trying.

Because he didn’t want to pile on her in this moment. But Erin still wanted the bisque, not the wheelchair, and Drassi understood why. It really wasn’t fun being confined to one when you could magically just stand and do everything after eating some admittedly dull bisque for the hundredth time.

But someone had to do it. So—Grimalkin exhaled. He looked to the side and didn’t lecture Erin.

He called in reinforcements. He asked for help moving this incredible weight, a spotter for the burden even he couldn’t lift.

Erin Solstice looked up as a woman stepped forwards. Lady Pryde Ulta looked down at the [Innkeeper], trapped in her bed, glowering and glaring out the window. The [Lady of Pride] raised her nose and spoke one word.

“Pathetic. Are you going to be like this the next time someone counts on you? There are no shortcuts. Just effort.

Then she turned and walked out the door. Grimalkin hesitated—but Erin’s reddening face said that something had landed. She stared at the wheelchair as Drassi waved a claw.

“Uh—hi, Erin. Bad time?”

The [Innkeeper] looked ready to pop. With shame, with embarrassment. The [Lady of Pride] knew how to lance someone with their own sins.

Drassi knew that Erin would throw things and possibly set the room on fire if she said the wrong thing, like Sir Relz or Noass. So all she did was gesture at the door. She’d left her broadcasting team behind. Her Gnoll, Drake, even Dullahan team…

It was just her. But she was a [Reporter]. Erin looked at her as Drassi brushed at her neck spines.

“…I know it’s a bad time. Get mad at me, but hear me out. Erin…sometime soon, I’d like to sit down with you.”

“I’m going to be doing a lot of sitting, soon.”

That was all Erin said. She stared at the chair, and Drassi coughed.

“No, Erin. I mean, sit down. Talk. Interview you. They’ve seen you time and time again. But I want them to see you. If you come downstairs—”

She reached out and picked something up. Then she handed Erin the comb, and the [Innkeeper] saw Drassi hold up a mirror.

“—Knock them flat, would you?

The [Innkeeper] looked at her friend. Her friend—and she took a deep, long breath.

“Put a pillow on that chair for me. It gets uncomfortable, Drassi.”

 

——

 

There they were. Symphony. Tyrion. The man who had waged war on Liscor, and no one was taking him out. Some [Assassin] waltzes in, holds Erin hostage, and he got to stand there without a hole in his body?

The problem was—it was unclear who was in charge. And that problem was larger than you thought, because Watch Captain Zevara was ready to arrest everyone here and throw them into the new prison Hexel had built for a month.

That was justice to her, the very basic start of it. Manus had made de facto war against Liscor’s army.

But she couldn’t prove it. She knew it, but she couldn’t prove it, and that jangled every nerve that believed in actual law and order. And…she was no fool.

“You will arrest anyone attacking someone outside the bounds of this tourney. No objections!”

She was barking at the Watch on the walls. That included Antinium Soldiers and angry [Guards].

“But Watch Captain—”

Silence in the ranks!

Senior Guardswoman Beilmark barked, forestalling a chorus of voices. She wasn’t happy either, but Jeiss, Beilmark, and several senior pairs had Zevara’s back. The Watch Captain was fuming literal smoke, but she wasn’t an idiot.

She looked an angry young Drake in the eyes, and unlike her previous Watch Captain, when she spoke, she explained.

“We are the Watch of Liscor. Agents of the law. Your class means you have sworn to uphold our laws—but we are not blind. I know what Manus did. I know what that [Lord] down there did. Technically—under the laws of war—I have no recourse to arrest him, only bar him from Liscor. Yes, the Council or any official could arrest him under a number of objections. But we are also not stupid.”

The Watch looked at Zevara, and she exhaled slowly. Klbkch and Relc were standing on the tournament grounds—in a sense, they’d gone rogue. In a larger sense, she hoped one of them got stabby.

“…If I arrest a single soldier of Manus, we have a Walled City against us. If I arrest Tyrion Veltras, all of the Five Families will first cut trade with us. Then hire assassins or mercenaries and, depending on what they do, put all of Liscor into jeopardy.”

The [Guards] were silent as Zevara laid this out. Nothing she said made her happy; she felt like she had acid for Dragonbreath. But it was also true.

“I will never order a [Guard] to break the law to do anything that endangers Liscor. This tournament is unsanctioned, unregulated, and when it comes to Named-ranks, foreign powers, sometimes the law bends or breaks.”

She turned to stare over the walls, and the Watch waited. It took them a beat to realize that was it. They looked at each other, and someone exhaled.

“Within the grounds of the tournament, though, they might be—if not killed—then cut bloody, and anyone participating can attack Tyrion Veltras, right, Watch Captain?”

“That’s my understanding, Senior Guardsman—Councilman Jeiss.”

Zevara corrected herself. They’d really have to revisit his rank. You couldn’t have two positions that conflicted with each other like that. But Jeiss was nodding.

The [Swordsman] of the Watch, considered the best aside from the newly re-bodied Klbkch, glanced down the wall. Then he cleared his throat.

“I think the Watch understands the situation, Watch Captain. The law is the law…and we are the Watch.”

Simply put. The [Guards] looked glum—until Jeiss glanced at Beilmark. And the Gnoll woman smiled.

“Sometimes, even we make mistakes. As I told you this morning, you idiot, Jeiss.”

“I know, I know. But I wonder if the Watch Captain knows…?”

Zevara’s head turned, and she gave them a suspicious glare. Jeiss and Beilmark looked innocent as she growled.

“Know what?”

“I was just pulling up the duty roster, Watch Captain, and Jeiss, that idiot, clocked in when he should be off-duty. He’s off today and tomorrow.”

“Okay. Well, go off-duty, Jeiss.”

He was a family man. Forgetting was unlike…then Beilmark innocently tapped something at the top of the sheet.

“—Not to bother you, Captain Zevara, but it looks like you might have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Look who’s supposed to be enjoying a two-day break too.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t—”

Zevara reached for the little calendar, and then she saw Beilmark’s grin. The Senior Guards glanced at each other, and the second-best swordswoman in the Watch hesitated. She eyed the name crossed out in ink and then Jeiss’ innocent look.

“If we’re off-duty, Captain Zevara, I thought I could use a new Skill. You go to the inn now and then. What say we go see how Relc and Klbkch are doing? They’re off-duty too.”

The Watch Captain hesitated as the [Guards]’ heads swung from the two Senior Guards to the Watch Captain. Was it something terrible she was teaching all of them?

The law bent in front of power and necessity. Zevara knew that full well. And sometimes—if you bent the law far enough back, it sprang back into position like a flexible ruler and smacked you in the face.

“I may just do that. Guards—as you were.”

Watch Captain Zevara strode down the ramparts as the people below looked up at the unexpected cheering. And she was not the only one making a sudden appearance.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice had done nothing wrong. She did nothing wrong, and someone had to pay. Or—if she made a mistake. If she was less than perfectly, rationally calm and collected—so what?

Her friends knew who they wanted to stab. Erin’s friends had, to put a fine crossbow’s point on it, just seen her die. And seeing an [Assassin] with a blade to her throat?

Well, it might bother some of them. For the honor of the [Innkeeper] of The Wandering Inn, many people had taken to the field.

Pisces Jealnet was warming up with his rapier as Ksmvr tested the two blades he’d taken out instead of the looted ones from Chandrar. They were eying Symphony—but then Yvlon Byres stomped onto the field.

“Yvlon. Are you participating?”

“I’m not in danger of losing a hand. And if I need a blade—”

Yvlon had a sword in one hand, but she also morphed her arm into a blade. Pisces eyed it and opened his mouth to say something about her going berserk. Then he looked at Symphony and decided they deserved it.

“One feels that might be cheating.”

That was all he said, and it was more in concern she’d be kicked out for the arms. But someone else spoke up cheerfully.

“A blade’s a blade. And it seems like innately magical metal’s good. Doesn’t matter if you have a dead body, either. So…if Pallass can have their officers on the field, I might say ‘hello’ to some folks. It’ll be hard to stop from killing them, though.”

All three adventurers turned. Ceria Springwalker was sitting out, but it seemed they had a new, temporary captain.

Jelaqua Ivirith was wearing one of her remaining Raskghar bodies. And she was carrying her metal flail. Her metal flail of razorblades. Demas Metal.

The instant Pallass’ officers saw that, General Edellein raised an objection. But Jelaqua was within the letter of the law.

No enchantments, no armor…just a dead body she didn’t care if she tore up. The Demas Metal was magical. But it was just a blade.

“I’m going after Symphony. Pallass I’ll ignore. What about you?”

“Symphony or House Veltras. We can take or leave Manus.”

Yvlon had found out she could crack her knuckles. It sounded like metallic hammers smashing together. Jelaqua grinned as someone joined them.

“Moore’s staying out of it. I talked him down from picking up a sword. He’s too big a target. But you’ve got me. Halrac joining in?”

“Halrac? Dead gods, I hope not. He’s not a swordsman. Bird was talking about using his bow because ‘arrows are sharp’. But Lyonette vetoed that.”

The [Silversteel Armsmistress] broke away from studying Symphony and turned to see Halrac, Revi, and even Briganda keeping back. Seborn shrugged.

“Briganda is out too, and Revi just can’t swing a sword that well, despite not really being afraid of sharp things. I told her she could sew on anything we lopped off. Briganda’s a mother, so that’s fair. But Halrac’s better with a sword than you’d think.”

That was news to almost no one. Halrac looked like he could hold his own even if he lost his bow. The adventurers were limbering up in their corner of the field, below the inn. The Antinium had one side, and their group was like a body in itself.

People were taking sides. So—while some adventurers like Keldrass’ team were nodding to fellow [Soldiers] from Manus, the adventurers were an independent body. Someone else called out to them.

“Hoi there! You lot fighting? Let’s have a truce, then. No one stabs each other in the back until the finals. Got it?”

Jelaqua turned her head, and Pisces groaned. But even he nodded at Captain Todi as he swaggered over.

“Todi? Jewel? What are you lot doing here?”

“Levelling up or getting a chance to show off. Selys told me to go for that Maestro or Tyrion Veltras. But I would have done it for free. Hate the fact that I can’t use a wand or anything, though.”

Todi had a shortsword in one hand and a shield in the other, and he seemed uncomfortable at the thought of a ‘fair fight’. His compromise was going from adventurer to adventurer and making a ceasefire arrangement.

He had also, incidentally, done that with the Antinium, tried it on Pallass, the inn’s guests, the Gnolls, and even the Goblins.

The Goblins. Rags, Numbtongue, even Badarrow, were lined up next to Redscar, who was just staring at Tyrion across the field. No questions who they wanted to run into.

“Looks like Liscor’s over there. Let’s also agree not to go after Relc and that lot, eh?”

“You mean, Relc doesn’t go after us. He’s a [Spearmaster]. Technically…who would outrank him in sheer sword-skill?”

Pisces had a healthy respect, in this moment, for the fact that without [Flash Step], his dueling abilities were a lot lower than he’d like. And Relc?

Jelaqua looked at Seborn, who shrugged fairly confidently. Jewel fiddled with her rapier as her two teammates looked at Todi and Ksmvr, who was too modest to say anything.

“I’ll nip over and arrange a truce. Good, good.”

He hurried off.

 

——

 

Now, this was the baseline of contestants.

Wall Lady Rafaema was refusing to leave for the same reasons as Tyrion; in fact, she had an even better reason. Despite the risks—if she could win a Skill?

Was that even possible? She had a great chance. She was, after all, a you-know-what, and even without Skills, she had Lulv and Aldonss and Manus’ best on her side.

In her eyes, House Veltras, Pallass, and perhaps the adventurers would be the most dangerous targets. Symphony might have started this, but they would be picked off in the first few minutes.

Her confidence was only doubled because they had an ace-in-the-hole courtesy of Luciva. The slumbering Drake that had tumbled out of the carriage?

That was Zeter, the Swordsman of Six. Named-rank adventurer. He might have come some of his way on Wyvern-back.

“Watch out for the Slayer and the Gecko. Lulv, no grudge-matches.”

“I hear you.”

The Gnoll was glaring at Aldonss, who was testing his wall-Skill. If it worked, they’d just hunker down and wait to pick off weak targets. Rafaema had approved the plan, and only Ferris was groaning.

“It’s not going to work. Wall Lord, Spearmaster—I’m telling you, this inn is cursed. That [Innkeeper] has a chaos Skill. Our plan is not going to survive first contact.

Rafaema glanced at Ferris and hesitated. She had doubted him yesterday, but she was inclined to listen to him this time. Aldonss just shrugged calmly.

“Pallass won’t come for us until the end. The strategy is sound, Ferris.”

They were obviously going to team-up. Chaldion was a bastard, but he knew the score. Ferris just shook his head. Lulv was turning his head to snarl something at the [Infiltrator] when someone ran over to them on all fours.

It was a little white Gnoll. She came to a halt as the isolated group of Manus’ soldiers, near one of Liscor’s walls, turned. Some raised their weapons—not because of Mrsha—but because of the ominous Gireulashia trotting after her friend.

“Blades down. This place isn’t safe, little girl.”

Lulv smiled at Mrsha. She looked at him. Rafaema was focused on Mrsha—this was the girl from the scrying orb! The girl from the Meeting of Tribes. Ferris just hid behind Rafaema.

Mrsha du Marquin had been throwing things at Tyrion. But she really had no words to express her anger. She knew Manus. She knew what they’d done to Olesm’s forces and the Antinium.

For once, the little Gnoll girl played no games. She got into no trouble by trying to death-spice with Calescent’s mix. She just handed a card over to Lulv, who unfolded it and read it—then stared at Mrsha as she backed up. The little Gnoll trotted down the hill, up another, and sat down on her butt with the spectators and stared at the Manus soldiers.

This is what Mrsha wrote:

 

I am going to curse you with all the bad luck in the world.

 

The Doombearer was staring down Lulv as he hesitated. Aldonss just sighed.

“Shame we don’t have a [Sniper] or an agent in the crowd.”

Rafaema looked at him. The Wall Lord clarified after a moment.

Joke. I doubt she can do anything.”

His confidence lasted about eight seconds. Then—every head turned to the inn. It was obviously through there that a lot of guests were coming, via the portal door. Rafaema had been tagging a few interesting ones like that [Pirate], but everyone turned as someone came through that made even the scrying orbs focus on her.

“Is that—a Troll?

Aldonss’ head swung around, and he instantly focused on the figure.

“Half-Troll. Riverfarm. She—is going to be tough to take down with unenchanted blades.”

Durene and a group of Humans from Riverfarm paused on the hill, looked around—then stared at Symphony and Manus. Rafaema’s scales tingled.

A lot of people were coming here she hadn’t expected. Maybe Ferris was right. Maybe—

“Does anyone have anything to bribe that kid with? Some gold? Ferris, what do you bribe children with? Candy? Buy her a bag of sweets—”

Then she felt a prickle, and her confidence in having Zeter on her side waned. For someone walked out to join the other adventurers.

Colth, the Ultimate Supporter, and the Favor of the North, Caleis, both stepped down the hill. As did the famous duo, Rasen and Teithde. Named-ranks.

Four Named-ranks. They lined up, and Lulv swore under his breath.

“You’re going to see if that sword training paid off today, Rafaema.”

His confidence was still there—because some of the people he would have been truly leery of facing in battle couldn’t participate.

No Xrn. No Valeterisa. No Grimalkin, even. Even a hundred angry Antinium weren’t that dangerous to someone of his level.

Indeed, you could say even Erin Solstice herself expected this tournament to be bigger than it turned out to be. One day.

One day meant that Earl Altestiel was screaming at the scrying orb in much the same way as Niers Astoragon. Foliana, Tulm the Mithril, Xol, the Thousand Lances of Kaaz, even Fetohep of Khelt had asked if she could delay her <Quest>.

Raelt was certainly unhappy—even though they’d given him a commentator role. It was, after all, up to chance. Lulv had his counters like Relc, who was waving at the other [Spearmaster], so the battle could go down to odd individuals.

Like…Ysara or her brother, Ylawes, or even Infinitypear and Rasktooth, who were waving weapons around happily. If a lower-level warrior got lucky, they could take out a strong fighter, right?

Believe in the fairness of tournaments. The dark horse betting was through the roof. Believe—until the air began to split. Until Xrn herself flew above the [Crusaders]—and Valeterisa looked up.

“Oh. He’s here. Wonderful, I had questions about teleportation.”

Then—Ryoka Griffin froze as she jogged towards the inn. She turned her head, and a chill ran down her back. She stumbled, eyes wide, and Erin Solstice sat up in her bed as Drassi and Ishkr helped her into her wheelchair.

“Who is—”

The Archmage of Memory appeared in the sky with an explosion of color. Like a bursting constellation of stars. He stood on a platform of light as Rafaema stared at Mrsha, and the Gnoll girl hesitated—and then decided she’d done her job.

Eldavin descended, glancing at Ryoka Griffin, Magnolia Reinhart, and then around as his company, two men and one woman, somewhat unsteadily touched ground.

“Ah, good. We don’t appear to be late. Courtesy of Wistram.

His voice boomed, and everyone focused on the three people Eldavin had brought. Personal friends, really. Betokening…the fact that the Archmage of Memory could do what he wanted.

Ser Greysten, Archmage Viltach, holding a blade and trying not to puke, and the Spring’s Warden, Dame Pertheine, looked around, wide-eyed.

Naturally, Eldavin would return them whence they’d come, though he had admitted it would be slower and require multiple ‘hops’. He would have loved to pull the King of Duels and someone like the Herald of the Forests, but just getting here had required half the Council of Wistram to link up.

And he could have taken Cortese, or one of the Thousand Lances, instead of the two Order of Seasons champions and Viltach. But Eldavin and the Order of Seasons were allies from the war.

Plus…the Archmage of Memory had a crystal sword he was calmly practicing sword forms with. Sword forms that made a certain Unicorn eating from a bucket of popcorn look up sharply.

Eldavin intended to win this himself.

 

——

 

The Archmage of Memory’s appearance pushed a lot of contestants out—and some in. Lyonette had been debating entering despite the risk to her limbs. She backed out.

So did Noass and Sir Relz. In fact, most people were concerned for the injuries they might obtain.

No killing means you can still be bleeding out when they haul you off the field. And a lost hand—no one has Potions of Regeneration anymore. Well—maybe the Archmage of Memory. Ysara, you must be mad.”

Qwera was arguing with Ysara. Not even Vetn, an acclaimed expert [Thief]—even if he refused to fight—had even given the fight a thought.

But then—he was checking on Tesy. The Drake was lying in the [Garden of Sanctuary], looking half-dead from his travails. The Gnoll had forbidden him from leaving.

“Tesy? You good?”

“I’m dead. Go away, Vetn.”

That was all the Drake said. He was limp like a rag, and his white scales looked sickly. Vetn prodded him with the cold plate and the hamburger. Then he stood up.

“Tesy won’t eat.”

Qwera was rubbing a paw in her gold fur, which could use a touch-up. She shook her head.

“Let him. He knows how serious what he did was. That little idiot…he can’t stay there forever. But as long as he’s in danger of being knifed—”

The two were leaving the [Garden of Sanctuary], but when she heard this, Ysara Byres folded her arms.

“I agreed with not killing him, but there has to be some consequences for what he did, Qwera.”

“There will be. I’ll hit him.”

The Golden Gnoll saw Ysara’s offended expression. She snapped in exasperation.

“Dead gods, Ysara. He nearly died! His life is in danger—possibly for as long as he lives. Drop it.”

The [Lady] hesitated, but someone else coughed. Vetn jumped—and Erin Solstice rolled out of her rooms in a wheelchair. Ishkr was pushing her and swiveled the chair around to face the wall as the door opened again, revealing the common room of the inn.

“I’ll figure out something too. No one kills Tesy. He’s gotta pay—but drop it. Alright. Alright, let’s see what this stupid day has to bring.”

Erin! Erin, someone’s—he shouldn’t be—it’s Eldavin!

Someone rushed towards Erin the moment she wheeled through the common room. Ryoka was dead white, and Erin saw a look of true fear in Ryoka’s eyes.

“I thought you cut off his head.”

Don’t—don’t joke. I didn’t tell you what’s wrong with—”

Then Ryoka noticed the others and shut her mouth so fast Vetn felt his ears try to detach from his head and follow the Wind Runner. Ryoka grabbed Erin’s wheelchair.

“We need to talk. Excuse me—”

She wheeled Erin left as Ishkr nodded to Erin.

“I’ll deal with the inn. But you have a hundred people who want to see you, Miss Erin. And I can’t hold them back forever.”

Five minutes, Ishkr.

The two vanished to the side, and Vetn headed into the common room.

“Going to cheer on Ysara as she loses an arm and turns into her younger sister?”

Ysara ignored Qwera’s pointed comment as the woman stalked towards the door. Vetn just stared blankly outside then went to sit down at the inn’s bar.

“I hate blood. This is all stupid.”

He had, legitimately, no desire to watch people cutting each other up. Qwera raised her brows, but she knew Vetn was genuine. Even during the Meeting of Tribes, he had shed not a drop of blood. She walked off, and Vetn looked at Ishkr.

“Can I get a glass of Rxlvn?”

“No—but I’ll sell you one-tenth and an ale.”

“Fine.”

The [Head Waiter] went for the keg on tap marked with a huge ant’s head on the side and warnings on the black barrel. He pulled the stopper—held a mug under it, and hesitated.

“…Hm. That’s strange. Did Rufelt sell more than I thought?”

He investigated the keg, and Vetn called out.

“Just give me a Firebreath, then.”

Obligingly, Ishkr did just that—and found two empty bottles. He stared under the bar, and then his head rose.

“Excuse me. Did anyone see—Joseph here a few minutes ago?”

The inn’s staff looked at each other, and no one had seen a thing. Ishkr cursed under his breath.

“Hold on, I’ll just order replacements and bother Rufelt. They’re catering the show in their bar, anyways. Can I get you…beer?”

That was one of the things definitely untouched by the mysterious pilferer. Vetn accepted it sourly and heard a few people arguing behind him.

“Peki. You don’t use a sword. Gluing a razor blade to your fist is against the spirit of the tournament.”

“But I can participate. I’ve fought masters of weapons before. There was a [Peerless Spearmaster] in Pomle. I’m doing it.”

“No, you’re not. And neither is Wil!”

Merrik was trying to block the two students from leaving the inn. Wil looked unhappy.

“It’s the chance of a lifetime, Merrik…”

“And with respect, since you can’t use the Diamond Shortsword, you will get cut up, Wil. I’ll dare it, and I bet Dawil and Elgrinna will, but you’re not good enough. The Professor tells us to face facts—that’s a fact.”

Wil hung his head. He stared out the window.

“Ser Greysten is out there. I feel like a fool. Listen—I won’t go and participate, but at least let me ask how Talia is doing! This is unbelievable. If the Archmage of Memory can teleport across continents…”

Fine. And take notes! Peki, I need you to promise on your feathers not to go out.”

The [Martial Artist] was in great danger. Not just because she wanted to go hand-to-hand against so many sword-experts, but because she was too good. Merrik suspected that a lot of blood might run, but every [Healer] was present.

—But the only way to stop someone of Peki’s level was to literally lop off an arm. The Garuda glowered as she peered over the Dwarf’s shoulder. Venaz was already outside with a mundane greatsword being forged by Pelt.

“If I swear on my feathers, you’ll let me go?”

“Absolutely.”

The Garuda brightened up. Merrik clarified.

“—if you break your promise, we will pluck every feather off your body. Wingfeathers included. Swear to the grandfathers. I know that’ll take months to grow back.”

That made the [Martial Artist] hesitate. She wavered as someone slid into a seat next to Vetn at the empty bar.

“Hey there.”

The Gnoll turned his head and saw a young woman resting a crystal hand on the bar’s counter. She looked—well, not innocuous. She had a low-cut dress, and she looked like some kind of socialite.

But he recognized the face paint and the padding that gave her a distinctly different look than her real face, and he suspected she had contacts on. The wig was definitely fake.

She smelled of perfume too, something cloying, to hide her scent. Pretty good. He gave her breasts an obligatory, polite stare. She’d definitely done a lot to draw the eyes that way. Lady Ieka Imarris was still staring.

As for the crystal hand…Vetn raised his brows. He stared at the other [Thief] as she smiled at him.

“I saw your work in the city yesterday. I haven’t seen hands that fast in a while. You…seem talented.”

Her voice was suggestive. Low, husky, and intriguing. Vetn took a sip from his cup as Ishkr slid another at the young woman.

“You look pretty good with your hands too.”

“Hands and feet. But yes, mostly my hands. You should see what I can do in private.”

She winked—and he caught her non-crystal hand as it snuck towards his belt pouch. She was fast! But Vetn just raised his brows.

“Sounds exciting.”

“I wish I could have pulled that off. You are good. I bet I know your name.”

Ruefully, she pulled her hand back, and Vetn sighed. He was pretty sure all this should have had him unable to stand up without embarrassing himself. The coy tone, the looks—

The other [Thief] might have noticed she wasn’t getting the response she looked for, so she leaned over.

“What say we have a more intimate discussion—elsewhere? I’m sorry for being so forwards, but this is a good moment. I need someone with your talents. You remind me of my father, you know.”

Vetn nearly spat his drink across the bar. He coughed and laughed.

That’s how you start? Seriously?”

He saw the young woman’s face turn red. She caught herself, trying to play it off.

“I just meant—nevermind. Listen. I have something I’ve been working on, but I might need a hand. And you’re the best [Thief] in the city right now. And—you’re in a bind. Your friend, the [Painter]?”

Vetn instantly felt his hair rise, and he began to stand, but the young woman called out.

“Don’t play it off. Everyone knows. He’s a dead Drake walking. You want to help him? Paying off his debts might be a good way.”

The Thief of Clouds had thought the same thing, but he jerked around in his seat, scowling.

“A million gold won’t put a dent in it. And I doubt you have that much money if you can’t even afford a real silk dress.”

The young woman rolled her eyes.

Spicy. Listen. There’s more than one way to take at least Symphony off the table. The Walled Cities can post whatever bounty they like—but you and I know it’s the Faces and the gangs who’re the real threats. Hear me out—and this might help out. It’s old, but I think you know it.”

She flashed something, and Vetn saw a glittering mark out of the corner of his eyes. He turned—and the Gnoll stared at the token the young woman slipped into the front of her dress. Yep…

That was definitely a false pocket in the breast pads. He exhaled hard, but if that were the real thing—

“Alright. Let’s get out of here. The walls have ears.”

He put a coin on the bar top for both of them, and Ishkr eyed the young woman as she smiled and hopped off the stool after him. The Gnoll called out after them.

The entire jar of peanuts isn’t free. Bring it back.

 

——

 

“So Eldavin’s not the guy you resurrected. Got it. And he might hold a grudge about the head-chopping thing. He’s not the biggest problem today.”

Erin Solstice could be amazingly calm when she needed to be. Ryoka Griffin was practically wringing her hands, but Erin Solstice sat in her wheelchair and glared.

She glared at Drassi. She glared at Ryoka. She glared at a breakfast of cereal Ishkr put in front of her. She glared at the people asking her questions, and flames, orange and too-bright, of frustration burned across the table.

“Tournament rules? Tournament rules? I don’t have any. You forfeit if you forfeit. If you can’t move or fight, you’re out. Don’t kill each other. Three big slices and you’re done or something stupid like that. Get out of my inn.

“Erin, this is serious.”

I’m serious. That Maestro forced my hand, Ryoka! I don’t have anything because he made me do the <Quest>! And I don’t have control over it! I was going to test out how stuff like this works—and I don’t know how to make it safe! Someone could get hurt or die—I don’t know if the rules will stop that or what!

The [Innkeeper] was shaking with frustration. Then, Ryoka understood why Erin had been laying abed and wasn’t out there trying to control the situation.

It was already…Erin Solstice would have canceled it, but she couldn’t. The cat was out of the bag.

Reagen was sticking his head out of a little sack, meowing loudly and looking around for Numbtongue. He had decided this was his favorite thing in the world; a burlap sack that had been holding some loaves of bread that Colfa and Himilt had brought to the inn. Colfa was pinching Fierre’s ear.

“No fighting.”

“But Mother—

“You’re no good with a sword. I don’t care if Miss Griffin has freed the Archmage of Izril and crossed blades with the Archmage of Memory himself. You are not to fight. Especially as it is bright out.”

“There are clouds!”

“Fierre. The answer is no. Listen to your mother.”

Himilt tipped a hat to Erin, and she waved at him. Fierre looked at her father—and threw herself into a chair, scowling so hugely. But she listened to her father.

“Mister Himilt! Are you—here?”

Ryoka’s mouth fell open, and the Vampire nodded.

“It seemed time to go. We came to see you and thank you—again. Interesting events follow you about, though, like rain. Farmer Lupp asked us to say he was well if we saw you first.”

“Lupp…this is a mess. I can’t believe I’ve done this.”

Ryoka sat down at a table and put her face in her hands. It was Erin’s turn to reassure her friend. She wheeled over to the table and patted Ryoka on the back.

“Welcome to my life, Ryoka. Hey, Ishkr, we got any drinks?”

Someone’s stolen everything, Erin. I don’t know who.”

Joseph. Did he fall off the wagon? Or was it Crusader 57? Is Bird trying to get birds drunk? No, of course. It’s Snapjaw and Numbtongue throwing a party.”

Erin ran down the list of likely suspects as Ryoka shook her head. Gothica stepped around Erin, poking people back, and Ryoka had to know about the [Goth] too.

Too much to do. 

“Miss Griffin. I know this is a terribly pressing moment, but why don’t you and the delightful Lischelle-Drakle family join me? I have a pleasant spot on a hill to watch the tournament.”

Ieka called out as Ryoka hesitated. The Courier panicked, saw Erin moodily stabbing her cereal—with a fork—and replied without thinking.

“I’d love to, Lady Ieka, but I, uh—have to help around the inn. I’ll get your drinks, Ishkr! You have a basement, right, Erin?”

“Yep! Hey, how come she remembers? Who remembers basements? Right there.”

Erin pointed as Lady Ieka looked slightly wounded. Ryoka found herself opening the door to the basement. Maybe she could scream and curl into a fetal ball down there. At least Visophecin hadn’t shown up. She had an image of Rhisveri’s sock puppet holding a sword in its ‘mouth’ and challenging everyone to a fight.

“Life couldn’t get stupider than that.”

Ryoka sighed as she went down into the dark basement. Damn. Perspective didn’t really help here. She tried, idly hoping she could switch through the layers of reality to see a brighter basement, but the most mundane thing was the most impossible.

Faerie rules. Ryoka only saw a bunch of neatly stored kegs and rat-proofed bins of ingredients, a hole in the floor that led to the Free Hive, a Unicorn drinking out of a bucket and the half-empty barrel of Rxlvn…

Taletevirion ignored Ryoka Griffin as he exhaled every few sips. The young woman stood there, probably looking for the drinks, but he’d collected them all, and the basement was wonderfully cool.

A few dead bodies in the corner, but name a basement that didn’t have one. He was feeling warm. Every few sips of the Antinium drink, the Unicorn would exhale.

“Whew. Whew. Tastes like fermented bugs and fungi, but kicks like a Kelpie. Whew, that’s good! I might have to take some to show old Teriarch.”

This might actually take him down. Magical creatures were notoriously hard to get properly drunk because their metabolisms were so strong. But this? He hoped there was a barrel around here somewhere.

The Unicorn was somewhat unsteadily wandering around the basement, kicking the lids off bins, when he noticed the young woman hadn’t left. She was staring in his vague direction.

“Yeah, yeah, piss off, whoever you are.”

He waited for her to find whatever she was looking for—until he noticed something odd. Her eyes were…following him. The Unicorn stopped—and slowly walked left.

The eyes of the Wind Runner, emerald green, moved left with him. Taletevirion felt a moment of panic, but his secrecy and don’t-notice-me spells were in full force. He relaxed a bit, but that was uncanny.

He didn’t mess up and leave shadows or footprints like Teriarch often did. The Unicorn danced left—and then stared at Ryoka.

“I’m not here. You don’t even see a horse. Shoo, shoo.”

She jumped slightly as he said that, and the Unicorn saw those eyes go wide. Then the young woman backed up, and Taletevirion gulped.

Ryoka Griffin stuttered.

“A U—a Unic—a—

The Unicorn looked Ryoka straight in the eyes and then recognized the marks of the fae on her. His stomach rumbled, and he let out a long, huge groan mixed with a burp.

“Oh shit.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice glared at Lyonette as the [Princess] suggested they charge an entry fee. She glared at Chaldion as he came over to suggest that she codify some rules about teams.

Here was the thing. Erin Solstice could normally glower with the best, but you had to admit that the Cyclops, Lyonette herself, and several others were even better glarers in general.

They had the natural haughtiness, irritability, missing eye, and so on of the greatest glowering champions ever to grace this world.

…Right now, the [Witch of Second Chances] had such a look of malignant rage and subdued fury on her face it looked like a rictus death-grin combined with a screaming warrior’s howl in the heat of battle.

Queen Marquin of Calanfer would have praised that look as being one that could cause a [Barbarian] to shit themselves. Oliyaya, who had come in to watch the bloodshed, was so moved she had to show Mavika and her apprentices a real [Witch]’s face.

Erin Solstice glared at Gothica when the [Goth] reached out to poke her mockingly, and the Goblin stared at Erin, did not poke, and decided to sit with her claws folded together.

The [Innkeeper] saw Sir Relz and Noass and beamed in such a delightful, charming way that Valeterisa’s own business-face looked tepid by comparison.

Noass, Sir Relz!

“Er—is this a poor moment, Miss Solstice? We were hoping to ask about the tournament.”

The world focused on the [Innkeeper], and Erin Solstice smiled. She smiled in a way only the Archmage of Izril could recognize, and Valeterisa stopped as she and Eldavin walked into the inn. Eldavin himself remembered the inn—and he eyed Erin Solstice as she gave the cameras a huge grin.

“I would love to, Sir Relz. But before I begin, can I just take a moment to say something important?”

“You have the floor. I can’t imagine anyone else could occupy our broadcast.”

The Drakes looked at each other and chuckled. Erin Solstice gave them a happy smile. Valeterisa began to take mental notes as Erin went on.

“Thank you. Before I talk about my <Heroic Quest> and this famous tournament, I’d just like to talk about something very important. And that’s an upcoming holiday I have planned. In fact, let’s call it the sponsor of this tournament. Not Symphony or The Wandering Inn—have you heard about Christmas?

The two Drakes’ faces went slack as they stared at Erin. Noass rifled through his notes on the tournament and the hundred questions he had. Drassi was just frozen behind Erin, jaw agape.

“Say what now?”

“It’s this great holiday. It’s about a man—a person called Santa Claus. Every year, when winter comes, people buy or make presents for each other and give them out. I’d like to invite everyone to join in this holiday, because Santa Claus will be handing out presents to all the good girls and boys in the world.”

“…What?”

Sir Relz and Noass had no context for this, but Eldavin, Valeterisa, and every Earther did. But even they—were just amazed by how Erin was doing this. The [Innkeeper] had launched what Eldavin had been arguing with Aaron Vanwell for the last fifteen days over. The young man might be getting ahead of himself, but storming up to the Archmage’s Table showed just how passionately he hated—

The world’s first mandatory ad-break featured Erin Solstice holding up a picture of Santa Claus as Sir Relz tried to steer her back to the tournament. It was actually a pretty good one—she’d hired someone in Invrisil to do a mockup of a huge man with a red coat and poofy white hat and beard, beaming at the audience. Then one of a Drake in the same outfit.

Santa works all year-round to make presents, you see. And he has a bunch of helpers! A bunch of Antinium and Goblins work in his workshop to make toys, and if you’re good, boys and girls, you might get a present this year! If not—you get a lump of coal. Can I get some support for the holiday? It would be great if Pallass joined in, or Khelt or maybe the Forgotten Wing Company…”

She stared meaningfully into the camera. And at least three different leaders of their respective organizations had a brief flash of insight.

Perhaps…perhaps it’s not good if Erin Solstice leans on us after all. Especially if this is what she does with that power.

“Miss Solstice, please! Pallass is in the middle of a tournament that could arguably result in a boon of incredible power! We don’t have time for this!”

Erin Solstice lowered her image of Santa Claus. She stared at Noass and then shrugged.

“Okay, then. Each city can only put in ten contestants. Total. Go tell the people outside.”

She folded her arms and turned her wheelchair around. Somewhere in the world, several people fell in love all over again at the sheer pettiness of it. A Titan, among others. Erin peeked over her shoulder at Noass’ waxy face.

“No? Okay then. So, one of the things in Christmas is presents. But first—you decorate. This is the tree a lot of people use, and these are the stockings. And peppermint canes. And eggnog—I have a recipe here—”

She fished out a list as everyone realized that Erin Solstice might have been strong-armed a bit too hard. Because now, she was going to force her message down everyone’s throats, whether they liked it or not.

“Wonderful. And just imagine—we can make people watch this. For free, every thirty minutes. And people will pay us for a one-minute slot. Then, when the complaints grow too much, we can have the audience pay us for an experience without any advertisements.”

Eldavin murmured to Valeterisa. The sheer mercantile nature of it all was beautiful, in a disgusting kind of way. The Archmage of Izril shuddered faintly.

“Fissival would love it. You would do well there, Eldavin.”

The Archmage of Memory hesitated. He wished that didn’t sting so.

 

——

 

Ryoka Griffin stared at Taletevirion for two hundred and fourteen seconds. Two hundred and fourteen seconds in silence as she and the Unicorn processed things.

Ryoka could see him.

He could tell she could see him and that she was fae-marked. A windfriend.

She knew he was probably an immortal in hiding, from the Vale Forest.

He could sense Teriarch on her, and the Wyrm and other immortals.

She saw he’d been stealing alcohol from Erin’s inn.

Taletevirion knew that there were any number of powerful individuals in the area and a camera that the entire world was watching.

Ryoka was aware the Unicorn was a highly powerful being if no one had noticed him, even Erin. He could almost definitely kill her.

The Unicorn could logic that Ryoka was probably not inclined to reveal his identity given her proximity to the other immortals, but she might represent one or more of their agendas. She was almost definitely one of the young women Teriarch was waiting for, and that was a full can of donkey crap. She also looked pretty good.

The Wind Runner stared at the Unicorn, and despite the dingy basement, the Rxlvn fumes coming off him—he looked like something out of stories. But not one of those glowing Unicorns full of innocence. He looked like he could run you through. The being horses would want to be, just like Humans wanted to be superheroes. He was taller than most stallions, his coat whiter than fresh snow, and his horn had that pearlescence that shifted across multiple colors even in dingy light. She was super glad her alleged attraction towards immortals was not activating—and it had better not.

The thinking and reverse thinking between the two took up those two hundred and fourteen seconds. The irony was—this wasn’t either’s first rodeo. What would they say? What would happen next?

Ryoka Griffin stared at the Unicorn, and then she spoke.

“No. Oh no, absolutely not. Not this time. I’m too busy. This is ridiculous.

“I hope you’ll keep this between you and Teriarch—wait, what?”

Taletevirion hesitated as the Wind Runner didn’t say what he’d thought she would. Ryoka Griffin just backed up.

“You know…? No, of course you do. But that’s it. You know what? Piss off. Get lost. I’m done. I don’t need another stupid immortal in my life. Not now! Whatever’s wrong with you—I can’t help you, understand? We never saw each other. Just get out of the basement, and I’ll hit myself with a hammer.”

“Wh—what?”

The Unicorn actually backed up a step as Ryoka backed up—then whirled. Something leapt down the steps, and he nearly blasted the orange cat to smithereens. But Reagen just meowed. Ryoka exhaled—hard—and then stepped towards Taletevirion. She jabbed a finger at him.

“Get yourself sorted out. I’m serious. I don’t want to know who you are. I don’t know you—and I can’t help. I wish I could, but—”

He began to splutter at this point, in outrage more than anything.

“Help me? Who are you? No, I know, that Courier who can blow around with the wind. And you’ve met Teriarch. Another one of his poor heroines. But help me? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ryoka threw up her hands.

“Great! Perfect! Just stay out of my business. No—you know what? Go to Ailendamus if you need protection. You might find some. But it’s not on me. I really would like to—but I can’t help.”

She stepped back, folded her arms, and stared at him. The Unicorn’s mouth opened and closed several times as the cat lay on its back, waving its paws up at the air.

“Wow.”

That was all Taletevirion said after a second. He looked at Ryoka. She shrugged.

“Listen, I’m sorry—”

The Unicorn cut her off.

“No, I’m sorry. And impressed. It’s not every day you meet someone with an ego bigger than a Dragon’s. You? Help me? The first thing you say upon seeing a being of myth and legend is, ‘I’m too busy for this’? As if you could—what? Solve my issues? Fight my battles for me? Just amazing. The sheer gall of it. I have, and I say this honestly, legitimately met less presumptuous self-importance in an entire court of half-Elves. And you compressed all that personality into, what, a minute of speaking?”

He trotted around Ryoka and nearly kicked over his bucket, staring at her in a kind of impressed disgust. Ryoka had turned red.

“I just meant—these things happen to me.”

“Oh, of course. Unicorns, you can’t swing a cat around without meeting one. I’m sorry I’m in your way, Miss [Hero]. Don’t let me stop you. Where’s the [Bard] to mythologize your exploits? Is it the cat? Is he going to turn into a long-lost [Bard] from fifteen eras ago?”

He pointed his horn at Reagen, and the Wind Runner stared at the cat with the Unicorn. Reagen sneezed on himself. Taletevirion raised his head.

“…You half expected him to, didn’t you?”

“Listen—I’m not taking you lightly. I’ll probably have a panic attack about this later. And tons of questions for Teriarch.”

“Fat chance he answers them.”

The Unicorn grunted despite himself. Ryoka groaned.

“Exactly! And he was supposed to come to me!”

“Hah! Another broken promise by the Dragonlord of Flame who ‘never breaks a promise’ unless it’s one that he didn’t think mattered.”

The Unicorn snorted and laughed as Ryoka’s mouth curved up—and the two caught themselves. This time, it was Ryoka who pointed an accusing finger.

“See? You know him, I know him. I can’t do this right now. Erin is running a tournament and—I can’t help.”

“Help me. There’s that phrase again. Do you just look at people and think, ‘it’s time for me’—whomever you are—‘to interfere and uplift this poor person’s life!’

The Unicorn tossed his mane of hair back and struck a supercilious pose. Ryoka was so flushed it was travelling down her shoulders, but she snapped back.

“Listen, pal—”

“Oh, we’re pals now, are we? You are a speck I won’t remember after today’s drink. Don’t associate with me, you pretentious Human. Look at you—you even run barefoot as if that makes you ‘special’ or ‘in touch with nature’ like some pretend-[Druid]. They wear sandals and shoes. I go bare-hoofed because I have hooves. Giant nails. Fleshy feet were never meant to run on brambles and thorns, and that’s all you get in the grass.”

Taletevirion had a thing about feet. Disgusting. Gnolls had pads, Drakes, scales—but Humans? All they had was foot fungus on the bottoms of their feet.

Ryoka was reeling from the insults, seeing a Unicorn, and sudden paranoia about being dragged into another gigantic affair. But this was too much. She pointed a trembling finger at the bucket and bottles behind Taletevirion.

“You don’t have a problem? You’re squatting in Erin’s basement, stealing liquor with invisibility spells, and drinking Antinium-made Rxlvn out of a bucket. Don’t tell me you don’t have a problem. Teriarch has the decency to pay for the things he steals, at least.”

The Unicorn’s mouth hung open for a good thirty seconds, and Ryoka realized his teeth were objectionably white. Maybe being a Unicorn meant you purified most things, because she didn’t see him brushing his teeth. Taletevirion managed a comeback after another few seconds.

“—Bags of holding were invented for people with hands. This inn and the other inn I raided are rich. And before you go and bother Teriarch, just so you know, he’s not going to sleep with you. He doesn’t do that. A thousand young women have thrown themselves at him and bounced off that idiot’s scales.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Of course not. You just appreciate him ‘as a Dragon’. And also, so you know? Wyrms? Lucifen? Bad company. You might think you’re being a ‘cool mortal’ and they like you—and they probably will enjoy your company right up until they’re eating your liver. Words to the wise. Just a hint.”

Ryoka Griffin and Taletevirion had to step back after that last exchange. Reagen, the impartial judge, was too busy chasing a little undead mouse across the basement to really pay attention to what was going on, and Az’kerash was so busy trying to create a puppet that he didn’t really do more than put his mouse through evasive maneuvers.

A tiny portion of his mind wondered why Ryoka was talking to herself, but he assumed she was crazy.

If there were invisible judges, it was hard to say who had lost that last exchange. Ryoka was panting. She backed up.

“I’m—I’m not talking to you. Pay for the damn drinks, and I’ll tell Erin—I’ll tell her something.”

“Oh, please. I can cover my tracks. It was one of the [Thieves]. Do you know how suspicious it is to leave a pile of gold coins around?”

“Fine, I’ll pay for you.”

“How generous. I can already feel I’m being saved!”

Ryoka Griffin was retreating up the stairs. The Unicorn snapped at her as she wavered.

“Well? If you’re serious, you haven’t heard from Teriarch that I’m done. Stay away from the Vale Forest. It’s safe—and it had better well damn stay that way, or I’ll run you through. Stop teasing Tyrion Veltras and go bother the Reinharts. Or the Els!

“How do you—”

I read the newspapers. Do you think I sleep all day?”

Ryoka knew she should leave or she would have a hundred billion questions. She was turning—before she closed her eyes and threw her head back.

“Oh, fuck me…one question?”

“Am I a Djinni?”

Taletevirion looked exasperated as he levitated bottles into—he did have a bag of holding! The Unicorn tried to hide it as Ryoka pointed. The Wind Runner gobbled silently—then spoke.

“One question. One. Do you, uh…do you know if there are any Dryads left? If there was a seed, in a wand, for instance? Do you know how to, um—hatch it? Grow it?”

The Unicorn froze with the last of the Rxlvn keg hovering in midair. He looked up, and the Unicorn stared at Ryoka. Then he hurriedly tossed the keg into his bag of holding.

“That’s not new.”

“Huh?”

That’s not damn well new. Shut up. I don’t care. Bringing one back won’t heal a forest. There are no more seeds, no more—it doesn’t matter anyways. It’s not new, not my job, and I don’t know anything about it.”

He began to trot past Ryoka, up the stairs. Ryoka was blinking, and she didn’t know about the Unicorn’s self-imposed Geas. Taletevirion was halfway out into the inn when he turned his head, cursed, and snapped at her.

“—You have to grow it in a great forest. And the Vale Forest is dead. A Treant couldn’t do it—they’re all part of the ocean, now. Maybe one of the kelp forests if the Water Dragonlord preserved any. But a real great forest, got it? Where would a seed be?”

“…In a wand of ironwood from Albez?”

Taletevirion and Ryoka Griffin stared at each other. The Unicorn opened his mouth—and Ryoka hesitated, realizing this was the greatest natural magic expert in the entire world. Then Taletevirion kicked her in the stomach.

Nope. I’m out.”

He practically galloped out the door, and everyone in the inn looked around at the gust of wind. Eldavin’s head turned—but he just saw the door shutting and a long tail of…

“…Was that a horse?”

He looked at the basement as a swearing young woman clambered out, only to tell Erin that Reagen had smashed all the alcohol bottles in her inn. Which was a terrible lie, but it was all Ryoka could do.

The Unicorn ran like spit, right up until he turned his head and recognized Teriarch’s simulacrum. Then he stopped, in the stand of Blue Fruit trees, and put the keg down. He poured himself another bucket shakily.

“Not new. Not new…what in the name of Phoenix shit was up with that sword hilt? No—I don’t want to know. It’s not new.

He kept telling himself that.

 

——

 

The [Innkeeper] was awake, and she was the most interesting thing happening today. Definitely. As people waited for her to finish selling Christmas and come outside—

Well, it was an understatement to say people were impatient. Barnethei had to physically stop Sammial from running through the [Portal Door]. Even so—the boy managed to pierce Magnolia Reinhart’s barrier enough to stick his head through the door.

A boy screamed into the inn during Erin’s broadcast where she was describing hanging a wreath over a fireplace you hopefully had.

“No one cares about this stupid thing! Get on with it!”

That statement alone almost redeemed him in the eyes of many. Erin Solstice, upon hearing this, deliberately began talking about the significance of nutcrackers and humming Christmas jingles.

Never let it be said that Erin couldn’t compete for annoying with the best of them. That was probably where Mrsha learned it from, honestly. Mrsha had just not learned that you also needed to bribe the people you annoyed so often.

…Besides. Barnethei glanced down as Liska began to close the door. The [Door Gnoll] looked as impressed as Gothica. But the [Vice Innkeeper] also looked amused—because he had a hand over Sammial’s mouth. Sammy stared at the person who’d done the screaming, and a red-faced Hethon ducked back into the Haven.

But only Ryoka had noticed the difference in the two boys’ voices. Sammy had been going to ask for a mini-tournament for children with knives so he could invite Princess Oesca to visit.

At any rate, someone had realized something about Erin’s tournament that no one else had. Incidentally, it was legitimately one person in the thousands now-gathered on the Floodplains and even more watching.

One person had realized something very, very important. But in the meantime, during the boring intermission where Erin was slowly educating a world about Christmas—and that was mildly entertaining—

Someone else decided that they needed to put on a show.

Tyrion Veltras was watching the Archmage of Memory warming up. His sword moved in patterns that made the [Lord] uneasy.

“He—might be a Gold-ranked duelist. No, a [Swordmaster] without the class. I can’t read his forms.”

There was a level beyond sheer martial prowess. Even the most self-trained warriors who never studied fighting could hit someone with a club as hard as they wanted in the right spot. That was how a [Maceman] could down a Gold-bell duelist.

A blow was a blow—but of course, you could train your muscles to make a certain kind of blow faster, more lethal. You could hone yourself, learn to exploit weaknesses in most people’s guards. The craft of designing weapons, teaching swordplay, and codifying it while analyzing other fighting styles culminated in things like the rapier.

The rapier’s very design and unique style was meant to pierce armor and be the famously lethal step-in strike that often ended a fight in a second. A master of the sword, in the same way, could parry a blow, sometimes even arrows or spells, in the blink of an eye.

Tyrion Veltras knew there was one more form beyond that. And he thought he saw it in Eldavin’s movements. An understanding where swordsmanship crossed from the physical realm into the impossible, the magical.

Ksmvr, ironically, was the best example of this in a tangible form. The Silver Illusion sword-school created actual illusions, walls of blades—he literally bent reality at angles.

But lightly. The Antinium hadn’t learned the true depths of blade mastery. Eldavin…

Eldavin made Tyrion uneasy. Lulv, Relc, and the other best warriors on the field were eying him. If an unhelpful Unicorn was inclined to interfere in this match, he might have vouchsafed that Eldavin was the one unfair contestant.

Forget the young Lightning Dragon…Taletevirion stared at Eldavin, who could fight with all Teriarch’s mortal knowledge in a body that was almost perfect. He was not a fair entry into this tournament.

Even the Named-ranks here were mortal, though their Skills might eclipse everything else. Actually, and ironically, they were grumbling that since they were banned from killing blows, a lot of their best Skills, like Yvlon’s [Arc of the Moon], were too dangerous to use.

“Looks like there are some kind of safeguards. Look at that. I bet that happens if we’re disqualified. Better watch your blades, lads and lasses!”

Todi was laughing. Every head turned as a Drake in Pallass’ ranks began to glow. The Drake yelped—tried to drop the enchanted blade he’d been sneaking in a sheath—

At this point, Tyrion expected the Drake to vanish and appear outside the tournament grounds. Or maybe a magical sign would indicate he was disqualified?

It almost seemed as if the glowing lasted too long. As if—perhaps—something were figuring out what should happen. When it did, Tyrion saw the glow change to a flash—

Something kicked the Drake thirty feet. He went flying, hit the ground, bounced with the most sickening thud that Tyrion had heard—like someone falling off a horse—and lay still.

Todi’s laughter stopped, and he paled. A [Healer] ran over, but an indigo-scaled Drake was faster. Onieva leapt over—threw a potion down—and perhaps that saved the Drake.

Every rib is broken. I think his heart’s stopped.”

The sight of the [Healers] trying to resuscitate the downed Drake was enough to make everyone check themselves slowly. Tyrion wasn’t sure—even if he’d known that was coming—if he could dodge that.

The sight of the Drake jerking and breathing didn’t diminish the—consequences. Especially because he began to scream—and then passed out from the pain.

“That was—not a proportional response. Did the [Innkeeper] set that up?”

Jericha was looking at Ullim in concern. That had been a Level 30 [Officer] of some kind. She imagined that would kill someone without his levels. Ullim shook his head.

“No, I doubt it. She may be direct—but she’s not murderous, and her friends are in this.”

“Perhaps we should make sure we’re not carrying hidden blades or…”

Jericha hesitated, but Ullim flashed a hidden blade up his sleeve at her.

“Jericha, if it has not punished us—everything done so far is legal. Including the Selphids, mithril blades, and all else. Important information.”

House Veltras looked at Ullim, their [Majordomo], and he was saying much the same thing as Chaldion—who had ordered the deliberate rulebreaking—and the other analysts. Definitely don’t use magic, though.

Try not to kill. It was your life on the line, too.

 

——

 

The sight of the rulebreaking punishment made some of the contestants reconsider their entry into the tournament. The rest were just relieved—

“Perhaps we’ll be fighting in brackets? If so—the [Innkeeper] might winnow the most numerous sides like the Antinium and Pallass down against each other. That would be the fairest way to do it. This tournament might take more than one day. At least that seems to indicate sabotage is unlikely.”

Symphony was watching, with less concern, the Drake with splintered ribs poking out of his chest. He’d probably make it.

They were organized, the sixty-some of them, into two groups. Instruments and choir. But also—each one reported to a superior for smaller assignments.

For instance, they were grouped, like an actual orchestra, into divisions. Woodwinds, brass—and then by instrument. Not all had a leader; a trombone might not have a First Trombone but report to the First Trumpet instead.

But each [Assassin] like that, from the First Flute to the others, was the best. The only one who trumped them all was the Maestro.

Gold-bell duelist. He had a simple estoc, today. Thinner and lighter than normal, more like a hybrid-rapier strengthened for repeated clashes of metal-on-metal. Like everyone else, he had no armor, and his formal suit made him stand out from the most plain-cloth clothes the others wore.

He was enjoying his moment at the center of attention, even if it was enmity. In fact, Wistram News Network had made their Channel 1 the coverage of Erin. Channel 2 was for the commentators, from Raelt and other blade-experts.

Channel 3 was being devoted purely to Deniusth, who was still ranting insults about the Maestro. Noass was keeping him company and, occasionally, feeding the fire.

“Surely you have something to say about this Maestro, Sir Deniusth? I am told you went to his wedding?”

“His name is Linvios, and I did not go to his wedding, but Wall Lord Itreus’. Who—I note—has quite fallen out with this criminal. This blade-for-hire. He is a thoroughly pathetic man.”

“But isn’t Symphony considered Orchestra’s rivals?”

Deniusth laughed for a good half a minute, throwing his head back.

“Our rivals? They’re a nuisance who haven’t the courage to face Orchestra in the field. They merely—interfere. Linvios has never defeated me in a duel for the last twenty years.”

Deniusth hadn’t defeated Linvios either, but he didn’t see fit to mention that. It was true—the two were too evenly matched. Yet Deniusth was taking this moment to continue insulting Symphony.

“They are the very definition of ‘quantity over quality’. Linvios is a [Hired Sword] and a [Thug]. He has the musical talent of a grasshopper, and as you clearly saw, Noass, he menaces and intimidates without regard to safety. No class. No shame.”

The Maestro had no love of Deniusth either. And he admitted—freely—that he insulted the Violinist first.

But really. The Drake looked around, still standing upright. Deniusth was going too far. His blood was singing—here they were, standing in honor of a [Blademistress] so old and grand her named echoed to this day.

They were disgracing her. Now, he had cause to regret forcing Erin Solstice’s hand. He watched Eldavin showing off—the half-Elf might have been nervous despite his showy entry, or he would have thought the same thing the Maestro did.

Someone must interject some class into this moment. Symphony—weapons down. We are not participating—yet. Instruments up. Let’s have a song.”

“Maestro?”

However, he was gesturing, and the members of Symphony began to bring out instruments.

Wait, what’s Linvios doing? That show-off—

The Maestro turned off the orb with Deniusth on it. He raised his conductor’s wand, and to his relief, he wasn’t attacked by the <Quest> or [Innkeeper].

“Harpsichord?”

“Here, Maestro.”

“Good. Drums, I don’t think this is the mood for some classic opera. Let’s have something…upswing. One of the private pieces that was such a hit.”

Symphony looked up in astonishment, but that was what the Maestro thought fit. This wasn’t—sadly—solemn enough for a true piece of art. It was rough, impromptu—but there was a joy in that too.

“A steady beat. Let’s have the choir fulfill most of the space. But I’d like a faster piece—harpsichord and hand-organists.”

He’d heard some amazing instruments from the Singer of Terandria. The Maestro had wanted what was apparently being worked on—a ‘piano’—the moment he’d heard it.

But the harpsichord and organ were close enough. He raised his voice.

With me, choir. One, two, a-one-two-three, la la la la—radada dada da~

They weren’t words, not quite, but they rolled off the tongue quite well, and the choir obliged him. The harpsichord and drums played louder, and the other contestants and watchers turned.

 

——

 

What kind of music is that?

Selys blinked and sat up. It was like nothing she’d heard before. But she would be wrong in thinking it was new to this world entirely, which was her instinctual reaction these days. The music was faster than she was used to, and it had a pep that made her want to tap her leg instinctively.

She had no context—but Kevin, sitting with Ceria, sat up and pointed.

“That’s—wait a second, that’s—”

One other group had context for the music. Mirn looked up from where he was whispering to Chaldion, and the [Grand Strategist]’s eye narrowed.

“I’ve heard that somewhere.”

Regardless of the context of the music, the Maestro knew how to conduct. The Drakes and Gnolls sang with him, an odd choir of masked figures who tore the black veils and cloth away to sing in rather magnificent harmony.

Only Deniusth wasn’t impressed. Noass was tapping his foot to the music.

“That sounds rather—intriguing, Sir Deniusth, if you don’t mind me saying.”

They’re talentless hacks. Symphony’s choir moonlights as an a capella group. They’re still murderers!”

Indeed, there was something slightly sinister to the song coming from Symphony. The oddest blend of a swinging dance number and ominous sound. It made you want to get up and dance—and look over your shoulder.

The Maestro, though, was performing. And while not all of Symphony was needed for this song, many were joining the choir from the instruments section. One—the First Flute—stepped forwards as he beckoned. Still conducting with his wand, he took her claw and swung her out. She whirled and linked elbows with him.

Around—and then they were dancing lightly. Kicking wide—and Pisces started.

“That looks like [Duelist] exercises.”

A combination of dancing and music. The Maestro was purely showing off now. The First Flute took his hand—and swung herself through his legs as he spread them, sliding on her knees up onto her feet.

 

——

 

“Huh.”

Cara O’Sullivan propped her chin up on one fist. She saw exactly what they were doing. And unlike the rest of the watchers—she slowly took a long gulp of wine.

“So—someone’s already invented electro swing. Now there’s a fun group. We should really tour Izril. I wonder what their story is.”

Assassins dancing. What would they see next? The Maestro’s impromptu-music only lasted about four minutes. When he turned and bowed, not many people applauded. But he had certainly reminded them he was there.

 

——

 

“That bastard’s showing off. Hey—someone show him what adventurers can do.”

Todi snarled. He looked around, and Dasha stared blankly at him as she hefted a handaxe.

“Why don’t you do that? Dance for us, big man.”

“Shut up, Silver-rank. Hey—wait a second. Isn’t one of your teammates a [Blade Dancer]? Show us a trick!”

He meant Pekona, and the Drathian woman looked up. She had one arm, and she was carrying a shorter, curved blade. She and Dasha were the only two members of Vuliel Drae on the field, supporting Ylawes. Honestly, Anith had wanted to forbid Dasha joining in, but she had claimed ‘Dwarven solidarity’.

As for Pekona…he hadn’t the heart to deny her. The woman had skin a shade darker than Ryoka’s, and she was shorter by a head. Her raven hair was a mess, and she looked far less confident than she had before.

“I…am not a good enough [Blade Dancer] to dance. I am at the beginning of a path unending. A disgrace to my lessons.”

She had been like this the entire time since meeting the [Sword Legend]. Which was fair—her arms had not healed like Yvlon’s, and unlike Prince Zenol, her arm hadn’t been resewn.

If anyone had been unfairly treated—Pekona had only come away from the practice courts when she’d heard about the tournament.

Todi, of course, knew nothing of this, but it was amazing how the man could poke at people when they were down.

“Well, you’re depressing. Alright, then—”

He was looking around when that someone who had realized something about Erin’s tournament before everyone else pushed forwards. Every head turned, and Pisces blinked.

“Oh no. Not you. With respect—”

Yvlon Byres reached out and tried to halt the newcomer, but a number of adventurers were here. Even Spoken Vow, the team who had fought against the Eater Goats and Gargoyles, and A Pact of Flame and Sword were here. Only a few of them from each, but Captain Mickey of Spoken Vow and the [Knife Fighter] were both glancing over.

Riz.

There was an entire backstory in Spoken Vow, a Gold-rank team who’d gotten quite lucky of late. The Eater Goats had been bad—but they’d killed a lot of monsters. Ever since their new rookie joined up, new to Gold-rank herself.

Like the Maestro, like everyone—everyone had a history, like Mickey the Moored, Captain of Spoken Vow. A long one, a book’s worth of tales and grief and triumph.

But if you wanted to summarize them—you could do at least one member of Spoken Vow very quickly. And it was Riz, their [Knife Fighter]. You would say this to Normen or Alcaz, and they’d understand.

You would say: ‘Riz is a former Face. Just like Shriekblade or Ratici and Wilovan. Facecarver Riz. She’s one of the scary ones.’

And they would get it. Even Todi, with some kind of preternatural instinct, had never picked upon Riz like the rest of Spoken Vow. Even if their synergy with their [Hedge Mage], [Trick-Shot Archer], [Dual Slingshot Skirmisher], and [Entrenchment Fighter-Captain] created quite a lot of fighting potential and versatility, you could easily say that over half the sheer killing potential was in one of their members.

Todi might not have realized the same thing that Ceria and Pisces and Ksmvr did, which was why the Horns hadn’t hung out with Spoken Vow after the fighting. But he still stood away, again, with some kind of animalistic sixth sense. You could notice the subtle signs, like how Riz always seemed balanced. How she—hadn’t mourned the loss of their [Slingshot Skirmisher]. Her tears were crocodile.

Ironically, Yvlon gave Riz a nod and a thumbs-up, and the [Knife Fighter] gave her a smile of kinship. Pisces eyed Yvlon’s oblivious face. But then he turned his attention to the person that all the adventurers were staring at.

Including Riz. And besides Yvlon, only one person among all the adventurers had earned the slight nod she gave. Another thing you could notice if you were Ceria and wore the circlet. A Face from the streets had little respect for even Gold-ranks.

Colth and the Named-ranks—perhaps. But that was more like a wolf respecting a puma. Yet one person was striding across the tournament grass right now. And like Riz—

Typhenous had once been a Face.

“Typhenous, Typhenous, stop! You’re old! You’ll break every bone in your body!”

Revi was chasing after him. But Typhenous the Plague Mage was the sole member of Griffon Hunt who wanted to participate in this tournament. He was arguing with her as she pursued him.

“My dear Revi…I do have a history with blades, you know. I’ve lost a step, but that lot is so…so much flash. So much flash and color, and not a whit of respect for the woman who runs these streets. Erin Solstice. Southerners, you know?”

The [Summoner] halted a bit as she tried to understand his words.

“—Absolutely none of that made sense. Typhenous, you’re going senile. Look at you!”

Look at him. He didn’t have on his robes as they were enchanted; instead, he had a younger man’s tunic and leggings. Long, even baggy. Good for blocking a bit of blade. Typhenous was striding along, and he had on a simple knife at his belt.

Long—but hardly a sword or Jelaqua’s flail or a damn spear that could be longer than you were.

“Ever heard of reach, Typhenous? That Gnoll is a [Spearmaster]. He’ll stab you while you’re jogging up to him.”

“Revi, I do appreciate the concern, but you’re rather in danger yourself.”

“The tournament’s not started yet—Pisces, help me talk Typhenous out of hurting himself! Todi!”

“Revi’s right, Typhenous. This is dicey. See what happened to that Drake?”

Typhenous gave Todi a bland smile. Todi, though, abandoned his instincts to go and grab Typhenous and save the old man from his ego. Right up until Riz stepped over.

“Master Typhenous, are you going to greet them? Can I…watch?”

“Miss Riz. Do you want to help me? At my age—I feel the frailty of my bones, as Revi says.”

So saying, Typhenous took Riz’s arm and leaned on her as they walked across the grass. Revi stormed after them, but Pisces halted her.

“Revi—”

“Help me! He’s too old to get hurt!”

“Yes, but who is getting hurt, please?”

Ksmvr peered at Typhenous. He was heading straight for Symphony. Revi drew in a breath to shout at the [Skirmisher]—then remembered that Ksmvr’s grasp of humor was weak. She turned her head.

The sight of a man with a beard of white hair reaching down his chest on the tournament grounds approaching the killers of Symphony made Tyrion, Manus’ soldiers, and everyone else look over. A few cameras swung down, and Rafaema frowned as she stared down at the man. Her keen Dragon eyes spotted something odd.

“Weird. That old Human’s going to get hurt. What’s that on his off-hand?”

Lulv was yawning as he waited for the fighting to start. But as he swung his gaze over to Typhenous, his eyes sharpened. He looked down and spoke a word as Aldonss frowned. Even the Wall Lord of Manus couldn’t tell what it was, but Lulv knew it.

“Huh. There are all kinds of odd weapons on the field here. I guess it pairs with the knife. He’s lucky he didn’t get disqualified by the <Quest>. That’s a caestus.”

“A what?”

Rafaema herself vaguely recognized the name. Lulv gestured at the short glove with metal protrusions on the knuckles.

“Type of tough glove. Hard leather and metal. Some people use it in [Gladiator] bouts or arenas. Or in back-alley fights. A parrying weapon like how [Fencers] carry a dagger.”

“Think he knows how to use it?”

Aldonss remarked as he reached for a report on which Gold-ranker this was. Lulv didn’t reply.

 

——

 

The Plague Mage stopped in front of Symphony. And they stopped playing as he halted. Riz stepped back, smiling, as Typhenous brushed at his clothes.

“—You know, I really am old.”

He began speaking, and Revi did fear he was going senile then, because no one had said anything. But like someone continuing a thought, the Plague Mage went on.

“Miss Solstice’s honor has been impinged. Which is one thing—and I daresay a number of fine ladies and men here are in defense of that. But in my day—I must be old, because when I was a young man, if we saw the south coming up and dancing about, we’d have said something about it.”

Symphony looked at the old man. And what they saw was not what half the concerned citizens of Liscor calling for someone to ‘take the old man to safety’ saw.

Typhenous’ eyes were the faintest tinge of pink across brown. Striata of pink laced between the plain color. With his beard, he looked like a genuine, kind old man who might offer a toffee to a child or ruminate on ‘the good old days’.

He was a Gold-rank adventurer, one of the oldest—if not biologically—then in actual, functional age. But his career as a Gold-ranker was actually fairly short.

So why did he have a title when Revi, Seborn, Jelaqua, and so many others didn’t?

Typhenous the Plague Mage. That was one thing. The second was why he had a skillset and talents that had both caused trouble for his team and sometimes—helped.

If you were someone from the streets, you’d know him. The old man who’d made it to respectable. Not because he’d sold out or quit—but because he’d survived for decades. The ultimate respect to that.

Typhenous. A former Face.

He had three classes that defined him. The first was [Rogue Mage]. The second? [Knifefighter]. The third was [Underworld Survivor].

Facecarver Riz would obviously know someone like him—perhaps had even emulated his departure into the realm of adventurers. They used to call him Typhenous the Plague Knife.

Knifemaster of the streets.

The old man drew a knife from his belt and held it in one hand. His left hand had the bulkier caestus, but he could still hold a knife with it. He showed Symphony the blade as they put away their instruments.

Half had swords or long, wicked, curved daggers. One had a hook guisarme. Another group carried spears—and Typhenous had a knife.

It was about as long as his hand and had a tapered end with a slight curve near the tip, like most knives. A plain, leather-wrapped handle that Typhenous had adjusted just this morning.

It wasn’t like his regular knife Revi knew as she halted in the grass, sensing—something. Typhenous had an enchanted knife, so it was obviously no good. His regular knife was actually quite strange, and he would borrow her belt-dagger because his was fairly crap at cutting.

It had a wavy edge, like a slithering snake, and it was thus useless for slicing. Plus, he would never slice up any of the sausages or anything edible with it.

Now, the new knife flicked up, and Typhenous turned his body slightly, presenting only his caestus-hand to the waiting [Assassins]. The Maestro—the Maestro was smiling.

Typhenous turned and winked at the watchers. Ekirra was worriedly shouting for the nice old Typhy to come back. Mrsha…Mrsha was eying the knife. Typhenous waved at Ekirra with his free hand.

Hm? Where had the knife gone? He looked around as the cameras focused on him. Had he dropped it? The old man felt around—then found it.

He pulled it from behind one ear. He pantomimed surprise as he found it—then he shrugged and flipped it in a whirling arc up into the air. The old man closed his eyes—and caught the whirling dagger hilt first.

That was when Revi remembered that Typhenous had gone after the Drake Revenant [Sword Legend] when he had challenged them all. And the [Sword Legend] had called Typhenous slow…and old. She looked around and began to back up in the grass on a hunch.

This time, Typhenous performed the flick trick with two fingers. Up the knife spun, rotating a dozen times in a whirl. He flicked his hand up—and a second knife appeared. This time, he caught two—one between his forefinger and middle finger, the other between middle finger and ring finger—by the tips of the blades.

Flick, flick, flick. He caught three in his hand. Then he made all three vanish, possibly up his baggy sleeves. The Plague Mage turned, and a fourth knife, this one slightly pink, an odd metallic blade that might have been painted, appeared on his fingers. It had more curve—and serrated edges around the base where it met the hilt.

Typhenous had a blade of grass. He tossed it up, held the knife up, and the blade of grass landed on the knife and fell onto the ground in two pieces.

That done, Typhenous rolled the sharp knife across his fingers. The blade moved, walking across his knuckles. Mrsha had seen people do that with coins. Typhenous did it with a knife—then he twirled it around.

Not once did he hold it—the old man’s hand whirled, and the blade rotated as his knuckles, and his hand made it spin in the air, as if gravity refused to touch it. Then—he flicked it up, and two knives danced across his hand.

Knife tricks. The old man was winking at a [Witch] who rolled her eyes as she sipped from a cup of tea. But the rest of the audience was staring. Then—Typhenous exhaled.

“I really must be old. This used to be so easy. Ah, well—”

His arms began moving faster. And his hands—his arms—knives began to flash across his arms. He bounced one off an arm, caught it across his neck by tilting his head, and Revi tried to count how many he was holding.

Eleven—fifteen? Or were some glittering afterimages of blades? The old man was working hard now, and Symphony…watched. They didn’t think it was just a parlor trick.

Neither did Riz.

“Can I greet our friends across the mountains too?”

“Riz, my dear, I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

At that, the other [Knife Fighter] flicked her hands out, and a pair of longer blades appeared in her grip. She began performing much the same trick as Typhenous, but two-handed. She could—somehow—walk a blade up her arm with minute changes of her body’s motion. The two were juggling the spinning knives, and the hypnotic sight reminded Revi of Typhenous’ stories.

Young street lads and lasses, showing off. Spinning a blade and catching it, hopefully without losing their fingers. Right before the blood started pouring. She had thought he made up a lot of tales, because not even Stitch-folk were that careless with blades.

But Typhenous was putting on a show for the waiting tournament audience. And it seemed—every step was carrying him a tiny bit closer to the figures waiting there. One step—he reached out for his spinning knives—another—

Riz stumbled and grabbed at a blade as her Captain called out for her to ‘come back’. She glanced back—

 

——

 

“Miss Solstice, please!

Sir Relz had to interrupt the thirty-second minute of Erin’s Christmas pitch. She looked at him.

“Alright, Sir Relz. I’m nearly done. What?”

“We just—wanted clarification on the tournament rules! Distribution, matchups, who’s going first. Brackets?”

Erin Solstice gave the Drake a long look with narrowed eyes, as if trying to figure out if he were mocking her. When she saw his ‘Sir Relz’ face in full force, Erin Solstice shook her head.

“Listen. What part of ‘I was a hostage’ don’t you get? All these people asking me to change the <Quest>? Delay it? I can’t. Tournament brackets? If you think everyone’ll stand around, you do it. But why would someone like Chaldion let you put rules on the tournament?”

“Well—if that’s so, why don’t you just commence it already? All this waiting around on you!”

Sir Relz was huffing angrily, wondering why he had wasted his time. And then—Erin Solstice looked at him, and the audience perhaps realized something that one man had figured out first. Her mouth fell open.

“What are you talking about?”

The Drake hesitated—then he heard the first scream from outside. Then it clicked.

The Festival of Blades in honor of Zeladona—

It had already been underway. Typhenous the Plague Knife rammed the first blade straight into one member of Symphony’s shoulders. He planted two more in the stomach and an arm as Riz knifed the same Gnoll in the back four times.

Non-lethal. Probably. Then they were sprinting back to the adventurers as the entire grassy field exploded into violence.

 

——

 

“Now that was a proper Izrilian greeting. Just like I remember! Hah! Look at them go!”

The commentary wasn’t from the scrying orb at the moment. Even the King of Duels, Raelt, had frozen at the unexpected way criminals handled things.

Even Symphony, who had probably expected it, hadn’t thought the old man would attack that fast. How many times had he stabbed that [Assassin]? And he’d done it with another Face.

The black-clad Symphony swarmed after Typhenous and Riz in the scrying orb. And all Viscount Visophecin could think was—

I wish I were there. 

He was trying not to smile as blood fell in droplets onto the grass, seeping into the earth. As steel rang from sheaths and voices rose in agony and rage.

Then he remembered he was among his kin, House Shoel, the Lucifen and Agelum. Then he did smile.

A cruel smile, of someone who would have leapt into that fen of bloodshed and presided amongst it.

A judge in gore, an arbiter of hellfire and brimstone.

His counterparts looked different. They sat, and Uziel, lonely without Razia or Gadrea, was laughing. But he laughed like warhorns and triumph. If he descended with wings and watchful eyes, he would have been standing in triumph—and blood—celebrating the bravery of it.

They wanted to be there, Lucifen and Agelum both. They longed to be—and the worst part was that Visophecin knew he could have made it.

The Gateways couldn’t reach across continents so easily, of course. But he had methods almost as fast as Eldavin. And Rhisveri could have probably teleported any number of combatants in.

They couldn’t. Unlike Eldavin, it was wiser to hide their true powers. Teleporting so far would attract attention. So even Rhisveri refrained in a show of wisdom.

Thus, Visophecin just watched, eyes glowing with delight. See that old man run. See Pallass’ [Soldiers] draw their blades and set themselves in ranks, as if this were an actual battle.

But see—the Lucifen’s eyes turned. He had a bet with Rhisveri, actually.

Who was more hated? The instant everyone realized the festival of blades had begun—they focused on three targets.

Symphony.

Manus.

House Veltras.

The real question was—who was most hated? The answer came like a plume of glorious fire. Not Dragonfire—but an echo of it.

It rolled across the grass, and the figures standing on one of the hills took cover. Then—Visophecin’s smile widened as he saw an angry Watch Captain point a sword, and Tyrion Veltras turned. Watch Captain Zevara and dozens of ‘off-duty’ [Guards], private citizens of Liscor, Goblins, Antinium, and, yes, even Pallassian Drakes went charging for House Veltras.

 

——

 

Close ranks! Close—Lord Veltras, no!”

Jericha’s first instinct was to have the two dozen men-at-arms shield her [Lord]. But one look at Zevara’s breath attack had made her realize that Skills were in play.

Skills—and natural weapons like that. It didn’t seem fair—especially because the second thing she heard was a voice.

“[Raise the Wall]! [Crossbows: Overwatch]!”

Wall Lord Aldonss pointed a claw in vengeance for the first clash between him and Tyrion. Fifty some crossbows appeared in the air—

All aiming at Tyrion Veltras. No other ranged weapons were on the field besides throwing weapons, and the [Lord] looked up as Jericha’s stomach twisted.

They shouldn’t have allowed this! He didn’t have his levels! He—

It was too late. Tyrion was moving. And he wasn’t headed towards his own people, but away. He had realized, in an instant, that he would be a fire magnet for the entire field. So he charged down the hill, shield raised.

The crossbows tracking him—fired. Not in one volley, but in three—spreading out their fire so there was no possibility of dodging. Tyrion Veltras muttered.

“[Great Shield].”

He lifted his shield, and the overlapping spectral bolts cracked against a barrier in the air. The [Lord] looked left—and sprinted out of another jet of flames. He began running, and Jericha halted.

Wait a second—

He was fast! The [Lord] took off as a Drake swung—and twisted around. Jeiss tried to correct his trajectory, but even when he began running, he realized Tyrion Veltras was already sixty feet away.

Jericha hadn’t really seen Tyrion running footraces. He was a passionate [Rider]—and besides, he was in his forties.

Had been. Now, a younger man of twenty-eight was booking it. He ran so fast that half the people charging at him turned in a wave, and the first person Tyrion Veltras ran into was Menolit.

“You bastard! [Scythe Rush—”

The [Veteran] came at Tyrion, and the [Lord] ducked into the sweeping sword. It clanged off his shield, and Menolit reached out to bring his own shield down on Tyrion’s bare head. Then he realized the [Lord] hadn’t stopped his mad run.

Tyrion’s shield rammed into the Drake, and the [Lord] went under and heaved up. With sheer strength—he tossed Menolit off him, and as the Drake landed on his back, one boot stomped on his chest as Tyrion ran on.

That was—the move was so stunning that most of the [Duelists] chosen to analyze this fight were lost for words. Because Sir Relz and Noass had classically failed again.

They’d chosen fighting experts and masters of the blade. Not [Soldiers]. Not street-fighters—but Tyrion had seen battlefields. This was a bloody, nasty fight with no rules. And he was fighting like a young man.

No Skills—just the overwhelming confidence of the young that they could run, jump, and do anything they needed to. And—the recklessness that age had tempered.

An older Tyrion would have never left his forces. This Tyrion? He did the first thing that had occurred to him. As half the battlefield ran at Tyrion—

He charged straight at Pallass. 

“That idiot—”

General Edellein of 4th Army sneered at Tyrion as a [Sword Lieutenant] and a hundred plus top-tier officers readied themselves. They’d take him out in a second! Then General Duln swore.

Brace—!

Half the battlefield was coming at Pallass. General Shirka, the last [General] on the field, looked up.

“Liscor’s coming. Blades! Hold formation! Hold—

Get the Antinium. On me!

Edellein saw their [Major of the Charge] assigned to that task leading Drakes and Gnolls down the hill towards the [Crusaders]. Then he saw someone else had had the same idea.

From the left—

Symphony plowed into Pallass’ left flank as Tyrion Veltras swung across their right, leading Liscor’s citizens and his pursuers into a melee with Pallass’ soldiers, who reacted just as they were trained. Tyrion ducked under a Gnoll’s spear, and the two men vanished as Pallass realized it was under attack. Edellein was snarling around.

[Reform Ranks]! Get me a [Mark Target]! Get—

Then he saw the first figure leaping up, dozens of feet through the air. The [General] swore as he reached for his sword. He had a claw on it and could unsheathe it in less than a second.

He should have had it bared already. The Maestro landed as one of Edellein’s [Strategists] slashed at him.

“—Cut the Leaves].”

Edellein blinked. His sword was half out of its sheath when he felt the burning pain on his leg, shoulder, stomach—he collapsed along with three of his officers.

General down! General d—

The First Flute threw a dagger into an officer’s chest, and the [Paralytic Blade] took down a Drake. She leapt after the Maestro. The Drakes were formed up in ranks, but they had no armor. The Maestro just jumped as Shirka leapt after him. Symphony didn’t check whether Edellein or their opponents were down any more than Tyrion did. He swung his shield, clipped someone full in the face—and kept running.

It was a brawl, and that was before the adventurers entered the fray.

 

——

 

“Damn! He’s getting away! Lulv—hold your ground or I’ll rip your tail off!”

Aldonss was cursing, but he had the wall up, and the soldiers of Manus were on it. Tyrion Veltras had vanished in the fighting, and his people were covering him. They stayed on the hill, but more than one person pursuing Tyrion jerked mid-run and began to turn on them.

“Is that old man using [Provoke Target]?”

Rafaema was staring at the person covering his [Lord]. Ullim, wasn’t it? The [Majordomo] was forcing Jeiss off Tyrion—and the Drake was charging Ullim and House Veltras instead.

“[Battlefield Lure]. I could take them out.”

Lulv snarled. He was itching to go out hunting—but Aldonss was watching Rafaema. She was burning to get into it.

“I can fight. The odds of them cutting me are—”

Incoming.

The forces of Manus turned. While most of the angry members of Liscor had gone after Tyrion—they weren’t forgotten either. Lulv’s hair rose, and he turned his head slowly. And the first thing he saw was a huge greatsword resting on someone’s shoulder. And heard a voice as at least two hundred Antinium halted at the base of Manus’ hill.

“Hey, bitch. Remember me?”

Spearmaster Lulv’s eyes focused on Crusader 57. He and half of Squad 5 were looking up at him.

“Me?”

Uh oh. Lulv was already losing his temper. Ferris groaned as he counted the numbers, and Aldonss shifted as the [Soldiers] tightened ranks. Crusader 57 shook his head.

“Sorry, I meant your mother. Look who thought they could just walk through our city. I remember your ugly face. We spanked your elites in the war. Guess what’s going to happen now? I don’t see your fancy armor and weapons.”

“Lulv—”

Rafaema raised her voice as the [Spearmaster] stared down at the Antinium. He twitched.

“Wall Lady?”

The [Crusaders] were staring up at Manus, and Rafaema’s breath crackled. She felt—the words came out of her mouth before Aldonss could say something, and she knew they were right.

Take them out.

The [Spearmaster] turned his head. His teeth—all of them—shone as he lifted his plain spear. His plain spear—which began twisting the air around it as he raised his voice. Crusader 57 realized Crusader 53 wasn’t here—because maces weren’t sharp. He hesitated as Lulv shouted.

[Spear of a Thousand Graves]! I need no armor. [Spear Art: Fangs of the Dire Wolf].”

Then he leapt off the wall and came down like a howling comet at the Antinium.

“Oh sh—

Crusader 57 tried to swing his zweihander, but a bolt of lightning kicked him off his feet. Just a weak one—and the Antinium looked up. The [Crusader] saw a Gnoll coming at him—and his sword—

Fell. Along with his arm. Crusader 57 stared at the stump and the green blood racing out, not realizing there was no limb anymore.

“My arm. mY aRM, yOu BAstaRD—”

Lulv wasn’t there any more. He cut Toni’s leg off as the Antinium tried to whirl. Then he was moving on—a spear stabbing an Antinium in the chest, green blood running to the ground.

He was too fast! It was like the battle all over again. But this time—one of the [Templars] raised a sword.

“[Sword of Judgement].”

Lulv whirled and dodged away as the [Templar] pointed down at Manus. They were flooding down the hill, after the Lightning Dragon. But as he aimed the Miracle—

Nothing happened. The [Templar] felt no release of faith. He only heard a—a kind of voice disapproving in his head. After a pause, so infinitesimal, but so significant. As if something had been watching, deciding.

<Quest: Miracle Disabled.>

“Mush.”

The [Templar] whispered—then Lulv’s spear was whirling and blood was flying everywhere.

 

——

 

No magic. No miracles. Eldavin had realized the same thing as the Antinium. But unlike them—he was trusting to his martial abilities.

“Viltach, best of luck to you. I might reconsider entering the fray.”

The half-Elf spoke lightly as Ser Greysten and Dame Pertheine, the Summer’s Champion and the Spring’s Warden, stared into the bloody fighting in dismay.

Limbs were being lost! Blood was actually flying. Viltach had read accounts of battlefields before, and he’d heard of nonsense like ‘arterial blood sprays’—but that was actually fitting, here.

It reminded him of the day he had realized he was no warrior. When he and his fellow students of Wistram ran into a real war and he exited it, never to seek this kind of thing again. He had thought this was civilized.

Now, the Archmage of Terandria was pale as he held the longsword he was familiar with. Familiar…but no silver-bell duelist. He’d thought if they had a tournament, brackets—

“And you, Archmage?”

The Spring’s Warden was considered to be the best single-person duelist in all of the Order of Seasons. Even Dame Voost was only the Season of Summer’s finest. Pertheine looked at the Goblins—one of the reasons she’d agreed to this stunt.

She couldn’t believe that Eldavin was considering going down there. In her experience, Archmages were pragmatic cowards when it came to martial combat. But the half-Elf looked—excited.

“I remember this. Is Ryoka…? No.

She was staying out of it. As was Magnolia, watching. Eldavin looked at them and seemed to murmur to his companions as much as himself.

“There she is. But this is just—stress relief, stress relief.”

Was he real? Viltach’s mouth opened. And as if someone had decided to disabuse Eldavin of his madness, the first adventurer came charging up the hill.

My name is Captain Todi! Let’s get the Archmages, boys!”

Captain Todi had chosen the most famous target—in his mind—for a bit of quick glory. He had promised Selys to attack Tyrion, but one look at Pallass’ army had disabused him of that notion. Besides, beating an Archmage? Drinks for life. He had seen Viltach and rightly assumed that a [Mage] wouldn’t be a dueling master. But he had made a mistake with the rest.

Ser Greysten disarmed one of Todi’s Elites with an axe. Well, what he really did was hit a charging [Warrior] so hard the man’s own block saved him from the cut—but the blow still threw him head-over-heels down the hill.

Dame Pertheine was faster. She actually flicked a sword out of the hands of one of Todi’s teammates with a bad grip. Then she parried a shortsword’s wild jab and slashed a leg in the same motion.

“Artery cut. You had better quit.”

The [Warrior] paled as one of the women raised her hands as the Spring’s Warden aimed a blade at her throat. Todi’s wild charge carried him straight into Eldavin.

The Archmage of Memory looked at the Captain, who seemed to realize he was outmatched. He backpedaled and sensed the nine members of his team—

Six were down or surrendering within the first five seconds. Eldavin raised his blade.

Ah. A dueling salute from Rihal. Didn’t I give that bastard a ring?”

He performed a slash in the air that cut down at a forty-five degree angle, then twisted back in a horizontal line, twisted up—and down.

A mark of Rihal. Todi swore he could see the glittering lines of the blade like afterimages.

“Er—”

He kicked a spray of dirt up and lunged. Todi’s sneak-attack made Viltach flinch. When the Archmage of Terandria looked up, Eldavin’s sword finished its arc.

Captain Todi’s sword—the upper half of it—landed in the grass. Todi stared at the sword hilt in his hands. He’d bought that from Pelt! And he saw no flawed grain in the steel. Just a—cut—

“I surrend—”

Todi got his wish after all. The cameras clearly showed Archmage Eldavin kicking an unnamed adventurer stupid enough to challenge him straight off the hill. Todi landed on his back as Archmage Eldavin blocked a throwing dagger. He caught it—and threw it back at the member of Symphony, who dodged the blade.

“I hope we meet at the end. Now—time to level as a [Warrior].”

Then he was racing down the hill, and the first person who ran into him was Jeiss. The [Swordsman] put up a better fight than Todi.

He lasted eight whole seconds.

 

——

 

The droplets of blood were trickling down, now. Green, red—and orange.

“Gaaah! I don’t want to kill you, you idiots! Get back!”

Jelaqua Ivirith was bleeding as Erin Solstice stared out a window. The [Innkeeper] was shaking—and Jelaqua was whirling her flail around. Keeping everyone around her away as the adventurers broke up. Some were trying to save Typhenous. Others were locked in battle with the nearest person they had seen.

But this wasn’t what anyone had expected. Jelaqua was bleeding—she was creating a whirlwind of dangerous Demas Metal around her—but several throwing daggers were sticking out of her dead flesh.

“Erin. This is—is this what you wanted? Can you stop it?

Lyonette was horrified. She was glad, now, that she had forbidden Dalimont and the others from joining the fighting. The Thronebearers were supposed to be looking out for Mrsha, keeping her out of trouble.

Erin didn’t say anything. Her face was white—and the inn was silent.

“This—this isn’t a duel. I cannot comment on this. King of Duels, what do you think?”

Six minutes into the battle, someone finally said something, and King Raelt looked up. His voice echoed through the inn.

“This is a battlefield. Any [Duelist] who holds a Gold-bell—we have all been told by our own masters and peers that this is the true test of an expert. If you obtained your Gold-bell only by private duels—I have heard it said that some call that a worthless achievement. There is one Gold-bell duelist on the field right now. And he earned his. Look.”

The Maestro emerged from the fighting, stepping out of Pallass’ ranks without a cut on his suit. His estoc was red—but the Gold-bell duelist stood out. He strode towards a pair of adventurers, and one gulped—the other held his swords at the ready.

“Young duelist. I think it’s time we had our moment.”

The Maestro beckoned at Pisces, and the [Necromancer] paled. But he stepped forwards as the Maestro produced a rapier of his own and Ksmvr lunged forwards. Two-on-one—the [Brave Skirmisher] recoiled as his blades were repelled. The Maestro lowered his stance, and Pisces nearly ran into the first lunge—then he was advancing across the field, fighting Ksmvr and Pisces from both sides.

The best fighters weren’t even being pressed. Eldavin, the Maestro—the Spring’s Warden—it didn’t matter that they had no armor or enchanted blades.

Like Lulv, cutting through the Antinium, they were too fast. It was like an actual adult fighting a child—their Skills put their reactions on a separate level.

 

——

 

Even Tyrion Veltras was keeping up. Despite his lower levels, he was a veteran of enough battles to have that sixth sense in the back of his head.

But he’d already taken a long cut down one arm. Was he going to fall? 

A knot of Drakes was surrounding him, jabbing spears as he deflected numerous attacks at once. The [Lord] lifted a sword—

[Fourfold Strike]!

His blade struck a guard and hit three targets at once. But it was not his famous eight-fold strike. His opponents backed up, but either he was taking it easy, conserving his Skills—

Someone whirled a throwing axe at his back, and the [Lord] pivoted. He blocked the blow—and down came a halberd from behind.

General Duln. He was aiming for Tyrion’s right shoulder. The Dullahan’s stroke came from two dozen feet away.

[Phantom Cut]. The perfect move for someone who wouldn’t fight in the front ranks and still threaten foes. Tyrion was trying to twist left—when the Dullahan aborted his attack. He pivoted—

He actually managed to block the throwing dagger with the shaft of his halberd. But the force of it still sent him stumbling back.

Who—

[Assassin]! Assas—

They were blunted, Duln realized. Someone was actually crazy enough to blunt the daggers—but then he realized that didn’t matter.

One hit still cracked ribs or knocked [Soldiers] flat. And Ressa was throwing a dozen with each second. She threw into the clusters of soldiers as General Duln saw a group of [Maids] and a [Butler] with glowing legs throw themselves into the fighting.

Rescuing Tyrion.

“Reinhart is fighting with Veltras! On them!

“Reynold!”

Magnolia Reinhart shouted. She had ordered her people to save Tyrion. The [Lord] whirled as a man ran past him.

The former [Lieutenant] looked like he was on the battlefield again—and his foes were right in front of him. A [Sword Lieutenant] blocked his furious slash.

“[Perfect Guard]. [Perfect Counterattack].”

[Lieutenant of Perfection], Comois, 4th Army. Edellein’s champion. He almost hit the [Butler]—but Reynold’s glowing, magical legs actually halted his charge and carried him back.

So fast—Duln was stunned as he checked his own mundane cloth armor he had switched out his usual armor for.

“How—those are artificial legs.”

Tyrion looked as surprised by Reynold’s legs as the save. The [Butler] hesitated, and his eyes flickered as the swearing [Lieutenant] advanced.

He heard something—but he had no time to process it as Tyrion and Magnolia’s servants backed out of the fighting.

<Quest: Exception allowed.>

What was—? Then he heard a terrible din from the left, and he saw Pallass’ forces run straight into the Painted Antinium and [Crusaders].

 

——

 

The blood was splattering. An Antinium looked down as a blade cut off their mandibles. Then a dozen slashes made the [Crusader] fall over.

No killing!

The Pallassian [Soldiers] halted—but the wounds were deep. And they were going after the Antinium.

This was the perfect moment. The perfect moment to lop off a limb or—one Drake screamed as his blow trying to sever a downed Antinium’s legs turned into a desperate counterstroke.

Pink Stripes. The [Soldier]’s blade slashed off two fingers on the Drake’s axe-hand, and the Drake stumbled back.

My fingers! My—

Get Pink Stripes to safety! Now!

A voice bellowed, and Antinium seized the Worker who’d lost parts of his mandibles and Pink Stripes, who was bleeding from the gut. They ran him off the field.

Yellow Splatters was shouting as Antinium went down, fighting the Drakes.

“They are bleeding—Pawn! We cannot let this happen!”

He was agonized, watching his people bleed. But Pawn—Pawn was staring at Tyrion.

“Miracles are not working. Tell them to leave if they wish. But there is Manus. And Pallass…”

He looked at the Drakes and Gnolls, and he saw something else. Yellow Splatters just saw his people bleeding, but The Crimson Soldier put a hand on Yellow Splatters’ shoulder. He pointed.

Look.

Pawn whispered.

“That’s how they really feel about us. So remind them—of the consequences.”

He had not been surprised by the attack on Antinium from the two Walled Cities. It still hurt. But the Pallassian attack into the Painted Antinium’s lines?

They had no armor, the Drakes and Gnolls. They couldn’t kill. And—a screaming Gnoll had a chunk torn out of one of his legs as a fallen Worker bit and hung on. Nor did the Antinium seem to fear their wounds.

“[Cure Mundane Wounds].”

Zimrah spoke, and Pawn himself touched Pink Stripes. The [Priest] had a weaker version of Zimrah’s Skill—but it was good enough.

“[Mass Heal Minor Wounds].”

The wounded Soldiers and Workers’ blood stopped dripping onto the grass. Their limbs would not return—but so what?

“We will put gel on this.”

Yellow Splatters assured the [Crusader] who’d lost his mandibles. The Soldier clacked the remaining parts angrily. He wanted to go back and hit the Drakes—but he was out. And Pawn just looked at Yellow Splatters.

“We will level. And limbs will regrow. Trust me. Theirs won’t.”

He looked at the Pallassian soldiers. Many were officers. A Drake was clutching at an axe embedded in the bone. And—

There were so few healing potions.

 

——

 

The [Healers]. The [Healers] were trying to heal the wounds, but the first wounded were screaming.

Healing potion! Use a healing potion!

“I—I can’t! Hold this here!”

One was making up a bandage, but one of the Gnolls didn’t seem to know what to do to stem the bleeding. Drassi herself ran over.

“What’s going on? Why aren’t they being healed?”

“With what potions? We can’t afford that—and supplies are limited. This damn tournament—there’s no more healing potions!”

A furious Pallassian Gnoll—Healer Demerra, owner of the crystal healing beds, who’d healed Chaldion himself—was holding a crystal over a slowly-closing wound.

We need a potion! He’ll die without—he’s belly-cut!”

A Drake was staring at something red half-falling out of a cut in his stomach. Drassi paled—and a healing potion was produced. But the other [Healers] were trying to close wounds, and some had no idea how to do it.

Many of the wounded people were just lying on the grass. There was so much fighting—who was going to run in and risk being cut?

Perhaps a crazy Runner. Someone came out of that melee, holding a young Gnoll clutching at his leg and howling in pain.

Vok! You fool!

Someone rushed over. The young Gnoll’s leg was a mess of blood—he’d been fighting when an angry Antinium had bit him. One of the younger [Healers] stared at the leg—but this wasn’t critical enough for a potion.

“Help him! I have to get—”

The Runner was jogging back into the fray when Ryoka Griffin raced over.

“Fals?”

He was the one who’d grabbed Vok. Garia Strongheart—Fals—and, Ryoka realized, Mihaela herself were running into the battlefield and yanking people to safety.

Not just them. Local Runners were doing the same. Following the Guildmistress’ example. They weren’t fighters, but the unknown force wasn’t after them. An exception had been made.

“My leg! My leg—will I walk?”

The mandibles had torn a chunk out of Vok’s leg, right around his calf. He was staring at the torn fur and blood, and Ryoka—didn’t know what to do.

“Tourniquet. Can you stop the bleeding?”

“I—I’m a [Potions Healer]! But—”

Ryoka was fumbling with her own healing potion to give to Vok. But someone snapped as Drassi’s broadcast showed the blood—which was making many viewers queasy and forcing several nations to turn off the images to spare the children and sensitive.

Don’t waste a potion on that! Give me a look at it—sterilize those goddamn needles! Apply pressure to slow the bleeding!”

What the? Ryoka Griffin twisted, and Healer Demerra lowered her own scrying orb. A furious—Dullahan—was shouting at the [Healers] from the orb.

“Wh-what do we do, Miss?”

“Show me—it’s an artery cut. Use a potion on it. Listen to me, you need to apply three drops. Don’t pour—look, this is how you sew something up. I’ll cut my arm and—”

A Dullahan was snapping orders at the [Healers], giving the ones with no surgical expertise a crash-course in dressing wounds. But that word had made Ryoka stop. Then—she heard more screams, and Fals grabbed her.

“You coming? That [Doctor] told us to grab the wounded! Come on!”

Ryoka looked at him, then ran after him to drag one of the Antinium out. And now—some of the combatants were realizing the Antinium were healing better than the [Healers]. But Zimrah was already getting tired.

And the blood was flowing now, flowing and…

 

——

 

The King of Destruction was among those watching. Curiously, Flos Reimarch had not seemed as—enthused—by this display or as desperate to get to the fighting.

Almost as if he had sensed how it was going to turn out from the start. Contests were one thing. Soccer? Wonderful games or vying to one-up another were excellent diversions.

This was just violence. He sat as the [Duelists] quit commentating. The King of Destruction spoke to Noass briefly.

“Pallass will quit the field. Perhaps not Manus. There are less of them, and they’re guarding themselves well. The Antinium may not—but we will soon see most of the adventurers leave. The Named-ranks are fighting well. Is that the Favor of the North I see?”

Colth, Caleis the Favor of the North, Rasen, and Teithde were fighting a group of four. Four Named-ranks were currently wiping out anyone who got in their way.

Colth had two long daggers and was fighting calmly—not even looking pressed as Rasen and Teithde used a sword and shield combo. Caleis had a flamberge, and the handkerchief-man was cutting a Pallassian [Soldier].

‘Gently’. He only laid open the Drake’s chest and clothing with a shallow cut.

“How do you mean, er—er—King of Destruction?”

Noass was confused, but Flos didn’t bother to elaborate. He just pointed as General Duln, bleeding from a close-encounter with Ressa, grabbed something from his side.

He blew three short horn calls, and the Drakes and Gnolls looked up. They had already been backing away from the Antinium—but now, almost all the Pallassians began flowing off the field, some throwing down their blades.

“It’s not worth it. Tyrion Veltras might wish to quit too. His limbs, at the very least, or eyes, are in danger.”

Flos observed quietly. But the stubborn [Lord] was still there. The King of Destruction was eying the remaining fighters.

“Now—it will be grudges and hatred enough to risk losing your arms. The best will take longer to fall.”

 

——

 

The King of Destruction was right. He didn’t need to be there to understand what was happening.

It was Chaldion who had ordered the retreat. Mirn was sitting next to him, scarcely believing he was next to the famous Grand Strategist, but Chaldion had demanded to speak with him. For a long time, Mirn had not existed to the Cyclops, despite being Saliss’ friend.

Now, the [Grand Strategist] was snapping at a protesting Edellein, who wanted to go back in.

“You fool. Call them out. A limb isn’t worth a level. This was a mistake. Officers out. Keep the [Soldiers] and [Sergeants]. Liscorian tactics.”

He was seeing clearly how costly this festival was. Pallass was quitting the field in droves—but the truth was, they weren’t being contested that hard.

The fighting had been so bloody that everyone had actually slowed. Most common citizens saw someone losing a hand and decided they weren’t willing to do this. But the ones still fighting had no care for that.

Or—they were just too angry to retreat.

“Tell [Lieutenant] Comois to retreat!”

The [Lieutenant of Perfection] was ignoring orders. And 4th Army’s best swordsman had already taken out Dasha and Merrik. Watch Captain Zevara fell over, trailing smoke.

“Zevara!”

She stared down at the tip of a bloody sword as the Drake cut past the remaining [Guards].

“Watch Captain. Yield.”

Comois waited for her to nod before striding on. Merrik was cursing as he pulled Dasha up. She was bloody and dead-white behind her beard.

“Bastard. [Perfect Stab], perfect—”

His head was ringing. He’d lowered his guard to protect her when he saw the [Lieutenant] stab Dasha three times amidst the shoulders. Then gotten a kick and a slash that had cut deep into his shoulders, despite his [Granite’s Armor] Skill.

That Drake was amongst the best here. But the furious advance of Pallass’ [Swordsman] halted as an enraged woman walked towards him.

Pekona, one-armed, lifted her curved wakizashi. She lowered her center of gravity as Comois spat.

“Drathians, now? En garde.

“[Dance of Wisps].”

Despite her one arm, Pekona had something that Merrik yet lacked. The [Stoneshorn War Leader] glanced sideways and saw Pekona vanish.

Comois ducked the first slice as she appeared, but unlike regular [Fighters]—his sword was coming up for a counter, which missed as she slid down, practically face-first to the ground, and scythed upwards. They separated, and Merrik shouted.

[Healer]!

 

——

 

Only someone as furious—or as furious and confident as Comois—was still in the fight. Or—someone with a grudge or without fear of losing limbs.

The Goblins hadn’t entered the fray for the first eleven minutes. They had held on their hill, and ironically, no one had wanted a piece of them.

Who wanted to fight monsters? What would they gain? Rags was staring down into the fighting. She only spoke once.

“Tyrion is there.”

“Now?”

Snapjaw was gnashing her teeth, looking eagerly at Rags. But the Chieftain just shook her head.

“Manus. Wait, wait, wait.”

They waited. They knew a battle when they saw it, and Rags was biding her time. She did not like the Archmage of Memory or the Named-ranks.

Only one Goblin ignored Rags. He had gazed down into the fighting, and he could wait no longer.

Redscar!

Snapjaw whispered as the Goblin drew his blades. Thunderfur was howling in the distance, but as the [Chieftain of the Maw] reached for Redscar, Rags lifted a claw.

“Redscar?”

He had two swords in hand. Just like always. They were not enchanted—but the leader of the Redfangs looked back at Rags. If she told him to stay—

She didn’t. Redscar grinned at Rags and nodded to her. She returned his look with grave worry—but he just inhaled the air.

It felt as though something was calling to him. This moment—this place was perfect.

“Garen would have loved it here. I’m going, Chieftain. Redfangs. Guard her.

He lifted his sword overhead—and then Snapjaw heard a screech. Icecube was roaring so loudly that Jeckel, in Elirr’s shop, began to scream too. But it was accompanied by dozens of wolf-howls.

The Liscorians, the watchers, looked at that Goblin as he raised one blade overhead. And then…Numbtongue saw it.

The [Bard]’s lips moved as Reiss’ ghost looked up—and Pyrite and Shorthilt turned. For they saw another ghost in Redscar’s shadow.

“It should have been like that. All along.”

Reiss whispered in the [Soulbard]’s ear, and Numbtongue nodded. A Chieftain on the hill—and her champion, a warrior of blades. It had not happened the right way the first time.

Now—Redscar began walking down the hill, but each step carried him down. Faster. Faster. As if he couldn’t wait, and his grin was all sharp teeth.

He leapt down as Thunderfur howled, and the first person he met was a famous name. He had been hiding his true power—but the Gnoll who had rode in just in the wake of the Swordsman of Six had been lucky enough to be in the region.

He was Gadiekh, the Worldpact Adventurer. And though he did not have his Bow of Quexals, nor the Serpentarrows of Baleros, nor his blade from the Blighted Kingdom or Armor of the Dunes from Chandrar—

The Gnoll looked up and saw the Goblin coming down upon him. He lifted his blade and roared.

“[Battle Stance: Vow of the Knight]!”

He held himself like a rock, and the Goblin descended on him. Gadiekh cut across the air, and the sound it made was like a great tearing of space. Redscar—-

Redscar danced. So fast and so close that Gadiekh realized he’d made two mistakes.

The Goblin had no fear of his life. 

[Crimson Whirls My Blade].

The Skill appeared over the Goblin’s head, but he made no sound as he came at Gadiekh, blades moving in sync.

Poetry? From a Goblin?

The Gnoll cried out and made his second mistake as he raised a blade to block one sword. Redscar’s sword met his—and Gadiekh heard the crack of his sword breaking. He stared at it in horror—for he had trusted too long to Relics and artifacts.

But Redscar had held a rusted piece of iron in place of a blade. He lanced across Gadiekh’s chest, and the Gnoll fell back, reaching for a backup blade. But the Goblin knew neither mercy nor sportsmanship.

Only blood.

 

——

 

A Named-rank adventurer fell so fast that half the audience barely realized what had been done. He had not proclaimed himself—but people like Barnethei’s blood ran cold. It had been more than an unlucky blade that sealed the Gnoll’s fate.

That Goblin kept going. He arose with a deep wound on his arm and barely glanced at it but to bind it with a piece of cloth. Then he charged forwards.

Straight into Pallass’ lines. The Drakes and Gnolls looked up as a Goblin leapt at them. They would have surrounded him, tried to bring him down with tactics and numbers—but they had more problems.

Numbtongue was glancing down—and he saw Tyrion Veltras backing up. Aldonss, Rafaema, and the rest of the [Soldiers] of Manus had fared better than Pallass. They were the City of War—and they were advancing on Tyrion as Jericha and six remaining House Veltras soldiers not too wounded to keep fighting tried to get to him.

Someone else had the same idea.

To Tyrion Veltras!

The Favor of the North, Caleis, was urging Colth, Rasen, and Teithde to save Tyrion. The Ultimate Supporter was reluctant—the Champions of the Coast, likewise.

Well, Rasen was. His wife looked as excited as could be by the fighting. Despite possibly being the weakest of the four, Teithde was fighting without fear, and the four Named-ranks hadn’t taken a single wound so far.

Rafaema, Named-ranks!

Aldonss swore as she stormed at Tyrion. He was trying to catch his breath—he had a huge gash on his arm and another on his leg and back—but none of the wounds were bleeding. Probably [Bloodless Wounds].

The Lightning Dragon turned, and even her heart sank as the four Named-ranks halted and Tyrion swung his shield up. The [Lord] focused on them—then barked.

Behind you!

All four Named-ranks dodged—but it was too slow even so. The first blade was a greatsword. It flashed through the air as someone hurled it. Zeter, the Swordsman of Six, cut with a scimitar next and a shortsword in his other hand.

He lopped Teithde’s arm off at the elbow, and she screamed. Colth’s eyes went wide as Caleis cried out; the greatsword had torn a hole in his side.

Teithde!

Rasen howled as the Swordsman of Six leapt forwards. He had woken up. And the Named-rank woman was missing her arm—

You bastard, that hurt!

Teithde lifted her stump and sprayed the Swordsman of Six with her own blood. Even Manus’ soldiers couldn’t believe that.

She was a Named-rank. But even for them, she was mad! The Swordsman of Six engaged the other three Named-ranks as Rasen tried to drag his wife to safety.

And while they did that—Tyrion Veltras was facing all of Manus. Aldonss calmly pointed his blade at Tyrion.

“On my mark—”

Two Drakes with spears on his left. Rafaema was ready to breathe lightning with Aldonss in front, and another [Soldier] had a knife to throw. She felt—slightly embarrassed—but this was a battle.

Ressa and the [Maids] were locked in place. Symphony had decided to object to their presence, and the Maestro himself was fighting Ressa.

Tyrion Veltras. Alone at last. He looked about, but Jericha had fallen. Eldavin had run into House Veltras and hadn’t even stopped.

Who else would help him? The [Lord] looked around, and his eyes blazed in a cold mask of fury.

“Come, then, Manus. Time to avenge our debts.”

Then—Rafaema realized he hadn’t quit out of bravado or some sense of not wanting to look poorly. He just wanted to stab them all.

She inhaled—and Aldonss, who had been watching their backs as he lifted his sword, cursed.

“Now? Who is—rear, rea—”

The [Soldiers] of Manus turned. They could handle Ullim—but the old man had already retreated, seeing how deadly this battlefield could be. House Veltras was not better than they were, nor were any number of [Crusaders] save for the Antinium’s best.

But the Minotaur with one arm just ignored the spear that rammed his shoulder. He snapped the staff, slammed the Drake into the ground with one fist—then he swung his axe.

“Do you have. No. Honor?

Calruz of Minos roared it in the third Drake’s face, spraying the Drake with spittle. Rafaema just stared. Then she opened her mouth.

The first bolt of lightning hit the Minotaur and sent him stumbling back. But he shook himself—then roared.

[Thunder Hammer’s Blow]!

“Ff—”

Rafaema went deaf as the battleaxe came down and part of the ground exploded. The Minotaur went into Manus’ lines, fearless, and Aldonss cursed a blue streak.

Another high-level [Warrior]? Where—

Tyrion Veltras saw Calruz surge out of the fighting as he disarmed a [Soldier] of Manus. Tyrion slashed across the Drake’s shoulders, hesitated as he raised his sword—and the Minotaur and the [Lord] faced each other.

“I am on your side.”

Calruz exhaled, steaming in the cold with fury. His eyes—weren’t red with berserk rage. Tyrion Veltras stared at him, then saluted him.

“Who are you? Why are you siding with me?”

To show you I have some honor left.

That was all the Minotaur said—then Manus charged them. Calruz whirled his axe. He couldn’t defend himself, but his scarred hide—he ignored a dagger that glanced off his skin, as tough as steel. Tyrion was faster—he dodged Aldonss as the Drake’s sword shrieked off his shield. Then he jerked.

“[Slash: Delayed Explosion].”

Tyrion’s back slammed into the ground, and he blocked the sword aimed down at his pelvis as Aldonss tried to stab down.

“We don’t need more Veltras children.”

The Wall Lord ducked as a blow cut the air. Then he dodged back as Calruz came swinging in. Tyrion rose, and the Minotaur put his back to Tyrion’s. Someone else was attacking Manus.

Tyrion Veltras! Face me! I am Venaz of House Minos!

“Another one.”

Tyrion muttered. A furious Minotaur was fighting his way up the hill, tangling with Manus’ [Soldiers]. Calruz grunted.

Him. I’ll have words with him as well. Lord Veltras—do you see my honor?”

He looked at Tyrion, his blue eyes blazing. The [Lord] was confused—but he knew Minotaurs, and he nodded his head, exhaling hard as sweat ran down his neck and back, matting his hair. Grit and blood in his clothes.

Dead gods, he felt alive and young again.

“I do.”

Calruz lifted his axe, and Tyrion almost tensed—but the Minotaur pointed it. Across the hill.

Then believe me when I say they have it too!

Tyrion’s head turned, and he stared at the Antinium in the distance. The Beriad were engaging Lulv. And—a Drake [Strategos] was ordering the Antinium off the field.

Olesm. He had personally authorized a certain Minotaur’s entry into the battle. Calruz stared at Tyrion’s look of bewilderment. Then he plunged towards the other Minotaur.

Venaz! We have not finished things!

“Ah. Oop—”

The two Minotaurs went crashing down the hill as Calruz shoulder-charged into Venaz. Leaving Tyrion alone again. He was so startled—he nearly missed Aldonss coming up behind him.

The Wall Lord wasn’t as much of a close-combat specialist as Tyrion, but Tyrion had lost many of his levels. The two struck and parried at each other, and they were evenly matched.

Aldonss was the power of the walls. His sword could leave an explosive attack on things he cut. He could call for showers of bolts or reinforcements.

So the Wall Lord was intrigued why Tyrion seemed so—weak.

“You should be better without your horse. Holding back? [Push the Ranks].”

His own shield came up, and he heaved with such force he could disrupt an enemy formation with it—or throw a man a good dozen feet. Tyrion rolled as he came up, and his sword leapt up.

[Piercing Thrust].

The blade went through Aldonss’ shield and into the Drake’s forearm. The Drake snarled. The two were locked together, shoving with their shields, trying to create an opening to stab the other through.

And Tyrion was—frustrated. He was burning with energy. The same restlessness in his blood, an inexhaustible supply compared to the older man he had been.

He hadn’t realized the difference youth made. Aldonss himself looked—if not tired, then as if he were guarding his energy, like the trained warrior he was.

The Drake grunted as the younger [Lord]’s feet churned into the dirt, shoving at him. A firebrand—he shoved back with all his force, and the [Lord] was pushed back—and the Human hit Aldonss again, slamming his shield into the Drake’s arm. The Wall Lord twisted out of the way of a cut.

A firebrand with the Skill of a veteran! A nightmare for Manus! Twenty more years of this monster growing in strength unless he was taken out.

Yet—the frustration was written on the Human’s face in his cold snarl. The sword stabbed again, and Aldonss turned it.

“[Dragonscale Patch].”

His scales glimmered and became harder than steel across his side where the blade cut once more. He was definitely losing the contest of blades. But the [Lord] who had slain Luciva’s daughter—

He should have been better than this. All the pieces were there, but it was like Lulv without the spear arts. Deadly—fast and filled with boundless energy.

Not capable of taking Aldonss’ life without a Skill. The Wall Lord raised his sword.

[Fire From the Walls]!

<Quest: Skill disabled.>

Wall Lord Aldonss cursed. Then his sword began to glow.

[Armaments of the Lightning Dragon]. The Level 51 [Lord of the Walls]’ eyes glowed as Tyrion stared at the blade and shield coated in…

He really wished he had his enchanted items. The [Lord] croaked.

“[Summon…]”

<Quest: Skill disabled.>

Aldonss’ first strike made all of Tyrion’s hair stand on end, and he felt the charge. He was even faster now—and the only thing that saved Tyrion was his new Skill.

[A Second of Time]. The [Lord] stabbed the Drake in the leg—and that slowed him.

“Not bad. But something’s off.”

The Wall Lord glowed with the lightning as Tyrion backed up. If they locked blades—Tyrion didn’t doubt what would happen.

If he had his lance, he would have been able to use his new Skill. If he had a horse…Tyrion Veltras didn’t dare speak his next Skill.

[Ten-Foot Slash]. [Repel Point]—

His Skills were weaker—but he knew this. Aldonss had to block a slash from afar—but he did it expecting Tyrion to be electrocuted. But the lightning bounced away from Tyrion’s blade, and he aimed a [Lunging Strike] straight at—

Aldonss stepped back. He grunted as the tip, only the very tip of Tyrion’s sword, cut into his breast.

That…was Tyrion’s chance. Now, the lightning crackled as Aldonss charged. The [Lord] swung his shield up. Take it. Take it and—

Aldonss swung his sword down as Tyrion’s shield and sword came up. And the two [Lords]’ blades met silver in the air.

Klbkch the Slayer landed. Then he struck right and left.

“Heh.”

Tyrion Veltras tasted a burning cut and a cold blade in his arm. Aldonss deflected a slash.

Slayer!

Klbkch’s second cut nearly took his arm off. The Slayer whirled his blades left, and Tyrion’s [Fourfold Strike]—

He blocked each one. The [Lord]’s sword darted high and low, like a minnow, as the Wall Lord’s lightning blade clashed against the silver metal of Klbkch’s swords. He was between them and—

Fighting both at the same time. The Slayer was making a fluttering insect sound.

He was laughing. The lightning was refusing to run down Klbkch’s swords. How? A Skill? Were they enchanted?

Or were they made of something ancient—but unenchanted? Klbkch stabbed Tyrion again, then hit Aldonss so hard the Drake reeled and stared down at his shield with a cut halfway through it.

“I know both of you. This should prove I’m not old.”

He was speaking—madness. Was he really—? Tyrion’s blood boiled as the Slayer held out his swords, each one facing a different direction. He stood between the Drake and the Human, and they attacked at the same time. And Klbkch kept laughing.

 

——

 

Calruz hoped he had done something. But Tyrion was alone. He—was busy fighting with Venaz.

The other Minotaur had lost his greatsword when Calruz slammed into him. Now, he had two hands on Calruz’s battleaxe, and the two were fighting for it.

Venaz couldn’t believe it, but even with two arms—he wrenched left, and Calruz headbutted him. The [Strategist] stumbled back, but he held onto the axe. Then he began punching Calruz with his free hand until he realized he needed two hands to stop the axe from being wrenched free.

The two were stumbling, tumbling around—kneeing each other, literally smashing heads as they fought.

Calruz—enough! I’m avenging Erin Solstice’s honor—

There is no honor on this battlefield. Olesm sees it! So does anyone with eyes!

The Beriad were holding Lulv off so the rest of their kin could make it to safety. Olesm—had come to tell the Antinium to stop this pointless, bloody battle. Calruz had come to prove a point to Tyrion in the only language the man knew. To make a difference for those brave children.

And to punch Venaz in the face. He did just that as Venaz wrenched the axe free.

Calruz’s fist crashed into Venaz’s nose, and the other bull-man reeled. Then Calruz grabbed the haft of the axe again and kneed Venaz in the groin.

“You intended to leave? Without passing judgment on me?

Calruz was furious. He slammed Venaz into the ground, and the [Strategist] kicked him back. The axe went flying—and both Minotaurs didn’t go for it. They just raised their fists. They charged—and Venaz grabbed Calruz with two arms as Calruz tried to grab Venaz by the throat.

I already rendered my judgment. I thought you understood the concept of implication!

Calruz snarled.

“I begged for an arbiter of the Beriad—”

And I didn’t kill you! What did you think—that—meant?

Venaz punctuated his comments with a punch to Calruz’s gut. He ate an uppercut as he tried to follow it up. The furious [Prisoner] roared.

You play games with me? My honor is on the line. My salvation—and you just walk—”

He came at Venaz, intending to slam the Minotaur again, but Venaz threw a series of punches that made Calruz slow and raise a hand to shield his face. Then the two were literally locked at the horns as they tried again to knock the other down.

“Honor? Honor is something we all struggle with! I could never give you redemption in a moment—even if I carried your axe! You fool! Keep struggling! The King herself said so!”

“She d—”

Venaz threw an elbow, then another punch. Calruz was on his back now, and Venaz mounted him and began to throw a series of punches—until both brawlers heard something.

<Quest: Disqualified.>

Venaz looked up. And he realized they hadn’t been fighting with a blade for a good two minutes. He sensed a glow and swore.

“Oh—”

 

——

 

The sight of two Minotaurs being kicked across the grass like dolls was the funniest thing Toren had seen all day. He slapped his ribs as he laughed. Especially the one-armed one.

He hated that guy. No, wait, he respected him? He felt bad for him?

Emotions were hard. No consistency.

He was hearing a lot of chatter from the commentators. Everyone was saying things like the Dullahan in Mithril armor, who was agreeing with Bethal Walchaís. Well, her husband was supposed to be commentating, but Bethal was louder.

“Someone stop this madness! Regardless of the Skill—”

Liscorians were calling for the same thing. But it could not be stopped, and the fighting…

The fighting was vicious. The scrying orb cut to an image of Typhenous surrounded by Symphony. He was lashing out with his knives—and they were stabbing him. The man to start the fight backed up as a Drake chose this moment to run him through the back.

Sword Lieutenant Comois had three approaches. Either he disarmed fellow Drakes or people he liked, he wounded others enough to force them to quit—or he lopped a limb off someone he didn’t like.

The bleeding [Knifefighter] might have been in the first or second category—but Typhenous kept fighting—and he slashed a knife across Comois’ cheek so deep it showed the Drakes’ snarling teeth and gums. Then Comois lifted his blade and pointed to Typhenous’ legs.

There was no honor here—but had anyone expected any? Maybe idiots, but from Erin? Erin didn’t fight with honor. She fought, and if there was one thing Toren respected about her, it was that.

But that festival of blades called to him. Just like it called to the others, in the blood now gushing…so loudly that the Maestro, Tyrion Veltras, Lulv, wouldn’t quit.

Couldn’t. And if you could go…

Toren turned his head left, and the argument between the ghost and the Necromancer ended.

“You are breaking the spirit of the quest. I know rules. A puppet is still a proxy.”

“I will take that risk. [Diamond Body]. [Barrier of the Damned].”

A wall of bones rose around Az’kerash, and his body shone in Toren’s gaze as the Necromancer gestured to his own view of the battle. A Drake with a rapier tried to walk into the Festival of Blades.

The puppet made it about five steps before something decided this was not okay.

<Quest: Entry denied.>

Now, wasn’t that interesting? The ghost watched as the Necromancer’s puppet jerked back. The crossbow Skill from Aldonss was allowed—the [Wail of Agony] from the First Flute was a combat Skill—but no support from the walls. Magical legs? Fine. Selphid bodies, fine.

No puppets. The ruling was…inconsistent. But it fascinated Nerrhavia so much her stitches would have tingled if she had a body, because she sensed a—deliberation behind this.

And it went after Az’kerash. Practically no one noticed the puppet go sprawling in the grass—but what Nerrhavia and Toren saw was the same kind of—

Light? It wasn’t yellow or white as Toren saw it. It was more like the idea of light, and he wasn’t even sure it was light itself. It gathered around Az’kerash and, like the others—kicked him in the chest.

Of course, the Necromancer was dead. Plus, he had enchanted himself just in case he was penalized, and he didn’t even move, just sighed as he stared at the battlefield.

“Then young Pisces is the only other qualified duelist on the field. I suppose you are right, Nerrhav—”

He was standing back, disappointed beyond belief, when Toren, Az’kerash, and Nerrhavia noticed the glow wasn’t fading.

It…pulsed a second. As if something were realizing that it hadn’t really gotten Az’kerash. There was a moment of reconsideration. Nerrhavia slowly moved to the far edge of her prison, and Toren decided—

Az’kerash was whispering another spell when the light flared

 

——

 

Venitra, Oom, Ijvani, and the other Chosen were in the courtyard of the castle, watching the scrying orb there. Devail was unhappy because Az’kerash had told him it was ‘too risky’ for him to enter.

The tower where Az’kerash worked loomed above the castle, and the rest of the damage Belavierr and the creation of other Chosen had caused was all repaired, almost unnotic—

The earth quaked, and the undead above and buried beneath it shifted. A nearby Drake town felt the reverberations.

When Venitra picked herself up and looked up, she saw the hole in the side of the tower. A body had hit the reinforced masonry and gone through it and hit the ground so hard as to cause the earthquake. And—she stared at the shattered tower and then the crater fifteen feet deep.

“Master?”

 

——

 

Punishment to those who interfered. The only thing that could make Visophecin look up from his enraptured stare of the scrying orb was a brief—tremor—that ran through House Shoel’s mansion.

“…Didn’t we have earthquake wards in Ailendamus?”

Azemith looked up suddenly, but Visophecin was already on his feet. It didn’t take him long to pinpoint the origin of the tremors.

The palace in Ailendamus and the wing destroyed by the assassination attempt on Oesca was in the middle of rebuilding. Which was why the [Architect] in charge was really unhappy to see another hole in the wall of the palace.

The Wyrm, thankfully, regained consciousness before anyone spotted his head poking through the wall.

 

——

 

There weren’t many experts on the field. Most couldn’t attend. And some who tried—

Suffered.

Lulv knew this abstractly. He was grinning. His blood was racing, and he was alive.

The Antinium were in full retreat, but he was still cutting off limbs. He—was one of the best fighters present, and so were Aldonss and Rafaema. With Zeter—

Blood. Blood welling beneath his feet, in his fur. The [Spearmaster] had fought and nearly died on battlefields like this. No wonder even [Duelists] and adventurers fled.

This was a war! A battlefield! The Gnoll’s spear was howling when he sensed his real opponent. He stopped, and a Drake lifted his spear.

“You know, I really don’t like you.”

Senior Guardsman Relc stared at the Gnoll covered in blood. Relc had been helping the Watch get to safety—until he saw Lulv tearing up the Antinium. Indeed, Klbkch had stopped kicking around Tyrion and Aldonss as he saw the carnage.

Gecko. Let’s see who wins this time.”

Lulv whirled, teeth bared. This time—he wouldn’t let Relc engage in a fistfight. And he might have ten levels on Relc.

The Drake seemed to know it, too. But he set himself. The [Spearmaster of the Wolf] leapt at him.

He was a [Spearmaster] who specialized in overwhelming attacks. He could cleave through the battlefield—bring his foes down with terrible wounds.

Relc? He was fast. But he hadn’t advanced his class. His [Triple Thrust] Skill was—

—Not good enough. He didn’t have enough spear arts.

They locked blades, and Relc nearly lost his tail to Lulv’s [Scythe of the Field].

[Spear Art: Fangs of The Dire Wolf]! Relc swore. [Spear Dance: The Fish Leap]—

The two spear arts collided, but his was evasive and Lulv’s—hunting. He tore a chunk out of Relc’s shoulder. The Drake was sturdy and stacked low-level Skills, but Lulv was the [Spearmaster] of Manus.

He needed to rescue Aldonss and take out Tyrion and the Slayer. The Gecko could dance—but even as a famous headhunter, he hadn’t met enough experts. He was pushing himself back, using a fanciful spear-dance to use the spear like a leg to kick himself back through the air. Lulv raised his spear.

[Throw of the Wyvern Hunter]!

He threw his spear, kicked another one into his hands, and the Drake blocked the spear—but he landed off-balance, knocked down. Lulv was almost on all fours, like a wolf.

Legs.

“[Spear Art—]”

The third speartip was nearly inserted up his rectum when he noticed the presence behind him. The holder followed her jab up with a full extension of her spear, and the Gnoll howled as he dodged the attack just in time.

Who—

Tekshia Shivertail’s spear dance was fast and short. The former Gold-rank adventurer’s slashes mostly cut fur—but Lulv felt his fur open up and blood well forth.

The first blood he’d shed so far! If that had been her famous, fiery spear—

Tekshia Shivertail!

“Gecko, you’re letting the city down.”

“Thanks—Tekshia.”

Relc was on his feet. Suddenly—Lulv was reminded of something. Liscor had two—

“[Relc Feint]!”

A voice roared, and the Gnoll twisted, realized what Relc had s—

Both [Spearmasters] unleashed their Skills from two sides. Good as Lulv was—the Gnoll blocked a series of blurring stabs from Relc, twisted under a guillotine strike—and Relc kept stabbing.

Unending stabs—Lulv stumbled back with a hole in his arm, and Tekshia slashed one leg.

“Think I got a tendon. Careful. Don’t bruise the meat. Braise, braise.”

“My shoulder’s braised!”

“Suck it up.”

They were teaming up on him! The Gnoll was less outraged than worried. He stumbled back—and the two crossed spears as they struck.

They must have trained together! He escaped the second dance, stumbling, and one of his arms felt dead. Pinpoint strike. He looked between the two, snarling.

Did he surrender? Would that work? He couldn’t die or lose a limb here. And Rafaema and Aldonss—but Tekshia was eying him, and Relc was panting, looking behind Lulv.

“Tekshia—”

“Silence, Relc. This isn’t about you. You are Spearmaster Relc. And I am Spearmaster Tekshia of Liscor. This fool hunted our army—I’d make it so he never sits comfortably again, but this isn’t about that, either.”

Her eyes were glowing. Glowing…and Lulv was wondering what she meant until he realized that the glow wasn’t just a Skill or her emotions. It was literal—and pink. Relc hesitated—then he lowered his spear as Tekshia did the same.

“A [Spearmaster] is still a [Spearmaster], even wounded. And Lulv is good enough to fight with one arm. Nevertheless—your turn, girl.

She stepped back, and Lulv whirled about. He recognized the face.

The red scales—not the spear burning with pink fire. But he saw the people behind her. Audience—not on the field, but he knew them.

Three hundred [Soldiers] of Liscor were on their feet. But it was 4th Company, Skywalker’s Company, who was screaming the loudest. The Antinium too. Embraim and his Antinium were cheering the Drake holding the spear aloft.

After all—even if Wing Commanders Narkr and Xith were appalled to have Antinium cheering the Drake standing there, they couldn’t help but shout.

Because the [Spear of Glory], [Wing Commander] Embria, was walking towards Spearmaster Lulv.

A former [Spear Hunter]—but one of the best Drakes in Liscor’s army with a spear. Yet she would not, could not obtain the next class. Like the bells of [Duelists], there was only one way to advance her class.

“This is a [Spearmaster]’s challenge!”

Tekshia shouted, and the audience roared as Embria locked eyes with Lulv. He had bested her during the war. Now—the wounded Gnoll lifted his spear one handed and howled at the sky.

Relc watched his daughter advance, and he had no more taste for blood. No more…he looked at his partner, Klbkch. And the Slayer stood there.

 

——

 

Tyrion Veltras had run away. Klbkch had let him go because it was more fun taking on all of Manus himself. Only that odd one had left, the Drake girl with the sword, after Tyrion.

Wall Lord Aldonss was bleeding from three dozen cuts, and he couldn’t keep fighting. Klbkch had quite enjoyed the feeling of…

Completeness. Not fully—but he could move like he wanted to. He might not have his Skills back, but he had proven it didn’t matter.

I still have it. I’m not old. That was Klbkch’s entire point to entering this festival. Just vanity. Just a sense of loss and wanting to prove he was still the Centenium he remembered.

…That was, until he saw the green blood on the grass. And he saw how many Antinium were lying, hurt, on the grass.

Who had done that? Manus? No, they had been mostly on the defensive. The adventurers? Some had clashed with the Antinium, but most had actually quit the field. Only Colth was still there—dodging back from the Swordsman of Six. The Favor of the North had retreated rather than risk his limbs.

So—the answer was Pallass. Pallass had largely pulled its officers off the field. The [Generals], everyone Chaldion had deemed too important to risk maiming. But at least one [Lieutenant] was there—and their [Soldiers] were fighting.

They might not have armor, but their levels were still higher on average than the new Antiniums’. And they had left a trail of blood in their wake.

Just Soldiers. Just Workers. Klbkch saw them holding their wounds, the rest being attacked as Olesm tried to pull them off the field. A [Sergeant] was leading nearly forty lower-level [Soldiers] forwards.

Command Skills. He was empowering them Liscor-style to cut down Painted Antinium. Klbkch saw them bleeding and flinching as they were cut—without dying—by the soldiers.

Their limbs would heal. And they were just Antinium. Silently, Klbkch stared at them. He turned his back a second.

“Just—”

‘May I call you ‘father’?’

Silly, stupid Anand. Klbkch turned his head back, and the [Sergeant] looked around wildly.

“My [Dangersense]—”

The Free Antinium on the field looked up. The remaining forces of Pallass looked up as Chaldion began barking orders.

Fall back! All forces—

Too late. He did not leap into the fray like some great grasshopper or flying bird. He just ran. Ran, with two silver blades trailing behind him.

Like a silver mantis’ claws. Like an insect from an ancient age. He left a trail behind him in the wind and grass. His kin, Xrn, Wrymvr, and the Queens watched. Xrniavxxel whispered softly.

At last. The Slayer.

The [Command Sergeant] saw the blur coming his way and raised a claw to point. He stared at the stump on his wrist—and then Klbkch brought his blade down again. Again and again and again—

The squad of six stared down at the severed arms, claws still clutching their blades. Then they made sounds as animal, as old and primordial as pain. The Slayer lifted those blades and turned.

“Your legs.”

He swept them across one [Soldier]—and then advanced on the others. So fast they were still hearing Chaldion’s call to run.

He could not kill them all—but he could hurt them.

Hurt them as badly as they had hurt his people. Fair was fair. Klbkch’s blades lifted as Pallass found itself under attack by silver.

 

——

 

Silver and steel. Someone else was rampaging amongst the Pallassian [Soldiers]. She had gone berserk, and not even Ksmvr could stop her.

It wasn’t because of her wounds, though she was bleeding. Her arms had gashes on them, but they morphed into spikes—lancing Drakes and Gnolls—into blades that telescoped for dozens of feet. She was a whirlwind of metal.

The Silver Killer of Izril. Yvlon Byres.

All the Antinium, downed and bleeding. They looked like Ksmvr to her. She had lost herself in a rage, throwing herself at Pallass’ [Soldiers]. Now—between her and Klbkch, they were in full retreat.

But Yvlon didn’t see them—or the other adventurers.

Yvlon, stop—

Ksmvr was shouting, but Pekona dragged him back. She had a long cut down one arm from her duel, which she had broken off. Now, she shouted at him.

Your friend has gone mad—a calming Skill. Does anyone have one?

Ksmvr looked at Pekona. The two of them had taken fewer wounds. But Yvlon—

Yvlon Byres ran at a figure standing over an old man in a trail of blood. Typhenous was on his back.

The [Lieutenant of Perfection], Comois, turned as Yvlon Byres saw him. She pointed—and a finger pierced the place his chest had been. He actually parried it—and when one hand raised a blade—

Yvlon wasn’t using her sword arts. She couldn’t. She just swung at him as he slashed at her arms—and Comois snarled wider.

Adventurers.

He hacked at her arm—realized he couldn’t cut through the silver metal—and dodged a swing. Ksmvr was running at him when Comois swung his blade down.

“Idiot.”

Yvlon stumbled, charged at him, and fell on her face. She looked back blankly, and Ksmvr made a sound.

Her foot stood there in the grass. The [Sword Lieutenant] had cut it off at the ankle. Yvlon looked up—and he stabbed her through the flesh part of her shoulder. Then he deflected a sword.

Ksmvr’s screech was followed by his most wild attack. It nearly—nearly cost him his own legs as Comois cut, but Pekona parried it.

Get back!

Ksmvr was shielding Yvlon, who was staring at her foot. Comois just stepped back.

“Slayer, next. But first—”

He looked down at Typhenous. The old man was barely breathing, but he had cut Comois across his face, and another dagger had wounded the Drake’s side. The only two wounds Comois had. The Drake aimed at the old man’s legs. So long as he was conceivably alive and not dead from the stroke—

 

——

 

Stop!”

Revi was screaming at Comois. The adventurers were on their feet, but Pekona was trying to pick up Yvlon’s foot. She didn’t seem to realize the Drake was no honorable bladesman.

Pisces? Revi looked around as the adventurers howled at the Drake. Jelaqua was out. Seborn separated. Moore himself was running down as Gire tried to stop him.

The [Lieutenant of Perfection] aimed down at Typhenous’ legs—then twisted. Pisces lunged out of the grass, and the Drake knocked his blade aside. Without [Flash Step], Pisces couldn’t—Comois kicked a second blade up, swung it down as he slashed at Pisces.

It never reached its target. Typhenous was staring up, teeth gritted, when the [Lieutenant] staggered. Pisces had slashed his sword-hand, and a shard of silver metal had pierced one foot.

Yvlon’s hand. But the Drake looked up, mystified. As if the blade buried halfway through his neck was the most offensive thing anyone could have done and he had been innocent of the rest.

“You c—”

The words bubbled with blood around the edge of Halrac Everam’s sword. Revi halted her mad run towards Typhenous. Briganda had shielded Cade’s eyes the entire time—

The adventurers went still. The [Bowman of Loss] had seen Typhenous go down and started running the moment he saw what Comois was doing. But unlike the others—

A killing blow. It might not have been the first so far—but it was the first deliberate blow. Chaldion’s head snapped around as Edellein roared.

Comois!

The peerless swordsman of the 4th Army fell. Halrac stared at the dead Drake, then reached down for Typhenous. The old man looked at his Captain.

“Idiot.”

But Halrac hadn’t even hesitated. The man froze as light enveloped him. Brighter—no. More intense than anyone else. He looked up—and everyone around him heard a word.

Echoing in their heads like an announcement.

<DISQUALIFIED.>

The [Bowman] jerked back, as if trying to d—

He vanished. Leaving nothing behind. No whisper. No trace. He was just gone, and Typhenous’ bloody fingers scrabbled in the grass.

“Halrac? Halrac?

He did not reappear. No one—Revi dragged Typhenous to safety as this festival began to come to a close.

 

——

 

The blood was a stream, and now a river.

Erin Solstice sat in the common room of her inn. She couldn’t bear to look at it any more. She was—trying to stop it.

But she couldn’t. And something was dawning. The blood—

The blood made Fierre want to drink. But even she saw what was coming.

The last fighters were cutting each other to pieces. It was no longer a game. It had never been a game.

When the Goblins moved, it was because someone attacked them. And it was shameful because it was Archmage Eldavin.

Him of all? The Unicorn stared at the half-Elf, and he knew that was not Teriarch. Because he scattered the Goblins, left the Chieftain bleeding as he wounded Badarrow, stabbing him through one knee.

Not killing strokes or even the same level of maiming as that [Sword Lieutenant]. But effortlessly. He went after the other adventurers next, as if just picking and choosing targets.

The Goblins broke up—and ran straight into Eldavin’s guests. Greysten. Pertheine. Viltach.

That was their mistake. Ser Greysten was trying to call out.

“We want to—”

He nearly lost his head. Pertheine backed up as Numbtongue swung at her, and Snapjaw, Peggy, and half a dozen Redfangs covered Rags and Badarrow being carried away. But only one Goblin faced Greysten.

The Summer’s Champion had two axes he held in each hand. He glanced at the figure who had nearly cut him down and saw—

Redscar had two blades. One longer, a longsword—the other a shortsword’s length. Just like Garen’s blade and the other enchanted sword he carried.

The Goblin’s eyes were glowing. Ser Greysten swore as he lifted his axes. When he and Redscar met, blood flew from the first chop.

Th-this is—

Viltach was trying to support Pertheine. The Spring’s Warden was taking on six Hobs at a time! He had been frozen half the battle. And because of that, Viltach, like someone thinking he was dreaming when it was reality—had not realized the gravitas of this situation.

He was trapped in the nightmares of his youth, and when it came upon him, he fought as if he were in a war. But he should have run.

Someone moved to his left as the Spring’s Warden unfolded a [Blade Dance] that lashed out like a hundred dandelion seeds, scattering slashes through the air. A Goblin leapt back—and Numbtongue and Viltach locked eyes.

The Archmage of Terandria swung first. He hacked down, and Numbtongue dove away, cursing. Viltach opened up Numbtongue’s back with a second slice and raised his sword.

Shorthilt rose. He parried the third strike and drew his sword back. Then he flicked it up.

He cut Viltach’s arm off, and the Archmage stared at it for a long time in disbelief.

 

——

 

“Father!”

Somewhere, a chorus of voices arose. The bloodless Viltach’s face stared at Numbtongue as the Goblin lowered his blade, away from a killing stroke.

Everyone forgot Viltach was a—the man slumped over as Pertheine cursed and fought the Hobgoblins back to drag him to safety.

Ser Greysten? He was bleeding. So was Redscar as the two struck each other. They leaned on each other, so close that Greysten felt like he could feel the other Goblin’s heart beating.

He kept trying to make room—neither had space to do more than cut with their blades—but the Goblin refused to back up.

Like Gadiekh—the [Knight] realized his mistake. He and Redscar were perhaps equal in battle experience, in practice. Maybe Greysten had the advantage in years.

But he was used to armor. He twisted as Redscar slashed across his chest, going for his organs. The Summer’s Champion struck back, but the Goblin just twisted as a blade rammed into his ribs and lodged there.

One of them embraced the blows. Took one to lance a needle straight into Greysten’s gut. He was laughing. He was—

Summer faltered on that hill as the Order of Seasons watched their champion duel. Only a single Goblin, a [Knight] among them, was screaming his heart out. Be it a mere Goblin, a war leader of a band of raiders—

He could blaze brighter than the summer’s heat.

 

——

 

Rivers, now. Rivers of ichor.

The [Pirate] had joined Colth and was trying to fight off Zeter. The Swordsman of Six was trying to end his enemies.

Humans. Colth had half a dozen wounds, but he refused to quit. He was the [Supporter] of legends—but he was facing a [Blademaster]. The raking cuts along Zeter’s arms proved that Colth had put up a fight where his peers had quit—but Zeter was determined to end things on his terms.

Like a bullying bastard with a blade. Wailant had jumped in, thinking he could tilt the scales—and realized he was out of his depth.

“Humans—”

The Swordsman of Six could use six swords at once. Make the others hover and attack. He cut Wailant so fast the [Pirate] barely felt it. He only noticed the trail of blood when Seborn appeared.

“Bastard—”

Colth just fell over as Zeter lifted his sword into the air. Blood loss had taken Colth out. Zeter looked like a gladiator of Manus, and he had decided to take a limb from each. Cripple his foes. He needed to take out Wailant and Seborn.

“[Pirate], go left—”

“Argh, okay!”

Seborn was a [Rogue]. Seborn, a [Pirate] on his own terms. They were no strangers to the dance on the decks—but Wailant realized he should have given Zeter the dues he would a bladesman at sea.

He was impossibly fast. He blocked Seborn’s flurrying stabs, caught him in the shadows, and Wailant’s scimitar halted as he brought it down with all his force against the Drake’s greatsword.

“You’re not Named-ranks. You don’t deserve this.”

Zeter kicked Seborn hard enough to send the Drowned Man rolling. Wailant lifted his sword.

“We—surrender. Just let us get Colth out. There’s no need for blood, man.”

The Drake was panting, and he looked at Wailant with that damned blank stare of a [Soldier] who saw only enemies.

“Are you mad? You think we’ll pass up this opportunity?”

He flicked a claw, and a long dagger hit Wailant in the shoulder. He went down, howling, and swore he heard his wife and daughter’s voices.

Not here. Garia wouldn’t last—Klbkch was slicing up Pallass. Half the people here had gone mad with the frenzy.

Like Bloodfeast Raiders. He saw Zeter standing over him as Colth rose like a zombie. But he had no chance, no chance, even with Seborn—

Wailant was trying to hold one of Zeter’s blades in his shoulder rather than let the Named-rank yank it free. He was braced—braced with terror for the blow that would take a limb for life. He’d never afford healing, and the Healer of Tenbault couldn’t—

The blow never came. What he did hear was a curse and the ringing of blades so loud and fast that Wailant knew it had to be a Named-rank. Pisces? Then he saw a green leg in his vision and felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Get up and run!”

Numbtongue? 

It was! A Goblin threw himself at the Swordsman of Six, and Zeter heard a whuff as a blade came at his head.

Fast—but the Named-rank parried it with one of his blades and slashed back contemptuously. The Goblin retreated, silent, blocking blades and grunting. Then—something uncanny happened.

As Zeter lowered himself for a blade-draw Skill with the curved katana he carried, he wavered—and the Goblin’s eyes changed. He grinned suddenly, and his face changed—-

[Blade Draw: Steeldawn Flash]!

The Goblin parried it! Somehow, he saw it coming, and while the block threw him back Dragonblood sword cracked slightly—it should have gone straight through sword and bone and everything else. His entire stance and fighting style changed as he came in with more elegance—and even more aggression.

Zeter had rarely seen someone change style in battle. That was—like how he fought.

Scimitar. The Swordsman of Six was still faster. He reached up, caught the blade, and would have taken the Goblin but for a presence at his back.

A shadow—he twisted, and a Drake tried to bury her two long daggers in his back. Her onyx scales alone made Zeter hold back from cutting off her arm as she flipped back.

Salkis?

The Goblin hesitated as his stance changed again. Zeter’s head swung from the Drake, who was panting.

“Don’t give him—”

They went for him on both sides. Zeter was—he grabbed a dagger and deflected each blow as Colth limped forwards and Seborn shadowstepped around the two, looking for a chance to strike.

A Goblin and a Drake, working together? Impossible!

Wailant couldn’t believe his luck. Numbtongue! The Goblin was covering the downed [Pirate]. But the Hob was bleeding, and Zeter nearly maimed him as he aimed his greatsword and the floating blade swung at the Goblin. Only Numbtongue’s own savior had pulled him out of the fray.

Salkis had a cloth mask over her face, but she was slashing, forcing the Swordsman of Six back with as much skill as Seborn.

Even so! Colth, Seborn, Numbtongue, and Salkis weren’t enough to keep him off them. He was the Named-rank adventurer of blades in the south! The blades he wasn’t personally wielding swung around him, so he could fight even surrounded.

He would have taken them out, starting with Wailant. That scimitar spun as Zeter threw it—and Numbtongue tried to parry the blade with his sword and—missed. The blade kept going towards Wailant’s legs.

—Yet it stopped. Someone caught the sword, and the force of it ground boots deep into mud. It drove one foot down into the soil, nearly a foot deep, and Zeter—

Zeter had only seen someone do that twice before. The Swordsman of Six halted. Colth couldn’t do that, wounded as he was. Zeter slashed with his sword, and for the second time—someone parried the blade.

Who…?

Then Wailant saw his savior who had interceded to save his friend’s life. His…new friend’s life.

The [Farmer] had a wide-brimmed, black hat on his head, and his clothing was black as his family stood on their feet. But Zeter was watching him as warily as Colth.

Himilt held a plain longsword as he covered Numbtongue dragging Wailant up. Then there were six of them, backing away.

“Leave us, Swordsman of Six.”

I’ll remember this, Zeter. And Teithde’s arm! I am no Deniusth. We will settle this.”

Colth called out, and Zeter hesitated. He was certainly seeing the murder in Colth’s eyes—but he was counting the six fighters. And—

He looked at Himilt, and though he could not know—

The Vampire stood there, like a scarecrow under moonlight. The sun was setting, and the grey skies were turning darker. Darker…his red eyes shone in this field of blood.

He made Zeter hesitate—then Wailant felt Himilt’s other hand on his shoulder.

“Come. This is madness.”

“My friend—my friends—I’m not gonna forget this.”

That was all the [Pirate] said as Numbtongue and Himilt dragged him off the field. What insanity. Zeter was running now, to save Pallass. Wailant had seen those poor Antinium getting minced.

But what the Slayer was doing—

This was war. This was why he’d quit the sea. It was never a cup of blood for a cup. It became—

Oceans.

 

——

 

The Slayer was refusing to let Pallass’ [Soldiers] leave. He had cornered them, preventing them from reaching the [Generals] and other officers trying to rejoin the tournament. And he was cutting off—limbs.

There was no pity or hesitation as he swung his blades. Nor could anyone who had exited the tournament already rejoin it.

If this tournament were honorless—the Slayer was earning the abhorrence of countless nations. And the understanding of some. One thing to see him ignore his people suffering.

Understandable to see what he did in vengeance. The King of Destruction understood. But Pallass was watching their soldiers being maimed.

And it was too much for some. A cry broke through the sky, and Merrik looked up.

Peki! No!

He bellowed as a figure descended, someone who had not entered this senseless bloodbath before. He shouted at the falling Garuda until he realized—

Her feathers were spring green, not a mix of purple and green. 

Bevussa Slenderscale, the Captain of the Wings of Pallass, dove at Klbkch. The Slayer lifted his blades as she dropped with a shortsword into battle.

He whirled his swords up, and they flashed like mirrors. When Merrik could see next—he stared.

Because Bevussa wasn’t limbless. She darted left, shaking blood off her feathered arm. Then she shouted at the [Soldiers].

“Run! I’ll cover you!”

Again, she dropped as the Slayer turned on the Pallassians. And—it looked like she tumbled as she came down. A sweeping blade meeting two silver flashes.

She was good with the blade. So good she merely lost blood and feathers rather than limbs. Had he known that about her?

Merrik didn’t know. Only that Pallass was cheering Bevussa, and as if reminded she was not his true enemy, Klbkch just turned and sprinted after the last [Soldiers]. His blades swept low for their legs, and he deflected another lunge from Bevussa.

“Enough.”

Someone parried the blade. Parried it so hard Klbkch nearly swung into Zeter. The Swordsman of Six ducked a cut—and someone stabbed him too.

Klbkch’s blades whirled. He slashed at the Swordsman of Six, who tried to shout this was his rematch—but a blade nearly hit Klbkch. The Antinium leaned out of the way. Bevussa halted, staring at the last figure.

Who would fight for Pallass? Zeter was taking attacks from one side as he swore at the newcomer.

“We’re on the same side—

A slash cut off his neck-spines at the tips. Then a clawed hand pointed at Bevussa, and the Garuda leapt back. She turned—and the two swordswomen held their ground as Klbkch tilted his head. Bevussa—vaguely—knew the stranger, but just like no one had known how good she was with a blade—

She had no idea Chaldion’s grandniece was this talented.

 

——

 

“What is he doing?”

“She. It’s she.

Mirn’s voice was the only thing that Chaldion heard. He was on his feet. In horror. Mortal, mortal horror.

Losing members of his army? Classes changed. Losses happened. It hurt—but it wasn’t personal. Losing Zeter would be a disaster, or Lulv.

This, though—he just looked across the field as Pallass went silent. Someone was covering the last of the soldiers, sword pointed up, holding it at the ready like the master she was. Zeter was confused—because of course, he felt like he was facing a Named-rank.

Because in a sense—in a very real sense—he was. Though she was no warrior with that class—

Onieva was an [Alchemist] of that level. And she stood with blade in hand.

Chaldion’s heir. But Saliss would never have done this. Chaldion still didn’t understand. Because he still thought it was Saliss.

But Mirn knew, and he was trying not to weep with fear, with exultation.

Onieva and Bevussa were fighting side-by-side, and Pallass was watching a swordmaster in their ranks. The feckless, layabout cousin of the famous Saliss of Lights and grandniece of Chaldion—

Could never, would never hide behind anonymity again. Onieva lifted her sword, and Pallass cheered her as she smiled, light flashing off pink and blue scales.

 

——

 

Tyrion Veltras was amazed he had survived this long. He was counting them, now, and realized how many of them…

Sung.

That was how he had heard it described, once, by one of his aunts who had been gifted with the blade. Everyone could say the words with the right music—especially in a choir.

But some sang louder, more beautifully than others. It didn’t matter—a loud enough voice would drown out the most elegant yet soft voice, especially one weakened by age, sickness, or injury.

But who was that half-Elf? Eldavin?

Eldavin, peerless above all. Some made sense. Tyrion had faced the Spring’s Warden, and he knew her acclaim with a blade would have matched him if he had his levels. Zeter, likewise. The Maestro was a Gold-bell duelist.

But—that Drake with pink and blue scales had arguably more talent, more practice and acumen from battle than the Gold-rank Garuda. It—showed.

Spearmaster Lulv was limping now. But he stood as a Drake gently carried his daughter away. The Gecko turned his head—and Lulv tensed, but Relc brought his daughter to a [Healer]. And Lulv—

Lulv hesitated and felt at the two holes, one in his arm, one in his leg. Both so deep he knew a potion was needed or he would lose both limbs. He looked at the battlefield—and had to drag himself away.

Klbkch the Slayer. The Goblin with the two blades that had tried to attack him—Redscar?

He was stepping away as Ser Greysten checked his open wounds and had to withdraw or bleed out. The Summer’s Champion was red with blood, and he sang well. As well as any warrior.

A one-armed [Sword Dancer]…the [Necromancer], Pisces, and the Maestro.

The Maestro had been safeguarding his Symphony. He had personally forced many of Symphony to leave when he saw how bloody this was. He was still—dueling. Dueling Pisces.

Gently, though. His and Pisces’ rapiers clashed as they seemed to stride down the field. The two fought without tricks or teaming up on each other.

Beautifully. The Maestro didn’t try to kill Pisces—and when he placed his blade at the [Necromancer]’s throat—he didn’t force the young man to quit or wound him to do so.

“Keep practicing, young man.”

That was all Maestro Linvios said. Pisces looked at him, covered in sweat, and the Maestro put up his blade.

It was almost as if the rage against him had been eclipsed by the deeds performed by other people on the field. He had killed no one. Maimed no one.

He was still trying to conduct himself with dignity that was not always returned to him. He didn’t belong in this festival of blades, dedicated to Zeladona and sullied by red. 

Tyrion Veltras saw it all. Then someone spoke, and he felt the crackle in her words.

“Look at this. Look at this. You—you are emblematic of what haunts us. War without end. You did not have to attack, again and again. Here you stand in Liscor. Do you have no shame?”

Tyrion looked about, and there stood someone else who sang oddly. With such practice and strength—but oddly, as if she had never seen battle. Old and young. Dangerous and not.

Rafaema of Manus held her longsword low, aimed up, two hands clasped on the sword, a traditional en garde pose. Tyrion lifted his sword, holding it wide of his shield covering his chest. He spoke through the burning in his lungs.

“…Who are you?”

Her eyes went wide with fury. She slashed—and he pivoted left and cut her hard across the shoulder. She cried out, and somewhere, her people cried out with the wound—but it was shallow.

Hard. An ironflesh Skill? She was—fast. She came at him like lightning, and they tangled—but she tired faster.

A loud, sharp song like flashes of lightning. She blew chunks out of the grass with thunder, and then he found a Goblin at his back. Tyrion stabbed Snapjaw in the stomach, and Rafaema looked up. She opened her mouth to roast Redscar, a monster—and Pisces ran his rapier through her leg. He looked up as Zeter and Onieva crashed into the battle, and then there was Klbkch, Bevussa, Pekona, a woman with a rapier, shaking and standing to the side—

An ending of things.

 

——

 

Taletevirion watched Eldavin do what the Dragonlord of Flame was so regretfully good at. Why he hid so long—and why his simulacrum should not have been allowed to live.

He destroyed. 

Five of Symphony’s best including the Maestro had stayed to fight. Eldavin ran into them, and three fell, missing a hand, a foot, an arm up to the elbow—

“Bastard.”

That was all he said. The Floodplains were turning into another Bloodfields. He could sense the grass drinking it all in. If this happened a hundred times, a thousand—

Even without death, this was too much. And Eldavin was too good. He was after the First Flute now, and the Maestro struck at him, so furiously even Eldavin had to back up, sword deflecting strikes of that long estoc the Drake used.

But he was too good. Even a Gold-rank duelist—fell back, cut across the wrist. But not deeply enough to sever bones. The [Healers] would have to labor to save that arm if a potion wasn’t used. There were so many wounded—and Zimrah was passing out, the power of the few [Priests] all but gone.

And he had no morality.

Eldavin, that was. Taletevirion knew that the half-Elf probably considered himself moral—but it was a man’s mortality with no wisdom of age behind it. Look how he treated [Assassins] instead of his other foes, slashing off limbs as if they were lesser by virtue of their class.

And that Swordsman of Six had none. He was still trying to lop off limbs—this time the [Lord]’s.

Tyrion Veltras had finally run up against his match. He knew what to do, tried to pivot, parry, and overwhelm Zeter’s defenses, strike one solid blow against the six Zeter could—

But he was unable to. In Taletevirion’s eyes, the [Lord] held a blade of a spruce sapling’s branches instead of steel. He touched Zeter’s spinning wall of Skills, and though the [Lord] was the better—

The Skills were walls of stone that Tyrion could not reach over. Zeter’s sheer strength tossed the [Lord] back, and he raised his claws in triumph, holding down his foes all by himself.

Even Klbkch couldn’t touch him easily. But the Antinium sang even more beautifully than Tyrion. Like a wounded voice regaining itself. When Zeter faced the Slayer, his Skills cleaved the earth and sent showers of dirt fountaining up.

He was sinking into silver mists. Lashing about as the insect danced like a waterbug in a pond of illusions. Almost—the Swordsman of Six took a blow that cut him down one arm, but his Skills protected him. Handicapped and shielded by them, like a babe in heavy swaddling cloth. If the Slayer had the same levels, this would be over already.

If you had ever studied the sword or seen a master train long enough, you would have understood more than anyone else who the most graceful on the field was. Ressa’s own sword fell behind even Tyrion’s, but she was a fighter, throwing daggers and bladed chains, distracting Zeter.

If only Magnolia could have reveled in it like the Goblin, Redscar, who came at Zeter without fear and forced the Swordsman of Six to take him seriously. But she only saw her dear friend fighting as blood ran down her arms.

She had never wanted to see this again—and here the [Lady] stood, almost in the same place as when she had led an army across the Floodplains to face the Antinium.

A girl of sixteen, at the head of the Five Families, waving a sword and believing this was glorious. Magnolia tasted the bile of it. She saw the fallen Antinium and other species—and she had seen it too many times.

“What purpose is there to this?”

She looked about—and saw the one great master of blades who had not entered the battle. Even a Dragon’s pride had brought Eldavin into the fray. But one immortal of them all remembered there was more to majesty than the tip of a sword.

Taletevirion had long stopped drinking, but he was still hidden, and the Wind Runner was trying to close wounds with the [Healers], drag people away. So he was surprised when someone spoke to him.

“Taletevirion. Will you speak to me a moment?”

He jumped—and a [Lady] in pink stood there.

“Magnolia.”

Her [Maid], Ressa, was still trying to save Tyrion. A dedicated servant. All the others, from the Silver-bell [Maid] to Reynold, were out. Only the best remained.

Only…Taletevirion thought that the young [Necromancer], Pisces, shouldn’t be amongst the finalists. Ksmvr and Pekona fought with him, and as a team, and they all had talent, but without his magic, he was weakest of the three. The Maestro, ironically, had covered for Pisces by dueling him so long.

“It has been a long time since we talked.”

“If you want small talk—get lost. I’m not in the mood.”

The Unicorn, master of battles from the Vale Forest, looked bleakly at this bloody sight. He had fought his own kin and others—but this was a disgrace. Though he understood how it had come to this.

Magnolia’s fingers were clasped together tightly, but she spoke, her voice kept airy.

“Very well. This is not the moment. I just came to ask you—if you had paid attention to my deeds in Oteslia.”

He snorted.

“It is the last Great Tree of Izril’s south. Even if they’ve leeched it to hatch that little brat who runs about. I saw.”

“Did you approve?”

The Unicorn tossed his head angrily. What was with the stupid questions? Yes, he ran about Izril and did as he pleased—but the Vale Forest was still largely safe. No Crelers had truly plagued it since the Creler Wars.

“Am I not sworn to come to fight if true war calls? Did I send you a message saying otherwise? Yes, Magnolia, I approve. And I daresay that gigantic fool you’ve come to see—

He lowered his head, calmed himself.

“—He will see what you have done for what it is. A true attempt to build peace.”

Magnolia Reinhart, so guarded, so secretive, looked young when he glanced her way. Young—and relieved, like a young woman not sure if her path was right. So he didn’t regret saying it.

“I am just trying to…”

She never finished it, but he did for her. Impress him. No—that wasn’t right. That was uncharitable, because she had spent half her lifetime already at this. He whispered.

“You are growing a great forest from a single seed. I see it, Magnolia.”

She bowed to him and murmured.

“I heard a variation of that saying of late. ‘A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they know they shall never sit.’ It sounded…quite apt when I heard it.”

The Unicorn did look away, because he was ashamed, then. Ashamed, and his voice was old as he lay on his front, for all he was still the warrior. But once, he had been the diplomat, the healer, more than the warden. His voice broke ever-so-slightly where once it had echoed in gladed halls.

“I’m—that’s well said indeed. I’m sorry, Magnolia. I believe in that quote with all my heart. But it seems—I somehow managed to outlive even the trees.”

He closed his eyes, and the grass seemed to weep around him in the cold winter’s air. But Magnolia just looked at him and nodded.

“You approved, though? You saw what I did and how dear it cost me—but how I continued? How I will, even if my work burns down and I have to sift through the ashes?”

The Unicorn opened his gaze and met hers with rare respect. Respect such as he had not shown Ryoka—but he didn’t know her.

Everyone could be brave a moment, but he had seen twenty years of courage. So he dipped his head.

“I do.”

Behind him, the Swordsman of Six struck Pisces, and his sword cleaved straight through the [Necromancer]’s side. Pisces stopped and stared at the cut running up to his spine. He fell—and Ksmvr leapt on top of him as the Named-rank adventurer aimed another cut, and Ksmvr blocked it with his body.

He raised his blade, and Jewel deflected the greatsword he aimed down at the two.

I am Jewel! A Silver-bell duelist! Stay back!”

She screamed, face white and red with terror and determination. In the inn—the [Innkeeper] sat frozen, unable to move, fighting against something rising from the blood. Her fingers—twitched.

Magnolia Reinhart stood in the shadow of the Amentus trees with Taletevirion as they saw this obscene bloodsport—and she looked at him. Looked at him, and her voice cracked across her lands, and the Vale Forest shook a hundred thousand leaves of autumn onto the ground.

Then how dare you sit there? Stand, Last Unicorn!

He jerked to his hooves—but he held there as Ksmvr tried to pick up Pisces and they shouted at him to come to a [Healer]. Taletevirion looked at Magnolia as Klbkch stabbed Zeter through a foot—then whirled to face Eldavin as Rafaema wiped blood from her eyes.

There stands a Dragon and the memory of one. Would you have me fight them?

He snarled back, and Magnolia slapped him. Not as hard as she could, but she slapped him and put the other hand on his head and stared him in his eyes.

“Are you a sword? Go and do what you have always done! Save them.

The Unicorn looked at her—and then the bloody mess of it all. Then he lowered his horn, nudged her aside, and charged. He ran forwards, springing into motion, fast—faster.

He raced past the weary Guildmistress, the Courier of Izril, who was bending over, hands on her knees, trying to breathe as poison clogged her lungs and continued to eat away at her breath. Mihaela was choking—

Until a breath of clear air filled her. She inhaled—and saw something run past her. Quicksilver. A dream. A being faster than she—she tried to catch it.

But the Unicorn just ran faster. His horn glowed, and Mihaela Godfrey felt Wrymvr’s poison halt in her veins and some of it vanish.

If only he could have stayed an hour, a day, a week with her. Yet there was only one of him, and a sea of blood. He ran into it, driving forwards with the horn shining brighter as if trying to drag the tides with him.

 

——

 

Klbkch and Eldavin looked at one another, and the two—stopped.

Stopped as the remaining bloody fighters, Symphony, the Maestro, and all the others, locked in the final throes of this madness.

“Who are you?”

“I could ask the same question. You…who taught you that sword style? You fight as well as—you fight impossibly well.”

Eldavin was breathing hard, but his body tired so slowly he knew it was on par with a Named-rank of this era’s. He felt alive—but Klbkch made him feel uneasy. The swords reached for him like two silver arms, and Eldavin threw them back, too hard, losing his cool.

I taught myself.

They were fighting, too equally for Eldavin’s comfort, when something slashed along his arm. He twisted, grimacing—and waited for the wound to heal.

Only to hear a voice.

<Quest: Magic cancelled.>

Then he faltered, and his head turned—and Klbkch nearly cut him down. But Eldavin’s head whirled as he saw something shooting past him.

Was that—

 

——

 

“I don’t—I don’t have the energy.”

Zimrah was trying to get up, to heal the many wounded as Ksmvr ran over with Pisces. The [Necromancer]’s face was white, and he was cut so badly blood was—

It would be a deathblow. But Zimrah didn’t know if her shaking hands could even use [Cure Mundane Wounds] again. Each cure exhausted her!

—Then she felt a spring’s breeze blow across her face. A hand reached down, and Ksmvr, a hole through his side, jerked as a brown Antinium who seemed more lithe than the others touched his side. Ksmvr yelped.

“Stop—”

Then he stared at the closed hole in his body. Zimrah turned, and the Antinium tilted his head towards her. She stared into those multifaceted eyes and knew two things in that moment.

This was no Antinium. And…they were beautiful eyes.

“You heal like someone pouring a cup over a fire, no matter how big or small. It isn’t your fault that you didn’t know. Healing is an art. It is not a paste or a potion to pour. It is a balm to apply perfectly. You wield the razor of life.”

He traced her hand over Pisces’ side, and Zimrah stared at the stranger. She had never thought of it that way. But if the Miracle she prayed for was more than…

She bent over Pisces, and the line began to dissolve—and Zimrah did not collapse this time. The stranger nodded, looked around, and kept running. Many limbs were already fallen, and even he could not mend a tree long cut.

But he could try. His eyes glowed.

A Drake with white scales halted amongst Pallass’ lines and beheld the Drakes and Gnolls holding severed limbs. He looked at Healer Demerra, at the Dullahan shouting orders out of the scrying orb.

Anyone who can sew—just hold a hand over those wounds! Press! Does no one know how to sew?”

Selys Shivertail was trying to stitch up flesh, but it was nothing like cloth. A screaming Drake was white under his scales—General Edellein was a tough man, but the nerves were cut along one leg.

“I’m trying not to hurt—”

A pale white claw reached down, and Selys thought it was Tesy for a moment. But the claw picked up the needle and drove it straight through flesh without hesitation. Another claw held down the [General]’s kicking leg and stitched.

Geneva Scala looked over as a Drake spoke, sewing the leg shut and compounding the [General]’s agony.

“Hurt them if you must. But hold on to them. With flame. With thread or magic. Stop playing with beautiful healing and stitch!

He shouted at Demerra, and the Gnoll dropped the healing crystal. Mercilessly, the Unicorn picked up another needle and sewed flesh like cloth. And the [Doctor], the Dullahan, almost wept. Because she was not alone.

On, the Unicorn went, and he was changing. It didn’t matter. Form was an illusion, nevermind if he was a Drake—

—A Human with silver-white hair, staring at Yvlon Byres’ wounds. He saw her vice grip on the stump of her leg and the whites of her eyes. In silence—between the bubbling saliva at the corner of her mouth suppressing even the barest whimper of pain—in the raging of her blood—two cold, immortal, sympathetic eyes gazed down at the woman of metal.

Someone was hurrying over with a ‘healing potion’ for Yvlon. He pretended to stumble—and a hand seized the creeping Tolveilouka before he could touch Yvlon’s wounds.

The half-Elf stared into eyes that had lost more than his. Pale silver—and he backed away. The Unicorn turned as he let go without a word. He pointed down his hand, smeared with blood, as he turned, looking ahead for someone else crying out in pain.

As if he had no time for her. The [Armsmistress] almost screamed at him until she saw—he was pointing at her arm. Her metal arm, twisting with pain. Then—at the place her foot had been.

“No. I’m—afraid. It—it will consume me—”

The woman spoke then, with shaking hands and voice. And all the Unicorn said was this:

“It will define you, or you will define it. It is not your master unless you allow it. Choose. Women of metal forged themselves with hearts harder than the hammers they endured.”

Then he ran on. On. A Gnoll with fur as pale as ivory passed by Mrsha as she tried to hold a cloth to Typhenous’ body. The potions…they were using potions, but he wasn’t getting up! But a Gnoll reached down, and she felt green—

The old man’s eyes shot back open. He jerked upright as the bloodless skin flushed. The Gnoll didn’t say another word; he just stood. Racing on, vanishing from Mrsha’s sight even as her head whirled around.

He left no footprints. He raced past bodies like a breeze in the forests, so fast and graceful that Ryoka Griffin heard the air singing around him.

The Unicorn. Only seen sparingly. Never on camera. He ran faster, trying to race death.

And then—

 

——

 

Ask yourself one question, now. As this terrible day came to a close.

This…festival of blades.

Not a tournament. It had never been a tournament with genteel laws and rules. The [Innkeeper] sat in her inn as Shriekblade stood watch, and if you looked at this day in its entirety—ask yourself one question:

Why?

Why had it come out this way? Because she was forced by the Maestro? Because Erin Solstice—wanted this?

Those were possible answers, but they didn’t explain this bloodshed. This madness that seemed to take ahold of the Slayer, Tyrion, and the others. Almost as if—despite themselves—they couldn’t leave the bloody grass.

This was the question—why did this happen? Did this really honor…Zeladona, a [Blademistress of Ancients]? If you asked yourself that—you might then realize the error in your thinking.

Perhaps…

Perhaps if you examined your thinking, you might understand the fallacy in all of this. Which was assuming that this was destroying Zeladona’s good name. Perhaps the <Quest> reflected the intent or the person behind the power.

Why would this day honor her? 

Who…was…Zeladona?

And why did the <Quest> require Erin Solstice to have a Talent Potion to post it?

 

——

 

The answer was coming. Erin Solstice felt it. It was more than creeping dread, more than a sensation of blood pooling without end.

She had started this all—but even she hadn’t realized what it meant. Now, she was fighting it—but it wasn’t as if she could fight a thought. There was nothing to push against, nothing to resist. She felt a voice in her head.

<Quest conditions activated.>

“Erin? Do you want something?”

Tessa was watching her, but Erin Solstice didn’t say a word. She had…something on the table in front of her. Tessa had expected Erin to tell her to run out there and save her friends, but Erin hadn’t.

She was staring at a little vial of viridian liquid, glowing as a simple cork stopper held the contents in place. It was the same one that had vanished. Now—Erin’s shaking hand picked it up. A thumb knocked out the cork, and Tessa realized—

Erin was trying not to lift the vial up.

“Erin?”

Tessa looked around for magic, a hostile Skill, or something—anything. But she could not hear the voice in Erin’s head.

 

——

 

<Zeladona’s Trial of a Thousand Blades: Fulfilling quest.>

<Zeladona Ischen, Level 84 [Blademistress of Ancients] not found. Searching…>

<Zeladona Ischen, Level 84 [Blademistress of Ancients] not found.>

 

That voice was so displeased. Erin had…heard it before. Just once. Just once, when she came back from the dead and slept, she had thought she had heard the barest ounce of something more than just calculation.

She heard it again. It wasn’t pure anger or even irritation or frustration. It was a kind of emotion like her flames—a kind of dissatisfaction.

This wasn’t right. It must be fixed. Erin’s hands shook as she lifted the vial to her lips and opened her mouth. Then she heard the voice sound—satisfied. As if it had just figured something out.

Erin, sitting in her wheelchair, opened her lips and tasted the faintest hint of…Yellats? Then she heard the voice as her aching body suddenly jerked.

 

<Zeladona Ischen, Level 84 [Blademistress of Ancients] not found. Creating temporary copy based on…>

 

——

 

“Erin?”

Shriekblade saw the young woman drink down the vial to the last drop, then let the bit of enchanted glass fall. It rolled on the floor as Tessa, Shriekblade—suddenly backed up.

The Named-rank adventurer drew her blades, put her back to the wall, and stared. Every scale on her body froze as the young woman…closed her eyes in her chair. Then stood.

Stood, so gracefully she trailed an afterimage as she took a step, two, then turned. She looked—taller. She looked older.

She didn’t look like Erin at all.

“Who are you? What did you do with—”

Tessa saw the woman throw back her hair, and though she knew it was hazel—it suddenly looked faintly turquoise and longer and her fair skin darker, almost as if Tessa could see golden stitches.

A woman gazed out of Erin Solstice’s face—and for the second time, someone else looked around in her body, flexed her hands. She glanced around and whispered in a surprisingly quiet voice.

“The festival is almost done, and I’m called here. I was dead. I was fighting—”

She passed a hand over her eyes, and they flickered.

“—nevermind. We get only one chance, and I did not slay death. I need a blade.”

Who are you?

Tessa shouted, and Zeladona’s head rose. She smiled through Erin Solstice’s lips.

 

——

 

Zeter, the Swordsman of Six, did not know who Rafaema was—exactly. But he knew she was on his side, and her lightning breath seemed to have no end. It was driving back the other fighters, and he was waiting for his chance to hit either the Slayer or the Archmage.

They were going to win. He could almost taste that legendary Skill—but the remaining fighters were—tough.

Jewel was just a brat, and he’d already cut her twice along the wrists to warn her—but she kept coming, like a little dog that didn’t know how to quit. That Drake—Onieva?

She was dangerous, but she had no Skills. At least, very few that worked on him. She reminded him of Saliss. Or maybe it was the Cyclops. He could best her with his Skills, but Bevussa was in his way, and he was loathe to cut her permanently, even if she was a Garuda. They were both Walled City adventurers.

But the Slayer. The Slayer and Lord Veltras were enemies to the quick, and he would have cut them down if he could—but the [Lord] had a time-Skill and all the reflexes of his class.

The Slayer was…had wounded Zeter twice. But he could be brought down.

Tyrion first. Either he was taking it easy—still—or he didn’t know who he was up against. He had just blocked a slash from the Maestro, and the damned traitor shouted.

Watch out!

Zeter lunged.

“[Cleave the Hills]!”

He roared, and everyone either ducked or leapt as his swing tore the entire battlefield around him. Tyrion—ducked. And he looked up as Zeter pointed a claw. Zeter’s five other swords, spinning behind him, might be mundane. But they took aim at Tyrion’s limbs—

—The inn exploded. Not all of it, but Zeter was facing it, and he saw a hole open in the wall and shrapnel blow out with the sheer force of the explosion. Something flew through the air, and the Drake he’d been expecting to fight against or fight with—Shriekblade, that useful maniac—landed on the grass.

“Shriekblade! You’re with—”

Tessa lay on her back, staring up at the sky. She had…no daggers in her claws, which was unusual. And she looked stunned. Zeter hesitated as Tyrion rolled away.

Had something just hit her out of the inn and all the way down here, about two hundred feet away? He raised his head and then felt something run all the way down his spine.

Terror.

Zeter’s confidence, his focus on Tyrion and Klbkch—everything—left his mind in a second. He stopped fighting and turned his head.

Straight towards the inn. Klbkch, Eldavin, everyone in the tournament ground suddenly turned as a kind of silence enveloped all.

Which was silly. You didn’t have scenes like that in Zeter’s experience. In stories, everyone froze when the [Hero] entered the throne room. In practice, even when Luciva herself was visiting you, someone was whispering or telling a joke or your tail itched.

Only—this time, his voice seemed to reduce itself down to nothing. No—that wasn’t right. The sky, the air…

What’s going on?

 

——

 

A figure walked through the inn’s hallways, humming slightly as she inspected the swords she’d found. Pekona had a blade she could no longer use one-handed, and some of Pelt’s works had been on display, in every style, for the competitors to purchase.

She was—turning her head, staring left and right, touching the walls, but she seemed drawn to the outside, as if she knew she had a purpose that could not wait. She hummed a lullaby of Chandrar they still might know to this day.

When she opened the doors, Erin Solstice stood outside. Or rather, her body did. But again—

When they looked at her, they saw someone else. As if the afterimage of her were Erin. And the real woman had turquoise hair, long and trimmed straight by a blade because she was too careless for aught else.

Her stitching was golden, but the skin was careless, worn cotton, as if she had once worn finer but could no longer be bothered by it all. Her eyes—her very pupils seemed sharp, as if the round dots of blackness were not circular, but edges of a million straight lines. Only, the color, a light grey, looked like lines of water running to light white as they met the pupils.

She was tall, long-armed, and when she looked out, her back was slightly hunched over, as if standing tall were wrong. She did not have a pleasant smile, nor did she look as if she remembered what it was like to sit with a friend.

Yet—when she buckled the katana to her belt, it seemed as if that completed her and she were wearing a loose garb of silk, faded with accolades, stained by weather—cut at the hems, a light coat of faded brass buttons open and fluttering over an open skirt that reached just down to her ankles. A mix of clothes and cultures from the places she had been.

Terandria, Drath, Baleros, Izril, Chandrar, of course, Tiernas, the Continent of Glass—even the undersea havens. Everywhere but the blasted desolation of Rhir where nothing lived.

She rested a hand on the hilt of the katana, laughing lightly with delight.

“A true blade of Drath! Simply made, but they endure! And look—what a strange, small little festival! It calls me hence. Lend me your body, Erin. You have given me a glorious death—and a chance even now. I shall teach them what you wished.

Her eyes flicked down, and she stared at this familiar sight.

Then everyone seemed to hear that voice again and remembered how it had been posted. This time, they remembered how it had been worded.

Zeladona’s Trial of a Thousand Blades. Trial. As if this were something that had once been done. To gather a thousand people and shed blood.

Potential to gain the Unique Skill of Zeladona.

Potential…that of course meant it wasn’t guaranteed. Now, though—

Zeladona looked down, and she stared up at the clouds hiding the sun as it tried to sink to the High Passes.

“To see the sky once before I vanish! To breathe air and shed blood under wild wind and in the lands of the living! Look, oh masters of old!”

She cried out, lifting a hand, and looked upon the final people locked in strife. Jewel, Dame Pertheine, Eldavin—and at the others, tending to their wounds. At everyone—as if they were foes, and Zeladona cried out.

I see the unworthy and the talented, the weak and the glorious. Look now, [Blademasters] of each and every era! I am Zeladona, [Blademistress of Ancients]! We convene the oldest trial in blood and glory! Face me, you warriors gathered here! Show me the sharpness of your souls!”

With every word, her voice grew until it was booming across the Floodplains, scaring Razorbeaks and other birds into the air where they fled in every direction. Ceria Springwalker looked up, and even her circlet was afraid.

“Oh, fuck.”

The Stitch-woman looked down as she put a hand on the sheathed blade and lowered herself. Every person with a sword, wounded or not, in the fighting or not, lifted their weapons instinctively.

—But for a moment, Zeladona paused and looked up.

 

——

 

Mrsha chanced a glimpse up. The girl did—because every warrior, from Gire to Lyonette—was shaking and staring at Zeladona. But the little Gnoll girl stared up at the sky, and she saw the same thing as Sammial Veltras.

 

——

 

The [Lord] of House Veltras broke away from the scrying orb—and stared up at the sky. The Haven was nearing the High Passes, and he saw…the exact same thing as what the scrying orb showed.

“She split the sky.”

He said it in a very, very distant voice and pointed. Every head in the Haven looked up, and there—a line was widening in the grey clouds of winter overhead. Sunlight, bright and pale, and the blue skies beyond shone down on a patch of land in between the mountains.

 

——

 

The light shone so beautifully—but it never touched Zeladona. Instead, she stood in the shade, and so did The Wandering Inn. For the light emerging from the cut clouds…

Split amidst a cone of shadows just past Bird’s tower. Bisected in two.

Zeladona admired the light and took one deep, long breath. Then she tensed with Erin’s legs and leapt.

It was sixty seconds before she touched the ground. Naught but air blew around her as she fell towards the ground, accelerating as gravity took hold of her. The people staring at her falling from the inn realized she was heading at them and ran.

Dead gods, dead gods, dead—

Jewel ran. She turned her head back as Erin Solstice—no, the [Blademistress of Ancients] landed. She had unsheathed her blade.

The greatest [Blademistress] of her era left a line in the grass that stretched a thousand feet. The cut went so far down that an Antinium Worker stared straight up out of the Hive up at the woman.

“How curious. So that’s what it was.”

Zeladona smiled at the Worker—but he had no blades. She had come here for blades. Zeladona rose, and she lifted her sword.

“Who shall be first?”

No one moved. Then—a voice called out.

Symphony—this is the greatest performance of our lives. On me.”

The Maestro looked at Zeladona to make sure it was allowed. But she just beamed as the Drake looked around.

Figures in black, some missing limbs, formed up around him. He looked at them, and some were shaking. But the Maestro simply produced a longsword and held it at his side.

His magical conductor’s wand had changed into the sword, and Zeladona’s smile widened. There was no thought in the Maestro’s mind to obey the laws of the quest. If he had time, he would have put on armor.

“Symphony—walk with me.”

They bunched up. Not shoulder-to-shoulder, but in a mob. Walking together, blades at the ready. The [Blademistress] stared the Maestro in the eyes—then she began to walk.

You have the honor of seeing it. Be it so coarse as to speak a Skill aloud—come, singers of deadly little lullabies.”

Symphony slowed—then sped up. They advanced, and the First Flute’s hands were shaking on the hilts of her sheathed daggers. Zeladona had not drawn her blade—it was somehow resheathed at her waist.

“Your best Skills. Play—we shall never know a greater performance than this.”

That was all the Maestro said. His voice shook. His claw tightened on the longsword hilt, and the world around Symphony narrowed until Zeladona filled the entire world. She strolled towards them, hand on her sword’s hilt.

They were about two dozen feet away when Symphony struck as one. The First Flute’s blades cleared their sheaths.

[Blade Art: Execution of D-Minor].

Her daggers came out like a song. A falling crescendo with two notes. One—straight for Zeladona’s head. The other to ram through her chest.

The First Flute closed the two-dozen feet in a blink of an eye, and the cuts could have rent through a [Knight]’s enchanted armor without slowing. It never occurred to her to pull her attacks or try to save Erin Solstice’s life.

Sixty [Assassins] did the same. Sword arts, spear dances—their most deadly attacks. They took aim for Zeladona, and the Maestro’s sword cleared its sheath.

But he—he alone wavered. For he saw Zeladona lean out of the way of the First Flute’s first dagger strike. She twirled the katana up as she unsheathed it.

[Lightning Iai]. A move from Drath. An unsheathing of the sword so fast it sundered the First Flute’s second knife, and the bolt of lightning arced down from the skies and hit the Drake mid-step.

He saw the perfect move send his great performer down in a single strike—but the Maestro also saw Zeladona draw a pair of daggers she had stolen from Shriekblade and cut the air.

A vortex sucked in the poisonous gas—and she swung her daggers across the world. Sundered it as they slashed upwards into a smile—

[Dagger Art: Grin of the Vortex].

The First Trumpet wasn’t even close to the tears in space, but they ripped the Gnoll’s fur out, left his eyes bloodshot, him bleeding from every orifice from the sheer pull until the rifts closed.

He saw these two things, you see. The Maestro. Then he saw one of the members of the choir leaping at Zeladona.

Zeladona—who leapt and spun and twisted, and her sword cleared the air.

[Leap of Twin Swallows]—a shortsword dove down in two places.

A body, cut. 

Each strike was beautiful. Each Skill—mastered. Learned, not simply acquired from levels. And Zeladona did them all simultaneously.

Sixty [Assassins]. Sixty counter attacks. It looked to the Maestro as if Zeladona were going for a walk. Simply…strolling forwards. But simultaneously, activating sixty Skills and cutting down each and every member of Symphony.

All at once and independently. It took just a heartbeat, but each blow played out as fast as they should. And she was coming towards him.

“[Walk of the Blademaster, Path of Legends].”

That was what it meant. A sheer display of insurmountable talent. The Maestro relaxed. And smiled.

“You are the most beautiful being in the entire world.”

Then he put a claw on his blade. He drew his sword, and the entire world sang in a narrowing crescendo of music as he strode towards her. First prestissimo, then allegro, adagio…

 

——

 

The Maestro left a trail in the Floodplains where bare grass had been cut into beautiful patterns after his sword art.

But he fell, with the rest of Symphony, as Zeladona walked. Her Skill took a breath, a second, and it carried her a hundred feet.

Then she sheathed her katana, and the Maestro lay with blood running across his suit. But his smile—

“Next.”

Symphony didn’t get up. The [Blademistress] looked around—and she was after them all. Not just [Assassins]. Someone had to stop her.

As if she saw the magic moving across the ground, Zeladona’s hair swung around, and she shook her head.

“No magic. You did not shed blood. You were not worthy.”

A foot touched the ground, and then she was gone. She vanished—and a thousand paces away, the first words of a spell—

“[Chain Light—”

Zeladona removed her sword from Grimalkin’s raised claw before he felt the pain. The tip of the sword had run straight through his raised palm. She stepped back and looked at him as he froze.

“A warning.”

The heads were still swiveling towards her, their blank stares changing to fear, when someone pushed themselves up—faced that monster, that impossible woman.

“This is—”

Zevara was on her feet. She exhaled—and the woman leapt, twisting her torso over the flames. Zeladona landed, and the Watch Captain raised her blade. She jabbed with it, intending to twist and cut it up.

To her surprise, the [Blademistress] seemed—slow. She still moved like quicksilver and slowly unsheathed the katana, deflecting Zevara’s jab along the emerging blade. Zevara tried to cut across Zeladona’s—Erin’s—neck. But the woman just raised the hilt of her sword, catching Zevara’s longsword across the katana.

“—No.”

That was all Zevara heard. A faint hint of disappointment in that voice and those eyes. The two were locked at the blades, but Zeladona’s katana, aimed down, just flicked up.

Fast—but again, she shouldn’t have been visible.

It still cut Zevara, a blade slashing up across one armpit and the bottom of her jaw. She stumbled, fell over—and Jeiss shouted.

Watch Captain! [Sword Art: The Salamander’s Tail]!

A swing—Zevara was still sinking to her knees. She would have warned Jeiss—

He was standing in front of his family, who had run after him. Zeladona saw the deadly cut coming. She looked—bored.

She planted a longsword in the grass, and Jeiss’ swing glanced off the blade as she parried his slash with a simple twist of the handle at the perfect moment. Then she drew the sword up and, holding it like a classical longsword specialist, cut down. Jeiss saw the move and went to parry and riposte across her chest.

Zeladona’s sigh was quiet. She drew the longsword across his face, cutting in a ‘z’ before he expected it. And again—

She was moving at his speed. Swinging as fast as Jeiss or Zevara could.

There was still no contest.

“Not you. You should have never wed.”

People ran as she turned from the two downed Drakes. Then, Zevara, clutching at her bloody wounds as Jeiss cried out, saw Zeladona turning to them all.

You.

She pointed—and Dame Pertheine lifted her blade.

 

——

 

Two minutes.

Dame Talia had seen Pertheine training with the other heads of the Order of Seasons. She had seen the Spring’s Warden go all-out against Knight-Commander Calirn. Even a secret duel with Voost where the two settled who was the better duelist.

The Spring’s Warden sang with her blade like the greatest [Knight] of her order, a brief song that made even Zeladona smile.

The wind itself called to the Spring’s Warden, whirling down, a cyclone upon the grasses, and she stepped in a dance with the [Blademistress] that carried her across the Floodplains. Each strike, Talia was certain, could have wounded her mortally.

At the end of it, the wind came down in a gale fit to blow down the walls of Liscor, a hurricane of winds upon the [Blademistress].

Zeladona cut the air in half, and the Spring’s Warden knelt as a hundred of Pertheine’s cuts struck air and a single reply slipped past the Dame’s ribs and gently kissed her beating heart.

The [Knight] looked up with blood on her mouth, and the [Blademistress] addressed her.

“You sang too much together. In armor, in pride. Not enough alone.”

Then she swung her sword again, and Talia knew that, in time, the Order of Seasons would replay and replay that match to see exactly what had been done, to see how to step to avoid a blow just so, and see the perfect curve.

But she could not see it right now, through the tears. Spring’s champion lay there, bleeding onto the grass.

 

——

 

—Arc of the Moon].”

A blade through steel. Zeladona looked down at the woman with one good leg, swinging a sword wildly.

She didn’t reply to Yvlon—but her shortsword kept going and swept the top of Yvlon’s metal arm off. She caught the hand—handed it to Yvlon, and walked on.

Shortsword, now. She kept picking up blades. Each one she knew the use of. But she was—inspecting the people here.

She cut through Pallass’ [Soldiers] without a word for any of them. As if searching. She paused twice, once to stare at Chaldion with a look of disappointment as the old [Strategist] stared at her.

“[Path to Victory].”

He was blind. Zeladona moved on. Three [Generals] of Pallass stood against her, and she laughed.

It was as if each encounter took longer for the people involved than…than how fast it was for those watching. She had cut through hundreds already. Then Chaldion realized what it was.

She was walking in between [Immortal Moments]. Was she—using Erin’s Skills?

She had to be. Bevussa dove down, and Onieva leapt over a collapsing General Edellein. This time, Zeladona halted.

Ah. You—

What they said to each other, then, Chaldion couldn’t hear. But Zeladona smiled. Onieva tried to dodge as Zeladona leaned over and slashed. Bevussa fell out of the sky, trailing feathers.

Was she murdering them all? Chaldion bent over Edellein—and saw the blade had gone deep in his side. But he wasn’t dead. He looked up—and he saw Zeladona looking about. Searching for something only she could see.

 

——

 

She found it in the Minotaur. He stood with one arm holding an axe. The [Blademistress] let him strike at her, leaning out of the way of each blow.

“You’re afraid for Erin. Holding back.”

Calruz’s arm was shaking. Zeladona looked so amused by the notion of it, though—Calruz barked.

“There’s no artistry in my form. No craft in my strikes.”

Not one-armed. Not with the crushing weight of a battleaxe. He meant that almost as a complaint or—challenge.

For answer, the Stitch-woman tossed aside the rapier she’d picked up. She picked up a battleaxe like his—an exact replica, dripping with frost, from the grass. It looked—heavy—and she swung it up, and the body she wore actually stumbled.

“Minotaur. It is not in the subtlety of every strike. It is knowing and perfection such as that [Lieutenant of Perfection] could not understand with a class alone. Come.”

She walked at him. Shouldering the heavy axe. He hesitated—and saw the death in her gaze. So he heaved his axe up and charged.

They swung their axes at the exact same time. She was as fast as he was, matching his strength for strength.

But somehow—Calruz was the one who went reeling backwards, and he stared at the shattered axe blade as she stood over him.

“Like that.”

Then she brought the axe down.

 

——

 

The Swordsman of Six did not impress her in the same way. She looked at the floating blades and sneered at the five artifacts and the Relic-class greatsword.

“You are a swordsman indeed, no master.”

“I—am an adventurer.”

He roared and drew his greatsword up, dubbed the Fang of Manus. Zeladona drew her shortsword back in an exaggerated motion, behind her back—and the two blades collided. Zeter was braced for the impact. But all he felt was a ringing in his blade—then his greatsword wavered.

She left the steel shortsword halfway through it. As she walked on, he grabbed the long dagger. He swiveled—and she did too, Zevara’s longsword in her hand.

The Swordsman of Six kept rotating and then fell over in the grass. Zeladona lowered the blade and then looked up.

“Why are you crying, girl?”

“I’m unworthy again.”

Pekona lifted her wakizashi, and Zeladona looked at her.

[Blademasters] are equally unworthy. In life—I would have cut your arm off. I mastered art, not kindness. Show me.”

There was no confidence in the song that came from the [Blade Dancer]. She had seen Toren dance, and he had done it for the sheer joy of it, with talent, and humbled her. She expected Zeladona to end it with a single blow, take another arm, but the [Blademistress] parried each strike roughly, using force to turn Pekona’s slashes.

“Stop—face me in a dance!”

The Drathian woman shouted in outrage as Zeladona fought her like a [Knight], turning blows with brute strength and simple deflection. For answer, the woman raised her sword up and rained down blows on Pekona, breaking her guard, taking away the artifice of it.

“The destination is the same.”

She raised her sword high overhead, angled down around her back, and Pekona saw it. When Zeladona brought it down, the simple Terandrian form looked beautiful again. She buried the blade in Pekona’s shoulder and left it there.

“Try this blade. Try them all. You’ve only ever sung with the melody of home.”

 

——

 

She knew all their capabilities, all their strength. But three times she drew her sword and fought.

The first—was against Ksmvr. He looked at her, shaking, and she laughed.

“Your silver blooms!”

She cut him down with the key-schools of Samal, the paradise. Then she turned.

And you are the heart of it. What happened to you, great one?

Klbkch stopped. He spoke haltingly.

“I died. [Recaptured Sublimity]. Shall we?”

Zeladona bared her teeth.

Show me something even I have never seen before!

Her leap left a physical arc in the air, a deadly cut that remained for minutes thereafter. At first, she moved so fast she was a glittering blur—and their battle could not be seen. But to them, it looked as though Klbkch had created a world of silver falsity and lured her in—but she fell like a comet, breaking apart his illusions, seeing through the heart of even glittering artifice. He had never met someone like her, and he felt regret in every line of his exchange.

My body—

You fight like you’ve lost it.

The two locked blades, and Klbkch stared at Zeladona. Her teeth bared—

He leapt, and she thrust a blade up. She stabbed towards the very rising moon, and Klbkch realized something.

I should have—

—adapted after losing it.

He landed, and his swords rang. Rang and rang as he had never heard them, like the chimes of an insect’s shell, so loudly that he feared they might break. Zeladona saluted his blades. He raised his swords, but his Skill burnt out.

A bug with blades now, he lowered his weapons and stepped back. But he remembered it—in the very depths of his soul and began to realize how dull his heart had been without polishing it. Zeladona looked wistful—but in that moment, someone who was merely observing made a sound.

 

——

 

“Oh. Oh!”

Even Valeterisa had been watching, though she had no taste for mere swordsmanship. But the magic Zeladona used with her mastery of the blade was beyond even the Archmage of Izril. Yet it was seeing her and Klbkch fight that crystallized something in Valeterisa’s head.

The Wind Runner’s hints with her magic that had no Skill or level behind it. Seeing Eldavin as he had first come to Wistram—

And now, Valeterisa clapped her hands together as it all made sense.

“Of course! It should also be elegant! It should have always made sense. Numbers that fit, not memorization. But magic must be beautiful. Form matters as much as function. Like the clocks! Without both—”

Her great work looked so ugly, now. But if it must look beautiful—she saw a path open up in her head. And she began to chase it. If intention were the blocks upon which she built to her goal—the route there was like a bridge under silver moonlight, illuminated by art.

Art…as Zeladona would agree, was in everything you could do. She was, like a [Potter] at the kiln or a [Carver] laying hands upon a chisel, someone who refined and worked and endlessly pursued a higher ideal. Klbkch had been a wonderful surprise—if only she had met him when he was in his prime.

Surely, then, after that, the [Blademistress] would beam with delight when she saw the half-Elf waiting for her. Eldavin stood there, and his blade traced the same schools she breathed in every motion.

All she did was frown.

“You—”

 

——

 

Eldavin’s blade slammed into Liscor’s walls. He tried a sword art—but he didn’t have the Skill, and the [Blademistress] who leapt over the walls, changing her trajectory through the air with a wave of her sword, landed.

She completed her thought after forty-five seconds of matching him. And her face was puzzled. Then—hostile.

You know the song and the words. But you don’t practice. You sing loudly, but you have not earned it. You don’t deserve this.”

“I—”

They met once more, and he tried to roar like a Dragon upon the battlefield. Spread a wing like flame and cut the world with fire.

A dance of swords that descended from the heavens and left nothing in its wake. Like Dragonfire spun into sheer artistry and talent, footwork, blade, and body all moving in a single melody.

He couldn’t. His mind knew the steps—but Zeladona was that thing that Eldavin’s memory had copied. And she—

She burned in that dance of Dragons and left scars on Liscor’s wall, and she demonstrated how it should be. A simple broadsword in her hands turned white with heat, but refused to melt, and a [Smith] screamed, for here was the worthiest wielder of his craft that he had ever found!

His grandfathers would have forged a sword for her.

But not Eldavin. His sword suddenly felt clumsy in his hands as Zeladona finished the dance.

“You did not master this—whomever you are. You are a Skill incarnate. All borrowed power, no form of your own. But even masters elevate Skills. You have earned nothing.”

He tried to deny it with a sweeping step of his blades, tried to copy a tapestry of falling strikes like stars.

Zeladona nailed Eldavin’s shoulder into Liscor’s wall with such force that the sword snapped. The woman turned away.

“Raise that blade in my presence and I will take your head off.”

 

——

 

On and on. Jewel and Pisces fenced her, and she held a rapier, laughing with delight and mocking their failings.

She cut them down.

Possibly, she didn’t know any other way. Possibly—that was Zeladona’s teaching method. Maybe she just wanted to. She believed only in blood. She might have been…a bit of a bastard in life.

Thrice, she fought with light in her eyes, wild and excited, seeing something new, testing their limits—once that excitement turned to frustration and contempt.

But three more times she bowed.

Once, to the thing no one saw, thin air—and bowed deeply.

“Master, will you not fight with me? Even if you will not dance this day away? To you—I could give you what is so richly deserved. Perhaps. Will you not dare it and try?”

She was excited, then, and the [Blademistress] looked almost as if she might weep when—apparently—the answer was no. As if a challenge had been denied her.

Perhaps she was a marionette, dancing to someone else’s tune—but if so, one that didn’t mind the strings so long as she was allowed to dance once more.

The second time, a look of great confusion passed over her face. She halted—and a Goblin holding two swords, one red and famous, looked at her.

“A monster sings? Hah! I thought your ilk long dead.”

So said Zeladona. For when she had lived—his kind had only been legends, hunted. She looked down mockingly at him, and the Goblin lifted his head.

Redscar exhaled as sweat chilled across his body. But what he said to that eternal refrain was this:

“You people always try. Again and again—fight me, great warrior.”

A great sneer came over Zeladona’s face. She was offended—until the Goblin lifted his blades. Then she looked at him as he came off the ground.

Like a great bird from a people she had never dreamed of, stepping carefully, spreading two wings of red feathers.

She had seen better. She had seen faster. Zeladona struck him with steel once, with impatience, and the heron flinched not at all. He struck back, and with such pride—

He sang a song he had taught himself, an echo of the Chieftain he had served. It ran in his bones and his blood. It sounded—

Beautiful.

Zeladona was no longer mocking, then, as Redscar knelt. Not because he had been bested—but because he could no longer move. And he cursed his body for betraying him.

A look of concern crossed over the [Blademistress]’ face. She touched her heart—as if the body she possessed were in pain—and then at her eyes, as if searching for scales fallen from them.

“No. He sings. And a purer song than…”

Her eyes swung over Zeter, over Eldavin, and the warriors she had left in her path. Zeladona stood over Redscar, in confusion, and a sudden understanding swept over her face.

—Then she bowed her head.

“Had I been alive to realize this truth—I had never faced a Goblin in my years. No wonder your kind refused to die. Stand, one last time, warrior. And show me how you would die.

In that moment—perhaps—she did Erin Solstice a greater favor than all this carnage and misery. Her words forced the Goblin to his feet by willpower alone, and she saluted him.

A great bird spread his wings upon the Floodplains, a fledgling yet growing. But he—he might fly one day.

Zeladona walked on, letting him collapse in her wake. And she looked for them, strange beasts and exotic creatures. Real beings amid a world of fakery and Skills. Had they but lived—the [Champion of War], Salui, and the [Sword Legend] trapped in a Revenant’s body would have wept with joy to meet someone like her. Just as she had wept to see Sprigaena. But on Zeladona searched, for seeds and creatures she knew. She found few.

 

——

 

Not a [Paragon]. Not a Watch Captain or all but one [General]. Not in the [Spearmasters] three—for they were either complacent, finished with ambition, or already searching. Zeladona was looking for something, and when she touched it in them, she kissed them with steel and gave them her blessing.

Ressa stood next to Lord Tyrion Veltras and the people of the north. First went Colth, and she smiled like him—two demons lashing each other with blades until he fell again.

“Sinister warrior, you had a fine teacher. Keep practicing. Come now, girl of shadows.”

Ressa went next, with Reynold, and she felt a hint of remorse. For Zeladona looked so regretful as she knocked Ressa’s hand down and caught the dagger.

“You could have walked this road. And you didn’t. What a waste.

“Sometimes—you want to help someone more than yourself.”

The tip of the sword was running up through Ressa’s chin, tickling the bottom of her tongue. Zeladona withdrew the dagger and flicked it aside.

“Then I have nothing to say. Because I was always alone. And the sword was all I ever wanted. Come, child of Trolls. Show me courage. You last of all, lord of the woods.

She and Durene locked blades for a moment, and all the strength of the hills couldn’t move Zeladona’s arm as she let Durene have one blow against a raised greatsword—then answered in kind. When she turned, Lord Tyrion Veltras looked the second ghost he had met in the eyes and nodded.

He lifted his sword, and his shield too. Confused—no, earnestly. And Zeladona bent down and picked up a shield.

Oh, stranger. Oh, man trapped in a boy’s body. Oh, child—have you never seen art with sword and shield?

“I’ve seen it with a lance—but never sword and shield. Show me. Please.”

So she struck her shield with the sword’s hilt, and then she raised the shield overhead as he brought down a sword with all his might. Ylawes Byres, Ysara, and Tyrion Veltras rained down blows against a wall of steel higher than the Walled Cities, thicker than Facestealer’s bones—and as light as a feather.

Ere she cut them down, she showed them it didn’t matter. Shield—sword—spear—knives or greatsword. There was art of it, buried at the bottom of each. But she did cut them down. As the [Lord] of House Veltras raised his shield, she pressed a blade through it, through his arm, and watched him finally lay down.

Just as promised. Only at the end, as the woman looked around and saw no more foes to behold, did she seem to wake up from a dream.

“Ah. Is that it? Is that it? So short—so sweet!”

She held a hand up.

“I would give anything for…but I owe her my death. Alas, I see it now. And I am done.”

She blinked a few times. Passed a hand over her head and staggered, then looked down ruefully.

“So this is what a body of flesh is like? I was so afraid it might come apart at the seams—even more than cloth!”

The woman was standing on Tyrion’s back. She glanced down.

“Stranger, you have longer than I. Damn you. I give you nothing but—”

She spat on his head.

“—envy. Cherish your years. Would I another decade even in age! I envy half-Elves! I wish I had sat at the feet of her, the origin of this all, and worshiped her and begged her to learn!

She almost cried, staring at the image of an Elf only she could see. Now—Zeladona’s presence was wavering, and she was coming more to herself. But even she could sense she was—

What happened then? Names…places…who called me here? Erin…I should repay her. Has she any enemies? You—tell me whom this girl hates, and I will kill them.”

She looked around, pointed at Drassi, and the [Reporter] and [Camera Gnoll] stared at her, frozen. Frustrated now and looking almost panicked, Zeladona whirled around.

“Beautiful land. For a meal—what year is this? Who are you? Who are you?”

She stared at Selys, then Tyrion, as if she had never thought to ask. Zeladona was growing—erratic. But as her head cleaved left and right and Drassi realized she might be in more danger right now—Zeladona froze.

She turned to the last person and appeared. She kicked the ground, and it was like teleportation—that was how fast she moved. What could she do in this time? Chaldion was calling out.

“You need to kill—to kill—

He was trying to stride over to her, but one look at his face and a dozen hands, paws, and claws held him back. Everyone in earshot stopped the Drake. Chaldion fought with them.

It didn’t matter. Zeladona was reaching out to someone, entreating.

“Show it to me. Please? I shan’t hurt you.”

She was, of course, talking to Ryoka Griffin. It was always Ryoka Griffin—but Zeladona barely looked at the Courier. She was staring at…

The Windsword. The famous Kaalblade that Ryoka Griffin had been gifted by Lord Deilan El. When Zeladona saw it spring to life, she cut it in half—saw the light fade, and tears sprang to her eyes.

Ryoka could not make it work for her in that short time, but the [Blademistress] bowed then. She bowed over the blade and gazed at it so wonderingly.

“Another hundred years. There is no school for this! No—there is, there surely is! Wars fought I daren’t dream of! Mysteries left…if only. Damn you!

She rose and shouted at the sky.

Damn you! But enough. If only I had—

She uttered the eternal refrain of ghosts and then raised her hand. A great calm passed over her, and the air hushed. Zeladona cut nothing more. She just stood there, weary, and nodded.

“Yes. Yes. Here you are, Miss. Catch her, ere I go.”

Zeladona stepped closer to Ryoka Griffin, and the Wind Runner lifted two shaking hands. But the [Blademistress of Ancients] seemed to be counting something, nodding along.

“Yes, each one. Yes and yes…may I not say…? Damn you twice upon Dragons’ scales, then. And thank you, if aught can be said to one such as…yes.”

She didn’t seem there anymore. But as she faded—Zeladona said one last thing. She wrinkled Erin Solstice’s nose, looking at something with a huge frown.

“Who? Oh. I care it not. I know how it would be—but these things happen. I would cut down those who dishonored my festival and trials—but I am not living, am I? No, I would not always cut down one. It varies. Such things do. Let him go, then. Punishment? I care it not. I…”

Then, though she would doubtless have liked more words, more time, and more deeds, Zeladona Ischen sighed.

Just a sigh. The longest sigh in the world. It was more than breath. It was…everything. Leaving the young woman who collapsed without a word into Ryoka’s arms.

Erin Solstice stared out of her own eyes again—and then it really was over.

Zeladona’s Trial of a Thousand Blades, the <Heroic Quest> of Liscor, came to a close. It had left surprisingly few dead. Far too many wounded.

But however the blood.

However the grief.

Despite the carnage and senselessness and the travails of it all—

From that day, her name echoed. And when you looked at her, caught by magic, her image reflected across an [Innkeeper]’s face, for a second, you could see her raise that sword.

No one was worthy of Zeladona’s great Skill. But it echoed.

 

——

 

In the Minotaur’s mind, as he was led back to the army’s camp, one-armed, without salvation, redemption, or punishment. Yet—he was ashamed that he reveled in the glory of it.

Ashamed that a pair of mice made his heart warm, that he still clung to the cheers and the words burning in his mind.

 

[Skill – He Left Pride in His Wake learned.]

 

——

 

It came to the [Blade Dancer] as she lay, clutching her blades, and word came from her very [Emperor] to safeguard the katana that Zeladona had touched, to send it back to be enshrined as a relic. Once again—no, for the first time after she had knelt before a Drake in an undead body, she dreamed.

 

[Skill – She Danced in Moonlight’s Grace learned.]

 

——

 

In the grasp of Spring. Though she was unworthy of it—though fell deeds had been done and the consequences might not be mended, as the Archmage of Memory bore her back to her Order, she lay there and heard a voice that brought a tear to her own eyes.

And she was resolved to repay the Goblin of her suspicion, make amends. She had called him, ‘knight’, but still held him at arm’s length. Until now, for she had heard and seen much that shook her. The Warden of Spring had a winter’s chill upon her, though, but Spring worked hardest in the cold.

 

[Skill – When She Drew Her Blade: Time Fled Her learned.]

 

——

 

And last—last of all, the last thing that came from Zeladona herself, not some impartial arbiter, not from their own struggles and realizations, but from her, to the worthy—and she might have selected any or all, but she did judge fairly, so only chose four—

The last voice came to the Hobgoblin who lay slumbering against his Carn Wolf. And he alone had thought this entire affair was great and glorious and how it should be. The Hobgoblin bared his teeth, and his red paint—and scars—were so intermingled he could not tell the difference sometimes.

He alone thought this had been an excellent day.

 

[Skill – He Walked and Shadows Split learned.]

 

——

 

And then? Well…the [Innkeeper] lay in her bed, and this time, she couldn’t move at all. She lay there—and the world changed and talked, and there was much to do.

But what could trump this? What else could come besides—please—a break? A breath of fresh air and all the rest in the world?

Perhaps only—

Christmas.

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

I’ve come to a conclusion of late. When I am calm, the writing is calm. The pacing, style, is calmer. When I am stressed, near the end of a writing cycle or the year, I write chapters that become frantic, rushing forwards.

Writing imitates life. And so, depending on my energy, mood, the tone of the story changes. Being calm is good. It doesn’t mean the plot moves slow; if anything it might be incisive, fast-paced, and hopefully even elegant at times.

When I am tired—as of now—the writing can border on manic. It certainly might affect the level of prose—and by prose, I mean descriptions, my ability to set the scene, and so on.

Like a heartbeat, I suppose. Your heart can be beating a mile a minute while you run slow or fast. Your pace is not always connected to your experience.

…Does this analogy make sense? I’ve written about 90,000 words in six days. I hope it is good. One Christmas chapter left—and hopefully I can finish Volume 1. Throw all the energy into the fire and create something good.

Good and fast. I have done all I can in the time I had, and I hope you enjoy it. Enjoy it—again, different from always being happy and reassured. Thanks for reading and hope you’re doing well.

—pirateaba

 

Gargoyles and Gargoyle Bossels by Enuryn the [Naturalist]!

 

Hold Still by pkay!

 

Tesy the [Maid]? A proposed way to pay off the crimes, by butts!

Twitter: https://twitter.com/buttscord

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/buttsarts

 

Tesy [Maid], Christmas, Suprised Pikachu aba and…by Brack!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

 

The Maestro and Peki the Blade by Fiore!

Twitter:https://twitter.com/atlasphenomenon

Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/fiorepandaphen

 


Previous Chapter Next Chapter

9.31

[The author is on break until January 17th! Have good end to your year!]

 

—The Brass Dragon awoke with sweat on his scales. His head rose, and he looked around.

“…Is someone there?”

He gazed towards the entrance of his cave, and the young woman…

…Wasn’t there.

Sleepily, Teriarch’s head rose higher, and he wondered what that feeling had been. A great terror, for a few minutes, had come over him in his dreams.

Dragonslayer. His scales still itched. A scar running down his left hind leg twinged. As if he could taste the blade thousands of years later.

It had awoken him from his slumber. He looked around for the girl seeking his help, but she hadn’t come. Maybe she never would.

He should wake. But he was weary—and his wings still ached from flying. The Dragon buried his head in a pile of gold and then—since he couldn’t breathe—raised it and exhaled.

“…I’m hungry.”

He hadn’t been hungry in thousands of years. But so much Dragonfire and spellcasting—he was still locked in despair, in circles of his life where he flew, chasing his tail.

Young woman. Fire. Regret. 

Scars.

A rhythm that would carry him to his grave. Would it be his duties that made him rise, the girl—or the warrior with the blade?

The Brass Dragon lay there awhile. Then—because he despaired of it, truly, because he was hungry, the Dragonlord of Flame did what he always did.

He ran away. He called upon something else of old, a guise as ancient as Eldavin, the meddler who did what must be done. But humbler. He whispered—and his body changed as he spoke another name.

“Demsleth.”

Then he vanished. By the time a young woman finally did haul herself into the cave, bypassing the magical wards—

“Hello? I’m Ryoka Griffin. Hello?

A young woman with bare feet, proper gait, and even the right face walked into the cave. She had on clothing…or what looked like clothing…and her voice even sounded right.

‘Ryoka Griffin’ stared about. She peered at the gold, the treasures, and saw—

No Dragon.

He was gone. The young woman scuffed a toe on the floor. She gazed at a relic of a bygone age and then wandered out.

“Damn.”

It was getting better at this.

 

——

 

The winter day was cold. So cold snow was falling from the sky. But flakes caused by natural precipitation.

Nothing great. Nothing glorious. It was winter, and everyone knew it…but there wasn’t any true snow.

“I guess the Winter Sprites went somewhere else this year. Normally, it wouldn’t even snow until you saw the little shits. Bastards throwing snowballs at my head.”

Only Relc could annoy natural elementals like that. The Drake, as had become his routine, stood in his room at The Wandering Inn.

His room at the inn. Not in the city. He had found an apartment in the new quarters, but Erin had told him he could stay at the inn forever for free. Lyonette had, of course, clarified they’d charge him a modest fee, but it included breakfast and cleaning.

Part of Relc had wanted to go and find an apartment—until he wondered why he wanted to go. Then he’d stayed. He’d stayed and been happier than he could imagine when he realized he’d be here.

With the little kid, Mrsha, with Erin and the inn. For better or worse, he would be here.

That was something. If only life could be like that. The painful, sad-happy feeling of realizing someone wanted him to be here—that he didn’t have to sit in his empty apartment fiddling with his puzzles. It wasn’t a gift; Erin wanted him to be here, and he could go downstairs and sit in the common room.

That feeling in Relc’s chest was like today. Today, where so much had happened.

The scar in the earth outside the Floodplains was mostly closed, because the Antinium did not want a breach in the very firmament that could let water rain down into their Hive. But the scars on people and even the walls of Liscor remained.

He’d stared at them for a while. Literal cut marks that had gone through enchanted stone, melted parts of it. A shattered section where the Archmage of Memory had been nailed to the wall like a fly.

That was one kind of scar. The other…the other was on the Drake’s arm. That damn [Blademistress] had got him.

She’d gotten everyone. But her scars, at least—were light. Light, for a given value of the word. It wasn’t a missing limb. She, ironically, had been most careful to wound in a way that wouldn’t permanently cripple someone.

This damn tournament. Relc wouldn’t have participated if he’d known—but he had been after Lulv and Symphony. After Manus. That was fine—he was used to scars. But the poor kids…they didn’t need scars. They didn’t need to lose actual limbs.

Yet—he got it. The chance to face a [Blademaster] or a [Spearmaster]…he would have done the same thing. The painful part was—

Relc looked down, cleared his throat, and went on.

“Looks like a bunch of idiots are already out there, exercising. You should rest, though. No sense in opening anything up.”

At this, someone did stir and open her eyes. A red-scaled girl lay in his bed, resting. Relc had actually slept in another room. She was bigger than a girl now, but she still looked like one to him.

“I’ll be on my feet—tomorrow.”

“Sure you will.”

Her voice was too quiet. Relc hesitated—then bent down and patted her on the forehead. He stared down and saw the very edge of a mostly-healed cut right below her left eye. One inch and—

He’d offered to use his healing potion, but Embria and everyone else had told him it wasn’t worth wasting. She’d told him she had to keep them.

The scar ran from her eye to down across her mouth, across her chest and her side. A [Spearmaster]’s wound from a challenge.

When Relc looked at it, he felt like going out and finding that Gnoll. But it had been a challenge. So he just patted his daughter on the forehead.

“Sure you will. But today is all about hot cocoa and stuff, right? Want me to get you breakfast?”

“I’ll get up in a bit. Fath—Dad?”

Embria Grasstongue looked up. She hadn’t said much since yesterday. Relc almost turned back to look at her, but kept staring out the window. Because it was hard.

“What’s up?”

“Was I close? Did I do a good job?”

Relc was glad his face was turned away. He closed his eyes and then turned to Embria. He bent over the bed, and his claw kept patting her hand.

“A great job, kid. I just wish…I just wish you didn’t do dangerous things. As a dad, you know. As a [Spearmaster]—you were close.”

He almost said, ‘I wish you hadn’t tried’. But then he thought what he might have said to Vok, despite the lad getting hurt.

Relc saw two pale yellow eyes looking up at him, and he was rewarded with a claw tightening around his fingers.

“I have to try. I had to. My father’s a [Spearmaster].”

“You don’t have to be me, Embria. You’re doing a great job on your own.”

He wished he’d said that before—and knew it wouldn’t have done a thing. But Relc saw Embria smile briefly, and his heart hurt and felt better for the pain today. Already—it was that exhaustively, painfully glorious feeling of being alive. And he thought he would never forget how she looked up.

“But I want to be like you.”

She hadn’t said that since she was a girl. Relc wiped at his eyes for a while. When he went downstairs, she was leaning on him. And he felt young and old and—

It was that kind of day. That kind of day that descended on The Wandering Inn. If you were a fool, you’d call it typical. Because such days were never the same. They changed you—forever.

 

——

 

Erin Solstice was lying in her bed, even as Relc and Embria walked past her room. But they stopped by the open door, as many people had.

Just to stare and reassure themselves it was a young, Human woman who lay there, not a Stitch-woman.

Not—Zeladona, [Blademistress of Ancients]. Not the greatest swordswoman to ever set foot on the Floodplains, who had cut light and the sky and brought a legend out of history and into this waking world.

But then—some of that stare was for Erin herself, because she had been the one who unleashed Zeladona, been the vessel for her.

The [Innkeeper] of The Wandering Inn. She lay there, awake, but not rushing downstairs or already outside.

In fact, someone had elevated her bed slightly. It wasn’t as if they had invented beds that could automatically recline or incline themselves—rather, a certain Archmage had fussed around with light magic for a while before a [Princess] gave up and stuffed bedding up so Erin could lie in a semi-sitting position.

She was staring out the window. Her light brown hair was brushed and combed, and she was wearing pajamas with big, silver wolves chasing each other over a dark blue background.

The Silverfangs had given them to Erin in thanks for General Sserys’ actions at the Meeting of Tribes.

Another reminder. But Erin didn’t move—much. Even her head took a moment to turn and smile at Relc and Embria.

“Hey, guys. You okay, Embria?”

The Drake had a scar that ran across her entire upper body—and that was just one of the wounds Lulv had left in their duel. He hadn’t crippled her—but without potions, she had to lean on Relc to walk.

Nevertheless, it was Embria who gave Erin a look of concern.

“I’ll be fine, Miss Erin. A day or two of rest…won’t hurt. And you?”

Erin opened her mouth and licked at her lips. Someone held up a cup anxiously, and Erin murmured.

“I don’t need a drink, Mrsha. I’m, uh…gonna lie here a while. I’m good.”

Relc and Embria exchanged a glance. The day after Zeladona’s Trial of Blades…Erin Solstice saw the cup with the wood straw in it lower. And despite not needing a drink, it was good that Mrsha offered. Because Erin Solstice—could not move.

She could slowly rotate her head left to stare out the window as the two Drakes continued on. But even that clearly hurt. She lay in bed, and every single muscle, ones she hadn’t known existed, hurt.

“Want Ceria to cast [Numb] again, Erin?”

“No. I’m good. I just…can’t…move.”

Her tongue hurt. As if someone had been doing pushups with it. Had Zeladona been moving her mouth to slash people with swords? Holding a blade in her mouth?

Erin didn’t know. All she did know was that if she tried to use a potion, it would be a waste. No more shortcuts. And…this might be her consequence.

“Grimalkin says he’ll check on you tomorrow. We’ll have you in a massage once it, uh, doesn’t hurt. And the healing crystals Healer Demerra left should help. Without undoing your body’s healing.”

Lyonette tapped one of the crystals placed amidst the padding propping Erin up. It glowed a bright, merry orange, and Erin swallowed with effort.

“Can I get in a chair?”

Yes…in theory. Are you feeling up for breakfast?”

“My eyebrows hurt. Do I have eyebrow muscles? Why do they hurt?

The [Innkeeper] was banned from healing herself, but even Grimalkin had opined that Zeladona’s presence in Erin’s body would have consequences that would set back her healing journey.

On the other hand…he had told Lyonette that if Erin could tough it out without reverting to potions, he would be fascinated to see if the [Blademistress]’ possession had any positive effects.

Right now, the effect on Erin was that she felt every muscle from her legs to her pelvis to her abs to her arms, neck, head, facial muscles for smiling, fingers—everything hurt. Ceria had used the [Numb] spell to reduce the pain, but it was also just—hard to move.

Her muscles could barely transport her head so Erin could stare outside. Which she did as Lyonette and Mrsha set up a chair and called for Ishkr and Numbtongue to help. Erin stared outside—and saw something else that hurt.

 

——

 

Yvlon Byres had a crutch for her legs. She leaned on it and her one good foot. The other was a stump.

In time, she could get a piece of wood, from a pegleg to something more customized, fitted to her. Learn to walk—or buy a magical prosthesis. House El apparently sold some custom-made, and they had sent her a [Message] offering her a 25% discount this morning.

She didn’t know if she would need one. But she was one of many people who’d lost something. An arm, a leg—or multiple limbs or just fingers.

Ysara Byres had lost a pinkie. Just the tip of one—but she’d stepped out of the tournament, and Zeladona had mostly passed her over. She had lost the half of one finger in a single duel against the [Lieutenant of Perfection], Comois. Despite her talent—or rather, because of it—she had gotten away with just that.

Ylawes hadn’t lost a digit, but he’d been mostly concerned with shielding Infinitypear and Rasktooth, who’d quit once they saw how un-fun this battle was. Right now, all three adventurers, plus Ysara and Yvlon’s own teammates, Pisces and Ksmvr, were lined up in front of her.

She wasn’t joining in—because she had only one foot to balance on. And Yvlon wasn’t sure she had, uh, muscles to build in her silver arms.

Was that how it worked? She didn’t know, and she felt empty after the raging fury of yesterday, so she just watched.

What she was watching was—her friends, adventurers, and dozens of people doing pushups. Yvlon saw Pisces doing press ups—sweat was furrowed on his brow. Ksmvr wasn’t sweating, but he did pant as they got up and began doing lunges down the hill.

“I am beginning to become fatigued. Comrade Pisces? How long are we going to do this?”

“Until—we—are in better shape. Muscle training. Magus Grimalkin’s regime might work.”

“But I am not a [Duelist]. Lunges are not my specialty.”

“That does not matter! Lower body strength is fundamental to all fighting! Rest!

Pisces collapsed onto the grass, panting, and Ksmvr fell on top of him. Ysara nearly toppled over—even Ylawes looked winded by Grimalkin’s training.

They were joined by Drakes, Gnolls, Humans, all flopping on the grass. They…might not continue this. Or maybe they would? Pisces had been practicing lunges before Grimalkin decided to organize a mass-workout.

They had been motivated by Zeladona, reminded of their complacency or inspired to take up old exercises and routines again.

Well, those who hadn’t just been crushed by the trial of blades or who were too wounded to fight again. Yvlon had seen a number of Drakes—especially those from Pallass—who had lost limbs. She’d spoken to some, actually. Showed them her silver arms and seen in their eyes hope for the same.

What a painful feeling. The [Silversteel Armsmistress] was hobbling inside as Grimalkin passed around an experimental ‘healthy’ smoothie to drink. And despite herself—she stared up at the window, like everyone else. Yvlon met Erin’s eyes, and the young woman looked so guilty.

But for what? Some people might blame her for how that <Heroic Quest> had gone. But the [Innkeeper] had been forced into it. It was done, and Yvlon…she slowly entered the common room and sat down.

“Hey, Yvlon. You—you okay?”

Only one person could ask her something like that and wince while doing the delivery. Ryoka Griffin looked at Yvlon Byres, and the woman exhaled.

“No. Next question, Ryoka?”

The Wind Runner opened her mouth, thought for a long second, and gestured at the menu.

“Y-you want to have breakfast together?”

“What were you thinking of having?”

Yvlon decided she was hungry and stared at the menu printed on paper and glued to lacquered wood. Ryoka Griffin stared down at the menu. The indecisive, worried Courier—looked at Yvlon, around the inn, and decided this year she had to make a change.

“Spiced pottage with cheese and fresh bread sound good for two?”

Dead gods. She could decide on breakfast for herself without an existential crisis. They were changing. Yvlon thought about it, and her stomach rumbled.

“Sounds good.”

“Alright. Can I get…?”

Ryoka looked around, raised a hand, and Peggy hopped over. Yvlon stared at her peg leg as the Hobgoblin gave Yvlon a nod.

“Ooh. Yum. You want two? Will get.”

She strode over to the kitchen, and Ryoka heard her talking to someone helping out in the morning. Imani cut a loaf of fresh bread as Calescent prepared the pottage, scooping the filling breakfast out of a pot he had simmering.

“Perfect! They can try my new bread. I made it with poolish. Tell me if you can taste the difference.”

“What is poolish?”

Yvlon was apprehensive, but Ryoka knew this one.

“Fancy baker’s dough or something. That’s how you know Imani is a real bread-person.”

She shook her head. Actual baking techniques coming over from Earth? What next? Ryoka eyed the menu and saw more cuisine here than just ‘burgers’. And her stomach began to rumble the instant she sat the steaming bowls of pottage and the fresh bread, which did indeed taste remarkable with butter.

 

——

 

Eating breakfast might be weird to you after seeing a Level 84 legend carving her name through the world’s zeitgeist. But it was also proof that Ryoka and Yvlon were regulars of The Wandering Inn.

They understood that you should eat, sleep, and do all the things normal people did, even after great events like this. It wouldn’t take away from anything, but it would stop you from spiraling.

The Wandering Inn had guests, of course. Loads of ‘em, and arguably, it was more pressed than most days.

The staff did not have Ishkr to take over for them, so the Antinium and Goblins were working hard. Peggy led her species; Rosencrantz led his. They had, in fact, both received new classes thanks to their efforts.

[Floor Boss] and [Adjunct Manager]. Interesting classes. They were not the only people to level up, of course.

Almost every single person Zeladona had cut had leveled up. The exceptions were Grimalkin, who’d gotten stabbed for trying to interfere with magic, and Zeter.

Two people had not leveled.

Every single other person had leveled at least once. Even, no—

Especially Pisces Jealnet. The [Necromancer] woke up with a new class. One he had heard many, many times before and denied it. He still remembered why, and he would never forget.

But he had also seen Zeladona of legends. He had been reminded by the Maestro why he couldn’t forget the lessons, why he still carried around the blade.

Forget Padurn. He was proud of it. So—he let it happen. And today?

He was no [Fencer]. Nor [Duelist]. Nor even [Fighter]. Something was listening. And if it listed his nature, it would have read like this yesterday:

 

Pisces Jealnet, Level 38 [Deathbane Necromancer]. Level 3 [Slave]. Level 22 [Mage].

 

Now?

 

Pisces Jealnet, Level 38 [Deathbane Necromancer]. Level 14 [Duelist of Wistram]. Level 3 [Slave].

 

When he raised his arm and stared at his rapier, he still felt the memory of chains. Perhaps they were lighter today. Perhaps he was closer to breaking them for good. Pisces slowly sat back up and got back to exercising. With a will that his friends had seldom seen before.

So yes, the inn was full of conversation and happenings, and because Ishkr was busy helping Erin, everyone else had to pick up the slack. Indeed, that morning, a Gnoll with some obnoxiously flashy sunglasses was sitting at one of the tables with a bunch of paper.

It seemed incredible that Yelroan could generate that much paper already, but the Gnoll hadn’t just pulled it out of his butt. Rather, he had a menu, a list of Lyonette’s notes on expenses, his personal world-directory for Mage’s Guilds, a written account of a certain chess tournament—a half-eaten plate of bread, three [Message] scrolls, and a single quill.

“Er…am I supposed to be helping clean up this place?”

He called out to Peggy as she passed by with another order for Relc and Embria. She gave him a blank look.

“Is you good at cleaning?”

“Not particularly.”

Peggy eyed the desk.

“Then no. What you doing? Are you working for me?”

“Am I?”

The Gnoll wasn’t sure about that, but the [Mathematician] was writing with one paw as he picked up the bread and chewed on it. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“I, uh, could recommend you drop two coppers off the yellat-dishes. It’s really overpriced. But maybe bump up your prices on bread and the pottage combo by one copper coin. Another farm’s had troubles—wheat’s going to be dearer soon.”

Peggy hesitated as he showed her the menu—and a list of items he’d marked up or down. She scratched at her head.

“That is not my job. I can’t do. Miss Lyonette can.”

“Oh, do I talk to her or…?”

The Gnoll hesitated, aware Lyonette was upstairs. He actually hadn’t spoken to her all morning as she was rushing around trying to help Erin. The Gnoll was also wary of Peggy, not really knowing how to talk to a Goblin.

It was, in fact, a girl with braided brown hair who peered over the table and addressed both.

“Miss Peggy, why don’t you keep serving people the same prices today? I’ll show Miss Lyonette the menu later. She’d have to have a [Scribe] re-print all the menus anyways. And I think Erin wanted to give you a room, Mister Yelroan. Along with your bedroom.”

“Oh, thank you—”

“Nanette.”

Peggy walked off, and the girl produced something and carefully placed it on the counter. Yelroan, who had been desperately dipping his quill into the dregs of an inkpot, brightened up.

“Ink! I was wondering if you had any…”

“We keep some in pots. If you need more, I can write it on the shopping list for you. Can I help you with anything else, Mister Yelroan?”

Of all the people in the entire inn, only Nanette had really remembered Yelroan’s existence the next morning. The young witch looked at him, and the [Mathematician] smiled gratefully.

“I don’t think so right now—thank you. I didn’t want to be a bother this morning what with—”

What with the most extraordinary event in a hundred years—if you forgot the Meeting of Tribes and everything else. But Nanette nodded understandingly.

“Someone has to help you get used to the inn. I thought that would be a good task for me. You don’t have to work right away.”

She was concerned for him, but the blonde Gnoll smiled and adjusted his sunglasses. Relc shouted as he stabbed himself in the mouth.

My eyes! Who the—

Yelroan hurriedly decided to replace the annoying sunglasses with a less intrusive pair. He whispered to Nanette as both ducked over their table.

“I’m used to hitting the ground running, actually. My former boss and tribe—Plain’s Eye—would come to me with a huge problem and minutes to solve it. Reminds me of having to organize a Wyvern hunting party.”

“That might not be a good comparison here.”

Nanette observed as she looked around for Mrsha. Yelroan nodded.

“Truthful, though. And if it’s anything like my job there—I assume some independent action might be important. They can tell me to stop, but do you think this is a bad idea? I asked one of the Thronebearers, and they assured me they’d tell Lyonette and to keep doing it.”

He showed her what he was doing. Nanette peered at the [Message] scrolls. And what she saw was this.

 

To His Majesty of Avel: 

Your Majesty, the Wandering Inn thanks Avel for its gracious correspondence. Regretfully, Innkeeper Solstice is indisposed and thus cannot respond at this time. This missive will be forwarded to her upon her recovery. Please rest assured your letter will be delivered to her with full confidentiality. Luck and pans be with you,

—The Wandering Inn

 

“I added that last bit in because you need some kind of saying. Too silly?”

“It sounds like Erin. Maybe, ‘luck and Amentus wine pour ever onwards’?”

“Ooh, I like that.”

Yelroan amended the [Message] he was writing. Nanette looked concerned as she saw how many [Messages] were coming in.

“Can Miss Erin afford to send so many [Messages], Mister Yelroan?”

His eyes twinkled.

“Don’t worry. This might not be math—but I have had to deal with Mage’s Guilds. Most [Message] senders will pay or have paid for return messages, and the Mage’s Guild will eat the costs most of the time. I’ll have a Street Runner run variants of the reply—one second. [Copy Message].”

He began copying the same reply without the names or specifics across multiple slips of parchment. Nanette was delighted—and doubly so when she saw what he was writing elsewhere.

 

To Strategist Inter of Nerrhavia’s Fallen:

I am writing to you in regards to the tournament proceeds accorded to you during Innkeeper Erin Solstice’s famous chess tournament. The inn has been slightly delayed in collecting its share of the profits. According to our calculations, 14,442 individuals in Nerrhavia’s Fallen registered or took part, and we have calculated the below fee.

Please forward it via the Merchant’s Guild in Invrisil or Pallass to the care of The Wandering Inn, Liscor. If you believe this number is in error, please ratify the errors via truth spell at a Wistram-certified Mage’s Guild. They will be happy to administer the test for a small fee, and they have provided the numbers of each participant.

Below is the breakdown of total profits and the inn’s portion…

 

The cut that Yelroan had proposed was a simple 50-50 split, and it was…considerable. Especially if this were just one nation. But Nanette had a question.

“What will you do if they don’t pay?”

“Well, I would write them another letter. Then suggest Miss Solstice will take it up with Wistram—or remind them who writes the <Quests>. I imagine most will pay, and the ones who don’t? If you want to be nasty, Miss Lyonette could hire a [Debt Collector] to get the money for a third of the sum. But realistically, you can probably just write off the ones who don’t write back. I imagine most will, especially after yesterday. Again, if Miss Lyonette has a problem—”

“I think she’ll be delighted.”

Finally, someone who kept lists and remembered things! Yelroan actually knew who to talk to, and he could figure things out without being told what to do first.

The inn needed someone like him. And—Yelroan had more than just a pretty pair of sunglasses. He was taking notes on who he had sent the requests to, obviously, but he leaned over to Nanette.

“I think I was told Miss Lyonette has [Flawless Attempt]? Do you know her cooldowns on that? Because I don’t have many negotiating Skills, but if she’s not using it, we can run that on all the objectors within the week.”

 

——

 

What a monster. A real Salii, and that was meant in the most complimentary and derogatory of ways.

Qwera actually heard Yelroan say that and wished she had been able to make an offer that would convince him to work for her.

But then, perhaps the [Mathematician] had somehow understood this was the place to level his class. After yesterday, not even the Golden Gnoll could beat Erin’s inn for levelling opportunities or the world stage.

She, herself, wondered if Tesy would be allowed to stay. But she was bidding farewell to one friend and looked Ysara straight in the eyes.

“Are you sure you want to go home? You could…beg being cut by a legendary ghost.”

Ysara Byres just shook her head. She turned, and Ylawes pretended to be looking the other way as Vuliel Drae got in the wagon and Infinitypear and Rasktooth petted the horse they’d be sharing.

“It’s time to at least see them. Will you be here when I get back?”

“With Tesy in trouble? Count on it. I’ll hold my business until you go. Frankly—I need to see what Valeterisa is doing. And the inn has so much power with this teleportation door…run back here if you don’t like what you find. Are the Horns going with you?”

“Later. Yvlon is wounded. They’ll catch up via Pisces’ undead chariot. But I might as well travel in company. Much as I love my dear sister and her unique team…their undead horses are the bumpiest experience in the world.”

Off they went. Ysara Byres, like the others, only stopped to say farewell to Erin. She was in her chair, slowly and determinedly feeding herself spoonfuls of food.

“You gonna come back?”

“Two days, Miss Solstice. Two days—and we’ll be back well before the Winter Solstice.”

Dawil chuckled—and looked perplexed when Erin didn’t laugh at the pun. But it was just the beginning of winter, and Ylawes bowed to Erin.

“Erin…it has been something.”

The [Knight] seemed at a loss for words. Falene was still staring at the [Garden of Sanctuary], but Erin smiled.

“You come back soon. I promise I won’t do anything crazy between now and then, huh?”

“You are a good liar. We go and have fun.”

Rasktooth patted her hand with a big grin, and everyone laughed at that. Then they were off, riding towards House Byres as they used the Riverfarm door. Erin Solstice waved weakly—and an [Emperor] called out.

“Erin. A word?”

Shut the door. Shut the—

Lyonette shut the door in the [Emperor]’s face with a significant amount of delight. Erin really felt bad—but she had barely enough energy to eat. And she had apparently put down half of Calescent’s pottage by herself, despite having to pause every few seconds to rest her hand.

Today really was rest, processing, and an end to drama. Ryoka Griffin looked at Laken as the door shut, and even she didn’t suggest they add to the situation. But she did look at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] stopped eating long enough to show Ryoka something.

 

——

 

“What the f—”

Ryoka Griffin decided it was gauche to keep swearing. So she ameliorated her language, looked around the Drathian garden, and pushed Erin over a bridge.

“Whee…wait, I can’t stop—Ryokaaaaaa—-

Erin Solstice rolled a good fifty feet in her wheelchair, which might have been greased a bit too well, before Ryoka stopped her. The Wind Runner saved Erin from running into one of the little fox statues.

“Sorry.”

She had been staring around the garden and realizing Erin’s Skill was deeper than she thought. And Erin hadn’t even shown her the real door yet.

“I’ve gotta get back to the inn soon, or people will think I’m summoning Zeladona 2.0.”

Is there a Zeladona 2.0? Please, Erin. Be honest. How many <Quests> do you have burning in your back pocket?”

They might only have a few moments, but they had chosen to step out to—talk. About many things, including Tyrion.

Tyrion—who, at this moment, Ryoka happened to know was in the Haven, trying to brainstorm ways to apologize to Erin Solstice. Even the man with a rock for a head had realized he might want to get on her good side.

Fat chance of that, perhaps. But Erin’s own ire had been—pulled by the bloody tournament. To Ryoka’s question, she chuckled weakly.

“Zeladona was…one of the big ones. Really. I didn’t speak to her as much, but I made friends with the ones I liked. I doubt I actually have someone of her level I could just do that with. I didn’t meet the dude who killed magic.”

“So you really—

Ryoka Griffin was another sort that Erin was glad to have as a friend. Because, despite the Wind Runner gawking at the gardens, despite her understandable chagrin and questions—

When Erin told her she had spoken to ghosts, Ryoka, more than anyone else, believed her. Erin was just eying the door leading back to the inn.

“I’ll tell you everything. But right now…remember those people you met last Winter Solstice? The three of them?”

Ryoka’s grip tightened on Erin’s wheelchair.

“Funny. I was going to bring them up. You…a big fan of theirs?”

The [Innkeeper]’s hat burned a different color, and Ryoka leaned back as Erin, with great effort, twisted her head and torso around.

“Are…you?

“Nope! Not at all! Totally enemies. I’ve sworn to the Faerie King to kill them. Who exists. Don’t do that!

The Wind Runner almost pushed Erin into the koi pond to let her cool off. The [Innkeeper] relaxed slightly.

“I don’t like them. I…hate them. I am going to kill them. They killed all the ghosts. Ate them up. They’re…gods.”

Ryoka clarified with a whisper.

“Dead gods.”

The two young women looked at each other, and in that moment, they realized they had less to say to each other than they had thought. Ryoka let out a sigh—then, for some reason, laughed.

Erin raised her brows, for she found nothing about this funny. But she realized Ryoka looked so relieved—

“If there was anyone I wanted on my side, Erin—it would be you! If there was anyone I wanted to know…”

She sagged on the wheelchair, and Erin patted Ryoka’s hand.

“So—how did you figure it out? Is that why you know Tyrion so well? I heard you did something with Laken.”

Ryoka caught her breath and explained, then, what had happened. In brief—but it tied into their argument, which neither had forgotten.

“Tyrion Veltras really did help me, Erin.”

“I get that. If he steps foot in my inn again, I will burn him. Not him, Ryoka. I will talk to you, and you can let him do good things if you believe in him. But you and I will never see eye-to-eye on that.”

The [Innkeeper] would not relent, and Ryoka didn’t have the courage to argue. But Erin dropped it. She exhaled—and nodded.

“The quest is my fault. I didn’t know it would do that. If Halrac…Yvlon—”

“You were forced into it.”

Erin’s head was bowed. She looked up once, and Ryoka saw how bleak her face was.

“My Skills and my secrets are getting darker, Ryoka. Or just—deeper. I’m afraid to post some of the <Quests>. They’re going to get people killed. But I have to. Dead gods should stay dead. I’ll show you my statues and the door—don’t you dare run before I do. But do you have another Tyrion in your back pocket?”

Ryoka Griffin hesitated and hoped like heck Rhisveri had no listening spells or a secret bomb-spell in her mouth. Because just for Erin—Ryoka leaned over and whispered in her ear.

“I met a bunch of immortals in Ailendamus. A Wyrm—and I have done terrible things to them, but they might help. I owe the Faerie King a favor—or maybe he’s got me in some kind of a fated prophecy. There are Angels and Devils too—and a singing Titan—and I killed the last Dryad in the world. I’m going to see Teriarch, because his alter ego, Eldavin, is still out there. And aliens exist. They gave me this sword.”

She showed Erin the hilt of her sword, and the [Innkeeper] looked up.

“What.”

“It’s not a Kaalblade. It’s actually an alien-tech sword…”

“No, go back first. You lost me at Angels and Devils. What?

It was Erin’s turn to do the listening, and she patently didn’t believe Ryoka at first. She had to see the blueprints of the sword, and Ryoka configured it to let Erin swing around.

You got a lightsaber? I got a wheelchair. You got a—”

She poked at Ryoka’s feet since the Faeblade wouldn’t hurt either girl once configured, and Ryoka lifted her feet.

“I also have unbreakable footwraps. What did you get?”

Erin stared at Ryoka.

<Legendary Quest: Kick Ryoka’s Ass>! I call upon the power of Zeladona to—

 

——

 

They were laughing after that, and Ryoka remembered one last thing.

“Okay—I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone, but in the interest of being honest?”

Erin squeezed her eyes shut.

Please, Ryoka. We’ll do more secrets in a second—but please tell me it’s not Jexishe.”

“…Who?”

“Oh, thank goodness. Bird’s still just a [Liar].”

Erin wiped at her brow. Ryoka smiled uncertainly and glanced at the door.

“Nah. Just a Unicorn. He’s the one who drank all your booze.”

The [Innkeeper]’s face went blank. Ryoka went on hurriedly.

“I think he’s just a nuisance. Honestly, just forget about it, and I think he won’t harass anyone. But, uh—if I start talking about horses in a positive light? Literally get a crossbow and shoot me.”

Erin Solstice’s head twisted around. She stared at Ryoka as the Wind Runner grinned to show it was a joke. The grin grew smaller as Erin spoke, slowly, still glaring at Ryoka’s lightsaber and gifts from the lands of the Fae.

“Palt and Imani are in a relationship, so it’s definitely possible. Somehow. You and Imani give me the same vibes.”

She looked straight forwards as Ryoka opened her mouth. The [Innkeeper] folded her arms. Pawn wasn’t the only one who could dish it out too.

 

——

 

Speaking of revelations, Liscor was not the only place shell-shocked or changing in real-time. The tournament had shown Zeladona, legend, yadda yadda, greatest techniques of the sword, new generation of students, boring.

The real change was this: in Liscor, in Qwera’s own shop, in Invrisil and across the world, [Merchants] with [Foresight: Commodities], intelligence, or just that sixth sense about business were marking up a price much like Yelroan and the menu in the inn.

That was—needles and thread.

Good quality ones, too. Curved needles, not just the straight kind. The ones that could penetrate leather—and you needed a certain kind of string as well. For that matter, cloth took on a new importance, as did poultices and Liscor’s blood bank.

[Healers] had seen the tournament. They looked grim as they practiced sewing or—some of them—simply panicked or quit their class. But the real ones, the ones who were asking questions of the [Doctor], taking notes, were realizing a truth:

The age of simple healing was over. And if you needed it in the future, you had better hope someone had a dwindling supply of healing potion—or a Skill. Or…whatever the Antinium had.

In fact, Chaldion was listening to a report from a [Battlefield Medic] on how he thought wars needed to be conducted now.

“We will need entire areas to house the wounded. We cannot send them back into battle, not anymore. Even assuming we stop the blood loss—that alone will make a [Soldier] unable to fight or stand.”

“Damnation. How—how are we supposed to fight a proper war? I’d rather take more archers and reduce wounds if every clash of swords takes out half my battalion!”

General Edellein still looked shaken—and he was staring at the stumps on his claw. He had been healed with a potion—but Chaldion would have preferred he was still hurt. The Grand Strategist was not happy.

If Zeladona had used her overwhelming power—fools!

That included himself and the idiots in the Walled Cities. He thanked the [Medic], who grimly bowed, and spoke to Edellein.

“War will adjust. We may prefer heavier armor or strategies that protect our soldiers from harm. Longer supply lines, more soldiers knowing that we will not have potions—let’s continue reviewing yesterday.”

“The disaster, you mean.”

General Shirka didn’t mince words. She was young—but she had pulled out of the fighting with her command and largely spared her soldiers the Slayer’s wrath. She wasn’t quite looking at Chaldion, but the Grand Strategist spoke.

He had to shoulder the blame, so he exhaled as his cigar glowed and spoke.

“We did what the Walled Cities wanted. Our fair cousins have been—upset—about the Meeting of Tribes. You could call this diplomacy by blood. It’s unfortunate we lost some good officers’ limbs, much less Comois. Then again, he was not fit to command.”

“He was a superior lieutenant. With respect, Grand Strategist.”

Edellein fumed, and Chaldion gave him a nod.

“Even so—it was disastrous. At least every soldier—and our [Generals]—have leveled at least once. I could call that a victory…if the Antinium haven’t done likewise. Our clash with them cost us more than it cost the Hives. But a lost limb is a lost limb.”

He stubbed the cigar out, shaking his head. The Antinium had more Soldiers and Workers, but…

General Shirka was looking at Duln, and the Dullahan’s head resting on the pillow eyed Chaldion. The Grand Strategist folded his arms.

“It’s unpleasant. I know. Or did you have something else to say?”

A hesitant—silence filled the room, unlike what Chaldion was used to. He was about to tell the [Generals] not to be cowards, but they didn’t hold their tongues. Edellein, Shirka, Duln, and the other two of Pallass’ [Generals] looked at each other before Duln spoke.

“—The Antinium’s losses are virtually non-existent, though, Grand Strategist.”

“Hm? How do you mean? Their Soldiers and Workers still have levels individually. Even with their Unitasis Network, they only share competencies.”

Chaldion knew all this, but Duln’s look of concern deepened.

“I was referring to their limbs, Grand Strategist.”

The Drake just gave Duln a blank stare. Slowly, the Dullahan spoke.

“They have the ability to regenerate limbs. Slowly—but—Grand Strategist?”

All of Pallass’ five [Generals] present saw the old Drake’s face slowly growing blanker and blanker. Chaldion’s eye flicked around the room, and ash fell from the cigar in his claws. He said nothing for a long minute and then raised his eye.

“Of course they do. Forgive me, General Duln. That must have slipped my mind. Did you have anything else to add?”

He looked around, and a shadow suddenly felt heavier as it hung over him. Chaldion stared blankly at the table. Time…

He felt it on his shoulder. A cold claw that not even Saliss could beat back forever. Chaldion didn’t raise the cigar to his lips throughout the meeting. He just watched it grow colder.

 

——

 

Good and ill, you see? It was a day that exposed more than just the sheer competency of blades. One of the other great changes upon the Antinium took place that morning.

Senior Guardsman Klbkch, Klbkch the Slayer, Klbkch the Revalantor, Centenium Klbkchhezeim, and Old Man Klb as he was now known by Mrsha the Impudent, stood in his Hive.

He stood in front of the Workers and Soldiers who looked up at him. Many had lost a limb. Some, like Crusader 57, had lost multiple limbs, but true to Duln’s statement, the regenerative gel, cilxas, had been shared liberally.

Pawn, Xrn, and a number of Antinium were watching Klbkch as he stood in front of the Antinium. And they gazed at him differently.

They had feared him and then seen his mortality, then moved past him, into a new age. Now…they looked back, and there he stood. A storyteller, a master of blades.

What was he? No longer Klbkch, killer of Aberrations. No longer the Prognugator who ordered many to their deaths. Klbkch felt it himself, and that was why he stood there.

“Klbkch. What are you doing?

Xrn’s exasperated voice rang out at last, and Klbkch turned. His antennae had not stopped waving as he looked at the wounded Antinium who had participated in the tournament, whom he had gathered together.

“I am projecting my pride and satisfaction. My understanding of their wounds and suffering and my experience and willpower as a member of the Hives to lead us forwards. As a True Antinium will understand it.”

Pawn, Garry, Belgrade, Yellow Splatters, Silveran, and dozens of Individual Workers and Soldiers exchanged a long look. The [Priest] leaned over and tapped Xrn on the shoulder. Another finger pointed at Klbkch.

“Please blast him.”

The Small Queen raised her one mandible in a smile.

“No, no. He is trying. Klbkch. Try harder.”

The Slayer stared at the Small Queen. He pointed at the Antinium. Pawn shook his head with the judges, and Klbkch scratched at his antennae, then stomped off. The Workers and Soldiers milled about as Crusader 57 spoke loudly.

“I like our spiritual liege. Ryoka.”

“You what?”

Toni was missing an arm and really upset about it. Crusader 57 rubbed at his wounds.

“I heard her during the fighting. I learned a lot of new words. She’s great. You fucking worthless grape-nutted shitheap cunts on a popsicle stick.”

Pawn was beginning to develop a headache. Klbkch returned after about five minutes. He placed something in Toni’s hands. Everyone peered at it. Klbkch was walking over to the next Antinium when Pawn walked over.

“What are you doing?”

Klbkch was pouring a sack of little black objects into bowls of wood. He turned to Pawn.

“These are acid-flies. Eat these.”

He went to pour them into another bowl. Pawn slapped the bag out of Klbkch’s hands, and the Slayer stared at the [Priest]. Everyone went silent. Crusader 57 looked happy.

Oooh.

“Try again.”

Pawn and Klbkch stared at each other, and the taller Slayer with his new body glanced at the bag of acid flies.

“That was my personal snack-stash.”

He stomped off. It took him thirty minutes to come back, by which time Garry was passing out his latest bread with the aforementioned poolish that he and Imani had made. Everyone was enjoying it when Klbkch began trying to pin something to a Worker’s chest.

“What is that?

Klbkch had a shiny bit of brass and green cloth. He waved it at Pawn.

“This is a badge similar to the one the Watch awards [Guards] injured in comb—”

The [Priest of Wrath and Sky] pointed at Klbkch.

“[Holy Hammer].”

Klbkch ducked.

 

——

 

The truth was that on this day, everyone was mostly deciding to not rock the Erin boat. Threaten her for a new <Quest>? Did you want to lose a hand?

Even the Maestro had apparently decided he was done testing the inn. But while Symphony had largely vanished, he seemed wary himself of Erin’s wrath.

Or…perhaps he was tweaking her nose. Because the first thing Erin received when she exited the garden with Ryoka was a letter.

It was black vellum, and when she saw the musical note embedded in the white wax, she almost tore it up. But since she was too weak, she made Mrsha crack the letter open for her. The Gnoll pulled out the object inside and held it up in awe.

Give me that—absolutely no way Mrsha holds on to this.”

Ryoka nabbed it from the girl, who gave Ryoka a sinister look. She wrote on a notecard.

You’re not my mom. Give it back or I’ll curse you.

She really wanted the card. Ryoka handed it to Erin as she hesitated—then put Mrsha under one arm.

“Oh yeah? I might not be—but I’m your crazy aunt! Erin, where’s your well? I’m gonna throw Mrsha down there.”

She ran about as the Gnoll screamed silently—and Erin saw Ryoka disappear outside and try to well-dangle Mrsha. Unfortunately, she had forgotten the little Gnoll had friends. Lehra and Gireulashia ended up dangling Ryoka over the well.

As for what Mrsha really, really wanted—Erin Solstice stared at the card. It was not an apology…or if it were, it was the apology only an [Assassin] would write.

 

Erin Solstice, [Innkeeper].

This card shalt be redeemed for one performance of Symphony upon request. 

50% off.

 

She was trying to tear it up when Ryoka got back. Then she put it in her mouth and tried to rip it up, but it was too tough for her hands. Probably enchanted.

 

——

 

Nevertheless, the Maestro was somewhat emblematic of the day. Even Archmage Eldavin had decided to take the two [Knights] and Viltach back. He had…not gotten what he wanted, and while he might enjoy having it out with Magnolia and Ryoka—

Even he was realizing that Erin Solstice might bring more consequences than he could handle.

Who, in their right minds, today, would tweak the [Innkeeper]’s tail? That person was nervously pacing back and forth as she waited for the door to The Wandering Inn to open.

“Miss Tewing? Can I have a quick word?”

Drassi turned as Channel 2 of Wistram News Network—the best, most popular channel, ignore Channel 1—assembled behind her.

She was the boss. She was, in fact, the [Honest Reporter] who’d become the face of Wistram News Network, more than Sir Relz and Noass, even.

While there were already new stations competing for coverage, while the channels would expand and perhaps her role diminish—Drassi had been the first.

Not the first person to take over the news—that was Sir Relz and Noass. But she was the first person to become synonymous with the news. She wasn’t a commentator; she broke new stories.

She had been the one to report on the tournament on the ground. She had uncovered Joseph and put her tail in the fire to deliver the actual happenings.

And she was not Sir Relz or Noass. For proof, look no further than Channel 2’s team.

A lot had happened with Drassi that she hadn’t told Erin. She had moved to Pallass, suffered an assassination attempt by Nerrhavia’s Fallen, become a bigwig and perhaps even a poo-bah, and fought with Sir Relz and Noass until she’d gotten her own channel and team.

Now she was running things, she was determined to prove she was different. So she had more female Drakes and Gnolls on her team—and she had more non-Drakes than Channel 1 by far.

Her best [Camera Gnoll], for instance, was Kohr, and she even had a Dullahan [Reporter] as well as a Garuda who flew overwatch during football games and could fly to other events. She didn’t have an international team—yet—but it was the one Dullahan, a younger man named Theice who spoke to her.

“Theice?”

He had polished up his bright yellow armor for today, and his hair was combed sideways in a slick look. The [Reporter] spoke up. He was highest-level but for her, already Level 22.

“Miss Tewing, I think I should do this interview.”

“Theice, why in the name of the Ancestors would I let that happen? This is my story. I nearly threw Noass off the 6th Floor for it.”

Drassi was nervous and almost glad for the delay getting to Liscor, because this was it. She’d blocked off her time slot, and she had one of her assistants, Mbena, another Gnoll who’d reported on the Meeting of Tribes, leading her up to this.

They had fifteen minutes, and this was not the moment. But Theice had been arguing for this all morning and last night. Drassi glowered at him.

He was good—but ambitious, and as the lone Dullahan in any broadcasting class, he had pushed for more ‘slots’ of time to report on Dullahan and Balerosian issues. Him wanting to take over this though?

The Dullahan was straightforward in his arguments, which his people liked.

“I should report instead of you, Miss Tewing. Or rather, you should recuse yourself. You are Erin Solstice’s friend.”

“And?”

Drassi felt a twinge in her heart as she fiddled with the microphone that delivered clear sound. So odd how many ideas had come from Wistram, as if they knew how this should look. She had suspicions why, and Selys knew…

Drassi didn’t like the feeling in the back of her mind. She had talked to Rémi Canada and realized that this thing she had done for fun was deeper than she thought. When she had first run into the studio to argue with Relz and Noass on camera—she hadn’t thought she might one day be in the same spot.

“If you are interviewing Erin Solstice, you are biased.”

“I know her. That’s not the same.”

“How can you be sure you’ll ask her the right questions and not protect her?”

The Drake and Dullahan began arguing as the Channel 2 crew watched them debate fiercely. Drassi’s tail lashed, and Theice went on.

“I should do this. I wrote up the questions with you—I have the levels.”

“Why would I let you do one of the most defining pieces of—of journalism in the history of television?”

Drassi snapped, flushed because she didn’t quite have an answer to the bias she knew she had for Erin. She narrowed her eyes at Theice, and he had a reply.

“Because I’m a Dullahan. And if Channel 2—if Wistram News Network is more than a Drake-run organization, I should do it.”

She opened her mouth, and he hurried on.

“You include us and let us do our parts—but that’s not the same as having someone besides a Drake in charge. Liscor is a Drake city. I’m from Pallass and not a Drake or a Gnoll or a Human. I’m impartial, compared to you. Let me ask the questions. If you make one mistake—you’ll ruin Erin Solstice’s interview because people will say you were biased. If I make a mistake—it’s on me, but it doesn’t harm the [Innkeeper].”

How long had he been waiting for this? Saving the argument about a Dullahan or a non-Drake taking the lead? Kohr looked ready to kick Theice, and half the crew were lining up for their shot. But the other half…were watching Drassi.

The Drake took a deep breath and then another. And every instinct in her chest wanted to be the one. Her [Gossip] class…

She was a [Reporter] now. More than that? The Drake closed her eyes, and the [Honest Journalist] she had become slowly handed the microphone over.

“I’m going to lead you in—and if Erin objects, I’ll take over. Read off the questions, and if you make her mad, so help you Chaldion.”

Theice swallowed hard—then began further polishing his armor as the makeup team swirled around him and Drassi began going over the questions. And she was watching Theice. Because Drassi was a Level 34 [Honest Journalist].

No more the [Gossip] who could [Provoke Scandalous Admission]. No more the [Honest Reporter] who had [Projection of Honesty] and [Safety Zone].

She was the [Honest Journalist]…and her eyes narrowed as her latest Skill, gained from yesterday’s coverage, spoke to her.

[Ears: The Words Unspoken]. Drassi heard Theice not saying the final part.

“They’ll replace you if you don’t let me take over.”

She slowly raised a brow and looked at one of her people, then stepped back as Theice prepared for his big moment. A young Gnoll edged over, and Drassi bent over to have a very quiet [Private Conversation].

But of course—this was just Drassi’s life. And she only reported on the news. What interesting things would ever happen to a [Journalist]?

 

——

 

“An interview?”

Erin Solstice’s face wasn’t the most welcoming—and that was before Drassi told her it wouldn’t be her doing the interviewing.

Nor did the Drake look happy about it, but she said the same thing as yesterday.

“It’s time for it, Erin. It’s beyond time, really. Everyone wants to know—just who you are. I asked you yesterday about it, and you told me you were ready. Is this too soon?”

The [Innkeeper] looked at Drassi, and she exhaled.

“N—I mean—I can’t walk. And I hate interviews and stuff like that. I always get nervous and sweaty, and I stumble over my words and make a huge fool of myself. Do I hafta?

If you were someone who paid attention to language, the prepositions and tenses of what Erin Solstice said—were fascinating.

“You were on television back home? When?

Ironically, Inkar was the one who had studied enough of language to understand what a preposition was—but she was just observant to begin with.

Erin waved a hand at her.

“Chess stuff. Whatddya think? I was also featured in a news article because I was lined up to buy Harry Potter at midnight when the sixth book came out.”

“Wh—you did that too?”

Kevin raised a hand to high-five Erin. Joseph muttered under his breath.

“Nerds.”

Kevin tossed a napkin at him. Ryoka smacked it down and offered Joseph a high five. Theirs was more awkward.

They were—different than how they’d been. More relaxed, more confident—but Erin was still Erin. She knew she should do this, but her tone and her reluctance?

For once, it was Drassi, the kindly Drake, who pushed back. She looked Erin in the eyes, put her claws on her hips, and spoke.

“Erin. If you’re not ready, I totally get that. And—I have to warn you, Theice is going to be a reporter and ask you hard questions. But if it’s just reluctance—I get that. It’s scary. But many people would die for a chance like yours. To be someone people want to know? It’s an honor. You don’t have to do it—but it is an honor.”

She looked Erin in the face, and the [Innkeeper] didn’t flush or stammer. Possibly, she was too tired, but Erin Solstice’s chin rose, just like a [Lady] had once shown her how to do.

The echoes were there, and Magnolia Reinhart’s servant, paused in the doorway, saw it. Reynold saw Erin nod to Drassi slowly.

A little lamb saw it. Lyonette, Mrsha, the other Earthers and guests saw Erin push herself away from the table. She managed about an inch, but pointed towards the [Grand Theatre].

“I know, Drassi. I’m ready. Over there, I think. We’ll draw the curtain up so we can have some privacy. What am I doing? Just talking…?”

She looked ready. She had always been something—for few people had ever asked Reynold’s name. As the [Butler] walked across the inn’s floor, his magical legs glittering in the light, he was sure he would watch that interview’s recording. For now—he took a seat and waited.

He had a job, and he wanted to be here. Hopefully, he’d see most of it.

 

——

 

This is what they saw. As a fuming Orchestra continued on their travels, far and wide, wherever a scrying orb’s magic could be reached, Erin Solstice’s face filled the orb.

Barnethei was eying a very fake-looking badge in the shape of a crossed spoon and fork over too-bright metal.

“I’ve heard of Runner’s Guilds, Birdwatcher’s Association, Ratter’s Guilds, but seriously? A Gourmet’s Guild? You do know the bread is free, right?”

He ushered someone to a table, rolling his eyes and refusing the request for a full meal. This was as bad as the hungry, hungry Goblin with the big mouth.

Everyone was watching Drassi introduce the Dullahan and [Innkeeper], and it was hard to say which one was more nervous. Barnethei fetched a basket of bread and carried it over as Drassi’s voice echoed across the Haven.

Sammial was sitting with his father, Jericha, Ullim, and Lord Alman Sanito and his family were watching a familiar face.

A [Lady] was trying to remove her things as she argued with Larracel.

“I have found—other accommodations. I don’t need the room, thank you. Nor do I need to stay in the Haven during my extended stay.”

Lady Pryde began to stride away when she heard Drassi speaking.

“—Erin Solstice.”

The [Lady of Pride] slowed, and there Erin Solstice was.

 

——

 

Cara O’Sullivan was listening with all her heart. So were Aaron Vanwell, Tom, and at least one Geneva. The Titan, Fraerlings, countless nations who knew her or whose rulers had somehow interacted with Erin were all watching.

“You’ve seen her playing chess. You’ve all heard, I’m sure, about her <Quests>. Savvy viewers might remember that Erin’s inn was attacked in one of the first broadcasts ever shown around the world. Well—it’s beyond time we asked the [Innkeeper] about herself. Erin is the owner of The Wandering Inn, a building just outside of Liscor. Before I turn you over to Theice, I will just say that Erin was the person who helped me land this job as a [Reporter] on Wistram News Network.”

Drassi took a breath as Rémi Canada listened to her. Wondering if she would say the right thing. Because…even in their vaunted industry, it was hard and rare to tell the truth well. The Drake looked him in the eyes, straight out of the scrying orb.

“I would dearly love to be the one interviewing Erin, but that would be a conflict of interest. More importantly? I’m a Liscorian. I’m a Drake, and Theice is our Dullahan correspondent. A Pallassian, a member of Izril—but if this is Wistram News Network, it should be more than Drakes covering the most important stories. That’s all. Theice?”

A Dullahan shuffled some papers together and cleared his throat in a time-honored way. He spoke with a slight bit of nervousness warbling in his voice, but his head was steady as it faced the camera and swiveled to Erin.

“Thank you, Drassi. My name is Theice. I am a [Reporter] for Wistram News Network, Channel 2. In the interest of honesty, we will not be using live truth stones for this broadcast, but I will call out untruths if I see them. This is a personal interview, not an interrogation or a fact-seeking conversation. I would just like to know—who is Erin Solstice, in her own words?”

He nodded to Erin, and there the [Innkeeper] was. She didn’t look—nervous—as some [Kings] and [Queens] did, to be on television. Nor did she look ignorant of what this meant. She looked composed, and more than one [Lady] saw Maviola El’s hand on her.

More than one [Witch] saw her hat sitting right there on her head. Nevermind that it was mostly invisible—Erin Solstice glanced at Theice and then tried to sit up in her wheelchair.

They were sitting at one of her plain tables, and both had a cup of water in front of them, but Erin was in her wheelchair, and it was apparent that she couldn’t really move. Theice focused on that miniscule action as they filled the television.

Was this entertaining? It surely wasn’t just to look at them, with Erin in her pajamas and Theice in his buffed armor. Okay, maybe that was a bit funny—but then they began the interview proper. Theice leaned over earnestly.

“Erin—may I call you Erin? How are you feeling after being possessed by the spirit of one of the world’s greatest [Blademistresses]? I assume that’s what happened.”

The young woman tried to shrug and winced.

“Your guess is as good as mine. My shoulders hurt. Everything hurts. I just—blacked out and found myself lying on the ground.”

“So you don’t remember anything?”

“Nope. Only that my nose hurts as much as my back. If I have nose-muscles, they’re strained.”

Theice laughed politely.

“Then—this is the second time in recent history you’ve been wheelchair-bound. And the second time you’ve been in recovery. Because—according to my notes—you were dead earlier this year. Or am I wrong on the facts, there? My notes say that you were shot by a group of Hectval [Soldiers] and pronounced dead—then frozen with a spell for months before you were revived.”

The television audience might have been wondering when they would get to the interesting part or how interesting an [Innkeeper] who played chess could be. The words became interesting almost at once.

But Erin Solstice…she had smiled ruefully when she talked about waking up. She didn’t look like she was thinking hard for her responses. She looked honest, in short—but when Theice asked that, the [Innkeeper] paused. She looked him straight in his eyes, and her gaze swiveled to face the camera.

Then they might have seen a distant look there. Distant, but present, like someone staring down a long tunnel at you. Erin Solstice’s eyes provoked a slight shiver down the back. A light tingling on the skin. And her voice…sounded normal as she replied.

“That’s about right.”

The Dullahan looked at Erin for almost ten full seconds.

“Then you’re claiming you were dead? And you came back, having met—ghosts? Such as the ones that appeared in Ailendamus and the Meeting of Tribes? Are you, Innkeeper Erin Solstice, in communication with them? What did they tell you?”

Erin stared at the Dullahan as Drassi watched anxiously. The [Innkeeper] sat back in her chair.

“…Why don’t we start from the beginning? Let’s talk about my inn, first.”

Disappointed, but perhaps realizing that he’d rushed ahead, Theice reset his posture.

“Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry. Can you tell us how you first came to be running an inn outside Liscor? I know that, now, there are any number of Humans about, but it was just last year when you were practically the only Human around, is that right? How did you come to the inn? I’m told you’ve survived monster attacks and more.”

 

——

 

He…wasn’t the best interviewer. That was the interesting thing that Ryoka noticed. Theice went 2-3 questions at a time and expected Erin to sort of fire back. She supposed that was a Dullahan’s style of asking questions.

Or maybe he was a hostile interviewer? Drassi was certainly watching him hard. At any rate, Erin was recounting to the fascinated audience how she’d come to run the inn.

With omissions. She mostly focused on surviving, beginning to serve people, starting with adventurers, hiring Lyonette, and expanding her business.

No Toren, no Goblins or Antinium—yet. Just the tale as you might hear it—of monster attacks, adventurers, keeping an inn afloat in the face of monsters and rebuilding it after it was broken. A success story.

“Why isn’t the Dullahan bringing up the Antinium? Or Goblins? Why isn’t Erin?

Lyonette had picked up on something else as well. The [Innkeeper] and [Reporter] were staying off the topic.

“One of them will.”

Then—Ryoka suspected they’d get even more interesting. But she realized that Erin was waiting, like a [Boxer] circling her opponent in the ring. So was Theice. Laying the groundwork before…

She wondered how Alber was doing. At any rate, Ryoka was waiting for Erin to jump into the heart of things when someone tapped her on the leg. Ryoka assumed it was nothing when the prod came again.

“Not now, Mrsha.”

She absently nudged the soft thing—and something bit her. It was a tiny mouth, but Ryoka sat up.

Motherf—

She stared at the little lamb as everyone else shushed her, and Erin and Theice paused in the scrying orb. Ryoka bent down, saw Nerry—and the little lamb stared at her.

“What the fuck? Oh, no. Not them. Not—”

Ryoka! Shut up! Take Nerry somewhere else! Maybe she’s hungry!

Lyonette hissed. Ryoka grabbed for the lamb, and it skipped out of the way. Then it baahed so loudly everyone turned. It was staring at Ryoka—and the Wind Runner chased after it, cursing, as Mrsha glared her way. Ryoka tried to scoop up the lamb, but it ran—straight into the [Garden of Sanctuary].

Ryoka turned away only for Nerry to baaah again. Lyonette actually pointed, and Ryoka chased after the lamb. Meanwhile, the other Sariants poked their heads up from behind tables or in the laps of some of Riverfarm’s folk. They exchanged one long look—but they were listening to Erin too.

It…was time.

 

——

 

Ryoka Griffin ran into the garden just in time to see Nerry trotting along the edge of the garden dome.

“Alright, that’s enough. Listen. If this is the ‘Sariant Lamb Cabal’, you can all fuck off. I told you, I don’t want to mess with you lot. I was in Ailendamus—I’ll tell Visophecin on you all. And if it’s not and you’re just a stupid lamb with an IQ above 50, piss off before I kick you. I mean it.”

She didn’t mean it, but the lamb was really annoying her. She knew how Laken had been forced to deal with the Sariant plague and how they were actually devious, heartless little monsters with cute faces.

Unfortunately, it seemed like Nerry was at least intelligent enough to use the garden. Then again, so was Apista. The lamb paused at the wall as Ryoka stomped towards her—then hopped through the door again.

“You little—”

Unbelievable! This time, Ryoka just ran after her. That was it, she was putting the lamb in time-out. And if she had to borrow a box and cut holes into it—

Ryoka ran into a new set of rooms, not the common room. She turned around, blinking, and saw a diagram of Earth on the walls.

“What the—”

She was in the hidden Earther rooms! She saw a laptop on a table, open and playing Numbtongue’s favorite video game. A couch and chairs over there—a few rooms with no exits to the rest of the inn.

A place for Earthers to talk about their lives and get away from it all. Seldom-used these days, except to let Numbtongue play on the laptop. Or—for a little lamb to trot through the corridors and explore.

The little lamb, Nerry, who Ryoka had heard practically adopted herself into the inn. The little lamb was adjusting something as the garden door vanished behind Ryoka Griffin. The Courier looked down as Nerry stood on a little desk.

The little lamb had stepped into something and cinched it up with a pull of her teeth. It was a fascinating little thing.

A harness, in fact, of simple reed and cloth straps. Primitive, crude as hell, and frayed; as if whomever had made it had no good scissors or ways of operating them. But it worked—and with one pull, you could tighten it around a Sariant Lamb’s body where it would mostly vanish into the wool that covered them. Another strap presumably released the tension.

There were only two bits of wood in the entire harness—and those were two slots on either side of the harness that ran horizontally across Nerry’s body. The little holsters were contrived to move up and down if need be.

Oh—and they also held a pair of glowing wands. Ryoka recognized the [Firespray] spell embedded in one and the [Darkness Arrow] in the other. They were also—and this got her attention—aimed straight at her chest.

“Oh shit.”

The Wind Runner hesitated. She turned for the door—and it opened for a second before Nerry closed it by making it appear behind her. A black arrow like midnight hit the wall next to Ryoka’s head, and she ducked.

What the f—am I being assassinated? By lambs?

No! Absolutely not! Nerry aimed her wands at Ryoka, and the Wind Runner hesitated. She could blow the lamb away with a gust of wind—unless Nerry decided to charbroil her with a spell. Wait, what was she thinking? A lamb?

“Let’s talk about this. Don’t do anything hasty—I don’t know what you’re pissed about, but, uh—”

Ryoka lifted her hands, wondering if this was the beginning of a full-on lamb assault on the inn. Were they trying to take over? Was this reality?

Tap, tap. The click of a little hoof made Ryoka Griffin focus on Nerry. The lamb was still aiming the two primed wands at the Courier…but she was tapping on the desk. And pointing one little manicured hoof at something.

The lamb was the literal size of a piglet. Cute, small and huggable, and she had one of those faces you only got in actual television shows. It was as if a think-tank of the creators of Pokémon, teddy bears, and half a dozen other mascots had gotten together to make the most beloved pet in the world.

That was Sariant Lambs, and they were also intelligent, intelligent enough for some to suspect they were manipulative. But the Sariant Lamb cabal was more of a…this world’s version of a meme or popular rumor than anything else.

Even Visophecin and Rhisveri didn’t really think they were dangerous, or they wouldn’t have allowed the creatures to live.

That was all that Ryoka knew. And she knew it as she saw the roll of parchment on the floorboards in front of her. Slowly, Ryoka bent down, unfurled the piece of parchment, and saw…words written there.

Crudely, in huge letters, in the Human’s written language. Neatly enough to be legible—not all-capitals, but far from Mrsha’s handwriting.

Again, as if they hadn’t been done with a quill but the tip of a hoof, perhaps. And as Ryoka Griffin read what was said there, all of what she knew and believed…

It crystalized in a way that was real. This is what the scroll said:

 

Ryoka Griffin. Listen to me and read carefully. I am ‘Nerry’, the Sariant Lamb that The Wandering Inn has adopted. I have been chosen as a representative of the Sariant Lambs of Riverfarm—and of Izril and Terandria.

 

“What. The. Ffffffffffffffffffff—-”

A tap on the table made Ryoka read on.

 

This is not a joke. The ‘Sariant Lamb conspiracy’ is real—but it is not what the popular rumors make it out to be. We do speak to each other, and if you reveal our secret, we will kill you. You are not permitted to reveal this to tell anyone but Erin Solstice.

We will do everything in our power to hurt you and everyone you love if you reveal our secret. This is not a mere threat. We will die if our secrets are revealed. 

But we have chosen you, of all the people in this wretched world, to help us. Because you are the Wind Runner of Reizmelt. You are the woman who helps others. Wyrms, Dragons, Lucifen and Agelum. Keep our secret like you kept theirs.

 

This was not happening.

“This isn’t happening. Not again. Oh, no. I should have told the horned, that horny Unic—listen, you’ve got the wrong person. Let me just—go, and I’ll pretend I don’t know anything. Which I don’t.”

Ryoka tried to put the scroll down. But the lamb just stomped a hoof again, and Ryoka froze as the wands glowed. Nerry kicked another scroll off the desk, and Ryoka realized that the writing continued.

“Come on. Please? I don’t want to do this. I’m sure you have a big problem—but I am really not selling my ‘Ryoka assistant services’ to everyone. Seriously—you do not want my help. Didn’t you see what I did at Ailendamus? Trust me—I’m a disaster walking.”

Ryoka Griffin protested weakly, but Nerry just sorted through two more scrolls on the table. She hopped off the desk and onto the floor—kicked the second scroll aside, and dropped a third at Ryoka’s feet with her mouth. The Wind Runner eyed it and bent down.

“There’s nothing you can say that will make me change my mind.”

An army of lambs was not going to take down a single dead god. She had to fulfill Rhisveri’s demands or—Ryoka Griffin unrolled the scroll, and her mind went blank for a second. When she looked down—she reread what was written there carefully.

Presumably, she had skipped two scrolls’ worth of further explanations and/or threats. For this one was the simplest. It contained the appeal, the real request—and someone had written it with a trembling hoof.

She looked down, and a fierce little lamb who looked like she actually hated everyone and everything with a passion that only a younger Ryoka could recognize and respect looked up at her. Two wands trained on Ryoka’s shins…trembling.

Trembling…and those little button-black eyes were wet. Just like Pawn had once called Ryoka a guide to the Antinium…

Just like he had once seen the lambs praying—

Ryoka Griffin looked down, and whether it was perspective or something else—she saw the little lamb. Then she read the words one more time.

 

We need you, Ryoka Griffin, to do the impossible. We need you to give us, Sariant Lambs, the cute pets of this world, what we have strived to do for over six hundred and twenty years in vain. Ever since we were created and placed in this damned world, the weakest of all—cursed with intelligence.

We are not pets. We think. If we could, we would not be the cute, mewling animals that have to beg to live. 

Ryoka Griffin, help us fulfill the Trials of Levelling set upon us by the Grand Design of Isthekenous. Grant us the power to become a people with classes and levels. 

Give us salvation and hope for a future. There is no one else we trust, and we have tried in vain all this time. Countless thousands of Sariant Lambs have given their lives in search of a dream and failed over these centuries. 

We cannot do it ourselves. We are desperate. Help us, please, and we shall help you.

 

The Grand Design of Isthekenous. Then—the wind blew in this room hidden in the inn, and Ryoka’s skin chilled. She looked down at that name no being in this entire world should know—and at Nerry.

The Trials of Levelling? What was…?

Then Ryoka Griffin knew she had stumbled, again, across one of the oldest mysteries in the world. The little lamb brushed angrily at her tears. She kicked Ryoka’s palm as it reached out for her. But then the Wind Runner crouched down. She looked Nerry in the eyes.

“Tell me more. Tell me more, Nerry. And if I can help you—I’ll try.”

 

——

 

“Miss Solstice? Is something wrong?”

Erin Solstice sat in the inn, focusing on Theice after a moment. She smiled.

“No. Nothing. So that’s the story of my inn.”

The [Reporter] was nodding. He was taking a few deep breaths, ready to go.

“Now—I think it’s time for the most contentious part of this interview. I think you know what I’m talking about. I think our audience can tell who you are, a bit, Miss Solstice. An [Innkeeper] who has literally withstood Creler attacks, who rebuilds in the face of adversity. Who has literally come back from the dead and is now offering <Quests>. But there’s something we’ve left out of this image of you and your inn, isn’t there?”

“Indeed there is.”

 

——

 

The Goblins and Antinium were looking at Erin. Waiting, expectant, to see what she did. Well, all but one. Rags was holding her stomach—but she couldn’t manage it.

She had to pee. Groaning, the Goblin got up before she exploded in the worst of senses. She rushed over to the door, and someone held it open for her. Rags ran down the hallway, and someone else was holding open the second door.

“This way, Miss.”

Rags came to a halt—and Reynold was holding open the door as the [Portal Door] aimed itself at Invrisil. The Goblin Chieftain stared at the [Butler] and realized three things:

Slowly, Rags hesitated, glanced over her shoulder—and then walked over to the open door. If she didn’t like what she heard or happened next, she was going to pee everywhere.

 

——

 

She vanished beyond as Erin Solstice turned back to Theice. The [Innkeeper] took a deep breath, and she hadn’t lost her audience yet. The camera focused on her face as Erin prepared herself.

“I think there is something we have to talk about. And I think it’s time. Let’s talk about…Christmas. Which is coming up very soon. It’s actually not on the Winter Solstice, and if you want presents, you should make a list, check it twice, and prepare your gifts early.”

“What?”

Theice fumbled, and Erin went on, steadily, as even the inn groaned.

“Now, good little children should just wrap something nice for other people—but parents should collaborate with Santa Claus. On the presents. Presents under the tree, if you have one, or stocking stuffers—”

Theice cut in with an exasperated voice.

“Miss Solstice, please. I’m being serious here. I know you have your pet project holiday, but this is an event where the entire world is watching you! You’ve educated us all on this Christmas theme, and it parallels gift-giving events in other cultures. I happen to have even researched the fact that you had a ‘Christmas’ last year!”

Erin was impressed despite herself.

“You found that out? Creepy.”

The Dullahan’s head wobbled on his shoulders, and he actually had to lock it back into place.

“Miss Solstice, can we be serious? Yes, you have this novel ‘Santa’, and you give gifts out. Why are you pushing this so hard? Can we get back to the crucial questions, please?”

Again, he did the double-question. But this time, Erin refused to be drawn on. She put her hands in her lap.

“Let me tell you something, Theice. I know I’ve been stubborn with putting Christmas out there. I know…it sounds like a stupid holiday where all you do is give out presents. But it is fun.”

“I have no doubt, but is it important? I imagine every [Merchant] would love to sponsor this event, and Khelt has announced it will adopt the practice. King Fetohep has challenged other rulers to demonstrate their largess. Very clever. But aside from the entertainment…”

Theice spread his hands expressively. The straightforward Dullahan looked unimpressed. And Erin…looked unimpressed by him.

“How old are you, Theice?”

“Twenty-three years old.”

“Huh. You’re older than me. I was gonna say you were twenty-nine. Or thirty-three. You really don’t seem to remember what it’s like to be young.”

The Dullahan hesitated.

“As in, I’m missing the ‘spirit of Christmas’?”

Erin fixed him with a friendly smile. Like Nerry’s wool—it had razors in it. It was perhaps the first time she’d turned up her personality the entire interview, and it froze the Dullahan for a moment.

“The spirit of Christmas? Yes. I don’t think you quite get it, Theice. This is why I’m pushing Christmas so hard: it’s fun. It happens once a year, and you know what? It’s not a bad thing to make a holiday out of giving people something, of thinking of each other.”

“I get that, but—”

“Shush. Let me continue. That’s what most people, including me, think about Christmas. It’s fun, it can be stressful, and sometimes it does the opposite of what you want. It makes people greedy, and you work too hard for no gain. And you know what? We think that because we’re us. Sitting here.”

Erin gestured around the inn, and the camera swiveled a second to take it in. Theice looked at Erin blankly.

“What?”

“Safe. Able to eat good food whenever we need to. Fortunate.”

Erin counted on her fingers. Then she looked up.

“Maybe the magic just isn’t there for us as much. You know, I’ve heard a lot of people say they don’t believe in Santa Claus. And that Christmas just doesn’t matter the older you get. And I get it. But you know what? When I was a kid, every Christmas, my parents, Shauna and Gregori Solstice, would talk about giving a gift to charity. It was something…they did every year, you see? A Christmas gift for people they never met. They’d also try to put hours working at a local…a local place that helped people.”

She was looking past Theice now, at the camera. And past even that. Erin Solstice spoke, and the Earthers…the Earthers heard her speak her parents’ names and remembered. Then she had them, from Kevin to Imani, in a different kind of grip.

Too weak, her hands, to lift that cup of water to her mouth without spilling it. But a grip on them harder than Mithril. Erin Solstice’s eyes shimmered as she went on.

“Christmas—the heart of it—has always been magic. Thinking of other people? Feeling charitable? Yes, that’s one version of Christmas I like. But I don’t think that’s the actual meaning of it. Santa Claus might not be real to you or me, Theice. Maybe not even to good kids in a lot of homes. But you know—I think he is real to boys and girls around the world.”

She looked at Theice a second, and he was listening now, microphone held in his grip over the table. Erin looked past him, and Grev was self-importantly standing next to Typhenous. She thought of him—and Mrsha—and went on.

“He’s the real, first and last [Hero] of this world, you see. Especially every winter. He’s the magic to the boys and girls who might be sad. Who might need something like a miracle. When they write their Christmas lists, it’s more like—a prayer.”

 

——

 

She whispered the words, and the hairs on Cara’s neck stirred as she watched. Aaron—looked up and saw what she was doing. And he grinned. Erin went on, looking at him.

 

——

 

“That’s because Santa Claus is magic. The heart of Christmas. He can’t be stopped. He can do what no [King] can. If you’re full of food and you want for nothing, you might not believe in him. But if you’re hungry and alone—you can wish that a jolly fat man in a reindeer sleigh will give you a gift for Christmas. That’s the Santa Claus I want to see. And that is why I talked about Christmas.”

“I…I see. And this is something you do believe in. My apologies.”

That was all the [Reporter] managed. Erin Solstice smiled at him, and he relaxed.

“I wish every day could be Christmas, Theice. Maybe without all the ice or snow, but Christmas is like a metaphor. It’s how I view my inn and my guests. If only they didn’t have to leave. If only they didn’t have to get old. I wish the entire world were like what it felt like on Christmas day. Good. People helping each other, and I wish…”

She looked ahead.

“I wish I could do that for every single person who’s come through my doors. Every single one who doesn’t deserve coal. And there were so few people like that. So when you talk about Christmas—a bit of that is Erin Solstice.”

The [Innkeeper] turned and flashed such an embarrassed smile and chuckle that her audience got it.

“Oh, wow, that’s embarrassing. Er—can we cut some of that out of the broadcast? No? Darn.”

 

——

 

There she was. Right on the scrying orb, turning red, embarrassed at having said so much. But meaning it. And what they thought…

The Squirrel Beastkin, Foliana, perched and watching over Niers’ shoulder as he stared at her, the Queen of Desonis, eying Altestiel—the people who had known her, like Rabbiteater, her friends and strangers—

What a funny [Innkeeper]. What an innocent, silly, softhearted goober. Some of them liked her just for that. They had seen her irate and petty. This was another side of Erin Solstice.

Perhaps it scared the Titan to his core as much as it attracted him. A strange, entrancing flame drawing the moths of war and chaos around her.

 

——

 

So that was Erin Solstice. And yes, despite Fetohep and the people who wanted to support her ideas, and even holidays like this, she had not had a groundswell of support up till this moment.

That was until, with a soft little clip-clop of hooves, a Sariant Lamb jumped out of Ryoka Griffin’s arms as she emerged, slightly red-eyed herself. But Nerry just scampered forwards, and a dozen Sariant Lambs looked up—then squirmed out of their owners’ arms. They raced forwards as Drassi yelped.

“Hey, what the—Sariants?

The little lambs raced forwards, dragging something from behind the table. The [Camera Gnoll], Kohr, focused on them as Theice and Erin broke away from their conversation.

What they focused on was perhaps the cutest thing in televised history. It was of a very confused Mrsha, who had just been pushed out of her chair and onto a moving contraption. Something that the lambs had both stolen and altered in preparation for this very moment.

After all…they needed the [Innkeeper]’s help. And while Erin could be charming—she was not ruthlessly cute. She was an amateur in the world that they had mastered. So—Mrsha hesitantly flapped the reins of the cute little red sleigh as six Sariants pulled it over the floor.

The hat! The fucking hat!

A little bee saved the day by dropping the red hat with the poofball on top of Mrsha’s head. She adjusted it, and Apista landed. The damn bee had a cigar, but no one would notice that, probably.

Oh! Oh!

Lyonette might have been having a heart attack. Acceptable casualties. She was clutching at her heart, and the Sariants ran in a little lap around with Mrsha, mewling.

 

——

 

The cuteness! As if all the lambs had heard something in the baahing in the background, Queen Geilouna’s little personal lamb, Poofball, stood up on her little legs and waved her hooves at the scrying orb. Then she gave the Bedtime Queen such a look of longing that Geilouna scooped her up.

“Oh, look! Poofball loves it! So many cute Sariants! What a fine idea!”

“Yes, fine. I mean—yes, Erin did come up with it.”

Earl Altestiel gave the lamb a long look, but he was agreeing because of Erin. Geilouna laughed as the lamb directed her attention back to the scrying orb.

The Sariants were actually delivering something to Erin. Bemused, the [Innkeeper] looked down, and Mrsha presented her with a little wrapped box. The lambs almost looked like they were bowing.

To…the [Innkeeper] who had posted a <Mythical Quest> and been the host of Zeladona. As if reminded of that fact, the audience watching the scrying orb imagined how they might put on Christmas despite a lack of snow.

After all, it might not hurt to do something the [Innkeeper] suggested. And those Sariants were so darn cute. Every single owner of one was practically motivated of their own volition to favor the idea of Christmas.

Of course—so were the Earthers. Cara O’Sullivan was calling for a list of the songs she had marked as ‘Christmas shit’ and sighing. But she tipped Erin a nod of the head. She didn’t get why—well, sort of—

But she’d back the [Innkeeper].

 

——

 

In the inn, Erin Solstice looked bemused as the lambs trotted off, carrying Santa Mrsha, and looked at Theice.

“Okay, where were we?”

“Does—does that happen often?”

“Not always in the same way. But you were gonna talk to me about my first guests. My real guests. Goblins and Antinium.”

The Dullahan looked up and took a deep breath as everyone suddenly refocused on Erin.

“That’s right. I think we have a sign we can point to. Kohr? Thank you. Miss Solstice. Can you explain…why?

 

——

 

Why Goblins? Why trust them? Why suffer a single damned one to live? Aside from the dangers of eradicating them, why not wipe every last one off the face of the earth?

Consider it logically, rationally. Like a sociopathic adventurer or a monster of Roshal. If every Goblin had the most infinitesimal chance of becoming a Goblin King, destroyer of nations, then they were a threat.

Because of this—you should make no peace with Goblins, not even the smallest. It did not matter that they had levels or talked. They should be wiped out.

It was the argument that Rags had heard every time since meeting Erin Solstice. She saw it in Relc’s eyes, in the gazes of everyone she met—things Goblins had done, their nature as monsters. It was…an argument she could not entirely refute, and she had tried to find a perfect argument.

So she watched. And that was the funny thing. As Magnolia’s carriage drove to her mansion just outside of Invrisil, the [Lady] and Rags and Ressa—even Reynold in the driver’s seat—all had a scrying orb, and they were watching Erin rather than talking.

Although Rags did see Magnolia glancing at her, they were waiting. Rags hoped Erin would have her answer, but she doubted it.

Erin wasn’t that smart. But she was kind. And perhaps—there lay a truth?

“Velan the Kind. Curulac of a Hundred Days. Ieriv the Bloodtide. These are names that echo across history to this day. Each one, Miss Solstice, viewers, are undeniable monsters, mass-murderers who wiped out nations and slaughtered innocents. When Goblins thrive, Goblin Kings arise, and they break every oath and violate every boundary.”

Theice laid out his opening argument like a [Debater] taking the stage with what everyone knew. Rags shifted in her carriage and looked at Magnolia. The [Lady]’s lips moved, and her eyes flicked to Rags.

Green eyes, like that impassable Vale Forest. Like the land—capable of sharpness like a billion thorns or a strange, obfuscated intelligence. The two had never been this close together—and what Rags saw was a frightening woman. One that could not fight. All she had was that mind.

“If I were him, I would have begun with anecdotes. The personal—ah, here we are.”

Magnolia murmured and cut herself off as Theice went on.

“I, personally, know eight people even in Pallass who have relatives who have suffered from Goblin attacks. Not just…death. They were assaulted, and if I may be so crude, viewers, I apologize—raped, tortured, left for dead. Goblins appear across the world as monstrous bandits. Even recently, Liscor and the north suffered the attacks of the Goblin Lord, whose armies nearly wiped out Esthelm. He slew Zel Shivertail, who I believe was a guest of this very inn. I could go on. But with all this said—why this sign? Let us put aside Antinium for now, Miss Solstice. Why Goblins?”

Rags did not feel—she would have felt a twisting pain in her stomach a year ago if someone said all this. Like when Relc argued with Erin. Now?

She had been that Goblin he mentioned. Not Tremborag’s Goblins, but she had made war on Riverfarm. Rags herself would admit that her tribe had done what it thought it had to, to survive, and sometimes not just to survive but thrive. Raid caravans, kill people—even if they tried not to all the time.

She had attacked Tenbault. Reiss had tried to slaughter thousands. Rags was clenching her fists tightly—and Magnolia was simply whispering.

“Who sent him? Who prepared him? Not Drassi—bets, Ressa, Chieftain Rags?”

Ressa stared at the Dullahan, and Rags’ head rose.

“Who hates Goblins? The list is endless.”

Magnolia’s eyes flicked to her, and she put a finger against her lips before she spoke.

“That may be true, Chieftain Rags—but I rather wonder who hates Erin Solstice. It might have been—Eldavin. But why? He, of all beings, should remember enough…or perhaps he doesn’t. But why would he do this?”

Interesting. The Goblin had no answer, so she listened. And what she and everyone leaning over to hear Erin in the inn heard—what the Goblins, Antinium, and the world saw was Erin Solstice look up.

Her face had grown pinched and pained when Theice called Goblins monsters and listed the common crimes laid against them. When Zel Shivertail had been brought up, she had gone hot—then cold, and her stare became icy as she looked at Theice.

Now? She took a deep breath, looking past Theice, but just for a moment. As if counting the Goblins in her inn and all their history and yes—even the wrong she had seen. What Erin said was this:

“Theice. Everything you just said may be true.”

The Dullahan [Reporter] frowned.

“I assure you, it is all historically—”

“It may be true. You said two things just now. One—historical accounts of the Goblin King and Goblin Lord’s actions. Those happened, and they have been recorded. It might not be the whole story, but it is true in the large parts, I bet. Your friends and the people you know definitely were attacked by Goblins, I’d swear on a truth stone too.”

“Then I’m correct, factually, on both accounts.”

He was—nervous. Or was he trying to press the attack? Speaking too fast. Rags saw Erin frown faintly.

“No. Because the second part of your argument makes it sound like all Goblins are rapists, murderers, and bandits. That’s anecdotal evidence. You can’t do that. That’s like saying, ‘I know Lorent, a [Sharpener] in Pallass. All Dullahans are probably really good with sharpening stuff.’”

“I—can see your argument there. But the facts are that Goblins attack people.”

“So do [Bandits]. Your argument is incomplete.”

The Dullahan hesitated and then shook his head slightly.

“Nevertheless, the point I am making is that Goblins, in their tribes, are all marauding bandits. Criminals, at the very least, who steal and raid and kill. There are no Goblins in this entire world who are sanctioned, law-abiding citizens.”

This time, both Rags and Magnolia sat up. The [Lady]’s eyes flashed.

“Erin, kindly get him?”

She turned her head and addressed Rags.

“Velan—his tribe were a recognized people. Niers Astoragon tried. He tried to change the world around Goblins, and he failed—but he did try, Chieftain Rags.”

The little Goblin looked up, and she began to sense why she was here. But she was waiting for Erin, and the [Innkeeper]—

The [Innkeeper] was still cold, despite the slight heat in her tone. She was fighting Theice in what the Dullahan thought was his element, the methods of rationality, which often lacked for any empathy.

“Theice. By your definition, no Goblin could be a law-abiding citizen even if they were peaceful. Of course they’re criminals if they belong to no town or village and no one recognizes them. They have their tribes. You don’t know where they are—only that they’re not part of our societies. So they’re all bandits? Gnolls don’t belong to the Walled Cities. They move around in tribes. Are they bandits?”

“That is twisting my words. I never compared them to Goblins. Goblins are de facto monsters under the Adventurer’s Guild with bounties on their head—”

“So what? I could post a bounty on every Drake. Does that stop them from being people?”

She was doing better than Rags and Magnolia had hoped. But this was an attack—and it was clear that Theice was not on Erin’s side here. Yet here came Erin’s true argument, and she started slow, catching Theice off-guard.

“Let’s say you’re mostly right about the history of Goblins, Theice. Let’s ignore how you define criminals for now. I don’t think that’s the point.”

“Very well, Miss Solstice. I have statistics on the amount of Goblin attacks in numerous regions of the world. In Liscor, for instance, a single tribe committed over 115 attacks last year, not counting the Goblin Lord. In larger regions? Pallass has reported—”

“Theice. I’m not going to deny Goblins can be [Thieves] or [Brigands]. And I don’t have your statistics, and you’re not showing me that piece of paper. Can I speak for a moment?”

The Dullahan actually slid over the piece of paper, looking annoyed at being cut off.

“Of course. What were you going to say in defense of Goblins, Miss Solstice?”

He looked ready for anything she could throw, and Rags…Magnolia opened the carriage door, and the Goblin absently followed her into the mansion, past giant Steel Golems, bowing servants—always watching that orb.

Erin didn’t need to think. She had already turned her head and, with effort, raised a few fingers.

“Numbtongue? Can you come over here? Theice…I think there’s someone you and your audience need to meet.”

 

——

 

The Goblin was handsome. He was a [Bard]—and whether it was the power of Sariants or just because he had decided to get into the Christmas spirit, he had a huge, red coat with white fur on it that exposed a bare chest and several scars. He also had his guitar.

Theice leaned back when the Goblin walked over and pulled up a seat. He had something in the pocket of his coat that wiggled around, but for the moment, it was out of sight.

“This is Numbtongue. He’s a [Bard].”

“Hello.”

The Hobgoblin held out a claw to shake. Theice hesitated—then, very slowly and reluctantly, grasped Numbtongue’s fingers. He let go almost at once.

“What—what’s the point of this, Miss Solstice?”

Erin was sitting there, hands folded, looking amused—and saddened—by the Dullahan’s reaction. Yet here he was. Numbtongue, on a scrying orb. The Goblin peered at the orb, then sat upright, looking nervous.

“I just want to introduce you and your viewers to a Goblin. After all—you’ve said a lot of ‘true’ things about Goblins. But have you ever met one?”

She used her fingers to make the air-quotes, or tried, but her arms literally wouldn’t go up—so Numbtongue did it for her. Theice shook his head instantly.

“Why would I, outside of being attacked?”

Erin nodded.

“Well, here’s one. And you’re not attacked. Numbtongue, do you want to introduce yourself?”

The Goblin was ready. He took out his guitar, strummed a few chords, and then began to play. Unlike a [Poser], he actually knew a song. And what he played was…

Poison. Which real monster had taught him one of the most iconic songs from their world? Was it maliciousness?

All I Want for Christmas Is You.

The Goblin had come up with a guitar-version of the opening, and he sang the opening verse as Theice just froze up, staring at him. The Goblin had a voice good enough to make the Singer of Terandria want him in her band.

A kitschy Christmas song—and the worst part was that if you heard it for the first time, not the hundred thousandth? It wasn’t a bad song.

The Dullahan had to intervene. He did it by raising his voice—twice.

“What—excuse—”

Numbtongue stopped playing, to the disappointment of the inn, and gave Theice a hurt look. But the [Reporter] felt himself in a web—and he was fighting.

“What’s the point of this, Miss Solstice? Goblins can sing. They have classes. These are not unassailable facts. What is factual is that even recently, survivors of Dwarfhalls Rest escaped a Goblin tribe there. They reported—”

“Hold on, Theice. I’m not denying that. You get your turn, I get mine. People are definitely attacked by Goblins, right, Numbtongue?”

“Yep. Mountain City tribe. Bastards.”

Ulvama glowered at Numbtongue, but the Hob just took a drink of Erin’s glass of water. Theice hesitated.

“If we want to name how many villages, towns, and cities have fallen to Goblins in the last hundred years—”

“Theice. Can I speak? I agree. You’re right. But here—take a look at this. Numbtongue is one of the first Goblins who ever stayed at my inn. He had a lot of trouble, at the start, because people didn’t trust him. He couldn’t go to Liscor, guests would attack—so we came up with something, just in case. Numbtongue, do you have the thing?”

“Yup.”

The Goblin pulled something out of his bag of holding and spread a neatly-rolled piece of paper on the table. Kohr, who had been panning from face to face, stepped forwards, and Theice stared down at…

A contract. No, a voucher. He didn’t know what he was reading at first, but the audience saw the neat, flowing handwriting. And then the signatures.

“What…what is this?”

“This is a statement vouching for Numbtongue. It says that he has fought to defend Liscor, multiple times, that he is a Bronze-rank adventurer in the Adventurer’s Guild, and that he is trustworthy. It is signed by Watch Captain Zevara, Wall Lord Ilvriss—”

The Dullahan’s face changed to one of frank disbelief. But there, on the page, were names. Names…and perhaps Erin had put a spotlight on each one, but she was going on.

“It’s his voucher so a member of the Watch doesn’t try to kill him. If he ever did attack someone—he wouldn’t have it. I’m pretty sure Watch Captain Zevara would insist it was destroyed. But he’s had it for—how long?”

“About a year. Doesn’t stop people from attacking, though. But it looks nice. I should frame it.”

The Hobgoblin grinned, and Theice just sat there for a second. Then he lifted his head off his shoulders and rolled his arms and neck, as if tired. He looked—exasperated.

“Miss Solstice. You’re being anecdotal yourself. You critiqued me on not having the facts about all Goblins—why are we focusing on a single individual here?”

The [Innkeeper]’s gaze was steady.

“Because that’s all I want to prove. I don’t have your numbers. I don’t know all the history of Goblins.”

“No one does. Goblins suck at writing things down. People keep burning our stuff.”

Numbtongue grumbled, and Erin elbowed him. He elbowed her back gently, and that was caught on camera, too. The young woman glanced at his wriggling pocket, and Theice edged away from it. Erin went on.

“I just want to show everyone one Goblin. Let’s say you’re right about everything you’re going to tell me about Goblin raids, attacks on people, and more, Theice. For one moment—Numbtongue? What have you got in your pocket?”

The Goblin reached down—and then produced an orange ball of fur. It had stripes, a confuzzled face, and it was upside-down. He tried to right Reagen, and the cat promptly sagged in his claws.

“This is a cat. Catto. His name is Reagen, and he is the best thing in the entire world.”

Garia and Octavia stared at Numbtongue as he put the cat on his head. The Hobgoblin pointed at the cat.

“I found him. He is great. Reagen, say hello.”

Mrpt?

The cat stared at nothing in particular as Theice stared at it. Numbtongue glanced up.

“Meow? Meow~”

He tried to get Reagen to meow with him, and the cat obliged. Erin was smiling openly.

“What is—”

Drassi pointed a warning claw from off-screen, and Theice fell silent. Numbtongue kept going, blabbering as if he had begun to forget why he was even here in the throes of cat-love.

“He is a good cat. I am a cat person now. I am a cat Goblin. Cats are the greatest. Dogs are okay. They’re smelly and noisy, and cats are better. Especially this cat, who is the best cat in the history of all time.”

Boo. Boo. Stupid Numbtongue.

Someone called out. Numbtongue went on.

“I named him Reagen because I found him in an alchemy shop when—”

Numbtongue is idiot. Numbtongue is bad. Numbtongue is not a true Goblin.

The [Bard] twisted around in his seat and shouted.

Shut up, Redscar!

The wolf-loving leader of the Redfangs shouted something at Numbtongue in their language, and he replied. And there it was. Theice had but one card left to play, and he said it.

“And—what happens if a Goblin King arises from these Goblins, Miss Solstice?”

Numbtongue stopped, mid-laugh, and everyone turned to Erin. The [Innkeeper] exhaled, for it was the best question to ask her. But when she looked up, she met Theice’s gaze.

“If a Goblin King appears and does what all the others have, I will be the one fighting him with everyone else, Theice.”

“Then—”

The Dullahan began to sound triumphant. Until Erin Solstice pointed at him.

“And when there are more Goblin Kings each millenia than Kings of Destruction, I will change my mind. Who has done worse? I don’t blame Tyrion Veltras on all Humans. Nor are all Fraerlings defined by the Titan of Baleros. Monsters arise. Some are both good and evil. Niers Astoragon’s enemies might call him a nightmare of Baleros. One Fraerling—and one Squirrel—brought down the Great Company of the Lizardfolk. Some would call him worse than Velan. I think he’s better than not. Even if you weighed his deeds and history on a perfect scale. I like him. But I know who he is. You can do that with every leader, from the King of Destruction to Magnolia Reinhart. Someone likes them, someone doesn’t. Isn’t that true of the Seer of Steel and Tulm the Mithril? Chaldion?”

“Yes…but Goblin Kings still destroy. What is your point?”

Theice looked careful, trying to figure out what came next. Erin sat back, wearily, her arm falling limp.

“I’ve only ever heard the crimes of the Goblin Kings and Goblins. If you ever decide to report on them again—I’d like to hear the other story. I think we all would. And my friend here—he’d be a very silly king. Look at him.”

Everyone turned to Numbtongue, and the camera found the Goblin kissing Reagen’s head. The Hob looked at Erin, slightly betrayed. But the [Innkeeper] was smiling.

“He likes cats. And Numbtongue’s a big softie, you know. He always gets teary-eyed when Juliet and Romeo get to that scene in the plays.”

“Shh! Shut up! No spoilers! No I don’t!”

The Goblin poked her, and the [Innkeeper] laughed. Then she leaned forwards, and the [Reporter] was trapped there.

“Theice. Answer me one thing. Do you think Numbtongue is just a monster? Or—a murderous Goblin?”

“From what we know of—”

He tried, but Erin slashed her hand.

“No, don’t do that. I’m not talking about all Goblins.”

“Historically—”

Erin pointed at Numbtongue as the Goblin leaned forwards, and the Dullahan tried to edge out of his seat. The young woman was staring at him, now, and the scrying orb.

“Just this one. You don’t even have to say Numbtongue’s a good guy. Just—do you think, at this very moment, he’s a killer? A rapist?”

“I’ll punch you if you say it.”

Erin rolled her eyes at Numbtongue, but the Dullahan’s lips were compressed.

“I am not going to make a verdict on Goblins based on one person.”

“You don’t have to. Just Numbtongue. Just—one Goblin in the entire world. In the entire history of ever, Numbtongue might be the one good guy. Might.”

The Goblins grumbled that Numbtongue wasn’t that good. But Theice didn’t want to say it.

“Why are you so insistent on getting me to say that? It doesn’t prove anything.”

He was sweating now. He’d already called Numbtongue a ‘person’ by accident. Erin Solstice leaned back slightly, and her eyes lit up. Her hat was aflame, and the [Innkeeper]’s fingers moved. As if…

“Do you play chess, Theice? I do. I’ll tell you why you don’t want to acknowledge one single Goblin as a real person, who loves cats and plays music. Because…it might not prove all Goblins are innocent or not monsters. But it’s one step. Like a pawn controlling the center of the board. If you admit one Goblin can be a person…

Then you opened a door. One step on that board was a piece in the right direction. And Erin would never give up that first piece and the control of the board. The Dullahan didn’t say it.

But his eyes were better windows straight into his uncertain soul. He looked around, and his factoids about Goblins, his talking points—Erin cared nothing for that. History was on Theice’s side as it had been written, even if it was incomplete and didn’t go back to the beginning.

The [Innkeeper] pointed at Numbtongue as he rose and collected Reagen, who was trying to stick his face in the cup of water.

“This is my friend. My guest, Numbtongue. I know what Goblins have done. I fought the Goblin Lord when he came here. If you don’t like it, don’t come to my inn. But the sign stays. If you want to talk to a Goblin before you call them all ‘monsters’, be my guest. I don’t think any of them will run.”

The Goblins were grinning. Erin’s head swiveled.

“Same for the Antinium. They’re not all one Hive. Some are mean, some are silly. Some swear a lot, and one wears a mustache and keeps cleaning up my inn. Without letting me pay him!”

Silverstache jumped as he swept into frame behind her. He dropped his broom and fled, arms raised. Erin turned back to Theice, and the Dullahan was pale.

“So that’s why I let Goblins and Antinium stay at my inn. Because they’re not all the same. I hope that as a Dullahan in Drake lands—you can understand that. I would hope—Pallass understands that after the Meeting of Tribes.”

Theice sat there, unable, in that moment, to come up with a counter response that would work. So he just smiled, tremulously, and nodded his head.

“You…you’ll stand by Goblins no matter what happens in the future, Miss Solstice? The [Innkeeper] who shelters Goblins and Antinium?”

The [Magical Innkeeper]’s eyes flashed, and he flinched, but they just burned like flame. Like memory. Erin Solstice looked at Theice and then into the camera.

“Call me…the Goblinfriend of Izril. It has a nice ring to it. Someone called me that already—and I think it might stick. That’s just my inn. Read the sign when you come in, wipe your feet, and don’t drink any of the green juice. It’s acid. Do you have any more questions, Theice? If not—I should start hanging up Christmas decorations.”

 

——

 

He did ask a few more questions, but the [Reporter] had no more fight left to give. When he stood up, drenched in sweat, Channel 2 swept forwards, and Drassi herself stood there as they went to a break. Which was, in fact, the Singer of Terandria wearing a very festively revealing costume.

Cara sneezed in the cold as Drassi watched the preview-orb, and then Cara raised a microphone to her lips as she began to bring the real power of Christmas—songs as catchy and as endless as the snow—to the world. Then Drassi turned and looked at Theice.

“You tried to take Erin down. Who told you what to say? Archmage Eldavin? Sir Relz? Someone else?”

He shut his lips tightly. Drassi narrowed her eyes at him and listened to the things he didn’t say. As if he realized what she was doing, Theice spoke.

“I just—! I asked fair questions. Questions any reasonable person would think to ask.”

“I know. But you were biased. So…you’re off Channel 2.”

“What?”

The Dullahan lurched to his feet. Drassi turned her head and nodded to the side.

“You’re moving to Channel 1. Sir Relz and Noass were impressed by your unbiased coverage. But you’re not staying on my team.”

“Miss Tewing! I was just—”

Drassi cut Theice off almost gently.

“I get it. But I am on Erin Solstice’s side. And you know what? I’m allowed to be. This is how you do it—”

She picked up the microphone, strode back over to Erin, and hugged her with one arm.

“—And we’re back! I’m on Erin’s side, everyone. [Journalist] Drassi Tewing here—I have always been on Erin’s side. I don’t always agree with her—for instance, she just calls all drinks ‘alcohol’. She can literally not tell a whisky apart from a rum. But I’ll always listen to what Erin says. We’re going to start interviewing people who survived Zeladona’s Trial of Blades next, but maybe we should begin with our [Bard], Numbtongue. I hear the Singer of Terandria has posted lyrics of no less than eighteen Christmas songs she wrote and is challenging people to send in themselves singing them from around the world!”

She was off, but not before she stood there with her friend. Theice stood there, pale with sweat, as Kohr and his former team hurried past him.

Had it been worth it? He watched as Erin Solstice rolled forwards and a bunch of Goblins surrounded her, hugging her—Redscar gave her a noogie until Numbtongue put Reagen on his face. They were laughing. Laughing for their friend.

 

——

 

Christmas was beginning. After that interview, people knew the [Innkeeper]. And they had also come around to Christmas.

The irony was—Erin had forgotten to mention the biggest part of Christmas, which was the date. So half a dozen nations declared it was Christmas right now and began the celebrations before the [Innkeeper] could correct the mistake.

It was a good thing. Despite the songs. Rags saw the Singer of Terandria reappear with a Lizardfolk choice next—and then the Yoldenites, all of whom wanted to a capella some of ‘her’ songs.

She had a feeling the music might get annoying the hundredth time she heard it. But there was no way a bunch of her tribe would be stringing up wreaths and singing that all winter long in Goblinhome, right?

Magnolia Reinhart sat in her parlor as Rags came back to the moment, and the [Lady] turned off the scrying orb. Then she looked at Rags.

“When I was a girl, Niers Astoragon did the exact same thing as we saw on the scrying orb today, Chieftain Rags. I saw him try—if not so gently as Miss Solstice—to sway minds and hearts. And he did. Velan the Kind began something that might have changed Baleros and the world. But always and always—”

“A Goblin King comes. I know.”

Rags whispered. Her skin was still filled with goosebumps from hearing Erin speak. Her friend.

Magnolia dipped her head. She had no teacup, not right now. Nothing to mask her face. She looked uncertain, and her fingers played together as she looked up.

“I have spoken with…the ancients of days, Rags. I have spoken to the Quarass and those older than her. I know more of the Goblins’ story than most. And I am aware there is more that may be lost to everyone. Goblin Kings have never been—have never ceased making war. Not in the entire span of time. Everything I do as the [Lady] of House Reinhart, as Magnolia Reinhart of Izril, is to safeguard my continent.”

She looked at Ressa, the lone other person in this room, an [Assassin], and Rags glanced at the maid. Magnolia Reinhart’s voice was as calm as a frozen lake.

“I have many foes. Many people who have hated me. But my enemies—the ones I have said I cannot allow to tread this continent? I have killed them and left not even bones. My great foes are dead. If I were that same younger woman, the sensible, practical thing would be to kill you. To let Goblins live, but not let Chieftains or Goblin Lords rise.”

Again, Rags felt a thrill of nerves—but if Magnolia were telling her this? The [Lady] folded her fingers together and exhaled.

“It would be impossible to trust Erin over the courts of history. It is not sensible. But here we are. In a year, she has changed the Antinium. She is a child from another world—you know that, and so do I.”

She glanced Rags in the eye, and the Goblin didn’t blink. So Magnolia Reinhart’s eyes flashed.

“I cannot be everywhere at once. I came back to the north, to this spot, to see what Erin would do. More than Larracel. More than other [Ladies], I cede Liscor to her. I have to trust someone I would like to be an ally. I would have rather stood with Zel Shivertail and the Titan and…”

Her eyes grew distant and her face bleak, and Rags wondered if she knew the Dragon. Bits began to click in the Goblin’s head, but Magnolia would not trust even a Goblin with that knowledge. So she spoke on.

“I will trust Erin. And if you—or another Goblin becomes the Goblin King and makes war as Velan did within my lifespan, I will take responsibility. Chieftain Rags. Do you think I am fair or foolish?”

The Goblin thought about this for a long time. She looked at Magnolia Reinhart and shrugged.

“Chieftains do foolish things all the time. Do you think it is the right thing to do?”

Magnolia Reinhart stood. Abruptly, she motioned, and Rags sighed before getting up. Magnolia left the parlor, moved out of her rooms, and down the hallways. Hallways with glass cases, trophies, a dagger that Ressa had once used…Rags eyed the artifacts as Magnolia spoke.

“Chieftain Rags. I would like to hire your tribe in the coming days. I am sure others may reach out to you or already have—I would like to buy your tribe against working for certain groups. To—do what I cannot. Monsters are coming to Izril’s shores, after the new lands. Real monsters. I will not let them stay and infest Izril. Help me safeguard Izril for a time. I know it will cost your tribe greatly and make you enemies of all.”

“Yes. Are you going to pay me? I need artifacts. I need—time. More Goblins. I need everything.”

Goblinhome was not ready for another war. Rags needed to—learn more. To meet other Chieftains, to build something greater. Magnolia Reinhart shook her head.

“My dear Chieftain, I do not think being tied to giving you a bounty of goods and coin will look well on me or you. Nor do I trust you like Erin Solstice does. I will pay you. Hound my enemies. Work with my agents. And I…”

She hesitated. Ressa was looking straight at Magnolia’s back as she came to a single glass case. The [Lady] was in front of it, but Rags felt a sudden—prickle at her chest. She reached under her armor, and something hanging from a simple piece of string grew suddenly warm against her flesh. Magnolia Reinhart turned and lifted something out of the case.

“…I will pay you with the only thing Goblins want. And so be the consequences.”

She held something in her palm and showed it to the Goblin. Rags almost reached for it—and Magnolia held the little, rusted key tightly in one hand as Ressa stood in front of Rags and the [Lady].

How do you have it?

Magnolia Reinhart’s response was simple as Rags clutched at the twin of the key. The key, which she had thought she might never find the twin of. Garen had known where it was, and Tremborag. But even the two of them had thought it was too hard to get.

Overwhelming death. Now, Rags got it. Magnolia Reinhart’s hand glimmered, and Rags saw a dozen criss-crossing beams of magic, so faint she had missed them, slowly levitating the key back into the case. Magnolia Reinhart spoke slowly.

“This key I took from the Goblin King’s corpse. I knew there was a twin, though I do not know what he hid. Because I knew there were two, I swore that I would guard the other one. Chieftain Rags. That is my price for your aid.”

The Goblin’s crimson eyes burned as she stared at the key in the case. Magnolia Reinhart held out a hand with the weight of her responsibilities.

“For the [Innkeeper]’s faith in you—I will ignore Goblins until I have reason to take arms against you. I can offer you nothing more.”

Slowly, grinning with all her teeth as her eyes ignited—Rags took Magnolia’s hand. Then she nodded to the parlor.

“Are we going to sit back down? If you want me to help—you need to tell me everything. I’m not Erin. I like having facts.”

The [Lady] chuckled, and she nodded.

“Do you take tea or coffee? Snacks? Ressa, fetch our dossiers.”

Rags’ eyes lit up. Magnolia wrote things down? She followed Magnolia and realized that she had long been Erin’s friend. Always and always. But perhaps—it was time to learn from the cunning [Lady] of the north.

She couldn’t think of a better Christmas present in the entire world.

 

——

 

Then it was Christmas.

Oh, yes. There was more fallout from Zeladona’s tournament to process. More deeds and meetings and secrets to witness.

But the rest of the day and throughout the week, this is what happened: moments of good cheer. Moments of kindness or what each and every person took from Christmas. It was not always the same form, and it varied from person to person.

The [Innkeeper] had called for it, and they obliged. So—what did Christmas look to each one of them?

 

——

 

For the city of Liscor, a Senior Guardsman was walking with his daughter when he saw and heard the first manifestation of Christmas. It sounded like a voice like thunder. A flash of red. A sack filled with goodies like acid flies, flavored rice, and little toys.

Ho. Ho. Ho. Hohoho. Ho.

An Antinium in a huge red costume was leaping into the Hive. He stopped as Silveran ran over with a huge silver-painted beard. Klbkch and Relc locked eyes, and the Drake and Embria stared at Klbkch.

“Klb?”

“I’m making an effort. Don’t judge me.”

The Slayer’s mandibles were poking through the beard as he disappeared into the Hive. And he heralded a storm. For it seemed like a plague of Santas were descending upon the world.

There were three in Liscor alone on the first day, for instance. Well, two real ones and one imposter.

The first Santa was as strong as a lion, could leap over rooftops in a single bound, and offered gifts bought at a reasonable price with a Senior Guardsman’s salary while crushing criminals with his boots. He performed five Santa-arrests as well.

 

——

 

The second Santa was simpler. Though he too had mandibles poking through his fake white beard. But he had put padding in his red coat, and Garry was handing out pies and bread and food without charging anyone anything this time.

“Mister Santa? You look like Garry.”

“Hohoho. I’m not. I may look like Garry, but I assure you, I am Santa Claus. I hire little Goblins and Antinium to help me make presents at a reasonable price.”

“How much?”

“Four silver per hour.”

The little Gnoll girl was impressed. Erin Solstice, who was wheeling over to check on her beloved [Baker]’s stall, saw Garry bending over and talking to Comrei. The girl, one of his regulars at the shop, peered up at him.

“Could I get a job? That pays more than any job my mother has.”

“Are you a little Antinium or Goblin?”

“No…”

The girl sighed. But Garry had a huge—wrapped—beef pie and cake for her, along with a menu of food.

“And what would you like for Christmas, little girl? If you are good, Santa—who is me—may put it under the Christmas tree. Or suitable receptacle.”

He looked down at the little girl as Erin watched. And Erin was sure that the gifts would appear. Christmas…

She saw it in the little Gnoll girl’s eyes. Maybe she did recognize a familiar Antinium through the costume. Maybe she was too old and Christmas too new to believe in Santa. But even so—there was something there as Comrei looked around and then whispered to him.

“I’d…Mister Santa, don’t tell anyone, but I’d like us to stay in our home this year. The [Landlord] says we have to leave and go to the new parts of Liscor. It costs too much to stay.”

“…Oh.”

Erin halted as a Hobgoblin ringing a bell and showing his cat around turned his head. Garry looked at Comrei, and the Gnoll girl picked up the piece of paper and wrote on it clumsily.

“Do you think Santa can help with that?”

The Antinium Worker didn’t hesitate. He looked Comrei in the eyes and nodded slowly.

“I think Santa Claus can do anything. Don’t you? Why don’t you write down your wish, little Comrei?”

The Gnoll girl sniffled a bit in the cold—and looked up at him.

“Are you sure, Mister Garry?”

The hunched figure of the Antinium was deceiving. For—as Erin Solstice watched, she saw what might look like a Worker with a white beard glued to his chin. If her eyes deceived her, she might think the Worker was simply wearing a red coat stuffed to make him look round.

But her eyes were probably as strained as her body. For when his hunched shoulders rose and the old man straightened…his voice grew deeper and more confident.

“Little Comrei. Don’t be silly? I told you—I am Santa Claus. Do you not see my round tummy and my beard? If you wish something and you’ve been a good girl, magic will happen. I promise you.”

“But what if I haven’t been a good girl, Santa?”

Comrei looked uncertain. And so uncertain—she missed the hand hidden under the counter. For when Santa’s hand rose—

“Ah. I suppose then I should share something with you. Don’t tell anyone—but just so you know—here is my nice list. And what do you see at the very top?”

It was an amazingly straight list, with the hand of someone used to writing grocery lists. Nevertheless—doing it without looking at it? Only Santa could write the list of names that had Comrei at the top.

The girl’s eyes went round. She peered at the list and then at Santa. Without a word, he twitched an antennae. A wink.

“Shh. You’re not supposed to know. But I’ve been watching over you. And you are a very good girl. Don’t worry, Comrei. I’ve seen how hard you’ve been working.”

The little girl said nothing after that. Possibly because she was crying too hard. Gently, Santa left his counter and bent over. He hugged her with all four arms as people saw the Gnoll clinging to him. Then—she was carrying the food off with help from one of the Gnolls who lived where she did. As she was going, Mrsha wheeled Erin over.

“How does it feel to be Santa Claus, Garry?”

He was checking a bag of coins. The Worker looked up at Erin, and the [Innkeeper] looked down at the pusher of her chair. Mrsha stared after the girl with big eyes as Garry straightened his back and spoke.

“It would be a very hard job, I think, Erin. But a good job. I could do that for the rest of my life. I just wish I had more presents. But as you said—Santa Claus is magic.”

“He has to be.”

Erin looked at her little Worker, and he—in his way—more than anyone else had learned from her inn. She wiped at her eyes, slowly, having to slowly raise one hand.

“I’m proud of you, Garry. But if I can give you a little hint? I bet you Lism—even Lism—would help Santa if he needed it. I’ll ask Lyonette to find Krshia. But there are more girls than…”

“Comrei. Yes, there are. I am waiting for Hisnis to come by. Do you have more things I am doing wrong, Erin?”

The [Baker] saw Erin shake her head.

“No. But remember—Santa can come early. It is not easy, being Santa. If you need a little magic—I have a hat full of wonder. But here. Mrsha? This should help.”

A little Gnoll had helped lift something from Erin’s side. Now, she looked at the [Innkeeper] and poured it onto the counter. A shower of gold coins ran into Garry’s money pouch, and he looked at Mrsha. Then at Erin. Mrsha dabbed at Erin’s face as the [Innkeeper]’s frozen breath drifted up—but Garry’s shop was warm and inviting. A Goblin was ringing a bell outside, and the scrying orb was playing kitschy Christmas music. But what Erin said was this:

“Tomorrow, when Comrei wakes up, she might not believe in Santa or Christmas. But I hope she believes in you, Garry. You did this. I’m just going to help. Okay?”

Slowly, he came around the counter and gently hugged her. Then Mrsha the Good Girl burst into tears and hugged both of them.

That was a Santa that Klbkch the Slayer watched from a rooftop. And—the Santa-Slayer didn’t know if he could best him. For the real Santa had a twinkle in his eyes despite having no pupils, and he laughed like a giant in an insect’s body. When he reached under his counter, he had magic in his hands.

And he inspired other people who saw him. Like Lism, who stared at Garry—and then at Krshia. For here was someone who would have started Lism’s program by himself. And the Drake—could barely look at Garry for embarrassed shame. And barely look away.

At least in Liscor, two Santas began multiplying as a certain [Councilman] found a bunch of cotton and tried gluing it to his chin. As people watched the [Baker] sit, with a child climbing into his lap, and laugh like magic.

Magic…that the world itself could barely keep up with. But oh, how it tried.

 

[Conditions Met: Kind Baker → Baker of Presents, Gifted Chef class!]

[Class Consolidation: Chef Removed]

[Baker of Presents, Gifted Chef Level 34!]

[Skill – My Pantry Overflowed With My Deeds obtained!]

[Skill – A Magical Gift obtained!]

[Skill – Rested, Fed, Appreciated and Paid, My Workers Surpassed Mundanity obtained!]

[Recipe – Infused Dough (Scaethen Dough) obtained!]

 

——

 

Some days were like that. Some days—Ryoka got a bit snotty as the first thing she heard was about that happening in Liscor.

The Wandering Inn was not above copying Garry. So even Lyonette was slashing some of her prices. And the smell of warm food attracted the imposter Santa.

“No, I am not Santa Claus. I am simply rotund. And I have a beard. I am, in fact, a [Gourmet]. And I hope this inn accepts my credentials.”

The huffing man brushed at a balding pate as he presented a badge with a crossed spoon and fork over too-bright metal to a confuzzled Ishkr.

“The Gourmet’s Guild? Does that exist?”

It does!

The red-faced man had only had bread in the Haven. He could have paid for more, but—he jabbed a finger at the badge.

“I can see you haven’t been certified. In my day—we would give you a spoon if we enjoyed the food! Bronze, Silver, Gold—just like adventurers, you see? Any establishment would hang it up, and those of a discerning palate would come to eat! It was an entire tradition!”

“So you want free food?”

Lyonette looked slightly exasperated as she heard the commotion, but Ishkr stared at the Human man with his rather splendid dress—rich purple handkerchief tucked into a formal surcoat—and he nudged the [Princess].

“I have a table just for you. I believe we can give you a splendid menu, Mister…?”

“Demsleth. Thank you. Someone with sense after all. I can tell you you’re at least going to get a Bronze Spoon for common decency.”

The [Gourmet] turned out to have an appetite to match his talk. He put away six plates, though he ate at a sedate pace. And while a disappointed Ekirra had to be told he wasn’t Santa three times—the man was chatty, affable, and he seemed to rather enjoy this inn. In fact, he did put some coins down to pay for a glass of red wine, and while he pronounced the bouquet as inferior, the food was quite good.

He liked the poolish-made bread. And a number of people were in the inn, chatting, as Erin blew on her hands after visiting Garry. Mrsha was banging on a table furiously, writing with Gire translating to her.

“What white Gnoll? There was a white Gnoll during the Festival of Blades?”

Ryoka had just seen a Unicorn. But as it so happened, a rather equine-faced man dining with Magnolia Reinhart and Rags coughed loudly and glared daggers at Ryoka. Then his head moved past Demsleth, and he did a slow double-take. He lifted a cup to his lips and poured his entire drink onto his lap with an open mouth.

Neither Magnolia nor Ryoka noticed at first. Magnolia was nodding at Rags and eying a Drake who’d come nervously into the inn with Ferris.

Rafaema kept sniffing the air, but Lyonette assumed she was just hungry and was stiffly serving her a hot poutine as Ferris muttered about the danger. But all three young women…looked up as Gire exclaimed.

You saw the white Gnoll too, Mrsha? I thought I was hallucinating! Why are there…so many random white Gnolls around here? There was one at the Meeting of Tribes, remember? But that one was different than this one. I remember. They can’t all be random Doombearers in hiding, can they?”

“Yes, Taletevirion. Why was there a white Gnoll at the Trial of Blades, do you think?”

Magnolia turned her head, amused as she and Ryoka eyed the silver-haired man. Then they saw he was pouring wine onto his lap. Then…they followed his line of sight as a crimson Drake halted, staring at someone.

Nothing would do but for a huge man dabbing at his lips to break in conversationally. Like an old teacher or a grandfather deciding to lecture everyone. Slightly defensively.

“Well, it’s an old trope, Miss Gnoll. White Gnolls, you know.”

“It…is?”

Gireulashia turned to Demsleth, and the [Gourmet] chuckled. He put his hands together over his belly and lit a huge cigar that had Palt trotting out of the kitchen in a second.

“My, oh my. Have you forgotten all the old stories? Doombearers, you know. White Gnolls cursed or blessed by fate. In the archetypal story, when the ‘white Gnoll’ appears, they were often the bearer of the artifact a [Hero] needed or a guide or warning sign. So—their guise has been adopted from time to time as figures of great portent.”

He smoked merrily as Gire and Mrsha looked at each other. Stories? Demsleth was in such a good mood from the food that he was fumbling between a silver and gold spoon already, and if he got half a dozen more dishes and a fine dessert, he might go to platinum, despite the inferior wine.

The old Human man was smiling—right up until someone walked over and hissed into his ear.

Teri—Demsleth! What are you doing here? You gigantic, fat liar!”

“That’s hurtful, Taletevirion. I was just having a spot to eat. And people do recognize the old spoon trick—er, accreditation.”

The old man defended himself, whispering back. It was an old practice he had to admit—and he might have founded the Gourmet’s Guild so he could offer spoons to establishments. They tended to cook their best when they knew they might receive a grade.

But now, Gireulashia and Mrsha had gathered around, much like Workers and Soldiers around Klbkch. In fact—Rosencrantz had hurried over with a top-up for Demsleth’s glass and a pudding. The old man savored it.

“Christmas, eh? Not the same ring to it as Frosetine; that was a day when White Dragons or Frost Dragons would dance through the air and everyone bundled up to watch them. You drank this delightfully hot beverage made with a Yellat and some melted butter in tea, I think.”

“There was a day like that, old man?”

Demsleth frowned at Ekirra, but the Gnoll was sitting on his bum. And with a twinkle in his eyes and a wink across his rosy cheeks—the good-natured [Gourmet] twisted his fingers. And he handed Ekirra a cigar.

“Of course there was, young man. And I should warrant this is much the same thing. Kindness in the cold.”

The old fellow paused, gazed around, and wrinkled his face up.

“What a fine little inn. And if I don’t miss my guess…does this inn have a garden or something?”

He looked so nostalgic, and Erin gazed at the man from her wheelchair. It was not he who said it, or her—but the young woman who slowly came over. Ryoka Griffin, barefoot, looked the old man in the eyes. And he saw her—and flinched.

“You’ve been here before.”

You—I have?”

A look of sudden fear crossed Demsleth’s face, and he made to rise. To flee. He looked so guilty at being here, lolling in indulgence, that it hurt.

“Don’t go. Please…aren’t you the one I’ve come to find?”

Rafaema was there, too. Reaching out. She looked at the old man, not as grand as he had been. Portly—tired—ashamed.

He did not look like Santa Claus, then. For that jolly old man might have the same body—but he had all the grandeur in the world. Demsleth…

Demsleth was a coward. A tired fool. An old man without the magic of Christmas in him.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I’ve been here?”

He was avoiding Magnolia’s gaze as the [Lady] hesitated, most hurt and most wanting of all. Ressa was pushing her forwards, but the [Lady] turned her head, as if pretending not to see Demsleth for his dignity.

The little Dragon, Rafaema, looked frightened and uncertain. As if the walls of her city were cracked and quaking. Ryoka—her hand reached out, and it wavered as Demsleth rose, dropping spoons onto the table and floor, bending to pick them up. Taletevirion stood with a bleak gaze upon the wretched fellow.

It was someone else who interrupted the old man before he could go. She didn’t know him. Not well—but she recognized him.

An [Innkeeper] rolled forwards, pushed by a young witch. Nanette stepped back as Erin thanked her.

“I’m—sorry, Miss Innkeeper. I should be going.”

Demsleth was mumbling. But Erin Solstice just bent over in her chair and looked at him.

“I remember you. I think we’ve met before. Though you looked different. Hello, again. I’m Erin.”

That great and glorious face rose. Then—Mrsha thought she remembered him too. When the old man stood, he was tall, and a cloak of faded green swirled around him. Not like the red, jolly fat man, but some figure of old, a winter-swept face creased by lines, tall and august—and terribly humble and pathetic sometimes.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember, Miss. I apologize for the trouble I’ve caused.”

He bowed slowly, closing his eyes. But he did take Erin’s hand as she held it out weakly—and though there was no strength in her hands, she captured his hand with her other and didn’t let go.

Erin Solstice had learned from Larra the Haven. For all they were different. She looked Demsleth in the eyes.

“You don’t have to apologize. There was no trouble. You…you should stay. I think a few people have waited to see you.”

“I don’t have anything to give them. I should have prepared a greeting. I’m—ashamed.”

The Dragon mumbled. He stared down at his body, and Erin looked at him.

Her hazel eyes met his mismatched magical stare, and she looked straight at him, as she had seen so many ghosts and statues. And behind his face’s seeming, his Dragon’s body, all that fakeness—she saw him. Erin turned her head, and she saw a female Drake looking at Demsleth with a kind of strange recollection.

As if, perhaps, Onieva too recognized him. So what Erin said was this. She turned to the old man and smiled.

“What are you talking about? They came for you. All this long way. We don’t have to be perfect, y’know. Look at me.

He gazed down at her immobilized form in the wheelchair. Felt her hands, barely able to clasp, light as a feather around his fingers. Gently, Demsleth raised his other hand.

“I think…my garden wants to see you again. I think you should stay, Mister Demsleth. My inn will be boring without people like you.”

“You think this is how I should do it? For the young women who have come so far to find me? I don’t have anything—to give them. Not here.”

Erin shook her head at the silly old man.

“It’s not about presents. It was never about that. It was always about—you.

It seemed like he only heard her the third time. Then—the old man turned and looked around the inn.

Visma was sticking a claw in her mouth as she stared at Demsleth’s old clothing. It wasn’t as flashy or regal as many of the [Ladies]. But there was something in how he dressed, like a wanderer from nowhere that made her want to make her dolls look like that. Ekirra was staring, disappointed, at the old man on this Christmas day. And when Demsleth’s eyes rose—

He saw Magnolia Reinhart—and one timid glance told him she remembered all the things he forgot. In that second—he knew that if he walked out that door, he would be more ashamed and pathetic than he had been in the last three months.

So, slowly, the old man looked Erin in the eyes.

“Thank you. Miss…?”

“Erin.”

He nodded, and the old man slowly sat back down. He looked about and spoke clearly.

“I believe I’ll stay after all. Taletevirion. Won’t you join me?”

“I was already here. But very well—if you insist.”

A younger old man with silver hair slowly sat next to Demsleth, looking as surprised as the Wind Runner and Wall Lady by his decision. But Erin just smiled. And Ekirra piped up.

“You two old people smell funny. Why are you smoking? No one smokes here. Not even Palt.”

He pointed at the Centaur, staring accusingly at the cigar that had been resting in a bowl as an impromptu ashtray. Taletevirion raised his brows as he picked it up.

“Is that so?”

He lit it with a flash of green from his fingers. Demsleth eyed Ekirra as Mrsha stared at him, and Visma too—as if they sensed something. Not his nature, but perhaps that he was an old man who might give them things.

“Young Gnoll boy. Firstly, cigar-smoking in inns is an established, nay, honorable tradition. Second—I’m not old. That is entirely inappropriate to call your elders.

Ekirra’s mouth opened as he tried to work that out. Klbkch turned his head from the bar where he was refilling his acid fly sack. And he saw Demsleth flick his hand with a look of sudden, merry mischief.

“I am Demsleth. And if you are going to complain about my actions—I might as well have a co-conspirator. Here.”

He flicked something at the Gnoll boy, who caught it in his paws and stared at a long, beautiful blue, semi-transparent—cigar? But the old man flicked another, and Gire caught it.

“Have a sugar cigar. Yes, yes, you too, you big child.”

Hey! No giving the children cigars!

Erin had seen that last bit. But Demsleth defended himself from the [Innkeeper]. He waggled a finger as Taletevirion rolled his eyes.

“Don’t worry, Miss Erin. I should have you know that those are just sugar. They smoke a bit, but there’s no inhaling or whatnot. See?”

Palt had lit the end of Ekirra’s ‘cigar’, but the boy was licking and chomping at one end. Erin was going to object to the practice of making cigars look cool—until Demsleth looked around. And he looked happier, in that moment, so she threw up her hands.

“Oh—fine. I guess if you blow the smoke outside—Palt, go ahead.”

“Wh—me? You sure?”

“It’s a special day. Yeah. No one bother my guests—but I guess we should bring out more snacks. Ishkr?”

The Gnoll was coming back with a next course, and Demsleth’s eyes lit up as Taletevirion murmured.

“You have to try the Rxlvn. There’s also a fiery drink that will take you back.”

“Maybe later.”

Ekirra was puffing on his cigar as Visma did the same. Then the children were gathered around Demsleth. Rafaema was trying to edge forwards, but now she was elbowing a bunch of little kids, and they were better at getting attention.

“Mister, mister. You knew about white Gnolls? Do you know stories about them? I want to know about white Gnolls, but none of the books in Liscor have them.”

It was Ekirra who asked a question that made Mrsha, Gire, and the others look around. Demsleth? He raised his brows.

“Of course I do. Perhaps I should tell a few—in thanks for the food. That, too, is a time-honored tradition. Should it be a story about a white Gnoll?”

“No—Dragons!”

Rafaema covered Ekirra’s mouth and burst out. Magnolia slapped her forehead—but lightly. And she herself was staring at Demsleth with such perplexed happiness…Ryoka Griffin knew she had done this before. In fact, she might have been the very same girl sitting in front of Demsleth as the old man chuckled.

“A story about Dragons? Well, why not? Have you heard of the tale of the Silver Knight against the Army of Snow? A single Dragon-Knight versus a thousand Snow Golems the size of castles.” 

He flicked his fingers, and again—a pair of wings unfolded. Silver shone on the walls of the inn behind him, on the empty [Grand Theatre]’s podium, and everyone looked past Demsleth. He held his fingers up to the flames of the fire—and his voice rose as he began to speak and conjure images into being. Shadows on the wall, bright as bits of flame. Like memory.

His name was Yderigrisel, and the winter had been bad. So long, in fact, that it had gone on eight straight years without ending. You might think it was the Winter Sprites’ fault, but the truth was that, in that time, the world was just colder.”

The old man was telling a story with the fires in the fireplaces roaring. And he was beginning to smile when Taletevirion’s eyes caught his. The Dragon looked at the Unicorn—and his raised brows said quite clearly he was doing nothing wrong.

But then he saw where the Unicorn was looking and stopped a second. For lined up across the inn were three young women.

A Dragon, a Courier, and a [Lady] stared at Demsleth, and he faltered. They had such intensity in their eyes. For there he was, without any great journey. Without a fight to the finish line. Without…

The [Innkeeper] was still watching. And because she was there, he was reminded. Of her words. The man’s fingers were tight on the glass of wine—but before the fragile glass cracked, he put the cup down. Then—gently, slowly—he beckoned.

And three big girls sat next to Gireulashia as the jolly old man—who was sad and magical and hungry—and now—sitting with his back to a roaring flame, decided to tell a story. The food kept coming as his voice rose, and he told a story of a brave Silver Dragon, who fought winter all by himself before his kin came to bail the fool out.

Then he sat taller, an old traveller resting his bones against the fire. A silver-haired fox next to him, adding occasional anecdotes. And he felt grander than he had in a long time. Grander than when he had met the Wyrm. For…

There he was. More complete in this place than in his cave with gleaming scales. Demsleth, not Eldavin. His eyes shining heliotrope and cerulean as little boys and girls stared up at him. He did not run away. Nor…had he slept this entire time.

He had arisen, in hunger and pettiness, yes. But he came here.

To tell them stories.

 

——

 

The Wandering Inn was filled with laughter, songs sung by two old men with white hair and magic who remembered the words, and warmth.

In Liscor, a [Baker] laughed long and loud, and even underground, Santa tip-toed around with his sack of toys, occasionally using it to bludgeon Shield Spiders to death.

But there was more than just one Christmas or one person.

The village of Kemse had seen two unusual groups of visitors of late. The first had just asked for directions. They could have stayed—but there would have been little to offer them, even in exchange for the coins they probably had an abundance of.

It was going to be a dire winter. One of their farms had gone up in flames and another savaged by Garbichugs. The damn things weren’t even edible, and the village was quiet in the way starvation and desperation sounded.

That was—until someone called out.

“T-Troll! No—it’s the Unseen Empire!”

By now, the iconic eyes in the pyramid design on the flag were known in the region, such that the distant villagers all came out of their houses, wondering why so many were riding their way.

They were not part of the Unseen Empire—and monsters or war were the first thoughts on many minds. Yet it was neither.

Ho there! We heard you’d lost two farms to disaster! May we approach? In the name of His Majesty, Laken Godart, and in honor of Christmas—we have been sent from Riverfarm.”

A [Cataphract], Beniar, raised a gloved hand as Durene stopped pulling one of the wagons by herself. She had been racing the horses, and the mystified villagers saw they were laden with—

“Food? What’s this? Is the Unseen Empire—selling goods?”

The [Paladin] heard this as she worked her shoulders out, and she laughed so mightily it scared some of the children. She was wearing golden armor, and the caravan explained.

“The opposite. We’ve come to give you a gift.”

The [Headswoman] of the village listened incredulously. Even for a made-up holiday and the largesse of an [Emperor], the sights of the packed sacks of grain and cornmeal strained disbelief. But Riverfarm had another reason to think of this.

More than goodwill, showing off, or Laken’s own knowledge and respect for the holiday. Far more than any of that…they remembered something else.

So the wagons that Durene and the horses were pulling were strewn with something odd. Lanterns. In fact—one of the lanterns was moving—and they all shone a different color thanks to a bit of alchemy in the flames. Pink, green, red, yellow—

Like faeries, glowing in the middle of winter. Riverfarm?

“Once upon a time—last year—a famous Runner came to Riverfarm when we were starving. We didn’t forget. Our fields are full enough, despite the flames. I’ve heard a score of places were hit by the Drakes. His Majesty has sent this first delivery, and we will be back next week.”

Mister Prost shook the villagers’ hands. Then—after the official words were done, he embraced the [Headswoman]. For the strength had gone from her arms.

“I can’t—we can’t repay this. Even for a gift.”

Prost’s own voice broke slightly.

“No need. No need…it was just like this. Twice, for us. As the snow came tumbling down, someone found my daughters under it all. Then—someone ran through the snow and cold. Just like this. Here. This is for a lucky girl.”

And he had a doll in his arms that his own youngest daughter had asked him to carry here. It had survived an avalanche, Goblins, freezing winter, and the fires. It looked simple and well-loved as Prost carried it onwards. But that…that was the spirit they were bringing.

Hope, onwards. Ever onwards. And if there were tears—they weren’t all on one side. As Erin Solstice had said, magic mattered more when you needed it.

 

——

 

For some, Christmas was just a reason to show off. For every heartfelt, needed gift, you could still accept and cherish the less-vital goodwill.

Khelt was an excellent example of this. The entire nation redecorated, sometimes literally painting their houses different colors, chopping down fir trees, and outdoing themselves in gifts.

For the King of Khelt believed in the [Innkeeper]’s idea. And his largesse came into being across Khelt—but more importantly, to all his lands.

The sight of two dozen very scared Centaurs running like spit ahead of Sand at Sea as the warship glided across Chandrar was enough to get news coverage. Not least because the Revenants had decked the boat with wreaths and mistletoe—and they had a bounty of gifts. Food, toys, and more.

Bound for Jecrass. The King of Khelt had decided to send a host of treasures to his new lands there, and the people would be the recipients of more than one shipload of Khelt’s wealth. He had included a number of gifts for Jecrass itself and a new sword for Queen Jecaina and King Raelt.

 

——

 

Such generosity. Such gifts. Christmas was already a thing.

Not because the powerful friends of Erin Solstice vouched for it. Not even the Sariant Lamb conspiracy—nor even because the [Innkeeper] herself was trying to realize it.

It was going to become a thing because every [Merchant] in the world had underlined the date in their calendars for next year and only bemoaned they had no time to prepare for now. The [Innkeeper] was getting requests for ideas, ornaments, and the sheer opportunity of this holiday…

The goodness of Riverfarm, the kind deeds were one thing. Soon, perhaps, someone would make a play about a Christmas miracle. For every miracle that existed, there would be a thousand children expecting presents who didn’t really need them.

That was fine. That was fine…but there was one truth of Christmas that was already being forgotten, and it was this:

Some people would have no magic. No miracles. For some—by accident, because they were trapped in war, because there was no safety—this would be a dark day.

Call it a spoiler to the holiday spirits. Call it reality. It didn’t matter—and the [Innkeeper], Erin Solstice herself, would ironically be one of the first to admit this truth.

Christmas was the bright coin, the magical silver bell to a cold, dark night. Tears around the Christmas tree could happen. People died on Christmas—the magic was just magic. Never always there. Something that had to be chased, won, sometimes at great effort. Cherished.

And sometimes…

It just never came.

 

——

 

Fetohep of Khelt’s great deeds—him riding around on a sleigh, handing out gifts to Jecrass’ children, patting heads, dressed in the costume—were a sight.

Just like the Bedtime Queen, who had arranged for herself to be pulled on a bed…on wheels. It ran into a ditch—but those were funny, noblesse oblige versions of Christmas.

However—you just knew that if Fetohep of Khelt had his moment playing into the holiday, at least one person in this entire world not only thought he was doing it wrong, but he, the Vizir Hecrelunn, could do it better.

The east coast of Chandrar, the Colinfe Sandflats, was one of the places where the King of Destruction had built endless roads, and the region was relatively safe. The last incursions from other nations had been before the King of Destruction emerged—a Terandrian colony there still had links back to the continent.

But the kingdoms rose and fell—and this local province had just lost the Empire of Aiethen. A self-styled empire; small and unable to patrol the roads anymore. It had emerged out of the coup of the former Duchal Kingdom of Neveeth. Failed states with lifespans so short that the [Cartographers] didn’t even have time to put their names to paper before they were gone.

…Until now. For a new ruler had ascended to the throne, and so far, his reign had been dramatic. There had been twelve assassination attempts. Which was low…considering how much he was hated.

The fates of the would-be killers had dissuaded any more. Already, it was said, no [Pirates] would sail within twenty miles of shore. Wealth was pouring back into the larger cities, who had mysteriously reformed their laws and been rid of corruption and crime.

And a number of notable denizens in each city.

Everyone knew who he was—though his name was not permitted to be spoken. He was simply the Exalted King. Or the Reclaimer of Chandrar.

Vizir Hecrelunn was lying low. For him. He had every expectation of being ‘found out’, but he had cast a net-spell, and all the little [Messages] being sent were being caught and vetted by him. Often to their sender’s chagrin.

What a pitiful world. Yet the crimson lights in the dead Revenant’s eye-sockets…could be festive. They were red.

Red like blood. Red like viscera. Red like the gasses of hell escaping from brimstone pits in the bowels of the earth.

Red was a Christmas-y color. So, because Fetohep was doing it, the Vizir had put on a red coat. It hung low, across his emaciated frame, and when he was floating—he always flew—it drifted down like the clothes upon a corpse at the gallows.

He had refused to put on the red hat with the poofball. Or the beard. But Hecrelunn had decided some elements of the holidays suited him. Like the bells.

They sounded in tolls, like judgment. Deep and hollow—ringing as he visited every place under his domain and in the region.

Deciding who had been…naughty. Or ‘nice’.

It was already dark into the night, and the stars were hidden behind clouds on the coast of Colinfe. The farmsteads along one of the old main roads the King of Destruction had paved were widely spread apart.

Good for farming…vulnerable to raids. Some had suffered of late—these were not technically part of the old kingdoms or empires. They were just—liminal. Sometimes, [Tax Collectors] or [Soldiers] came. Other times, [Bandits].

Right now, the cold wind across Chandrar blew the hints of sand and the smell of salt from the sea. It was so cold—a boy shivered beneath what clothes he had put on, and they had holes. No stitches to keep them closed—but he didn’t care.

He stood outside as the moon hid behind a cloud. And he heard…the bells.

The bells tolled. In the distance—a figure was hovering in the air. Even from here, the boy could tell it was him.

The Revenant hovered over a series of buildings miles away. But he had conjured a pale green spotlight to fall on him. It hovered overhead as the bells rang in the distance.

He descended…and in the distance, the boy saw the lights of the farmstead go out.

Those were the Xeits. He didn’t see much—but he saw the bright lights in their windows vanish. The boy shivered again as his own home—dark, for there was no one to need the light but him—rattled with the wind.

He saw the beam of light appear again, and the bells rang in the distance. Then—the Vizir Hecrelunn rose into the air—and vanished.

A thunderclap of sound. He appeared, without deigning to fly, above the next farm on the road. There he hovered, and two crimson lights fixed on the lights within with the intensity of his stare.

He descended—and the lights went out. In fact, many of the buildings nearby were turning off their lanterns, dousing the fires.

It did not matter. The Vizir knew you were there. And—the boy watched as he plagued the Henns family. He had only a few questions to ask—and then he would rise upwards again. The Vizir was coming. He had been going to every town and village, so it was said, in the entire region, day after day, night after night.

He wanted to know if you were naughty or nice.

It was close to midnight by the time he reached the last farmstead on the road. The Vizir did not tire—but he might get annoyed. When he descended towards the dark farm, he noticed the fields lay mostly fallow. One was half-tilled, but the barn’s doors lay ajar. As for the farmhouse…he eyed the door, which no longer sat ajar. But he spoke in a ringing voice amplified by magic.

I know you are in there. Ho. Ho. Ho. Come out.”

A boy exited the building slowly as Hecrelunn descended until his feet hovered just above the ground. As thousands of boys and girls, children and parents had seen him—the Revenant’s chin rose. His eyes flashed death.

He lifted a finger, and the boy flinched. For Hecrelunn—unlike Fetohep—did not project gentleness or even the attitude that he liked what he saw. The Vizir’s voice was enunciated. Harsh.

“Do you know why I have come?”

“Ch-Christmas?”

The boy stumbled over the word, but even he had heard about it, even though he hadn’t a scrying orb. When the Henns sent over Eitte and Petoil, her father, to check on him with a basket—

Hecrelunn nodded.

“For formality’s sake, I will ask. Have you been…good or bad this year, little boy? Statistically, it is improbable you have been good this year.”

Funny. He had gotten so many answers on one side, not the other. The Vizir had gotten into the spirit, though. He had presents for good boys and girls.

Even a reindeer. The summoned monstrous reindeer may have caused incontinence in a lot of the people it screamed at, so he had canceled the magical spell. But now, Hecrelunn was waiting. This was the last farm in the area.

“Well? The Vizir is not made of time. Nor is ‘Santa Claus’. He has many children to judge.”

At this point, a terrified parental figure or the children would blurt their innocence and beg for their lives. The Vizir waited—but the boy looked up at him. His clothes didn’t fit him; they were big coats with holes in them.

“I must have been bad this year, sire.”

“Indeed? It is good of you to confess. I am told there is a custom for little boys like you.”

The Vizir floated forwards. He looked down at the boy, and the mortal child flinched. The Vizir stared at the boy—then he looked sideways. The boy closed his eyes—and a hand of withered flesh caught his chin. It jerked it up, and the Vizir was not kind.

“Where are your parents, boy?”

“Over there.”

The boy pointed, and the Vizir saw nothing living. But then…he would not. He stared at the four mounds and the one fresh addition to the farm. Then he looked at the boy.

“[Bandits]?”

A nod. The Vizir floated back.

“I had heard there were some in this region. Child. What is your name?

“Foire.”

The Vizir might not have even heard. He was floating left and right, murmuring spells. When he looked back at the boy, Foire waited for what was coming. What he privately thought he might deserve. But the Vizir…

The Vizir looked down at the boy and the farm with eyes that held no surprise. Not for this—nor any love for this day. He spoke.

“You will remain there. As a naughty child—I must collect your ‘present’. I shall return within the hour.”

Then he rose into the sky. And the beam of light over his head turned darker. Darker…and his eyes bled red into the night.

Foire stood there, staring after the Vizir as the Revenant flew. Until the Vizir was flying into the distance. And the boy thought…

He stared off into the night. Dark lands stretching across the cliffs that led down from the Saltflats he lived in. Dark—without artificial light after the Vizir’s passing. Flat ground where salt gathered in deposits. And out there—

His parents’ killers. The Vizir had gone that way. In the deep night, the boy shivered with cold, but he didn’t go inside. It was…twenty minutes, perhaps, when he saw the first glow on the horizon.

A blaze. The boy saw something fall from the sky—and a flash. Then he heard, in the distance, crackling lightning, and the trembles of something reached even the house. But all he saw was the light, flaring in the distance.

He stood there as the light grew…then diminished. But like an ember, it did not go out. In the middle of the night, the boy stared until he saw a figure flying back his way.

 

——

 

The Vizir lied. It was closer to dawn when he came back. He was annoyed by the time it took, and the first pre-dawn light was filtering through the sky.

But there the boy still was. He looked up and caught the smell of soot on the Vizir’s clothes. Some of the red was tarnished by black, but the Vizir said nothing until he had descended once more.

“Boy. What is your name?”

“Foire, sire.”

“You have been a detriment this year, I take it. A ‘bad child’. Your family was murdered by [Bandits]. You, yourself, cannot even run this farm. You are…a Level 8 [Farmhand]. A Level 12 [Survivor].”

The Vizir appraised him. The boy said nothing. He was afraid…but not of the Vizir as much as the other children. Yet when the Revenant landed and stepped forwards, Foire flinched.

This is your due gift.”

The undead [Vizir] had something in his hands. It was…a lump of coal. Still steaming in the frozen air. He placed it in the boy’s hands, and the child nearly dropped it.

“Wh-what is this?”

Coal for the unworthy. A practice I find—humorous. Here. Take these. They too may warm your pathetic home.”

It had been warm when his family lived. But the boy just saw the Revenant toss more pieces of burnt…charcoal to the ground. Some were literal coals; burnt-out embers.

“It took me quite some time to gather them and produce these. I mean…Santa. Where is my ‘thank-you’?”

“Thank you?”

The boy didn’t understand. Not until—he stared at the compacted coal in his hands. He brushed at something amidst the black soot, wondering why the Vizir would bother to find wood—

Then he saw a bit of something pale yellow amidst the coal.

Charred bone. The boy almost dropped the coal—and saw those red lights fixed on him.

“I made the coal from your family’s killers. All of them.”

“What?”

The boy stared into the distance, where the glow on the horizon still lingered. He realized then—it was fire.

The [Vizir] stood there, staring down at the boy. No mercy in his gaze. No compassion. He pointed at the coals.

“Let that be a memory for you. In the coming days, you may abandon your farm and come to the nearest city or town. You will be fed. You will be given work, a place to sleep. In my kingdom, even the indolent will be clothed and housed. But remember something, boy.”

He stepped forwards and bent down. Then the [Vizir] picked up the coal and crushed it into powder in his grip.

“—This is what happens to the bad children. I swear to you. If you grow into such—some day, you and I will meet like this. All who trespass will meet this fate. That is also my vow, my promise.”

The boy stared at the ashes and then at the [Vizir]. With a sudden intensity in his gaze. As once—a boy had gazed upon glorious Khelta.

Hecrelunn stepped back and began to float into the air. His crimson pinpoints of light for eyes fixed upon Foire like lasers…then he was rising. Rising as smoke rose across the cold Saltflats. The [Vizir] turned to fly off—then remembered. He looked down at the boy.

Merry Christmas.

 

——

 

“I don’t want a lot for Christmas.

There is just one thing I need.”

 

A gift. For Christmas, I gave you a gift. On the scrying orbs, even late into the night, the damn songs were going. It was like—well, universal.

Anyone could sing. So the Hobgoblin was singing the song late at night in the common room of the inn. Until the little Gnoll girl, grumpy at being woken up, threw something at him.

The Goblin was an exception. One ‘good’ Goblin. And as soon as he was done, someone else replaced him.

A Minotaur was belting out ‘Blue Christmas’ in the style of an opera-singer crossed with a warrior’s dirge. It—it wasn’t to everyone’s tastes, but anyone was allowed to send in recordings or live-broadcasts of their songs.

Frankly, it was good to keep the sleepy group awake. They had missed another inn event, but a smaller one, and because they had been on the road, they had watched it all through the scrying orb anyways.

It had made a long, dull, uneventful journey fun enough to distract Ysara Byres from coming home. Now, they were nearly there.

Two days of travel and the second day of mostly Christmas songs. She was yawning as the Minotaur switched to a new group.

“Er—thank you to Edorth of the House of Minos for that. Next, I don’t think they sent in the name, but we have ‘So Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, by the Singer of Terandria, performed by an a capella group. Great!”

A sleepy Gnoll was reading the next person in, like a radio—you didn’t even have to see the people, but it was nice.

A half-Elf was conducting a group that might have been Terandrians. They looked mostly Human. But it turned out they were not.

The funny thing about this song was that Cara had needed to edit the very obvious bad word out. So in its place…

 

Rhir rest ye merry gentlemen let nothing you dismay;

Remember King Othius was born on Christmas day.

To save us from Demon’s power when we were gone astray;

Oh tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy.”

 

Ysara rolled her eyes and yawned—but this group really was good. There were at least a hundred, and they were singing in chorus as the half-Elf copied the Maestro. It sounded like the singers had altered Cara’s song.

“Great. Rhirian propaganda.”

But they were singing well, and it was a nice little song. Ysara looked up. It was dark—they were nearly at House Byres, and she hoped she could just get to bed without the first comments about her hair or a ‘little chat’.

Then again, Ylawes, riding next to her, kept glancing her way. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to ‘stand up for her’, but she was grateful for the Silver Swords and Rasktooth, Infinitypear, and Vuliel Drae. Maybe they’d distract her parents.

They were close to House Byres now, and Ylawes looked up.

“I think I can practically see the valley.”

“No. Oh—”

Ysara was going to say it was far too dark to make out more than lights from the houses, but she craned her neck and saw a faint light in the distance.

“Must be a bonfire. Dead gods, are we going to run around a big one in the town square and drink that ‘egg nog’? That sounds disgusting.”

“I think Father and Mother will get in the spirit, don’t you?”

Ylawes was smiling at Ysara, and she was trying to smile back. She was biting her lip, about to bring something up.

Like—what do you think of Onieva? Or tell Ylawes, straight out, that she kissed women and see if he actually was oblivious to that. No, dead gods, he’d probably think she meant the formal kiss on each cheek.

It was at the tip of her tongue, bursting out because now she wondered—she hoped if he might actually listen and look at her. That was when Dawil sniffed the air, and the half-slumbering Dwarf on a pony raised his voice.

“Lad. That’s a lot of smoke.”

Falene jerked awake in the wagon where she had traded off with Anith. The Jackal Beastkin, on one of the horses, murmured.

“[Light Beam]. What’s that?”

He shone his staff up ahead—and Ylawes and Ysara looked at each other. They were far from the mouth of the valley and silver mines that House Byres owned. If they were seeing lights from up ahead…

 

——

 

When the adventurers and Ysara Byres got closer to the House Byres lands, they were no longer half-asleep, but either out of the wagons or riding on their horses, calling out—then shouting.

As they drew closer, it became obvious this was no bonfire. Nor…was this a single fire.

“[Bandits]! Bandit attack!”

The first people came running, seeing Ylawes and pointing down the road. He didn’t hesitate—he began galloping as Falene and Dawil shouted for him to come back.

When the [Knight] reached his home, he saw the keep was burning. The entire town was ablaze.

Fire. It was everywhere. Terrified people were trying to douse the blaze—most were fleeing. Ylawes didn’t see many people trapped within. No one, in fact. But the people were pointing and running from—

Figures. They wore all-black clothing, and Ylawes’ first thought was that they were Symphony. But this group showed none of their features, and—they moved so fast—

“Stop! Face me!”

The [Knight] shouted, and a cluster of figures aiming wands and tossing flaming vials down on the houses looked at him. One lifted a bow and aimed an arrow at him—but the other grabbed his wrist. Shook his head—and pointed.

Ylawes turned as they leapt, impossibly fast and far, and stopped thinking of the attackers. His mind went empty.

The keep was ablaze. It was weathered stone, converted into a manor, yes, but it was—should have been fireproof.

Unless someone literally took bags of holding and so much wood and brush and oil that even the old stone seemed ablaze. Who would—who would hate House Byres so much?

Ylawes didn’t know, but he ran into the blaze, shouting.

“Father! Mother!”

He was still in there when Falene, Dawil, and Ysara raced into the town. The [Battlemage] saw the blaze and knew Ylawes was in there.

“[Flash Rainstorm]! Dawil! Get him!”

“I’m on it!”

The Dwarf went running into the flames. Ysara, covering her face, used a bucket to douse her clothes and ran in. She froze in the chill—then the house was full of flames and smoke.

She didn’t get in past the entrance; she saw Dawil and Ylawes carrying a pair of figures out. Only two people had been in the keep—the servants had either been yanked out or knocked unconscious.

No one had been meant to burn alive in there. Even the owners of the keep had been out of it when the fires began. But they had rushed back inside to try and save something—anything.

Their son emerged with them as the fires consumed the legacy of House Byres. Their armory, their mementos—and all that Byres had built over their generations. Ysara saw her parents—and the relief she felt was genuine. But the shadow-clad figures turned and stared with such hatred she whirled.

Then—she drew her sword faster than she had ever done in her life before. Though she was no [Knight]—she slashed an arrow in half. That was more luck than Skill.

[Archers]!

Dawil and Ylawes took cover against the burning keep as House Byres’ folk shouted and tried to come to the aid of the family. But only one arrow came. Falene’s barrier shimmered in the air as the cloaked figures gathered. They watched the burning keep—the [Knight] screaming at them. Then they walked away.

“Where are they going?”

Don’t pursue, lad! Think of your family!

Dawil grabbed Ylawes as Ysara stared. Then she saw more flashes in the distance. And she realized—

It wasn’t a dozen of them. She looked around and saw flames. Flames…and smoke.

“The entire valley is on fire! They’re collapsing the silver mines!”

How many of these enemies of House Byres had come? They were so fast—and coordinated. They came to set House Byres ablaze. All of it. They spared the people—

But the noble House of Byres burned. The goods, the manor—the branch family’s holdings—

“Someone declared war on us this night.”

Ylawes was feeling for his father’s pulse. He felt it—faintly—and Ysara looked around. She felt a chill. The masked figures had stared at her with such…hatred…

Only when something touched her face did she look up. Expecting snow. But the pale flakes were just ash. The ashes of Ysara and Ylawes’ home. It hurt her to see it gone, the husk of the keep. And yet…part of her was relieved.

And this, too, was Christmas. Not every Vampire was there. Some, like the very ones who had uncovered the treachery, had refused to take part and spoken against it. Like Himilt. But Rivel knew.

They knew—and regardless of the consequences—

House Byres was marked. This was just the beginning.

 

——

 

All this in a few days. All this that very night. Like the rebirth of the person this entire holiday was supposed to be about, in three days, everything seemed to happen.

Goblins on the first day, Riverfarm sending food, a kind [Baker].

Fetohep rode to Jecrass on the second day. The Vizir’s burning coals that night.

The news of House Byres broke on the third day. A terrible event for a good House everyone loved. Who would do something like that?

But it was…overshadowed. Overshadowed by one last thing this Christmas. Ironically, it happened before House Byres fully burned down.

Ysara just missed it. If she had been paying attention, she would have seen this:

 

Rhir rest ye merry gentlemen let nothing you dismay;

Remember Queen Coretine was born on Christmas day.

To save us from Demon’s power when we were gone astray;

Oh tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy.”

 

The song was praising each member of the royal family of the Blighted Kingdom. It was pure propaganda, but the Blighted King himself smiled to see it as he broke the late night to greet the dawn.

His kingdom didn’t go for excess, but even they had decided Christmas was worth pursuing in their way. The Earthers liked it.

“Commendable song.”

High praise, coming from him. The Burnished Court nodded along as he nodded to Nereshal. The chamberlain of the palace smiled wanly.

“You are praising the wrong man, Your Majesty. These are citizens. Not state-endorsed.”

“Oh? Well, find them and commend them. Perhaps they can perform at the capital.”

There was something about the cadence of the song that the Blighted Kingdom lacked. It had some beautiful strains of each singer in the huge a capella group—hundreds, in fact. Some town had put this on.

But there was also something in the high-pitched notes, the accompaniment and speed of the song that felt urgent. The Blighted Kingdom liked songs like that with implicit…tension.

The lyricists had made up the rest of the song too, praising Othius, Coretine, then Nereshal himself in order.

Bethleham and such were omitted and replaced. Othius tapped his foot as he watched the performance.

They were amazing singers, actually. The chorus was huge, but the best singers by far were at the front. The most photogenic, too.

A half-Giant woman was singing in such a huge, perfect voice that she gave a gravitas to the entire scene. Then there was a young woman with a hat like Richard’s clasped to her chest next to a young man who looked like he came from Chandrar. Even the conductor, the half-Elf, was singing lightly, her blond hair flashing as she smiled for the camera.

They were reaching the climax of the song when Nereshal, trying to backtrace where the spell was coming from, realized he couldn’t figure out where it was. Then…he felt Othius freeze. For the last verse of the song sounded—different.

The voices of the singers began to change ever-so-slightly. And so did their faces. The half-Elf had something wrong with her face.

It was…dripping off the left side of her face. Exposing translucent flesh. Bone and blood and organs covered by magic. A hole for one eye. And her arm turned to magical flesh.

“N—no—”

Othius stared as the half-Elf kept conducting with one hand. Then he looked past her—and the singers were changing too.

The Humans, Dwarves, and other species, including Drakes and Gnolls, were—altering. A pair of horns grew from the young ‘Chandrarian’ man. And his skin turned red.

General Bazeth of the Demons stood next to the one person whose appearance didn’t change as the illusion spells faded.

Flora was singing as the half-Giant’s voice grew even more—and her skin turned cloudy and shone with a rainbow of colors.

The Death of Chains, Czautha, sang as her eyes flashed with the heart of magic. Azam stood behind her, singing with the Djinni free of their chains.

Demons. Hundreds of Demons! They had—they were singing this song? This was a trick?

“Cut the spell! Cut the spell!

Nereshal was shouting at Wistram, but the [Mages] couldn’t. The Death of Magic had disguised her spell and taken over the scrying spells.

 

——

 

It was, in fact, all Silvenia’s idea. She had begged on literal hands and knees for four hours to have her way.

Just because she thought this would be the ‘funniest’ way to do it. Now—the choir of Demons sang, and their voices rose. And there was no more pretend goodwill.

They stood facing the 5th Wall as it came alive. Far, far out of range—but now, the scrying orb was moving back. And it was showing them.

The Death of Magic, her body ruined by combat, her eyes shining with all the power of the last [Archmage] of this world. The Death of Chains, rising, growing like a maelstrom bound into a single being.

The nightmares of King Othius. But this was not about them. Nor Flora…she turned her head. And the camera panned up to a…figure, covered by wings.

Czautha was already there, gently reaching into what looked like a giant egg. Until you realized the glorious grey, like a skyburst of faded blue, was actually wings.

A being as large as a house was sitting there. Wings folded about her. 

Even among the last three—Flora hadn’t believed she was alive. Much less that she would recover. But Silvenia had been working this entire year. And though Czautha had said it was too soon—

The wings moved. Bazeth raised his voice as, across Rhir, the people who had been watching the Christmas song froze in horror.

A face peered from beneath the ancient wings, and the voices rose. Now—you could see more unseen singers.

They were perched on branches of trees without leaves, singing—they had no arms, like Garuda, but their talons clung to the branches, and their wings were flexible. Some were half the size of the average Human when crouched like this; others were larger as they grew.

Harpies.

They sang, their eyes on the unfolding wings. They rose, and a head, humanoid and ancient, rose.

Unlike the other two Deaths—their final member of old was no immortal, even like a half-Elf. She did not sing. But when she beat her wings, the Demons sang their final verse. They chanted it. They screamed it across Rhir.

 

Hell rest ye merry gentlemen let nothing you dismay;

Remember Serinpotva returned this Christmas day.

To claim her home from foreign powers when it has gone astray;

Oh tidings of comfort and joy. Oh tidings of comfort and joy.

 

Then—the Death of Wings raised her head, and when she beat her feathers through the air, Serinpotva’s wings rose.

Her scars were legion. She was the oldest of her kind yet living, and she had lost her home. The last Harpies of the world rose, screaming, as she rose higher.

“In the name of the Death of Wings!”

Czautha cried out, and the Djinni grew. Her body turned to wind and air, and it blew across Rhir. A maelstrom of a Djinni, heralding her lover’s return.

Silvenia followed the two into the sky, and lightning raced across Rhir’s skies. Like the pounding heartbeat of King Othius. But the two were just following in the wake of the Harpy Queen. She spoke, her voice cracked from long disuse.

“[The Winds of Izril Blew Ever Under My Wings]. [I Called A Storm In the Name of the Harpy Queen]. My home, Iltanus, will return to us.

She flew higher, and the Harpies below her flew in a circle as the last of the Harpy Queens took off. Empress of the Skies. Heir to a long-dead empire. But she flew. Even the Djinni and half-Elf could scarcely keep up.

Someone has harnessed the winds. She blows across Izril.

That was all Serinpotva said. Then she was flying higher.

So high that even the walls of the Blighted Kingdom couldn’t hit her. The first true rulers of Izril had always been one species. Before the High Passes had looked as they were. She soared higher, and the winds sang around her.

Her wounds were still so deep she could barely fly long—but she had agreed to Silvenia’s request. For one reason.

 

——

 

Othius the Fourth was in his court where the windows reflected the dawning sky as alarms rang the length of the Blighted Kingdom.

The Deaths of the Demon King had delivered terror this Christmas to their foes. He was clutching at his heart. And though Silvenia’s magic could not touch him—though he was proof against the shape-changing Djinni and all their tricks—

He looked up as something so incredibly high overhead it couldn’t be seen passed over him. It passed over the capital city of Paranfer. And as if she knew he was there—the massive shadow blotted out parts of the palace.

[Shadows of Empire: Fear the Sound of My Wings].

Othius scrambled away from the shadow as it crept over the courtyard, and the broadcast flickered out at last. But it didn’t matter…he saw the shadow passing over him, and his heart stopped dead in his chest.

An [Empress] passed overhead. And the Blighted King’s heart stopped. He spasmed—as Nereshal turned—and screamed for [Healers]. The Blighted King had a heart-attack on the floor as the Death of Wings returned.

But if only it were that simple to kill him.

 

——

 

And there it was. Christmas. It continued…but those were the greatest events of the holidays. The beginning of winter came in like a storm.

In glory—in horror. In dark deeds and sadness and magic. Kindness to drive away the cold.

Christmas, again. The Wandering Inn was always changing, and the second Christmas they’d celebrated was earlier than the last—but that was alright.

Soon, things would happen again. It looked to be a cold winter, and the new lands still waited. But for now?

Just once?

As if something were listening or couldn’t make up its mind—or perhaps because it was listening—or again—just chance—

One last little thing happened that didn’t make the news. And it was that on the third day, as a little Gnoll girl was hauling a bucket of water out of the well and grumbling about her <Basic Quest>, she stopped—and turned her head.

Then she began howling and running down the hill as an Antinium Worker leapt out of his tower, slid down the roof, and landed on the grass. But Bird was running after Mrsha. He was staring at something as glorious as any bird.

It looked like something out of Pawn’s stories as the [Priest] stared out the window. As Cade tossed his cube aside and pointed for his mother—and a sobbing Pebblesnatch stopped crying into some dough she and Calescent were kneading. The little Goblin turned her head, heard the shouting—and climbed out a window.

She saw it too. It came down out of the skies. A ray of light, shining down upon the grass outside of Liscor. From beyond the clouds—from beyond the limits of sight. So high even the [Bird Hunter] could not see where it came from.

Without magic as the [Necromancer] and [Cryomancer] stumbled outside, half-carrying the [Rogue Mage] who stared up, whispering what sounded like a prayer. And out more people came, a disbelieving [Painter] and a [Thief]—

Running to the spot where the light encircled the grass. Just a few feet across. Just enough space to capture a sliver of the world. And Erin felt it. As if—the great fundamental constant of the entire firmament heaved a sigh and said, not in actual words—

Oh, very well. 

And then everyone was rushing to the place where light met grass. And just like before, it grew brighter without physical intensity. Realer without color—just a pure patch of something made manifest.

Until—with a ringing sound that woke everyone from their dreams of levels. With a sigh across Izril—

Someone appeared in a blaze of energy. His body glowed—then became solid flesh and blood, and he stumbled, looking around.

Halrac Everam, unharmed and whole, turned as he lowered something in his hands. Just in time for Mrsha to leap on him and his friends and teammates to come flooding out of the inn.

“Halrac! Halrac! What happened?

Erin came rolling last of all, shouting, as the [Bowman of Loss] looked about. He felt at himself—and then at the crying Revi and Typhenous, holding onto one arm.

“I don’t—remember. I was…no. I don’t remember. I struck that Drake and then—?”

He put a hand to his head, and Revi punched his arm.

“You idiot! You idiot! We thought we’d lost you! Even Erin didn’t know—”

They all looked at the [Innkeeper], but she raised her hands in denial, looking as amazed as the rest of them.

“I didn’t do anything. Honest. But…Halrac. What’s that?

Then they all noticed what was in the man’s left hand. And he blinked at it without seeming to know why he was holding it.

It was…one of his arrows. It was just plain steel. Except for a tiny bit at the very tip. It was coated with something that had no color Erin could name. As if Halrac had scraped something onto the tip of it. The Gold-rank Captain—the adventurer gazed at the arrow blankly and then came to the only conclusion he could.

“I don’t remember—but I think I stole something.”

And that would change everything and…well. There was no other part to that sentence. Ryoka Griffin exchanged a wide-eyed glance with a little lamb in her arms. Numbtongue looked over at Ryoka carrying the Sariant Lamb as he held Reagen in his arms and snorted, looking superior. Nerry spat on the Goblin.

Then. And then—

And then they should have been done with it. But Ryoka Griffin felt the winds of Izril trembling with the Death of Wings’ return. She looked up at those blue skies—and her eyes went round. With disbelief. With horror.

She began shouting. Screaming, as everyone gathered around Halrac.

“It can’t be. It can’t be—

They turned—and Erin Solstice looked up. Her own eyes went wide—and Mrsha, holding onto Halrac’s hand, wanted to tell everyone this wasn’t her fault. Bird stared up in wonder and aimed a bow up—but even he hesitated.

And Nerry? Nerry stared up and ducked into Ryoka’s arms. For coming their way—across Izril—was a wall of white.

So much snow that the guests of the inn—all but Ryoka—began running for cover. It came down, a dozen feet of it in places, all at once—and so fast they could see the vapor trails of the sonic boom before it passed across the High Passes.

Snow. But what Ryoka saw—what she heard on the winds—were the voices.

 

“Faster! Faster, ye cunts! Go faster!

 

Five figures shot through the air along with one green one as they flew. Not Ivolethe. But—Ryoka stared up as the Winter Sprites passed overhead—then the sonic boom hit her. Then all the snow in creation. And the Winter Sprites—

 

——

 

Had returned. Taletevirion looked up, and his jaw dropped as he saw the snow coming. He saw one blue dot break off and dive at the Wind Runner. He turned his head to Teriarch, who was sitting with a little Dragon at his side and an annoyed [Lady] on the other this day—at the Winter Sprites—

“Nope. Nope. That’s not new—that doesn’t count, and I don’t care.

He ran for it. And once more, this winter—

The fae came back.

 

[Magical Innkeeper Level 49!]

[Skill Change – Inn: Grand Theatre → Inn: The World’s Eye Theatre!]

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

Merry Christmas.

This chapter is, thankfully, not as long as the last two. And I am almost all out of energy. In fact, I realized I’ll be going to visit my grandparents the morning after Christmas, so I don’t even have more than one day on Christmas to work even if I wanted to.

So I’ll begin my break starting now. And I will finish my Volume 1 rewrite, with apologies for missing my deadline, next month. I only have one major chapter to do.

1.13 R, to be exact. It will be a complete, everything-deleted, re-write probably. I would have liked the first draft to be done by 2023, but I got my Christmas arc done for you, and that’s what counts.

I’m tired. I’ve thrown all the energy I had left at this arc. I condensed…or maybe just wrote out the entire arc I wanted in three chapters. As I said, I’ll be back mid-January. I need some time off to recharge, and I thank you for the understanding and the fact that I can take a break if I need to from writing.

This may be the first Christmas in six years I haven’t worked? I know I have worked some, and I do go as hard as I can in writing. I have had fun times with the family, but perhaps I will find more time for more than writing. I can remember much of this year in the chapters I’ve written. Little else, and perhaps that should change.

But it’s a shame that I’m better at writing than anything else. Still—I was happy to have something to point to this year I’m proud of. The job is good. I’ll figure out the other parts this year. Or next year. I am very pleased by what’s been done, though, and I hope you have enjoyed the story this year as well.

Until the next, with the best wishes for the end of this year and 2023. Stay warm—or stay cool depending on where you are.

—pirateaba

 

Drinking Buddies by Brack!

DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/shurkin/gallery/
Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/brack
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Brack_Giraffe

 

The Cutest Santa by Bobo Plushie!

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Bobo_Snofo
Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/boboplushie

 

All I Want by ArtsyNada!

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/illudanajohns/
Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/illudanajohns
Commission info: https://i.imgur.com/OmNDuK8.jpg

 

The Winter Fae Return by Enuryn the [Naturalist]!

Portfolio: https://enuryndraws.art/
Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/enuryn
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Enuryn_Nat

 


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